#there are some things you realise about yourself and you look at it and just sigh in disappointment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

miks-delusional-blog · 2 days ago

Note

HI HI HI if you take emoji anons I’d like to be 💚!!!!

can i request something with arkham knight jason x male or gender neutral reader?? it would be so so sick if you could do something where reader is arkham knight’s medic or something, something something “you have to learn to be more careful”

sorry if this is disrespectful and you dont have to do it, but thanks for listening and best of luck with your writing !!!

Personal Medic- AK!Jason Todd x GN! Reader

A/n

Hi! You may be 💚 anon! You’re actually my first anon request :)

Also it’s okay to request what you requested, it’s not offensive at all. I’ve never written male reader before so for this request I made it GN! Every x reader that I write is GN! Unless specified as fem! Though I do wonder if I’ve accidentally coded them as fem…

I hope you enjoy this one shot, I struggled quite a bit with the ending, and I did try out another type of storyline in my drafts but this felt like the best one? Lmao if you wanted to know what the other draft was about feel free to message 🫶

Enjoy! 💞

Disclaimer! I’m not a medic/know nothing about medicine so do not take any medical advice from this post please.

Tags: fluff, strangers/friends to lovers, there’s a smooch, w.c 1623

You have to learn to be more careful.” You grumble, sewing up another bullet wound chipping his shoulder.

This has become a nightly routine.

You’d come home after a 12 Hour shift, and maybe he’d already be waiting for you in your living room with a giant slash or a gaping wound. It’s a good thing you don’t have a white couch. Just a brown, very worn down, probably older than you, couch.

“What’s the point in all this armour if you still end up like this every night?” And like every night you complain while he sits quietly watching you at work, his hand kneading the armrest.

He doesn’t usually talk too much. You’re not sure if it’s because he doesn’t like you, but he must tolerate you to always come back.

“Are you almost done?” He asks in a low voice, strained but almost soft. Not how he used to talk to you.

When he first fell on your fire escape he was covered in blood and pushed a gun at your chest, threatening to kill you if you even touched him. Now he was in your living room quiet as a mouse, no longer too shy to keep his helmet on as he let you work.

Of course you knew who he was. At this point, who in Gotham hadn’t heard of the Arkham Knight? You don’t know why you hadn’t called the police on him. You suppose it’s because he wasn’t so scary like this.

And the fact that you happened to keep finding hundred dollar bills on the coffee table after he’d left didn’t push you to really want to. Student debt and the cost of living crisis is a real bitch, some of us have to eat.

It’s probably a bad idea to have a man like this in your apartment.

You finish closing the wound, “almost good as new. Don’t tear this one. Let me see the one from last week.” you take off your gloves and set your tools down in a tray as he stripped off his chest plate.

You crouch in front of him analysing the wound. Gently pushing at his chest, “Sit up… relax a little.” Your finger brushes over the stitches. “Might have to keep them for a few more days, especially considering you tore them before. Would it kill you to have a few days rest? The more injuries you get, the harder it is for old wounds to heal.”

“I can barely take the time to sleep.” he finally looks into your eyes. Blue, almost gray. And you realise how close the two of you are, as if you weren’t just sticking a needle and suture in him.

“Are you sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

“... Few hours.”

“Few hours? Should be at least six.” You roll your eyes with a slight playfulness. “Though with your injuries, maybe eight…You need to look after yourself better.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Well excuse me, you’re the one who keeps me up. Why do you keep coming back here? Hospitals are 24/7.” You move to sit more comfortably on the couch. Your knee bumps his for a moment as your head lulls to the side, pressing your cheek against the couch cushion. A small wave of tiredness hits.

“I think you know why I can’t just go to a hospital.” He huffs. “ And you get the job done.” He sits back, his breath hitching a little from soreness.

“With a lot of complaints.”

The corner of his lip twitches up, “Certainly with a lot of complaints.”

“This isn’t exactly the most sterile environment. And I know you could easily find someone to do this more efficiently, and not in their pajamas.”

“Suppose that’s true.”

“So why do you keep coming back?”

“Why do you keep treating me?” He turns to you.

“I can’t exactly say no when you’re bleeding out on my floor.”

“But you’ve never called the police on me.”

“...yeah…so?” You get a little embarrassed.

He smiles, it’s almost wicked.

“You’re good at bribing me.” you huff softly, “I’m in debt, I was living paycheck to paycheck. Now I can buy triple-ply toilet paper and buy a sweet treat once a week without breaking the bank.”

“What’s your ‘sweet treat’ this week?”

“... It’s stupid.”

He raises a brow. “Just tell me.”

You cross your arms, and shy away. “...Lego.”

“Lego? How old are you five?” he teases.

“Well five year olds shouldn’t play with Lego cause it’s a choking hazard. And I told you it was dumb.” You feel the heat rise to your face.

“So…That’s it?” he raises a brow.

“What do you mean ‘so that’s it?’”

“I don’t know… thought you’d get yourself something nicer.”

“Those things are nice. It improves my quality of life.”

“Lego and Triple-ply is improving your life?“

“My ass appreciates it. The tripe-ply, not the Lego.”

He chuckles. A real laugh. It’s the first time you’ve heard it and it almost makes you freeze.

It’s deeper than you thought it might sound. Though you’ve never really thought about what his laugh might sound like. But seeing him smile, a genuine amused smile… your chest feels warm.

After a beat, you sit up. “You never said why you keep coming back here. Like why you really come here.”

He take a moment to think of an answer. “I don’t really know… maybe because I know I shouldn’t… and I know you’ll never turn me away.” He almost sounds ashamed, no, guilty.

It catches you off guard. To think a man like the Arkham Knight can feel guilty. Especially after watching the news recently. But, the more you think about it, he was quite considerate of you.

He’d always try to help clean up after you’d treat him, which you’d have to push him back to the couch if he had a particularly gnarly wound. He’s never forgotten to give you money after seeing you. Always enough to replace the medical supplies used plus at least a hundred dollars.

“So… what I’m hearing is that you like my company?”

“Yeah.” He can’t seem to look at you.

“You know… I’d rather see you without so many injuries.” You say quietly.

“But then I wouldn’t-“ he pauses before looking up at you. Those eyes. You see he tenses a little before trying to relax. “I wouldn’t be able to see you… if I wasn’t injured.”

His admission makes you soften. The Arkham Knight wasn’t one to be vulnerable with you, or anyone you figure. Even though you’ve seen him without the helmet a hundred times, he’s always worn an emotional mask, and he’s never told you his name. A sarcastic nonchalant barrier, which you weren’t sure was to protect you or him.

You take a breath. “You can come here when you’re not injured too.”

“…Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“I mean, why would you want me here? I’m not exactly good company.”

“You’re alright.”

“Just ‘alright’?” He feigns offense, but the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“I like your company.”

“Not just the Lego and the triple-ply?” He’s teasing you.

“I like those things, but… I think I’d be okay without them…” Your gaze wanders to the window. “Though, if you were to just never come back again… maybe I wouldn’t be okay with that.” You sigh, reflecting. “You’ve been coming around here for a while now… a year in a month. I think I’d be… quite sad if you decided to never come back. But I’d understand. I’m not the best medic out there. Sometimes I struggle with treating you… and I worry that what if there’s an injury too bad that I can’t treat here in my apartment? I really wish you’d be more careful, that I didn’t have to treat a wound every time you came by.”

You take a breath you’d hadn’t realised you’d been holding. “I’d hate it if… you died here… or if you died at all. I find myself watching the news more, so I know you’re okay. You probably think it’s stupid… some rando-person you barely know always so worried about you…”

Sometimes you say things you don’t mean to admit. But he’s always been a good listener.

It’s quiet, other than the hum of your fridge and cars passing by your apartment. Now you’ve done it, haven’t you? Said too much. Weirded him out. Annoyed him. Been too—

“You’re not some random person to me.” He places a hand on your knee.

You look back at him. Even he seems a little surprised by his gesture, but he decides to commit, scooting closer to you.

“I like your company too… I like a lot about you.” His eyes almost avert before he catches himself, staring deeply into your eyes.

Maybe his eyes are a little more blue than grey.

“I’d… never come here with something you couldn’t fix…I wouldn’t do that to you. And I don’t plan on dying here or anywhere else so you don’t gotta worry about that.”

You nod, falling silent.

He’s so close.

Your eyes lower to his lips before averting away. There’s no way you just thought about kissing him. That would be insane, right? But before you can even be embarrassed, he cups your jaw, turning your face to him and kisses you.

You freeze, not fully processing what’s happening. When you stiffen, it scares him and he pulls away.

He lets go of you in a panic, “Sorry- I thought-“

You stop him, taking his wrist, “Don’t- don’t stop…please.” You lean in close again.

Jason cups your jaw again before pressing his lips against yours. And it makes you think, maybe being his personal medic wasn’t so bad.

#💚anon #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #arkham knight x reader #request #one shot #jason todd x gn!reader

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zosan-secondchances · 1 day ago

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The Pirate King of the North: Part 24

I made the art specifically for -that- scene in Part 22 but I fell in love with so I might work on a full coloured version with Sanji as a pre-timeskip Straw Hats shot to be uploaded to my art blog. Stay tuned!

Warning: Long post ahead and some One Piece spoilers. Contains strong language and explicit content.

Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 (Special) | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

Luffy

SANJIIIII!!!

Sanji

For the tenth time, I am not your cook.

Luffy

But how else are we going to eat?!

Sanji

I don't know. Eat leftovers. Or go fish and cook it yourself. I don't care.

Luffy

But you make them so much better!! And there's no leftovers anymore because I had them for morning snack!

Sanji

Food is food. It shouldn't matter who makes them. Eat or starve–I’m not obligated to help you because, again, I'm not your damn cook.

Luffy

Sanjiiiii!!! Why are you so mean all of the sudden?!

In a far world unknown to our heroes (but very much familiar to you and me), there sailed a ship on the clear day waters of the Grand Line. Coincidentally, this vessel is called the Thousand Sunny. On its grassy deck, seven Straw Hats settled around one of their nakama who seemed to have been transformed into an older version of himself. According to the all-truther and mightiest warrior of the sea with an army of eight thousand strong, Usopp the Brave, the very heavens itself had opened and embraced him, raising him with the angels above to return him in this new form.

Robin

Luffy, I wasn't sure before but I'm quite certain now. This is not our Sanji.

Luffy

What do you mean, Robin? The old man looks just like him, doesn't he?

Sanji

I'm not that old…. Am I?

Shit.

Robin

Well, he does act… differently…. For one, his attitude towards food is different compared to Cook-san.

Nami

I think you're right, Robin. And he hasn't…you know, done the thing.

Sanji

What thing?

Nami

You know the err… when you… you know, the… thing. Whenever me and Robin are around you.

Sanji

I have no idea what you're talking about. Saying it twice doesn't help.

The last of the Straw Hats finally joins the gathering, emerging from the infirmary and making his way down the steps.

Zoro

Hey Chopper, I got bandages for the shitty cook like you asked–

Sanji

GWAAHHH MARIMO-KUN!!!

In a blink of an eye, Sanji's legs zoom around and his heart-shaped eyes bulge out of skull. He circles around excitedly around the young version of his favourite swordsman as soon as he reaches the bottom of the floor. Unable to contain himself, he blows him multitudinous kisses in the air.

Nami

Err… that thing.

Sanji

YOU'RE. SO. CUTE. MELLORIIIIINE!!!

Shocked, Zoro accidentally drops the bag of medical equipment that Chopper had asked for. He recoils as his face reddens brightly. He holds his hands out in an attempt to keep Sanji’s kissy face away from him.

Zoro

ACK–!! Cut it out, you perverted old man!!!

Luffy bursts out laughing, pointing a mocking finger at the two.

Brook

Yohohoho! Love is in the air, it seems~

Chopper

That's interesting! Sanji, do you like boys?

Zoro forcefully pushes Sanji's face away to block an unwanted smooch. When the blonde hears the reindeer's question, he straightens up instantly, fishes out a cigarette from his pockets and lights it.

Sanji

I love men and women equally. But I do have an inclination towards individuals with…

Sanji trails his eyes up and down the young swordsman who crosses his arms and throws him an irritated frown in return.

Sanji

…domineering… qualities. Especially under the sheets….

Zoro

Ugh….

Slowly, the blonde takes a step forward towards him and another, forcing Zoro to walk backwards to maintain distance.

Sanji

My, my. But you are a delicious sight, little Marimo.

The swordsman didn't notice how hot the sun was but he quickly realises that it’s just his own skin. He's not used to seeing both of Sanji's bright blue eyes bear down on him at the same time which completely throws him off. Young Zoro hates the fucker but his scars and piercings are doing a number to his soul. He staggers and falls back against the steps.

Zoro

Little?! H–hey! What are you doing?! Back off!

Sanji

Tell me…does your Sanji see you the same way that I do?

Zoro

O–of course not!! You–

Sanji leans in and slams both of his hands against the steps, caging the shaken swordsman under him. Zoro bares his teeth and grips his sword to swipe the man away, but he freezes when the blonde flutters his eyelids and gazes down to his lips. He looks famished.

Sanji

Because, knowing myself, I would be.

I've stolen a lot of Beri and gold in my life, raided vaults of the wealthiest kings and queens across the world, but none compares to the treasure that I see before me.

Zoro's jaw drops agape, too speechless and stunned to move.

Zoro

I… I don't…

Sanji drags his own tongue over the top of his lips hungrily, lowering himself closer.

Sanji

Hmm… and I do like your eyes. Both of them.

Zoro

I…

Zoro can feel the blonde's breath over his lips when suddenly, the older man straightens up and moves away.

Sanji

It's a shame. My moral compass is unsure that I'd be cheating if I have my way with another version of you. Especially since we've just confessed our undying love to each other.

They all stare at him in bewilderment then look back and forth at him and the fallen swordsman who still lay motionless on the steps.

Usopp

Wait, wait, wait–you and Zoro are dating in the future?!

Sanji

I guess you can call it that. Though we've been romantically involved for months now.

Franky

Maybe we can meet this future Zoro ourselves when we get you home! I wonder if such technology exists to travel through time.

Sanji turns his heel to him swiftly.

Sanji

Would you have any idea if it can?

Franky

Uh…not to my knowledge. Sorry.

Robin

Actually, I don't think it's just time travel…. It does seem that you have numerous differences.

Chopper

Now that I think about it, he hasn't had a single nosebleed since he arrived. And that's for being around Nami and Robin for almost half an hour now!

Robin

Sanji-san, in your world, what are we like?

Sanji hops to sit on the wooden railing of the deck and crosses his legs. He plays with his goatee, deep in thought.

Sanji

Long nose, if what you say is true and me and your Sanji swapped, it means that my other self was right here. Travelling with you, Straw Hats.

Usopp

Well, yeah! Like Luffy said, you're our cook! You're one of us. You're nakama!

Sanji

Where I come from, I am none of those things. I'm a king.

Except for Zoro and Robin, the entire crew jumps onto their feet and gathers around him in an instant.

Straw Hats

WHAT?!

Sanji blinks at them curiously.

Sanji

They call me the Pirate King of the North. I am the crown king and ruler of Germa Kingdom.

Nami’s eyes practically transform into Beri signs. She swoons, hands clasped tightly under her chin as she forces herself through the crowd to be in front of him.

Nami

You didn't tell me that! Are you rich, Sanji-kun?!?

Sanji

Well…yeah. We do well enough for ourselves. I make an effort to make sure that people are happy and well fed.

Luffy, Usopp, Chopper, Franky and Brook’s eyes sparkle in amazement.

Chopper

That's so cool!!

Usopp

Do you have a big army?!

Franky

Do you have your own fleet of warships?!?

Brook

Do you live in a giant castle?!?!?

Luffy

Sanji, why didn't you tell us that you're a king?!?!?!?

Sanji cocks his head to the side, confused with the bombardment of questions.

Sanji

I was born into royalty. Your Sanji didn't tell you?

Luffy

Nah-uh! You never told us where you were born. When we met you, you lived with old man Zeff in a restaurant called Baratie in the East Blue!

Sanji

Zeff from Baratie? Interesting…. I've never heard of this man in my life.

He can't help but look at Zoro to observe his reaction. The young swordsman seemed to have gained his composure and was quietly listening under the shade of one of the trees on the lawn. He'd somehow acquired a tankard to drink with which he uses to hide his face behind.

Sanji sighs and shifts his legs over, crossing them the other way. He takes a long drag or his smoke and blows it out slowly. A devilish smirk forms on his face.

Sanji

Would you like to know more?

Straw Hats

YES!!!

Luffy

Tell us more about being king! Do they call you Pirate King because you found the One Piece?!

Sanji

Not exactly. I didn't make the title myself. They just–

Chopper

Do you go on many adventures?!

Sanji

Yes! Actually, I was just in–

Nami

Have you discovered rare and priceless treasures? DO YOU KNOW WHERE WE CAN FIND SOME?!

Sanji

We have this surgeon friend who–

Franky

I want to know if you have any suuuuppppeeerrrr weapons in your army!

Sanji

Oh! My brother made me this–

Usopp

Do you have righteous knights in metal armour under your command?!

Sanji

Of course! Helmets and all. And they can fly too~ They're also my si–

Usopp

AHHH!! SO UNBELIEVABLY COOL!!!

Robin

I'd like to hear more details about how you got here, Sanji-san. Maybe we'll get a better idea of how to turn things back to the way they were.

Sanji

I'm happy to–

Brook

Can you tell us how you and Zoro-san started dating? Yohohoho!

Zoro

BROOK!!! I WILL POUND YOU TO THE GROUND!

Brook

NOOOO!!!

The blonde grins playfully at them, enjoying every bit of attention that they give him. He remembers Law's advice for him not to take his favourite Marimo's offer to join the Straw Hats. While unsure on what the crew is like in his own world, he gets a glimpse of why they're too chaotic for the doctor's tastes. He can't help but find it hilarious that, in this place, he's a part of their family.

He sucks in another lungful of smoke and finally speaks after a pregnant pause.

Sanji

You might want to sit down. I can answer all of those questions but it's a bit of a long story. I'm going to need a bottle of wine or two. And you need to listen.

----------

Oh my gaaaaad the circle is finally complete!! We've caught up to Chapter 1

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becauseicantthinkwritings · 2 days ago

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Till Death Do Us Part II

Part 15 of my Accidentally on Purpose Series!

Billy Russo x Female Reader

Warnings: Alcohol consumption and inebriation.

NOW

You wake up with a slow sigh, still unaccustomed to this cold feeling despite how long it’s been. You really hadn’t gotten used to sleeping alone in the weeks since your departure from Billy.

The technical term for what you were on was a break. The very sound of the word in your head caused an ache in your chest.

Funny enough, your memory of that night had come back to you a week ago, your brain dredging up every forgotten memory of him in his absence.

