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yeyinde · 6 months ago

Note

Brain went brrrrrrrr

Price and the new 141 member getting into an argument. Price is all like if you don't behave ill take you over my knee girl.

She's all like I fucking dare you or you'll have to catch me first or even you don't have the balls.

🫠🫠

i’ve always wanted someone who was super by the book to clash with John “i routinely tell my superiors i’m going to maim/murder/hang them” Price. this gave me the perfect opportunity to do so.

noncon spanking. abuse of authority. power imbalance. size kink. mean, dom!Price. forced submission.

You have this way of getting under his skin.

An impossible itch. No matter how many times he picks and prods at his flesh, you worm beneath the dermis, burrowing deep. Sitting pretty against his goddamn bones. Festering.

Incurable.

He turns to vice to stem the irritation. Cigars. Whiskey. His hand shoved down his trousers like he's a fuckin' boy and not a man on the wrong side of forty.

Thinking of you—of breaking that smart mouth of yours on his cock.

It's the way you saunter around with your head held high, balancing golden eggs on your crown, that irks him something awful. The patronising drawl when you huffily remind him that what he's doing is breaking seven, no, ten, different laws, Price. You can't just do whatever you want, there are rules—

And that's the crux of it.

A difference of ideas. Experience. You still see the world in shades of black and white. Good and bad. Unwilling to acknowledge that the line between is saturated and blurred. A putrid muck that traps all. Bogish.

He knew it was a mistake when they sent him your file, asked if he needed the additional help. Hostage negotiator. He's heard of you. By the fucking book. You recite passages like it's gospel, turning printed words into a knife. A terrible fit for a team that works in the pivotal no man's land you claim doesn't exist.

Yet—

He takes you on. Brings you in. Buries his anger at your fucking gall deep in his chest where it rots. Grows. Swallows down the rage, apoplectic fury, when you undermine him at every opportunity, citing laws and regulations like it's a fucking prayer.

A calamitous decision, he knows. Terrible. But—

Despite it all, you're good at what you do. Brilliant. A budding rose germinating in fecund soil. You'll grow into something wild, won't you? Something untamed.

Under his hands, you'll bloom the prettiest. He knows this deep in his bones. But—

“You're breaking the rules, Captain—”

—pedantic little thing, aren't you?

Obediently following the wrong master.

It irks him. He's been known to step on the toes of his superior officers for less, caustic words hissing foul from between his teeth.

But unlike them, you're worth something. Even as the moral antithesis to his utilitarian dogma, he sees your potential. How you can shape this world dangling on a brittle thread if you lay down your senseless principles and follow him. Listen to him.

But of course, you don't.

And he supposes he ought to have known better. It's dripping gasoline over an open flame. The sequence of events is easily premeditated, seen, when you refuse to listen to what he says (“it's against the law, Price!”), walking away from him, his team, the mission, and take matters into your own, morally righteous hands. Bringing his underhanded methods to the desk of your superior officer, demanding he be investigated for crimes. The result is a loose warning from someone in a suit several sizes too big for them, and your fury when he pulls you back, has you assigned to another mission with the 141, with himself. Preens at your glower when you march back into his office, into his hands.

In the fallout, he has no one to blame but himself, really. Anyone could have seen this coming. But the thing about shirking his morality in favour of a better outcome—above all else—is that he doesn't have to.

And so, he doesn't.

No. He blames you.

(How perfect for him, then, that there's no one on base except you and him.)

“If you think I'm not going to report you again if you do something illegal, Price, you're wrong.”

He scoffs, shaking his head at your fucking audacity.

"Better watch that mouth of yours, Sergeant, or you won't like what happens next."

His palm itches when you look up, offering him a slow, feline blink. Leonine eyes creasing at the corners.

"And what is that, sir? I'm just doing my job—" it's whispered breathlessly, all faux professionalism even as jest leaks down your brow. They pinch, then. Drawing together in a mockery of confusion. "Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

"What is that, mm?" He mocks, arms folding over his chest. He has to breathe through his nose for a moment. Gather himself together before he does something reckless, something like—

It's the defiant little jut of your chin that does him in. That unravels this fraying knot of control until threads slip through his fingers. Falling too fast for him to clench down on them.

He's threatened his superiors for far less. His kin, teammates. You have no one to blame but yourself for this, really. No one at all when he pulls his hand from where it's tucked under his armpit, curling rough, worn fingers around your wrist. Pulls you close, wrenching you into his chest until your nose bumps the buckle of his vest.

"'m'gonna take you over my fuckin' knee, is what's going to happen."

Your swallow is a gunshot. “You—you wouldn't dare—”

He leans in close, closer still. Breath scorching over your cheek. Preening when you bare your little teeth at him. “Wanna bet on that, Sergeant?”

It's easier than he would have expected to wrangle you over his knee, pinning you down with an arm across your lower back. The height of his chair keeps your front bent, belly pressed against his thigh. Ass seated perfectly in his lap. Precious gem.

He hums low in his throat, teeth sinking into the butt of his cigar as he locks you tight against him. Grabbing your wrist, twisting it up behind your back. Holding steady. A warning.

The dangerous twinge in your bone stills you.

One wrong move and he'd snap it in half.

This has you taking a different approach, legs falling limp over the armrest. Head dropping over the other side. Malleable in his grasp—however artificial it is.

“Price—” you breathe, winded. Panic on a spindle. “What are you—what do you think you're doing—?”

He hums, mouth tense around the cigar. Words muffled, slurred. “What I should have done a long time ago.”

“What—hey!”

Your words pepper off into a choked scream when his other hand falls to the hem of your pants, grabbing the fabric in his fist. The shock fades into indignation. Anger. He tastes it in the air as your hips squirm, legs kicking at nothing. Furious little growls spilling from your lips as you thrash, unconcerned by the ache in your bone.

“Better keep still, love,” he taunts, mouth curling over his teeth as he twists his hand high, higher, up the small of your back until your fingers brush the skin between your shoulder blades. Any more and he'll break it—

“I'm going to fucking—!” It ends on a whine. A whimper. The pain makes you shiver. “Fuck, fuck—stop, stop, ow, stop—!”

“Not a fan of a little pain then, mm?”

Your breath is ragged. Paints the air in a fine mist of defeat. He has you. The only option out of this is breaking your bone, a threshold no one is willing to cross.

Price purses his lips back around the cigar, inhaling once, thrice, before he slips his fingers out of the hem of your trousers, reaching up to take hold of the cigar. It's all so matter-of-fact. So nonchalant when he places it in the ashtray. When he brings his heavy, warm hand back to your ass, curling his fingers beneath the fabric. Pulling. Tugging.

They come off easier than he'd expected. A harsh tug, and the cleft of your ass is revealed. Plush skin curving enticingly as he rips them down to mid-thigh—panties and all.

The shock fades back into indignation. You hiss something foul under your breath that makes him huff out a chuckle.

“Not really in the position for that, are you, love?”

“Shut up—”

He likes the way you sound like this. Feral. Furious. There's ash in your throat. It blots soot around each word, giving them weight. Gone is the woman who barged into his office, sniffing like you smelled something foul. Backing him into a corner. Sputtering in his face about rules. Regulation.

Now you're bare-assed, panting, in his lap. Small little fawn in the maw of a bear. But oh, do you fight back—

Teeth bared, indignation bleeding into embarrassment, blotting pink in the whites of your eyes.

The sight is hewn into his hindbrain.

“Look at you,” he purrs, petting your cheeks. “Been beggin’ to be bent over my knee since you got here, haven't you?”

“Begging? Don't be—ahh!”

He brings his hand down with a small huff, eyes glued to your flesh. Watching it shake under his hand. The width of one swallowing up an entire cheek. So big is he that you're nearly made infinitesimal in his clutch. The thought makes him groan.

You squirm more in shock than discomfort. Head craning over your shoulder, eyes misting over with tears. Glaring at him.

“What the fuck, Price!”

He strokes your skin, feeling the heat of your flesh bleed through his palm. Resilient little thing, aren't you? He huffs again, blood buzzing. Electric. There's a kindling fire in his guts. Embers sparking, catching.

He can't deny how badly he's been wanting to have you like this. Craving your tears, your agony, your submission.

“Count,” he barks out, rough. Abrasive. “You're getting ten. Count ‘em for me, and if you miss one, I'm adding two more.”

“You're crazy, you're—!”

His hand comes down again. The impact shakes the fat of your ass. The strike makes you yowl, thrashing to get away. You don't get very far, still trapped in his hold. The threat of a broken bone keeps you from lashing out too wildly, and all you can really do is sit in his lap, and take it—

The notion has him groaning low in his throat. Something wicked spooling in his veins. Wanting. The sight of you heaving, bare-assed, and begging for mercy unleashes something inside of him. Something primal. Starving.

Price takes a breath to steady himself, head buzzing. Heart pounding. It feels like the euphoria of nicotine—all bliss, sedation. Ease.

Cathartic.

“I said count,” he rasps, words cinder in his chest. Smoke. Dragged up from that burning pyre in his belly. Nocuous, hungry. “That's an order, Sergeant.”

His hand is scorching against your skin. Thoughts turning over themselves as you hiccup in his lap. So pretty, he thinks, eyes flitting over to you. Taking in the sight of your shock, your denial. It tastes like fine wine on his tongue. Heady.

“Here comes one—”

“One?”

“I told you, didn't I?” His nail rakes across your skin, cruel. Mean. Something preens when you gasp. Your pain perfuming the air. “M’addin’ two more if you don't count. Thought your speciality was listenin’?”

You scowl, twisting back to level him with an awful sneer. “Oh, fuck you—!”

His hand comes down again, harder this time. Vicious. The scream is tangled in your throat, gagged. He feels pleasure—dark and ugly—bloom in his chest, dripping, liquid, down the length of his spine. The twist of agony on your face is beatific.

“Not gonna count?” He taunts, pinching your inflamed flesh between his thumb and forefinger. “We're gonna be here all day at this rate, love.”

He leans down, broad chest curling over the small of your back, hand cupped possessively over your cheeks. “But maybe you want that, mm? Maybe all this, mhm, insubordination has just been for show. You wanted this. Wanted to be taken over my knee—”

“You're wrong. I haven't—” it tapers off into a squeak when he pinches your flesh again.

Price pulls back, breathes shallowly through his nose.

“You and that smart fuckin' mouth. Told you it was gonna get you in trouble—”

He doesn't wait. His hand rears, and comes down with a loud smack that echoes in the sparse office he has you trapped inside. Your howl races alongside it, curling up the walls. Beautiful in all its agony.

“Christ—” it's a dagger to his resolve. You sound so fucking good howling like this. Oscillating between feral anger and pain, hissing vitriol between clenched teeth. Choking on sobs.

The first few are experimental. Testing the waters. Feeling. You're combative during it all. Fighting. Screaming. Each strike is uncounted, echoed only with a plea for help. One he knows won't come—

The only person on base is his Lieutenant. Ghost knows better than to barge in on his affairs.

“No one's comin’, love,” he grunts, sweat beading along his hairline, dripping down his temple. The room heats along with the blood in his veins, stifling and oppressive. He reinforces each hit with more strength, increasing the tempo until you're screaming on his lap, begging for mercy, mercy, please, please, Price stop, stop—

Your skin raises with each new strike. Swelling. Becoming inflamed. The perfect imprint of his handprint sits on each cheek, edges intumescent. The globes shake, shuddering deliciously under each hit.

He gets to eleven before you break. Tears streaming down your face, voice a threadbare whisper. Hoarse from screaming.

His hand rains down, slaps your left cheek so hard it stings his hand. Burns. You whimper. Mewling. Squirming on his lap, and then—

“O–one—”

He grunts, feels himself thicken in his trousers. “Good girl.”

You shudder, body breaking out in goosebumps. “Price—”

“Ah, ah, love. You're not allowed to speak unless you're counting.”

He hits you again, cock throbbing when you tense up, sniffling. Grinding out a soft two between trembling lips.

You don't break the way he wants you to. There's a glare on your face despite the tears, the sniffles. A defiance that burns over the bridge of your nose.

But that's fine. He has eight more strikes to ruin you, doesn't he?

He sets to it with a low moan, your pelvis pressing taut to his tumid cock, the friction raging in his guts.

But that, he finds, isn't really the point. No. The pleasure, the arousal, is secondary to the way you fall to pieces at his hand. Flesh stinging his palm with each loud smack that rings out sharply in the room. Uneven breaths. Shuddering little ah-ah-ahs that tumble out through clenched teeth.

It's addictive, this. Therapeutic.

There's static in his head. White noise. It renders everything else mute. Moot. Molasses drips down, thick and entrenching, congealing over every churning thought in the back of his head. There's a sense of peace, ease, he hasn't felt in years. In decades.

He feels his belly knot each time your ass jiggles, skin bulging up from the trauma of being hit so harshly. Chafed under his palm. Welts forming in the shape of his hand. A tattoo you'll have for weeks when he's through with you. Aching each time you try to sit. And fuck—

You'll think of him. Of this. Being taken over his goddamn knee like the bad fucking girl you are. Broken in over his lap. Helpless. Submissive.

The whimpers fade, replaced with shallow hiccups. Your throat is torn. Raw, ruined, by your screams, yowls. Each rasping whine sends jolts of pleasure down his spine. Liquid want molten in his marrow.

“S–seven, nngh—”

The moan slips out—scorched, bleached—and drills deep into his loins.

He peels his gaze away from your blistered skin, glancing at your face, but you duck from his view. Hide. Dropping your head over the armrest. Evading him.

It's new, this. This meekness.

You were so combative, so feral before. His gaze rakes down the expanse of your spine, over the curve of your cheeks, before settling, hot and heavy, at the crease where your thigh meets your pelvis. You squirm in his lap, thighs sliding together. Rubbing. It's no different from before when he'd spank you, but—

He catches it.

It glints in the soft light when you move, and he feels something dark, ruinous, curl in the tar-stained fibrils of his chest. Congealing in the crevasses. Hardening.

Price flicks his tongue out, swiping over his lower lip. The bristles of his beard graze the soft flesh, prickling across it. His throat is suddenly dry. Parched.

His hand comes down again, notably softer than the other hits he subjected you to. Almost—

Tender.

This isn't meant to hurt. Not this one.

He strokes his finger over your skin, cock throbbing with the rasping gasp that spills—a twisted amalgamation of pain, skin still smarting, burning to the touch, and—

His lashes flutter. Nostrils flaring.

Your slick, wet, between your inner thighs.

He slides his hand down, down, until your ass cheek is cupped in the bracket of his thumb and forefinger. Nestled tight. A perfect fit. The sight of your skin—soft, so soft—against his bearish, hirsute paw is sickeningly addictive. He grunts, pressing his thumb into the crease between your cheek and thigh.

“P–Price—”

And then he pulls, moaning deep in his chest as he peels the fat of your ass away, unveiling your cunt to his rapacious gaze. Fuck—

“What’s this?” He taunts, breathless. Pinched. You squirm, trying to press your thighs together. Hiding your pussy from his scorching stare. He doesn't let you. “Gettin’ off on me spankin’ your arse?”

“N–no, I'm—”

He pushes his thumb up, sliding it over your skin. Gathers your slick on the tip. “Don't lie to me, mm. You're fuckin' soaked.”

The air is punched from his lungs. Spills out in a wretched grunt. In the vacuum, something grows. Knots. Festering inside his chest. Animalistic. Primal. There's an itch in the back of his head.

He lets go of your arm, knows you won't run. Won't try to escape. No.

You're a good girl, aren't you? One who does what they're told. Follows orders. It tangles in the soporific slurry of his head, pitching a bivouac of need when you bring your arm down, curling it through the gap of the armrest, holding tight.

Bracing yourself.

His hum breaks in his throat. He drags his hand away from your cunt, reaching for the snuffed cigar idling in the ashtray. There's a fever in his veins. It makes his hand tremble. Shake. He needs the blunted drag of nicotine to quench this heady anticipation blooming in his guts. A brumous storm gyring inside him, an incipient maelstrom of want thickening. Intensifying. Threatening to spill over.

He needs something to steady himself before he tears into you like a beast—

You cock your head over your shoulder, staring at him with eyes drenched in midnight ink. There's a flicker across your tear-stained expression. Something coy. Feline. Leonine.

There's nothing said. Nothing needs to be. He finds what he's looking for in the fracture of your mien, and scoffs under his breath at your sheer gall. Little fuckin' minx.

Tobacco proves to be a paltry facsimile when he draws in a bursting mouthful. The restive glow of it dulled under the adrenaline coursing through his veins, heady. Syrupy. A roaring deluge of anticipation broiling in the balmy air, crackling around him like a storm cresting over the horizon. Ozone saturates in the thickening atmosphere.

Something will break. Shatter.

He tenses, waiting for the first stormcloud to breach, and drops his hand back to your tender ass. Stroking over the raised welts just to make you gasp. Your hips flex under the shocks of pain riveting down your spine, undulating in his lap. Pitched perfectly over his cock.

His breath shudders through a needlepoint. The friction is electric.

In petty retaliation—and just to see you squirm—he trails his knuckles over your heated skin, luxuriating in the way you shiver. Head falling back down over the armrest, beautifully alluring in your vulpine submission. His fingers dip between the cleft of your cheeks, feeling the slickness sticking to your soft, sensitive skin. Soaked between your thighs. Wretched girl.

His index and middle finger slide over your slit, parting your folds. He feels the small pulses of your drenched hole against his flesh when he slides over it with the press of his fingers. Eager little thing.

He hums under his breath at the sight of his hand seated across your hand, fingers shoved between the globes of your smarting ass. Soft and tender to worn and gnarled. The cropping of dark hair over his knuckles, his hand, against your bare skin is obscene. The picture of sin with your stricken flesh and his thick veins. The contrast curdled in the back of his head, morphing into something ugly and wanting.

Idly, he thinks of making you bounce your sore ass on his lap later, your pussy swallowing up his fat cock. Taking it all the way to the root. Over and over again. Breaking you on it until you're begging for mercy, until this little attitude of yours is crushed between his teeth.

Slick gathers against the rough pads of his fingers, drenching them. The hair on his knuckles is matted down, wet with your arousal. Naughty girl. He'll make you pay for that.

And for the puddle seeping into his trousers.

You mewl when he slips, sliding over your clit. The noise spilling molten over your lips, bludgeoning into his loins.

He drags in another mouthful of smoke. Lets it rot between his teeth as he drops the cigar into the ashtray once more, attention riveting to the slip-slide of your slick thighs rubbing together for friction against your aching clit. Cunt pulsing needily against his hand.

You haven't learned a damn thing at all, have you?

Smoke funnels out of his nostrils when he growls. “Spoiled, aren't you? Need to be taught a lesson in respect.”

“I, ah, am respectful, Captain—”

He sucks in a breath between clenched teeth. This lippiness of yours grates on his nerves. He wants you begging for mercy, limp in his hold. Pretty doll. Waiting obediently for him to put you back together again. Soft and submissive at his heel.

“Got three more to go, love.” You shiver when he strokes over your ass. Petting gently with wet, tacky fingers. “If you're a good girl and take it for me, I'll play with your pretty cunt, mm. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

Price brings his hand down, grunting when you moan out his name. Sharp and needy. Your plaintive posturing is a spark inside a tinderbox.

“E–eight.”

The next one is harder, sharper. The force twinges his joints. Rattles through his bone.

It's unexpected, and the pain makes you yowl, body drawing tight like a bow. There's no pleasure when it's like that. No friction against your cunt. It's just—

“Price—!” You yelp, shrill and distressed. The lead up to this has been child's play. A soft hand to tender a nervous mare.

His old man taught him to never strike with the whip first but to wean them slowly.

He waits, humming mockingly to your pettering whimpers as you heave, tremulous, into the air. Shuddering in his grasp at the aftershocks of agony rippling through your body.

Waits. Waits. And—

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, cooing low and condescending when you gasp, craning your neck to level him with an imploring, pleading stare as you stammer out a frenetic nine in a breathless rush. Tears soak your lashline, clumping them together when you blink through another deluge pooling against the rim. Your lip wobbles. The stream breaks, spilling over. Fresh tears run down your wet, sticky cheeks.

There's real panic in the whites of your eyes now. That haughty, pedant gleam buried under pyretic desperation. Gone is the coy twist to your lips. The wily little bloom of amusement in your gaze.

