#then she's all like 'have my ring so you can look like an actual widow it's a family heirloom but nbd'

[just-aake]

Your Special Day

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: You celebrate Natasha’s special day with small surprises for her.

Warnings: fluff

Words: 1160

The alarm on the phone rings, waking the red-haired agent from her slumber. After turning off the shrill sound, her hand automatically reaches over toward the other side of the bed, only to sit up in confusion when she finds an empty space.

The area still retains some of your warmth, so you couldn't have left too long ago. After getting dressed, Natasha comes out of your shared room and is immediately greeted by a sweet smell seemingly from the kitchen. 

Making her way to the area, Natasha finds the source of the smell—a small spread of breakfast laid out on the table. A ding from the coffee maker signals its completion, and Natasha is pleasantly surprised when she recognizes the scent of the finished drink.

Someone, probably Stark, had used the last batch of her favorite brand of coffee, and she hadn’t had the time to pick up any more, so for the past weeks, she just settled for drinking one of the other basic coffees available.

Judging from the still-warm breakfast and the timing of the completed coffee, Natasha could tell that this meal was planned precisely for when she would usually have woken up. 

The only thing missing was the person who was behind this meticulous planning.

After calling your name and not seeing any signs of you anywhere, Natasha spots a piece of paper under the plate with your familiar handwriting.

Got called in for a meeting with Fury. Nothing serious. Take your time and enjoy your breakfast! Love you, Y/n

Natasha's lips quirked up into a soft smile at your words. Looking back at the homemade breakfast you made especially for her, her heart warms at your gesture. Tucking the note safely away in her pocket, Natasha decides to listen to your words and enjoy the meal you prepared for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After finishing her breakfast and arriving at the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Natasha walks through the halls toward her workspace, intending to work on the piles of mission reports that she needs to complete by the end of today. It's not a difficult task, just tedious with the amount of paperwork required to fill out.

Maria appears from the corner heading in the opposite direction of Natasha. When she glances up from her tablet and notices the agent, she stops and greets her.

“Afternoon, Romanoff. I got those reports of yours. Thanks for finishing them so quickly,” Maria tells her appreciatively.

Natasha gives her a confused look, wondering if she is referring to the reports that she was just on her way to complete.

“My reports?” Natasha questions.

“Yeah, L/n gave them to me this morning,” Maria explains.

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly in surprise at the revelation.

Not noticing her expression, Maria continues swiping through her tablet while humming in thought.

“Looks like there’s not much else that needs to be done right now,” she looks back at Natasha with an impressed look. “I guess that means you can take it easy today. Enjoy your day off, Romanoff.”

“Thanks,” Natasha replies distractedly as Maria leaves. 

She stands there in wonder, touched by what you’ve done for her today. Natasha contemplates what she should do now that she no longer has any work to complete. 

You haven’t seen or replied to her text messages yet, which probably means you are still in your meeting with Fury.

A familiar voice pulls Natasha’s attention from her phone as she looks at the person speaking to her.

“So, do you just stand there all day, or do you actually do hero stuff in this place?” Yelena asks casually as she taps the walls of the headquarters, nodding her head at the durability.

“Yelena, what are you doing here?” Natasha asks curiously at yet another nice surprise that she has received today. 

She hasn’t seen her little sister in person for a couple of months now, ever since Yelena decided to explore the world, leading her team of Widows in helping where they can.

Yelena shrugs nonchalantly, replying, “Considering what day it is, I figure I could take some time out of my schedule to spend with my sister and ‘catch up’ about what’s happening in our lives.”

Yelena raises her hands in air quotes around the words, as if repeating the phrase from someone else.

Natasha raises a disbelieving brow at her, knowing that there’s more to the situation.

At her expression, Yelena rolls her eyes and mutters under her breath.

“Plus, your girlfriend was kind of scary when she called me,” she admits, shuddering at the memory.

Natasha grins amusedly at the information, figuring that you had a part in this surprise also. She gestures with her head at Yelena to follow her.

“Come on, I’ll show you around, and you can tell me about the hero stuff you’ve done,” Natasha tells her with a small smirk.

Yelena shoots a similar expression back at her sister and follows after her, excited to recount her adventures and spend some time together again.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After saying goodbye to Yelena, Natasha comes back to the Avengers compound to find a delicious scent emanating from the kitchen again.

This time, however, when she makes her way to the area, she is glad to see your familiar figure standing in the room.

You look up at her entrance, your smile widening when you see that it is her.

“Welcome back,” you greet her. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yeah, it was almost perfect,” Natasha replies casually as she moves around the counter to be closer to you.

Your brows furrow as you discreetly pull out your phone to glance at the list of things you had planned for today, wondering what you might have missed – homemade breakfast, favorite coffee, completed reports, no additional work, Yelena, and now dinner.

These were all just simple gestures that you thought of doing for her today. You know Natasha doesn’t like to make a big deal about this day in particular, but you still wanted to at least make it a little more special for her than usual.

You scan your list again, wondering what it is that you must have forgotten.

Suddenly, Natasha’s hand covers your screen as she pushes your phone away, and she raises her eyebrows pointedly at you.

“It’s you, Y/n,” Natasha explains amusedly. “Being with you makes today perfect.”

Your mouth opens slightly in surprise at her words, wondering how you forgot something so simple.

Looking at your expression fondly, Natasha places her hands on your waist and pulls you close to her, leaning in to press a soft kiss on your lips.

Pulling back slightly, she rests her head against yours as she looks into your eyes filled with love.

“Thank you...for everything,” she tells you sincerely.

You give her a soft smile, wrapping your arms around her neck and pulling her in close again as you whisper against her lips.

“Happy Birthday, Natasha.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

[ofallthingsnasty]

Sorry if requests are closed rn b if what do you think about yandere Arthur Morgan with a basement wife? I mean he’s tried different approaches with Mary and Eliza and failed so surely third time’s the charm right??

Requests are more than open 🥳 I 've just been a little MIA lately, because of my BG3 stint 🫣 and I'm sorry this took so long, I put yourask in my drafts and forgot about it 😭

tw. 'yandere', super low self-esteem arthur, minors dni, f!reader

The thing about Arthur is - and you're totally right with the 'whelp, this didn't work, let's try something different' thing - he's just not someone I can see with a basement wife. I can totally see him getting unhealthily attached to a poor soul - but. That man will never leave the gang. I was rooting so hard for him and Mary when they had one last date in Saint Denis, I actually wanted him to drop them all and be selfish and just run away with her... Alas, Arthur is Arthur and even with low honor, those people are his family. Why does that make me think that Arthur Morgan is not a basement wife guy? Because he's here today and he’ll be somewhere else entirely tomorrow. He couldn't even set up a snug little home for you, the risk of him having to flee somewhere with Dutch and the others is simply too great. What if he can't get to you, can't take you with him? What if something happens to you, if someone stumbles upon his carefully crafted, hidden abode and discovers you? The same that happened to Eliza and Isaac will happen to you, too, and by god, he can't stand that thought. By design, the life he leads makes that impossible.

So what does a lovesick old bastard like him do instead? Well, I think he’s a grade A meddler. That man has zero self-esteem - I think that when he falls for you, it’ll be a whole lot of ‘I’m just not good enough for her’s and ‘how could she ever want a big lunk me’s at first, all the while he finds himself constantly checking up on you, unbeknownst to you or not. Whether or not he has it in himself to accept all of those big feelings, he’ll make damn sure you’re safe and sound, at whichever point you are in life. And you know, as long as you are single - unwed, widowed, divorced, abandoned, whatever as long as there is no man in your life - I can see that going on for all eternity. Him just looking out for you, helping you out, trying to ignore the way your hand feels over his arm whenever you express your gratitude. Really, he can keep on existing like this, because no matter how much Arthur Morgan loves you… he’s way too broken to act on it, in my humble opinion. Even if you were to make a move, you’d have to join the gang - and that is dangerous living. We’re talking about an obsessed, lovesick Arthur Morgan here - who, despite it all, would still be fairly realistic. No matter how grand those feelings of his are, your safety and happiness are his number one priority. And those are very much not guaranteed in his line of work. A truly yandere Arthur is going to be your greatest protector, your most generous benefactor - but he’ll be a distant, nebulous figure. Now, if there is a man in your life - that can change pretty quickly. Because then, there is that pesky sting of jealousy he’ll have to live with, day after day. One that might seem to be bearable if your husband is a good man, but one that will slowly whittle away at him still, little by little. Then, I can actually see him snapping, can see him giving into those selfish feelings, even if he still thinks he doesn’t deserve you. But guess what? That son of a bitch doesn’t, either. He’ll get drunk one night, thinking too hard about the way another man’s ring is sitting pretty on your finger and-

Do something very, very rash and stupid. Something that will have him camping out in the wilderness for a few days, with you by his side. 

(Not to mention if your husband is in any way bad to you… Oh boy, he’ll rue the day ever doing wrong by you, if he even can after Arthur is done with him.)

[ginnsbaker]

fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (3/?)

Part summary: Leigh develops an unhealthy habit as she hits closer to rock bottom

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 5.370 | Warnings/Tags: Some hetero stuff | A/N: Things will pick up after this part. I think there's going to be a total of 6 parts, but let me confirm that in the next update :)

Masterlist | Part I Part II | Next

-

Leigh is ten minutes late. 

It makes sense. Her willingness to attend this meeting was surprising, because if you were in her shoes, you doubt you'd have agreed to it. Listening to the entire history of a relationship can be exhausting, and it's hard to imagine what it feels like to hear about one that arguably should never have existed.

But just as you're about to think she's bailed or intentionally left you hanging, you spot her sprinting toward the cafe from across the street. She's a mess—hair soaked and sticking everywhere, face bare, missing its usual touch of makeup. But even like this, Leigh doesn't look much different from her usual self. You can't help feeling a bit envious of that.

She rushes into the cafe, attracting a few curious looks, but she barely registers them, her wide green eyes quickly finding you.

“Sorry I'm late,” she pants, struggling to catch her breath, “I got caught in the rain and then missed my bus.” The lie slips out effortlessly. True, it had rained, but the real reason was far more personal—something you didn't need to know.

You shrug off her apology with a smile, signaling the waiter for a menu for Leigh. “No worries, I'm just glad you made it,” you say.

Leigh gives you a quick once-over, then forces a smile and thanks you. Once her coffee order's in, she gets right down to it. “So, Matt,” she starts, her voice dropping to a whisper, “how did you two meet?”

You lean back, carefully thinking about what to say next. You didn't practice your answers ahead of time because you weren't planning to lie about anything. But you're wary of how you word things, not wanting to upset her. Being caught up with a married man is embarrassing enough as it is, and having to relay the details to his widowed wife only adds to it.

“Actually, our first meeting was totally by chance,” you say, bringing your steaming cup of tea to your lips. “I quite literally bumped into Matt one day. It was so brief, I barely gave it a second thought.”

You take a deep breath before continuing, “Then, about a week later, Matt showed up at my clinic with the same friend from before. It turned out, they were there for his friend's dog, who needed a check-up. Matt was just tagging along, helping out.”

Leigh’s face remains passive, making it hard to read. 

“The friend was the one who interacted with me the most that day. He even asked for my number, saying they were grateful for the help with the dog. I assumed he was interested,” you say, the memory coming back to you clearer now as you speak. “But, to my surprise, it was Matt who texted me later, not his friend.”

You barely manage to suppress the slight twitch of your lips, recalling how everything once seemed magical to you. Leigh on the other hand, takes a slow sip of her coffee, buying a moment to process.

“Who was that friend of Matt's? Do you remember his name?” she asks.

You pause, racking your brain for the detail, feeling its importance to Leigh. “Yeah, I think his name was Nick or something,” you say, scratching your head. Whether the name ‘Nick’ rings any bells for her or not, she doesn't let on. 

“Strange,” you mumble under your breath, but then shrug it off. “It doesn't really matter, he's not the one I—” You stop yourself just in time, realizing you're about to say something potentially hurtful about a situation that still feels raw, especially to Leigh.

Instead, you quickly pivot. “Anyway, that's how it all started. On the day of the dog’s follow-up, it was just Matt who came by. We struck up a friendship from there, and one thing led to another until he, uhm, asked me out for dinner.”

At this, you notice a subtle change in Leigh's demeanor. Her entire frame becomes more timid, the first real sign of emotion she's shown since this conversation began. 

You’re about to go on with your story when Leigh suddenly speaks up.

“So, you just said yes, even though he was your client? Don't veterinarians have professional boundaries?”

Ever since meeting Leigh, you've found it challenging to predict what might trigger her reactions—it's like navigating a minefield. Occasionally, you’d find yourself wondering what it would be like to know her without the complications currently defining your interactions. You think about the roles you both involuntarily play in each other's lives, roles neither of you auditioned for but somehow ended up performing.

You feel a lump form in your throat, and your gaze drops to your lap. “Well, he was persistent,” you say, feeling the need to defend your decision. Nevertheless, it sounds weak to your own ears. “But I made it clear nothing could happen until the dog's treatment was complete. And I insisted he'd have to find a different vet for any future appointments. It was... complicated.”

“I bet,” Leigh scoffs, crossing her arms. After a beat, she asks, almost too casually, “So, how quickly did you two... you know, have your first kiss?”

The question hangs awkwardly between you. You know you can’t answer it in any way you could avoid her judgment, so you just decide to spit it out. 

“First date.” Under Leigh’s scrutinizing gaze, it feels like admitting to a minor crime.

Leigh stares at you with unblinking eyes. “And how long after meeting him did this first date happen?”

You draw in a slow breath. “Three weeks,” you mutter. “It was last fall.” You add that bit, proactively laying out the timeline as if it could somehow soften the blow or make the situation less complicated. Leigh, however, looks like you've just knocked the wind out of her. She looks away, her expression shifting into something like shock or deep pain. Alarm bells ring in your head at the picture before you.

“Hey, did I say something wrong?” you say in a rush. “I mean, this whole situation is messed up, but if I—”

Leigh’s eyes are glass as they return to you. When she speaks again, her voice is so soft you almost have to lean in to hear. “Last fall... That's when I told Matt we should start trying for a baby.”

The words drain the color from your face. And suddenly, all the pieces of your story with Matt feels even more tainted.

You're not sure what your face gives away when you hear this news, but Leigh's expression quickly shifts from tearful to furious. “Stop feeling sorry for me,” she hisses. “I don’t need your pity.”

Leigh's tears start to spill over, and it's only 7:30 in the morning. It feels way too early for tears, especially here, in the middle of a coffee shop where the day is just beginning for most. You try to shrink into your seat, wishing you could make both of you invisible as the few other patrons start throwing curious, if not outright concerned, looks your way.

You never realized a simple conversation could cause someone so much pain. You thought providing Leigh with answers would help, but it looks like you're just making things even harder for her. Maybe keeping your distance from her is the kindest thing you can do.

“You know the worst part?” Leigh brushes away the tears that keep streaking down her face.

Clearly, she isn't looking for an answer, so you stay silent.

She makes sure she catches your eye before saying, “He agreed, and we started trying.”

-

Leigh catches her breath after wrapping up her class at the Beautiful Beast. 

She took a day off yesterday, immediately after talking with you, spending the whole day in bed just trying to sort out her thoughts and feelings. Surprisingly, wasting away for a whole day seemed to help, and her concerns gradually drifted back to her fight with Jules. It’s been days, and Leigh feels the urgency of reconciliation pressing on her. By this point, they should be on speaking terms again. By now, Jules should have let go of her anger, right? Leigh knows she can't afford to have her sister hating her. At least not right now. She needs her family, or what’s left of it—on her side. 