It haunts your dreams now, the way he looked at you as you walked down that aisle, the veil covering your face, appearing pure as though he hadn’t pressed his face between your thighs and made you cum on his tongue repeatedly from the moment you’d left the shop, all the way to the chapel. Beneath the veil your hair had been quite askew, only quickly smoothed over a few minutes before.

The memory makes you smile, his eyes, following your every movement, the dress swishing around your thighs, a bouquet he’d bought for you just moments before- a small collection of succulents- because the roses had looked on the brink of wilting and everything else had been sold at that late hour.

The marriage had been ordained by an Elvis Presley impersonator, cracking jokes more than anything else so of course you’d never have thought that any of this was real.

Absentmindedly, you realise you never had a first dance, and you wonder if that even mattered to Billy at all.

You shake your head, sitting up, you really needed to stop thinking about him. The entire point of this break had been to see if feelings lingered if you were apart, but the very thought of it had seemed stupid right now.

How could you forget him? After all the things he’d done to you, and the ways he’d made up for it. He wasn’t the same man you’d first met, and definitely not the one you initially married. He was something in between, and in some ways, he’d become even more than that.

There was no denying that there was something seriously wrong with you. The reminder of all the ways he’d violated your privacy had given you some sort of comfort, instead of the fear it was supposed to elicit. You wonder if he was monitoring you, even now. Maybe you should have demanded he respect your boundaries.

What if there was a part of you that wanted him to do it? What was really so wrong with what he'd done?

A laugh punches out of you. Here you were again trying to excuse his actions. He was an obsessive, dangerous manipulator who didn't like taking ‘no’ for an answer.

Your stomach grumbles, and you groan, sliding out of bed to begin your day.

He'd been so kind about the separation too, offering to pay for you to stay at a nearby hotel until you'd made your decision, but it was still too close to him, you'd walk out of your building and find yourself in front of Anvil, aching to go in.

So you'd taken his jet all the way to Singapore, where you'd hoped to find a way to sort through your emotions.

He'd even signed the divorce papers, relinquishing them to you to be filed whenever you made your decision. They were sitting in your carry-on suitcase still, burning a hole into your luggage.

And the ring- you feel your heart squeeze as you look down at your left hand during breakfast at the hotel restaurant and find your finger bare- you'd given him back the ring. The look on his face had almost destroyed you. How could you hurt him so badly?

You could barely eat, and you’d forced yourself to go out and explore the city. Singapore, after all, was one of the best cities to be sad in. There were so many dazzling displays, but you could only tolerate them for as long as you didn’t think about him- because the moment you wondered how his eyes would look, glittering in the city lights, or the way he’d kiss the back of your hand and tug you closer to him- it made you achingly depressed all over again, turning away from the beautiful sights to crawl into your cocoon of a bed, in hopes of a better day tomorrow.

Occasionally, to your dismay, you held onto your pillow and cried. You didn’t know why you were crying, if it was just all the pent up emotions, or maybe something else like a deep hatred for yourself, but you’d fall asleep after a fitful cry, and get up in the morning to do it again.

Your marriage wasn’t over yet, and that was all you had to hold on to, laying in your bathtub after a long day, sipping wine, a calm haze sinking over you after your latest sob fest.

After a while, you stand, grabbing your robe and wrapping it around you, moving on autopilot, the bottle of wine in one hand and the glass in the other.

When the bottle is halfway finished, you feel your usual craving for some burning hot fries, your stomach grumbling in agreement at the very thought of it. You sway to the phone on the nearby table, picking it up for a second before hesitating. The low humming on the phone makes you nervous, that you were going to have to speak words to another person while you were in a state like this. You could only imagine the judgement that the person on the other line would pass upon you when you stumbled over your words.

Ugh, you put the phone down, only to pick it up a moment later, calling down for an order of fries before you could overthink it. As you put the phone down, you find yourself studying it hopelessly, remembering the last time you’d handled a landline- when you’d been pretending to call for help with your predator of a husband.

The memory brings a smile to your face, and you flop back into bed, pulling the pillow over your head as the memory makes you warm.

You still had that video on your phone- of your wedding night- would it be so bad to watch it again?

There’s a soft knock on your door. You sit up curiously, tugging the robe tighter around your body to make sure you’re presentable before tugging the door open.

Shit, you totally should have checked the peephole first.

Your mouth falls open at the sight of a hotel attendant, holding out a covered tray with a little paper marker with your room number printed on. You accept the tray gratefully, smiling at the woman in thanks, before stepping back to close the door.

Had your food really been made that fast? You hum eagerly when you tug the lid off to find steaming hot fries, curling up with your bottle of wine and eating them happily.

You wiggle your toes, enjoying your delicious snack, scrolling through social media on the new phone you'd gotten, when you happen across a thirst trap video of Billy.

It makes you laugh at first… the footage of him walking into several events, even before you were with him, stopping, a clear hint of irritation in his eyes that only you could recognize. To everyone else it probably just seemed like he was unbothered, but you could see the barest indication that he hated stopping for photos.

And then you see the shot of you and him standing together, and your stomach tingles. The video zooms in on his facial expression when he turns to look at you, completely cropping out your face but it doesn't abate the delight that you feel, because you know he's looking at you.

It seems that the internet had discovered how hot your husband was, and in a way you were both glad, and a tiny bit miffed that he was being admired.

It doesn't stop you from searching his name up and looking through similar videos, frowning when you catch sight of a few news articles about that night you were abducted… the story slowly going cold as time moved on. Billy had been right, the story would die down when people found other things to talk about. The world, to your amazement, just kept on turning.

You almost broke your no contact rule to send Billy these videos of himself, curious to see his reaction to Britney Spears’ Toxic being played while he walks down a red carpet in slow motion, another shot of him inside the party, having a sip of whiskey, the top button of his black shirt open, that dastardly strand of hair in his face.

Were you wet from this? You shift your body slightly to find that the answer is yes, groaning as you drop into the couch pillows.

Extracting yourself from him was harder than you thought.

In the morning, you're doing a little cleaning up when your eyes fall on the empty food tray.

You tilt your head, trying to recall the exact time it took between you calling the hotel restaurant and your food arriving. It must have been five minutes at most. You don't even get food at that speed when you're inside the restaurant, let alone the distance they'd have to travel to get it to you. It implied that someone had to have anticipated your order- and what better suspect was there than the man that had stalked you for years without you knowing.

Was Billy watching you? Like actually watching you? And he'd ordered you warm fries because he knew it was your favorite thing to eat while inebriated-

You groan in delight, dropping onto your bed.

Yeah, definitely something wrong with you. But that was so thoughtful… right?

For the first time since you've been apart, you start to feel a little bit better, and you take your time to explore the city again, thinking about him, and whether he was actually watching you or not.

What if he was following you? It wasn't like him to trail behind you like that- at least, not that you knew of- but maybe absence had made his heart grow more obsessed?

My poor husband, you think with delight as you duck into back alleys and through malls to see if your thoughts were right. When you see no sign of him, you wonder if you'd fabricated the entire scenario because maybe it was your heart that had grown more obsessed.

You're looking for a place to duck into and hide to see if anyone would show up, when the neon snake catches your eye.

It's a sign for a tattoo shop, and the wheels turn in your head as you walk toward it, feeling impulsive.

Maybe it's the reminder of being chased by him, that inspires you, or the way you feel right now, like you're playing a game of cat and mouse, and at any moment he might step out of the shadows and pull you into him.

Which… might actually be where you want to be?

You leave the tattoo place hours later, looking around as you leave the mall.

It takes you a second to notice, on the bustling streets of Singapore, but you would know the stance of a bodyguard anywhere.

Even in street clothes, they stick out to you, having seen enough in the past few months to identify the squaring of the shoulders, the slow, precise movement of each step.

You were in fact, being followed, but not by Billy himself, but by his hidden security detail.

Boring, you think, offended.

You were supposed to be on break, but why did that make you want to torment him so much?

How much mischief would it take to provoke him into showing up?

You were curious to see what he would do, when confronted with your many misdemeanors, fully prepared to have your heart ripped out if he didn't show up.

But he would, wouldn't he?

Even if you never wanted to see him again, he would show up at the first sign of your distress, that was just the kind of obsessed man he was.

It starts with a shopping spree, that doesn't go well at all. There are fits that don't flatter and sizes much too small and at one point you look into your lumpy reflection in a changing room mirror and swear you're never trying on another dress again.

You crash into bed feeling like absolute shit about yourself and trying your hardest not to cry because you've cried a lot already.

You needed help, you couldn't navigate the vastness of Singapore's fashion district all by yourself and you wonder if reaching out to someone would be a good idea.

You sniffle, reaching for your phone to pull up Sam's contact, typing out a quick text asking her if she had any free time to offer some advice.

Her response is quick, and makes you tilt your head in confusion.

Hello Mrs, Russo, I'm on my way! I'll see you in the morning.

You hadn’t even told her where you were. Not to mention, it was almost an entire day of flying to get here from where she was.

I'm not in New York. You text back.

I know ;) Is her suspicious response.

Was she already on a plane? How would she-

You grin, pressing your palm over your eyes. Your husband was paying very close attention to you.

How dare he? You were supposed to be on break. He should be trying to live his life normally, not watching over you like some stalker.

Yet you giggle, kicking your feet as you pull up Maria's contact.

She answers with a soft excited greeting of your name, followed by the usual pleasantries of ‘How are you?’ and ‘I'm great, thanks for asking.’

“I'm just calling to make sure someone's checked in on Billy.” You say, trying to be vague about the details, because Billy had told them you were away visiting your family.

“I saw him on Monday, he was alive, just a little grey you know?”

Over the phone you can hear a whistle blow, followed by soft chatter and you figure she's at one of her son's football practices.

“Grey?” You ask.

Maria hums in agreement, distracted by whatever she's looking at.

“Scruffy, a little pale. I think he just misses you.”

It hurts to hear in a way you weren't familiar with.

“Oh.” Is all you can find yourself to say.

“If you can, would it be possible to check in on him soon? He tells me he's fine, but…”

“I get it, I will, don't worry. I'll see if I can take him a pie or something tomorrow.”

You let out a soft sigh.

“Thank you for everything, Maria.”

I hope we can still be friends when Billy and I separate, you think sadly.

You bid each other goodbye, before hanging up.

Tomorrow you would know for sure where he was, which would tell you the extent of his stalking.

For tonight, you slide into yet another bath, and try not to let your inadequacies swallow you whole.

Coming to the nightclub all by yourself was definitely not the best idea you’ve ever come up with.

But still, it was something to do in an attempt to provoke him.

Maria had confirmed just two days ago that Billy was, in fact, still in New York, throwing himself into work with no attempt to take care of himself.

Again, the thought of him like that had really eaten at you, the urge to care for him lingering even though you hadn’t seen or spoken to him in a month.

Sam had been sketchy on the details when you’d met her for breakfast that same morning, stating that photos of you spotted in Singapore had come up on some gossip sites, which was how she knew where you were. She’d made it seem like she’d know you’d need her, making plans preemptively just in case you called, and taking a nice vacation if you decided not to reach out to her.

Which was definitely suspicious, but she was indeed a godsend, navigating through designer boutiques, knowing exactly where to look so that you didn’t try on anything that she wasn’t sure you’d love, even going as far as to advocate for you when a saleswoman told her that there was nothing in your size when they’d thought they’d been out of earshot.

She was amazing, and you think by the end of this, if you decided to stay with Billy, you’d ask her to be your official stylist.

However cool you thought clubs were in New York, could never possibly hope to outdo the magnificence that the nightlife in Singapore could hold. All out was an understatement, with laser strobes and dangling crystal chandeliers, there was a mix of old and new that always managed to amaze you.

You’re seated at the balcony bar, overlooking the revelry going on below, the club is filled with pulsing bodies, the music thrumming in your ears, an enjoyable mix that encourages you to sway your shoulders with each drink you have.

You’re in a short black dress, topped with a fancy designer jacket statement piece on top, to show off your legs while shielding you from feeling too exposed. Your heels were black suede with little buckles around your ankles, a little too high for your liking, but you didn’t mind much because you weren’t doing that much walking.

It was nice, albeit lonely, no one to enjoy it with, all by your lonesome as the bartender stared at you with curious eyes as he slid you another glass of wine.

You must have looked pathetic by yourself, but you really didn’t mind all that much, only here to see if you could draw him out.

You hadn’t considered that sitting by yourself at the bar was something else entirely, until a man slides into the space between you and the other person sitting beside you.

“You look like you’re waiting for someone.” The man says, smiling down at you.

He’s quite handsome, as almost everyone in a place like this is, with a tightly fitted shirt, and his hair styles to perfection, you watch him signal the bartender for a drink while you study him and decide on a response.

“And if I am?” You ask curiously.

He smiles, looking unbelievably boyish, and yet still stunning.

“Then it’s their loss because I found you first.”

You make a sound of amusement, smiling up, and when you can’t resist, you let out a little laugh.

“Does that line really work?” You can’t seem to stop laughing.

He takes a sip of the whiskey that’s been slid towards him, but it seems forced, as if his order was to impress you more than his desire to enjoy it.

“You tell me. I got to see your pretty smile after all.”

Your eyebrows raise in surprise, a slither of delight going down your spine at being noticed. Maybe this wasn’t a bad thing.

“I hate to break it to you- um-”

“- Simon,” He offers, taking hold of your free hand to place a soft kiss on the back of it.”

Your brain sort of malfunctions, but not in an excited way, but more in a ‘what-on-earth-is-this-maniac-doing?’ type of way.

“-Simon…” You repeat, “but I’m married.”

His thumb gently circles the back of your hand.

“Are you now? I don’t see a ring.”

Good point.

“W-we’re on a break.” You explain, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to divest this to a stranger.

“He must be an idiot to agree to that. If I had you, I’d fight for you like no tomorrow.”

Which makes you groan internally in disgust. He had no idea the circumstances of your break, and here he was doling out his thoughts that nobody asked for.

“Maybe I’m the wrong one.” You offer, reaching for your glass of wine.

Why is his hand still holding yours? He was trying to be slow and seductive and yet all you were starting to feel was disgust.

His hand trails slowly up to your elbow, dragging the tips of his fingers slowly down your arm again. It felt nice in your buzzed state, but it wasn’t the man you wanted.

“If you’re wrong then I can make you right.”

You laugh into your wine.

“I’m sorry, I think you’ll have to find another girl to charm, I’m not the one for you.”

“So you find me charming?”

Was he even listening to what you were saying? Or was he just trying to say something in hopes that you went home with him?

“Maybe a little,” You answer honestly, “but I meant what I said.”

Your stomach twists as his fingers trail up to your elbow again, this time, he raises his hand to push your hair back, away from your face. You blink, trying not to stiffen in discomfort at the liberties he’s taking.

“You sure? We could-” He doesn’t get to finish his sentence before he’s being grabbed by his shirt and hauled away.

You watch the back of one of the burly Anvil guys retreat into the crowd, gripping Simon by his shoulder tightly as they move.

You make a small sound of amusement, watching as their heads disappear, and refocusing as someone else fills the space beside you.

At first you think that it’s Billy, your heart picking up speed as the guy with a similar build and height as your husband steps into view. He’s wearing a black hoodie, pulled up over his head, and a black face mask that you see people sometimes wearing when they ride the buses. He’s facing away from the bar, with that classic Anvil bodyguard stance, and when he sees you looking in his peripherals, he turns his head to look at you, and nods.

Blue eyes.

Your shoulders drop in disappointment, turning back to face the bar, finishing your wine and raising the glass for another.

“Who are you supposed to be?” You ask, staring at him suspiciously. The Anvil guys don’t usually wear masks.

He turns his head to you, distracted from giving a death glare out at the crowd behind you, reaching into his pocket, he pulls out two cards and extends them toward you.

One is his ID, and the other is an Anvil identification, with his face on it, a scar on the lower half of his face that you figure would draw attention if it was visible.

“Dave?” You say, reading the name aloud, passing the cards back to him.

He nods, his hands are gloved, and you wonder why as he places the cards back into his pocket.

You exhale loudly, raising your glass to take another sip.

When you stand to leave, a little after midnight, you wobble on your feet. Dave reaches out to grip your elbow- you’d shed your jacket after the alcohol had made your skin too warm to bear wearing it.

You make a small laugh, playfully tugging your arm out of his grasp, walking slowly toward the steps, your deathgrip on the railing is necessary, because your vision isn’t the straightest, and when you almost stumble, you find Dave once again in your personal space trying to give you support.

You shove him when you get your balance, but it does nothing more than move him a step back.

“You must not value your hands very much.” You grumble, taking another step down.

Dave is sort of annoying really, with the way he hovers, unlike the Anvil guys before. He seems hellbent on staying two steps behind you at all times, but you find this making you even angrier. Billy had really sent you a babysitter instead of coming himself.

As the door opens, the flashing of cameras catches your eye, causing you to gasp, stepping back and knocking right into Dave.

His hands grip your hips securely, and you turn to look back at him with wide eyes.

“Is there another exit?” You ask, not wanting to be photographed in this state to be seen by many people, even accidentally.

Dave has another idea, pointing at your jacket so that you pass it to him, he tosses the open garment over your head and shoulders, linking his elbow in yours so that he can guide you.

Your arm wraps around his, inching in close so that you can raise your hand to grip his bicep for support, feeling the muscle below his clothes, making you yearn for the attention of the man that wasn’t here.

He guides you into the car, supporting your hips when your legs wobble, and then you wait for the door to close before you tug your jacket off your head.

The car’s tint is dark, but the minute you’re out of sight, the photographers go back to the entrance of the club, taking pictures of people coming and going.

You sigh, relaxing, and then you straighten when the door opposite to yours opens, and Dave slides in.

It was… very odd. You don’t think Billy would ever allow a bodyguard to sit in the back with you. He’s the kind of man who would fire someone if they looked at you for too long.

Was this a sign? Was he pulling away from you?

You shudder out a breath, staring angrily at Dave, who at least has the decency to pretend he doesn’t notice.

Would Billy really give up so easily? After possibly sending you Sam, and the food from the other night? Had you imagined these things in hopes that he was paying attention to you?

You swallow, trying to hold back tears and wanting to take your anger and despair out on this new bodyguard.

Surely, Billy would remove him from your detail if you flirted with him a little.

“Dave,” You call sweetly, and you watch as he tilts his head slightly in acknowledgement.

You raise one precarious foot, extending on the seat till your heel is almost touching him.

“Will you unbuckle my shoes for me?”

He seems to hesitate, before nodding, reaching for your ankle with gloved hands, sliding closer till your foot is on his lap. He tries to undo the delicate buckle, but the gloves are too thick to get any sort of dexterity.

You watch with half open eyes as he tugs his gloves off, and then you blink in awareness when you finally see his hands.

The exact same hands that have explored every inch of your body.

How could you not know these hands? That have touched you and held you, the perfect combination of coarse and well-kept, a freckle on the back of his right hand, carefully moving to undo your shoe with such careless precision that your body aches at just the sight of his hands.