Aw, poor thing. But—

Too late. “You didn't count. You know what that means, love.”

That knot in his chest unfurls, and leaks acid into his lungs. This want is corrosive. A poison. The sob breaks through your chest. The first thunderclap. He relishes in it. Leans back in his chair to bask in the potency of your unmaking.

“Good girl,” he husks out, burning lungs spewing black smoke into the air. “Just ten more now, love. Know you can take it for me, can't you?”

Pretty thing. He'll have that haughty attitude snuffed out before the end of the night. Have you begging for his touch, his cock, him, before the sun draws across the horizon.

Your ruination at his hand. The thought strokes along the kindling smouldering inside of his chest. Burning away at the pyre he's been building since the day he met you. When you looked up at him, pretty in your scorn, and disobeyed his command. Undermined him. So righteous in your fury. A burgeoning flame he wanted nothing more than to snuff out under his heel, and now—

Wide, wet eyes plead with him. “Please, Price. Please, please. I'll be good—I promise I'll be good, sir—”

—ash in the palm of his hand.

He strokes over your searing flesh, humming softly under his breath. “I know you will, pretty girl—” basks in the hiccup of relief you let out, lets it glue in his ears, echoing over and over again. So sweet.

He lets your relief live for a moment. Take its first breath of air through aching lungs—

“But I told you, didn't I? That I'd take you over my knee.” Price pats his hand over your cheek, shushing you when you startle, squirming on his lap.

“Now. Be a good girl and count for me, mm?”

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader

2K notes · View notes

moonstruckme · 25 days ago

Note

bodyguard!james when you have a panic attack 🫣

Ty for requesting!

cw: panic attack

bodyguard!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words

James draws closer to you. The older, stern-looking woman you’re talking to glances at him. It’s James’ job to blend in with the wallpaper, but he’s shirking those duties now for one more important.

You follow the woman’s gaze, noticing him behind you. “Oh, hi.” You smile at him. It’s convincing, a good attempt at hiding how you’re feeling, but James knows you well. “I’m sorry, this is James. James, Linda.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” James gives Linda a smile of his own. He knows who she is of course, everyone here tonight was pre-vetted by his team and he’s memorized her face as one of the safe ones. He shakes her hand, settling the other lightly on your back. “Sorry to steal her away, but” —James looks to you— “could I talk to you for a minute?”

You give Linda an anxious glance, and he presses his hand more firmly to your back. A cue.

“Of course.” Your smile blooms again, this one apologetic. They’re all lovely, but James prefers the genuine ones. You say to Linda, “I’ll find you later, okay?”

“Yes, please.” Linda gives your shoulder a fond squeeze, departing the conversation politely as James starts to guide you away.

There’s a smaller room not far from you, usually connected to this main one but curtained off for the event. No one notices you slip through the curtain. Your quickening breaths are ten times more obvious in the quieter space.

“It’s okay.” James supports you the rest of the way to the couch on the other side of the room. You sink down onto it on shaky legs. “You’re fine, angel.”

You don’t move once you’re sitting, so he maneuvers your body for you, turning you sideways and bringing your feet up onto the couch so you can hug your knees the way you like to. Taking care of you is James’ job, but he thinks he would do it either way. He can’t imagine a life in which he isn’t looking after you. He unzips the back of your dress and starts taking off your shoes. These straps always give him trouble; he doesn’t know how you manage them.

You make a low, pained sound. James feels it in the back of his throat. “James—"

“I’m not undressing you for everyone to see,” he says lightly. “Only loosening things so you can breathe. It’s just us here, yeah?”

You nod, closing your eyes. Your breaths sound like they hurt. James doesn’t know what set you off, but these attacks are something you’ve dealt with before. He has a sense of what you need.

“Sweetheart.” James finally succeeds in getting your shoes off. He clasps his hands over yours firmly, all piled atop your knees. “Just take a breath. One good breath.”

You try, he sees you trying. But it seems like the air won’t settle in your lungs. Your eyes dip just south of his chin, as though you can’t stand to look at him while they grow distant and shimmery.

“Good,” James praises you anyway. “You’ve got it, lovely, you’re okay. I know it’s hard right now, but can you do something for me? Tell me five things you can see.”

You don’t want to. You never do, it’s clearly a lot of work to focus in this state, but eventually James coaxes you into identifying five things in the room. One of them is the earpiece he uses to communicate with the rest of the security team, which makes him smile.

“I don’t usually call it my spiral cord thing,” he jokes, “but good job. Let’s do four things you can hear, yeah?”

You get to three before you start crying. James’ heart aches. He hates to see you cry, but sometimes it does help you. You’re going to be upset about your makeup after, though. You fold your face into your knees, and he reaches over you to rub your back.

“I know.” Your skin is warm beneath his touch, the whole of you shaking. “I know it doesn’t feel like it’s getting better, but it is. You’re doing a great job.”

“I can’t—“

“Hey, you can. You can, sweetheart. You’re doing it already, you just can’t tell yet. Here, I have something for you.” James changes tactics, fishing in his pocket. He holds a bottle of lavender oil near your face. “Smell this.”

You pick your head up, looking at the bottle before sniffing tentatively.

“More than that,” he encourages. “Breathe it in. It’ll help.”

You take the best inhale you can. Your nose runs and sweat glistens at your hairline, but you try for him. James praises you amply, taking deep breaths for you to copy. He isn’t sure if you notice him doing it, but eventually yours start to match his, slowing and lengthening until you’re getting true lungfuls of the lavender scent.

James keeps it by your nose. With his other hand, he rubs your calf.

“You’re okay,” he sighs. “How do you feel now, lovely?”

“Okay.” Your voice still shakes, but now more with aftershocks than true adrenaline. “Sorry, I don’t know why that happened.”

“You don’t have to know.” James pinches your nose clean, something in his stomach tightening when you shy. “I’m sorry it happened, too, but it’s not your fault.”

“I should…” You take a big breath. James frowns and rubs your calf again. “I should go back out.”

He makes a soft, reprimanding sound. “Not yet. Give yourself a few minutes. You need a break. They’ll all be okay without you for a bit.”

Your eyes go to the curtain separating you from the main room. You look at it as though you can see right through and every guest at this event is standing on the other side, tapping their feet and muttering about where you’ve gone.

“Take a break,” James says again. “You thought you were dying a minute ago.”

“I really did,” you admit. “I thought it wouldn’t feel so much like that after the first time.”

James hates to see you upset. He presses a kiss to the center of your forehead and puts the oil away. Squeezes your knees in his hands. “Are you going to be okay if I go out there for a minute? I just need to grab a couple of things.”

You nod but watch his hands ruefully as he stands and they fall away from you. “What do you need?”

“Napkins, mostly.” He gives you a sorry smile. “Obviously you look beautiful no matter what, but I think you’re going to want to clean your face up.”

“Oh, god.” You touch your fingers underneath your eye, feeling the tackiness of smudged makeup. “Thank you.”

“Stay right there,” James warns. “If you’re doing anything other than breathing when I get back here, we’re going straight home.”

You roll your eyes good naturedly. James feels relieved you’re feeling well enough to do it. “You’re the boss.”

“I’m in charge of your safety,” he says. “So, yeah, I am the boss right now. Stay right there.”

You hold your palms up in a show of surrender. James is happy to report that as he goes out the curtain, there’s a smile teasing your lips.

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morelikeravenbore · 8 days ago

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Feigning Indifference

"— And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference."

(I promised Quidditch!smut for the girlies a literal year ago, oop. 🐢🐢🐢 Anyhoo...)

Rated: Explicit. MDNI. NSFW. 🔞

Content warnings: f!reader, no mention of house or appearance, size difference kink, semi-public sex, voyeurism/exhibitionist fantasies, possessive!Sebastian, Beater!Sebastian, feral!Sebastian, excessive use of the word fuck, p in v, unprotected sex.

Word count: 1.8k

[MASTERLIST] [WATTPAD]

Sebastian descends onto the Quidditch pitch, wind-swept, sweat-soaked — victorious.

Like a stone in quicksand, he's swallowed up by the cheering throng of admirers before he's even fully off his broom; Slytherin's mostly, their faces painted emerald, scarves transfigured into woolly snakes around their necks — they crowd around him, beside themselves with the thrill of Sebastian's triumph, back-slapping, hand-shaking, cheek-kissing. Sebastian is glad to be wearing his protective gear against the most enthusiastic among them — not that he's weak without his shoulder pads and arm guards, but some thump him so hard with their congratulations that he wonders if they're Gryffindor’s in disguise trying to put him out of action before the next match.

Once he's past the worst of it, he shirks off his Beater's gear: pads, guards, helmet (even cup, which he unashamedly yanks right out of his pants) hit the ground in quick succession, discarded for the teams’ first-year assistant to collect in his wake (provided his rabid fan club doesn't get to them first.)

Thanks to his seventh-year growth spurt, Sebastian is hardly any smaller without his bulky gear on — a fact he uses to his full advantage to shoulder through the crowd. It takes him several minutes to wind his way through; supporters and haters in equal measure jostle for his attention, girls squeal and find excuses to touch him, Imelda criticises his technique as he passes (even though he just won her the bloody match), and somebody lets off a series of explosions overhead that shower the crowd with green and silver sparks. — And on the edge of it all, standing alone by the stands, there's you: arms crossed, little pout on your cute face, feigning indifference.

He wants to kiss the frown right off your face.

‘There you are.’ He grins down at you. You glare up at him.

‘Seven different girls touched your shoulders just now,’ you grumble, scanning your narrowed eyes over the crowd. ‘Two more touched your chest, and that last one tried to climb you.’

Sebastian's grin widens, delighting in your jealousy. ‘Did they?’ He affects a look of innocence. ‘I didn't notice.’

‘Liar.’ You shoot him a deeply contemptuous look. ‘Maybe I should take up Quidditch, see how you like seeing your girlfriend being groped after every match.’

His amusement drops faster than a fumbled Quaffle. Usually, he finds your little jealous streak endearing — after pining after you for two long years, convinced his feelings were one-sided, your possessiveness makes him embarrassingly gooey-eyed and lovesick. But today he's too jacked up on adrenaline to let that comment slide: nobody touches you but him. Not even in your imagination.

With no more effort than he expends on waving his Beater's bat around (less, even), he lifts you with one arm, bringing your face level with his.

‘I wouldn't let you play Quidditch,’ he says lowly, his voice deep with authority.

Authority which you completely ignore, like always.

Incensed, you scoff and wiggle and squirm for freedom (‘Ugh, put me down, you brute! — You can't tell me what to do! — If I want to play Quidditch, you can't stop me!’) but Sebastian only waits, watching your little tantrum with a mix of resigned patience and wry amusement.

‘You're not the boss of me!’ you wail. You’re tiny in his grip, slender limbed and delicate, but you’re agile enough to break free if he doesn’t handle you right. His arm tightens around you, pinning you so firmly against his chest that you squeak.

‘Yes,’ he growls in your face, ‘I am.’

Despite all the height and the strength he’s gained since you met in fifth year (or the physique if all the giggles and whispers about his shoulders are to be believed), Sebastian is, generally speaking, an unapologetic softie when it comes to you: the most precious thing he's ever beheld, there's not a girl alive more loved than you. But fresh off the field, bolstered by the dizzying rush of glory and adrenaline, all his usual gentleness eludes him. — Suddenly, he wants to do more than kiss the frown off your face.

A hot lick of desire alights in his belly, as familiar as it is impossible to ignore. Without another word, he hoists you higher and carries you off beneath the stands; game forgotten, celebrations be damned, he only has eyes for you, little doll, little bunny caught in his hungry gaze, so small and soft and devourable.

You yelp when your back meets the wall, but hidden now deep in shadows, Sebastian only grins, wolfish. Grateful he'd thought to discard his cup, he pins you there with his hips, making sure you feel every sudden aching inch of him between your legs.

You're his now. You both know it.

‘How can you be jealous when you're the only one who does this to me?’ He leans in close enough to spill hot words right into your pretty, parted mouth. ‘I should fuck you standing. Right here,’ — he punctuates with a sharp thrust that makes you gasp, — ‘right now.’

Your eyes go wide, but whether you're scandalised by his audacity or desperate for him to keep whispering filth, Sebastian doesn't particularly care.

He wants to fuck the shock right off your face.

‘R-right here?’ The wobble in your voice makes him twitch. He grinds into you again, sloooowly this time, rolling the entire length of himself against you while he watches you shift from stubborn brat to good fucking girl; no matter how many times he's seen you like this, flushed pink and panting, he's still utterly obsessed with the moment you finally give in.

Because you always give in.

‘Why not?’ He begins the careful crumbling of your resolve with the top button of your blouse, then the second button, third, fourth… But by the fifth his patience snaps and he yanks — hard; no need for a vanishing charm, he rips your shirt clean open. Buttons pop off in all directions; he knows you'll scold him for that later, but right now you only have strength enough to whimper.

‘What if they see?’ You palm his shoulders — but you're pulling, not pushing.

‘Let them.’ His lips are on the hollow of your collarbone, sucking shivers out of you. ‘Let them watch me fucking ruin you.’

Yanking you away from the wall, he spins you around and envelopes you from behind, one arm curled so tightly around your waist you couldn't wiggle free even if you wanted to. Not that you do want to; that much is clear when his other hand slides beneath your undies. Fingers slick, he fucking moans his way down the side of your neck, his tongue laving a hot, wet stripe down to your shoulder.

‘You think I want to touch any of them like this, huh?’ He bundles your little body against him like a blanket, his arms taut and muscles straining as he works your moans free with his hands and his tongue. You buck obediently against his palm, and when he slides two thick, long fingers inside you, your knees give out. He holds you up, pinned pretty to his chest, your tits heaving in the open air, nipples begging to be painted wet by his hungry mouth.

Sweat drips from his hair and lands on your face. ‘You think I want to fuck any of them the way I fuck you?’

Through the gaps between the stands, the Quidditch pitch is empty, quickly abandoned for post-match festivities (or commiserations if you're a Gryffindor). He imagines marching you back out there right now fucking you in the middle of it, stripping you bare and pounding you silly while the teams debrief in the changerooms and the Slytherin's celebrate their win in the dungeons. — He'd never do it for real, of course, but the fantasy of claiming you so openly, having you exposed and babbling on his cock for anyone to see makes him dizzy.

He wants everyone to know you're his.

The thought makes him fucking — lose — it.

Hot and thick in his hand, he strokes himself free from his trousers with frantic pumps and a long, drawn-out whimper. If he's teetering on the edge of control, then you don't stand a chance; he hoists your leg up and rubs himself desperately against your underwear, mouthing your neck from behind, palming your tits with his big, calloused hand. Never has he been more grateful for all the grueling training sessions that have granted him the strength to manhandle you onto his cock whenever the mood strikes.

Undies bunched to the side, you arch your back and reach an arm around his shoulder, begging, begging, begging even as he's pushing in, in, into you. The sound he makes when he's fully sheathed is nothing short of feral; he stumbles forward, that hot, tight squeeeeeze of you so good it makes him weak in the knees.

It's fucking unbearable what you do to him, the way you make him dribble and buck and moan all sorts of dirty things in your little ear — the way you make him lose control.

‘Look at you,’ he slurs, anchoring you to his body with the full, hot length of his cock. ‘S'fucking good, s’all fucking mine.’

Holding your leg up, he sets a slow, deep rhythm and imagines himself watching you: a last-minute straggler drawn to your hiding place by your sweet moans. He imagines how pretty you'd look all stretched out and stuffed full of himself, tits bouncing, mouth agape with pleasure, too fucked out of your mind to realise how loud you are. He'd touch himself to it — oh fuck yes he would, edging himself to time his climax with yours. And maybe you'd notice him, a pair of dark eyes burning with desire. Maybe you'd like it. Maybe it'd make you cum harder.

Fuck. Lust roils thick and luscious in his stomach and he makes a mental note to fuck you in front of a mirror next time.

He's gasping now, slamming into you so hard your foot almost leaves the ground with every thrust.

‘If only —’ he groans, ‘— they could — see you —’ He drops his head to your shoulder and bites. ‘You're the — ngh — only one — oh, fuck —’

Surely you know — surely you understand that it's always been you; that the way you surrender makes him feel strong; that being inside you makes him feel less broken. Surely you know that he uses his body to say the things he can't put into words.

It's more than sex: he fucking loves you.

Your peak hits you first: a long, slow, wet release that Sebastian rides out as best he can without falling over. He moans along with you, echoing ecstasy into your ear, holding you up while your body succumbs to the overwhelming love he gives and gives and gives over to you. And when you're done, spent and shivering in his arms, sweet and limp and loved to the extreme, he follows.

#sebastian sallow smut #sebastian sallow oneshot #sebastian sallow #hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x fmc #hogwarts legacy fandom #hogwarts legacy smut #morelikeravenbore writes #beater!sebastian #Quidditch!Sebastian

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blade-liger-4ever · 2 months ago

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Smokescreen is more like Orion Pax/Optimus Prime, and here's why I think this.

So, I know my post deconstructing Jack's informed "Prime-like" qualities is making the rounds, and seeing as I promised to do one with Smokescreen and how he is like Orion/Optimus, I feel now would be a good time to make good on that promise.

Buckle up and hang tight, especially since TF One will be mentioned as well for this post.

So, from what we know of Smokescreen in TFP, he was one of the last few cadets inducted into the Elite Guard. That right there tells us that the young 'Bot has raw potential, since not just anyone gets into the Elite Guard. By all accounts, he threw himself into the rigorous training and powered through to become well received, and made enough of a statement to become Alpha Trion's bodyguard. That right there takes talent, even if he did want to do his part and fight on the front line and beat Decepticon heads in. And yes, he was distraught to be relegated to Alpha Trion watch duty and yes, he was disappointed to not be out there in the thick of it fighting with his fellow Autobots for the greater good.

But he accepted it.

Not once was it mentioned that Smokescreen put in a transfer request for the front line of the War. He may have wanted to fight and, maybe, gain a little glory and be like the heroes he'd heard about, but it actually never got to his head, or his Spark. Instead, he rolled with what he had and came to genuinely enjoy a friendship with Alpha Trion, learning a lot from him as well. Smokescreen still took a chance to get in a fight, but he never went in without at least a rough outline of a plan, as evidenced by his debut episode and then again later on, even in the infamous episode where the team gets the Star Saber.

Speaking of, that episode shows us another of Smokescreen's great traits: his refusal to be intimidated by the Decepticons - including Megatron himself.

And the thing is, Smokescreen truly is fearless in front of Megatron in that episode. He's brought before the Lord of the Decepticons, surrounded on all sides with no escape, and is almost certainly seconds away from death or horrid torture. But what does he do when asked who he is?

Smokescreen smirks and sarcastically asks, "Why? Who wants to know?"

The boy nearly got backhanded into oblivion for that, and he still kept his scrap together! Put anyone else in that position, and some transmission fluid is seriously getting leaked.

Except, of course, for one 'Bot.

Optimus Prime.

This is where their similarities are shown first. Like Smokescreen, Orion/Optimus has tremendous talent that, at first raw, gets refined over time. While he is nowhere near as brash or reckless as Smokescreen started (outside of TF One), Optimus always wants to do his part, and throws himself into his work and dreams and gives it his all. He consistently comes out better and stronger from his trials, and doesn't fear Megatron or anyone else on the Decepticons' side, just like Smokescreen. Here, they're shown as similar, including with how they both stand up for what's right, and plant themselves in the ground and fight for what is good and greater than themselves.

Another similarity they share is how they accept their wrongs and don't shirk them onto another. While I have many reservations on his portrayal in TF One, the writers nailed Orion/Optimus when he takes full responsibility for the race when he and D-16 were met with Sentinel after the fact. Additionally, Orion/Optimus was always eager to make a point for the greater good and was willing to be an engine of change for others, no matter what. On the same token, while Smokescreen had a tendency to be overzealous in proving his worth to the team, he persistently pulled his own weight and, when it came to messing up, he always took full responsibility for his actions. He even went beyond that, often feeling so remorseful that he continually offered to leave the team if he was "unfit for [them]" (be honest with yourselves, Optimus at any point before becoming a Prime would do almost the exact same thing.) Furthermore, whenever he was being verbally attacked by another teammate, Smokescreen took it and didn't give crap back. Even when Vince threw that burger at his window, his payback was more on behalf of Jack's dignity than his own.