“Hey, Jules, got a sec? About the schedule…” Leigh tries, hoping work might be a safe enough topic to get her sister to acknowledge her existence once again.

Jules barely glances her way. Her hands keep moving, adjusting a strap here, aligning yoga mats there, as if the very act could shield her from having to engage. “Sorted. Check your email,” she replies, her voice cold and detached.

Leigh nods, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot. “Great, great... um, did you consider adding that beginners' workshop we talked about?”

Jules stops for a beat, and Leigh thinks, maybe she's going to drop it. But no, Jules resumes fussing over items that hardly require any attention. Then, without even looking up, she says, “Yeah, it's on the list. Anything else?”

Leigh tries to keep her cool, wishing Jules would just cut to the chase and tell her what needs to be done for all to be forgiven. 

Trying a different tactic, Leigh goes, “Hey, found a Starbucks card in my bag. How 'bout I grab us some coffee? My treat.”

Leigh’s trying. She really is. Why can’t they see that?

Jules just gives her that look, the kind that doesn't need words, and heads back to her desk. And there's Leigh, offer of a beverage truce just floating in the air, going nowhere.

Getting ignored really gets under Leigh's skin. Back in the day, Matt's habit of brushing her off would drive her to the edge. She'd respond with over-the-top demands or twist things around just to make sure he’d always pay attention to her. She didn't start off wanting to be that person, but looking back, she sees the lengths she'd go to just to keep his attention from straying. 

Unable to control herself, she heads straight for Jules, grabs her arm despite her trying to wiggle free, and yanks her into the backroom.

“What the hell is your problem?!” Jules explodes, not caring if anyone’s heard her outside.

They're both standing there, kind of shocked by how heated things got so fast. Jules’ shout might've turned a few heads outside, but right now, that's the least of Leigh's worries.

“How many times do I need to apologize, for you to get over this?”

Jules’ eyes are wide in disbelief, her mouth twisting into a sardonic smile, like she can’t believe what she’s hearing.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself, Leigh! This is exactly why I’m not talking to you,” Jules hisses, but keeps her voice down this time.

“What—”

“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?”

Leigh's initial scoff dies in her throat as she watches Jules' expression twist with hurt. “Yeah, okay, I said sorry about the crap I pulled the other day. I know I was out of line, talking about your past like that—”

Jules doesn't let her finish. “You weren't just being ‘out of line’, Leigh. You threw the worst time of my life in my face! Do you have any idea how hurtful that is? Coming from my own sister? From my own family? What, just to win an argument? To cover up for acting like a jerk at the club?”

Leigh goes quiet, but her face hardens, trying not to show how much Jules' words hit her right in the gut. What she said, laid out like that, it sounds…well, unforgivable.

“I'm trying, okay?” Leigh blurts out without thinking.

“Shouldn't be that hard to just be a decent human being, should it?” Jules shoots back, her dismissal sharp as she exits the cramped space, leaving Leigh reeling.

Under her breath, almost like she's talking to the walls, Leigh mumbles, “I'm really sorry…” It's quiet, almost lost in the room, but she means it the most at this very moment, even if no one's around to catch it.

-

Leigh clocks out from work, her day's fatigue hanging off her shoulders like a weighty cloak. Instead of heading straight home, she veers off her usual path, her feet bringing her to places that made breathing difficult the first few weeks after Matt's death. She's walking the same old route she always did when he was still around, back to when her home address was different and she'd pick up takeout from his favorite places along the way.

There’s the park first, the one where she and Matt spent countless afternoons sprawled on the grass, lying side by side as they watched the sky blush into shades of orange at sunset. She allows herself only a fleeting glance at the familiar paths and the bench they claimed theirs, feeling the same regret, the same hollowness as she remembers the good times they had there. 

In the back of her mind, she can't shake off the worry that maybe you've been here too, making your own memories with him. She doesn’t feel the surge of anger at this thought however. Instead, a part of her is almost willing to share these sacred memories if it means holding onto him in any form. She wants to believe that her jealousy has faded into a quieter acceptance that others might also carry pieces of him, pieces she's learning to live with.

Pulling herself away from the park, Leigh's walk inevitably leads her past Matt's favorite Italian restaurant—a quaint, cozy place where they celebrated most of their birthdays and, on occasion, anniversaries, especially when neither felt like cooking (which became an increasingly common choice in the months leading up to his accident).

She remembers how Matt's face would light up at the prospect of their rich, creamy carbonara and the tiramisu he claimed was unrivaled in the city. She recalls the numerous times she attempted to recreate the restaurant's tiramisu at home, aiming to surprise Matt at least once a month. Despite her efforts, if she truly wanted to indulge him, she knew there was no substitute for the real thing. So, on special days, or whenever she felt an extra burst of affection, she'd stop by the restaurant on her way home, picking up takeout. 

A waitress from the restaurant notices Leigh's lingering gaze and asks if she'd like a table. With a shy smile, Leigh declines, then pauses before finally deciding to order a tiramisu to go.

When she returns to her mom's house and eats the tiramisu alone, it tastes different. 

Leigh can't decide if the difference in the tiramisu's taste is good or bad, but that doesn't stop her. She finishes the entire slice in minutes. But instead of feeling full, it makes her feel emptier. Perhaps, it’s not the flavor that's changed; it's the experience of eating it without Matt's enthusiastic commentary, without him lighting up at the first bite or playfully claiming the last one, despite his generous offer to let her have it.

Suddenly, tears just start pouring out of Leigh as she sits there with an empty plate. She didn't see it coming, no chance to stop it or shove it down. Then, she finds herself laughing—a deep, throaty laugh—because she's grieved for him in countless ways, but this, crying over a dessert, has to be the most absurd. It's exactly the kind of moment they would have laughed at together.

Deciding that that would be her dinner, Leigh cleans up the small mess she's made and considers the evening ahead. But just as she’s about to sink into the couch for a quiet night, her phone buzzes, making her jump.

Seeing your name flash on her screen, she sighs, sensing a familiar bitterness creeping back in, disrupting the soothing moments she had just spent reminiscing about Matt. She lets it ring a few times more before picking up.

“Hi, Y/N,” Leigh says, managing to keep her voice steady over the phone.

“Hey,” you start, unsure how to break the ice after everything. Especially with what you’re about to say next.

“Listen, something happened today at the clinic. Someone came in looking for their lost French Bulldog, and they had a picture,” you pause to breathe. “Leigh, it looks a lot like Visitor.”

On the other end of the line, you can practically hear Leigh's heart skip a beat.

“Hello?” you ask, checking to make sure she's still there after she doesn't respond for several seconds.

“Are you sure?” Leigh’s voice cracks slightly.

“Yeah, I'm pretty sure,” you say softly, feeling a surge of empathy. “I'm sending you the picture now. Check it out and tell me what you think.”

You hit send and then wait for Leigh’s confirmation.

“It's him. It's definitely Visitor,” she says a moment later.

You're relieved but also concerned about what comes next. “So, what are you going to do?”

Leigh hesitates, and when she speaks again, she doesn’t give a direct answer. “Thank you, Y/N,” she says, and you pick up something in her tone. Something somber. 

“Everything alright?” 

But the line's already dead, leaving you staring at your phone, wondering what she is up to.

-

Leigh stands outside the community center, her hand lingering on the door longer than usual.  It's been weeks since she last came to a session. First, there was the shock of uncovering Matt's darkest secret, and now, there's the issue of the man inside, already looking her way, waiting to see her next move.

Danny appearing at her doorstep earlier in the week caught her completely off guard—and not in a good way. The moment she realized it was him, Leigh didn't hesitate to close the door in his face. After she shut him out, it escalated to the point where she threatened to call the police because he wouldn't stop pounding on the door and shouting for Leigh to let him in, insisting he just wanted to talk. His last attempt to get through to her fell flat when he flooded her inbox with texts and missed calls, pushing Leigh to the point where she blocked his number for good.

Despite the problem of Danny being here tonight, Leigh isn't willing to walk away from this just because of him. She's already given up so much lately, most recently Visitor—or Chico, as she found out his real name was—and his absence carved a fresh ache in her heart that she hadn't seen coming.

So, she takes a deep breath and pushes the door open, ignoring the smirk on Danny’s face as she proceeds to pretend like he doesn’t exist.

-

Somehow, after the meeting, Leigh ends up saying yes to a quick chat with Danny. He reels her in with the news that he submitted Matt’s remaining works—which he got custody of—to his publisher, and they were keen to publish them posthumously. 

Leigh can't help but throw in a bit of shade. “That's nice of you, doing something good for your brother, even if it's a bit late.”

Danny's face drops a little. Her words were sharp enough to hurt him, but he doesn't bite back or get in her face about it, which totally throws Leigh for a loop. After all the time she'd spent ignoring him, she had expected him to be at his worst around her.

And then he surprises her even more when he says, “Let me give you a ride home? It's the least I can do…”

Leigh arches an eyebrow. She didn’t bring the car tonight because Jules had a thing with Tommy, and she didn’t want to give her sister another reason to resent her. A ride from Danny beats the alternatives of walking or shelling out for a pricey cab, especially now that her phone's battery has given out, nixing the option of booking an Uber.

But this is Danny. Matt’s brother, and the guy she hooked up with because she thought she’d get back some semblance of her dead husband. After Jules pointed out how messed up it was that they'd slept together, Leigh's been all over the place. The rules around what they were doing either turned her off or, weirdly enough, made the whole thing more enticing, taboo and all. That's a big part of why she's been steering clear of him. Hanging out with Danny feels like reaching for a cigarette long after she's sworn off smoking.

Even with all that swirling in her head, Leigh ends up saying, “Sure, why not?”

Before she knows it, she's also agreeing to a drink at his place.

-

The second they step into his apartment, something inside of Leigh snaps. Acting on impulse, she grabs Danny by the collar and kisses him fiercely. She clenches his shirt in her hands, practically tearing it in her grip. Danny's initial surprise melts away in seconds, and then he’s kissing her just as hard, his tongue prying open her lips, taking control of the kiss right away. His hands find her waits, pulling her closer, practically already half-lifting her against the wall.

Leigh, caught up in the moment, begins to move her hips in a rocking motion against him. The action is effective enough to distract him from where he’s kissing every inch of Leigh’s neck, and he retaliates by suddenly pressing her more firmly against the wall, pinning her with his hips, their chests are tightly pressed together.

But as Leigh's fingers begin to fumble with the button of Danny's pants, he catches her hands gently and, panting, says, “Wait, Leigh, hold on for just a sec.” 

Leigh’s eyes fly open at his voice, irritation and impatience coloring them. “What?” she gasps out. 

He ignores the hard edges of her tone. He wants more—something real—and he's hoping she does too.

“I can’t do this again unless I know it’s going somewhere,” Danny says. He gently lets go of Leigh and takes a step back, trying to collect himself. It's a tough task, though, with Leigh looking the way she does—hair all tousled, lips slightly swollen and marked from when he got a bit carried away, her cheeks tinged with a warm flush. He could’ve made her come in the next two minutes, he’s sure of it.

At Danny's confession, Leigh can't help it; she bursts into laughter. The idea of him catching feelings now, of all times, seems absurd to her. As she laughs, Danny's jaw tightens, but he waits patiently for her to finish.

When Leigh finally notices the seriousness etched across Danny's face, her amusement evaporates almost instantly. The realization that he's not joking strikes her, and it doesn't sit well. Not one bit.

“What, you think because your brother's gone, you get to... what? Step in? Take his place?” she spits out, incredulous. “This is never going to be anything more than a quick fuck, Danny.”

In his desperation, he calls her bluff. “You’re lying.”

Leigh's reaction morphs into a cruel sneer. “If you're going to insist on something more, then we're just wasting our time,” she mutters, turning to leave.

Danny's not ready to let her walk away, not yet. He grabs her arm, and for a second, they're just staring each other down, a silent battle raging between them. Leigh’s resolve is impenetrable.

It’s Danny who cracks first, exhaling a defeated, “Fine.”

But Leigh's not having any half-measures. She whirls around, fire in her eyes. “Nope. Say it properly,” she demands.

With a sigh that feels like he's giving away a part of himself, Danny looks at her, worn and resigned. “This doesn't have to mean anything,” he says even if it’s the last thing he wants.

Leigh locks eyes with him, a storm brewing in her look. Just when Danny thinks it's better to just drop it, she throws him a question out of nowhere. 

“Did you know?”

“Know what?” Danny asks, genuinely puzzled.

“About Matt and me... trying for a baby when he... you know.”

“He... he never mentioned anything like that,” he says, feeling the pain she’s radiating. Leigh looks like she’s about to fall apart and all he wants is to be the one to gather her pieces and put them all back together.

No more words follow from Leigh. It's as if the question drained what was left of the conversation. Without warning, she surges forward, her lips meeting Danny’s in a bruising kiss, then she grabs Danny's hands, placing them firmly back on her waist. He gets the message loud and clear, and together they quickly shed their clothes, letting them fall in a heap around their feet. She comes about twelve minutes and thirty seconds later.

-

It's been eight days—not that you're keeping track or anything. But after giving Leigh the heads-up that someone’s been looking for a dog that looks exactly like Visitor, you were kind of expecting she’d at least update you if it really was him or not.

So, when a client strolls in later with Visitor, who's actually called Chico according to the file your secretary slips you, you're a little disappointed it's not Leigh showing up instead. It must have been incredibly tough for her to return Chico to his real family. She invested her heart, time, and not to mention her wallet, into that dog, caring for him as if he were her own.

Thinking she’d be relieved to know he’s in good hands, you send her a text to update her about Chico's visit to the clinic today. You mention how healthy and content he seems, yet you hazard a guess that he's probably missing Leigh too. 

She sees your message right away, and then leaves you on read.

-

Her thing with Danny turns into a late-night ritual, particularly after Drew fails to respond to her following their conversation, not even offering her a guest column in the weeks that followed their talk. Drew continues to invite her for coffee and dinner dates along with his fiancée, but he avoids the topic about the column, so Leigh stops asking.

The hookups are always a post-midnight impulse. She’d find herself sneaking out of her mother's house to meet him, driven by a mix of need and escape, or occasionally, by insomnia. After their moments together, she never lingers in Danny's bed for too long once she's found her satisfaction, eager to shower away his scent from her skin. 

Back at home, she ensures there's no trace of their deed by the time she slips into bed, allowing herself to sleep deep into the middle of the day. This pattern of nocturnal activity and daytime slumber has led her mother to adjust Leigh's responsibilities, moving her to take charge of the afternoon classes instead. This behavior earns her suspicious glances from Jules, but Leigh chooses to ignore them—if Jules isn't interested in reconciling, then she has no right to concern herself with Leigh's personal affairs.

Leigh doesn’t know how she got here, back at the beginning, in an ever messier situation. She can't stop fucking Danny, her emotions for Matt are a rollercoaster—she finds herself forgiving him and cursing him interchangeably a couple of times a day. 

She's astounded this is her life now, seemingly unable to talk herself out of decisions that pull her deeper into chaos.

-

A month later, Leigh becomes a distant memory. Following a series of tumultuous encounters, your life gradually returns to its normal rhythm—quiet, ordinary days filled with clinic work, attending to various cases, meeting new clients, and addressing the myriad issues of small animals. All of these tasks prove easier to deal with than anything involving Leigh Shaw.