But you saw his ID card, comes the voice of logic in your head.

Something that would be easy enough to fake, if this was Billy Russo after all. And the blue eyes? Contacts obviously, and maybe he’d swapped his usual cologne for something generic just to throw you off his scent… literally.

He gets your shoe off, and you tug your foot away, bending the knee to get more comfortable as you place your other leg on his lap.

Even this could be a fabrication in your mind. Did you really know his hands so well? Could you honestly guarantee to yourself that you could pick them out in a lineup?

Maybe you could, maybe you would know him by the touch of his hands alone if you couldn’t see. So distinct it was to you, smooth, with an underlying hint of a rough life, mixed with the careful way he always seemed to handle you, all of it, so alike to him.

When ‘Dave’ gets both your heels off, you smile in thanks, bending your other knee, flashing him your panties as you turn to place your feet back on the floor.

You hear him inhale sharply, and you smile to yourself, pressing your head against the window, closing your eyes, pretending to be tipsier than you really were so that you could come up with a game plan.

You actually don’t come up with any plan, falling asleep easily, the alcohol in your system pairing with the knowledge that he was here and you could barely keep your eyes open for another second.

You only wake slightly when he’s lifting you out of the SUV.

You hum, wrapping your arms around his neck, running your hands over the expanse of his shoulders, committing the sensation of him to memory.

You needed to know for sure, a foolproof piece of evidence that would solidify him as Billy, and not the Dave he claimed to be.

You know his tattoo would be a dead giveaway, but you didn’t want him to figure out you were on to him either. The discovery had to be subtle, distracting him from what you were doing before he realised.

You decide to fake waking up when he steps into the elevator, groaning, you flail angrily in his arms.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” You ask, pushing at him.

He struggles not to drop you as you fight him angrily, tugging at his hoodie, clawing your nails into his collarbone to make a point.

You catch the faintest line of ink on his chest just as he places you down.

You stare at him angrily, wobbling on your feet.

This had to be Billy.

“You’ve got some balls, Dave. It’s a shame Billy’s going to detach them from your body when I ask him to.”

He straightens, a brief hint of amusement before he looks down in apology.

You huff, turning away from him, a combination of inebriation and drowsiness making it really hard to stay standing.

You lean against the wall of the elevator, bare feet on the cold floor, trying to decide what your next move is going to be and frowning when you draw a blank.

You were mad at him, that much you were sure of, and you definitely didn’t want to give away that you knew who he really was.

In the reflection of the elevator doors, you notice your heels dangling from his fingers, the very concept of it making something light up in your brain.

Maybe punishment was in order, for what- you had no idea at the moment- but you wanted to make him squirm.

It’s really fucking hard to make it to your door, and everytime he tries to help you, you smack him away, threatening to have him fired if he put his hands on you again. He never listens, his hands reaching out to grip your hips when you lean too far in one direction.

By sheer willpower you make it to your door, and you huff angrily when the key card refuses to work.

Billy waits patiently this time for you to ask for help, and when you finally turn to him, he’s leaning against the doorframe, staring at you, still wearing that dumb mask and hood.

You grit your teeth, tossing the key card at him, watching as he catches it mid air, which is definitely not what you intended to happen.

He drags it slowly over the sensor once, and the light turns green, you reach for the door handle, pushing it down and stumbling into your room.

You drop your mini clutch onto the marble countertop, bracing against it while you get your bearings.

He’s standing at the door, studying you, and you can hardly bear the sight of his disguise and you don’t understand why.

“Are you a vampire? Do you need to be invited in?” You say snarkily.

He stiffens, taking one step in and letting the door swing shut. He doesn’t move, hands clasped in front of him, waiting for orders.

“Bath.” You rasp, “Please.”

It’s really disrespectful, and you know that, but there’s something about ordering him around that makes you feel good, that maybe he will do anything you say, or maybe he will snap and show you who’s really in charge.

Or the scariest outcome- that he’d leave for good.

He nods, walking to the bathroom and after a few moments, you hear the bath filling with water.

You amble in on jelly legs, sitting on the closed toilet seat to watch him work, holding up bath accoutrements that you’d bought in your time here, silently asking which ones were okay.

When he gets it right, and all that’s left is to get the water filled, you point at the makeup remover and cotton rounds on the sink counter.

“Bring that here.” You say simply.

He picks it up, his hands ungloved, turning to approach you.

You don’t say anything, watching as he extends the products to you, and when you give him a disappointed look, he pulls out a cotton round, putting a liberal amount of makeup remover on it, before he presses two fingers under your chin to tilt your head up.

You close your eyes, unable to look at him, feeling him gently swipe the cotton over your face, pulling your makeup off gently.

“Thank you, Dave.” You say finally, head lolling into his hand, your face feverish against his palm.

He doesn’t respond, his only answer is slight, barely there caress of his fingers on your cheek before he draws away, heading to the door.

“Wait.” You whisper, watching as he stops in his tracks, hesitating before he turns back to you.

“Dress.” You say simply, standing to give him your back.

Your stomach flutters as you feel him drag the zipper down, the fact that this was really him was messing with you. What would he do if you tried to kiss him?

Would he give in? Or would he uphold the pretense of this ‘Dave’ persona?

When he gets the dress undone, you simply utter the words ‘Get out’ before you’re shedding your clothes and sliding into the bath.

You almost fall asleep there, but when the water gets too cold, you find the strength to get yourself out, grabbing your robe.

He’s left water and Advil on your nightstand, and you huff, crawling into bed, feeling different than you were before.

#billy russo #billy russo x reader #my writings #the punisher #billy russo smut #dark!billy russo #accidentally on purpose

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moonlume · 2 days ago

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This was mostly for Instagram as I've always felt much more comfortable on Tumblr, whether I'm on or off-topic, but I figured it's good to post it here too just as an update on what's been going on with me! I'm slowly getting back on track with things, I'll do more varied posting here too now I think :')

Plain text version under the read more:

Hi! Long time no see! Apologies for the sudden radio silence. I needed a long overdue break from social media. The truth is that I've been struggling with severe burnout for the last couple of years now. Between failed projects, changes in social media, and health issues, I've sadly developed a really negative and unhealthy outlook towards myself and my work, and I got really stuck in that mindset for a long time. Recently I heard a quote that was very fitting for what's been going on with me: "Don't start cleaning until you understand the mess." That is what I've been trying to do! I've been thinking and overthinking how I want to move forward with Moonlume, trying to understand those negative feelings and where they come from, and maybe, just maybe, I've found a path that I'm comfortable with. I'd like to delve into some of these topics with you, so read on if you're curious! Changes are coming!

SOCIAL MEDIA

I've been "in a relationship" with social media since I was about 15. I used to love it. I'm 30 now, and I've been trying to understand what made me so negative about it nowadays; not the parts I can't control, (algorithms, scams, AI, ads...) but my own presence and interaction with it. In hindsight, I should have realised what the main problem was sooner... When I was younger, the blogs I remember having a fun time running used to mostly be about what other people have made, and the things I enjoyed. I've been a small biz girlie since I was 16 (I used to run @FrozenCrafts before this! :D) but I've never liked being in a position where I only share my own work and nothing else. It's too much spotlight for me, too much pressure, especially with social media requiring consistency nowadays. I've always been an anxious, introverted person, and I now realise that this spotlight has been eating away at me. (Which is odd to say as someone who runs a small biz, I know.) I started getting even more anxious when, due to multiple reasons (more on that later) my output of new art really dropped off. Even though I've been working on Moonlume this whole time in the quiet background, I had very few new things to show for it. I couldn't help but compare myself to artists I really respect and look up to, who make new things every month, every week, and yes of course comparing yourself to others is a recipe for disaster, but... we all do it to some extent.

(And I definitely went overboard. At my lowest, I voiced some really awful things about both myself and my work...) Over time, the anxiety and frustration with myself got so bad that I couldn't stomach doing anything creative for a while, and eventually, I stopped all social media activity entirely. People say that burnout catches up to you and what do you know - the people are right... So... What's the solution here? Again, in hindsight, this should have dawned on me sooner. I've put myself in a cage just because "well that's how I've seen other people do it". And I'm sure many people will agree with the idea that a shop/smallbiz/brand account should just be about the brand! I totally get it! But I've realised that's not for me. From this day forward, I'd like to work towards making the Moonlume social media spaces be about everything cute, colourful and fun. I'd like to create an environment where it's not just about "Moonlume the art and products", but a place for everything that has inspired me, a place where I can share my favourite video games and artists with you, a place that isn't just a spotlight for me, but a spotlight for everything and everyone that made me fall in love with the cute and colourful aesthetics of this world. And I'd like to try and just have fun with social media again! It's been so long since I've been genuinely excited about making posts, yet here I am thinking "ohh I should take cute colourful layout pictures of my old 3DS and ask people if they're still using theirs!!". It is so relieving to feel excited again. Even typing this out feels like a rock being lifted from my heart.

And don't worry - the heart and soul of Moonlume is not going away. The colour explosion you see on my profile? That won't be changing! That is the vibe I'm going to keep here. Just with more variety, and less pressure on myself :)

HEALTH ISSUES

I mentioned that there are multiple reasons why I've become incredibly slow at releasing new designs. One of those is that I'm genuinely swamped with work all the time - running Moonlume is 95% emails, admin, customer service, etc. (I've been stuck in a "too much work for one person, not enough work + income for two people" stage for a long time now and I'm still trying to figure that one out.) I may not have much new creative work to show for it, but I DO have quite a few announcements to make soon! Opportunities for art I've already made kept coming up, so I've been prioritising those. The main reason, however... My joints. Ohh, my fail joints... For the last 3-4 years my wrist has been declining, or at least I thought it's just my wrist - it may be all my joints. Getting any answers from doctors as a "totally healthy" 30 year old has been frustrating - I still don't know what's wrong, scans have been booked and then lost, "oh just do stretches", "just wear a brace", "just need to rest". I listened to their generic advice at first, but considering that my hand was in pain almost all day yesterday, without me doing anything, I don't think rest is gonna save me here :/ All I can do is continue bugging them until they give me some answers. Until then... I have to work around my joints screaming at me. All this hit me really hard, because over the last couple of years, I've been trying to accept that I will no longer be able to draw the way I used to. Which sucks. I learned to do something I'm happy with and now I can't do it anymore. The work I used to make is just too detailed for me to tackle now - every set of designs would take about 4-5 days of intense drawing, and, apparently, I've also been holding the pen wrong since childhood which put extra strain on my wrist?? I've tried to unlearn this and couldn't... Holding a pen any other way is alien to me lol. But yep, that checks out - sometimes even writing grocery lists gets painful towards the end of the list, which takes like 5min. Or, sometimes, lifting a mug "wrong" sends lightning through my whole hand. So... How can I move forward with this? I doubt my joints are going to get any better, but I still want to continue running Moonlume. Besides using old designs for new products (not very exciting, I know, but people want them and that has helped so much - we are saving up for a family and I'm thankful for any income I can get!), creatively, I think I'd like to start calling myself less of an illustrator, and more of a product/stationery designer? A mouse doesn't strain my hand as much, depending on the day anyway, and I've been able to release at least something new with simple shapes recently - like my “You can never have too many stickers” sticker book! I'm really glad it's been well received, I've just gotten a second batch of these books in, it made me hopeful that there could still be a future for me in the world of stationery if I just change things up. Yes, I will forever be sad that I can no longer tackle the dreamy, detailed designs anymore. I had a lot of sketches and ideas ready to go, I had goals and skills I wanted to reach for... But I've been grieving this for way too long now and I want to learn to let go and move on.

FINAL THOUGHTS

So... Yeah. Everything I've just said, that cocktail of emotions and problems, it was really affecting my mental health over the last few years. I've been stuck in an endless cycle of disappointment in myself. The shame over not doing enough, not making new things fast enough, or as interesting/meaningful as other people, on top of struggling to let go of past failures and getting frustrated with joint problems... all that made me develop some really messy feelings towards both myself and my work. There were points where I was fantasising about burning it all down just to have a fresh start. It was bad :( BUT! With a clearer head and armed with perspective from people I love, I can say this: I AM proud of what I've made so far! I no longer look at my work and loathe it like I did for a while. Looking back, damn, that was a super unhealthy perspective and I'm glad I can recognise it now. And even though, thanks to my fail joints, I'm no longer able to make things the way I used to... I'm learning to accept this and I'm looking forward to the future. I'm excited to talk more about things I love, excited to make the Moonlume social media space be more varied and give it a breath of fresh air! Posting about my work/products all the time also left very little room for discussion and chatting with you guys, and I miss the feeling of community, so I'm excited to make this a livelier space! That doesn't mean that the art part of Moonlume is going anywhere - it's still my beloved little shop, and I'll still be making things for (hopefully!!) many years to come, just at a slower, much more comfortable and sustainable pace. ♥

Thank you so much for reading this and hearing me out. The support I've received from everyone here over the last 8 years has been genuinely invaluable - my head spins daily from the thought that my little creations have had the chance to travel the whole world thanks to you... It's truly magical. I hope that with this new chapter I can reconnect with the community once more, and move on to a brighter future! Love you all! ♥

Maple

#might still finish the bg3 shirts one day cause im so upset i got so far and dropped them.. id still like one just for myself ngl..#but they might need redrawing in higher res for printing and the fronts arent designed at all yet so idk!! maybe one day.....#artists on tumblr #my drawings and wares #art #burnout

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archives-of-a-hidden-writer · 2 days ago

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Little Thing

Diluc X Reader

》Typing... |

》 [Entry No.019 - Little Thing]|

》 Loading Archive Entry "Little Thing" |

》 Location of Entry: Archivial's |

》 Tip: Feel free to support the Archiver |

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》 Summary: Being your favorite character, you decided to buy yourself a cute chibi version of him. However, things may not be as normal as you may think. "I wish you were here." |

》 Warnings: Self-aware au? hurt/comfort, small part of reader crying over Diluc being only in game, might be cringy because self-indulgent. |

》 Archive Entry Loaded ◇

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Over the past few months, you've found yourself liking the game Genshin Impact, an RPG all about adventuring and trying to find any way to find your character's sibling again.

While playing this game, a specific red head had caught your attention to the point that he immediately became your favorite. Giggling and squeeling over him as if he'd just given you a large compliment when all he did was talk. No matter what it was he was speaking about, it'd turn you all giggly like a schoolgirl whose crush just texted back.

Over time, you got him and even got him to a reasonable constellation level alongside being crowned in some of his skills.

You've just become that attached, and it wasn't long until you found yourself buying your first item relating to him, a small Diluc plushie.

It was fairly cheap, but it still is good quality, and thanks to this bought piece, you now often have him close to you, wherever you are.

■■■

"Diluc! Oh my god, there he is!" Your voice echoed through the land just as Diluc entered the scene, all with his stoic, resting bitch face look.

However, while you speak about Diluc and all, little did you know that he was listening. Not on purpose, but your voice echoed through his mind.

When he first heard of your voice, he thought he was going insane, until he listened further into your words.

He was your favorite, favorite in this game that is his world, his nation that he protects through the shadows.

Even though the voice would only occur on certain times, specifically around the newcomer, the traveller. Why does he feel the need to be come closer? What's so good about you that he often hears you praise him?

It wasn't common as well when he hears you speaking of the burden and trauma he has been shouldered with ever since the death of his father.

How did you know of that? Is it something regular outside of his 'world'?

This led to him becoming even more curious of you, and comfortable? Why does he feel comfortable around you? Your voice?

He wonders now is how long this comradery would continue.

■■■

Soft sobs emitted from your room, cries echoing from there and into the game, into Diluc's mind.

Meanwhile, Diluc slept in his winery before suddenly being brought to you through his dream.

In his dream, he saw you. Yet, unlike how he hears you during his talks along with the traveller, he now sees you crying.

Hunched over your desk, you sobbed, holding the small plushie version of him in your hands.

Since when did you have a small stuff version of him? But that's beside the point, why are you crying? Yet he could only watch as you cry your heart out.

■■■

Everything was so much, every brick of burdens, work, etc. Has been piling on top of you, drowning you, and you could only do so much.

So when the dam breaks, you couldn't take it anymore and just cried your heart out while holding your Diluc plushie. Staring at the small little thing before bringing it to your face.

"Getting attached to someone isn't real, huh? Real good one, self..." you muttered to yourself, trying to make a laugh out of yourself, not realising the same man is watching your through his dream.

There was a good silence, while you stared at the plushie more before letting out a sigh and one more broken cry.

"Gods, I really wish you were here sometimes..." You uttered out before slowly letting exhaustion from your crying take you over, the small plushie falling from your hands and rolling beside you on the desk.

■■■

Diluc suddenly woke up from the dream, breaking a small sweat. Running a hand through his hair, he sighed. You were that attached to him. Well, he is your favorite.

Yet, as he lay back down onto the bed below, he couldn't stop thinking about it. You found comfort in him despite not even being physically there apart from the plushie in your hands.

So, as he lay, he wonders... What can he do to someone he couldn't even reach either? One that has the same predicament as him, unable to physically reach?

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

》 Archiver's Notes: Cringy Self-Indulgent as an former genshin player who's account holds a double-crowned and C4 Diluc who has been my main ever since I got him during my first few weeks in Genshin (I started playing during November 2020) and yes, this entry will be a series.

#🔷️archives #diluc x reader #genshin impact diluc x reader #genshin impact x reader #diluc ragnvindr #diluc ragnivindr x reader #diluc fluff #diluc angst #genshin impact #sagau

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whisperofaflame · 10 hours ago

Text

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 3: The Cat, the Witch and the Spider

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: You spend the rest of the day in Wanda's company, anticipating the return of her wife, Natasha.

Word Count: 6.6k

Featuring: A really cute cat, and the first appearance of Natasha.

When you pull yourself out of your daydream, you realise you haven’t been to the bathroom for hours, and you really need to pee. You stand up and hastily make your way out the bedroom and into the bathroom on the same floor. You’re so focussed on your need that it isn’t until after, when you’re washing your usable hand at the sink, that you notice the state of yourself. Starting at your chin and spreading up your right cheek is a patch of pink, grazed skin. You look awful; it’s very evident that you endured something untoward recently. It looks clean though, so you consider that someone must have seen to it at some point this morning, since it most likely came from your close encounter with the tarmac, and that must have left some residue. It’s funny, how seeing your injuries in the mirror triggers your brain to receive the pain. You can feel the sting in your cheek now that you know it is there, now you understand the signals. You wonder if it was all getting mixed up with the shoulder pain before.

You look down at the rest of you, seeing your top is worn thin beneath the sling, where it dragged along the road. Your jeans too look a little battered, but there don’t seem to be any rips or holes. You wonder what your legs look like beneath, whether there are more scrapes hidden under the denim, or any purple patches emerging under your skin. You’d really like to change out of your jeans into something more comfy, but it occurs to you that it’s going to be an ordeal to change with only one arm, and your non-dominant arm at that. Even going to the toilet was a faff.