Just think about it: why would a human throw food at him specifically? It logically would have been directed at his passenger, a notion that's reinforced by Jack's desperation to hide from Vince's sight. And if you want to really get deep, compare it to Orion standing up to Darkwing for D-16 in the mines. Are both courses of action immature? Yes, but they're done on behalf of someone other than themselves. It's even shown again when Smokescreen defends Optimus' choice to destroy the Omega Lock against Ratchet. While this is the first time he's ever spoken up to someone on the team, it's in defense of Optimus and pointing out that Ratchet has no place to read Optimus the riot act for a make-or-break decision in an already desperate situation that would have doomed millions to billions of more lives. Smokescreen had always stayed quiet and followed directives as well as he could without a word of complaint up until that moment, and the only reason he raised his hackles was because Ratchet was lamenting a loss that pales in comparison to the disaster that was averted [and was ultimately Ratchet's own fault for creating.]

This is the beauty of the similarities between Optimus and Smokescreen. Neither of them take particular offense when they themselves are attacked/ridiculed, but will fight tooth and nail for those they care about if you so much as say one nasty thing about their friends. They both hold fast to all that is good, want to help change the world/make it a better place, and are proactive about it. And while they both start out like high school jocks (I'm mostly thinking of G1 Orion Pax for this), they never let their abilities go to their head and make them think of themselves above others. Instead, they merely see their abilities as tools to help those around them: Optimus used his mind, eloquence with words, and physical power to kick off the change he wanted on Cybertron, while Smokescreen willingly offered his full array of skills and fresh power to aid Team Prime for the War effort and replenish their numbers.

These traits wonderfully show that Smokescreen is, in actuality, a worthy Prime for the future. He puts others before himself, he is active in helping those who need it, he runs into the fire when others run from it, and turns down a chance to become a Prime because he knows he doesn't have the experience for it. This especially is important because it shows that while Smokescreen was a bit starry-eyed about war and ranks, he never wanted power.

He wanted to be an agent of good, just like Optimus.

And he was.

That's all I really have left to say. If you enjoyed this, I'm really happy. TFP Smokescreen is my second favorite character in, possibly, all of Transformers. I wish his potential for the Primacy wasn't slept on by so many fans in favor of Bumblebee, and that we could actually see him take up the Matrix after Optimus (preferably) retires to enjoy peace for once.

See you around people!

"Autobots, roll out!"

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daylite-writes · 11 months ago

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A Healer’s Blunt Teeth - Yan!Capitano x Healer!Reader

(Pt 2 here)

In your homeland, the nation of war, healers are highly valued, highly sought after. This, however, does not grant them autonomy. Traded, won, and bought. That has been your life thus far. Now though, you’ve fallen into the possession of a man you know will never lose a battle.

cw: societal-typical captivity, Yandere-esc behavior, background death, non consensual touching/kissing, sharing a bed (romantic, but not sexual), consensual relationship, brief use of the word ‘master’ until Capitano shuts that down, time skip.

2.8k words

~~~

The sun was relentless, on the battlefield. Glaring down from the horizon, it was blindingly bright. It’s heat was so palpable it warped the rocky terrain around you. Your face, back, legs, all were drenched in sweat. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

The worst part was the smell of the fallen bandits cooking under it.

You choked back a sob as another waft of the scent passed you. Rotting, seared. The battle was over, but didn’t dare to move from the spot behind a jagged rock you’d taken. Quietly, you cursed to yourself, “stupid, fucking—stupid. Gods, archons, fucking, idiotic—”

Idiotic team leader, idiotic fucking team. The scouts were supposed to make sure backup wasn’t within range, the talkers were supposed to intimidate them into to fork over their supplies, and the front liners were supposed to not fucking die should a altercation begin.

Apparently none of them did their job, because the moment swords were drawn, one of them sent a signal to a larger group of Fatui a ways back—the moment their backup arrived marked the start of the bloodshed.

They cut through your group with far too much ease. Trained. You didn’t dare peek out from your hiding place, but you listened to the ‘shirk, shirk, shirk’ as each bandit was double-tapped.

You bit your bottom lip hard, hard enough to draw blood, as footstepped creeped closer.

As a healer, you’d never been afraid of defeat. Even ones that had the entirety of the group you were with dead. But those defeats came at the hands of other Natlan people. Those were people who would spare the healer, finding better uses for you than death. The Fatui? No such promise. Surely they had their own, and in turn, you held no use.

The air was tense, silent, except for your stifled breathing and the click of the rifle as you struggled to load it. You swore internally, fumbling with the damned thing, before you heard a click.

You froze. The click was not from your gun.

“Drop it.” The Fatuus barked. You did so, weapon clattering on the ground, raising your hands in surrender, you kept your head dipped low. Unsteady breaths spilled from your lips.

“Please.” You begged, you weren’t a threat, you prayed they knew that.

One grabbed you, roughly, forcing you to stumble along as you were dragged into the blood smeared slaughter grounds. The sun, glaring in your eyes, made it hard to see. Eventually, the Fatuus shoved you, making you fall to yours knees—which sunk a little into the blood soaked mud under me.

The Fatuus said something, which you didn’t hear between your heavy breathing and rapid heartbeat pounding in your ears. It wasn’t for you—too formal and professional. You lifted your head—

The largest man you’d ever seen. Well, probably a man. Towering, with a helmet that looked like a shark’s metal maw shrouding his face in darkness. The blood pounding in your ears intensified. He was looking at you—he was looking at you—

You dropped your head down immediately, terrified of the man you’d been tossed before. Their leader, undoubtedly. It was a short lived reprice from his fearsome figure, as he soon grabbed your chin, dragging you to your feet and forcing your eyes to meet his void—

“You aren’t a bandit. You’re too scrawny, not toned, and you can’t load a rifle. You are for some sort of utility.” He tilted his head to look down over your body, before his eyes locked onto yours again. “Am I correct?”

“Y-yes—yes sir.” Your chest shook with every heavy breath. “I-I’m their healer.”

“Hm.” He said simply. The hand clasped around your throat and jaw twisted slightly, moving your head and body as he pleased. You let slip a sharp whimper, but didn’t dare say a word. He looked over you, appraising you like one would a horse or a fine good. Trying to determine your value.

“In the Natlan wilds, healers are usually bought, traded around between groups.” He lifted your head a little higher exposing your neck. What was he looking for? “Or taken, when a group died to another. Just one thing from which a victor is entitled to take. Hm. I wonder where you’ve been, healer.”

Too many places. From the moment you showed an innate ability for healing. Traded, won, bought off, defected to. Your knees threatened to buckle beneath you as you met his eyes.

His mask hid all but the slightest trace of blue eyes and a sharp, but you swore you could see the glint of sharp teeth as he dropped out, letting you collapse onto your knees in the dirt.

He turned to his soldiers, with a booming voice yelled; “Kill any left alive, take all supplies of theirs you find.”

Then, he turned back to you, voice quieter, but pleased. You hadn’t moved an inch from where he dropped you.

“What do you think of the cold?”

~~~

Capitano was your new boss. Not the Fatui—Capitano specifically.

You stayed in his tent during the day, and slept in the corner at night. It wasn’t like you were told to sit there, but you’d rather not risk punishment for asking for a bed. You weren’t sure how cruel the Fatui were, how cruel he was.

Besides, it was familiar. Sleeping at the foot of your latest warlord. A decoration when you were not working. Like a fancy vase, or an exotic fur blanket.

He came back to the tent one night, the troops reeling from a small battle. You didn’t know what against, only that he took a seat on the side of his bed, undoing his armor, and turning to you, silently beckoning. You approached, sitting beside him on the bed, beginning to heal his wounds.

You wondered how many had seen under the armor. He was strong, toned, and monstrous. Scars etched out of his back held veiny black scars that had to be from the void, his teeth, at times, seemed shinier than his blades and twice as sharp. His eyes…

Oh his eyes.

There was nothing wrong with them. Not visually, but…

You shuddered as you felt them on you again, your muscles threatening to lock up. Heal, right, you needed to heal him. Don’t disobey, don’t refuse, don’t show fear.

“Calm down.” He commanded, and you suddenly realized how your limbs were shaking.

“Apologies, master.” You took a small breath, forcing your hands to move steadier across his ribs. A gash, probably from some rifthounds. They’d been hunting the abyss deeper into the mountains.

“Hm.” He said simply.

He never showed any pain as you fixed him, despite healing—against most people’s assumptions—being no pleasurable experience. You wondered if he even staggered when the beast cut through flesh. You wondered how many he killed before one landed the lucky shot.

Scars faded, having curled up into themselves until they dissapeared, you pulled your hands back. You were on his bed, on your knees as he sat on the edge, legs planted on the floor. You were practically under his arm, in order to gain access to his ribs, but you didn’t move away, and wouldn’t. Not until he dissmissed you.

“Done?” He asked, voice even. Gods, did he even feel any of it?

“Yes, master.”

“Good.” He inclined his head slightly. A thanks. You, nervously, lips parted slightly, looked up to him, taking a second to glance at his maskless face. Was… was he going to dismiss you, or?

He met your gaze, and this time you could not stop your limbs from locking up. You felt like a rabbit, with the eyes of a wolf locked onto you.

He lifted a hand, his fingertips abyssal, dipped in black ink. Gently, he cupped your cheek. The little gasp you gave was one of fear, but he didn’t seem to mind.

Once again, he considered you, tilting and moving your head as he liked. “You’ve done well.”

If you could speak, you’d thank him. Call him master as the others you’ve served prefer, maybe bow your head. But no. Something in you, needed desperately, to remain very, very, still.

“You’ve served me well, for weeks, now. Not a whisper of what I look like among my men, not a peep of disobeyal from you. You haven’t so much as asked for a bed. I must wonder what has happened for you to be so… tamed.”

You said nothing.

“I think I could take you to the most beautiful place in Teyvat, and you wouldn’t dare ask to step outside my tent, instead awaiting my own permission. Hm.”

He tilted you head to the side, exposing your neck. This time, you began to shake. You’ve seen his teeth at times, they could tear your head free from your body—

“Captain?” You pleaded.

“Shhh. I’m not hurting you.” He whispered, you felt it more than you heard it, his hot breath across your skin. “Remain good and you can sleep in my bed tonight.”

He… kissed you. Your brain almost short circuited when his lips dipped down to your neck. It was gentle, even when sharp canines nicked your skin.

Slowly, your body relaxed, and he pulled you closer, he kissed your neck, like a lover. A reverent one. Before you knew it, you were sitting on his thigh, whimpering as he placed a hickey high on your neck, one not able to be hidden. Between your beating heart and his… affection, he stopped for mere moments, not to breath or take respite, but instead to murmur soft nothings, “good,” “thank you,” “my healer,”, before he planted another kiss somewhere new.

His attention continued on for far too long, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself, or where this was going.

“Master…” you said, panting, it took everything in you to not bury your head in his shoulder and bite your lip. You felt deeply embarrassed. This wasn’t the first time a member of the people you’d been claimed by paid… special attention to you. But it was

“Captain. You will call me captain.”

“Captain.” You forced out, softly. “Can…”

He waited, not kissing your skin as you figured out how to work your tongue. It would better, right? To be with him than against. A healer alone is doomed. You thought for a moment, before quietly speaking.

“Can I kiss you too?”

“Yes.” He growled out, far too fast. A little aggressive, but, okay—you lowered your head, planting your own kiss on his neck, as gently as you could.

He groaned a bit, the vibrations of it tangible against your lips. “Bite down.”

For a moment, your brain short circuited. What?

“Bite.”

Well then. Slowly, nervously, you sank your teeth into his skin.

His hand cupped the back of your head—archons you swore there were claws on them—and pressed your head a bit further down, forcing you to bite down harder.

The sound that forced its way from his throat was guttural, not quite a growl, but deeply animalistic and satisfied.

“Good… healer. Good.” He huffed out. The hand left the back of your head, and you took that as permission to release the crux of his neck from your teeth.

You couldn’t help but be shocked at the sight you left. A perfect set of teeth marks against his neck, little beads of blood dotting it. If you hadn’t seen it yourself a few times, you wouldn’t be sure he could bleed. At least, bleed red. He held himself like a god among men, and his soldiers seemed to put him on a similar pedistool.

Your mind circled back to his previous praise. Good. You did well, he was happy with you. You wondered if you would be allowed to sleep in his bed tonight. You wondered if he’d let you refuse.

Realizing he’d been silent for a time, you glanced at him, cold, icy eyes glittering behind lax eyelids. He was watching you.

Your chest was heaving despite the little effort it took, but his breathing was strangely calm, rhythmic.

You felt a hand run through your hair, you closed your eyes and bit your lip.

“It’s late. Sleep in my bed, should you like.” He said simply, and you opened your eyes. His hand was still in your hair, and you’d never felt so calm in his presence.

“Alright.” You spoke, the sound barely a breath.

You slept in his bed that night, his arm around your midsection. You felt like the woman in a painting with a name you forgot. She lounged within a lion's den, resting her head against one’s chest, sleeping beside an apex predator.

~~~

Capitano’s time in Natlan was coming to a close. And in turn, yours was as well.

You laid lazily on the strategy table, your head and chest slumped forward into your arms. Under you, a map of Teyvat, with various pins and marks. The path home. Capitano had been pouring over it even after his generals left, marking it every once in a while, or muttering to himself. You’d been waiting for him to finish for hours now.

For all his animalisticicity, his libido was strangely low. Even after months of his physical attention—kisses, bites, sharing a bed—it took you initiating for him to grant you anything. You were happy for this, you supposed. But it did make him difficult to manipulate, unlike many other men who’d oblige after you puffed out your cleavage and bit your lip.

So, you had to resort to other methods.

“Captain… I’m tired.”

“Sleep then. I’ll carry you back when I finish.” He didn’t look at you.

“At the table? Darling…”

“You were the one that wanted to come to this meeting.”

“Yes, the meeting. Not the… what is this? Were the plans your generals made not sufficient?”

“I’m merely going over them again.”

“Alright.” You weren’t getting what you wanted. Not yet. “Perhaps I should walk back to the tent.”

His body shifted slightly, an action that on him, was like the moving of glaciers, heavy and lumbering. “You stay by me.”

It was a reminder, a weighty one. You did not have to be his lover, but you were his healer, taken by right of combat. The only right that mattered in Natlan. He held dominion over you either way.

You did not have to be his lover, but god was life easier that way.

“Sorry.” You sunk back into your arms, feigning just enough sadness and remorse to make him uncomfortable, even if he was visibly still as a mountain.

“You know you are not allowed to move through the camp alone.”

“I do. I just forgot, the last few chieftains I served didn’t bother overseeing my location or sleeping arrangements.” You lied. They did. Very closely in fact. You were a goddamn healer by blood, very expensive in the country of war. You slept at their feet or in their beds, sometimes in chains. But such facts did not serve you in that moment. “This… supervision is new to me.”

He sighed, setting down his quill. “I suppose this is done. We can return to the tent.” He moved around the table, coming up behind your chair before sweeping you into his arms. Hook. Line. Sinker.

“My legs function, Capitano. I assure you.”

“They did not seem to this morning.”

“I’m a healer, I can deal with some strained muscles.” You bantered back.

“Oh, so me bringing you breakfast was simply a ploy of yours?”

“Of course it was, surely you realized.” You grinned into his shoulder, taunting. “And healing takes time, imagine what the soldiers would say seeing me struggle to walk, coming out from your tent?”

“Hm.”

“Anyways, I said I could walk.”

“I wonder, do you ever accept the fact you may not get what you want? Or must you claw at me until I indulge you?”

“With walking?” You grinned, finding a stance you could sink your teeth into. “Are you afraid I may run?”

“Do you think you could escape?” Capitano met your question with one of his own.

You hummed, eyes closed with a soft smile, not bothering to indulge him until he answered you first.

Your eyes shot open as the warm metal of his gauntlet tilted your head up by the chin. He looked over your neck, scarred with the symbols of his love, and gave a content, “Hm. No.”

You rolled your eyes, a little insulted. “I could escape if I liked.”

“Of course, my healer.”

You pouted as he let go of you, your face falling down into his shoulder again.

“Fear not though, my healer.” His voice had a rasping, growling edge to it, making your body shiver in the Natlan heat. “There will never be anything to run from.”

~~~~~

Just a little thing! Hope y’all liked it <3

#genshin fanfic #yandere genshin impact #yandere capitano #yandere capitano x reader #healer reader #yandere genshin

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arlana-likes-to-write · 7 months ago

Text

Sins of the Family

Part 3 of Family and Pawns

Warnings: car accident, mention of death and grief, kidnapping, implied sexual assault, mention of suicide, suicidal thoughts, mention of past sexual assault, death, usage of a fire arm, angst with a happy ending, everyone needs a hug and no one is okay

Note: This is maybe the last story of this AU unless I get a request for another part.

Word Count: 10k (I don't want to talk about how long this)

“Cooper!” You shirked as the eldest Barton shot you with a water gun. It was an all out water war between you, Tommy, and Billy against the three Bartons plus Kate and Yelena. The twins thought it was unfair that the two Avengers were on the same time but the Black Widow has to remind them that they were enhanced, they did it so the teams would be more even. Speaking of your brother, Tommy ran behind Cooper and dumped a bucket of water on him. Before the eldest Barton could turn around, he was gone.

“Hey!” He whipped the water out of his eyes. “I thought we said no powers.” Tommy appeared next to you.

“That’s what you get for targeting our sister,” he held up his fist and you pumped it against his.

“Kids, lunch is ready.” Laura called out. You liked Iowa. It was quiet, peacefully, and the Bartons were welcoming. You sat next to Nate with a towel wrapped around your shoulders. Natasha warned you that the youngest Barton would probably be quiet, still processing the death of his father.

“So, what do you want to do after we eat?” You asked. He shrugged, biting into his hot dog. It was just you and the young boy at the table while everyone was pilling food onto their plate. “Can I tell you a secret?” You whispered to him. Nate slowly nodded his head. “It’s okay to be happy and still miss you.” You saw his little body tense up but he still refused to look at you. “It’s okay to be angry with him,” you continued. “And still love him.” A small whimper left his mouth and your heart broke for him. You wished you could take away all of his pain. You would take it all away if you could.

“It’s okay to be angry with Nat and be glad she’s alive because he is no longer here.” It was like the dame broke. You saw his body shake as quiet tear fell down his cheeks. You panicked, body frozen as he dropped his hot dog and climbed onto your lap. His face pushed against your damp shirt and you felt his tears. You glanced up and saw Laura, wide eyes and about to walk over to her emotionally distraught son but you held up her hand to stop her. “I’m going to pick up. Okay, buddy?” He tightened his grip on you. You stood up from the table, your towel fell to the ground, and you walked over to the swing that was handing from the tree.

This was what he needed. Someone to let himself cry without adding to their own grief. So you let him cry against you as you pushed yourself on the swing. “I’m sorry,” he said once his tears stopped. You forced him to look at you. There was snot running down his nose and his cheeks were blotchy.

“Hey, little man, it’s okay to cry. It’s okay for your feelings to be all over the place but we are here for you. Whatever you need,” he nodded and rested his head back on your chest.

“Does it get easier?” That was the million dollar question. You met an older lady while you took a walk during your lunch. She asked about your family not knowing the truth. While she learned about your parents, she told you about her late husband. You asked her the same question. She told you a metaphor that her therapist told her. Your grief was like a red button instead a box with a ball that rolled around. Since the grief was newer the ball would hit the button all the time, no matter what you were doing your grief was powerful. You felt it in everything you did.

Over time, the box got bigger and the grief stayed the same size but it wouldn’t hit the button all the time. You sighed, kissing the crown of his head. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It gets easier.”

“Remember,” Wanda said, glancing at you and the twins. “Billy, you need to bring in your permission slip. Tommy, we have to go to the mall and get you new shoes,” the twins nodded their heads. “And you have a meeting with the home school agency. Did you finish your essay?” You glanced over the book you were reading. The trip to Iowa was done and it was time to head back to reality which meant starting home school. The couple asked if you wanted to attend another school but the incident with Henry and Coach Griffo made you lose faith in the schooling system. Home school was the best option for you and they agreed.

“I finished it before we left for Iowa.”

“Atta girl,” Natasha winked at you from the driver’s seat.

“Nerd,” Tommy mumbled with a smile on his face. You rolled your eyes, bumping your shoulder against his.