The sole noteworthy event in your generally uneventful life lately was your latest visit to a physician for an annual physical exam. The blood tests revealed some numbers outside the normal range, notably elevated cholesterol levels. Consequently, your doctor advised you to integrate exercise into your daily regimen and to reduce your consumption of takeout meals, specifically pizza and Chinese fast food.

It’s a big sacrifice, considering your day usually flies by without much thought for food, except for dinner. It’s the one time in your day you actually look forward to. So, to hold onto that bit of happiness, you've been looking at fitness classes that are actually enjoyable and help burn those extra calories to keep you in shape.

Yoga stands out as the top choice for you, mainly because it all unfolds on a mat. You assume it'll demand the least amount of effort compared to the other options (specifically spinning), which all seem to promise nothing but pain and suffering.

Deciding to give yoga a shot, you choose Beautiful Beast, swayed by its stellar reviews. You secure a slot for a 6pm class, feeling pretty good about this decision.

That is, until Leigh Shaw walks into the said class, clad in a sports bra and tight-fitting leggings that highlight her toned legs. She’s busy on her phone, and without looking up, she walks to the front of the room. 

What are the chances you'd both be in the same class at the same fitness studio? The plot thickens when she pockets her phone and turns to face the class, gesturing for everyone to get their mats ready as the session's about to start.

You swallow hard. Leigh isn't here as a joiner—she's running it.

It takes about a quarter of the session for Leigh to notice you’re in her class. It's only while she's making her rounds, observing each student's camel pose, that her gaze finally lands on you. Struggling through your lack of core strength, you can't quite catch her initial reaction, but then she calls out your name. The surprise makes you gasp as she places her hand on the curve of your spine, just above the small of your back, and gently pushes you upward, deepening your arch. 

The stretch draws a grimace from you, but then she says, “Good, that's it,” and suddenly, you're determined not to let her down. You focus on the pose, on Leigh's instructions, and on not falling apart under her watchful eye. Leigh keeps everyone in the position a few moments longer than expected before instructing the class to transition into the child's pose for recovery. At her cue, your arms collapse, and you find yourself breathing heavily, grateful for the brief respite.

Something tells you it's not the high cholesterol that's going to be the end of you, but rather this yoga class and Leigh's merciless teaching style. 

-

You're all packed up and ready to leave, still reeling from what could easily be the toughest hour of your life, when someone calls out to you.

“Hey, Y/N.”

It's Leigh. Her tone is softer, more fatigued than you remember. She’s still in her gym clothes, looking like the workout barely touched her except for a few strands of hair sticking to her forehead. And somehow, she smells more like a rose garden than the gym floor.

“I didn’t know you work here—” you blurt out, almost apologizing. But before you can add anything else, Leigh just shakes her head, something like amusement in her smile, stopping you mid-sentence. Her smile, warm and a little teasing, eases some of the tension you didn't realize you were holding. 

“Are you a mind reader or something?” she teases. “Cause yeah, I was going to ask if you were following me.”

You’re quick to deny it. “I wasn’t.”

Leigh lets out a chuckle like she's getting a kick out of seeing you on edge. You shuffle your feet, still unsure if she’s trying to scare you off or welcome you to her tutelage.  

“Look, if it's weird for you, me being here... I can find another class,” you offer, the words tumbling out before you can think them through.

Her reaction is swift and a bit surprising, “Why would I want that? So you can duck out and be a rubbish yogi elsewhere and ruin my reputation?”

You’re taken aback by her response. Clearly, Leigh's not pushing you away; it's almost as if she's egging you on, daring you to stick it out. And if there's any hope of moving past this... whatever it is, leaving now because it might get awkward doesn't seem like the right move to make a fresh start.

“All right, I'll stay,” you find yourself saying, more to your surprise than hers. 

Leigh's got this look of triumph, chin lifted just so, when you agree to stick around. “See you at 5:30. Greenway Park,” she throws out casually.

You're there blinking, trying to piece together what she means. But before you can even get a word out, she's one step ahead. 

“We have to work on your endurance,” she clarifies. “Make sure you’re wearing real running shoes. No sneakers.”

[qqueenofhades]

would you ever write a modern/no-powers au for dreamling/sandman?

"Look, Mee," Hob says, for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "I'm sure your brother is, uh, great, but I'm not sure -- "

"Come on," his best friend says, also for the fourth or fifth time that conversation. "Honestly, you'd be doing me a massive favor. I can barely get him out of the house most days, so I figured that at least the two of you could faff off and be really pathetic together?"

"Thanks." Hob switches the phone to his other ear and glares suspiciously out at the garden; when you've got two small children and it's quiet, you figure something's gone terribly amiss. Robyn and Alison haven't burnt the place down or gotten run over in traffic, but they're playing with something small, muddy and possibly still alive, and Hob debates whether he has to sprint out and save them from certain death. "You're a great friend, truly."

"I know," Morticia says airily. That does, bewilderingly, seem to be her actual name (were her parents massive Addams Family fans or something?) but with Hob and the rest of her friends, she generally goes by Mors, or Mee for short. He looked it up once. Ancient Roman god(dess) of death, which made him laugh, at least when it didn't kick him in the teeth. "You can thank me later."

"And I want to spend time with your brother... why?"

"Because." Oh God, here it comes. He can hear her trying not to say it, the same way everyone's tried not to say it in the going-on-eighteen months since his wife went into an ordinary central-London NHS hospital to give birth to their second child and didn't come back out. "You know it would be good for you, Robbie."

"Right." Hob's voice turns wry. "Can't have me wallowing alone in my misery? You know I've got the kids to look after, and they're talking about extending my contract at Birkbeck. I'm keeping busy."

Keeping busy. It always sounds stupid, even if it's the truth. Like you can chase overwhelming, soul-crushing grief away just by getting out of bed and making breakfast for the kids, holding Robyn's hand as you trundle off on the school run and tell him to have a good day, the thousand and one ways you think you're massively arsing this up and Ellie would have been so much better. Every time the doorbell rings or someone comes up the walk, he thinks -- for a stupid moment he thinks -- and then of course it isn't. You think about women dying in childbirth like it's something out of medieval times, or some third-world country. Not in England in the twenty-first century. Not in London. Not as if your daughter is beautiful and bright and alive, and every time you look at her, you remember that her mother isn't, and the happiness you feel is poisoned by grief again, cold and blue and endless as the ocean. You laugh with the kids at some Disney cartoon one moment, and the next, you're crying alone in the kitchen, in bed, in the silent darkness. And no matter how much you ask, she doesn't answer. You think she does, sometimes. You're just fooling yourself.

You know, Hob thinks. Maybe it would be good for him. At least it would let him spend time with (if Mee's account is anything to go by) the one man in all of London more pathetic than him. It doesn't have to be anything more than that. Even if she is trying to set him up, she wouldn't admit it. She isn't, surely? Trying to match her brother off with her best friend, widowed-single-dad-part-time-lecturer who's clinging onto sanity by the bare edge of his fingernails? Right? Fuck. Should never have told her that he's bi. Doubled her meddling possibilities at a stroke. And yet. He's so lonely, he almost doesn't care.

"Fine," Hob says resignedly. "I'll see if I can get a sitter for the kids. And it better not be that grotty brewery in Shepherd's Bush you dragged me to last time."

"No." Mee sounds like she's laughing at him. She probably is laughing at him, or else she thinks he's become such a pathologically undatable freak that his only chance for happiness ever again is with her equally pathetic little brother. "Nice new Asian-fusion place. Hammersmith. Fifteen minutes from you on the Tube. Don't chicken out, Robert."

And with that, well --

There's pretty much no choice.

Hob finds a sitter for the kids, promises to pay her twenty quid an hour (it's London, after all), and grumblingly picks out some clothes. He's not good at this. It's been almost ten years since he was dating anyone, and Eleanor was from a rich enough family that there was no chance of ever impressing her parents; he could have turned up in anything from Savile Row to a bloody dishcloth and they still would have hated him. Then he finds himself fucking around to the point where he's going to be late, the Tube will be a nightmare anyway, and panics again and rushes out the door with barely a word about what to feed the kids and when to put them to bed. Is nice Olivia from down the street judging him? She almost surely is.

Hob grimly toddles off to Hammersmith, exits into a light rain, and spends an inordinate amount of time searching for the restaurant. When he finally steps inside, he's not quite sure who he's looking for. Mee texted him a picture of her brother, but Hob has trouble believing that such a pale, pasty, and terminally uncharismatic twink could ever be related to her. One of them has to be adopted, and he's laying money on this one, whose name is -- no, seriously -- Morpheus. Morticia and Morpheus. What is wrong with their parents? Determined to doom their children to an eternity of primary-school torment?

Hob contemplates turning around and leaving, but now he's come this far, Olivia will definitely judge him if he returns within the hour, and frankly, he's judging himself. Even worse, he's fairly sure he's just spotted his man. Morpheus (come on, really?) is sitting by himself at a corner table, looking appropriately dark and broody, in his emo-goth dark coat and toilet-brush hair. Just like the photo. He's admittedly not bad-looking in person; he's got a pale, chiseled beauty that is briefly arresting, almost unearthly. Still, though. Definitely a wanker.

"Hello," Hob says, deciding to bite the bullet. He strides over, hand outstretched. "I'm Robert Gadling, and I think you're the bloke I'm supposed to be meeting? I know your sister."

Morpheus's mouth makes a small lemon-sucking motion. He rises to his feet, regards Hob's hand as if not certain what to do with it and/or wondering if he can get away with not touching it, and finally shakes it, brief and cold and dry. "I am," he says curtly. "You may sit."

Well, good. Glad they got His Majesty's permission. No unauthorized sitting happening here, no sir. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Hob puts his bag on the floor and slides into the chair across from Morpheus. Like every Londoner at a loss for a better opening line, he reaches for the weather. "Shame about this piss, isn't it? And it was all the way up to twenty degrees last week. Did you have to come far?"

"No," Morpheus says, still not displaying any particular delight in being forced to spend this evening in the presence of another human being and looking as if he is very much hoping the floor will suddenly open up and swallow him. "Not far."

Hob waits, in vain, on the chance that Morpheus might elaborate. He does not. Well. This is going swimmingly. Are they on a date? Did Mee tell him that they were on a date? Is Hob sure this isn't an extremely elaborate prank, and she just plucked one of her single friends from the vast and bewildering mystery of her acquaintances? Truly, it is no wonder that Morpheus is, in fact, unattached. He's got the personality of a soggy rag and the face of -- well, not that. He is pretty. But Hob is not that shallow. Thanks very much.

Conversation suffers badly until they order drinks and food; or rather Hob orders, and Morpheus says that he'll take just a glass of wine. He does loosen up slightly as they talk; Hob does most of that, but Morpheus listens with cool, intent attention. From time to time he asks a question, but he doesn't interrupt, and finally Hob, trying to make it as light-hearted as "my wife died eighteen months ago and this is the first not-date I've been on ever since" can possibly be, admits it. He braces for Morpheus to get up, to run, to fire off an indignant text to Morticia or anything else, but he doesn't. He just nods once. "I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I know that it is... difficult."

All of a sudden, Hob is forced to consider the startling and unsettling possibility that Morpheus himself knows something about this. He can't say why or how that might be, but life is full of mysteries. "I -- yeah." It's an abject relief to say it and to have someone acknowledge it simply and matter-of-factly, not smother him with sympathy or cluck about how hard it is. "So if I'm off my game, that, uh. That's why."

Morpheus thinks about that for a long moment. Then all at once, out of nowhere, he smiles. It completely transforms his face, it twists like a fishhook in Hob's gut, and all of a sudden, he wonders in alarm if he is, in fact, entirely that shallow after all. "Believe me, Hob Gadling," Morpheus says. "It has very much been my pleasure."

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Gestation 1.2 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

My thoughts were on Emma on the bus ride home.  For an outside observer, I think it’s easy to trivialize the importance of a ‘best friend’, but when you’re a kid, there’s nobody more important. 

Yeah, that definitely feels like it hits/rings true for me.

Of course, what's weird about this phrasing here, are the 'when you're a kid' and 'for an outside observer' bits. Like, that's more self-aware than I think Taylor should be, and the latter part especially feels like something someone reflecting back on these events years later would say, rather than what someone in the moment would think?

But maybe that's just Taylor's voice.

A friendship that deep is intimate.  Not in the rude way, but just in terms of a no-holds-barred sharing of every vulnerability and weakness.

"Not in the rude way"? I'm... I mean, contextually I think I guess this means like 'not in a sexually intimate' way, I guess, with the use of that phrasing, but that's got to be the weirdest way to put it I've seen, nor did it seem altogether necessary. I don't think anyone would have assumed it was meant that way. I certainly wouldn't have, but it's not like it ruins the work.

That notebook was – had been – my notes and journal for my hero career.  The testing and training I’d done with my powers, pages of crossed out name ideas, even the measurements I was using for my costume in progress.  After Emma, Madison and Sophia had stolen my last backpack and stuffed it in a wastebasket, I had realized how big a danger it was to have everything written down like that.  I had copied everything over into a new notebook in a simple cipher and wrote it bottom to top.  Now that notebook was spoiled, and I was looking at having to copy some two hundred pages of detailed writing into a new notebook if I wanted to preserve the information.  If I could even remember what was on all of the ruined pages.

And so the history of the wormverse turns. Without this, without the kickstarting element, and having that kickstarting element destroy so many of her notes and ideas... she doesn't go out half-cocked like she does. Doesn't face Lung, doesn't meet the Undersiders... and so the wormverse turns.

Many worm fics, especially Altpower fics, do indeed start with the Locker, or even whatever the alternate trigger is, or somewhere similar, and that is understandable, but it also makes a great deal of sense for Wildbow to start here. Three months between the locker and Taylor actually doing anything would have been very dull to read, even if much of it was skipped over. And having Taylor immediately go a-heroing as soon as she was recovered (as much as one can be) from the Locker would have been indicating a very different sort of personality for Taylor. Taylor did got get the most immediately useful power - and she's already probably a pretty thoughtful person, based on what I indirectly know of her.

So it's another key establishing character element for her. I can certainly see why - if every character is established so well - so many of Worm's cast burrows themselves into various people's minds and won't let go. I can see why Worm would have grabbed readers once they started, with all these well-placed hints and details.

Okay, so it had been harder than that.  Not just any spider worked, and the black widow spiders themselves were hard to find.  They weren’t typically found in the northeastern states, where it was generally colder, but I was fortunate that that key element that made Brockton Bay a tourist destination and a hotspot for capes also made it a place where black widow spiders could live, if not thrive.  Namely, it was warm.  Thanks to the surrounding geography and the ocean bordering us on the east, Brockton Bay had some of the mildest winters you could find in the Northeastern States, and some of the most comfortably warm summers.  Both the black widows and the people running around in skintight costumes were thankful for that.

Which came first? Brockton Bay being unusually warm for it's location and thus black widows? Or black widows and this Brockton Bay being unusually warm for it's location?

With my power, I had ensured the spiders could multiply.  I’d kept them in safe locations and fattened them on prey I directed straight to them.  I had flipped that mental switch that told them to breed and lay eggs as if it was summer, fed more prey to the hundreds of young that had resulted and had earned countless costume spinners for my trouble. 

Honestly, this is a reason shard-granted powers are pure bullshit (affectionate), because sweet jesus, this level of control over the bugs, which should have minds humans can't understand? That should not be so simple, and yet.

Yeah, I needed a life.

Yet another cornerstone of a stable timeline. Taylor not having a fucking life.