Looking at yourself in the mirror again, you realise there is perhaps one thing you can do to improve your appearance even a little. Your hair is sticking up all over the place, half in and half out of the bobble you wrapped around your ponytail before you left your flat this morning. No wonder Wanda keeps brushing it out your eyes. And as lovely as it feels to have her gentle touch, you’d much rather look presentable in front of her.

You remember there is a mirror in the walk-in closet of your bedroom, which you glanced in your periphery when Wanda was showing you around. So you head back there, and wiggle your hairbrush out the toiletries bag, after wrestling with the zip a while. You’ve found it’s best to attempt everything with one hand first, and only employ the dangling fingers of your right arm in the direst of straights, since any use of that side inevitably provokes an intensive throbbing in your broken bone. So you wrangle the tool out with a single fumbling hand and approach the mirror with a grimace of determination.

It’s clumsy work, making you really how lopsided your muscles must be in your body, but you just about manage to tame your hair with your left hand. That is, until you gain confidence and start making fast, cocky strokes — which you simply don’t have the dexterity to control. The full weight of the hairbrush, plus the momentum you’ve pushed in with your hand, collides with your collarbone, and you have to bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from screaming. You hiss out through the cracks, scrunching your eyes shut and squeezing out a few tears. A range of swear words run through your head as you try to fight the feeling with ferocious thoughts.

It doesn’t really go away, but it does subside a tiny bit after half a minute of agony. You force yourself to take deep breaths and look up at yourself again. It’s good enough; no more hair brushing for now, you decide.

You don’t feel particularly tired anymore; your dozing in the car seems to have been enough to revitalise you. So there’s nothing to do but go downstairs and join Wanda in the kitchen. You wonder about bringing something down with you, something to do, but you decide against it. For now, you’ll just go with the flow.

You leave the bedroom door open as you leave, since it feels private enough tucked away at the top of the stairs, and you don’t have anything to hide anyway. Then you take careful, quiet steps down the winding staircase. Down to the level with Wanda’s bedroom, then down again to the entrance level, as the sound of classical music slowly seeps into your consciousness.

You turn to your left at the bottom of the stairs, stepping softly into the kitchen in your ankle socks. Wanda is at the stove but she twists to face you, greeting you with an all-encompassing smile, which reaches her eyes and softens her shoulders.

She’s so beautiful.

“Here, sweetheart,” Wanda says, pulling out a bar stool from under the island in the middle. “Take a seat while I cook.”

You awkwardly shimmy onto the high stool, feeling off-balance due to your rigid right side. Then you place your good hand on the counter and push against it to spin the stool, so you can face Wanda. She places a hand gently on your knee.

“I’m making a big omelette for us,” she tells you with a smile. Then she tilts her head slightly. “I hope that’s okay?”

You nod, feeling dazed. It’s hard to focus like this, when your senses are assaulted by her kindness from all avenues — her voice, her smile, her touch. Wanda gives your knee a light squeeze, then she turns back to the pan on the hob. You chew your lip and press your hand between your legs, just above your knees. It’s only now that one arm is out of action that you realise how fidgety you are, since you’re constantly initiating motions to clasp your hands or arms together, all of which have to be aborted when you remember your arm is off-duty. Instead, your feet find a little rung on the stool and you lightly bounce your left leg up and down while you watch Wanda. She’s moving so fluidly, her body responding ever so slightly to the music playing from a radio on the corner of the counter. She hums a little too, happily occupied in her cooking. You let the sight, the sound, the smell wash over you.

When Wanda finishes the omelette, she pulls two plates out of one of the overhead cupboards and begins plating up. Your processing is so slow in the wake of the accident that it’s only when she lifts the plates and turns that the idea of offering help occurs to you.

“Sorry — can I do anything?” You stand up from the stool, and it creaks a little with your hasty motion.

Perhaps Wanda sees a certain desperation in your eyes, because she gives you a token task to do.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Could you bring the glasses over, please? I’ll come back and get the jug.”

You nod, and wait until she’s walked past you before approaching the counter and gently stacking the two glasses Wanda took from the cupboard. Then you carry them across to the dining table with your remaining hand. Wanda passes you again on her way back, and smiles. You duck your head to hide flushed cheeks, and set the glasses down one at a time, beside each plate. Wanda turns the volume down on the radio, then fills the jug from under the tap and then carries it over, meeting your watchful eyes. She sets it down, then pulls out the chair beside you. You’re about to move to the other side of the table, sure you’ve managed to accidentally hover at her spot, but then she gestures with her hand for you to sit.

“Thank you,” you mumble, as you obey without question. You slide in front of the chair, and lean down to pull it forward, but it moves slowly without your input. So you sit, and turn back to see Wanda smiling down at you. She briefly places a hand on your intact shoulder, then moves round the table, taking the seat opposite you.

A warm, cosy feeling settles in your stomach. You feel a little exposed, with her facing you, but her kindness is chipping away at your discomfort and softening your demeanour. Wanda picks up her fork and flicks her eyes towards your plate meaningfully, so you lift yours too, and begin to eat.

It’s a little awkward, only having one hand, but luckily the omelette isn’t too difficult to cut with the side of your fork. The two of you eat in peaceful tandem, and you’re surprised by the ease of the silence, the lack of pressure to speak. It’s appreciated, because you can’t think of anything to say right now, and your brain probably wouldn’t comply if you were obliged to answer any questions.

The first interruption of the meal comes from the stairs, a loud and insistent meow which makes you jump. You turn to see a small white cat approaching the table with slightly skittish steps as it scopes out the two human bodies at the table.

“Oh, silly me,” Wanda chuckles. “I’m sorry Y/N, I forgot to tell you… Meet Mayakovsky. Or, Myau-kovsky, as Nat calls him. Because he meows so much.”

Mayakovsky stops a few steps from the table, tail flicking and eyes watching you intently. You glance at Wanda for permission, and she smiles. So, very slowly, you crouch down on the floor, and extend your left arm, hand in a fist except for your index finger, which you stretch out for a greeting.

Mayakovsky’s tail settles into an upright curl, and you wait patiently, trying not to move or stare at him too intensely. Soon, your patience is rewarded by his approach, cautious at first, but then confident as he begins to trust you. He boops his nose against your finger, then goes round to his right, rubbing his cheek against your fist and sliding along your outstretched arm. Your face lights up at his acceptance, and as he circles behind you, tail wrapping round your legs as he goes, you slowly turn your head to Wanda and grin happily.

“Well, he’s taken to you rather quickly, sweetheart,” she says, laughing lightly.

When Mayakovsky comes back around to your front, you slowly sit down on the floorboards, and offer your hand again. When he rubs his head against you, you turn it into a testing stroke, and you hear and feel him purring against you.

“You’re very handsome,” you whisper to him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“He is very handsome,” Wanda agrees, “but he’s also a bit of a liability.”

“Really?” you ask, wondering what sort of antics he gets up to.

“He’s deaf, but also not very coordinated, so he often falls off things when he gets a fright. If you need to get his attention or let him know you’re there, it’s best to step heavily on the floor so he can feel the vibrations.”

You nod, and look back at Mayakovsky, who’s nudging you to give him more pets. His whiskers are tickling against you, making you giggle. You stroke him a while longer, until he gets bored, or remembers what he came in for. He trots over to Wanda, and meows loudly again, like he doesn’t realise how loud he’s being. Which, you suppose, he can’t.

“OK, OK, I’ll get you something,” Wanda tells him, standing up. You return to your seat at the table and watch as she goes into the kitchen and takes a bag of cat food from a cupboard near the door. Then she pours a small amount into a bowl, partially hidden under a shelf, which might be why you missed it when she showed you around. Once the bag is away and Mayakovsky’s face is buried in the bowl, she opens the balcony door a little, letting in a welcome breeze.

“Nat thinks I spoil him too much,” Wanda sighs, coming back to you and leaving Mayakovsky to eat. “But I can’t help it, he’s just too cute.”

“He is,” you agree, taking another bite of your omelette. “How long have you had him?”

“Not long; I adopted him less than a year ago. Nat wasn’t happy at first,” Wanda laughs. “But then, it was a surprise for her — I adopted him the day I found out about him, and didn’t have a chance to warn her. It took her a while, but I think they’re quite fond of each other now, though neither of them will admit it.”

You grin, but inside you’re beginning to feel a little worried about meeting Natasha. You can’t help but feel that you, like Mayakovsky, are a surprise arrival. And you’re certainly nowhere near as cute as him, which must have helped ease the blow.

Mayakovsky finishes his food, and trots out the slight opening of the door to the balcony. Wanda explains that there’s a cat flap downstairs too, so he can get out even if the door is closed. You finish your omelette and drink some more water, feeling the cold liquid dripping down your throat and quenching the thirst you hadn’t registered until now.

Wanda stands to clear the table, and you help her stack the plates and carry everything through to the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, as she loads the plates, cutlery and glasses into the dishwasher.

You shrug. “I’m okay. A bit sore though.”

“Of course, sweetheart” she nods, then glances at her watch. “You can have some more painkillers in an hour.”

Your head tilts in question, wondering how she knows this. Wanda huffs out a half-laugh, and smiles at your confusion.

“The doctor who gave us your medication, darling. She said you could take it every six hours, but we should count from the drugs you were given in the ambulance around nine this morning.”

“Oh,” you say, realising you remember none of this, despite your attempts to appear engaged in the hospital. Maybe the concussion is affecting you more than you think.

“It’s okay honey, I can keep track for you until you’re feeling a bit better.” Wanda reaches over and squeezes your hand. “I can’t imagine how confusing all of this must be for you, but you’re doing just fine, alright?”

There’s a tensing, twisting feeling in your chest; you feel so comfortable and self-conscious at the same time, and you don’t know how that can be.

“Now, what would you like to do this afternoon? I wondered about watching a film downstairs, to let your body rest a bit. What do you think?”

You shrug, then nod very slightly. You don’t have any other ideas, and a movie sounds nice. Internally, you wonder if she will join you. You hope that she will join you.

“Alright,” she says, closing the dishwasher. “Let’s go down, then.”

You scoot out of the way to let her lead, still not confident enough to initiate anything. She smiles at you ask she passes, and looks over her shoulder to watch you tiptoeing behind her. When you reach the stairs, you’re able to use the banister on the left side to reassure yourself on your descent. You still feel off-balance with your right arm strapped tightly against your torso, and as the painkillers begin to wane inside your body, the bruising impact of the crash is beginning to emerge in your legs too. Wanda watches you the whole way down, glancing back and pausing when you slow.

“That’s it honey,” she encourages you softly. “Take it slow.”

When you reach the bottom, she grants you a quiet “good job”, and you bite your lip in an attempt to restrain the blushing.

Wanda leads you to their living room space, sitting down on the sofa and patting the cushion beside her. You sidle behind the coffee table and perch down slowly, lowering yourself with your good arm on the sofa and leaving an appropriate gap between you. Sinking in to the sofa and surrounded by cushions, your jeans suddenly feel more restrictive and uncomfortable on your body. The denim grating against grazed skin, digging in to your tummy as you sit. You begin to regret leaving them on and not changing when you could. You’ll just have to bear it, and hope that you can be distracted from the feeling.

“What would you like to watch?” Wanda asks, picking up the remote and turning the TV on.

You shrug. It’s silly, and a little rude maybe, so you force yourself to find the words. “Don’t know.” Still, it feels insufficient. “I’m sorry, I can’t seem to think…”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reassures you, interrupting your babbling explanation. “Let me think for you. Just let me know your thoughts if and when you can.”

You nod, with a small smile of relief. It’s a welcome reprieve, to be given the opportunity to rest. Leaning back against the cushion, you feel your muscles relax, making you realise how much tension you’ve been holding in them for hours. Wanda watches you, and smiles at your contentment.

You look up at the TV screen, your breath slowing. Wanda navigates to Netflix, and flicks through some options. You find it hard to keep up with the changing images, so you let your eyes wander a little, turning slowly to face her and gaze at her intent expression.

“Hmm,” she hums, thinking. “When I’m feeling under the weather I like to watch something relaxing, like a Studio Ghibli film.”

You perk up at that. “I love Studio Ghibli films!” you pipe up, eyes jumping back to the screen.

“Have you seen this one?” Wanda asks, highlighting Kiki’s Delivery Service. You frown, and shake your head. “It’s one of my favourites,” she tells you, and you turn back to her.

“Can we watch it then?” you ask, realising you’ve assumed she’ll stay, but hoping she intended to anyway.

“Of course, sweetheart. Let’s see if you enjoy it as much as I do.”

You smile, sinking deeper into the sofa, happy that she seems to be settling down to stay too. She starts playing it, and tucks her feet up so that her legs are crossed on the sofa beside you. Her knee is very close to you now; you can feel the heat of her body. But you force yourself to focus on the screen, which doesn’t turn out to be hard. You’re very quickly transfixed by the gorgeous animation, the gutsy young witch and her doleful cat companion, Jiji. You’re so engrossed that you gradually forget where you are, and who you’re with. In the scene when Jiji the cat sticks his tongue out and blows a raspberry into the air, you giggle and pull your feet up onto the sofa, forgetting Wanda’s proximity. Your foot bumps into hers, and you’re brought back to earth at once, blushing at your clumsiness and the level to which you have become invested in the film. You tuck your feet underneath you a little tighter, so your crossed left foot can’t bump into her right. And you stare back at the screen, determined not to look at Wanda and show her your burning face.

After a while, Wanda puts her feet down on the floor and shuffles to the edge of the sofa.

“I’m just going to get your meds, sweetheart,” she whispers in explanation. “I don’t want you to leave it too late and get more sore.”

You blink at her, thoughts still occupied by the film. As she stands, your brain finally catches up.

“Thank you,” your murmur, and she gives you a little smile before passing in front of the coffee table and returning to the stairs.

In her absence, you shuffle back into the left corner of the sofa so that you can rest you legs out without intruding into Wanda’s spot. It’s a little uncomfortable though, because you need to stay at a certain angle to avoid pressing your bad side into the sofa.

When Wanda returns, she is carrying a glass of water in one hand and the pill bottle in the other. She sees your shifted position, and frowns briefly.

“Honey, switch over to my side,” she directs you gently. “It looks uncomfortable, having your shoulder against the cushions.”

Because she’s phrased it as an instruction, rather than a question, you feel obliged to obey without offering an initial polite refusal. You swing your legs to stand, and sidle between the coffee table and the sofa to sit in the opposite corner instead. Indeed, when you sit down it is a lot more comfortable. With your right arm facing out you can lean back fully, and relax your core muscles. Plus, there’s still the hint of warmth on the cushion, the ghost of her body heat left behind.

Wanda crouches down beside you, and holds out the glass of water. You have to sit up again a little bit, afraid of spilling, before taking it in your left hand. Then she opens the pill bottle, pressing and twisting with both hands to undo the seal and overcome the child-lock. She shakes one pill out into her hand, then twists the lid back on with the tips of her fingers and places the bottle onto the table.

“Ah,” she says, realising at the same time as you that you now don’t have a hand to take the pill with. A wild, imagined image of her placing it on your tongue leaps to the forefront of your imagination, and you’re suddenly gripped by the terror that she can somehow see it, read it on your rubescent face. You hand back the glass, averting your gaze, and let her swap it for the small white pill instead. You open your mouth just a little to let it in, then take back the glass and wash it away with the water. It gets a little caught in your throat, and you pull a face without meaning too, grimacing as you try to flush it down with more water. Finally, it relents its grip and disappears down the pipe.

Wanda takes the glass back from you in her right hand, and simultaneously brushes your hair behind your ear with her left, making you catch your breath at her soft, whispering touch.

“Hopefully this will help your pain a bit,” she says, frowning at you sympathetically. You lean back again, looking into her grey-blue eyes, blinking stupidly. Then you nod, because she doesn’t seem to be moving, and you’re not sure if you should be doing or saying something. She smiles at this, and shuffles in front of you to sit on the other side of the sofa, where she’ll surely also feel the warmth of your body beneath her. She’s also chosen to sit right beside your feet, and you can almost feel the charged space between your toes and her thighs.

“Do you want me to go back a bit?” she asks, gesturing to the screen when you look back at her in confusion.

You shake your head. “It’s okay,” you say quietly. She smiles, nods, and turns back to watch the film. And you do the same, tension evaporating as you focus on the story again, letting the music lull you. You’re so comfy, and the movie is so calm and comforting with its soft colours and gentle music. It gets a little blurry and harder to see, but you don’t really notice, and you definitely don’t mind. Slowly, your eyes flicker and begin to close, as you drift off to sleep.

When you wake, you find a soft blanket draped over your body. Turning to face the screen, you see it has been turned off. Wanda is sitting at the far end of the sofa, tucked into the opposite corner, legs crossed and hands rhythmically knitting between them. She glances up, and her face breaks into a smile.

“Hey, sweetheart. Good sleep?”

You have to think a moment, still catching up to where you are and what has happened. Finally, you nod.

“How long was I out for?” you ask quietly.

“Just over an hour,” Wanda tells you, her voice gentle, like she’s trying not to startle you so soon after waking. She leans down and places her knitting on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “I was just thinking I should wake you up soon actually. Nat should be home from work shortly, and I’d better start making us some dinner.”

You sit up, eager not to hold her back from her daily routine. The blanket falls away from you a little, reminding you that she must have tucked it in around you while you were sleeping. The thought makes you feel a lightheaded, giddy kind of joy. But then you realise that this fuzzy, cosy state you are in is not how you want to be when you’re introduced to Natasha, who sounds capable and serious and discerning.

“Is it okay if I go upstairs and get changed? You ask, feeling there is finally enough incentive to justify the inevitable pain of removing your scuffed clothes.

“Of course, darling. Do you want any help?”

“No thanks,” you say hastily, terrified at the notion of her seeing your body when you’re trying so hard to contain (and deny) all your haphazard emotions. “I appreciate the offer, but really, I’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, fixing you with a look that makes you feel like you’re being x-rayed. “It might be tricky with your sling, honey. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” you assure her, trying to sound confident, despite fully agreeing that yes, it will be tricky.

“Okay,” she relents. “But I’d prefer to wait outside your room, and then you can call me if you get stuck, alright?”

You nod, biting your lip as you consider the premise, imagining getting stuck halfway through changing and having to desperately call for aid in such a compromising position. The thought makes you shudder.

You peel back the blanket, attempting to fold it but hardly managing with one hand. Wanda smiles at you though, so you think it will do.

The two of you walk up the stairs together, climbing the three flights to your — no, the guest — bedroom. Once there, you take a deep breath, summoning all your resolve to complete this task. Wanda waits, as promised, outside, and you close the door over most of the way behind you.