“Dork,” you countered. You were an only child for the longest time it was such a nice change to mess with someone.

“Children,” Natasha warned but before she could continue her scolding. You heard the impact before you felt in. Instinct kicked in and you braced yourself for the impact, your body tensed with fear.

The collision was violent, the force of the impact threw you forward. You felt the searing pain shoot through your body. For a moment, everything seemed to spin, the world titled at an impossible angle. The sound of the twins screams echoed in your ears. Once the car settled, your vision was blurry but you saw Wanda and Natasha with their heads to the side. They weren’t moving. You tried to look at the twins but a sheering pain caused black spots to cover your vision. A soft whimper left your lips and the world went dark.

You heard a soft voice calling out to you. She was saying your name over and over again to urge you to wake up. You were so tired. It seemed easier to keep your eyes closed and sleep but the voice was persistent, a little annoying. It kept getting louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore. “Mama,” you gasped awake. Your chest was heaving, eyes darted around the foreign room. You groaned softly as the pain of the car accident caught up with you. You took a few deep breaths to calm yourself down. Your hands were cuffed to metal chains that were attached to the wall. The room was four walls with two doors; one of them was boarded up with wood.

In the corner, you saw Tommy. His hands were free from restraint but a collar was around his neck. “Tommy,” you called out. “Tommy, wake up.” You said a bit louder. Still he laid still, on his stomach. “Come on. This isn’t funny wake up,” you pleaded, desperation oozing from each word. Finally, he groaned. “Oh thank you,” you said, your head leaning back against the wall.

“My head hurts,” he wined, rolling onto his back. It took a moment but he sat up quickly. “What happened?”

“We were in a car accident. I don’t know where we are,” he stumbled to his feet. “Easy,” but he ignored you, wrapped his hands around the chains, and pulled. They weren’t moving. “Tommy, stop. You are going to hurt yourself.” He shook his head.

“I can get you out,” he pulled at them again. “I can get us out and we can go home!” He fell to his butt with a huff. “What’s around your neck?”

“Probably the same thing around yours,” Tommy reached around his neck to touch the collar. You stood up and found out you could reach the mattress but not the door. You sat down and opened your arms, there was a sharp pain in your shoulder. Tommy took the opportunity to lay in your lap.

“They are going to find us,” he looked up at you. “Right?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Or we’ll get out of here by our self.”

Natasha was barely listening to Sam as he spoke with local police and Yelena and Kate were looking at the car crash. Her eyes were on her wife and Billy as they sat on the back of an ambulance. The EMT was cleaning a cut on Billy’s head and his arm was in a sling to help his shoulder. Wanda seemed untouched but Natasha had a faint memory of her wife’s magic wrapping around the car before she blacked out. She wanted Helen to do a check up on him when they were done here. “Thank you officer,” Sam said. Natasha turned back into the conversation. “Are you sure you don’t want to get checked out?”

“I’m fine,” she wasn’t really. It was taken every fiber in her body to not lose it. Her daughter and son were taken right from underneath her nose. By focusing on the pain radiating through her body she wasn’t going to lose her cool. Her sister and Kate walked over to them. “What do we know?” She asked.

“It was one van that hit your car,” Kate handed her a tablet with a feed of the car accident. “Then two more vans showed up and took Y/n and Tommy.” Natasha watched as two men existed their car and ran to the back of the car to get you and Tommy. Why didn’t they take Billy?

“The plates were stolen but we are having Peter check out the original owners,” Yelena said, taking the tablet from Natasha. “We know this was planned. They never looked at the camera so we can’t run facial recognition..”

“So we have nothing on who took my kids.”

“We will find them, Nat,” Sam said. “You have my word but we need to get you, Wanda, and Billy back to the tower where it’s safe. We don’t know if they’ll come back,” that made Natasha’s blood run cold. She couldn’t let them take anyone else.

“Okay,” she said.

“Kate and I will drive you back,” Natasha nodded and walked over to the ambulance. Her body ached but she put on a smile as she got closer.

“Hey bud,” she whispered. “How are you?” Billy shrugged, not looking up at the Black Widow. Natasha frowned, looking at the witch. ‘He hasn’t spoken,’ Wanda’s voice echoed in her head. Natasha nodded. “We are gonna head to the tower with Auntie Lena and Aunt Kate, okay?” Billy nodded, jumping off the back and head over to his aunts. But the young boy didn’t reach out for comfort from his aunts. Instead, he walked right past them to the car. Natasha sighed, feeling her wife grab her hand.

“You haven’t gotten checked out, moya lyubov’ (my love),” Wanda said.

“I’m fine,” but she knew she couldn’t lie to Wanda as easily as she did with Sam. Wanda stopped walked. “Wanda-” Natasha pleaded.

“This is not your fault, okay?” Natasha looked at her sister. Yelena was leaning against the car, trying to get Billy to talk. “And I will remind you that at every step. We will find them and Billy will be okay,” Natasha surged forward capturing Wanda’s lips into a kiss. The kiss was frantic, messy as Natasha hung onto Wanda.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispered against Wanda’s lips.

“You won’t. I’m here. I’m right here.”

You let Tommy fall asleep, resting between your legs and you ran your fingers through his hair. You wanted to close your eyes and sleep but you couldn’t. What if when you closed your eyes and the door opened and they came in to take your brother? So you sat and replayed moments in your head. The first time you met the Romanoff-Maximoff family and the night the couple told you they wanted to adopt you. They were going to find you. Until then you had to be strong and protect Tommy.

Finally, you heard the door unlock and slowly open. The sound caused Tommy to stir awake but you kept your arms around him as 3 men walked in; two were carrying bowls. “Food,” the man up front said. He was Russian and the men behind him set the bowls near the mattress. But you both didn’t move. “You are going to need your strength.”

“What do you want with us?” You asked. He didn’t answer, instead he gestured to the man on his left and he walked over to you. He ribbed Tommy from your arms. “No!” You jumped to your feet but the man held your brother by his throat and put a gun to his temple. “Please don’t hurt him.” Tommy struggled against his capture but it made no difference.

“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” he stepped forward. “When I say you eat, you eat. When I say jump, you ask how high. Your brother’s life is my hands, do you understand my malen’kaya ten’ (little shadow)?” You glanced at Tommy.

“I understand,” the man holding your brother threw him to the ground. Before you could help, the man grabbed onto your chin to force you to look at him.

“He is collateral,” he said. “I won’t hesitate to kill him if you disobey me.” You nodded and he let you go. You ran over to Tommy and he assured you he was okay as the three men left.

“Do you know them?” He asked. You shook your head. You didn’t, you’ve never seen those men in your life.

“But he definitely knew me,” you sat back on the mattress with the bowl. It was a soup of some kind.

“He called you little shadow,” he said, sitting next to you with his bowl in his lap. Little shadow. Your spoon stopped in mid air. You hadn’t thought about that nickname in months since Jason was killed. “Do you want this?” He asked, holding up his bowl. “I don’t like it.” You laughed at the scrunch of his nose.

“Eat it,” you said, taking a spoonful of your own. It wasn’t bad just bland compared to Wanda’s flavorful cooking. “I think he’s right when he said we’ll need our strength.”

Wanda hated this. This intense feeling of worthlessness as she had no idea where her son and daughter were or who took them. She couldn’t even help her other son who hasn’t spoken or eaten since the accident. He was shutting her out and that scared her even more. “But why not take all three of your kids?” Maria asked. The available Avengers met at the tower to come together to find you and Tommy. They were in the conference room while Pepper and Happy watched Billy and Morgan. She hated being away from him but he didn’t need to be here for this. “If they want to hurt you, why did they just take Y/n and Tommy?” It was a good question and one Wanda couldn’t answer. Natasha and her made a lot of enemies throughout their time as Avengers. The list was long.

“Maybe it’s not about us,” Natasha said, picking at the skin around her thumb. Wanda grabbed her hand to stop her. “Have we found anything about Jason?” Tony pulled up the hologram of the man that took advantage of you. The sight still made Wanda’s blood boil.

There wasn’t much they knew about the man that could help them. Only child, whose parents divorced when he was a kid, and his father was in and out of rehab facilities. He was in extreme debt and unemployed. At his last job, he suffered a shoulder injury which allowed him to cash in disability checks.

“What about her parents?” Yelena asked. “Jason must have known them. There was no way them meeting was a coincidence,” she had a good point. Tony put up two holograms of your parents. You rarely spoke about them. Maybe it hurt to much to think about them. Your parents were Daniel and Harper. In 2018, two months after Thanos exterminated half of all living things. Harper was diagnosed with cancer. It seemed so unfair how much pain your family was subjected to in a short amount of time. Your mother was a house keeper while your father worked in construction. They were living pay check to paycheck since Harper was out of work while she received treatment from a Dr. Joshua Harris. Unfortunately, Harper’s treatment wasn’t successful. She passed away. Your father took his own life two months after his wife passed. In three years, you would return and your parents were gone.

“We are missing something,” Natasha stood up suddenly. “If they were being blackmailed or were involved in something there wouldn’t be a paper trail.”

“Nat is right,” Sam said. “Yelena, Kate go talk to Harper‘s doctor maybe he can tell us something.” The duo stood up to leave the room, Yelena squeezed Natasha’s shoulder before they left. “Peter, Maria, and Bucky will try to find an angel on ().” A plan was made. It wasn’t a lot but it was something. Natasha and Wanda left to go find Billy. He was laying on the couch, watching Morgan play with her dolls.

“Hey,” Wanda said, sitting down next to him. “Have you eaten anything?” He shook his head.

“Why don’t I make some mac and cheese?” Natasha suggested. Billy brightened up slightly.

“And a hot dog,” The Black Widow smiled.

“Anything for you, bud,” she walked into the kitchen.

“How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?” Helen gave all three of them a clean bill of health besides the normal ache and pains. Bill frowned, moving to rest his head on her lap. “Talk to me, dorogoy (sweetheart). Please.” She ran her fingers through his hair.

“I can’t feel them, mam,” he whispered. “I keep trying but I don’t know where they are. I-,” his voice cracked. “That’s what hurts mama. I want them home.” Wanda saw the signs of Billy’s powers getting out of control. They were similar in that sense when their emotions got overwhelming their powers were unpredictable. It was a work in process to help him contain it. The witch forced Billy to sit up and moved him so he sat on her lap, his chest against hers.

“Breath, Billy. I need you to breath.”

“I can’t,” he gasped and his hands twisted in the fabric of Wanda’s shirt.

“Yes, you can,” Wanda kept her voice soft. She watched Natasha walk over with the plate of food. She almost dropped it at the state of Billy was in. “Your mom and I got you,” Wanda held out her hand for Natasha to grab. She put the food down and took her hand. Gently, Wanda placed Natasha’s hand on their son’s back and traced soothing circles. “Just focus on us.” Wanda began to hum, a simple lullaby she would sign to them when they were babies. It seemed to work. She felt Billy slump against her and his breathing calmed down.

“You are doing so good, bud.” Natasha said, locking eyes with Wanda. If there was one thing Wanda loved about Natasha it was her eyes. They were so expressive. Even when her face was so stoic, her eyes gave away so much.

“It’s okay,” Wanda smiled. “Everything is going to be okay.” She said it for all three of them. Everything was going to be okay.

When the door opened again, you and Tommy were playing Concentration. It was the same man from before. He walked over to you, twirling a key in his hand. He grabbed onto your hands and unlocked the cuffs. “Come with me,” you rubbed at your wrists. “Both of you.” You stood up and the two men grabbed Tommy. “You can call me, Dmitri, okay?” He put his arm around your shoulder as the two men walked out of the room. “We had a mutual friend. Do you know who?” Outside the room, you call tell you were in an abounded hospital. Empty beds with rusted frames sat against the peeling walls, the mattresses long gone or decayed. The air was heavy with the scent of dust and decay. The doors that weren’t locked shut were hanging off the hinges. Your small group weren’t the only ones in the hallway but the ignored you, focused on their task of cleaning.

At the nurse station, the desk was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the files lie scattered and forgotten. Some of the signs still hung on the wall but were faded, their messages no longer conveyed a feeling of hope.

“Jason,” you finally replied.

“Oh she is smart,” he teased. “He was a good man, more loyal to his cock then the cause,” he squeezed your shoulder and the soup you ate turned in your stomach. They brought you into a room. It was a stark contrast to the rest of the hospital. The room was well kept with multiple screens and a generator in the corner. There were weapons scattered against the tables set up. It was eerily silent besides a man typing away at the computer. Your brother was forced into a chair and metal restraints were put on his legs and arms. “Are you ready for your mission, malen’kaya ten’?” You glanced at Tommy.

“I am,” you whispered. Dmitri handed you a tactical suit, similar to the one you’ve seen Natasha ware.

“Change into this,” you took it from him and hesitated. “Change now.” Your hands shook as you took off the clothes you decided to wear on the trip home from the Bartons, simple tracksuit that Kate bought for you. You weren’t blind to the way Dmitri’s eyes racked up and down your body. His footsteps moved behind you and he grabbed the zipper and zipped it up. His hands landed on your shoulders. “Good girl,” Dmitri whispered the name as if it was a secret for only you and him. The name caused your stomach to turn. “This is for you,” it was a com and you put it in your ear. “You and I are going for a little ride and you will listen to every word I say,” he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at Tommy. The sudden movement caused you to stumble into him and his free arm wrapped around your waist, trapping you from moving. “If you don’t your baby brother’s brains will be splattered all over that wall.”

“I understand,” you said. “Can I give him a hug?” He thought about it.

“Make it quick. I’m not a monster,” You walked over to Tommy and hugged him tight.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” you whispered.

“Same to you,” you kissed the top of his head and walked over to the man. He said he wasn’t a monster but that was up for some debate. Delete Created with Sketch.

“Where are we going?” You asked. He blindfolded you the minute he lead you out of the building. Being in the backseat of a car was nauseating as you tried to make sense of the turns but it was impossible.

“We are almost there,” your leg began to shake but you felt his hand on your thigh. Automatically your body tensed up. “It’s okay, malen’kaya ten’, I won’t hurt you.”

“You see why I find it hard to believe,” you said. “I thought Jason wasn’t going to hurt me and we both know how that ended.” He removed his hand and your body relaxed.

“We’re here,” the car stopped and blindfold was removed from your eyes. The sun caused you to wince and it took a minute for your eyes to adjust to the harsh light. “We are at the office of Dr. Harris,” you didn’t recognize the name. “You are going to sneak into his office and place this listening device somewhere he won’t find it,” you took the device from him. “Then you will use this on his computer and it will copy all of the files, it will take 15 seconds.”

“How do you expect me to sneak in with this stupid collar on?” You asked. He pulled out a key and took it off. A weight that was on your chest was lifted off. He put a small camera on your chest.

“Remember what I have,” you sighed.

“I do,” you fazed through the car. You kept your powers on as you walked over to the office and walked through the door. You stood in a small entry way with a door in front of you and on your right. A metal sign displayed each specialties the office offered. Dr. Harris’ office was through the door in front of you and he was a medical oncologist. You frowned, ignored the tight knot that formed in your stomach, and moved onto the next door.

It was a simple waiting room, there was a few patients in the chairs. the receptionist was speaking with a young woman through the glass that separated them. The patient had a beanie that covered her head. It was no use to stay and listen to the conversation that was happening so you moved past the nurse that opened the door to call the next patient.

Lucky, there was signs that pointed you in the right direction. However, your feet stopped when you passed a large open area. There was a nurse station on one wall and spread across the room were chairs; some empty. But the people that were in those chairs were attached to IVs. Curiously, you walked towards the nurse station and read the pamphlets they had out. 20 different recipes to eat try during Chemotherapy. What is radiation? How to overcome it? You were in a cancer center.

‘Ah,’ Dmitri said. ‘I forgot you weren’t around to see your mommy sub come to the horrible disease,’ When you were younger, your parents saved enough money to take you to Cooney Island. All the kids at school talked about riding a roller coaster and how cool it was. So you were anxious to go on it. You were nervous and your parents kept saying you did not have to go on it. That no matter what you were their brave girl. You went on it and hated every second of it. The way your stomach dropped at each turn made you sick. You were experiencing that same feeling now. ‘Continue, my little shadow,’ he said. ‘His office is down the hall.’ You nodded and walked that way. The sooner you were done, the faster you could be back with Tommy, safe in the 4 wall cell. Safe wasn’t the correct word you would use but it was better than be separated. You fazed through the doctor’s door. He was sitting at his desk, typing away at his computer. Bookshelf’s were behind him, decorated with pictures of different families. ‘You are gonna have to get him to leave.’ You rolled your eyes. Easier said then done, you thought, how the hell were you going to do that?

As if someone heard your prayer a knock came to the doctor’s door. “Come in,” you moved to the corner as the door opened and the receptionist you saw enter.

“Two Avengers are here to speak with your,” you froze and stomach flipped. Avengers. Two Avengers were here. Your family. ‘Don’t,’ the man hissed in your ear. ‘Don’t forget what I have.’ Oh you didn’t but maybe you could get their attention.

“Of course, please send them right in,” the doctor stood up and straightened the white coat he was wearing. The door opened wider as Kate and Yelena walked in.

“Dr. Harris,” Kate said, extending her hand for the doctor to take. “Kate Bishop and this is Yelena Belova. Thank you for meeting us.” The doctor shook her hand. He went to shake Yelena’s but the blonde refused and sat down in the chair.

“Of course. Anything I can do to help the Avengers,” he sat down and kept his eyes mostly on Kate. You could tell he was intimidate by the Black Widow. You had to stop yourself from laughing. You moved to the window ledge and leaned against it. “What is this about?”

“A former patient of yours,” Kate said. “Does the name Harper Myers ring a bell?” That was your mom’s name. Your stomach dropped. It had been a long time since you’ve heard someone say it.

“The Myers,” he spun around in his chair to look at his wall of pictures. He stood up to grab a frame and looked it over before handing it over to Kate with a sad smile. “They were lovely people,” you walked over to the couple as Kate handed the photo to Yelena. “They had a daughter that I never got to meet her.” You looked at the picture over Yelena’s shoulder. It was a picture of your mom, dad, and you as a baby. They took you o a local mall to see Santa Claus. You were crying, not very happy that a stranger was holding you. Yelena handed the photo back to the doctor but turned to look over her shoulder. Her eyes bore into yours and you held your breath.

“Can you tell us about the Myers?” Kate asked. Yelena turned around slowly. You let out a shaky breath and walked back to the widows. ‘You are toeing a dangerous line,’ Dmitri hissed in your ear.

“The Myers were hardworking people. Harper was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer in 2018. It was a miracle she survived as long as she did.” You clenched your jaw and crossed your arms, hugging yourself for some sort of comfort.

“Did you notice any abnormal behavior?” Kate asked. “Besides the obvious going through a cancer diagnosis.” The doctor leaned forward, resting his hands on his chin.

“I take patient confidentiality very seriously,” he said. “Even after death, they are entitled to the same level of respect. So I will ask again, what is this about?”

“Their daughter was kidnapped,” it was the first time Yelena has spoken. “We are searching every possible option to find her.” You watched the doctor’s face pale.

“Is this about the money?” The couple glanced at each other.

“What money?” The doctor sighed and pulled open a drawer. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for. Soon he handed the couple a folder.

“They were struggling financially to cover the cost of the treatment,” you stayed still not wanting to alert Yelena again. “Daniel’s job offered insurance but it barely covered the cost of the treatment plan Harper would need. Out billing department told them they then they came to me and refused treatment. I pleaded with them to reconsider, that I would help them find a way to pay for it. But they refused,” he sighed. Kate placed the file back on his desk.

“But they got the money?” She questioned. The doctor nodded.

“They came back two days later and said they liked to continue with the treatment. I believe Daniel said they got the money from his sister who passed away.” You frowned. Your dad was an only child.

“Did not find that suspicious?” The blonde asked.

“Of course I did but my job is try to save patients lives. I find the monetary part of my job pointless. If I could give treatment to everyone free of charge then I would.”

“Thank you for your time doctor,” Kate said. “Can you show us to your billing department?” Dr. Harris stood up without a word and walked to the door. The couple followed him but Yelena hesitated and looked towards you. “Sweetheart,” the archer said. “Are you okay?” Yelena nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just,” you know I’m here, you thought, I’m here. I’m here. “It’s nothing.” The Black Widow grabbed her hand. Once they left, Dr. Harris closed the door.