It wasn’t a great looking costume, just yet.  The fabric was a dirty yellow-gray.  The armored sections had been made out of finely arranged and layered shells and exoskeletons I’d cannibalized from the local insect population and then reinforced with dragline silk.  In the end, the armored parts had wound up dark mottled brown-gray.  I was okay with that.  When the entire thing was done, I planned to dye the fabric and paint the armor.

Knowing what Taylor will be experiencing shortly, it's kind of surprising she didn't realize how villainous her costume looked, but I do suppose I can understand a combination of a desperation to be a hero and being too close to it, and probably just... not wanting to think of it, etc, was a factor.

Also, and like - I've seen lots of very clear dates for various events, where do those come from? It's not in the text, is that something Wildbow provided later? did people run the numbers using the existing dates and just hope they weren't missing anything?

[the-lonelybarricade]

We Bleed the Same - (4/?)

Summary: The forest was a labyrinth of snow and ice... The beginning to a story we know, unfolded a little bit differently.

A gift for my darling @belabellissima💝

Also huge thank you to @popjunkie42 for her super helpful feedback on this chapter 💕

Read on AO3 ・Series Masterlist ・Previous Chapter

-

The ring, at the very least, served as a useful projectile to launch at Rhysand’s head.

Feyre’s mind was whirring like a spindle, producing one thread of thought that twined around and around and around her chest. Wife.

Rhys caught the ring from the air with infuriating ease. She wished she could have seen it crash into his monstrously beautiful face. “It’s too late to return this, I’m afraid.”

He had lied, but why? When?

“I’m not your wife!” She hissed.

Rhys mockingly clutched his chest. “Oh, how the words of a loved one cut deeper than any blade.”

Nevermind what Nesta would say about her improper attire. Feyre pushed the sheets of the infirmary bed aside, scrambling to her feet. Her boots had been removed at some point in the night, and she might have been able to find them if she spared a moment to glance around the room. But a flood of anger carried her across the stone floor, allowing Feyre to ignore the bite of cold leaching through her threadbare socks. She stopped close enough that she would have been nose-to-nose with Rhysand if he wasn’t so gods-damned tall.

She needed to angle her head to meet his eyes, and he looked so amused that someone a fraction of his height was ready to pick a fight that she couldn’t resist jamming a finger into his chest.

“You had no right,” she said, seething. “Word of something like that in this village…”

A rumor like that would travel quickly. Feyre Archeron, the wild daughter of the fallen Archeron family, married to a mercenary. Dark brown eyes flashed through her mind. And for a completely foolish moment, she wondered what Isaac would think of the news. She shook the sad, useless thought away, reminding herself that Isaac would be married by the summer.

“You said you dream of being a spinster,” Rhys said. “Now you get to enjoy that lifestyle with none of the scorn. When my contract ends, I’ll move on from this town and you can claim to be a widow.”

“Why?” She demanded, shaking her head like that might clear away this strange reality. “What’s the point in all of this? What do you gain?”

He smirked. “Besides a pretty wife?”

Feyre felt her entire body flush with anger. Rhysand was the only person who’d ever called her such a thing, and somehow he managed to wield the compliment to get under her skin more effectively than years of Nesta’s hurled insults. She wanted to scream, or find a firepoker she could use to prod at him in turn.

But that’s what he wanted. She could tell, by the way his maddening smile grew with every ounce of her temper. “You’ve already figured out what I want, Feyre. There’s history between me and that High Lord. And now that you’ve fixed his interest, I need you here. Having you as my wife is just a delightful bonus.”

“I’m not—”

Rhys pressed a finger to her lips to smother the protest before Feyre could form it in full. He said, soft as a lover’s whisper, “Don’t let Lord Nolan hear you say such horrible things, sweet wife. If you want your family to be able to stay here, safely tucked behind fortified walls, then I’m going to need you to pretend to be the open-minded, adaptable woman that I know you can be.”

She pushed his hand away. “If you think my sisters are going to put up with this ruse—”

“Then you better convince them it’s not a ruse,” Rhys said.

“How?” Feyre threw her hands up in exasperation. “We just met yesterday. They know that.”

Like he couldn’t resist, his finger returned to her lips, tracing the outline with a fixation that had her sucking in a breath. “Why don’t you tell them,” he mused, “that all those times you were sneaking out to fuck the farmboy, you were actually seeing me? I guarantee I would have shown you a better time.”

Feyre tilted her chin higher as she stared him down. She refused to feel shame for her trysts with Isaac, even if he was only a farmboy, if their encounters had been brisk and clumsy and inexperienced. That touch of humanity had kept her sane, kept her alive, through these last cruel years.

“You don’t know the first thing about me,” she said.

“Do they?”

It was meant to be cutting, but the challenge drew a much bleaker thought forward. What even was there to know?

For years she had operated on one single-minded goal: keep her family alive and together. It was a vow she’d made on her mother’s deathbed eight years ago and without it, she was little more than the winter frost, drifting aimless day after day. The only true ambition she had was painting, a passion she hadn’t touched since that summer Elain had been able to afford three small pots of paint as a gift.

They could try to flee, try to hire a boat and make a new life for themselves on the continent, but without Rhysand’s protection it would be a gamble to try to get on a ship without being tracked by the High Lord. And a small voice, worn-out piece of her wondered… what would it feel like to surrender? Who could she become if she didn’t have to fight and barter and scrape for every meal? If they could stay here and be safe from the fae, fed and comfortable… it was beyond anything she’d ever dared hope for. A marriage to a handsome—if not infuriating—man seemed a meager price to pay in the end, if she could finally fulfill that vow to her mother.

“So we’re to be married,” she said in a single breath. “And live together on this estate, acting as a married couple, presumably sharing a room together…” He nodded in confirmation. “We’re not sharing a bed,” she said, flatly.

His eyes brightened, the very picture of triumph. “Consider it done,” he said. “I’ll be on guard duty most nights, anyhow.”

A relief, and yet… she felt oddly disappointed to think she’d be alone most nights. Of all the complicated affairs of marriage, there was only one aspect she truly had any experience with. She’d always known she was too wild and too sharp to be someone’s bride, but there had been moments in the barn with Isaac when Feyre had learned she could be soft, too.

With Isaac to be married, she didn’t see why she couldn’t seek that comfort elsewhere. If she had to put up with Rhysand’s company, she thought she could at least indulge the flirty remarks and bedroom eyes, if only as a distraction. Those perfect lips had to be good for something besides kindling her temper. And at least between her legs, she wouldn’t have to hear all his rakish commentary.

I guarantee I would have shown you a better time…

Feyre steeled her nerves to continue, “And if we fuck…” Rhys stiffened. She had to clamp her lips together to smother a laugh at his expression. Clearly despite his teasing, he hadn’t considered that sex would be on the table. But there was no denying he was beautiful, and if she was going to go along with this scheme she could at least glean some measure of enjoyment from it. “No kissing.”

That wasn’t a rule she’d used with Isaac. But with Rhys, and the attention he was already paying to her mouth, she thought it would be too dangerous to let him kiss her. Dangerous to be humoring this harebrained plan at all.

“No kissing,” he repeated, sounding a bit strained. “Understood.”

He was so close that she could watch his chest rise with his next breath. She felt oddly tempted to flatten her palm over his heart, like she’d done last night, just to measure how fast his heart was beating. Did this phase him at all? From his endless look of amusement, it didn’t seem like it.

Rhys drew the ring from its velvet cushion. Despite her better judgment, Feyre held her hand out, watching his face as he delicately took her hand in his and slid the ring onto her finger without hesitation. His eyelashes skimmed his high cheekbones as he surveyed the diamond adorning her hand. For a moment so fleeting she thought she might have been imagining it, a crease formed between his brows in the faintest glimpse of anguish. It vanished before she could even hope to speculate its meaning.

Then he was smiling at her like he’d never been more pleased with himself.

“Since I’m here, wife—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

He continued as if she said nothing at all, “Would you like help getting dressed?”

Feyre resisted the urge to fidget under Rhysand’s slow, unhurried surveillance. A gentleman would have averted their eyes, or pretended they hadn’t noticed her state of undress. His eyes lingered everywhere they shouldn’t, heavy with something she couldn’t quite label as desire. But she didn’t have the sense he was displeased by what he saw, either.

“It isn’t as if the beast took my arms,” she said, turning away from him in dismissal. “It’s just a scratch.”

A scratch that could have easily found her bleeding out in the woods, were it not for the mercenary who huffed under his breath, likely thinking the same. Feyre ignored him, sweeping her eyes over the infirmary in search of something to cover herself. A wicker chair was situated in the corner of her bedside, a familiar cloak strewn over its back.

It would have to do. Her sisters likely hadn’t had the foresight to bring many clothes with them when they’d fled the cottage. She hoped Nesta had at least taken the coin Feyre stowed away, but she would need to return to sweep the cottage and see what was left behind. That was… If they were even permitted to leave. Would they be hunted the moment they stepped outside the walls of the estate?

Feyre could ask Rhys to accompany her, though her stomach curdled at the prospect of asking him any more favors. A man like him kept a meticulous ledger, and as she lifted his cloak from the chair, she knew even its use would be added to her list of debts. But she would argue if they were to act married, then what belonged to him also belonged to her.

Footsteps sounded at her back. She didn’t turn, not yet ready to subject herself to that piercing stare, and whatever smart comment he had prepared. Rhys stopped once he was close enough for his heat to warm her back, not saying a word as he reached around her to take the cloak from her hands. She allowed him, feeling him step away and for a moment believing he was taking it back, denying her from covering herself with it.

Then, slow as if not to startle her, Rhysand held the front straps open and pulled the cloak over her head. Its weight fell across her shoulders, tickling her neck with its soft fur. He pressed a palm into her uninjured shoulder, prompting her to turn so that he could wordlessly adjust the straps to her much slighter frame. Careful, all the while, not to jostle or brush against her injury.

So he had the capacity for decency. It wasn’t as if Feyre would give him a medal for it—and certainly not the thank you he was trying to tempt with his raised brow.

“There,” he said once he had finished with the straps. He gave a small laugh as he assessed her. “It practically swallows you.”

It wasn’t hard. All of her soft edges became sharper in the winter.

She shifted the cape, hating the way Rhys stared like he could see through the fur and cloth, straight to the ridges of her ribs underneath. He didn’t know they’d become more defined in the last three weeks, and she knew he was only making a light hearted comment. Heat itched along her cheeks all the same, and she couldn’t find it in herself to laugh—wasn’t convinced that it was something she was still capable of.

Silence sawed between them as Rhys waited for her to say something and she only blinked, fighting the wild thing inside her that wanted to snap and claw and bite for the insult he didn’t truly mean to inflict. When the fight had nowhere to go, she felt it sink down, draining out along with all of her energy.

Feyre sagged a bit into herself, and the next thing she knew Rhys was herding her back into that wicker chair.

“Seems like that tonic might be wearing off,” he said mildly. “Do you want more?”

“No,” she said, breathing through her teeth.

The pain in her arm hadn’t returned, but she did feel heavier. Was that the tonic wearing off, or had the world always been this heavy, and it was only now settling over her?

Rhys hummed in what sounded vaguely like agreement, helping himself to the task of lacing her boots. It was odd to watch him drop to his knees before her. Odder still, to feel his steady hand curve behind her calf and coax her leg upward so he could slide her worn boot onto her foot. He paid no mind to his miraculously clean trousers, seemingly content to muddy them by propping her heel against his thigh.

Watching those quick, nimble fingers move and pull against her laces lodged something free inside her, something she didn’t dare inspect. “I haven’t lost my arm,” she reminded him, though it lacked the sharpness she’d been aiming for.

He glanced up, pleased that she was speaking again. “Yes. But stretching those stitches is going to burn like Hell.”

Boot now laced, he set her foot down and gestured for the other. Feyre obliged, lifting her foot so he could slide the second shoe on. She supposed if anyone walked in on them, they would have looked rather… intimate.

“See?” Rhys purred, clearly sharing her line of thought. “We’re good at this.”

He looked up, both boots now laced. His hand was still curved around her calf, not quite prepared to let go. And because of the precious warmth spreading under her skin, she was willing to let him linger for just a moment longer.

“Which do you need first,” he asked. “Food or a bath?”

“I supposed this is where you offer to bathe me yourself.”

The devilish glint in his eye said he was already entertaining the idea. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Her mouth felt dry.

“Food,” she said. “I’ll bathe once I know you’re somewhere far, far away.”

-

Food, it turned out, meant leaving the infirmary to join Lord Nolan and his family for lunch in their impressive dining room.

Unlike the small, splintering table from their cottage, Lord Nolan boasted a broad dining table, hewn from rich, polished black ebony. More impressive than its size were the countless dishes of food laden atop its surface, all wafting decadent steam that drifted towards Feyre, twisting her aching stomach until she worried she might collapse.

Feyre willed her body upright as she swept her eyes over the generous spread. She flinched when her gaze unexpectedly landed on a pair of emerald eyes, staring back at her through the face of a snarling beast that was carved into each leg of the table. It looked enough like the beast she’d encountered the night before to curb some of her appetite, and she frowned, examining the rest of the carvings. Ward marking decorated the table’s apron—similar to the ones her father had spent the last of his fortune to have etched into the cottage exterior. She didn’t want to imagine how much the useless engraving had cost Lord Nolan.

Identical markings were carved into the backs of the chairs that Nesta, Elain, and her father were already seated in. They faced an elderly man hunched at the head of the table, dressed enough finery that there would be no mistaking him for anyone other than Lord Nolan. To his right was a handsome, much younger man—brown-haired and blue-eyed and already sneaking mooning glances towards a giggling Elain. The Lord’s son, if she had to wager a guess.

All conversation halted the second Rhys and Feyre stepped through the large, cherrywood doors. Nesta, stiff-backed from before they’d come in, set her silverware down hard enough to make Elain flinch.

“Feyre,” her father said, reaching for his cane like he intended to stand to greet her.

“I’m okay,” she said, with enough edge that her father dropped his hand back into his lap. Nesta snorted—either from the less than favorable first impression Feyre was already making, or simply because she enjoyed anything that displeased their father.

Ignoring them, and Elain’s wide-eyed stare, Feyre turned towards the Lord and offered a clumsy curtsey, which earned another thinly disguised laugh from Nesta. “Thank you for your generosity towards my family, Lord Nolan.”

Feyre hadn’t been given the same upbringing as her sisters. If she’d ever learned the proper etiquette for meeting nobility, she’d been too young to remember it. A curtsey seemed sufficient—though Nesta’s mocking sneer was quickly faltering her confidence in even that small gesture. If it wasn’t for Rhys, placing a steadying palm of Feyre’s back as he bowed, subtly, from the waist, she might have turned and darted straight out the doors.

“Thank you again,” Rhys echoed, with none of her wavering uncertainty. His voice dipped lower than it’d been a second ago. And from his tone, it sounded less like he was thanking them for a favor and more as if they’d fulfilled an obligation he was owed. As if he was the Lord. There was glee in his voice as he added, “My wife and I appreciate your kindness.”

Well now he’d done it. Feyre suppressed a sigh, her attention darting to Nesta, who’s blue eyes turned to slits. Elain’s mouth parted open, and she quickly grabbed for her wine to duck her face into the goblet, artfully evading any fighting she feared might ensue. And their father… he simply nodded to himself, eyes clouding with a sort of melancholy that caused Feyre to grit her teeth. As if this was some outcome he’d suspected, but was disappointed by. Just last night, they had all watched her walk out of the cottage, prepared for that beast to take her life. They should be grateful that she was even here. Alive.

The Lord, hawk-nosed and gray-eyed, nodded and said to Rhys, “I am pleased to see that your wife has recovered.”