It’s an almighty ordeal: even just shimmying out of your jeans and pulling on a loose pair of joggers feels like a marathon effort, and involves a lot more painful leaning than you expected. With your lower half sorted, you immediately realise how stupid you were to assume you could manage any of the next part by yourself. It dawns on you just how dependent you are now, at least until your collarbone heals enough to move your arm without excruciation. Throwing caution to the wind, you attempt to undo the sling, breathing heavily in wheezing pants of pain. But then you are stuck, crying out as the weight of your arm is released and you are forced to tense it in position, the energy rippling through your bones.

“Y/N, honey, can I come in?” Wanda asks, sounding desperate.

You can’t reply verbally, you’re expending all your effort on trying not to scream. But the door opens anyway, and she’s rushing to you, hushing you gently, hands taking over with reassuring efficiency. You close your eyes as she supports you, checks for your consent. When she asks what you want to change into you open your eyes just enough to gesture at the baggy t-shirt you laid out on the bed. You nod pathetically whenever she asks if she can proceed, desperate just to get it over with, no longer worried about your dignity since it’s already gone, deserted from your body along with your tears.

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to be too forward, and you can absolutely say no if you’re not comfortable, but do you maybe want me to take your bra off? I just wonder if it’s adding pressure to your collarbone…” Wanda asks, cautious and gentle.

You really think about this. It occurs to you that it will have to come off at some point tonight, and maybe it’s better if you get it all out of the way now, rather than having to rehash this undignified sequence again later today.

“Um, w-would you?” you ask, very quietly. “It’s just, it is kind of uncomfortable, and I don’t… I can’t…” You tail off, but she is quick to reassure you.

“Of course I can, sweetheart. This must all feel so awkward, hm? But it’s okay. I’m happy to help, you just need to let me know if you want me to stop at any point.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and duck your eyes down again.

It’s embarrassing, yes, but Wanda is very careful and respectful as she helps you undress. She focussed her attention entirely on keeping you right arm at the least-worst angle, and averts her gaze expertly from the source of your self-consciousness. Slowly, so as not to jar you, she slips the t-shirt through your sore arm and then over your head, letting you contort your left arm through the sleeve yourself. Then she gently reassembles the sling on your body, making sure it’s sitting right and the fabric of your t-shirt is smoothed out underneath.

“There,” she whispers, “all done.”

You breathe out a deep, relieved breath, and cautiously look up into her eyes.

“Thank you,” you tell her, really focussing on holding her gaze, since you are desperate to communicate the full extent of your gratitude. Your collarbone aches something rotten after all the contortion of changing, but you feel infinitely more comfortable now that you’re out of the clothes your body was violated in.

“You’re so welcome,” Wanda assures you, placing a hand on your head and smoothing down your hair in a light stroke. “Now, I’m going to go downstairs and start cooking. Do you want to join me, or would you like some time to yourself before dinner?”

Her touch is like a drug, one that leaves you desperately wanting more. You feel a tugging sensation inside you, one that yearns to stay near and languish in wait for more of that feeling, of her fingers against your skin, of her soft lips smiling nearby.

“Can I come with you, please?”

She smiles, and the small glint of her white teeth between her lips is like the glint of heaven’s gates breaking through the clouds.

“Of course, sweetheart. Such good manners,” she hums approvingly. You blush, and take her hand automatically, which you think she was holding out for you, but now you’re not sure. She doesn’t let you doubt though, because she squeezes your hand gently in hers, like she wanted it all along, even if she didn’t.

Back in the kitchen, you offer to help but Wanda distracts you with a recipe book, somehow convincing you to flick through and find something to bake tomorrow, and making you forget you ever asked to assist her. You’re gazing avidly at a photo of some expertly iced cupcakes when you hear a door opening in the distance, and turn around with a hint of trepidation.

Through the open-plan level, past the table and the armchairs, you can see a woman has entered the main door, and is putting her shoes away.

“Hello, my love,” Wanda calls out. “We’re in the kitchen.”

Your body cools at once in anticipation of meeting Natasha. Does she even know you’re here? Has Wanda told her to expect you?

Natasha approaches, her gait confident and casual. She’s maybe slightly shorter than Wanda, and her body is more lean. You can see the muscles in her arms as she walks, and you notice her posture is straight and strong. When she nears, you observe her face. She has dyed red hair, glossy and clean in a tight french-braid at the back. She’s also beautiful, in a striking, slightly intimidating way. She fixes you with an inquisitive stare, and you again have the feeling that you’re being x-rayed, though this time, it feels a little less friendly.

“Nat, did you get my message?” Wanda asks, walking over to her and giving a chaste kiss in greeting. Natasha reciprocates, but quickly returns her gaze to you, frowning slightly as she answers her wife.

“Only just,” she says shortly.

“Well,” Wanda smiles between you and her wife. “Nat, this is Y/N.”

“Natasha,” she says, nodding her head to you. And you’re caught between thinking that she’s introducing herself, versus instructing you to call her by her full name.

“It’s nice to meet you, Natasha,” you say, but it comes out in a little squeak which rather diminishes the formal impression your were going for.

Natasha gives you a very brief smile, then takes a breath in and looks to Wanda.

“Right, I’m going to take a shower, if that’s okay. When will dinner be?”

“No problem, my love. It should be ready in fifteen,” Wanda tells her, turning slightly so you can no longer see her expression, only the slight cocking of her head from the back. You think Natasha might give a small nod of her head, but it might have been a meaningless movement. Then she gives Wanda a quick kiss, and departs upstairs.

You watch her go, feeling a little crestfallen, and mentally chastising yourself for letting it get to you.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. Maybe she’s had a bad day. And besides, she’s entitled to feel a little taken aback by you, you’ve essentially gatecrashed their lives.

“Don’t worry about Nat, sweetheart,” Wands tells you quietly. “She… Well, it takes her a while to warm up to people. It’s not personal, okay?”

You look up at Wanda’s face, furrowed with concern like she yearns to make sure that you aren’t taking her wife’s behaviour to heart. Her words are a bit reassuring, though they don’t quite go all the way to assuaging the worry that you’re not wanted. But you nod, forcing a smile, because somehow it pains you more to see Wanda worried, and you desperately want to be a good guest for her, since she’s going to all this trouble to help you. So you try to reassure her in a casual manner.

“It’s okay — I hadn’t really noticed it anyway,” you say. It’s a lie, and perhaps an obvious one, judging by the way Wanda’s lips curl into a somewhat pitiful smile. But you don’t pay it much mind; your focus is stolen by her hand reaching out and taking hold of your left hand. She clasps your fingers from below and wraps her thumb on top to draw light circles on the back of your hand, watching as your body reacts unconsciously, eyes fluttering in hazy delight.

“Just give her some time,” Wanda hums, her words echoing in your brain like a mantra. “Soon she’ll be as taken with you as Mayakovsky and I are.”

You blush, and smile to yourself, looking at your lap as she squeezes your hand and lets you go. She returns to her cooking, and you turn back to look at the recipe book. But you’re not reading or looking at the pictures at all. None of the pages turn, as you’re engulfed by the giddy feeling that maybe, just maybe, you are wanted after all.

Eventually, Wanda pulls you out of your haze and asks you sweetly if you can set the table. You nod quickly, and almost fall off the stool with your eagerness. She chuckles and catches you with an arm at your waist.

“Careful, honey,” she laughs, and you grin bashfully in return.

You set the table in a slow, laboured manner, since you only have one arm to carry things, and Wanda gives you a light warning not to stack things when she sees you attempting to balance three plates in one hand. So you go one item at a time, trying to get the right balance between speed and stability. Natasha appears as you’re finishing, her hair loose and damp on her shoulders, watching you as she attempts to dry it with a towel. You avoid her gaze, feeling uncomfortable at being perceived so intensely by her. You wonder what Wanda told her in the message; you wonder what she thinks of you.

When Wanda calls for you both to take a seat, you wait for Natasha to sit first, scared of taking her place and causing a greater rift between you. She looks at you for a moment from her seated position, observing your body swaying slightly on the spot in indecision, before she pulls out the chair beside her. You bite your lip, and force yourself to smile at her, before travelling round the other side of the table and sitting down.

“You look a bit rough,” Natasha says bluntly. “What happened?”

“I, um, don’t really remember,” you say, in an awkward, stilted manner. “Wanda says I was hit by a truck at the intersection.”

Wanda carries over a big pan, filled with the sweet-smelling apricot and chickpea tagine she told you she was making.

“She was, Nat; it was awful,” Wanda explains, brow furrowing sympathetically at you as she relates the story. “It hit her from the side; I was right behind her, so she was flung onto my bonnet. I only just stopped in time — she could have been crushed otherwise.”

“Broken collarbone?” Natasha asks you, and you blink in surprise.

“Yes,” you respond, surprised by her quick and accurate diagnosis. “H-how did you know?”

Natasha shrugged. “Broke mine a few years ago. It really sucks, I’m sorry.”

You give her a small, grateful smile, which has to double up for two kindnesses when she takes your plate for you, serves you a portion, and places it down again.

“Thanks,” you murmur. She just nods simply, and focusses on serving herself.

Wanda asks some general questions about Natasha’s work day, and Natasha offers some vague answers in return. You’re not really listening though, you still feel a bit groggy from the pain and the meds and the sleep. Plus, you’re concentrating really hard on eating your tagine without spilling it on you.

The quiet sounds of chewing and light scraping of cutlery against plates is disrupted by a loud meowing from the door. Mayakovsky strides in, and you watch as he approaches Natasha’s chair, then opens his mouth to release a black, eight-legged mass which wriggles as it falls to the floor.

You and Wanda both jump in surprise, but Natasha just laughs and rolls her eyes.

“Of course you would save this for me, malen'kiy negodnik,” she says with a dramatic sigh.And she confidently scoops up the spider in her hands, nimbly avoiding Mayakovsky’s desperate swipes and standing up with her hands cupped around his prey. You watch as she walks to the balcony door, opening it wider with her elbow, then steps outside and releases the spider into one of the plant pots. Mayakovsky stalks behind her, but then scarpers down the steps, abandoning his prey in search of something better.

Natasha comes back in, closes the door behind her with one of her toned arms, and walks to the sink to wash her hands.

“What would you do without me, ladies?” she calls out cockily.

And, hearing her husky voice and watching her self-assured movements, you realise with a jolt to your stomach that you may now have more than one crush to contend with.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the introductions of Natasha and Mayakovsky. Here is a photo of the cat that inspired him (the real version belongs to my friends; this beautiful boy is also deaf and he has a crooked tail so he's not very coordinated. He is blessed with pretty privilege, however). ♡

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #mommy wanda #mommy natasha #f/f fanfic #collision course #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff

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no1blacksapphirefan · 6 hours ago

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Hope things get better for you!! If it’s not too much to ask I was wondering how you’d imagine the cookies would react to reader obviously being sick but still logging into the game, like “idc that I’m sick and need rest I need to do these quests IMMEDIATELY”

Me when I got hit in the back of the head with a frisbee tho. I couldn't leave my fav cookies alone <33 Pure Vanilla probably so disappointed though.

Thought it would be funny/entertaining to have this w/ cookies who have the healing element hehe

Pure Vanilla He shakes his head disappointed, you're sneezing so much!! You must get some rest, and no you playing the game to make yourself feel better does not count. Sleep will you? Take some medicine and then, after a long nap. If you're feeling better, THEN you can play.

He wants to tell you this, perhaps you'd be too sick to realise he's talking to you directly. How he wishes his powers could go through the screen and make you feel better, alas he'll have to settle on scolding you while hoping you don't realise in your sick state

Mystic Flour She knows it'll be hard to convince you to rest, she sees it in your eyes. You're dead set on finishing quests and other various tasks. So, she'll just make sure the work you want to do, how do I put this. Isn't doable till you get better.

Your main quest aren't working? Why not put the phone down and it'll be better when you wake up! The timers you want to use? Looks like they're buggy, worry not. It'll be done in a few hours. Rest.up. The longer you stay online, the more likely you'll catch her glaring at you through the screen...oh that? It's just a...glitch...come now, log out and rest, that's what you need.

Herb Cookie As your friend...he begs for you to rest. He's willing to "break the 4th wall" if it means managing to convince you to take a nap, sleep for 8 hours. Anything, as much as he enjoys having you around, he much prefers you to be happy and healthy. He doesn't want to see his friend just, lay around sneezing and coughing but still continuing to play because "there's work to do"

You may not care but he does!! A lot, he's worried about you. If talking to you through the screen is what he has to do to be able to convince you to go to bed, then so be it. Maybe he can mask it off as him talking to his plants? He'll just name it after you and put jr in front of it, he prays it works.

Sparkling Cookie Tut tut, you really shouldn't bother with your quests when you're clearly not well enough for it, he's seen things like it before in his own bars and he had to stop some drunken cookies from doing something they were unfit to do like drive/walk home. So while the reason for you being unfit to do something is different, he isn't exactly a stranger to this kind of thing.

Similar to herb, he isn't scared to talk to you through the screen, gently advise you to go to bed. Even if this ends up freaking you out to the point you exit the game, he hopes you're taking the time to rest, perhaps chalking it up to simply being to sick and hearing things.

Rockstar Cookie He didn't quite catch it at first but when he does he sighs. Do you really love the game that much you're willing to place it in front of your own health? He shakes his head, while he finds the reason to be...endearing in a way, especially if one of the things you "had" to do was say hi to him, maybe update his build and then tap him thousands of times, he still wants you to rest.

He'll play a song, a lullaby even if you had to name it. Something to make you sleepy, something gentle. He knows it's working as your eyes seem to flutter close, you yawn (and cough/sneeze...) and your grip on your phone slowly looses it's strength until you are fast asleep. If it doesn't work he'll only sigh and see if he can get other cookies to help, if it does he smiles and wishes you a good night...let's hope your game doesn't drain your battery though

#✦ Zeros Self-Aware AU #cookie run kingdom #crk #crk x reader #crk x you #cookie run kingdom x reader #Pure Vanilla x Reader #Pure Vanilla x You #Mystic Flour x Reader #Mystic Flour x You #Herb Cookie x Reader #Herb Cookie x You #Herb x Reader #Sparkling Cookie x Reader #Sparkling x Reader #Sparkling x You #Rockstar x Reader #Rockstar x You #Rockstar Cookie x Reader

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fellulahh · 2 days ago

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Lucifer begins questioning his sexuality over male MC

(Yes I have done something like this before don’t tell me off)

—

MC was working out with Beel one afternoon when Lucifer began looking for the human. He’d intended to speak to him regarding an upcoming event at RAD and knew he’d be in the gym with his younger brother at that particular moment.

As he entered the room, Beel and MC were just finishing up their workout.

“Same time tomorrow?” MC asked the demon as he put his dumbbells back on the rack.

“Sure thing.” Beel nodded, heading toward the door. “Hey Lucifer.” He greeted before leaving.

MC’s attention turned toward the door after hearing Beel’s words. He hadn’t realised Lucifer entered the room.

“You alright Luci?” He asked casually, grabbing a small towel from his bag.

“MC, I was hoping we might be able to talk about the upcoming gala.” Lucifer informed him as his eyes trailed across MC’s attire.

Having just completed a long workout, MC was only wearing a tight fitting tank top and shorts.

“Sure, what about it?” MC spoke nonchalantly with a friendly expression, dabbing his forehead with his towel.

Their eyes met as Lucifer tried to find his train of thought. He wasn’t prepared to see MC all hot and bothered. Lucifer rarely stepped foot in the gym so he’d never seen MC is such setting.

“I wondered if—if you’d had much thought about the performance?” Lucifer asked quietly, “I believe you volunteered yourself to partake.”

“Yeah, I’ve had a few ideas!” MC smiled, running a hand through his damp locks.

Again, Lucifer studied his movements carefully.

He noticed the definition in MC’s muscles which were even more evident following his workout and the way some of his hairs stuck to his forehead from breaking a sweat.

Noticing Lucifer’s lack of a response, MC broke the silence. “Did you want to run through them? He asked raising an eyebrow.

Realising he hadn’t responded, Lucifer’s cheeks grew warm.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary.” He cleared his throat; diverting his eyes.

“Alright.” MC nodded with a smile, “I’m going to go shower now, so I’ll see you at dinner?”

The sudden thought of MC showering made Lucifer’s cheeks go red again.

Once more, he cleared his throat. “Of course, I think Mammon is on cooking duty tonight.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t burn anything this time,” MC chuckled, “I’ll catch you later, Luci.”

Placing his hand on Lucifer’s shoulder, MC shot the demon one last smile before brushing past him; making his way to the door.

Meanwhile, Lucifer remained stood in the middle of the room, noticing the faint smell of MC’s aftershave that lingered following their encounter.

“Yes, I’ll catch you later.” Lucifer murmured to himself as his eyebrows furrowed.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me lucifer #obey me imagines #obey me imagine #m!mc

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s0phslibrary · 16 hours ago

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'we'll be alright'; bakugou x OCD/hypochondriac reader

A/N: this is quite self-insert because ocd has been kicking my ass the last 4 months 😭 especially when what i'd usually be irrational/obsessive over is actually happening, but i don’t have specifics. but yeah, hope you enjoy :p <33 might make a part 2 of this somehow, or other characters

content tidbits: hypochondriac and OCD reader, GN!reader, talk of obsessions and compulsions, fear of illness (cancer mentioned bc that's one of my fears brought on by my own OCD, as well as random body happenings that could be health related), swearing, anxiety/panic attacks, UA bakugou and reader (what year is up to u), therapy/doctors appointments, platonic relationship, intrusive thoughts, reader isn't initially medicated or getting treatment but does through the fic, essentially hurt/comfort and fluff :) also maybe OOC katsuki. also brief mention of possible OCD katsuki

word count: 1.5k

Briefly proofread

Linked this song because it reminds me of how OCD feels :p

it was known to the people you felt close to that you suffered with anxiety- but to what extent?

yourself and bakugou were at a point of closeness and security within your friendship, to where telling him felt alright.

when bakugou found out you had OCD initially, his first thought was just 'oh, they don’t like mess and are a clean freak', because yknow, stereotypes.

but then you told him what it entailed, he took it in. you talked about your persistent health anxieties and scares, the way they plagued you and tormented you.

"That's fucking dumb, though. Like- you'd know if you were actually sick." He'd say.

"But that's the thing, I don't." You explained. "I don't, regardless of symptoms or not, and that freaks me out. And when I can feel something, the only way I can deal with it is to prod or feel at it."

You explained to him some moments this type of thing happened; in one case, you had odd, painless bumps in random places, and the trigger of its unknown cause sent you spiraling. Petrified it was cancer, you went on an internet deep dive, kept seeking external reassurance, feeling at it 24/7- and rather than this helping, all you felt was fear.

The next was a random pain near your rib. Was it a punctured lung? But then a pain on your head- a tumour?? Then your knees felt different sizes- are your bones shrinking???

He listened, trying to recall times you may have been out of it or panicked for what to him, seemed like for no reason. And it started to click. Realising it extended even further than the health anxieties too. Past traumas, or fears, or habits. It made sense. And it made him feel an ache of sadness for you in his chest. But also pride, for the fact you go through this daily.