‘Hurry up,’ Dmitri said. You walked over his desk and placed the flash drive into the tower. You watched as a loading boar appeared on the screen and began to count up.

“What are you doing?” You asked. The man laughed.

‘We found you through the lovely doctor,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine who else we can have? Especially when hundreds of families are as desperate as yours were.’ The bar was full and you pulled the flash drive out. ‘You did well,’ he said as you walked through the doctor’s door. ‘I’m impressed with your level of submission,’ he chuckled. ‘I thought you’d fight more.’

You wanted to fight. You wanted to kick and scream and go home but how could you. You were tied down to Dmitri as he held your brother over your head. You moved through the front door but stopped.

“We could follow the money,” Kate said. “Have FRIDAY trace the account.” The Black Widow nodded. “Hey, what’s wrong? You’ve been off.” Yelena sighed.

“We are no closer to finding her,” she admitted. “I’m worried.” Your heartbeat pounded in your ears. There was a part of you that feared they would hear it.

‘Move,’ he ordered but you couldn’t. ‘I will kill him.’ He would. You knew he could but your feet felt glued to the spot. ‘One more chance or your brother’s brains will be all over the wall.’

“We will bring her home,” Kate smiled. “Then we’ll never let her go.” They made the choice for you as the couple walked over to where their car was parked. You sighed, finally walking over to the van. The door opened and you materialized as he grabbed you and pulled in. He pinned you to the opposite door, hand loosely around your neck. You felt his breath on your face. “Do you need to be taught a lesson?” The pressure of his hand tightened on your throat. It was getting harder to get air through your lungs.

“No,” you whispered. “No, sir. It won’t happen again.” You were transported back to whenever Jason was upset with you. You took the flash drive out of your pocket. “I did what you wanted,” you reminded him. His eyes flickered to yours and the flash drive. The pressure let up and you sucked in air. He tightened the collar back around your neck and took the flash drive from you. Before he pulled away from you, he kissed your cheek and whispered, “Good girl,” in your ear.

You felt sick, bile creeping up your throat as the car began to drive. It didn’t take long until you were blindfolded again and your leg started to shake.

“That’s all we get out of him,” Kate said, ending their debrief on what they found out about the doctor. It wasn’t a lot but Natasha was certain they found you and your family through the doctor. Sam must have agreed as the direction of the conversation shifted to find the link. But the Black Widow wasn’t listening even though it was important. Her attention was on her sister, who was abnormally quiet. She let Kate do a majority of the talking, adding a comment here or there. Now she was quiet, resting her hand on her chin. When the meeting was over, Yelena left quickly. “Hey,” Natasha called out to her. “What’s going on?” Yelena slowed down, allowing her to catch up.

“Something didn’t feel right while we were there,” Yelena said, glancing at her sister. “It was like,” she paused and Natasha allowed her the time to process her thoughts. “Like we were being watched.”

“Were they there?” Did the people who had you and Tommy know they would check there? Yelena sighed, shrugging her shoulders.

“Maybe I don’t know,” With your and Tommy’s enhancements, you were a deadly combination. “It doesn’t hurt to scrub through security footage to find out.”

You heard your name being called out and your eyes fluttered open. Dmitri was back. For the first time, he was alone. His guard dogs weren’t insight. “How did you sleep?” He asked, handing you and Tommy a bowl of the same food you ate earlier.

“Well considering the circumstances,” you said, taking a bite. It tasted better than before. “What do we owe the pleasure?” He sat down in front of you, legs crossed and elbows resting on his knees.

“Your sister is pretty incredible,” he said to Tommy. Your brother leaned into your side. “She’s very protective over you, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Tommy whispered. The man smiled.

“What do you want?” You asked again.

“All will be explained but first eat,” you and Tommy both did as he asked and when your bowls were empty, you placed them down and he offered you his hand. Hesitantly, you took it and he pulled you to your feet. Unlike before he put his arm around Tommy and the 3 of you walked down the hallway. His hand was on your waist, a possessive grip that you couldn’t break away. When you entered the room before, his guard dogs were next to the chair. You changed into the suit, put the com in your ear, and hugged Tommy tight.

This time when you were brought to the car, there was no blind fold. Did he see your submissiveness as loyalty? You weren’t sure but the grip he had on you moved to your thigh instead of your hip. It was night but you couldn’t track the turns and stops with his hand on you. “Where are we going?” You finally asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough. Just relax,” he put his arm around your shoulder and pulled you into him. “Why are you so tense?” He asked. “Is this not okay?”

“It’s fine,” you tried to relax but your skin felt like it was burning. You let out a shaky breath and placed your arm on his thigh.

“You and I are going to do amazing things,” he said and tried to fight the shiver that ran down your spine.

“I don’t even know what your goal is,” he chuckled, resting his head on top of yours.

“Perform well tonight and I’ll tell you everything.”

The van stopped a block away from a warehouse. “There are 4 guards,” he showed you a security footage of instead the warehouse on a tablet. “I need you to go inside, disable and erase the security footage, kill the guards, and open the doors for our team.”

“Kill,” you whispered. The other things you could muddle through. But killing innocent people, you weren’t sure if you could do that. He handed you a pistol with a silencer. “I don’t kill people.” Each word you spoke shook with your nerves.

“You killed Jason,” that was true but that was out of self-defense. If you didn’t kill him, he was going to kill you. “It’s rather simple,” he maneuvered your hand to attach the gun to your hip. “But the gun to their heads,” he used his finger to lift your head. Your eyes locked onto his. “And blow their brains out. Simple.” There was nothing simple about it. “Are you ready?” You weren’t. All the color drained from your face. Could he hear how fast your heart was beating? “I asked if you were ready, my little shadow.” His face was in the crock of your neck. You felt the vibration of his words against your skin, causing your hairs to stand up. You weren’t ready. But if you failed or disobeyed what would happen? Would they go after Billy? Or maybe Nathaniel? Lila? Or Cooper? You couldn’t risk the safety of your family. His lips grazed your pulse. You nodded, licking your lips.

“I’m ready.”

“It’s the same van,” Natasha said to the Avengers with screenshots of traffic footage behind her. It took her, Yelena, and Kate hours to scrub through the footage. At first they found nothing but soon they noticed a black van, always changing license plates and they could never see the driver. They were good which worried Natasha. They weren’t amateur kidnappers. They were professionals but they made a mistake, well 2 mistakes. “The color of the van looks black but it isn’t. The color is sable and only 2 car shops in the city carry that color.”

“We pulled the records of those names and almost reached a dead end but Yelena found our connection,” the blonde smiled and changed the screen to a single white patch.

“What is that?” Maria asked.

“It’s a nicotine patch to help people quit smoking. A majority of them can be bought over the counter but others require a prescription,” Yelena explained. “We cross listed the list from the detail shops with those who have a prescription and he found,” the screen changed again to a man. “A Lucas Bennett.”

“Mr. Bennett has a history of gambling and drinking away his money but he also visited Dr. Harris.”

“Where is he now?” Sam questioned.

“FRIDAY is already pulling up current employers and addresses. It’s just a waiting game,” Natasha said, looking at Wanda. Her hand rested on her chin. “We find him he will lead us to Tommy and Y/n.” She said it convince Wanda and herself. They were so close to finding her other kids.

“Miss. Romanoff, I’ve located Mr. Bennett.” She looked at Sam.

“FRIDAY send us the location,” he said. “Avengers Assemble.”

You hated this. Your palms were sweat as you held the pistol. On quiet feet you walked through the warehouse to the first guard. A mantra echoed in your head and you were surprised it was Yelena’s voice- ‘I know exactly who you are. A hero. A protector. A sister.’ At this very moment, you didn’t feel like any of those things. A hero wouldn’t kill innocent men just doing their job. A protector would stand up to Dmitri and find a way to save Tommy. No, you were weak. A spineless fool. You put the barrel of the gun against the guard’s head, closed your eyes, and pulled the trigger. ‘Very good. One down,’ you opened your eyes and stared at the body at your feet. A pool of blood formed around his head. ‘Three more to go.’ You let out a shaky breath and tears formed at the corner of your eyes but you moved on, a job needed to be done.

When you lived with Jason, you were prone to dissociating. It allowed your mind to be protected while he raped you. You found yourself doing it now as if your mind was gone and your body moved on auto pilot. The two guards went down easily, their blood pooled on the floor and splattered on the wall they stood next to. In your ear, Dmitri praised you. Every time he called you ‘his good girl’ the little food in your stomach turn. ‘3 down, one to go.’ he said. ‘Good girl.’

You wanted to rip the com out of your ear, stomp on it. You wanted to go back in time and save those three men you murdered. To go back and stop the car accident but you couldn’t. So with the last guard that stood by the security office, you placed the barrel to the back of his head and pulled the rigger. His body slumped to the ground.

A few weeks ago, you woke up at three in the morning. With your throat dry and you were in desperate need of some water but the water bottle you had was empty. Kicking off the blankets, you braced the cold air of the house and headed to the kitchen. You expected it to be empty so you could fill your water bottle up and quickly go back to sleep. It wasn’t. Natasha was sitting at the kitchen counter and she appeared to be crying? Her sobs were muffled due to her hand being over her mouth but you saw her body shake. You remained frozen, not used to the scene in front of you. The normal level headed Black Widow was sobbing in the kitchen and were lost on what to do.

‘Mom,’ you made your presence known. She was startled, apologized, and asked if she woke you up. Instead of answering, you walked over to her and pulled her into a hug. You felt her body tense up but soon relaxed into you and cried. It could have been hours or maybe minutes but you held onto her tightly. Soon she pulled away and apologized again but you told her it was okay to cry. It was okay to not be strong all the time.

Instead of getting water, hot chocolate was made and you sat with her on the kitchen floor. You talked about everything.- her time in the Red Room, the red on her ledger, and the guilt she felt which lead her to working with SHIELD and the Avengers. Wanda found you and Natasha on the couch fast asleep the following morning.

But the conversation stuck with you and you found yourself thinking about it now while you stared at the body on the ground. There was more on your ledger. After all these years, Natasha was still trying to forgive herself. How long was it going to take you?

‘Hurry along.’ You nodded and fazed through the door to the security office. You plugged in the flash drive and watched the security footage delete, the alarm system turn off, and the metal garage door open. On cue, black vans entered the warehouse and men you didn’t recognize began to open the wooden boxes with crowbars.

“What are they looking for?” You asked, stepping out of the office. They paid no mind to you and continued on their work. You walked over to one of the men. Once the wooden box was open, he pulled out of a brief case. He placed a piece of tape over the finger print scanner and he opened it when it beeped.

“They are here, sir,” the man to Dmitri over his own com.

‘Perfect,’ you heard the smile in his voice. ‘My little shadow you did it!’ He was so proud of you but it filled you with fear. ‘Those pills are psylock. They enhance neural pathways to allow for manipulation,’ each word he spoke, sent a shiver down your spine. ‘Now we don’t also have to take baby brothers has collateral. Everyone will be good obedient soldiers,’ the world around you seem to blur.

“What are you planning?” You questioned. “Why are you building an army?” He scuffed.

‘The world is dirty A filthy, disgusting place so it needs to be rebuilt. You’ve seen the horrors of it. Together we can make it better,’ you had to stop yourself from laughing. This man wanted to make the world better when he was part of the problem. He contributed to the darkness. He was a monster not a savior.

Shooting pulled you out of your thoughts. You gripped the gun in your hand tighter as gun shots bounced off the walls. ‘Run back to me,’ Dmitri said but your feet remained frozen to the ground. You heard them. The voices of the Avengers. ‘Now!’ Still your hesitated when you locked eyes with familiar green ones.

“Mom,” you whispered. They found you. The relief was evident on her face but her eyes asked a question - where is your brother? You smiled, dropped the gun, and ran back to your capture. Ignoring the shouts of your name.

Natasha was losing her patience as she grabbed Lucas by the shoulder and throw him into an office chair. He was supporting a gun shot and she knew that wasn’t the only injury he was going to have tonight. “Let’s be honest with one another, okay?” She smiled, feeling her wife’s eyes on her back. The other Avengers were dealing with the other goons. Sam allowed Natasha, Yelena, and Wanda 10 minutes alone with him. “I really want to kill you but I can’t because you have something I need. So answer my one simple question. Where are my kids?” He laughed.

“Go to hell,” the Black Widow’s smile didn’t falter.

“Mr. Bennett,” she dug her finger into the gun shot and he let out a muffled scream, biting down on his lip. “I’m the easy way,” she moved behind him and forced his head to look at Wanda. “Do you see that beautiful woman over there? I get the pleasure to call her my wife and you do want her to find the answers by force.”

“I’m not scared of her,” he spat out.

“I would be,” Yelena mumbled.

“Moya lyubov’ (My love),” Natasha looked at the witch. “Let me talk to him.” She let go of his face and walked over to Wanda. With the hand not covered in his blood, the Black Widow put her hand on the back of Wanda’s neck.

“Find only them, little witch,” she whispered.

“I wont kill him,” her lips twitched and each words was laced with her deep accent. “He will wish for death.” Natasha gently kissed her forehead and let her go.

“I told you,” Yelena said as Wanda’s fingers glowed red. Natasha smirked as her fingers touched his head and he began to scream.

“How did they find you?” He asked with his hand tightly wrapped in your hair as he dragged you into a room you’ve never been in. Hew threw you onto the bed and you scrambled to sit up.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. The man paced in front of you. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me.” H wasn’t acknowledging you to lost in his thoughts. “Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t hurt him.” That stopped him and he faced you. You climbed to the opposite side of the bed, until your back hit the wall. You hated the look in his head. It was a look you’ve seen before. In Jason’s eyes. In every male that looked at you as if you were a toy, a piece of meat for them to taste.

“Strip for me,” he said, removing his tip and setting a pistol on the bed side table.

“I’m sorry?” You questioned even though you fully understood what he said. He chuckled.

“I am getting tired of having to repeat myself,” he rolled up the sleeves to his elbows. “I said strip.”

“We found Tommy,” Yelena said through Natasha’s com as they ran through the hallway of the abandoned hospital. “He’s safe minus a bruise on his face.”

“Copy that,” Wanda answered. “We are still searching for Y/n.” They came to a intersection. “I’ll go left and you go right.” Natasha hated the idea of splitting up but they needed to cover more ground.

“Okay,” she squeezed Wanda’s hand. “Be safe and let’s bring our girl home.” The witch squeezed her hand back and took off. The Black Widow let out a shaky breath and ran right. As she ran through the empty corridors, her mind kept turning into a darker place. The emptiness and coldness of it all reminded her of the Red Room. Endless hours she was shuffled through those halls; going to training or the ballet bar or back to her room. Now two of her children have been subjected to the same darkness. The sound of gun shots sent her heart in a panic and pulled her out of her thoughts. Another shot. Followed by another. She swung open the door with her gun drawn but her form faltered when she saw you; wearing only underwear, blood splattered across your face, and a gun in your hand. You pointed the gun at Natasha.

“M-mom,” you whispered. Your eyes were frantic, wide, and scared. Natasha holstered her gun.

“Yeah, it’s me,” she held up your hands when you didn’t lower the gun. “It’s me. It’s your mom.” Delete Created with Sketch.

You had to be dreaming, right? There was no way Natasha was standing in front of you. He had to have drugged you. “Can you put the gun down for me?” She asked, taking a step closer to you.

“Stop, don’t come any closer,” your hand shook but the Black Widow stopped walking towards you.

“I’ll stay right here but I need you to put that gun down.”

“I can’t,” you whispered. Didn’t she understand. You had to protect yourself from her and the men in his organization. “What if they come back for me?” Natasha shook her head.

“They won’t,” she said. “I’m here and you are safe.”

“Safe?” You questioned with a bitter laugh. “Why does this keep happening to me?” You asked, hitting yourself on the chest with your free hand. “Why do people keep using me? I can’t-” your voice cracked. Your throat began to burn as you tried to keep the tears at bay. “I can feel his hands on me. His breath on my neck. Why does this keep happening?” You pleaded with her to have an answer.

“I don’t know, sweetheart. Sometimes the world is a dark and evil place and you’ve been subjected to a lot of it.”

“It’s not fair. It’s not fair.” You readjusted your grip on the gun. “I can’t do this answer.” You put the barrel of the gun to your temple.

“Sweetheart,” Natasha took a few steps forward but you backed away from her. “You have every right to be angry and upset with how the world as treated you but I promise you whatever happens next I will be there. By yourself or at your back. Just please,” her own voice shook. “Put the gun down and we can go home.”

“Home?” You questioned. You heard footsteps rushing towards the open door and you pointed the gun. It was Wanda. “M-mama,” you whispered.

“Hi, my sweet girl.”She smiled.

“I c-can’t go home,” you said. “I killed those guards and stool information from a doctor. I’m - I’m,” your heart was pounding against your ribs. It was hard for you to get air into your lungs. You put the gun back to your temple.

“You did those things to keep yourself and Tommy safe,” Wanda said. Her voice was strong and steady. “We or the others won’t think of you any differently.”

“Tommy,” you said. “Is he safe?” Natasha nodded.

“He is. He’s with Yelena and waiting for you,” this time when your mom stepped forward you didn’t move. “So is Billy and Kate and Morgan. Just please put the gun down and we can go home.” Home? Home was where you were safe and loved by those around you. You could laugh and joke with your brothers. Play board games at the dining room table. Your hand shook as you set the gun down. It was hard to keep yourself standing and before your knees hit the ground, strong arms caught you. You buried your face into Natasha’s neck and sobbed. Your body shook from the intensities of your cries. Your tears wouldn’t stop. You felt Wanda’s magic enter your mind and every thought, memory went away and you welcomed the darkness.

When you came too, you were laying in one of the medical rooms at the tower. You were sandwiched between Billy and Tommy. The twins were asleep, their hands twisting in the fabric of your shirt in a tight fist. Wanda and Natasha were in the chairs on either side of you fast asleep. You sighed, looking up at the ceiling. It reminded you of when they found you after Jason’s attack. They sat by your side until you were healed. You were starting to wonder if you being part of this family was doing more harm then good. “You’re thinking to hard, dorogoy (sweetheart).” You looked at the witch, who was rubbing sleep out of her eyes. You offered her your free hand and she took it.

“I’m sorry,” she shook her head.

“Do not apologize,” she said. “None of this was your fault.” It was hard to believe that you were here. You held tightly onto her hand, scared that if you dropped it or looked away she would disappear. “Hey,” you forced your eyes away from her hand and looked at her. “You are home. You are safe. This is real,” you nodded. “Say it back.”

“This is real,” you repeated. “I am safe. I am home.” There was a shake in your voice that caused Billy to take up. He slowly looked around, eyes laced with sleep. His eyes locked onto yours.

“Your awake,” he said, sitting up quickly and throwing himself into your arms.

“Easy, Billy,” Wanda said. The force knocked the air out of your lungs. It was heightened by Tommy waking up and joining the hug. They hugged you tight as if they to were afraid you’d disappear. There was an ache in your body but you ignored it. You were home. Safe and home.

Natasha got the twins out of the room with the promise of getting ice cream. It was harder for Billy to leave your side but you gave him a smile and promised to play Mario Kart with him. It was just you and your moms and a part of you wished the twins were still there. You felt small under their gaze as you picked at the threads on the blanket. “Tommy filled us in on somethings that happened,” Natasha said. “Do you want to talk about anything?” You crossed your legs and starred at your hands. There was so much you wanted to say but it hurt.

“It was the group Jason worked for,” you whispered. “They found me through my parents. My parents needed money for my mom’s treatment so as an incentive to pay them back I was the bargaining chip,” you shrugged. “In the end, my mom died and my dad couldn’t pay them back so he committed suicide but a debt still needed to be collected,” you pushed away a few tears. “They needed me to steal information from Dr. Harris and get them into that warehouse to steal those drugs. And Dmitri,” you felt bile rise. You closed your eyes and you felt the couple place their hand on top of yours.

“Was like Jason, Coach Griffo, Principal Cook, and Conner. Men that tried to take something that wasn’t there’s to take,” you reopened your eyes and moved your fingers against their hands. It helped ground you. “He made his advances well known but when you found me at the warehouse he was upset and made his move. I killed him,” you sighed, biting your lip. “Natasha found me right after I did it.” You were not looking forward to the next part of this conversation. The Black Widow said your name and you looked at her. Her green eyes were a little glossy.