His tone was bland enough that there was no mistaking his words as sincere. But he was being charitable to offer them at all. Feyre nodded her thanks, but Rhys… he just stared. Eyes narrowed slightly.

“Please, sit,” the Lord added, gesturing towards two of the unoccupied chairs, across from Nesta and their father.

Rhysand, either a fool or an unconventional strategist, claimed the chair facing Nesta. And smirked. In front of their hosts, Feyre prayed she could trust Nesta to keep her nastier comments to herself, or at least until she’d managed to corner Feyre in private. But it wasn’t helping that Rhys raised his brows at Nesta, as if daring her to say something.

“I’m relieved you’re okay, Feyre,” Elain chimed in after swallowing a large mouthful of wine.

Feyre couldn’t tell if it was said to cut the tension, or because Elain truly meant it. She glanced towards her middle sister, beautiful despite the marks of poverty. Her face was sharp and angular where it had once been full and round and flushed with life. But Elain’s eyes hadn't changed. Not in any of the years they’d been in that cottage. They were still bright and gentle, in a way that was rare to encounter in their village.

Last night, Elain’s eyes had been so wide her pupils nearly swallowed all of the brown, not a trace of the warm, honeyed tones that Feyre could see now. She could still hear how Elain sobbed, too terror-stricken for words, frozen like a doe. And when Elain spoke just then, there’d been a residual scrap to her usual lovely, lilted sing-song—from how loudly she’d been screaming.

One moment she’d been giggling over boys with Nesta and the next, their door was broken down by a terrifying, unexpected faerie beast. Feyre could forgive her sister for not trying to help. For being frightened. It was enough to know that she cared, that there was grief shining in her eyes as Elain’s lips stretched into a strained smile.

A hand wrapped over Feyre’s. She tensed, but Rhysand’s words swam over her. “It was very brave of you to offer your life to protect your family.” She turned, meeting his eyes, searching them and finding none of that amusement. Rhys leaned closer, pitching his next words just for her benefit. “Stupid,” he added, the breath of his whisper brushing along the shell of her ear. She tried not to shiver—not with Nesta watching them so closely. “Utterly reckless. And braver than perhaps anything I’ve ever done.”

She doubted that.

“Yes,” Nesta said, drawing their attention away from each other. “Well done, Feyre. It was so heroic of you to lure away the faerie that you brought to our door.”

Rhysand stilled, his fingers tightening over Feyre’s. The tone Nesta used, dripping in venom and outright contempt… It was nothing new. Though, knowing that she’d been moments away from death, it cut into Feyre nearly as viciously as the beast’s claws.

She sucked on her teeth, ruminating in the sting. What was it that elicited Nesta’s ire? Was it because of the praise, or Rhysand’s subtle prodding, or did her eldest sister truly despise Feyre so much that she didn't care that she was almost killed? Did she resent that Feyre had lived? No… no. Nesta could be cruel, but there had been grief in her eyes, too. They had looked at each other, and understood. Understood in a way that was perhaps too difficult to acknowledge in the aftermath.

Words lapped at Feyre’s tongue, too sharp or bitter or not quite right. What could she say that wouldn’t sound defensive, or self-important, or worst of all… hurt. Elain opened her mouth, prepared to mediate so they didn’t make a scene in front of their hosts.

But it was Rhys who said levelly, “A life debt is a very heavy burden, isn’t it? It can rest uncomfortably on the soul.”

Nesta’s eyes flicked between them, and she raised a cool brow. “Is that why my sister married you, because of a debt?”

“Nesta,” Feyre chided, sneaking a nervous glance towards Lord Nolan.

At most, the elderly Lord appeared bored with the theatrics, but his son was monitoring them—particularly Elain, now stiff and withdrawn from the demure lady who’d been giggling moments ago.

“What happened to Isaac?” Nesta pushed, causing even Rhysand’s casual posture to straighten, just enough that she worried the blade strapped to his back might find itself embedded in the dining table, or worse.

Their father reached towards Nesta, like he might put a hand on her shoulder to chide her for making a scene, but all it took was one cutting glance from his eldest daughter for his hand to immediately fall back into his lap. He lowered his chin.

No one was touching the food in the center of the table—hot, glorious food that would finally cure the ravenous hunger she knew was raging inside each of them.

Nesta kept her glare fixed on Rhys, challenging him to answer. He only laughed, leaning in to brush some of Feyre’s hair from her face, a gesture of casual intimacy that scorched her cheek where his fingers brushed.

He crooned, “Why don’t you tell your family how we met?”

“In the woods,” she lied. It was never something she’d been very talented at—she’d never really had a reason to, when her sister was critical of even the barest truths. Feyre wracked her mind for details that might convince them. “Four months ago, he got caught in one of my snares.”

Rhys’s lips twitched. She could practically read in the look he shot her, That’s what you’re going with?

“You would expect a mercenary to be more aware of their surroundings,” Nesta said, thoroughly unconvinced.

“Maybe I wanted to get caught,” Rhys said, flashing Feyre a grin. Then, paying no mind to the empty plates in front of everyone else, he reached across for the platter of chicken and began piling it onto Feyre’s plate.

“You must be a talented huntress,” the Lord’s son complimented. “Especially if you managed to kill a faerie.”

“She’s remarkable,” Rhys agreed. Feyre marveled at the pride in his voice. How did he manage to lie so convincingly?

When he was done with the chicken, Rhys handed the platter to Elain, who accepted it with a wary glance towards their host’s empty plate. Lord Nolan nodded in subdued approval, and that was all Elain needed to begin serving herself as well.

Rhysand continued picking up plates of various steaming dishes—vegetables, bread, sauces, even a decanter of wine that he poured into the goblet in front of her. She noticed he didn’t load his own plate nearly so generously, but when he nudged a fork into her hands, she didn’t think to question it.

She thought she might prefer to do away with the fork entirely and shovel the food into her mouth by the handful. Manners were a distant, faraway concern, but she was able to exact enough control to shovel an appropriate-sized bite into her mouth. It was an effort to chew slowly, to swallow, to look as if this wasn’t the first proper meal she’d had at least since autumn ended.

And the spices… she shut her eyes. She’d forgotten that eating could be something more than a means of keeping her body functioning. That flavor could dance on her tongue, evoking stories of the faraway lands they’d traveled across to get to this dining room. Her family had fallen quiet, equally absorbed in this rare chance to fill their empty stomachs. Rhys—thank the forgotten gods—kept the situation from being unbearably mortifying by making polite conversation with Lord Nolan and his son to fill the silence.

She learned a bit about them in the moments she could piece together between mouthfuls of decadent food. Graysen—the son—was a year older than Nesta, and he’d been training with the guards at the same age that Nesta and Elain began learning the pianoforte. From the gleam in his eye as asked after Rhys’s own training, she knew he had listless questions about their encounter with the beast last night. Thankfully, he was a gentleman as much as he was a warrior, and he reserved such questions until the last of their plates were empty.

Once the servants carried them away, he leaned forward, “Did you manage to kill it?”

Feyre wasn’t the only one who flinched.

“No,” Rhys said, jaw tight. “Thanks to Feyre, I was able to catch him with an ash bolt, but he’ll be back.”

“Great,” Nesta said, crossing her arms as she leaned back in her chair. “So—what? We can’t leave this estate without worrying about being hunted?”

It was never a problem before, Feyre wanted to snap. You never bothered to leave the house most days, anyway.

With a deep breath, Feyre said, “It’s only temporary, Nesta.”

Another lie. If the High Lord’s words were to be trusted, then the terms of the Treaty meant she would always owe a life debt to Prythian. The fae couldn’t lie, and his wording had been fairly clear.

A life debt is a very heavy burden, isn’t it?

Rhys, oblivious to his sharp words that were digging beneath her skin, nodded in agreement. “We’re putting together patrols to search for the beast and protect this estate—if he comes back, we’ll be ready for him.”

“Some of us have lives,” Nesta said. “Tomas was about to propose!”

Good. Feyre privately hoped that Tomas would fix his interest elsewhere. Out loud, she said, “If he loved you, Nesta, he would wait.”

“Not if he goes to our cottage and thinks we’re dead.”

“Write him a letter,” she said, patience thinning.

Graysen cleared his throat, his eyes wandering to Elain, as if seeking her approval as he intervened. “If you must go into town, one of our men could always escort you.”

Elain beamed at him. Graysen smiled back with an endearing, boyish sort of relief. They might have been a good match if the Archerons had managed to maintain their fortune. But without a dowry, or so much as two coins to rub together, Feyre wondered what Lord Nolan would think of a romance between his son and Elain. He didn’t seem to take any notice of his son’s budding interest—in fact, as Feyre studied the Lord she thought his eyes looked a bit glazed, his awareness drifting like a thick morning fog, not quite pinned on any one thing.

She fought the temptation to wave her fingers in front of his face. It was likely his age. People in the village tended to die long before age could claim them, and she supposed she didn’t have much exposure to the elderly—but with his wealth, and his abundant access to food and warmth and medicine, he could outlive the average human expiration.

Maybe that’s how Rhys had managed to get away with the lies. The old Lord was senile and his son—he seemed kind, though a bit too eager to find a faerie on the other side of his sword. Having killed that wolf, she supposed she didn’t have any room to judge, but… Feyre shuddered, now, to think that the creature she’d skinned had been as sentient as the beast she’d encountered last night.

“I’m tired,” she said. It wasn’t a lie. Her stomach hadn’t felt this heavy in years, and with the tonic wearing off she thought she could do with a bath, and a nap, and some method of putting this whole ordeal with the wolf and beast far, far behind her. “I think I’d like to retire, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” Rhys said, as if he had any right to dismiss a guest.

Lord Nolan only nodded, unnervingly silent. Something tightened in Feyre’s gut.

She didn’t look towards Nesta or her father as she got to her feet. Elain offered another tight smile, but they all said nothing as Feyre slipped toward the door, Rhys trailing at her back like a new extension of her shadow.

It was only once Feyre rounded the corner and froze at the sight of a long stretch of corridor, flanked by rows of doors, that she realized she hadn’t the slightest clue where she was going. She’d been operating on a single directive: flee. Just as well Rhys had followed her, and had now stopped a healthy distance from her back, leaning against the nearest wall as he waited for her to process her next move.

Feyre sighed. “Just show me where it is, you asshole.”

He barked a short laugh before pushing off the wall, striding in front of her with more fluid grace than any man ought to possess. Maybe he’d been a cat in a previous life, and that was why his booted feet made hardly any sound as they strode down the hardwood floors, through halls mounted with weapons and hunting trophies. Though Feyre suspected they were wealthy enough to flaunt silver and gold, it was iron that decorated most of their fortress—iron sconces on the walls, iron latches on window sills, intricate iron handles on every door.

Rhys curled his fingers around one such handle, smiling at her as he stepped through the iron threshold. “Here you are—a room fit for a mercenary and his new, lovely wife.”

She could have laughed. Or wept. The room was likely plain by a lord’s standards, roughly the size of the cottage she’d shared with her family. Two rich velvet settees were settled beside a low wooden table in front of the fireplace, big enough that she wouldn’t feel too guilty making Rhys sleep on one. The large fur rug, likely won from one of the Lord’s many hunts, looked like it would make a pleasant place to nap as well.

And then there was the bed, about as large as the one she and her sisters slept on, but now she had it all to herself. That was a strange thing to come to terms with.

“I have to go soon.” His voice was gentle. “Do you want me to run you a bath?”

“I can manage,” she said, but he was walking into the attached bathing room anyway. She followed, feeling a bit lost. How was any of this real, how had her life changed so quickly, so drastically?

The iron handle squeaked as it turned, and a moment later the faucet rumbled, pouring steaming water into the large porcelain tub. Steaming. Now she was weeping, and she turned, not wanting Rhys to see. It was stupid—so utterly stupid, and pathetic, to be crying over a warm bath.

Footsteps sounded at her back as Rhys approached. Given how silently he’d walked before, she knew it’d been intentional, so she didn’t jump when she felt his hand on her shoulder. Feyre resisted his first attempt to make her face him. It was obvious she was crying and that was bad enough. But when it was clear she wouldn’t obey, he moved around her anyway.

They stared at each other for a moment, and she waited for him to say something about the tears streaming down her face. He didn’t. He just silently took to unlatching the cloak, until its weight dropped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet along with the weight of eight years of survival, of being solely responsible for keeping her family alive.

A sob ratcheted up her spine. Rhys gently grabbed the elbow of her injured arm, holding it steady as he unwrapped her bandages. Her eyes fell to the raw, angry skin freshly sewn together with dark, jutting sutures. She winced at the sight.

“You should be careful getting them wet,” he said. “Let me help.”

His voice held enough concern that she trusted he would be professional about it, but Feyre shook her head. “You said you need to go.”

“I can stay.”

The moment she was encased in that warm water, she knew there would be no holding back the floodgates. Nevermind that she wasn’t prepared for Rhys to see her naked—not yet, not while she was still bony and sharp and her arm looked like that.

“Go,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

Rhys pressed a hand to her cheek. It was only then that he swiped away her errant tears with his thumb. “The patrol might last a few days,” he said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

She nearly pointed out that staying out of trouble meant staying as far away from him as she could get. But she wasn’t quite in the mood for jokes, and hearing that he would be gone for potentially days… she hadn’t realized how comforting she found his presence, until that moment.

“Enjoy your bath,” he said. “Try to eat and rest and get stronger.”

A goal. She was good at working with those.

Feyre decided she could give him one, too. “Try not to die.”

Rhys laughed. “Believe me when I say I’m very, very hard to kill.”

[yelenasdiary]

The Third Widow || Natasha Romanoff

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff X Fem! Belova! Reader.

Summary: Y/n Belova is the younger biological sister of Yelena Belova and the adoptive sister of Natasha Romanoff. Saved from Red Room by Melina & Alexei she now must adjust to a new normal. Going to school, recovering, and finding love in the eyes of another troubled teen, Wanda Maximoff. All while General Dreykov has his eyes set on claiming back what he calls his most powerful ‘widow’.

Angst | Comfort | No Warnings | 2.1K | 

Notes: Flashbacks are bold, italic and start with ‘~’ | Written in second person. | 

AC: Ignore the text not the gif lmao.

The Third Widow Masterlist

"Nat, there's somebody here to see you" Steve popped his head into the redhead's room, breaking her train of thought, "I'll be down in a moment" she replied as she finished filling out one of the many mission report forms. "It's Y/n" Steve adds, Natasha turned to face him, "send her in and please don't let anybody else up" 

"Of course," he smiles softly before closing the door. Natasha cleaned up her desk a little and checked her mini fridge for a selection of drinks to offer just before she heard your light knock on her door. "Come in" Natasha said with a welcoming smile as you opened the door, "I'm sorry to come unannounced, I was wondering if I could talk to you?" You looked at the older woman with tired eyes. 

"Sure, do you want to talk here, or we can take a walk?" 

"Uhm, here, please" 

"Of course, take a seat anywhere" Nat smiled softly once more, "what's going on?" she asked once you were sat comfortable on the end of her bed. Your eyes looked up at her, "I can't sleep" your eyes dropped to your hands in your lap, "I can't stop thinking about all the things I've done, I mean, made to do" you added, "I don't want to worry the others"

"You're struggling to adjust?" Natasha asked as she sat beside you, "yeah" you sighed. "It's not easy, I'm not going to sugar coat it for you, but I found that talking about it actually helped. It took me a long time to trust anybody enough to share the things I'd done" 

"Did you have nightmares? Did you still hear his voice ringing in your ears?" you looked up at her hoping she understood and to your relief she nodded, "I did and that's one of the reasons I became an Avenger, to make up for the things I did, to try and clear the bad from my name as much as I can before its my time. I know something that might help if you're interested" 

"What is it?" you asked.