In saying that, after you left, he went into full research mode on the types of OCD you had talked about, on how they worked, triggers, compulsions, and how to support you.

He wouldn’t admit it directly, but after hearing how it gets to you, then seeing it in real time, made him feel helpless. Until you got support professionally, he was slightly frantic.

He made a promise to be there for you, any time, if you were having a mini episode, or major. Which he didn’t expect to be..... a lot. But he kept the promise.

1:34am the clock on your phone read. You were tired, sore, stressed. Your hand went to the odd shaping on your back yet again, a nervous shiver going through you. You tried to rationalise. 'It's probably just some muscle. Or some kinda benign growth. Or just my body being weird again.

Or maybe it's a tumour-'

The intrusive thoughts kept scratching inside your brain, urging you to keep poking, shifting, looking for an answer you knew wouldn’t come.

You remembered his words: "If you need me when it happens, fucking come to me. I don’t care when, do it. You shouldn’t be alone with this. And don’t you dare feel bad."

Slipping out of bed, you quietly made your way from your dorm to his, careful to not be disturbing to your classmates.

You go to his dorm, and knocked loud enough.

"Fuck off." You heard from behind the door, the angry voice of Katsuki.

"Katsuki? It’s just me. You don’t have to, but I'm having a hard time with my OCD, and wanted to kno-"

Before you could finish the sentence, the door opened. "Get in." He said softly, looking at you half asleep, yet with concern.

Once in, he closed the door, opened the balcony door to let in a soft breeze, and sat on the bed with you. After a moment, he spoke.

"What's it doing now?"

"My brain won’t stop." You respond, voice tight and exhausted. "I keep finding new bumps, or growths, or whatever the fuck, and even though they don’t hurt or do damage, my brain is still saying cancer. Which is dumb, because I'd know if it was by now-"

"It's not dumb." He interupts. "Ok, yeah, worrying about a worst possibility that you don’t even know whether it's true or not is kinda stupid. But don’t beat yourself up over it. It is scary. Not knowing fucking sucks. But none of this is your fault. Yeah, you'd probably know by now. But you're allowed to just observe it, without making it some kind of evil situation. Give yourself some grace, dimwit. You have every right to be scared. Especially since this matters to you so much. But don’t- don’t let it consume you. You know you're fucking strong. So... know regardless, you can beat whatever is going on. Serious or not."

You looked at him, tears of appreciation, but also overwhelm, pooling in your eyes. He scoffed softly, but not in anger, more so in understanding, and pulled you close, both under the covers, and your face to his chest.

"Just cry it out, idiot. You need to at this point."

So you did. Allowing yourself to feel everything, let everything crash out of you, with him anchoring you. He gently eased and shushed you if you started hyperventilating, the crying turning into a spiral of panic. He whispered soft, encouraging words into the top of your head.

"Its okay. You're gonna be okay, regardless of what happens. This isn’t something you'll do alone. We'll get you the help you need, and I'll be here when you need me to. Things will work out how they're meant to. Just because it's scary doesn’t mean it's impossible."

"I know. I know, i'm just so scared. I hate not knowing. I hate feeling like my mind is working against me, and my body is fucking acting on what I'm scared of-"

"Hey, hey, relax. You’re rambling." He says softly, shifting to wipe your tears. "I know. I hear you. As I said, it's no wonder you're scared. Being afraid of something with mixed signal signs of it sounds like hell. But again, one day at a time. You're asking for help- be proud of that. It's fucking hard to even acknowledge it sometimes. You already took the first step."

"That’s kinda rich from you, considering you bottle everything up." You respond, cracking a slight smile.

He laughed a bit, nodding. "Yeah, I know, I'm emotionally constipated, fuck off with what's obvious. But I mean it. Just because I have trouble doing it, and I ain't the best at comforting, doesn’t mean I won't try and help you. I care about you, fuckwad, even if I don’t say it. I really do."

Once settling down, he got you some water, and turned on his TV for some background noise, of something you both enjoy. You sat, talking, about your compulsions, triggers, fears, trauma, all of it. He listened, gave his input, and got what he needed from you in terms of what you wanted in support from him.

That night, with you against his warm frame, he slept well knowing you were there- regardless of what you had going on, he could be there.

And you slept well knowing he was there- knowing that despite any unknown health factors, legit or not, you'd have him.

From there, you decided to start looking into getting professional help. You went to Aizawa, with Katsuki nearby, to let him know of your situation. You came to an agreement that if you ever weren’t in a fit mental state for training or class, he would give you time to catch up, on the condition you would keep consistent with effort. He then informed the other staff of it, so it would be an all around agreement.

Once that was set, you found a place to go to get the help you needed, or at least a start. You started to gain coping strategies, ways to challenge compulsions or triggers, and more to generally work with until you would get advanced help. As for the physical side of things, appointments were booked, so hopefully that would be a steady process also. He vowed to be there throughout the process of getting any required diagnoses as well.

In the meantime, Katsuki was still there. Through any panic attacks, anxiety episodes, reminding you to do something else when he noticed your compulsions, and occasionally yelling at the rest of Class A if a trigger was mentioned when you were near. Which yes, is extreme, but he meant well.

He helped you identify other compulsions and obsessions outside of the hypochondria, and helped take notes on your physical and mental health for future appointments. He even went to your therapist briefly to ask how to support you, and how to work with you in times you couldn’t carry everything yourself.

No matter how hard it was for either of you to battle against the monsters in your mind, and unknown of your body, he kept his promise. You knew you'd be fine as long as you had him, and everyone else who cared for you, at your side.

If you ever feel alone or unsafe, reaching out to someone who will listen, is the first step. You are more powerful and stronger than you know 🩶

#bnha #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #mha #mha x reader #bakugou headcanons #mha x you #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo #my hero academia #katsuki bakugou headcanons #Spotify

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imabiscuitinthousandworlds · 7 months ago

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sometimes..so.etimes they change something even after the premiere. sp you appear and watch an entirely new and prolonged monologue. and it's like. FUCK YEAH.

#me showing up at the theatre: be normal be normal be normal be normal be no #me realising they added some things and it adds a lot of characerisation: BE NORMAL BE NORMAL BE NORMAL BE NORMAL BE NORMAL BE NORMAL!!!!!#(misson failed but at least i was Quiet lmao)#the fun thing about seeing this several times tho is that by now ive stopped trying to figure out the plot #bc i Know the plot by now and i can speak along to a decent portion of lines #so now i focus not on what they mean but what exactly they say in any moment #i notice all the small irrelevant lines that still add so much to the characters voices and dynamics #its sooooo fun #and sometimes its also just really funny #'hell do good' 'didnt you just talk to him? the fuck he will. that man cant even pretend to have any self control'#i mean she was RIGHT #my man is out here being such a miserable little fuck being dramatic about his problems #if he could get a grip on himself for like five minutes everyone could have lived! idiot <3 #AND THE OTHER GUY #if you had just KEPT AWAY instead of Walking Up To Your Murderer and distracred them for like. a few minutes longer IT WOULD ZAVE WORKED #like yeah youd still be dead BUT THAT WAS THE POINT WASNT IT #LIKE THIS YOU JUST DIED FOE NOTHING #YOUE BUDDY DIES TOO BC YOU GOT YOURSELF MURDERED TOO SOON. idiot #ill be honest. if they had kissed (and if youd seen rhe way they LOOK at each other) things might have actually gone well #im convinced of this #i have Textual Evidence #anyway. i should read the og play and find out if its the play or just the actors #like do the characters actually constantly refer to each other as 'my [name/title]' or did the theatre make it even gayer themselves #ik the actors are doing it on purpose anyway. that is Not coincidence #a biscuit's rambles

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trainsinanime · 1 year ago

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I wonder: Do Americans know about american school buses? Not their existence in general, but how they're seen overseas.

Over here, they're one of the symbols of America, on par with the Statue of Liberty, the flag, the Eagle, and well ahead of any chain restaurant you can name. People won't know any US states, but they will know these vehicles.

The thing is, here in Germany, we don't have dedicated school buses. The general idea is that kids go to school on their own. When that's not practical, they're expected to use (and given free tickets for) public transit. Public transit is designed around this requirement; there are many places where there is a bus, and anyone can get on it, but the route and timetable really only makes sense for school children. In case a dedicated school bus is really needed, that's generally subcontracted out, and the lines either use something like a Sprinter Van for smaller routes, or a normal city or interurban bus (often a used one that's a bit older). School trips are normal public transit, or a rented bus, typically a coach or regional bus.

It's not a perfect system, in the past couple of years there's been an epidemic of people bringing their kids to school in their cars instead of letting them walk, which is less than ideal. It is what it is. But building a dedicated network of public transit lines only for students, and building dedicated vehicles only for that, has never occurred to anyone here.

Of course we know about these buses, from movies and such, but they're as foreign here as cacti or pick-up trucks (actually we're seeing more and more of these here) or yellow cabs (all europeans will assume all cabs in the US are yellow until they actually visit).

You do see these buses here at times, because people still generally like the idea of the US, even if they have a lot of issues with a lot of details, and so folks bring them over, along with stretch limos and stuff (also not really a thing here). And of course, if someone goes to all that trouble, they don't do it to haul school kids, they rent it out for city tours or as a party bus or whatever.

So you see these yellow things as a symbol of faraway places, scenic vistas, some vague undefined idea of freedom that doesn't necessarily hold up to any contact with reality, and it's just a huge part of the whole US aesthetic.

And then you go to a student exchange with the US, and you finally get the chance: You yourself get to ride in one of these iconic chrome yellow buses! It looks just like in the movies! You get in, you drive in them a little…

…and you realise they're shit. Just the worst buses in the western world. Terrible suspension. Uncomfortable seats with weirdly high backs (so they don't have to put seatbelts in, they just restrict how far kids can fly in an accident). Everything made out of the cheapest materials. Turns out the reason why the US uses school buses like that instead of normal modern city buses, which the US has, is to save money and because they just hate kids.

And then it hits you why US Americans say "as American as apple pie", a dish that is made and enjoyed literally anywhere in the world, instead of "as American as yellow school buses". Of course the Americans already knew all this. They got tortured by these things forever. It would never occur to them to see this as a symbol of America, it's just a normal part of life for them. It's a symbol of school and school life and sometimes normalcy, and tells us that these actors getting out of it are supposed to be teenagers, nothing more.

But most people in Europe have, of course, never ridden on these buses. So when they see them in movies and TV, that's a giant big yellow signifier that we're not in Hessen or Wallonia or wherever anymore. A symbol of a different world, one that may be at most a once-in-a-lifetime-experience for most people, just like a picture of a tropical beach, Mayan Pyramids, the Great Wall of China, or Hildesheim (there's no reason to go there twice). And I think Americans don't know that, and that's fascinating.

#bus #buses #school bus

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hislittlesparklejumpropequeen · 4 months ago

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Watching you

Hwang In-ho x female!reader.

Summary: In-ho sees you and his brain chemistry changes. A/N: in reader’s pov he’s referred as Young il. Sorry if it’s confusing. Warnings: Obsessive and possessive behaviour, masturbation, stalking, perverted opinions, murder, blood, kissing, mentions of arousal, mentally and physically vulnerable characters, dubious consent, non-con touching, manipulation, sadism, dacryphilia

W/c: 3,5k

It was strange that he kept his eyes on you more than anyone in the games. The moment he saw your shaking figure among the crowd of people in the green suits, he felt his breath get stuck in his throat. You were looking around with eyes that were full of fear, hands wrapped around yourself and holding back tears as others started an argument in the middle. You listened as someone complained about his shoes being so expensive, and someone asking for his phone, an old lady argue with her son and guards answering the players’s questions with patience.

He kept his eyes on you as the first game started. He saw your eyes widen when someone was shot right in front of you, and he watched you as you realise the seriousness of the game you accepted to take part in. Gi-hun was interesting to him, yes. He was searching for them, for him have been for years now. And he was brave enough to come back to the games just to find who was behind them. He respected his determination. Yet there was something about you that he could not name. Something captivating. Something that shifted things in him, made his skin sting in ecstasy as you nearly moved when the doll turned around. You looked around with those innocent eyes and blood of someone flowing down your cheek, he felt his trouser tighten. A small, tingly sensation took over his loins and made him frown in confusion. He had never taken a liking to a someone, let alone a little, fragile thing like you.

When he found the video of you playing ddajki with the recruiter, he felt himself get harder and harder as he watched you spill tears in pain every single time you received a hard slap on your cheek. The camera captured the noises you made as your body was falling backwards with every single slap. The recruiter hit you hard and In-ho wandered if you would sound the same when he pounded you hard on his bed. He took his mask off and palmed himself trough his trouser as he kept replaying the video over and over again. When he was finished spilling his seed into his palm, he wished that was your mouth wrapped around his tip instead.

When the first game finished and your number and picture still shone bright on the floor, you voted for ‘X’ and expected everyone to vote same as you. Yet you were so wrong when the last player 001 and all others voted ‘O’, causing all of you to stay in this hellhole. You felt tears fill your eyes as some people were cheering with victory in front of you. You sat down on one of the beds at the front and hugged your legs with disappointment. As you were thinking what was going to happen next, you felt someone sit next to you.

“I’m sorry, I thought staying was the best option.” Said the man who was looking at you, watching your tears flow down your flushed cheeks. You looked at his number and saw 001 in bright white font. He was the person who voted last and made the decision. You sighed and shook your head.

“It is not only you, sir. Half of us wanted to stay.” You said as you pointed at the people who had the ‘O’ banners on their right side. He did not look at the direction you were pointing at, he kept his eyes on. You were so pretty when you cried. He wandered how beautiful you would look when you were overstimulated with his fingers in you. He felt his cock twicth when you looked at him again. Your lips were plump, and the tip of your nose was red. He wandered how your tears would taste like.

“We have a winner here. I thought we could use this for our advantage.” He explained as he pointed at Gi-hun who looked very troubled not so far away from you. Your eyes were on the last winner when you felt the man beside you stand up and take few steps towards the player 456. Yet he stopped mid way and looked back at you, as if he was waiting for you to follow him. And for some reason you wiped your tears away and followed him like a lost puppy as he walked towards the previous winner of the games who was already accompanied by few guys who kept asking him questions.

And the small group was formed with two of you joining them. You did not know much about others, did not trust them meanwhile player 001 was confident and comfortable talking to them. When he sat down next to Gi-hun, his eyes pointed at the small space next to his feet, so you sat down there. Being close to him brought you a sense of safety. He was the first person who approached you in this mess of a place with kindness. You did not know him, didn’t know his name or why he was here. Yet there was a look in his eyes that made you want to stick beside him.

When everyone went to sleep, In-ho looked at your resting form. You were wrapped in the thin blanket and was curled up into a ball. He looked at your curves that were visible from the tracksuit, his mouth watered. You were so frightened and powerless. You needed someone to protect you in the games. Someone who would look after you, make sure you make it alive. He knew what humans were capable of doing in a place like this. People were going to go mad and hurt one another viciously. Would he be able to just stand and watch if you got hurt?

Your soft whimpers and cries brought him back to reality. When you woke up from your few hours of sleep drenched in sweat and tears flowing down your cheeks, he crawled to you, in the darkness of the hall. He reached out to you, from the metal bars of the beds, and held your shoulder. You squirmed in fear and was about to scream until a large hand covered your mouth.

“It’s me.” He whispered to your ear as his whole body was pressed against your back, other arm wrapped around your shoulders. He was towering over you, as you felt sweat drops make their way to your neck from your temple.

He let go of your mouth, but his touch did not leave your body when he moved to sit next to you. He was close, his breath hitting your face and neck when he looked at you with observing eyes that did not give any feelings away. His touch made your heart beat fast and quicken your breaths, yet you did not want him to stop holding you.

“Bad dream?” He whispered, his voice is low yet deep enough to make your insides shake. You nodded when tears filled your eyes again. The images of dead bodies all over the playground haunted you since the moment you came back from the game as winners. You didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, but you felt like he would not mind seeing you cry.

He nodded along with you, almost like a grown up talking to a little kid and mirror her moves to befriend her. When he saw your bottom lip tremble and eyes full of fear scan the hall of people sleeping, he felt his loins burn in need. The face you made when you were scared and felt alone was enough to make him cum in his underwear without any touch.

Without hesitation he brought your body closer to his own and his arms embraced your shaking form with mercy. You buried your face into the crook of his neck and wrapped your smaller arms around his waist. He was warm. Very warm that you felt your fingertips burn over his body. When you breathed in and out in the crook of his neck, all In-ho wanted to do was throw your body back into the bed, rip those clothes off of you and ravage you in front of dozens of people without any care. The though of fucking you, turning you into mass in front of them, giving them a show as he claimed you, sent shivers down his spine.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your crying voice reaching his ear as he tried to hold back a smile at your situation. You were so helpless that you were crying in the arms of the man who was the reason why you were still here. He was a stranger, who had the potential to do anything. Yet here you were, quivering against his chest and making his member throb in need.

“I’m here.” He said. And you had no chance but trusting him.

———————

The next game you were automatically given the Gong-gi game as the only female in the group. Yet your hands were shaking when it was your turns to play after player 390 completed his part successfully. When you missed two times, you were so sure you were going to die and worse, be the reason for everyone’s death in your group.

He watched you panick, drop the pebbles and fail to catch them midair. Everyone around you was getting inpatient and scared naturally. Even tho he loved the way you were struggling and feeding into his twisted desire, he could not let you die. He held your waist and stopped the trembling of your body. You looked at him under your lashes that were wet with your tears and went back to work once he gave you a reassuring smile. With that you managed to catch all the pebbles in your palm and passed the round.

It was then, you felt something was off, when it was his turn to play his own game. The top kept slipping from his hands or landed wrong on the floor that was covered in the blood of eliminated players. You wanted to step back yet could not because of the ties when he started to scream in anger and slap himself. There was a crazy, off-putting look in his eyes. It was less uncomfortable when he was looking at you, yet it was still there. His eyes made your skin crawl and stomach twist in sickness. You did feel safe around him. But not like you would feel safe with a family member, a friend, or a lover. It felt like he was a wolf who claimed a lamb, kept her on his chest and waited for right moment to eat her.

When your group managed to survive and go back to the hall, he kept to you close. His hand was on your back, leading you to your bed. When it was mealtime, he gave half of his food to you, telling you to not to worry about him when you tried to reject him. He watched you until you finished all your food. After all of you exchanged names, he watched you talk to player 388 about his time in marine and watch you laugh when he was talking excitedly, telling everyone how prideful he was about his military service. He watched your tears dry up as you listened to the conversation that was flowing in the group. Your smile made his stomach twist and his jaw clench.