“I need to ask you this and I need you to be 100% honest with us, okay?” You nodded. “Are you suicidal?” You looked forward, unable to look at either of them.

“I-” you cleaned your throat. “Sometimes I feel their hands on me and the heat of their breath on my neck. I want it all to stop.”

“You didn’t answer her question,” Wanda said. Her small comment made you smile and chuckle softly.

“Because I don’t have an answer for you,” you answered. “I wish I did but right now I feel so dirty and mind is so dark and I don’t feel safe. I’m -”

“Stop apologizing.” Natasha cut you off. “Nothing has been your fault.” You nodded. “And thank you for being honest with us. So here is what’s going to happen,” you looked at her. “You are going to stay at the tower and be monitored by Helen.” That was fair.

“You are going to start speaking to a therapist,” Wanda added on. “Sam has found a few and you can decide which one you like.” You nodded again. “Sweetheart,” you looked at Wanda. Her green eyes matched her wife’s, glossy with tears. “You really scared us. We weren’t sure what was going to happen.”

“I’m-” you stopped yourself. “Thank you,” you said instead. “Thank you for saving.”

“I meant it,” Natasha said. “In that room, I said no matter where life takes you we will be by your side.” she ran her hand through your hair. “My firefly, you saved yourself. Time and time again, it has been you. We are here to show you how far you’ve come.” You smiled. It was a long and scary journey ahead of healing but you wanted to overcome everything you’ve been through. You weren’t a pawn but a queen and it was time to show the world who you are.

#wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x y/n #wandanat x daughter!reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader

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konigsrose · 4 months ago

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König x unhappily married reader PART 1/5

(AO3 Link)

(I said I’d post this next week but I’m super hungover and need to feel I’ve achieved something other than puke this morning… so here it is a day early, because I’m a filthy little liar.) 18+ MDNI!!! (Naughtiness beneath the cut)

You had been working at KorTac for years, but your recent promotion meant far more interaction with higher-ups in the company. You’re good at dealing with people, at least professionally, so this never worried you… until you realised just how much time you’d be working with a certain infamous Colonel. Colonel König was so many things: a giant of a man, yes; terrifying and aggressive at times too; a ridiculously hard-worker who didn’t like to see anyone shirking their duty… but something about him attracted you, even when it seemed to turn all others away from him. In the field he had always worn a mask, and you were glad that now he split his time between training recruits and desk work he spent more time out of that mask; he was surprisingly handsome, for one who covered his face so often. His nose may have been broken too many times to fix, and he may have been covered in scars from head to toe, but his icy blue eyes, strong jawline, and most obviously his huge, muscular frame were all incredibly attractive to you. The contrast with your husband was all too obvious, König was everything your husband wasn’t. König was, in all senses, a strong man.

Perhaps that was why you found yourself unconsciously going to König’s office a little too often. Of course, you always took some paperwork, some procedural question, found some excuse - you weren’t stupid enough to go in there on a social call, and waste the Colonel’s precious time - but you probably didn’t need to go to him every time you did. You didn’t need to linger at the edge of his desk, standing close to his chair, as he showed you on his screen whatever it was you had asked about. You never touched him, or said or did anything that could be construed as inappropriate; you were the height of professionalism. You just enjoyed being near König, near enough to smell the scent of him - tar soap, clean and almost clinical, with a hint of something almost spice-like, perhaps a cologne? He didn’t seem like a cologne kind of guy though, so maybe it was just his deodorant? Either way, that scent became a part of him, a part of your fantasy of König… you would smell it when he walked by you, or surreptitiously enjoy it when you stood at his shoulder behind his desk.

You would never tell anyone the thoughts you had about König in the dark of night, when your husband had fallen asleep in front of the TV, and you lay alone in bed. How you’d dream of that scent enveloping you as you kissed your way down König’s neck, or even left a bite mark on his huge chest… The thoughts had even begun invading your days, unable to be contained and restricted to the lonely nights. Sometimes when you stood at his desk you imagined it, how you could slip behind the desk, straddle those vast thighs, and grind in König’s lap until he needed more from you. Maybe he would snap, and have you splayed out on top of those open files of paperwork, looming above you, taking whatever he wanted from you. It was only when you became so lost in the fantasy that König had to repeat his instructions that you managed to drag your mind back to reality with an earnest apology for your distraction. You listened to the instructions the second time around, and returned to your desk desperately trying to ignore the wetness between your thighs, determined to make König proud of your work, at least, since you couldn’t possibly make your fantasies a reality.

You had no idea that König, the silent, stoic colonel, all business and manly agression, was having similar thoughts about you. When you’d first been promoted to his team, he had hoped you would be a useful asset, no more thought in his head about you than that… and then he had actually met you. It was your eyes, that was what had done it. That first day, as you stood in front of him, so much smaller than he was, gazing up as he shook your hand in welcome… the way those pretty eyes had widened, your pupils all wide, making your eyes dark and sparkling. He had wanted to drop to his knees that very moment and beg for you to be his… and then he had seen the thin silver bands on your finger, the tiny little diamond in one of them… and all those dreams he had begun the moment he’d looked into your eyes had come crashing down.

He tried to resist it, but unwillingly, his eyes kept flickering towards you whenever they could. König used to keep his office door closed, not wanting to be disturbed while he worked. He had realised though that if the door remains open, and he angled his chair just right, he had the perfect view of you at your desk. Of course, now that he knows you’re married, König wouldn’t dream of trying anything… but he could still look, couldn’t he? He watched with greedy eyes as you walk across the room to another woman’s desk - König couldn’t quite remember her name, now, and probably never would - especially when you laid your forearms on her desk to speak quietly, bending over, and giving him a view of your perfect curves presented for him. Unbidden, the image of you similarly bent over a desk filled his head; his desk this time, and preferably with that tight skirt you’re wearing pushed up around your waist… the door would definitely be shut, but that wouldn’t be enough to muffle the moans of pleasure he’d draw out of you, while he fucks you over the wooden surface. He can almost see the scratch marks from your nails in the desktop.

König cleared his throat, shook the filthy images from his head, and tried to ignore the sudden tightness in his clothing beneath the desk. He opened a file on his computer, and did his best to focus on the words on the screen, rather than the pornographic movie that refused to stop playing in his mind. His gaze flickered back to you briefly as you stood up from your colleague’s desk, flipping your hair back over your shoulder as you straighten up. Sheiße! What he wouldn’t give to have his hand tangled in that hair, dragging your head back to expose your pretty little throat for his lips, his teeth. He would love to mark you with bites and bruises, soft skin that declared all over that you belonged to him… but you didn’t belong to him, did you? And you never could. This was a passing fantasy, an infatuation, just a result of sexual frustration; he couldn’t remember the last time he had fucked so much as his own fist, let alone an actual woman. Fists clenched on the desktop, König drove those filthy thoughts of you from his head, and returned to his work.

You would never cheat on your husband, no matter how neglected you might be by him, and no matter how attractive your colonel is. König would never touch another man’s wife; there is honour among assassins, of a kind, and he’s not about to sully that. Perhaps, if you ignore the feelings bubbling within you both, eventually these silly crushes will fizzle and fade… Until then, you’ll have to keep your dirty little fantasies to yourselves, won’t you?

#konig call of duty #könig call of duty #könig x you #könig x reader #konig x you #konig x reader #unhappily married

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harrystylescherry · 10 months ago

Text

A/N: wow, what amazing timing. let's pretend i did this on purpose. happy birthday, harry! fyi, this is vol. 2--you don't have to, but i rec reading vol. 1 first :)

*warning: spanking/paddling, mild pain, orgasm denial

what this is: pure smut tbh - vol. 2

word count: 5.5k

let me know what you think :)

MASTERLIST

It had been three agonizing days–three and a half if you were going to count this morning…and you were, because the ache between your legs and the need thrumming at your core was the only thing you could think about.

Your boyfriend was punishing you in the worst way: orgasm denial. He’d work you and edge you until you were just on the brink of release, one…two…three times…then release you from the restraints, or pull you up from his lap, and go about his business. As if you weren’t a puddle of need, dripping between your thighs, angry and wanton and sorry.

Because that was the whole point of this–for you to be sorry. To show you not to misbehave, or shirk direct orders.

In your eyes, it was a minor infraction. He had left on a business trip for five days, and told you, explicitly, not to touch yourself, not for a teasing second, not to come. Then, he made sure to clarify that none of the sex toys at his place or yours were to be used either, knowing how much you loved a loophole. The two of you had been together for just over a year now, and you had taught him well to be specific and exact with his instructions. On more than one occasion, he’d tell you that you should’ve been a lawyer–a comment that was as much of a compliment as it was a chastising for being bratty and pushing his limits.

The instruction was a punishment in itself, though he’d never admit to it. He wanted you to go with him, so between the stressful meetings and boring client calls, he could have moments of peace. He wanted to show you around a new city (though he’d only ever been there once before himself), discover hole in the wall eateries and dive bars together, fuck you in places not exactly meant for fucking, and, of course, have you on his arm for all the client dinners and drink-night-schmoozing he was expected to do. Unfortunately for him, you were only three months into your new job as an assistant editor/junior staff writer for The Wire, an indie music magazine based in London that mostly focused on independent artists and underground scenes. Were you cool enough for the job? Probably not, but you were open to anything and everything–your 134 very specific spotify playlists proof that you didn’t discriminate.

The job was a lot of work, and you were busting your ass to prove to the close-knit team that ran it that you were worth keeping around. Your ninety-days of entry-probation had just ended. Taking time off wasn’t a good look (not that you had even racked up enough hours to take off an entire work week), and while working from home wasn’t off the table, you didn’t want it to seem like you didn’t want to be there. On the ground, toiling away at your tiny desk with the other two assistants and three interns. It was fun. You loved Harry, but your priorities right now were what they were. He understood it, though that didn’t mean he had to like it. And clearly, he didn’t, as evidenced by his very unfair and petty instruction.

You had done well the first three days, despite the teasing texts and naughty photos meant to bait you–which is why you’d been so strong. He wasn’t going to trick you into breaking a rule.

Day four was what broke you. You hadn’t heard from him all day (which only made you want the teasing and photos now that they were being withheld), you had stupidly started an erotic romance novel that was essentially 320 pages of pure (ungodly and delicious) fucking, and you were so stressed out from work that your body was begging for a release beyond what your favorite workout could give.

You were just a girl. A horny, needy, sexually frustrated girl. It’s not your fault that the desperation was too strong for you to deny the call of the clit sucker you kept buried in your underwear drawer. It was society’s.

In the moment, the rationalizing was totally sound. And in the moment, the orgasm was worth it.

Then, Harry’s facetime came through only a few minutes after you’d come down, as if he had some sort of sixth sense when it came to your orgasms.

“Hi,” you said after checking to make sure your hair was fine and the toy was safely tossed beneath your bed.

His brow furrowed on the screen. “Hi, baby.”

“How’s your trip?” You settled into the pillows behind you.

“Good,” he mumbled. His lips twitched. “Did you touch yourself today?”

“W-what?”

“You did, didn’t you?” His eyes narrowed. “When? Just now?”

You scoffed. “Harry, come on. Of course not. You said–”

“I know what I said. And I know that you didn’t listen.” His voice was stern and it sent a jolt to your core.

“That’s–”

“Don’t lie to me. I know what you look like after–and it’s all over your face.”

Your cheeks flamed. You were caught.

“It’s not my fault!”

You could see he was fighting off a smile–a devilish one. “Whose fault is it then?”

“I…” You didn’t really have an answer.

“That’s what I thought.” You watched his jaw tick through the screen. “I’ll be home tomorrow night. I expect you to already be there when I do. Now, get cleaned up and go to bed.”

He ended the call before you could respond. No ‘goodnight’ or ‘I love you’. You were screwed…and not in the way you would’ve liked. So, feeling a little guilty, you moved into the bathroom, took a shower, and climbed beneath your covers at 9pm.

The night he got home, he restrained you to the bed without a word. Flat on your back, with your limbs pulled to each respective corner of the bed, he teased your nipples with a paint brush, then your clit, until you were a squirming, writhing mess. Then it was over. He brushed a hand over your cheek and went to take a shower.

Each night since, the edging had progressively gotten worse.

You were aroused constantly. Getting through each work day felt like an impossible feat. All you could think about was the nights before–the pleasure in all the teasing–and then the pain in going without any relief. Unfortunately, that only made you wetter.

You were a zombie through your morning meetings. You nodded when you were supposed to and took down notes just so you didn’t completely check out. You’d been staring at the commissioned article in front of you for almost forty-five minutes, not an edit made because you couldn’t tear your focus from the steady throb between your legs, when a text from Harry came through.

Same time tonight.

That’s all it said, though it didn’t need to say anything else. A shiver moved through you. Another night of torture. You held in the groan of frustration (with maybe a bit of anticipation), hoped that your punishment would be over tonight and white-knuckled through the rest of your day.

You knocked on Harry’s door at exactly 8pm. No dinner together was part of the punishment, and so was not being able to use your key. Those were always part of the punishments, though, and served to remind you of your place in this area of your relationship–that you were not in control, could only come and go as much as he wanted you to, and all the other things that you already knew…and that you sometimes needed reminding of.

When were you going to learn that being rebellious was fun until it wasn’t (though, punishments could still be kind of fun–not that you would ever tell Harry that)?

It was a rhetorical question, since you had never exactly been one to submit without a fight.

“Little brat,” he said when he opened the door. “Straight to my room. Take your clothes off in the hall.”

No kiss hello, no smile, no sweetness–just like the last three nights. Maybe the punishments weren’t always fun. Your eyes went to the floor in shame as you went past him and up the stairs. He followed behind you, his footfalls even and sure. He leaned against the wall with his arms over his chest as you pushed your jeans to the floor and peeled off your t-shirt.

When you went to move into the room, Harry tsked in disapproval. “You know better than that. Don’t make this worse for yourself, sub.”

Your entire body lit up with embarrassment. It was a mistake. You were nervous and anxious to get it over with, not thinking. You knew you weren’t getting a release tonight, could see it in his face, hear it in his voice. Your hands shook as you unclasped your bra, letting it drop to the floor, followed by your panties.

“In the room, hands against the wall.”

You took a shaky breath and did exactly as he said.

The thin paddle pressed against your bare ass when he came up behind you and your body clenched. You weren’t exactly a fan. He slid it down the back of your thighs and gave your skin a light tap.

“Legs apart.” You obeyed and he hummed. “Keep your arms and legs straight, and eyes up.” You took a deep breath in preparation. The paddle came down on your ass and you flinched. “Do I need to repeat myself?”

“N-no, sir.”

“So, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Whack.

There was no warning or warm-up. He took turns with each cheek, hitting hard and then easing up, so you never knew what to prepare for. At least he didn’t make you count them, not that you thought you could. You were too focused on not letting your knees buckle, fighting not to lean against the wall.

It went on like that for a while, until the searing burn turned into the kind of sharp numbing that left you dripping.

After what had to be at least twenty strikes, he dipped his hand between your thighs. Like always, shame slithered in; the embarrassment that all of this turned you on. It disappeared, like it always did, the second Harry made his sound of approval. That little hum that told you he was pleased, even though he wouldn’t vocalize it the way you wanted him too. It was a punishment, after all.

He brushed his knuckles over your clit and you almost crumpled to the floor. You were so turned on, so needy, that the slightest touch was a straight shot to your core–electric. Two flicks of his fingers and you knew you’d come, which meant even more trouble.

He touched you again and you hissed.

“You don’t come. Not until I say.” As if you needed the reminder.

“Yes…sir.” He chuckled at the breathiness of your voice. It was mean–and hot. He knew it, too.

The paddle against your skin again, then his fingers moving through your slit. “Such a dirty girl,” he whispered. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to think about anything else besides the pleasure strumming at your core. His fingers were too skilled, they knew your body too well.

Your left knee buckled–for less than a second–but he caught it. Goosebumps raised across your skin when you heard the three tsks from behind you.

“I–”

“Shh…”

You pressed your lips together, forcing the plea back down your throat.

“On the bed.”

Silently, and with your head down, you walked on shaky legs to sit at its edge. Harry pushed your chest back so you laid down.

“Don’t move.”

He walked to the wardrobe and pulled out the spreader bar. He strapped in each of your ankles so you couldn’t close your legs and then moved it up, so your knees were bent into your chest. Your breath was ragged and you fought to keep any whimpers from slipping out when he secured your wrists in the cuffs attached to the center of the bar.

You couldn’t stretch your legs, couldn’t close them–couldn’t move. Completely open to him, you were in the perfect position for him to do whatever he wanted.

He hummed as he moved back to the wardrobe, opening and closing drawers. He seemed to be making a decision. When he turned back to you, there was a smirk on his face. You took a deep breath when you saw the pink device in his hands.

He pushed the curved vibrator into you, until the fit was perfectly snug. He made sure to position it so the pad pressed right against your already too-sensitive clit. Then, he went and sat in the armchair a few paces from the corner of the bed.

It looked as though he was simply scrolling through his phone, his posture relaxed in the chair, head propped against his closed fist–but you knew better. He was making you sweat it out. You knew what was coming–and the wait was agonizing, just as he intended it to be.

When it came–the sharp buzzing both inside and out–your whole body jerked. As he moved his thumb up and down his screen, the vibrations followed, growing stronger and then mellowing out.

This was one of your favorite toys, except maybe not anymore. Holding back your orgasm was feeling closer and closer to impossible. Your hips bucked against the mattress, each attempt to get away from the intense vibrations futile. You wanted to cry–knew you would if this didn’t end soon.

You uselessly struggled against the restraints, your legs trying to close on sheer instinct. The sounds that escaped you seemed more akin to those of an animal than a woman and your entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat.

Without even thinking about it, you were begging.

“Please, please, please.” Harry stayed silent. “S-sir, god, please!”

“No.”

The vibrations stopped and your body sagged in a false sense of relief now that the fight was over, though there was no [real] relief. He still refused to let you come.

The whining was involuntary. Each nerve ending was a live wire. If he touched you just once, just [barely] you’d explode. The squirming of your hips against the slick silicone was what pulled him up from his chair. He pulled the device from you, leaving you empty and aching.

After releasing your wrists and ankles from the restraints, he patted the inside of your thigh. “Go take a shower.”

That’s it. Nothing else. You felt the pressure behind your eyes as you stood from the bed. You nodded and whispered your “Yes, Sir” as you moved into the en suite.

Your joints were sore from all your struggling, and all you wanted was a hug. It seemed his point had been made–at least in your opinion. You broke a direct order and then tried to lie about it. That was bad, you got it. Wouldn’t do it again.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t take the punishment because you could. If not, you would’ve used your safe word. He only ever gave you as much as you could handle and you trusted him with your body entirely, without question. It was the lack of aftercare that was getting to you. During this punishment, he’d been doling out the bare minimum. All you’d gotten was maybe a kiss to the forehead and little love pats to your thighs. You were used to falling asleep in his lap, being wrapped up in a blanket, or being tucked into his side as he prepared you a snack or (upon request) ice cream sundaes.

Under the hot water, you wiped the tears from your cheeks and let your body relax. You washed your hair and lathered your body using his products (ignoring the ones he kept for you on the shelf) since that was as close to him as he’d allow you to get this week.

When you opened the shower door, he was standing there, waiting with a towel. “C’mere,” he said as he held it open for you. You stepped into him and he wrapped it around your body, then rubbed his hands up and down your arms. You snuggled as close to him as you could and he kissed the top of your head before saying, “Get dressed and I’ll take you home.”

You wanted to cry again, but didn’t. The punishment would end eventually, and you weren’t going to be weak about it.

It was day four and you were so sexually frustrated, you wanted to cry. Literally. At this point, you were nothing more than a bundle of needy hormones. You had chosen to wear a dress into the office for no other reason than you wouldn’t have been able to deal with the seam of your jeans rubbing against your clit all day. Why torture yourself when Harry was already doing more than enough?

Halfway through your morning, you got a text from your boyfriend requesting that you go straight to his place from work. Thankfully, he couldn’t hear you sigh in annoyance. You didn’t want to be denied anymore. You were tired, and your body was still a little sore from the night before and you were mad at him. He never restrained you like that without some kind of massage afterwards.

Each time you stood, your knees ached just a little and your hips had been stiff when you got out of bed this morning. Your body–and your brain–had had enough.