"This is something I haven't told anybody, but I help out at the girl's orphanage not far from here. I teach them self-defence and I take them out for the day when I had time off. It might not seem like much but seeing them smile makes it worth it. There's just like how you and I were, how you and Yelena were, girls that just want a chance to do simple things like go to school, get a job, girls that Dreykov would've easily taken if he had a chance" Natasha turned slightly to face you face-to-face. "They would love to meet you and maybe they might be able to help give you some hope that things will be okay, maybe not overnight but over time, things will be okay" she added. 

"I'd like that" you smiled softly at the idea, "C-can I stay here for a few days? I find that Melina's house is a little much for me right now" you asked, Natasha smiled back, "there's always a room here, you can stay here as long as you need. Does Melina know you're here?" 

You nodded, "I'll call her to tell her I'll be here for a few days" 

"I'll do it" Natasha gently rubbed your back, "So, I hear Wanda made a visit last week" She raised a brow, changing the topic just to see you get giddy. "Y-yeah, she jus-just wanted to catch up" you stuttered as you felt the butterflies flutter in your stomach, Nat chuckled at the redness in your cheeks, "come on, I'll show you the spare room"

----

Natasha could hear the discomfort you were in, with your room next to hers it was hard for her not to hear the groans and sleep talking from your nightmare. She hated to invade your privacy, but she remembered when she used to have nightmares just like yours and how she always longed to feel safe again. She made her way quietly into your room, she could see the droplets of sweat pooling from your forehead, the way you kept tossing and turning reminded her of how dark her nightmares were. 

She placed a glass of water on the bedside table and kneeled beside you, "Y/n" she whispered causing you to groan and toss once more, "Y/n, it's just a dream" she added but still, you didn't wake. "I won't do it!" you shouted in your sleep when you felt Natasha pull you close to her, your eyes fluttered open tears instantly falling from them. "It's okay" Natasha rubbed your back while keeping you wrapped her in arms, "it's just a dream" 

"I just want them to stop" you cried, clinging onto your older sister as if this was the last time, you'd ever get to hug her and feel the comfort she was able to bring. "I know and they will, I'm going to help you, I promise" Natasha assured you as she continued to rub your back while you cried yourself back to sleep. Gently she shifted you and laid your head on the pillow while she quickly went back to her room to grab the mission reports she hadn't finished. 

While you slept, Natasha stayed up filling out reports and being there for you with assuring words and comfort for when you woke up again. She didn't mind doing this, she'd had plenty of nights where she didn't sleep, sometimes for nights on end during missions. Natasha kept a count of how many times you woke up during the night, totaling 6 times while she was there. When morning came, she quietly let herself out and allowed you the sleep in you needed. 

"You're up" she smiled as you entered the kitchen, "coffee?" she asked. 

"Please" you nodded, your eyes wanting nothing more than to be sleeping again. Natasha handed you a mug of fresh warm coffee, "thank you for last night" you looked at her before taking the coffee from her hands. "Don't mention it" Natasha smiled, "I thought today we could go down to the orphanage, if you're up for it" she added. "Yeah, sounds good. I just need a shower and this coffee" you replied before taking your first sip, "take your time, I'll just need to hand that pile of paperwork into Tony" 

The warm coffee was just what your body was craving to help keep you awake or maybe the help of seeing Wanda was more than enough to keep your eyes from closing. "Natasha said you were here" her voice made you blush just like you did when you were younger, "yeah, I thought I'd come see what Nat's all about" you joked not wanting to tell her why you sought Natasha's help. 

"How long are you staying?" 

"Only a few days" 

"Do you think you'd have time for a sleep over?" she smiled softly. "A sleep over?" you frowned causing Wanda to chuckle, "you've never had one before, it'll be fun, I promise" she replied. 

"What exactly do you do at a sleepover besides sleep?" 

"Eat a bunch of crappy food, watch trashy movies, gossip, do a bunch of girly crap" she explained with a convincing smile. "You'll love it, what do you say?" 

"I fear I don't have a choice" you smiled, "how about my last night here?"

"Sounds perfect! I can't wait" she playfully winked before helping herself to the fruit bowl, "what's your plans today?" she asked. 

"Uhm, Natasha and I are doing something, she wouldn't tell me about it though" you lied. 

"Well, I'm making dinner for everybody tonight, will you and Natasha be joining us?" 

"I'm pretty sure, yeah!" you smiled, "I should hit the shower, I told Nat I wouldn't be long. I'll see you tonight" you added before giving her one last soft smile. 

----

"Nat!!" a young girl with blonde hair came running into Natasha's arms, "Hey there!" your older sister smiled as she hugged the young girl, "we have missed you! Are you taking us out today?" she asked with a wide smile. 

"Not today honey, but I have somebody I want you all to meet. This is Y/n, she's my younger sister" 

"Hi" you smiled at the little girl that somehow within such a short few minutes made your heart feel full. "Hi! I'm Taylor" she smiled with a wave, "Come on, let's go meet everybody else" Natasha took Taylor's hand as you followed closely behind. 

The room was almost like a classroom, there were roughly 10 young girls playing board games or drawing. "The older girls are in glass; these little angels are all between 7 and 10 years old" Natasha explained as more girls greeted Natasha with wide smiles and big hugs. "Girls, I want you to meet somebody special, this is Y/n" Natasha introduces you before the room is filled with greetings to you, "Can you girls keep her company for a moment?" she asked, not a single no was said. "I'll be back, I just need to go chat to somebody, you'll be okay" she turns to you with a smile before she's out the door. One of the girls tugs your hand and asks you to play monopoly with them or maybe it was just code so everybody would ask you questions about yourself. 

They asked many questions like what your favorite color was, which was your favorite movie, your least favorite food, what do you like more, dogs or cats? Anything the young girls would think of to build their own profile on you. Although you didn't mind it at all, you answered all their questions, even if you had to make up an answer. 

"Are you going to come back every week like Nat does?" Brianna asked with wide eyes and rosie cheeks. "Would you guys like that?" you asked, "yes!! You could come with us to the places Nat takes us! She's so fun, she lets us eat ice cream before lunch!" one of the girls pitched in, exposing their little secret with Nat. "Yeah!! Nat is taking us to the carnival on the weekend, will you come?" Taylor said. 

"Pleaseeee!!" the girls begged in sync, "well I don't see why I can't" you smiled softly earning a bundle of 'yes' from the girls then at last, you all played a game of monopoly.

----

The drive back to the compound was mostly silent as you got lost in your thoughts, "I can hear your thoughts from here, come on, what's up?" Natasha glanced over to you before putting her attention back on the road. "Those girls, they have barely anything and yet they seem so full of life, and nothing seems to worry them" you looked over at Natasha, "they were happy to see you and to even get to know me" you added. 

"You know, they do worry" Natasha replied, "they worry every single time a couple walk through those front doors to take one of them home, they worry who it's going to be. Will it be them or somebody else and when it's not them, their hearts are broken. They worry why they weren't picked; all they want is a family" she explains taking another look at you for a second. "You saw how excited they were when they met you, how they wanted to know everything about you and for those few hours we were there, they weren't thinking about whose next or why they weren't picked, all they cared about was making a new friend" she adds. 

A soft smile tugged at your lips, "and I guess for those moments I didn't feel like I was born into a world to be used as a weapon" you spoke softly.

 "You weren't born for that, we were just dealt with crappy cards and now we just have to find things that make us as happy as those girls, even when we know things are perfect we can still find joy in little things" 

"I see what you did, very smart" you chuckled, "seeing those girls, I needed that, thank you" you added. 

"What are sisters for?" Natasha smiled softly, "do you think I could join you in helping them? I mean, I'd really like too" you asked. "Of course, we'll talk more about it tomorrow, I hear Wanda is cooking dinner for us all tonight" she nudged you lightly. "If I tell you about Wanda, will you stop dropping the hints that you know? Yelena told me everybody knew" you raised a brow.

"Well, is there anything to tell?"

"Maybe" you blushed unable to hide it. 

"Its your business so I won't poke around anymore but, you are my sister and if Wanda steps out of line I wi-"

"What is with you and Yelena?! God!" You groaned as your cheeks got more warm, "We care about you, that's all and look, it's nothing against Wanda, I know her well" Natasha smirks, "I just wanted to see you squirm" she admits. "You're an ass!" you chuckled.

Taglist: @justabrokensunshine | @sayah13 | @nattyolw | @exclusivitymajor | @bibliophilicbi | @when-wolves-howl | @that-one-gay-mosquito | @get-the-fuck-outta-here | @foggymoonbanana | @atmnothere | @justyourwritter69 | @wiertarkanah | @marvelfan98 | @jasminebelding | @bluesimps-world | @wandasobsession | @marvel-fan-2021 | @lattayhottay16 | @jowshuaayee | @dumb-fawkin-bitch | @capswife | @1tsmydan | @roman0ffsheart | @mrscromanoff | @immadowhateva | @magnificentworldtf | @originaltrashheap | @mousecakez | @skittlebum |  @that-one-gay-mosquito | @secrettoallofyou | @teenybean | @johnnyhulu | @ripofflizzie | 

[scavengerssuccotash]

Do you have any more Katya headcanons?

Aww Katya! I love her so much so thank you for asking and getting my brain juices flowing! Hehe

Katya is as smart-assed as her father when she’s comfortable around you. As soon as she feels like she can let her guard down around you she quickly becomes the most sarcastic one out of the bunch! She’s also very opinionated like her mother, you will know if she doesn’t like you. (Although that’s rare, because she’s genuinely a pretty laid back person.)

She gave a kid a black eye at the age of eight, which greatly alarmed Clint who was fully prepared to give her a stern talking to. His rehearsed I’m disappointed in you talk however flew right out the window upon the news that the kid with the black eye was also the ring leader of a group of bullies. A group of bullies that were harassing Katya’s new friend Daisy, a deaf child. Once the principal told him that, Clint shrugged his shoulders and told the principal, “Actually I think my daughter is the one who deserves the apology for having to do your job for you! And I deserve an apology for you wasting my gas, Principal Townsend!”

Katya later asked him, after a pit stop for some ice cream, why some kids were mean to those who couldn’t defend themselves.

“Sometimes it’s because at home they can’t defend themselves so they take it out on other people. They think it makes them feel better.”

“But that’s stupid, daddy.”

“Yeah, it is stupid ain’t it? If you promise not to tell mommy, do you wanna do something fun with daddy tonight?”

Later that night on a secret spy mission with daddy Katya learned that the bully, little Kevin Granger, couldn’t defend himself at home. She also believed that her daddy was a hero for real that night and that there were far scarier monsters than aliens in New York. Mommy was NOT happy with daddy when they got home.

Katya almost caused an international incident when she went on a ski trip to Finland. Having grown up around little influences of Russia via her mother’s heritage Katya was insanely curious about her maternal country. Natasha, however forbade her from ever visiting, and discouraged her at every turn to learn more out of fear that someone or perhaps the Russian state might kidnap her for testing or training. Katya was after all the daughter of a Widow. So, when Katya and her friends have some free time, Katya ever so carefully persuades her friends into a quick in and out trip next door. “Come on! They won’t even find out! I just want to see it! Please!!”

They make it in just fine and are visiting St, Petersburg Square when she gets the FaceTime call from her mother. It all goes to shit shortly after that. Katya tries to hide her surroundings with the help of all of her friends hoodies dumped over her head, but the call quality is shit and all Natasha sees is Katya’s slightly alarmed face with what looks like a black bag over her head. Then Natasha hears Russian voices in the background and the call cuts out. (Russian police had started to approach them to question what they are doing and spooked Katya. She jolts and her phone flies out of her hand and skids right into a rainwater drainage grate!!)

Tony stark nearly kicks off WW3 (Russia had restricted their air space, because of course they would!) Clint severely injuries eight police officers and one train conductor. And Nat, well…Nat slaps her daughter across the face for the first and only time in her life. It was intense and a very fraught time for the Barton-Romanoff family. It’s after this entire mortifying fiasco that Katya learns what exactly her fearless mother fears the most in the world. Ultimately it brings Katya closer to understanding her mother on a very deep level.

Katya didn’t start officially dating until her junior year of high school. Can you guess why? Starts with a C and ends with a T. She’s a daddy’s girl alright! She loves her father so so much. Not more than her mother or anything but she just understands Clint better. Clint is also a girls dad too, which such a combination does not for vivacious blossoming romance make! She tried of course, but after Clint met her date to the middle school dance by sharpening his knifes on the porch, Katya realized she had to play things a little differently than her peers. This of course doesn’t mean that she didn’t come home at three in the morning a little high or drunk with hickies on her neck once or twice. Her mom, of fucking course, was waiting for her on her bed.

“Sit, before you wake up your father. We need to talk.” “Are you going to tell dad?” “Only if you don’t tell me the truth, are you going to lie, Katya?”

She really hates it when her mom uses mind tricks on her, because damn it they work. After that Katya stops sneaking out. She brings her boyfriend over for breakfast two weeks later. Clint’s cordial on the surface, but obviously doesn’t really like him.

“He’s got a tongue ring Nat!? Do you know who has tongue rings these days! Bad boys! Boys who think no means yes and—“ “Do you trust our daughter, Clint?” “Of course I fucking trust her, it’s him I don’t trust! Look at him! He smells like weed!” “Trust her, Clint.” A sigh. “I just miss my little girl. When did she grow up so fast?” “All things grow old, honey, even you.” “Yeah?You still like this old man?” “Play nice tonight and I’ll prove it.”

Katya would later erase this conversation from her memory, and sleep with her headphones in. Eww. Parents. Are. So. Fricken. Gross.

Eventually, Katya and her high school boyfriend drift apart. She is now dating a young med student at Princeton. She’s planning on bringing him home in the fall.

I might have to fic some of these! Thanks for getting my creative juices flowing!! 👁️👄👁️

[beestriker015]

Loving and protective Black Widow x male s/o

S/o is Natasha’s husband, whom she met several years ago when he joined the Avengers.

After introducing himself to his new teammates, s/o quickly caught the attention of Black Widow, who was instantly charmed by his kind smile and upbeat personality.

As time went on since s/o first joined the team, Natasha began falling in love with him, eventually gathering the nerve to ask him out after some encouragement from the others.

“Hey s/o…I l-like you. Would you want to…m-maybe…go out with me?”

Much to her surprise and glee, s/o accepted with a happy smile plastered on his face.

“Of course Nat, I’d love to go out with you! I’ve actually wanted to ask you out myself for a while now.”

And with that, Natasha and s/o began dating.

Natasha is very lovey dovey with her boyfriend, much to the shock and surprise of her teammates.

Physical contact and general displays of affection is constant, oftentimes to the chagrin of the other Avengers.

“Jeez, why don’t you two lovebirds just go get a room already?.”

Tony says in annoyance at the sight of s/o and Natasha cuddling on the couch with her arm wrapped around her boyfriend’s shoulder.

“Oh shut it Tony. He’s my boyfriend and we can do whatever we want!”

Natasha says with a glare, making Tony walk away feeling a little intimidated.

As loving as she is of s/o, Natasha is also very protective of him and their relationship.

If anyone were to make any remarks about s/o or his and Natasha’s relationship, she will go up to them and force them to apologize through means of intimidation.