Your hopes once again were shattered when people voted for “O” more than “X” and decided to continue playing the games. Young-il wiped your tears away and convinced you to get some sleep for the night. You could only relax and fall asleep when he sat next to you on your bed and caressed your head as he decided to stay awake. He looked extraordinarily strong to you. He did not need to sleep, gave his food to others, calm people down when everyone was scared, raged and pass the games like it was nothing. Most importantly, he held you close no matter what. Did not mind you cry and fail and fall. Maybe it was a sense of guilt he felt, for making you stay in the first round of voting, you thought.

——————

Next morning he held your hand when everyone was taken to the new game. It was mingle. Your group had decided to stay together. You were grateful that they had take you in and did not leave you alone. You all took your place on the platform and started to spin as the song was playing. You felt his hand get tighter around yours, reminding you that he was here with you.

You ran as fast as you can and took deep breaths when all 10 of you finally managed to get into a room. The sound of lock made you jump slightly. You saw Young il’s eyes on Gi-hun as he pulled you under his arm. The images of him looking at Gi-hun since the moment you met him lingered on your mind until the woman who claimed to be a shaman started to speak loudly in the middle of the room. As you waited for gunshots to stop and doors to open, you could not help but wonder the reason behind Young il’s weird behaviour about Gi-hun. He seemed to get along with him. Seemed to respect his ideas and experiences about this place. They seemed to understand one another, somehow. Yet that unexplainable look in 001 eyes was making you shift uncomfortably in your place.

Until last round, you had no chance but sticking beside Young il. As you entered rooms and people kept dying outside, you became more paranoid. And when it came to the last round, Jeong-bae asked how many people it was going to be this time. Without hesitation Young-il answered.

“2.” And it was it. When the song stopped and the platform stopped spinning, Young il held your hand tighter than before, and started to run to closest room. As you were trying to catch up with his pace, someone bumped into you, causing you to lose your balance and stumble midway. Young il turned around immediately and wrapped his arms around your waist. He lifted you like a piece of feather and made his way to the yellow door that was already opened by a guy. Young il pushed you into the room and threw the other guy away from the door. When you scanned the room, your eyes were met with pair of foreign eyes.

“Out.” Young il said sharply to the other man in the room.

“We were here first.” The man said, his voice cracking as he was shaking in fear. Person behind the door tried to open it. You pushed your back against the door and held it with all of your strength. There was not much time left, and you were afraid that all of you were going die in this room.

Young il grabbed the man and locked his arms around his head. As they scooped to the floor, his arms got tighter around the player 343’s neck. You were still holding the door and preventing the other player to get in. For a second Young il’s intense gaze met with yours and you couldn’t look away.

He looked into your eyes, showing no emotion or weakness as the man he was choking started to turn purple. Your breath got stuck in your throat, your knees were shaking, and your palms were getting sweaty with the scene taking place in front of you. As there were few seconds left for the countdown, Young il twisted the man’s neck. The sound of bone cracking filled the room along with the sound of door locking behind you. He kept his eyes on you, as he tossed the dead body of the side.

The lifeless body of player 343 laid on the ground and the gunshots filled your ear. The screams of people scratched your brain, and you finally managed to close your eyes. He had killed someone in front of you, broke his neck with one swift motion and he had no emotion on his face as he did it. Your heart was beating so fast that you thought it was going to fail at some point. Then the images of him came to your mind. When he knocked down player 124 and 230 as he looked down at them with those emotionless eyes, when he carelessly slapped himself in the second game, when he looked at Gi-hun as if he wanted to strangle him when he thought no one was looking, when he pushed everyone out of his way to get both of you to safety during the mingle game and now when he killed someone.

“Open your eyes.” He breathed out, his breath hitting your face. Suddenly you felt his warmth surrounding you and him towering over your head. You slowly opened your eyes and there he was. Looking down at you, his eyebrows lifted up and with a mocking look in his eyes. His face was close to yours. Yet it did not feel comforting and safe like it did a night ago, when he was comforting you after a nightmare.

“What did you do?” Your voice was shaky and sounded terrified as you tried to look at the dead body that was in the corner of the room. He did not let you look away with his fingers finding your chin and holding it tight. He held you with those hands that just took the life of someone. You felt chills going down your spine.

“I made sure that we survived.” He whispered without breaking eye contact with you. You could hear soldiers cleaning up the mess outside of the rooms.

“You killed him.” You tried to shake his touch away, yet he didn’t let you. Instead, he got closer, until you were trapped between him and the door. His hot breath made your skin tingle, and his touch made you wanna cry.

“Yes.” He said, and his lips touched your cheek that was wetted by your tears. His lips planted a soft kiss onto your skin. The kiss made you feel dizzy and your knees weak.

“For you.” He continued. His words made you freeze in your spot. His lips traced over your skin like a ghost and reached the corner of your lips. “Only for you” He kissed the side of your mouth, softly, gently, with mercy. You wanted to rip his hands off of you, and run away. The floor beneath your feet was slippery with the blood of eliminated players. If you slipped and fell, would he let you go?

“All for you.” His lips found your chin, then your nose, then your other cheek. He did not rush or hold you harsh enough to hurt. Yet knowing that he had just killed someone with those hands made you wanna throw up.

Your tears dropped to his lips, and he licked his lips as if he was dying over thirst. And when he made eye contact with you again, it was the first time you saw a clear human emotion in his eyes. An emotion he did not try to hide or was afraid to show; yearning. You did not know if it was for you or winning. In both cases, it terrified you to your very being.

“Stop!” You said as sobs filled your mouth and he pressed his forehead against yours hard. You felt him shake his head, his arms wrapping around your fragile, little body compared to his strong form.

“I will give you everything you want, you need.” He said and pressed his lips against yours. Without waiting, his tongue made his way into your mouth, forcing your lips to open up for him. You felt the dizzy feeling take over your head. Your ears were ringing, your mind was foggy as he kissed you harsh, deep. There was no power left in your body, so you just let yourself to his arms.

His teeth crushed against yours and he was biting every corner of your lips until he drew blood. The irony taste filled your senses, made you jump. You did not know if it was you bleeding or him. But there was blood everywhere. Covering your tongue, your lips and staining your chin as your shared spit escaped from the corner of your lips. You felt your body burn all over. Your back was arching like a cat to get any closer to him, and there was a soreness between your legs that made your clit throb. You felt shame fill you and guilt making you wanna cry out. Instead, you kept kissing him, devouring him, eating him as much as you could.

You whined and pushed your head towards him when he parted your kiss with the sound of lock. The door was opened. The third game was finished. There was still a dead man in the room. Your mouth was covered in blood, making you look like you just feasted on someone. And his eyes were on you, watching you.

#squid game #squid game 2 #front man #hwang in ho #young il #lee byung hun #frontman x reader #hwang in ho x reader #young il x reader #squid game x reader #squid game 2 x reader #blood and gore #he’s so daddy

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siriuslylantsov · 3 months ago

Text

save a horse

pairing: joel miller x reader

description: joel puts on his old cowboy getup and it gives you an idea.

tags: MDNI! smut, porn w/o plot, no outbreak au, established relationship, age gap, fem!reader, unprotected piv, riding, thigh riding, dirty talk (kinda?), nipple stuff (bcs i think joel miller is a boob man), praise kink kinda, little domestic.

a/n: my first joel miller smut! because i've been reading an ungodly amount, i can't stop thinking about him...

wc: 2.2k

“oh my god,” your voice comes out stunned as you walk in, kicking the door shut behind you.

a cowboy. sitting on your couch. well, joel dressed as a cowboy on your couch.

he stands up with a grin, a little shy. “found this in my storage. from some years ago, can't believe it still fits me.”

flannel and jeans, old and a little faded–the jeans fit more snuggly against his thighs compared to his normal ones that you can't help but gawk. he's dressed the same way as always but this time there's a hat on his head and a belt around his hips adorned with a flashy buckle. his boots click lightly on the floor as he makes his way over to you, your eyes dart down to them.

“woulda wore the chaps too but that felt like overkill,” he says, dropping his hands to your waist. “d’ya like it?”

do you like it? you stare up at him a bit incredulous, at a loss for words as you check him out slowly. when you meet his gaze again, the shadow of his hat darkens the top of his face, yet you can still see the way his eyes glisten hopefully.

“yeah baby,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss his jaw, his beard scratching your lips slightly.

his grin widens and he pulls you closer, “good.”

“you did this for me?”

“well, yeah. thought it’d be fun.”

“fun how?” you tease, slipping your fingers into his belt loops and tugging them.

“hate it when you work blue,” he grumbles, his small smirk telling you otherwise.

“no you don't,” you counter with a knowing smile. your lips part as if you're going to say something but they quickly shut.

joel eyes you curiously, eyebrows furrowed trying to figure you out, “spill.”

you hesitate for a moment, chewing the inside of your cheek before speaking.

“i've always wanted to ride a cowboy.”

his head cocks to the side, eyebrows raised, amused. “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you breathe, nodding before jutting your head toward the couch. “sit please.”

you stand between his spread legs as he sits. leaning back, he lazily lifts a hand to unbutton your jeans, popping it off with ease as if he's done it a hundred times before–he has. when he pulls them down, you take your shirt off, leaving you in your underwear.

“what's that thing people say? save a horse, ride a cowboy?” you ask and joel stares at you shamelessly, eyes dragging down and back up, utterly enticed.

“‘s a song by um- big ‘n rich,” he murmurs distractedly as he hones in on the little bow on your bra, right in the middle. you pinch the tip of his hat and lift it off his head, placing it on top of yours instead. fingers snake itself through his soft hair and guide his head back so he can look at you.

“hi,” your voice comes out quiet, coy. you smile down sweetly at him and you find him mirroring it. “hi darlin’.”

your gaze trails down his body again, stopping at his thighs. it's obscene how good they look in his old jeans, he's obviously filled into them well. the fabric stretches tight over his limbs, hugging them perfectly. what if you just-

with a finger in the waistband of your panties you pull them down in one swift motion, moving your body to hover over his right thigh, now in between your legs.

he groans something pained when he realises what you're about to do, hands flying back up to your waist to urge you down and body scooting forward so it's easier. you gasp when you lower yourself, legs parted just right that your clit brushes against the fabric of his jeans upon contact.

fuck.

the patch of wet on the denim comes as a surprise when you draw your hips back, you didn't realise you were that wet. you rock your hips again, experimentally, and the friction is debilitating. you’d fall over if joel's hands weren’t keeping you steady.

speaking of them, he begins to guide you back and forth, and your eyes snap back to him in alarm. he gives you an encouraging nod, keep going. you have to hear it from him and he knows that.

“cmon, baby. want you to feel good,” he spurs while nodding again, pushing down to apply more pressure, your mouth falls open in a gasp. but you take his words in tow and keep going.

maybe it's a little pathetic how you rut against his leg, little whines escaping your parted lips, but he doesn't seem to mind. he's more than okay watching you like this as he rubs circles into your hip bone.

“joel, i can't-” you sob, legs beginning to ache from the way you were perched. it feels so good but you’re quickly regretting how you chose to go about this, half sat and calves straining from the weight. you pout, lips trembling, and he looks absolutely wrecked by this.

what you hadn't realised was that every so often your knee pushed into his crotch, he was being stimulated as much as you. the hard-on he's sporting pushes against the confines of his jeans, he’d gladly come untouched if he didn’t want to be inside you as badly as he did.

“yeah, you can, baby,” he grits through his teeth, “gimme this one, want you t’come first.”

his fingers start tweaking your nipple under your bra, and god, he starts flexing his thigh. he hopes the added incentive will help push you over the edge. to his delight, the oh so familiar feeling starts to build embarrassingly fast in the pit of your stomach.

your head falls back in a high, baring your neck to him. this in turn causes the hat to slowly slip off your head, he smiles and tucks it back on, repeating the motion of his thigh, bouncing ever so slightly.

“oh fuck. fuck. fuck-” you finish with a whine, body collasping into itself. joel reaches out to hold you to him as your hips stutter. his head dips to your neck, kissing the skin softly as you come down.

“there ya go. did so good for me, angel,” he speaks into your skin.

you get off his thigh and slump onto the couch with a groan, ignoring the startlingly dark patch you leave on his jeans. you're catching your breath when you nudge him playfully with your elbow, he's equally leaned back, head tipped to the side, looking at you with awe in his eyes.

“i think your bad joints are contagious, old man.”

this makes him scoff. you take the hat off, placing it on his lap before bringing both knees to your chest and squeezing to relieve some of the tension, they really did ache. to this, he laughs and drops his head to your shoulder.

“what? i'm serious, they hurt,” you defend, albeit a little petulantly.

“but you came?”

“yes,” you respond, dragging the word out in exaggeration.

“and ya felt good?”

“yes, miller,” you grumble, nosing the hair of his that tickled your face.

“i don't see any problem in a little hurt, s’what i go through every time,” he mutters quietly.

“every time, huh?”

you feel him nod dutifully and you chuckle. his age usually made itself known after sex–either by complaining about his hips or his knees cracking after a taxing session of eating you out, not that he minded.

he lifts his head and shifts, leaning in. “so when ya gonna ride this cowboy?”

impatient, but he had been waiting.

you look down to his crotch, still painfully hard, and the corners of your mouth pull down in faux sympathy.

“poor baby,” you coo, taunting although he knows you’re teasing. “want me to fuck you?”

his eyes meet yours in searing eye contact, deadpan, but the way his eyes crinkle at the corners betray him, he’s trying not to smile. with a curt dip of his chin, he nods, yes.

and who are you to deny him?

you nudge him to lean back again and put the damn hat back on his head. god, he looks sexy.

you settle on taking his pants off, leaving them and the belt pooled around his feet. and when you unbutton his shirt, you stop him from taking it off completely–liking how his skin peeked down the middle. you settle on his lap, legs bracketing his thighs. you kiss him, sweet and gentle, head tilted more than usual because of the hat. his hands drift up your back to the clasp of your bra, quickly unfastening it and letting it fall. you slip your hand under his boxers and palm him, you like the weight of him your hands.

“baby-” he drawls. “please.”

“i know, i know.”

you pull him out of his boxers and rise to your knees, positioning yourself accordingly. you swipe the tip through your folds a few times, relishing in the groan it earns you before pushing in, tantalisingly slow.

you brace yourself on his shoulders, it's always a stretch with joel. when he's bottomed out, you let out a deep long winded sigh. you stay like that for a moment, eyes closed. the angle is maddening and the way your weight settles on top of him drives him crazy.

you tentatively rise and sink back down slowly. fuck. you do it again and again. joel shoots you a proud grin, his hands back at your waist to help you. a breathy moan escapes you when the tip of him drags against your g-spot on the ascent .

“attagirl. there she is," joel mumbles, always keen on your sounds. “feels good, huh?”

“mhm, feels- so good, joel,” you sigh, rocking back and forth now.

“i bet,” he responds with a grunt, “can feel you squeezin’ around me.”

you whimper at that, back arching and effectively pushing your tits closer to his face. he tries to lean closer but the hat stops him, hitting your sternum.

“stupid fuckin’ hat,” he grumbles, tossing it away. it flies somewhere beside the coffee table and you laugh, ducking down to kiss him as he continues making incoherent annoyed noises. a hat is not going to deny him what he wants.

he hums low against your lips, trailing his kisses down to your neck. he nips at your skin, placing a peck to your collarbone before reaching his destination. his lips close around your nipple, hand securing itself between your shoulders to hold you firm against his mouth.

“oh fuck,” you breathe. you look down to find him already looking back up at you and the sight is depraved, downright filthy.

you card a hand through his greying hair and tighten, speeding up the motion of your hips. his free hand tweaks the neglected nipple and he is everywhere. you can’t handle it. a weak grunt sounds from you and he knows.

“joel please-” you cut yourself off with a broken moan as he begins to suck, pinching the sensitive bud between his teeth. he switches over to the other one and repeats, leaving you a whining mess in his lap.

“s'okay, baby. i got you,” he coos, lifting his head up to kiss you again. he pulls your body closer, holding you to his chest, bracing you. because before you know it his hips jump to meet yours, fucking up into you.

he swallows every lewd sound you make, responding with a quick snap of his hips. “always take me so well, pretty girl. like you're made for this cock, huh?”

“mhm, i love it,” you slur.

he grins, breath growing heavier as his peak nears. he recognises the expression on your face instantly, eyebrows pinched together and eyes fighting to be closed, he knows you're in the same boat and he’ll be damned if he doesn't get you to cum first.

“you close, angel?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. when you nod, he hums sympathetically, fucking you harder. his hips slap against yours incessantly and you let out a muffled cry, holding onto him for dear life.

“that’s it, take it,” he encourages as he feels your walls clamp down. “cum for me, baby.”

your nails leave crescent shaped imprints on his shoulder, back, anywhere you can hold onto as you tip over the edge, keening loudly, it borders on a scream.

his orgasm quickly follows as his hips stutter, spilling into you with a shudder and a groan. he lazily fucks into you a few more times, riding out the aftershocks before stilling.

the two of you sit there, breathless, skin sticking to each other . his head dips and falls onto your chest as he hugs you to his body. his breath comes out in soft puffs against your skin, warm.

“that was...,” you mumble, heart finally slowing down.

he chuckles, dry and low that it makes you shiver. “yeah.”

“joel?”

he lifts his head up, eyes soft and admiring when he looks at you. he hums in acknowledgment.

“wear the chaps next time.”

he laughs again, something heartier as he takes in your face, deadly serious. he kisses your chin, “yes ma’am.”

reblogs and replies are appreciated :) | m.list

#joel miller #the last of us #tlou #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller smut #smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot

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sehnsuchts-trunken · 9 months ago

Text

So Much Love in Oklahoma

Tyler Owens x fem!reader 7k words

summary: Tyler saves you from a tornado one day. The next, he shows up at your doorstep.

a/n: absolutely no clue about tornados. or oklahoma. don't come at me for inaccuracies

also!!! i'm currently working on some tyler smut too, but you are so definitely allowed to come request things (or just talk to me)! my inbox is wideeeee open, especially when it comes to mister owens <33

masterlist | twisters masterlist

What happens that particular Tuesday afternoon should have been impossible. That's what goes through your head about a bazillion times in the following days. The chances of what happens even happening are about as close to zero, you think, as the possibility of you discovering a cure for cancer.

(They're not. Of course. But it feels like that.)

Because you're not even really in Oklahoma. You're just driving through Oklahoma. You're not from a place where they give you a 'How to Deal with Tornados' manual in school. You're entirely, completely, wholly unprepared for what's brewing as you drive down almost empty highways with the radio all the way up.

So when suddenly, you're in the middle of a storm, with the wind picking up until it drowns out your music and rain and hail slashing against your windows, you're absolutely terrified.

It forms within a few minutes, goes from barely grey skies to a horrible, horrible whirl of almost black clouds, and the insecurity you'd been feeling turns into the gut-churning realisation that you're unquestionably fucked.