You left work a little later than usual, staying to finish an edit that didn’t need to be done until Monday. The tube ride to his was spent trying not to work yourself up. You leaned back in your seat and listened to an album that your boss had been talking about all week, hoping to distract yourself. It worked until you were standing in front of his door.

It opened without you having to knock and he smiled softly when he saw you. “Long day?”

So, apparently, you looked as tired as you felt. “I guess.”

He motioned for you to come in and, hesitantly, you did. He took your bags and set them in the entryway.

“Help me finish dinner?”

Dinner. You tried not to get your hopes up that the punishment was over, but he was relenting. You’d take any allowance you could get at this point.

“Sure.”

All that was really left to do was make the salad while he pulled everything out of the oven and set the table.

“Go ahead and sit down,” he said as he took the bowl from in front of you.

You took your seat and watched him move around the room, back and forth from the table with the roast chicken and sides, to the racks where he kept his wine. He poured you a glass and squeezed the back of your neck–a gesture that was both possessive and comforting.

As you ate, he asked about work–the kinds of things you were working on, how you were settling in, etc. It was the most conversation the two of you had since he came home and it felt good. Almost too good. As much as you tried to fully relax back into your normal routine and dynamic, you couldn’t lose the last bit of tension in your shoulders.

You wouldn’t be lured into a false sense of comfort–and Harry knew it too. He tried to hide his little half-smile, and if it were anyone else but you, it would’ve been missed but you knew him too well.

When you put your napkin on the table signaling you were finished, he cleared the table without a word. He whistled along to the song playing throughout the main floor as you scrolled on your phone, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of your attention.

Really, you were in no place to be petty, but your nature was your nature. You flinched when you felt his hands on your shoulders, massaging into the knots that resided there for months, since the beginning of your new job. It was from stress that you didn’t necessarily mind, since you were doing something you loved. His fingers climbed up the back of your neck and into your hairline, pressing in soft circles. You hummed in satisfaction.

“Is that good, baby?”

“Mhmm,” you said as your eyes fluttered closed. A quick tug to your hair pulled them open again. So, it was starting. “Yes, Sir,” you corrected, and were rewarded with more kneading at the base of your skull.

“C’mon, we’re going upstairs.”

Your body buzzed with anticipation as you followed him up and into his room. He kissed your cheekbone as he passed in front of you to go to the wardrobe–the one that you’d come to see as the bane of your existence this last week.

“Strip and lay on the bed for me.” You did as he said. All he returned with was a pair of soft handcuffs. Once your wrists were fastened together in front of you, he pushed your legs open and took a step back from the bed.

“Hm.” He pulled his bottom lip between his thumb and forefinger as he looked you over. “Pretty.”

The whimper was involuntary as you preened beneath his gaze. You could feel the pulse of your core. You were so sexually frustrated that it took nothing more than his approval for the desire to pool between your legs. The smirk on his face told you he could see it.

“You didn’t listen to me,” he said as he stepped to the edge of the bed. He reached down and casually traced the outline of you, making sure to keep away from your clit and your center. “Why not?”

“I-I was horny, sir. You kept s-sending me–” You cut yourself off with a needy moan when Harry dipped his fingers in just enough to coat them with you.

He spread it over your folds until the slickness touched your inner thighs. “Keep going.”

You took a shuddering breath and tried to focus. You also forced your hips to stay down, knowing that if you rocked yourself into his hand, he’d probably pull away. You couldn’t risk that, not when he was being so nice. “You kept sending me texts and photos o-of yourself–oh, god–and telling me all these…things.”

He brushed his fingers through your folds as you spoke, skirting around the bundle of nerves perfectly primed to set you off.

“So?”

“So, it made me want you and you weren’t there.”

“So?” He pushed a finger inside and your back arched off the bed. “Eyes open,” he said when they fluttered shut.

“So, it wasn’t nice. You were teasing me–torturing me on purpose. It wasn’t fair that I had to wait and you didn’t.”

“Life isn’t fair.”

“I–”

“You hate when I say that, I know.” He pushed a second finger inside and you moaned. Your hips tilted forward on their own, seeking out something–anything–for relief.

He removed his fingers. When he brushed his wet knuckles over your clit, a strangled cry replaced the disappointed sigh that escaped you.

“Is that what you want, baby?”

You whined and wriggled on the mattress while he held his knuckles just out of reach.

“Is it?”

“Yes, Sir. Please.”

“I didn’t get off while I was gone.”

“Okay,” you panted, as you fought your own neediness.

Harry slapped your clit and you cried out. “Listen to me. I did not get off while I was gone.”

“What? But you–”

“I know, the torture is the point. The teasing. I thought you would’ve learned this by now.” Another brush over your clit. Another moan. “That rule was for both of us. Did you think I wasn’t in agony? Each time you answered or sent a photo in return it took everything in me not to wrap my hand around my cock, but I have some self-control. I have patience. And I understand that whatever pleasure I could give myself wouldn’t compare to the kind I could get from you.”

When you whimpered this time, it wasn’t with need, but shame. You may have felt a little bad about breaking the rule now, and not just because it meant a little disappointment and a punishment. This was a big disappointment, you could hear it in his tone. It wasn’t just breaking a simple rule, but ruining something that was supposed to be good for the both of you. Granted, in your defense, he could’ve told you that, but you also knew why he didn’t: he shouldn’t have had to.

“Sir, I’m really sorry.”

“I bet you are.” He gave your clit a pinch that sent a flash of heat over your entire body. “I should make you wait another week. Edge you every night until you're begging for my cock, and then still not give it just so we’re even.”

“I–”

“Quiet.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you further down the bed. He placed his knee on the mattress, positioning his thigh only an inch from your clit. “You want to come so badly, go ahead.”

Your brow lifted in surprise. “What?”

“Go ahead, come. You have my permission, but I’m not helping you. You want it, take it, or I’ll uncuff you, and you can get dressed so I can take you home.”

“Sir–”

“You’ve got less than a minute before I dress you myself.” The hard edge to his voice told you he wasn’t kidding. Not in the slightest.

You looked from the stern set of his face down to his jean-clad thigh. When you looked back at your boyfriend, his jaw was set. He didn’t move or say a word.

Your entire body heated with something close to embarrassment, but it was also mixed with anticipation, shame, and need. You didn’t want to go home, you wanted to get off and if this was all he was offering, you’d have to take it. Especially since, if you didn’t, you’d be in even more trouble with him. You didn’t need him to say it to know.

You planted your heels into the mattress and closed the gap between you two. When you lifted your hips, your clit brushed against the rough material and you groaned. You rolled your hips against his thigh and cursed. It felt so good. You knew it wouldn’t take you very long to cum. The only thing stopping you from instantly falling over the edge was the fact that you could only get close enough for a light brushing–there was no pressure. The only real friction came from the coarse fabric–but it would be enough. More than enough.

Your abs and thighs burned as you held your hips up, and with every rock of your hips, the muscles in your stomach contracted with the effort. This was its own kind of punishment, you realized. He was making you work for it.

You had kept your eyes locked on his stiff cock pushing against the front of his jeans, not sure if you wanted to know how exactly he was looking at you.

“That’s it, baby.”

But, of course, all it took was that little bit of praise to get your attention. The sternness was still there, but there was also heat. He wanted you–and he seemed to love seeing you like this: needy and unbelievably desperate. Because that’s what you were. Getting your release was all you could think of.

You wanted something to hold onto, to grip onto the blankets beneath you for more stability, but you couldn’t do it with your wrists handcuffed together. You whined with the realization.

“I know.” The comfort was full of condescension, and you wished it didn’t turn you on even more, but it did.

You were sweating from exertion, but you were so close.

“C’mon, baby. Rub yourself on my thigh. I can feel how wet you are, my dirty girl.”

You looked down to see for yourself. Where you rubbed yourself was a much darker shade of blue. Your head fell back with a moan.

In an act of undeserved kindness, Harry pressed his thigh against you, offering you the most delicious kind of friction; the kind that almost hurt.

It was only another second before you were tumbling over the edge. You came so hard that stars erupted behind your eyes, and your skin felt white hot. You were sure you cursed and cried out his name but you were so detached from reality that you couldn’t know for sure.

He didn’t wait for you to come down from the high. He undid the fastening of his jeans before leaning over and uncuffing your wrists. “Up.” He walked to the right side of the bed and took a seat. “Come and sit on my cock.”

Still in somewhat of a daze, you did as he said. As soon as he pulled his length from the confines of his jeans, you straddled his hips and sank down.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned. He gripped your waist and guided your hips, holding you down so he was fully sheathed.

You ignored the harsh rubbing of material against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs and focused on how good it felt to feel him inside of you.

“You’re gonna come again,” he said before sucking on your neck, leaving a mark that you hoped would be gone by the time you had to go back to the office after the weekend.

You whimpered, not entirely confident you had it in you. Your clit was overstimulated and raw from the week’s torture. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I know. You’ll do it anyway.”

When his voice was that deep and raspy, so commanding, who were you to argue?

“Yes,Sir.”

He pulled you far enough away that he could dip down and lick your peaked nipples. He sucked and nibbled until your chest and cheeks were red hot with the building of another orgasm.

“Oh, god.” You gripped the collar of his t-shirt.

He hummed against your skin. “That’s it. Keep going.” He held you tight enough that you wouldn’t be able to disconnect your clit from where it rubbed against the base of him even if you wanted to–and you were really walking that line. It was almost unbearable, the pleasure only a hair away from pain.

When he tilted his hips to hit that special spot inside, the tension ripped loose. You dug your nails into the muscle of his shoulders as your body shook against his, your hips rocking frantically, both chasing the high and trying to get away from it.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your neck as he emptied himself inside you. With a strong arm wrapped around your waist, he kept you riding him through both of your orgasms as your body filled with exhaustion.

He peppered kisses over your chest, shoulders, neck and jaw until you felt him go soft, still tucked inside. You were close to falling asleep on his chest when he pulled out and lifted you up into his arms.

“Shower first,” he whispered before kissing the top of your head and carrying you into the en suite. He set you on the counter and disappeared.

He came back with a cold glass of water, which you took happily. He turned the shower on, pulled two towels from the wardrobe and set them on the fancy warmer before returning to you. His hands moved from your shoulder to cup your face and he leaned in to kiss you.

“You did well this week, love.”

“It sucked.”

He laughed. “It was supposed to.” Another peck to your lips and he helped you down. “Go ahead.”

You stepped into the shower and watched through the quickly fogging glass as he stripped. The second he stepped in you were glued to him, your head to his chest and his arms around your waist.

You only pulled apart when he washed you. His hands moved over your body, soft and soapy, digging into the muscles he had neglected the nights before.

“I think I owe you a massage or two.”

“Try three–at least.”

He kissed your hip from his spot beneath you. When he brought his hand up to wash between your legs, you flinched.

“Sore?”

“A little numb, actually. Wasn’t even expecting that to hurt.”

He kissed right above your mound. “Sorry, love. I’ll be gentle.”

He finished his task and you took over, doing the same for him. Despite his hardening length, he didn’t try to touch you again, or ask you to help him relieve what must have been a lot of pent up frustration. Instead, he held your face in his hands and kissed you, murmuring soft I love yous in between.

After toweling each other off, he turned down the covers, put on Sleepless in Seattle and promised to make you blueberry pancakes in the morning.

#harry #harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles x oc #harry styles x you #harry styles blurb #harry styles smut #harry styles x fem!reader #harry styles x reader

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indigosunsetao3 · 6 months ago

Note

For the GIF game, requesting something with 141 and a shorter reader or character. 🥹

"If you go in there I'm going to have to follow," Ghost answers over his comms as you glance back at him.

"Good luck catching up."

You smirk with a small little wave from over the edge of the roof, peering down at the team scattered about the compound. Ghost is standing right out in the open glaring up at you from behind his sunglasses, you don't have to see his eyes to know they're narrowed. And pissed.

"Lass, if you don't come back down from there we're going to have bigger issues," comes Johnny's voice, full of exasperation but also a bit of amusement. "Ghost is going to just kick in the front door."

"I'm already here," you answer as you throw your body into the halligan you had swiped from the helo. The lock pops and you throw it away before prying the small maintenance hatch open. "And none of you brutes can wriggle in here anyway, even I'll have to crawl in this short space."

"Give me five minutes and I'll find a way to wriggle in...I'm quite flexible." Gaz taunts and you snort as you shirk off your vest.

Someone whistles over the comms and you glare off in a random direction not sure which of your boys it was.

"Mmm, while I would love to watch that," you cut off as you drop your legs down in the narrow entrance. "I don't think we've the time," you finish as you drop into a crouch, your voice echoing in the small space. "Now shush, I'm working."

The compound was covered with security, Konni all over the place monitoring for infiltration. You all had been watching for hours and couldn't find a single point of infiltration until Price shoved the blueprints at you to look over. The main building had an old maintenance hatch to access all the electrical and air systems.

Before anyone could tell you no you had taken off. Slipping under a cut fence, up over a trashcan then to the roof access ladder. There had been a flurry of yelling over the comms as you shimmied up and Ghost had nearly bit your head off when your foot slipped halfway.

"Sitrep," Price says after about three minutes of silence.

You don't answer as you roll over on your back, shifting a few times to center yourself and stare up at the mess of old wires. It's a disaster as you try to figure out which one to pull and not get zapped in the process. Prying the small, but lethal, knife open with your teeth you pull a few wires and press the blade to them.

"Red or black Johnny?" You ask in response as your eyes try to follow the trail.

"Always red Bonnie."

"Nighty night shitheads," you reply to yourself before swiping your blade through the bundle of wires.

The lights cut instantly and you hear the instant response of panic below you. You flip on your stomach and move toward the exit, slipping your blade away and pulling out your pistol from your thigh holster. You don't need it though. The moment the lights cut the team pushes in and you listen to the gunfire and shouts for a few moments before you drop out another hatch door.

Climbing down a few rungs of a ladder you see the team holding down an office while Price riffles through paperwork. You had come for intelligence.

"See? Not so bad," you say as you walk up to Ghost who is towering by the office door watching you. His hand is tight on his rifle and you grin up at him innocently as he looks down at you. "You need to trust me every now and then. Price did hire me for a reason."

Pushing up on your toes you grab him softly by the back of the neck, feeling the tension in his muscles as you pull. He doesn't resist, even if he could stand like an unmovable rock in the sea, and bends down a bit. You press a soft kiss over his lips, even with the mask on. You grin as he huffs a bit at the gesture, doing his best to still be aggravated with you for going off book.

"Got it," Price says as he walks out the door and stares down at you as well, eyes roving over the fact you are in a simple compression shirt and jeans. "Where's your gear?"

"On the roof. Tight quarters and all that."

"I should make you climb back up that tiny little hatch to go get it," Ghost growls as his eyes trace back up to where you had appeared from moments before.

"You just want to look at her arse as she goes back up," Gaz answers as he appears behind you, giving you a smart little swat on your behind. You tilt your head back up to look at him and swipe his hand away before he can get a better handful.

"I mean, I can if that's what you want," you answer slipping away from them to walk toward the ladder, careful to add an extra swish of your hips.

"I think we should let Gaz show us just how flexible he is," Johnny chimes as he grabs you around the waist to pull you back, lifting you a few inches from the ground as he tugs you possessively against him. As if displaying that you belonged pressed against one of them, crowded and protected by their bulk.

Between all of them, you were like their own little doll, short and oh so easy to toss around as they liked to show you.

It started simple, their display of size against yours. Picking you up and tossing you over their shoulders as a tease to rile you up for being easy to manipulate under their hands. Then they'd tug you in their laps during downtime wrapping their arms around you to rest their chins on your shoulder showing you just how well you fit, as if your short frame was made to mold against their broad bodies.

But one night your Captain, of all people, had taken it further. He snatched you up on your way back to your barracks and threw you into his bed. He prowled up your body as he taunted you about how perfectly sized you were for him to pin under him, teasing your body under his fingers. When you bit his shoulder to keep in your scream of pleasure as he fucked you he laughed, as if that had proved his point. Your mouth was in the perfect spot to keep quiet as he made you fall apart under him.

"If you want to watch Gaz squirm you only need to ask, Johnny," you tease pinching his bicep, "that's all I did...I'm sure I could ask him to do it again for us if you behave."

Despite the fact they all loomed over you, they were all wrapped around your finger and bent to your will without hesitation. And the way they all looked at one another with a smirk before back to you, you knew you were about to get your next request granted.

#call of duty #call of duty fanfic #tf 141 x reader #141 x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #ghost x reader #soap x reader #john price x reader #the gift of gifs #answered asks

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honestlyboringperson · 3 months ago

Text

The mean gay and the even meaner bisexuals. And Pearl. (Persona 5 AU)

Also I just realized that Scott’s yellow eye is in the wrong socket. Eh, too late.

Southlanders

Team B.E.S.T.

Fairy Fort

Magic Mountain + Cub

More Information Below!

Scott - “Prism” - The Star Arcana - Dionysus/Sigyn

Sarcastic yet intensely devoted and loyal, Scott is known for his business “Chromia”. He sells dyed goods along with one of a kind clothing, along with the actual dyes themselves. He’s relatively well known throughout town due to his social media presence, and helps the Phantom Thieves with a calling card utilizing social media. Pearl and Scott are notable for their distaste of each other, which differs from their closeness a few years back. According to him, Scott only really joined the Phantom Thieves for his own amusement rather than agreeing with their goals.

Dionysus is Scott’s persona. Dionysus is the god of wine, revelry, orchards, and madness. I mean, Scott did join the phantom thieves for his amusement, so his persona is one of festivities. Another aspect of Dionysus is his Orphic version known as “Zagreus”. If you played Hades, you probably have an idea of who he is. He is the son of Hades and Persephone, and is the god of rebirth. The “rebirth” aspect of Zagreus can refer to the amount of times Scott barely escaped death from SEVERAL people.

Anyways, Scott’s Ultimate Persona is Sigyn, the norse goddess of mercy and compassion, and wife of the trickster god Loki. When Loki was caught and punished after he killed Baldr, he was sentenced to be tied under a venomous snake and have it’s venom fall into his eyes, Sigyn shirked his punishment by placing a bowl or basin above him to catch the venom before it falls into his eyes. However, some venom does get in his eyes when Sigyn goes to empty the bowl and Loki’s pained squirming causes earthquakes.

Pearl - “Carmine” - The Moon Arcana - Little Red/Diana

Pearl is a journalist, who often pulls all-nighters and stake-outs to get her scoops. Although chill and laidback during the night, during the day is a ball of feral neuroticism from the lack of sleep. She often finds herself in odd situations to find her scoops, usually seeking out seedy parts or town to report on the criminal activities. This also led her to meet a strange man covered in sunflowers saying she resembles his god in his religion and some oddball bar performer claiming she pushed him out of some godly realm. She is also one of the Pupil’s victims with false memories implanted in her. In this case, she believes Grian is her younger brother. She owns a little dog named “Tilly”.

Her Persona is Little Red, as in Little Red Riding Hood. More specifically, the version she and the huntsman along with her grandmother feed the wolves rocks after the huntsman cuts them out.It then dies either by drowning in a well where the rocks weigh it down or where the weight is just too much for it to handle and it dies. I mainly chose this for the ✨aesthetics✨, with a red cloak and giant terrifying wolf. I suppose it could represent the two sides of Pearl; the chill and laidback Pearl during the night and the feral (albeit kind of sad) and sleep deprived Pearl during the day.

Anyways, her Ultimate Persona is Diana, the Roman goddess of nature, hunters, wildlife, and the moon. She’s often equated with Artemis, but also has an association with Hecate, god of witchcraft due to both of them having crossroads under their dominion. Pearl could theoretically have any of these goddesses, due to their themes aligning with Pearl during Double Life where she goes kind of stir crazy and lonely. Heck, Hecate is even accompanied by a procession of dogs.

Cleo - “Ghoul” - The High Priestess Arcana - Bloody Mary/Durga

A sculptor known for her ornate, detailed, and beautifully haunting sculptures. She was one of the first people that managed to befriend Etho, most likely due to her similarly intimidating aura. She is roommates with Joe Hills, a strange man who often speaks through a puppet on his hand. She had to become more intimidating due to people with less than favourable intentions often flock to prodigy artists. However, if you have her back, she’ll have yours and will always make sure she fulfills a promise or repays a favour.