Should s/o ever get hurt, his girlfriend will rush to his side as fast as humanly possible and care for him as a mother would her child.

“Calm down Nat. It’s just a bullet wound, it’ll get better.”

S/o says with a pained voice as Natasha disinfects his wound.

“You got shot! How can you be so nonchalant about this babe?! I swear when I find whoever shot you, I’m gonna-”

She’s cut off by s/o, who quickly quiets her by gently kissing her on the cheek.

“Babe, I know how protective of me you can get, especially whenever I get hurt, but I’m ok. Please try to calm down Nat, I hate seeing that beautiful face of yours so angry.”

He says with a sweet little smile that makes Natasha’s heart melt.

“A-alright s/o, a-anything for you.”

She says while incredibly flustered by her boyfriend’s words.

“I love you Natasha, and I love how protective you are of me.”

S/o says as his girlfriend finishes taking care of his wounds.

Natasha looks at her boyfriend with wide eyes before pulling him into a passionate kiss.

When they separate for air, she stares lovingly into s/o’s eyes with a smile.

“I love you too s/o.”

Eventually, after over a year of dating, s/o decided it was time to pop the question to Natasha after spending a romantic evening together.

“Natasha, I love you more than anyone or anything in the whole universe. Being with you has made me the happiest guy alive, and I’d love nothing more than to be with you forever.”

He gets down on one knee and pulls out the ring.

“Natasha Romanoff, will you marry me?”

Without a single shred of hesitation, Natasha smiled widely and accepted s/o’s proposal with happy tears in her eyes.

Now if Natasha was protective of s/o when they were dating, she is really protective of him now that they’re married.

It is mandatory that she goes with s/o whenever he has a mission, and nobody can tell her otherwise.

God help any villain or criminal who hurts her husband in any way, as although she may not have superpowers, Natasha can still kick some serious ass.

After every mission, cuddle sessions are a must, which can sometimes leads to more…intimate moments between Natasha and s/o.

One time, the other Avengers saw s/o exit his and Natasha’s shared room with messy hair and a huge hickey on his neck.

S/o turned to see his teammates all staring at him weirdly.

“What?”

He asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Looks like somebody got some action last night. That’s a nice love bite you’ve got there s/o.”

Clint says with a laugh and a smirk.

Realization hits as s/o blushes from embarrassment.

The others laugh and snicker as well, but are soon silenced by a glare coming from Natasha, who is suddenly standing behind her husband.

S/o smiles and turns around, pulling his wife into a hug.

“Good morning Nat.”

She returns his smile and hugs him back.

“Good morning to you too s/o, I love you.”

S/o smiles and gives his wife her morning kiss.

“I love you too Nat.”

Even though Natasha can be extremely protective of her husband, s/o enjoys it and loves her just as much as she does him.

[theoutcastrogue]

Favorite movie from 01?

[Give me a year and I'll give you my favourite films / recommendations]

Perhaps "favourite" isn't the best word, perhaps the best word is "biggest obsession", but I have to go with Mulholland Drive. David Lynch is a very special case, you're either into him or you ain't, and arguments either way are of little use. I just want to note 2 things, about Lynch in general and Mulholland in particular:

Contrary to all appearances, it actually makes sense. It may be a weird sense, a dream sense (literally a dream, for like half of this movie), but it's not random.

It doesn't need to make sense to you to be enjoyable. It's perfectly cool to treat it like a trip, and just get lost in the highway sauce. You can revisit it later, and think about it and look up what others have made of it, but it's optional.

Now, these 4 are my favourite 2001 films:

Spirited Away needs no introduction, it's widely thought as the best Ghibli film, and I love it to bits.

I'm a complete sucker for Moulin Rouge! and for truth! beauty! freedom! love!, and will accept no criticism at this time.

El espinazo del diablo (The Devil's Backbone) is early Guillermo del Toro, and a sort of prelude to Pan's Labyrinth: it's horror, it's set during the Spanish Civil War, and it takes a stance, along with its own supernatural elements.

And I simply adore Hedwig and the Angry Inch (second musical lol). Does that need an introduction, on 2024 tumblr?

Also of interest:

Monster's Ball is the best from the rest, an incredible drama with Halle Berry's best performance. Very disturbing from start to finish. "Billy Bob Thornton plays a prison guard who begins a relationship with a woman (Halle Berry), unaware that she is the widow of a man (Sean Combs) he assisted in executing."

Ocean's Eleven is the fully on-brand film, it pretty much defined what modern American heist films should be like. No small feat!

Das Experiment: so the Stanford experiment inspired some notoriously bad takes, not least by Zimbardo himself. It also inspired this amazing film. Please don't bother with the pointless American remake. (I owe tumblr a serious post about the Stanford experiment btw, but this is not the place.)

The Brotherhood of the Wolf is surely the wackiest AND darkest action / horror / period / swashbukcling / wuxia / monster film out there. We're in 18th century France, there's the legendary beast of Gévaudan, and cults, and spies, and all of the above.

Il mestiere delle armi (The Profession of Arms) is a shoutout to @wearemercs, it's a realistic war film with landsknechts and condottieri in 16th century Italy, we don't see that every day.

@feyariel I remember that Metropolis was wonderful and I loved it, but not much else about it. Sorry, it's been a while and I have shit for memory!

Monsters, Inc.: not best Pixar, but good Pixar

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring: can't leave this one out!

The Man Who Wasn't There: excellent neo-noir by the Cohens

Gosford Park: a whodunit set at an English country house, and the polar opposite of Downton Abbey (which goes at great lengths to convince us that masters deserve their servants' loyalty), ironically written by the same person

Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain (Amélie): here begin the films that were adored back then, especially by the artsy/festival crowd, but I haven't seen them since and I've no idea how they've aged

Ghost World: based on the comic book by Daniel Clowes

Waking Life: Linklater, philosophy, rotoscope, Ethan Hawke's there, oh my!

Y tu mamá también: Alfonso Cuarón, road trips, sex, young Diego Luna, young Gael García Bernal, oh my!

Ichi the Killer: by Takashi Miike, based on Hideo Yamamoto's manga. do not watch this if you're not completely sure you wanna watch this lol

[jor-elsemissary]

Martha: so Lionel...you'd do anything for me?

Lionel: Without hesitation nor question

Martha: marry me

Lionel:

Lionel: Wait what?

Martha: It was to my understanding that you said ANYTHING *smirks*

Lionel *laughs* clever girl

Lionel getting Martha the first diamond that didn't symbolize he wants her out of his life but rather stay in for forever.

It had been a long time since he had actually shopped for jewelry. Normally he would have his secretary or someone else to choose and buy the jewelry for him to give to someone he wanted to indulge. Then again it had been an even longer time since he had ever wanted to indulge a woman he actually enjoyed the company of.

He forced himself not to think about Lillian and focused on the woman whom he was buying for tonight.

The jeweler patiently waited behind the counter while he browsed the selections beneath the bullet proof glass. Emeralds, sapphires, rubies, and diamonds were the most common and valuable choices. There were a few exotic stones that held no interest to him and he was certain that green one was meteor rock. He doubted the company was trying to pass it off as an emerald.

The fact that it was there was concerning and left him wondering if any of the other stones were variations of the meteor rock. The last thing he wanted to do was give the love of his life a gemstone that could hurt her son and hurt her. It left him feeling conflicted about the veracity of this store.

“You are aware that you have meteor rock in your selection?” he looked up at the man and saw a flicker of concern. So he was aware. “I am going to assume you’re attempting to sell it as is and not as another gemstone?”

“I assure you, Mister Luthor, that any piece is being sold as claimed. The selections of meteor rock are displayed with similar gemstones for aesthetics and comparison and all customers are informed of its type before being sold.” It was a little reassuring but it still worried him that he might end up with kryptonite.

“Are you aware that they are radioactive?” he continued to converse while his gaze drifted toward the diamond. As far as he knows there were no clear rocks that affected Clark. The ones he studied were inert and came off as just simple crystals.

“I have been informed that they are safe,” the jeweler answered and he can hear a hint of annoyance.

Lionel snorted in contempt, “Then you were misinformed. My company studies the rocks and they are highly radioactive and have been known to cause cancer and mutate individuals.” His gaze met the man’s firmly, “I was afflicted with cancer because of how close I worked with the stuff.”

There. He saw a flicker of concern as the man stole a glance at the green ones. “I will have the selections removed and request a deeper inquiry into the gemstones.”

“Crystals,” he corrected. “They’re crystals. The only value they have is that they’re exotic and from space. Now… any of the diamonds meteor rock?”

“No, Mister Luthor.”

“Good.” He tapped the glass above a diamond ring. It was a silver band with a large stone imbedded in the middle and smaller stones fanning out from the center, growing smaller the further away they were. “I’ll take this one in a size 9.”

The man was silent as he opened the case and removed the ring. He hoped that she would like it. The last time he had bought her a piece of jewelry, she had been conflicted because of her marriage to Jonathan Kent. This time, though, she was widowed and had been seeing him seriously for a little over a year now.

Diamond earrings were a symbol of break up for Luthor men. He didn’t want to do that with Martha Kent. A diamond ring, however, was the symbol of wanting the woman in his life forever. He hoped she would see and understand how much that meant to him.

He wanted to prove his love to her even though she did know how much he did love her. The part of him that sought her approval and trust, wanted to always prove his love. Because the moment he stopped, was the moment he no longer wanted her love.

Lionel accepted the velvet box and studied the ring more closely. Yes. He wanted Martha in his life forever and he knows deep down he could never stop loving her. He still loved Lillian after all that had been said and done, so he knows he’ll still love Martha should things turn for the worse between them.

He was determined to make this relationship work. If it meant compromises and bending to her will, he would do it.

Because he loved Martha Kent and nothing was going to be allowed to get between them.

[mediumstrength]

SPY X FAMILY REREAD CHAPTER 2

We open with Franky’s new look

Franky is right Loid 100% could have done better

It’s the office bitches!

Some weird creep broke into City Hall, who could have done such a thing??

It’s her! It’s her! My girl Yor!!

Yor is so weird at this point in the story, she is just kind of …dead eyed and spacey? I sometimes get annoyed at how often we revisit the “Yor wants to learn to be normal” plot line, but it seems like she had given up on ever having a normal life here. She’s not even trying to interact with her coworkers, she’s barely paying attention to the conversation. She’s just sort of there.

Anyhow, the office bitches are being mean to Yor because that’s what they do, and we are introduced to the concept that Ostania is a scary police state, which will somehow have almost no effect on the daily lives of our characters, but that’s a rant for a different chapter.

CLASSIC TEEN MOVIE PLOT

The popular girls have invited her to a cool kid party just to be mean.

Yor’s empty apartment makes me so sad.

Yuri wants her to get married here?? I'm gonna chalk this one up to Yuri's character not being entirely nailed down yet, but also I imagine that Yuri likes the idea of Yor being happily married, but not her actually being married, which is scary and a threat to their perfect brother/sister bond.

Also who is Yuri going to introduce her to? Scary scar guy? He has no friends.

I sometimes see people being like how has Yor never had a relationship before. The answer is Yuri. It’s Yuri. Yuri is only 20, he was probably living with her until pretty recently. How on earth are you gonna date with Yuri in your house?

The phone rings again, this time it is for a very different reason.

"Shopkeeper" is so ominous-sounding, I love it

Fuck ‘em up, girl.

People kind of talk about Yor and Thorn Princess like they are two seperate personalties almost, but honestly? That stilted politeness? That's all Yor. I really doubt "May I have the honor of taking your life?" is a line that is, like, Garden protocol.

The main difference is how collected she is as Thorn Princess, which like, this is the thing that she's good at. Everything else in life she second-guesses, she thinks she can't handle, but killing? That's nothing. She can kill like 20 armed dudes without breaking a sweat.

The weird creep was Franky!

Should Loid be telling Franky so many details about his mission? I feel like he shouldn't be. They have an interesting relationship. They are not quite friends (I'm not sure Loid is capable of making friends?? currently??) but it's closer than simply being a spy and his go-to informant. I think Endo said something like "they have an understanding" about them, and I like that. They are two people who can't really afford to have friends, but are as close as they can get without complicating things.

Franky points out that Anya does not look the part of a privileged kid expected to attend an elite school, and so off we go to the tailor's.

Not if you're a good girl. Also, activist seamstress backstory when??

Yor comes in and honestly? This is borderline love at first sight on Loid's part. This girl is as stealthy as she is beautiful! She caught him staring at her! Even though he is professionally sneaky! Anya immediately shows up, leans that this lady talking to her Papa is an assassin and decides that she shall be the mama.

I love that both of Anya's parents were selected by her. Anya adopted her parents, not the other way around. You can choose your family provided that you are a quick-thinking and adorable little telepath

They come to an agreement. Loid was divorced a few minutes ago, but he is now a widower, a real tearjerker of a backstory. Yor is moved, and they agree to meet on Saturday for the party.

But wait!

CLASSIC SITCOM PLOT

His mission is also on Saturday!

He has again involved Franky, who is more of a lover than a fighter, but is psyched about the possibility of stealing some shit. I love you Franky.

This panel is so funny.

Poor Yor concludes that she has been stood up, but continues on to the party solo. The office bitches are predictably mean about it.

It's Dominic! Dominic is one of those people who tell you their dog is a rescue and really sweet once they just need to get used to you, and meanwhile said dog is shredding all your furniture and is lunging at your grandma, except it's his girlfriend not his dog.

Yor :(

But Loid finally shows up and, whoopsie daisy, he screws up and introduces himself as Yor’s husband.

The first time I read this I was assuming his little fuckup here was one purpose, but upon reread, no this bitch has a concussion. Anyhow, despite the fact that he showed up like an hour late bleeding from the fucking head, Loid still oozes charm, and Camilla straight-up loses it.

I had actually forgotten how just intensely fucking cruel she is at the party??? Like, the office bitches have really grown on me, and particularly Camilla post-cooking lessons, but here? Girl this is some middle school bully shit right here. You are an adult woman hosting a semi-formal dinner party?? Your coworkers are here?? You look completely unhinged right now.

UNDERSTANDING AND BEING UNDERSTOOD

Loid’s speech here is the moment. Yor, who is weird, and lives alone in a sad little apartment, and hides her terrible secret, has never had anyone who understood her and accepted her as is. Loid defends her and tells everyone that she is a wonderful person. Yor is 100% in love with Loid from this moment.

It’s important that we see this shot of Loid working his own dangerous, thankless job too. It would be easy to say he's just playing the role of Loid Forger here, but he really is speaking from the heart. Yor is like him. She has sacrificed herself for others, like him. Neither of them can begin to understand how alike they are at this point, but still? There's a little something between them. A little bit of understanding.

We have arrived at the Big Theme. Understanding = Love = Peace.

Little lost-in-translation thing here, Loid calls her “Yor” at the party, but she’s “Yor-san” as soon as they’re alone. Loid and Yor always keep a polite verbal distance between them.

Anyhow I have surprisingly little to say about the fight scene and subsequent proposal besides the fact that it is completely flawless. Concussive therapy is such a good joke, both of them are being so incredibly suspicious, but they have already both developed Love-Adjecent Stupidity Disorder and will never critically examine any of this ever.