Her persona in the metaverse is Bloody Mary. She’s most known for her urban legend, where you can summon her via going into a dark room (usually a bathroom) with only a candle and reciting her name three times. Although there are several different origins she may have had, this version is specifically Mary Worth. She was a woman who lived in the woods who was accused of witchcraft. She was burning on the stake when she cursed the village, resulting in the vengeful ghost we know today.

Durga is the Hindu goddess of protection, strength, motherhood, destruction, and wars. She has the ability to unleash divine wrath on those who oppress and is often depicted riding a lion or tiger wielding multiple weapons and fighting demons. Cleo is both someone able to intimidate those into avoiding her and protecting her allies, represented by the combination of the aspects Durga represents. Also the motherhood aspect is calling back to when she was part of the c(l)ockers as the “mom”.

Gem - “Satyr” - The Strength Arcana - Atalanta/Freyja

Gem, although she may not look or act like it, is a former mercenary. She is retired, but not after making herself known through her feats of strength and her near inhuman fighting abilities. As of today however, she spends her days working as a lyricist and LARPing with her friends, as well as regularly bugging Etho. She can crush apples with her bare hands and is both well liked and feared by the rest of the phantom thieves.

Her initial persona is Atalanta, a famed hunter from Greek mythology. She was raised by bears and is the slayer of the Calydoanian Boar after Artemis wasn’t honoured with a sacrifice. She was also possibly a member of the Argonauts, where she fought along side them at the battle of Clolchis. She was a rare example of a female Greek hero in the frat house of the rest of the Greek heroes.

Her Ultimate Persona is Freyja, the Norse god of love, beauty, fertility, war, and gold. She and Odin equally spilt the soldiers who died in war into two halls, one belonging to Freyja. She wears a necklace called “Brísingamen”, obtained through trickery but was broken when she got so wrathful, the hall shook. Thor utilized said necklace to disguise as her to steal back his hammer Mjolnir.

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dxmedstudent · 2 months ago

Text

What do GPs do?

For the past few years, there's been a constant undercurrent of hostility towards the medical field in mainstream media, particularly GPs. Especially from certain conservative former doctors who write in to the Torygraph.

One of the charges levelled against GPs is that they are purpotedly ruining the NHS by not working enough hours. They need to be making more time for appointments and are all shirking.

How do GPs work?

GP work is measured in sessions, defined by the BMA as a 4h 10 minute time slot. 3 hours of this is meant to be clinical time, with some admin time for tasks - meant to be at least and hour. Typically, a whole day will involve a session in the morning and a session in the afternoon.

What do GPs do? The BMA breaks it down here. I also find articles by GPs can be useful for explaining. When not talking to patients, we are sending referrals or liaising with specialists about their care. We are checking blood test results and other investigations that were carried out by the practice, and then informing patients. We are filling prescriptions- each time a patient asks for their prescription to be refilled, a doctor or pharmacist is checking the order and whether it is safe to give, abd whether we are monitiring blood tests and keeping the patient safe. We are reading letters from specialists and actioning their recommendations.

However, in reality, multiple surveys reveal that GPs spend significantly more time working than what they are directly paid for. Whilst a 6 session GP should be spending around 24 hours at work, it's closer to 38 hours on average. GPs report spending up to 40% of their working time on admin - much of it being unpaid time outside of the hours they are contractually hired for. I and most GPs I know routinely stay late at work in order to make sure patient care is completed. We're in before 9am and leave between 7 or 8pm.

Add to that that many might have further responsibilities, especially if they are a partner in the practice.

Funnily enough, full time in general practice is considered to be 8 sessions. That's 4 long days. Gone are the days when anyone would consider a 5 day working week for GPs, because the workload is increasingly intense and sessions generate more paperwork than they used to.

Demand Is Increasing

GPs may be moving towards working less sessions, but that's because our work is getting more complex. As patients live longer, with more complicated combinations of illnesses and treatments, and we exist in a society that has progressively defunded social care and benefits, and impoverished our most vulnerable patients, there are more calls on our time abd attention than ever before. Stripped hospital services are increasingly rejecting our referrals, often inappropriately and against actual guidelines. Services are being pushed onto GPs via shared care agreements that would once have been handled by specialist teams in clinic. Services that we heavily rely on to serve our patients are sometimes defunded or disappear as contracts end or are transferred to new providers. Long wait lists lead to exasperated patients repeatedly seeing their GPs to manage issues that can't be managed well in the community.

There's a narrative in the media that appointments are impossible to get, but in reality, nationally GP surgeries are providing more appointments per month than they did before the pandemic. For example, 25.7 million appointments (excluding Covid vaccinations) were delivered by GP practices in December 2023, an increase of 9% compared to pre-pandemic. Practices are trying to find how to offer more appointments on a budget and how to improve access and find alterantive ways to serve patients; for example online forms, so that phone lines are freed up for vulnerable patients. Many practices are also offering longer appointments as many patients have complex needs.

Let's talk Pay

People also assume GPs are rich, but that's not really the case, especially given most of us wrent working full time. Average pay for a session is somewhere between 10k and 12k a year for each session a week that you work, depending on things like seniority and location. So for example, a 5 session GP earning 10k per session can expect to earn 50k a year. That's barely above the London average salary of 44k for a job that requires medical school, often an additional bachelor's degree and then at least 5 years of postgraduate training at minimum. That's more comfortable than a lot of vulnerable people, but it's nowhere near what most people think. Even if someone is paid higher per session and working more sessions, the average is still closer to 80 or 90k for salaried GP roles.

I've found figures that suggest the average GP salary is just over 100k, but that includes people doing separate private work or being partners, where in reality these are different roles that are paid differently. Partners are effectively shareholders in the practice. Locum or private work is much more lucrative and needs to be considered separately from a standard salaried role.

Some Partners may be earning £100k-150 in a good year, but that will be after working a LOT of overtime outside of their clinics, abd is in line with hospital specialists. The proportion of GPs earning more than that are miniscule. And honestly, if someone is working a ton of extra hours with their local LMC or med school or deanery, or doing a ton of locum work in evenings and weekends, I'm happy for them to be earning more money than me. Extra work and hours should be rewarded.

The Gender Aspect

I think we need to address the fact that complaining about doctors choosing to work less than what is defined as full time, often goes hand in hand with people complaining about women having the temerity to work in medicine. Apparently we're devaluing the profession by making it too female, going part time and having children. Why us ut that nobidy cares about whether men are going less than full time to look after their kids, and whether fathers are missing out on their children's upbringing?

As women, many of us are still facing sexism in our working lives. Whilst still having to deal with the fact that even uf we earn more and work longer hours than our menfolk, we usually end up doing the majority of the childcare and housework. Women in medicine are more likely to go less than full time because we are more likely to feel compelled to take on unpaid labour at home. Like our non medical sisters.

For reference, the full time nursing week in the NHS is 37.5h - with some variation between 36-40h depending on where you work. Working part time would benefit nurses, too. The nursing workforce is mostly women, and yet there's not the same outrage about their working hours or going less than full time, because women being nurses is expected. People don't seem to care about nurses' working conditions or the stresses they are under, and honestly most articles ignore the financial stresses or difficulties of most NHS workers because they are normally focused on doctors as a resource that they want to exploit maximally.

We aren't out there trying to police what hours other professions work - or at least, we shouldn't be. So why does the public feel entitled to dictate what hours doctors should be working? It's not like people are being paid for hours they aren't working!

#dxlives #dx lives #nhs #healthcare #gp #general practice #been meaning to get back into rabting #long post #gp pay #medicine #med student #junior doctor

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lovebotmo · 11 months ago

Text

like the movies

chapter two - moly blossoms

series masterlist

pairing: theodore nott x reader

wc: 2589

author's note: i want to thank each and every one of your for the likes and reblogs on my first chapter!!! big smooches to you lil cuties.

song inspiration: japanese denim by daniel caesar

Trailing behind Hermione, you eventually made it to the dungeons where your first Potions lesson of the year awaited. Walking across the threshold of the entrance, you made sure to keep the door open for two of your classmates walking a little ways behind you. The first of the two, Lorenzo Berkshire, flashed a bright smile at you in thanks. The two of you had been friendly over the years at Hogwarts, sharing a number of advanced classes. You had spent a few late nights at the library together cramming for finals, only to celebrate at The Three Broomsticks with a congratulatory butterbeer when you both received prefect scores. Enzo, the nickname he preferred to go by, was an absolute sweetheart and kind friend.

The second of the pair walked behind his more cheerful friend in stony silence. He muttered a barely discernible, “Grazie,” to you as he passed into the Potions classroom. You caught a whiff of his cologne, something that reminded you of crackling fires, balsam firs, and fresh snow.

His name was Theodore Nott.

In comparison to his friend, you didn’t have much to say to or about him. In fact, Nott didn’t have much to say, well, ever. Among the gaggle of Slytherins he and Enzo hung around, he was the quietest and the most brilliant—often giving Hermione a run for her money for the top spot, especially when it came to Potions. You knew he played on the Slytherin quidditch team, but you hadn’t the foggiest as to which position he occupied. But that was it. You didn’t really know him, only of him.

Realizing you had been standing and propping the door open long after the two boys had walked through, you moved to shut the hefty door. You turned only to see the small number of your classmates huddling around a piece of paper, a list of some kind. As you entered your seventh year, your Potions classes had steadily thinned out as the requirements became increasingly more stringent. Even through Professor Slughorn was more than happy to accept students who received Es on their N.E.W.T.s, Snape’s years of teaching had put many students off the subject. Frankly, you couldn’t blame them.

In your third year, while brewing doxycide, you had made an error in adding wolfsbane essence instead of the required cowbane essence. The contents of your cauldron proceeded to explode on you. The potion was particularly foul-smelling and disturbingly thick; it had also ended up in your eyes. Rather than sending you immediately to the infirmary, Snape had made you clean it up—bloody blind, you might add—before you were on your way to Madam Pomfrey. You had lost ten house points. Safe to say, you loathed the man. You had only agreed to Hermione’s pestering to join her in the advanced courses of Potions because Slughorn had taken the post…and the promise that she would help you should you need it.

Shirking the memory, you moved to Hermione’s side in hopes of seeing what she and the rest of the class were peering at. The parchment in front of you listed out eight pairs of two students—assigned Potions partners for the year.

You quickly pulled Hermione back from the fray by her arm. “You promised you would help me if I took this class with you! Now you can’t even be my Potions partner!”

Hermione batted your arm away. “Oh, please Y/n! No need to be so dramatic all the time. I can still help even if I’m not your partner. Besides you won’t even need it.”

You squinted your eyes at her, “And why is that? Because I’m so bloody brilliant? I’m out of practice and you know that!”

Your reply was met with rolling eyes. “For the love of Godric, Y/n, you’ll be fine. You and I both know you can handle this class.” She paused. “But that’s not what I meant. Didn’t you see who your partner is?”

“Um…no.” In the fuss of realizing you wouldn’t be with Hermione you had failed to check just who your partner would be. “I was a little distracted by the fact that I’ve practically been abandoned—betrayed even—”

Hermione flicked you on the forehead. “Enough with the melodrama. Nott’s your partner. It’ll be grand. He’s… brilliant in Potions.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at her hesitation. If there was one thing Hermione Granger did not enjoy, it was academic competition, something that Nott’s proficiency in Potions promised. “Killed you to say that didn’t it? How does it feel to be one of us mere mortals of average intelligence, ‘Mione—"

Hermione let out a huff before pinching you lightly on the arm. “Oh, shove off. Go to your station, your partner is impatiently waiting. He’s been staring at you for the past two minutes.”

That got you to quickly spin around to meet Nott’s blue-green eyes looking fixedly into your own.

Oops.

You quickly moved away from Hermione and shuffled over to where Theodore stood. Turning to your partner, you tried to make some small talk while waiting for Slughorn to begin class, “I’m guessing you wish you had been paired with Enzo, right?”

Theodore stared at you. He blinked once. Then again. Before replying, “…Right.”

Well, he certainly isn’t one for pleasant conversation. Godric bless the soul that gets stuck talking to him at a cocktail party, you thought to yourself.

“’Spose it won’t be too bad though, yeah? Everyone knows you’ve gotten the best scores in Potions each year—we’ll be alright.” Your attempt at conversation was once more met Theodore’s stoic façade, your efforts to converse metaphorically falling into the awkward silence between you.

Theodore just repeated his monosyllabic reply. “Right.”

Smiling self-consciously, you placed your books on top of your station as you sat down, just as Slughorn finally made an appearance.

Thank Godric for the silly old man.

“Welcome to the second sequence of Advanced Potions! In order to determine if you’ve all properly reviewed your Advanced Potion Making texts over your summer holidays, I’ve crafted a little exercise with the help of Professor Sprout.” Pausing his speech, Slughorn waved his wand, drifting eight blooms of moly flowers to each station. You let out a quiet gasp.

Ever since your third year, moly flowers had been your favorite. First encountering them in Potions while brewing wiggenweld potion, you had become enamored with the gentle and elegant white blooms and its distinctive black stems and leaves that denoted moly flowers. It didn’t escape your notice either that they were able to counteract a number of enchantments, but that fact didn’t measure up to the quiet beauty of the blossoms you had grown to admire. When you wound up in the infirmary after your adolescent explosion of doxycide, Hermione had brought a single stem of a moly flower to your bedside—a feat not easily done. It had involved begging Professor Sprout for some of the moly she grew in the greenhouse. Despite Professor Spout’s reluctance to part with the blooms, due to the flower’s value, both monetarily and magically, Hermione had successfully commandeered one. Hermione was, for a lack of a better term, ‘that witch.’ And you loved her for it. Hermione’s efforts and that sweet memory had solidified the ardent admiration you had for molies from that moment onward.

One of the blooms floated towards you and gently, you grasped the onyx stem. Lightly touching one of the four pearlescent petals, you smiled at the memory you forever associated them with before someone brought you out of your haze.

“Y/n.” You turned your gaze to your left where Theodore was watching you expectantly.

Shaking your head, you brought yourself back to the present. “Sorry, what was that?”

Your obvious confusion at what was going on seemed to bring the smallest of smirks to Theodore’s lips.

So, he can smile…Interesting.

“We’re meant to identify the thirteen potions moly blooms are used in along with its medicinal capabilities. Think you can handle the task, L/n?” Besides the fact that you were in awe that Theodore could string that many words together all at once, you were stunned at the challenge he seemed to set forth. His tone seemed to question whether you could do anything besides dumbly stare at a flower bloom, completely unaware as to what Slughorn tasked you to do.

The man probably thinks I’m going to slack off since he’s so proficient in Potions. Even if I am not as naturally talented as him at the subject, I am still a good student—with principles, nonetheless! The gall of the man!

You scoffed, placing the flower on the table before turning fully towards the Slytherin. “Please, Nott. Have a little faith. Contrary to your belief, I do know what I’m doing…at least most of the time.”

Theodore picked up the moly bloom from where you had placed down on the table. He gently twirled it in his large hands, which easily dwarfed the small blossom. “Guess we’ll just have to see then, won’t we?” Those stormy eyes returned to your own. It was the first time you had seen them without a veil of indifference.

“Just you wait, Nott. I’m going to be the best Potions partner you’ve ever had.” Theodore raised his eyebrows at your bold conjecture. “Now, hand me a quill and a piece of parchment.”

Later that day, you trudged up to your room with Hermione following behind you. As you were both Muggleborns, you and Hermione had bonded over Muggle fiction over the years; it had brought you closer among the sea of Purebloods and Halfbloods who were more than content to disdain at your blood staus. Over the last summer, you had both agreed to select a book for the other to read. Hermione had already given you her copy of Little Women, so you were eager to give her your battered edition of Wuthering Heights. Chatting about your respective choices of literature, you unlocked the door, eager to flop onto your bed. However, as you neared your bedframe, rest seemed to be the last thing on your mind.

Hermione’s nose was still buried in her gifted copy of Little Women. “I’ve put a couple markers in places I want you to pay attention to. There’s this once instance with Amy, where Laurie just—oof!” Having not noticed your silence and lack of movement, Hermione bumped right into your back. “Sorry, I didn’t realize—wait…what’s that there?”

Hermione’s attention now turned towards the thing resting upon one of your pillows. Her thick brows furrowed as you cocked your head in confusion. The thing was a small bouquet of moly flowers in full bloom. They were carefully bound together by a thin white silk ribbon, perfectly matching the delicate petals. In the afternoon light coming through the windows, the flowers seemed to glisten. The flowers were gorgeous…but why were they here?

You turned to Hermione. “You mean, you didn’t put them there?”

Your friend quickly shook her head ‘no.’ “How could I? I’ve been with you all day, remember?”

You nodded mutely. Hermione was right, there would have been no opportunity for her to put them on your bed, let alone procure them from Professor Sprout. Considering her account of trying to obtain the precious blossoms in your third year, you doubted Hermione would have gone through the trouble without good reason.

You mentally scratched your head. “I suppose you didn’t do it, ‘Mione, but who else?” You gingerly picked up the bouquet, thoughtfully considering the angelic blooms. You gently rubbed the silk ribbon between your forefinger and thumb. “I reckon you’re the only one who knows how much I like them. Did anyone ask you about what flowers I like recently?”

Hermione shook her head. You trusted that Hermione wouldn’t lie, not about something like this. For two of the brightest students at Hogwarts, the pair of you were stumped.

“Maybe it’s someone from our Potions class—did you mention that you liked them to anyone? To Nott maybe?” At her last question, you couldn’t help the chuckle that left your lips. You shook your head.

“Please, Nott spoke all of three sentences to me today and it was the longest conversation I’ve ever had with the guy. Besides, I didn’t mention anything to him.” You handed the flowers to Hermione as you sat down on your bed, hands behind you as you leaned back. Just as you were about to shut your eyes, trying to wrack your mind for who could have possibly sent it, you felt something just under your fingertips. Grasping it and bringing it forward, you found that it was a folded piece of parchment, which you opened slowly, half expecting something odd to pop out given the strangeness of the bouquet’s appearance. Instead, all you found was a note written in handwriting that could only be described as a boyish scrawl. It read:

Y/n,

Moly flowers, for you. Beautiful, for a beauty.

Yours,

Teddy

You reread the note, perhaps ten times, before asking the question on both of your minds, “Who the fuck is Teddy?”

Thirty minutes passed. By now, you had scrounged up a vase to place the flowers in by your bedside. You and Hermione lay sprawled across your bed, trying to solve the mystery of who this elusive ‘Teddy’ was.

“I don’t get it,” Hermione said, “There’s no one at Hogwarts named ‘Teddy.’ It must stand for something. Maybe an acronym. Oh! Maybe a pseudonym or a pen name.” Hermione continued to prattle off possibilities as you stared blankly at the fabric hanging off your bedframe.

Breaking your reverie you conjectured, “Maybe it wasn’t meant for me?” At that, Hermione flicked your forehead for the second time that day. “Ow! Stop that! I think you enjoy doing that a bit too much for my liking. I’m going to bruise.” She gave you a blank look.

“Y/n.”

“…Hermione.”

“Your name is in the bloody note. It’s most definitely intended for you.”

Solid logic, ‘Mione.

“Well, regardless, I haven’t the faintest idea who fancies me, who this Teddy is, or how he got his hands on an entire bouquet of molies,” you said. “Godric knows you had a difficult enough time getting Professor Sprout to part with one blossom, let alone a whole bunch.”

Hermione hummed at that and replied, “He either stole the blossoms from Sprout’s greenhouse, somehow managed to ger her to depart with twelve blooms willingly, or he’s wealthy enough to have purchased them. Either way, he’s gone through a good deal of trouble—possibly literal criminal trouble—to do something sweet for you. Whoever he is, he clearly cares about you.”

Turning to face her, you cheekily replied, “Are you sure this isn’t some grand plot to express your sweet, passionate love for me?” You batted your eyelashes at her, causing her to laugh and hit you with one of the nearby pillows. “Hey! Not near my molies!” You pleaded.

With a mirthful smile, Hermione said, “As much as I love you, I don’t like you enough to go through all that trouble. Sorry!” This time, your hit her with the pillow. The two of you roared with laughter as you swatted and swung at the other with the various pillows on your bed. Eventually the both of you settled down, resting on your bed once more. In the silence, your mind turned once more to the puzzling question at hand.

Who was this ‘Teddy’?

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