Flawless

5/5

No notes, amazing chapter

I’m gonna keep doing these sporadically, probably won’t do every chapter, definitely will get bored before I catch up to where the manga is currently 🤷‍♀️

[tf-au-mer-osborn]

001

-You have 16 unanswered voicemails-

*opens one*

«uh dad, can you call me back? I had one of those dreams again and I dunno how to cope anymore. The faces keep showing up over and over and over and it's starting to make me paranoid. These... Weird guys were banging on my door at midnight and-»

-Message deleted-

*opens two*

«they're here again, can you hear them? Listen *tiny taps in the background muffled by his shirt against the receiver*»

-message ended-

*opens three*

«What the fuck? They're looking inside the windows. Please pick up, I think they're cops. I can't be found in possession of—»

-deep sigh-

*dials mer's number*

*phone rings out for a good amount of time before he picks up*

«*groaning sleepily* mmmnn'osborn speaking.»

-Hey, it's me, what trouble ya in?-

«s'nothing, I just got paranoid mm'bout the house making noises...»

-im gettin' tired of waking up to missed calls. Ain't much I can do about ya issues. Not much chop myself.-

«Forget it. I just had err... An issue. Y'know, one of those arrghh things. I know they're not real but when the tv gets too static-y and I smell certain things, I flare up.»

-You'll be right. Ya not a baby no more, should've stopped then.-

«I gotta go anyway. Trish is waking up and I don't wanna cause an argument about noise and being up.»

-mate, it's the afternoon, get her up.-

«*pause* right. Seeya. *Call ends*»

*he pulls the covers over his head as Trish stirs, sitting up and glaring at the sun streaming through the cracks of the curtains*

=Lemme guess, ya pa ain't happy bout ya mental stuff n' all the calls?=

*mer peers out from the covers just to warily glimpse her*

«Don't wanna talk about it... I think you should go home, I need to be alone.»

=After all the fuss to get me over here, ya gonna just shove me off?=

«...yes actually. Go home. I wanna watch tv and veg for a while. You can come back Friday if we're both free.»

=Aight but if ya cancel on me again after sayin' you're free, I'm not comin' back.=

*Mer contemplates her words but can't find it in himself to really care that much. Just as long as she wasn't too angry with him, that's all that mattered. A few afternoons without Trish taking up his bed and eating up his good food was good enough for him. He covered his head and rolled back over as she shoved his offspring shirt over her head and headed for his bedroom door.*

«Tell widow I said hi and give her an apple from me.»

=Get fucked.=

*Her reaction stung a little, the front door shutting just hard enough so that it could be perceived as slamming. It wasn't too bad, given he'd overburdened her with his weird nightmare talk and kooky stories about faces he knew popping up everywhere despite not actually knowing them. He knew her, more than she'd ever know but he'd always make a joke of it, not wanting to sound like he was even more nuts than he already was.*

«Hm, goodbye to you too cranky pants.»

*After laying there for a while, mer got up to boil the kettle for his coffee. The winter cold prickled at his bare back, sending goose bumps over his shoulder blades and emaciated physique. He'd hoped that the snacks he had left would fulfil him and maybe soften him up a little but he knew progress would be slow. The kettle wheezed to life as coffee beans were scooped into the mug with an unnecessary amount of sugar to sweeten the bitter taste, milk carton freezing at his fingertips as he held it and poured it down, cascading into the waiting hot water below. He took a sip.*

«Ah! Nectar of the gods»

Next page>>>>

[toomanydamnmuses]

((oops))

It was the usual bright, sunny day in Seireitei. Only a few fluffy white clouds in the sky, lazily floating past as if they have nothing else in the world to do. Which, Rangiku supposes, they must not. Clouds don’t have to worry about hollows, or missing captains, or paperwork, or anything like that. 

Clouds don’t have to worry about the promises that were never spoken aloud, or the promises that had never been kept. She remembers it had been sunny that day, too.

-

“Ne, Gin,” she calls up to the captain, perched just a little bit higher than her on the rooftops of the Third Division. “Pass me the sake, won’t you?”

An almost skeletal hand, one that many seem to be frightened by, oblige her even as he slides down a bit to sit beside her properly. His ever present grin in place, and she can tell that his gaze is locked onto the sight of a frantic Lieutenant of the Third trying to find his missing captain in order to get some paperwork signed. It is both sad, and funny, to Rangiku. Funny, because Izuru really does work far too hard and should take the break when it is offered to him on a silver platter like this. Sad as well though, because of the same exact reasons. The fact that Rangiku has anything to do with Gin being missing at the moment, of course, has nothing to do with her mixed emotions as she watches Izuru scurry about.

A bit further off in the distance, she sees Kuchiki-taicho and the memory of a rumor sparks in her mind. “Gin?” She begins, waiting for his vulpine gaze to lock onto her face, “is it true that Kuchiki-taicho had been married?”

Gin’s smile widens for a moment, before shrinking to be a touch smaller than it had been before she’d asked the question. If she hadn’t been so familiar with his expressions, the varying degrees of his smiles, she probably would have missed it entirely. He then nods. “Yup. Met ‘er out in the Rukongai somewhere, from what I heard. Lil’ lady passed jus’ recently, an’ asked him to do somethin’ or other. I dunno what, though, her final wishes were.”

Rangiku looks back to the apparently widowed Kuchiki, her heart aching for a moment. “Do you think we could ever do that? Marry, that is?”

She feels more than she sees how Gin tenses up, looking towards him again. His smile is now much more forced as he looks at her. 

“Nope,” he answers. She opens her mouth to ask why, when he continues. “I already looked into it. Apparently, for us Rukongai rats, they don’ want us marryin’ when we are high-rankin’ officers. Somethin’ ‘bout liability and not bein’ able to control ourselves if somethin’ went wrong.”

Somehow, Rangiku can see that being the case. After all, the stuck-up nobles in Central 46 wouldn’t dare to imagine that people from the Rukongai could be rational people too, able to control their emotions in a time of need. She snorts in response. “But the nobles can, then?”

Gin shrugs, his gaze moving to the ring he’d given her so long ago, that she wears on a necklace every day. She’d always thought of it as his own unspoken proposal, an unmade promise that he would always be there for her so long as they both may live, through sickness and in health.

“Maybe I can get my Captain, or some noble with some pull to maybe pull some strings for us,” she muses almost absently. She feels Gin tense more, and doesn’t know why other than perhaps nerves at the idea of actually doing it for real.

“Don’ bother,” he almost hisses out, but he sounds more afraid than angry. At least to her. “Like I said, I already looked into it, Ran. Ain’ no way we’d be able to. No way, no how. Nothin’ we can do, nothin’ anyone else can do. We jus’ gotta live wit’ it. We can keep spendin’ time together, an’ havin’ fun together. We jus’ gotta keep it as casual, no-strings-attached sorta fun, at least to everyone else’s eyes.”

Rangiku sighs dramatically,  but agrees. If nothing else, they can wear gigai, fabricate some identities for themselves, and get married in the world of the living.

-

It isn’t until now, years later, that Rangiku fully realizes what he’d done. As she watches Renji and Rukia announce their engagement, and thus their upcoming wedding, her mind wanders back to that day so long ago. Her hand moves up without her realizing, to find her ring and lightly hold onto it, her gaze distant as she remains lost in thought.

She’s happy for them, of course. She also knows now, and not just from this, that what Gin had said back then was a lie. How many other things he’d said to her, that were lies, she isn’t sure. She’ll probably never find out.

It’s probably a good thing, then. That he’d never actually made those promises, since he was never able to keep them.

[therealms-number1angirl]

i forget how the west was won

Raisa pushes Han into her room, quickly shutting the door behind them and pressing her back to it. 

“So…” Han mutters, dropping their luggage on the floor, and flopping backwards onto her childhood bed. “I knew that you were planning my murder.”

Raisa shrugs. “What can I say. I’ve always yearned to be a widow.” 

“Seriously, what was that?” Han asks, not even bothering to sit up as he asks the question. “I thought we were at least gonna wait until you introduced me to some of the people there, or I dunno, we weren’t surrounded!” 

Raisa winces in sympathy, walking over to the bed, and taking a seat next to him. “I know, I’m sorry. I should’ve waited. I was going to wait. But then—“ 

“You thought that it would be fun to see me get murdered?” Han guesses. 

Raisa rolls her eyes, flopping onto the bed as well so that they were lying side by side. “My mother was just so annoying!” 

“The way she kept fussing over your hair?” Han guesses. 

Raisa hesitates. “Well, yeah. But, also the way she treated you! She wouldn’t even shake your hand!” Raisa takes a calming breath. She didn’t want to admit it out loud, but her mother’s treatment of Han was what had annoyed her most of all. 

Han was one of her best friends. Her closest confidant ever since they cooked up this plan of theirs. He deserved to be treated with respect.  

Han grabs Raisa’s hand, rubbing his thumb over the gold band of her wedding ring. 

Wedding ring. 

Bloody bones, she still hasn’t quite gotten used to it, and it’s been over a month since she’s started wearing it. 

“Hey, it’s okay. I survived.” He pauses. “For now.” 

Raisa lets out a short laugh, when a small chime from Han’s phone interrupts them. 

“Your sister just sent me a follow request.” 

Raisa shrugs. “Makes sense. I’m sure they’re all downstairs trying to discover your entire history right now.”

“How fun.” Han deadpans. 

“You should definitely accept that, or she’s going to tell everyone that you have something to hide.”

“I do have something to hide. As do you.”

Raisa rolls her eyes. “They don’t need to know that, though. She’s probably already suspicious about the fact that you only have a private Twitter account.”

Han’s eyebrows furrow. “Why?”

Raisa places her left hand over his, which are cradling his phone. “Because Mellony’s whole life is online. She doesn’t understand people that don’t share everything on the internet.”

“Hmm.” Han hums, hesitantly accepting the follower request. “I’m learning so much about my sister in law.”

“Believe it or not, she’s the easiest one to win over.” 

Han groans, finally sitting up. “Okay, so give me the official run down of everyone planning my murder down stairs.” 

Raisa reluctantly sits up too, cupping Han’s shoulder with her chin. “Okay, so you met my mother. My father was—“ 

“The other one who hugged you.” Han jumps in. “I kind of figured that one out.” 

“Fair enough. Then, there’s my grandmother, Elena.” 

“She’s the one who looked like she swallowed a lemon when she shook my hand?” 

“That’s the one.” Raisa sighs. “The big, bald guy was my Uncle Lassiter, and the girl next to him, with the big rack and the small brain,” Han snorts at her description. “Is his daughter, my cousin Missy. Then there are the… non-related people.” 

Han nods. “Yeah, you didn’t prepare me for them.” 

“Because I was praying that for once a family get together would just be between the family.” Raisa groans, annoyance with her mother beginning to creep up again, before she quickly pushes it down. She wouldn’t have much time to get through this before they were called down to dinner. “Nightwalker is here.” 

Han blinks. “His name is Nightwalker?” 

“Actually, it’s Reid, but everyone calls him Nightwalker because— well—“

“Don’t worry, with a name like Nightwalker, I can figure it out.” Han assures her. 

”Oh, thank the Maker. He’s my father’s protege. My dad is planning on passing down his company to him when he finally retires.” 

“Over both you and your sister?” Han asks. 

Raisa rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it’s a whole thing. Then, there’s the Bayars.” She follows the name with an eye roll just to make sure that her distaste is known. 

“Bayar…” Han rolls the name off of his tongue. “Wait, you’ve mentioned that name before.” His eyebrows rise to his hairline. “Is he the one—“

“Yes,” Raisa grits out. “He is.”

“And he’s at your house? For Christmas?”  

Raisa waves him off. “I told you, my family is a fucking mess. Anyway, Gavan is the one that looks like a movie villain brought to life. His kids, Fiona and Micah, they’re our age, but awful in their own ways. Don’t take anything they say to heart, but they will more than likely try to destroy your very soul.” 

“Lovely.” 

Raisa gives him a tight-lipped smile. “Aren’t they?” 

She hears the sound of the house’s intercom go off. “It’s dinner time!” Someone announces from the kitchen. 

Raisa sighs deeply, standing up, and wiping imaginary dust away from her clothes. “That’s our cue.” As she starts walking to her door, she quickly spins on her heel as a new thought occurs to her. “Oh, wait, I did forget to mention one thing.” 

“What’s that?” Han asks, standing so close to her that she momentarily gets distracted by the sight of his stubbled jaw. “Raisa?” 

“Oh, right… Just so you aren’t completely blindsided, you should know that Nightwalker and Micah are my ex-boyfriends, and they were probably both invited so that my parents could set us up.” She quickly presses a chaste kiss to his lips before he could say anything. “You’ll do great, though!” 

First | Prev | Next

[yanderelmk]

Hey my amazing gang of spiders! I have several questions that has kept me up for almost a two month and I’m running on off coffee and hope.

Anyways

1. Apparently Spiders don’t actually have queens..so technically The Spider Queen is the first ever Spider Queen..or maybe I’m wrong? How does this make you feel??

2. So I kinda figured what kind of spider Goliath and Huntsman is (my fear of spiders could not stop me for looking this up) but what about Syntax and the beautiful Spider Queen herself?

3. Syntax. You. Do you have scars on your back from being turned into a spider? How does it feel being kinda like..a human/spider??

4. Please all four of you step on m—/J/J/J/J🤭🤭

5. What’s your guys ring size?…for research purposes I SWEAR—

-✨

Question One: Spider Queen smiles. "Oooh, this one's interesting! Now here's something not a lot of people pick up on: I was actually a human who had more fun than most girls my age. So much, in fact, that my demon-ification or whatever you'd call it transformed me into a spider demoness. It took me many, many years to become powerful enough to take down all the other spider demons vying for the position of Spider Monarch. Normally a demon's hierarchy is based off of power rather than lineage, that's why Iron Fan is a Princess despite bein' married to a king. It's also why little Red Son is the Boy Sage King despite his old man still bein' up and about. Some of the best years of my life as a spiderling were filled with learning to crush my enemies underfoot with my newfound abilities." She sighs, an annoyed look crossing her face. "I even was powerful enough to become an Empress, but then Sun Wukong ripped it all away from me. Just like he did with my sisters and nephews. But I'm gonna make my comeback. I will get back my empire, and this time I won't let anyone steal my throne." Question Two: "Considering the fact that I am not a purebred spider demon, I suppose you could say I don't really have a "species" of spider. I have tried to test my DNA and match it to spider species, but the most I have is that my species lies somewhere within the Synotaxus genus, hence the name. The fact that my own venom is diluted makes it very difficult to run the proper tests." "As for me," Spider Queen uses a mech leg to push Syntax out of the way. "I myself am a black widow. My venom definitely isn't weakened." Question Three: Syntax's face gets a bit lime from the question in embarrassment. "That...is a rather personal question, but yes. After all, the mechanical limbs burst forth from my back, it did lead to some scarring. I am proud to be the first human-spider demon hybrid of my queen's queendom, though I do admit it can be vexing trying to compensate for the lack of limbs, eyes, and other enhancements prue-bred spider demons possess. However..." He gestures to his mech legs. "I find ways around my shortcomings." Question Four: Syntax steps on your back to use your shirt as a rug to wipe his shoes clean. Huntsman takes a few steps back before running and jumping on your back, making a few loud POPs before falling backwards from the imbalance. Goliath...gently taps your back with his mechanical leg before helping you up. The Queen, however, hops down from her mech to stand upon your back. She's definitely shorter, about 5'8", but she's no different personality-wise. "Just how it should be. Now get up, mortal, if you can stand I wanna be carried on your shoulders!" Question Five: For this Syntax has to do a quick Google search and some measuring. "Let me see... my size is 7.5, Huntsman's is 8, my queen is 7.5, and Goliath..." Goliath looks at his hand, a bit sad. "I don't think any rings would fit me. Probably thirty-five or something."