Some part of your brain tugs out a deeply buried memory of cars being sucked into tornados on the news, so with your heart racing a few hundred miles per hour and your hands shaking so badly you can barely hold onto the steering wheel anymore, you maneuver your car onto the side of the road, just in time for you to be climbing out of the passenger seat as another car comes to a shrieking halt next to yours.

You're getting drenched within half a second, you're honestly not that sure whether your cheeks are wet from the rain or your tears, and on top of that, you almost trip as you set your trembling feet onto the ground below. The other car's driver bangs their door shut with a resounding thud that makes you flinch so hard you think your soul leaves your body. Your head shoots up as he shouts at you, already three steps away from his truck:

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

He's drenched, too - his hair sticks to his face and his shirt clings to his skin and his pants are stained at least a shade darker. But unlike you, he's not shaking, he's steady as a fucking rock, steady and quick, already reaching out for your arm before you can even begin to think. Your brain lags behind, foggy and cloudy and scared, so fucking scared. You're so terrified you can hardly open your mouth.

"I-", you stutter, then he's wrapping his big hand around your arm and tugging you away from your car, away from the road already.

"We need to get the fuck down!", he calls, pulling you with him onto one of those many, many fields that surround you. "There's a ditch over there, see that?"

You're wide-eyed, shaking, basically being dragged along by him - one foot in front of the other, that's what your brain's concentrating on right now, which is easier said than done. You trip over your own feet every other step. But the guy just wraps his arm around your waist and hurries further.

"Do you see that?", he asks again when you don't respond. Your mind races even faster than your heart does, but you force yourself to concentrate on his voice. The panic doesn't lessen, but his question shifts your focus. Ditch. Ditch. Not the storm raging around you, no, you're looking for a ditch. You're focusing on finding a ditch.

"Yeah", you breathe, your eyes finally catching on the ditch only a bit away.

"Yeah?", the guy shouts. "We need to get there. We need to get low."

With that, he picks up his pace once more and you stumble along, bumping into his side, watching the ditch come closer and closer and closer until your feet are drowned in dirty, muddy water.

"Alright, get down!", he shouts, unwrapping his arm from around your waist to help you into the cold, cold water. "Hold onto the ground!"

You aren't thinking. You can't think. Your brain has shut off completely. Panic numbs every part of you. All you can do, all you can possibly do, is concentrate on the voice of the man who's crouching down beside you. It's like his words have replaced your own thoughts, and like a marionette, you stretch out your arms and dig your fingers into the grass. Which is way easier said than done. You're pretty sure you feel one of your nails break as you try your hardest to find something, anything to hold onto. And then the wind hits.

If you'd thought you'd experienced heavy winds before, you were wrong. So wrong. No vacation in a surfer's town could possibly compare to this.

"Fuck!", you scream, instinctively dropping your head onto the moist grass below. The wind pulls and pulls and pulls at you and you imagine yourself being dragged by it - dragged away, away into certain death. But then an arm wraps around you, and the guy next to you is not next to you anymore but half on top of you, securing you in his arms, holding you close, pressing you to the ground.

"Stay down!", he shouts as you cling to the grass. "I got you."

I got you.

You replay that in your head like a mantra - he's got you, he's got you, he's got you. You're trembling, you're shaking, you're cramping, you're trying to hold onto the ground with all your might as the wind grows and grows and grows and pulls and pulls and pulls at you.

You want to scream. You think you're screaming. But it's so loud. It's deafening, the roar of the wind and the thunder. You can't hear yourself scream.

He can, though. He can. And he tightens his arms around you and repeats "I got you, I got you, I got you". And you believe him. You have to.

You're crying now, you're sure of that. Some part of you hurts. Maybe all of you hurts. You're scared. You're not just scared, you're terrified. It's loud, it's loud and it's everywhere, all around you.

And then suddenly - there's nothing.

It disappears within seconds.

There's no sounds. None. There's silence, deafening silence. Forget the calm before the storm - this is the silence after the tornado.

You take a few shuddering breaths. You're trembling, trembling from head to toes. You're soaked. You're cold.

"Alright, it's gone", the guy says - the guy that's still got his arms wrapped around you, who's still on top of you. "You did it."

He pulls his arm away from you and rolls onto his back next to you. Water sloshes around as he goes.

You don't move an inch.

You can't move.

You're stuck, you're frozen in place. Your fingers are cramped into the dirt and the grass and you're frozen.

The guy sits back up again and reaches out for you. He smooths his hand down your back, surprisingly warm against your ice-cold skin.

"Hey", he says softly. "You're okay. You can get up."

You pry your fingers from the ground one by one, flex your trembling hands and push yourself upright. It takes a few seconds for reality to sink in - you're in a ditch. In a ditch. You're soaked, soaked with muddy ditch water. Your shoes are drenched, your legs splattered with dirt, the hem of your dress soaked in brown. And you're cold. Ice-cold and trembling. And your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your fingers hurt. Three of your nails are cracked.

You're sitting in a ditch in the middle of Oklahoma and you'd just been through a tornado. A fucking ditch in Oklahoma and a tornado.

And a guy, a guy who's brushing his hand down your arm and eyeing you up.

"Alright, let's get you out of here, you're shaking", he says and for the first time, you turn your head and look at him. Actually look at him.

He's tall and he's blonde and he's drenched, too, drenched in that same dirty, muddy water as you. His hands are big, big and pleasantly warm as he grabs softly onto you and carefully maneuvers you towards him.

You don't really remember the next minutes. Not what you're doing, at least. It's a hazy, fuzzy passing of time - you barely remember that you're moving. You're cold and scared and still in shock and somehow, your eyes have locked onto him, onto this guy who you realise probably just saved your fucking life. Because when you come back to reality, he's wrapping a blanket around you - a dry, warm blanket - and the spot where you'd parked your car is empty.

Empty.

"My car", you whisper, staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing. The guy wraps the blanket tighter around you before he looks over his shoulder and glances around.

"Your car's not that important", he reassures, even though his voice is heavy. Heavy and raspy, you realise. He's got a certain Southern twang to it that you hadn't noticed in all the chaos before. "Much more important is that you're alive."

You nod half-heartedly (he's right, some rational part of your brain shouts, while the practical part mourns the shit ton of money you'd just lost) and settle your eyes back on him.

You don't know what it is, exactly, but something about this, something about the warmth of the blanket and the way he's rubbing your arms, something about him, about his voice and his words, slowly peels away the layers and layers of terror that are clinging to your pounding heart.

You swallow hard, reach up to tug the blanket tighter around yourself and shift your focus. Not the car or the tornado or the fact that you're drenched in dirty ditch water - him. This guy in front of you, who's looking you up and down to check if you're hurt. It's easier that way. It's easier to calm down when you're not thinking about any of it. It's easier when you're staring at him, counting to ten, slowly regaining your sanity. And what's suddenly also easier is realising that this guy in front of you is very much easy to look at. Even though his hair sticks to his head, even though his jeans are stained brown. He's what you'd expect as a reference picture next to the word "handsome" in a dictionary.

All of a sudden, you're not as cold anymore. All of a sudden, you're rather flushed. Because if he's drenched and dirty, you must look about the same. And you don't think you want him to see you like that. You'd much rather meet him in a bar or something, when you're dressed up and clean and preferably not terrified.

"Thanks", you get out, a little too quickly as you tighten the blanket further around yourself. "For, uh, for saving my life."

The guy's lips quirk up and he grins, a lopsided, half-cocky grin that makes your heart leap.

"Anytime, sweetheart", he drawls, then reaches up as though he wants to tip his hat - just that he's not wearing one, so instead, he settles for brushing his hand through his hair, just a second too late to seem intentional from the start. "Why were you out here anyway? Half a mile back is a gas station with a basement."

"I didn't-", you start, hesitant to admit just how unprepared you'd been for what had happened. "I didn't know it was a tornado. I thought it was just a bad storm or something, I'm... I'm not from around here."

He nods at you, his lips already parting when you suddenly twitch away from him and sneeze - once, then twice. His grin has dropped by the time you look up at him again and excuse yourself. God, is this embarrassing.

"You need dry clothes before you catch a cold", he says, his eyes travelling down your soaked dress and your bare legs. "I've got a shirt in the trunk, give me a minute."

He walks towards the back of his car and opens up his trunk and you're hit with two thoughts at the same time. The first is more along the lines of goddamn, are his shoulders broad, but the second - arguably the one that should be more important - is why the fuck his car is still standing in the very same spot he'd parked it before the tornado had hit.

Especially when your car is absolutely nowhere to be seen. Your car and all your things inside it. Oh, god-

"Here you go", he says, holding out a dry copy of the shirt he's wearing, red checkered cotton. He's about to go on when you blurt out:

"Sorry, why's your car still... you know, there?"

His lips pull into that impossibly charming grin once more and he points at the underside of the truck.

"Tornado-proof", he explains, just the slightest bit cocky. You follow the invisible line he's drawing to two... what looks like giant screws? twisted into the ground below.

"Oh", you let out, not too intelligently - but really, what are you supposed to say?

He just chuckles and holds the shirt out for you again. You take it carefully, your fingers grazing his. He's so warm, so fucking warm. Meanwhile you're shaking even underneath the blanket he'd given you. Though that's also starting to get soaked.

"You can change in the car if you want", he offers, already pulling open the door to the passenger seat. You don't really have to think hard about it. You're drenched in the middle of nowhere, with no way to get home, and this guy has just saved your life. So you unwrap the blanket and give it back to him with a smile and a thanks.

It's tight and cramped inside the car, even as you roll the seat all the way back. You pry the drenched dress off of your body and only then remember to turn around and check if the guy is watching you (as handsome as he is, he's still a guy). But no, he's turned away, has his hands rested against his hips and is staring intently at the slowly clearing sky.

You turn back with a smile and get rid of your soaked bra, too, before you pull his shirt on over your head.

Damn, it smells good. He smells good. And it's very comfortable, you have to admit. Plus, it's dry, which is most definitely an improvement.

You take a few seconds to consider whether or not to pull off your shorts... but they're drenched, too, and the guy seems respectful enough to not risk a bladder infection for. So you take your shoes off, and your socks, and your shorts. And then you crack open the car door again and knock softly against the window.

"I'm done", you call out, loud enough that he can hear. He turns back and his eyes drag down your body - or what of it he can see through the open door - and even though he looks right back up at your face, you can't help but feel flustered. You ball your wet clothes up in your hands nervously.

"Alright then", he says, takes a step closer and reaches for the door handle. "You said you're not from around here, where were you driving?"

Ah, right, that part.

Honestly, with so much happening in so few minutes, you'd about blocked out everything else. Everything normal.

"My parents, uh-", you start, trailing off when you realise that's not much help for him. "About three, four hours from here."

"That's quite a drive", he chuckles. "I live maybe half an hour from here, how about I take you with me so you can eat and drink something? Maybe you can borrow a pair of Lilly's pants. And you could phone your parents."

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a second too long to even understand all of what he's saying before taking another second too long to sort how you'll respond. Then you start with what you find most important.

"I've got my phone", you tell him, pulling it out from where you'd just deposited it in the centre console. "I had it in my pocket."

You'd taken it with you more reflexively than consciously when you'd stumbled out of your car - but truly, what self-respecting adult didn't take their phone with them when they left anywhere?

The guy just raises his eyebrows and glances at your phone.

"And it still works?", he asks, a little incredulously.

"Yep", you smile - for the first time, you realise, since the tornado. "It's waterproof."

More because you'd been scared you'd drop the love of your life into the pool or the ocean on vacation, but a tornado in the middle of Oklahoma worked as well. At least you now knew you'd spent your money wisely.

"Smart", he grins. You can't help but grin right back.

He's charming and he's respectful and he looks so goddamn good.

"Who's Lilly?", you ask then, because that had been the second thing you'd wanted to say. He hesitates for a half a moment.

"A friend", he says. You squint at him. He doesn't look like he's lying, but he does look like there's something you don't know about. God, if he turns out to be a cheater- "I'll introduce you if you'd like."

You raise your eyebrows. Alright, so not a cheater. And, if you're interpreting correctly, another invitation to come with him. Not that you'd been about to refuse the first one.

"Sure", you say, as casually as you can. "I didn't really feel like standing around half-naked on the street anyway."

...

A few minutes later, he's driving his weird car/truck with the screws on the bottom down the empty highway. Though 'empty' is the wrong description, really - here and there, trees, road signs and utility poles are scattered on the pavement.

You're driving in silence. Well, silence as in neither of you talks, not as in actual silence. Alongside the motor, the radio had turned on, playing one country song after the other.

"You never told me your name", the guy says suddenly. The very much stranger, who's very much right - you'd never told him your name.

"You never told me yours", you counter, because that's also the truth. He'd never told you his name. You knew his friend's name, but not his.

"Didn't think I'd have to", he mutters under his breath, so quietly you barely catch it. "It's Tyler. Tyler Owens?"

He says it like it's a question. You don't know why. So instead you just answer with your own name and Tyler, as you'd come to know, repeats it with a smile on his lips.

God, you don't think it's ever sounded that good.

"Pretty name", he says, all casual like that doesn't get your heart racing again. Pretty. He'd called you pretty. Almost unconsciously, you brush your hands through your hair.

"Thank you", you mutter. As if to distract yourself, you add: "So, Tyler, what do you do?"

...

Exactly half an hour later, Tyler takes your hand in his and helps you out of his car. His house - the one he's sharing with Lilly, you'd found out, with Lilly and the rest of his Tornado Wranglers - is big and inviting. It's a little way off from any other houses, which you personally think is quite nice. Not that you say that, though.

Tyler walks you inside without having to unlock the door. He takes two steps, then he calls out "Guys, we've got a guest", which immediately results in a surprised shout of "whoops" and the sound of a set of feet scurrying up the stairs. Tyler has barely pulled off his shoes (after politely asking you to wait just a second) when a head pops through the doorframe at the end of the hallway.

"Boone was naked", the woman grins before settling her eyes on you and throwing you a wave. "Hey there, I'm Lilly."

She glances down at your bare legs.

"A little cold there?", she asks and even though her words are sarcastic, her voice is anything but.

"A little", you answer truthfully, smiling at her as she steps out into the hallway.

"You want a pair of pants?", she asks, seemingly without giving a single thought to who you are or why you're standing half-naked in her hallway.

You glance at Tyler, but he's grinning and only shrugs at you, so you turn back to Lilly and nod at her. She seems sweet, really sweet, and very kind. She takes you with her to her room (up two sets of stairs, the fucking house has three floors and a basement) and shows you her closet, the very definition of unbothered even as you nervously rummage through her clothes.

"Hey, you can take a shirt too, if you want", she says, flopping down onto her bed and rolling onto her side to look at you.

"Oh", you let out and glance down at the shirt you're wearing - Tyler's shirt, that very country, checkered shirt that's way too big for you. "I'm fine, thanks."

Honestly, if it were up to you, you would never wear anything else ever again. Tyler's shirt is soft and comfortable and - most importantly - it smells like him. You really just want to tug the hem up to your nose and breathe in his scent (but that would be weird, so you don't).

"Alright", Lilly drawls. "Your choice."

...

Lilly shows you the bathroom, gives you the wifi password and tells you to come down whenever you feel like it. You realise half a second too late that you haven't told her your name yet and crack open the bathroom door to call out for her.

Honestly, you like her. You really like her. And you really like Tyler, too. He's handsome and he smells good and he's respectful and he's nice and he saved your fucking life today. You don't even want to think about what would have happened to you if he hadn't driven by.

In the bathroom is the first time you can really breathe. You throw some water at your face and blowdry your hair. Ten minutes later, you're walking down the stairs into the hallway again - this time, when you stroll through there, you're wearing comfortable pants, fuzzy socks and take your time to look around.

You'd already called your parents back in the car with Tyler. They'd been about as shocked as you'd expected, had needed a few minutes to even understand just what you were telling them, but then they'd offered to come pick you up immediately. Tyler had provided them his address and now here you are - knocking at the open door to the kitchen, where all of the Tornado Wranglers sit around the table. All of them, except for Tyler, who's leaning against the countertop and looks up at you with a grin when you step in.

"Hey there", he drawls, his eyes raking down your body once more today - you've tucked his shirt into Lilly's pants and you could swear his eyes linger on your waist. "Warm and dry?"

"Very", you grin back, then nod at Lilly. "Thanks again."

She shakes her head and waves you off.

"Hey, no big deal. Do you want some pasta?"

...

It's comfortable there, in the kitchen of these strangers who are feeding you pasta and lending you clothes. You've settled onto the countertop next to Tyler and now and then, when you're dangling your feet or he's taking a bite, your legs graze his arm. He's changed into dry clothes too, you realise as you brush against him for the first time, and he's even warmer now than before.

"Tyler's told us all about you", Boone says after a few minutes of easy conversation. You raise your eyebrows and turn your head, staring at Tyler from the side.

"Has he?", you ask, because you hadn't even told him enough about yourself to warrant any use of the word 'all'. Sure, you'd talked on the ride here - but mostly about him, because - as it had turned out - what Tyler Owens did wasn't a normal job like doctor or lawyer, but instead professional Tornado Wrangler. Which, of course, had then dominated the conversation for the rest of the drive.

"Yeah, like how you were driving to you parents and didn't know what to do in a tornado so you just kept on driving", Boone grins, scraping the rest of his pasta off his plate. "And how he made you go in that ditch and-"

"Alright, shut up, Boone", Tyler interrupts, even though there's no real malice behind his words. "She knows the story. She's in it."

"I'm just saying", Boone goes on, entirely undeterred as he puts his now empty plate down on the kitchen table. "If you'd filmed that, it would go viral for sure."

You have to snort at that.

"Yeah, because of all the indecent exposure."

...

When your mother rings the doorbell three hours later, you're in the middle of the second round of a boardgame Dexter had pulled from a drawer. You'd been paired with Tyler for the first round and - somehow not surprisingly - that had worked quite well. You'd won just so against Dexter and Dani (Lilly and Boone hadn't been too much competition) and Dani's "We never get to play this right 'cuz we're always five people" after Tyler had high-fived you with a victorious cheer had warmed your heart. At least they'd enjoyed themselves - at least you hadn't been a burden.

"I call dibs on her", Lilly had declared when the second round had begun, so Tyler had teamed up with Boone instead.

"Oh, oh, botany!", you call out, just as the doorbell finally rings. Lilly jumps up and high-fives you.

"How in the hell did you guess that?", Dani asks, sounding all but exasperated at this point as Tyler pushes out of his seat and walks towards the front door. You shrug.

"Pure talent", you joke, then you climb off the couch as well. "Alright, it was so nice meeting you all, but I think my taxi's out front."

They all hug you goodbye and tell you to come around again anytime - Boone even hands you one of those t-shirts Tyler had told you about in the car. You can hardly hold back a snort. Though Tyler had told you about the shirts existing, yes, he must have accidentally forgotten to mention that his goddamn face is printed on them, paired with the very... comedic phrase "Not My First Tornadeo".

You thread through the hallway with the shirt and your phone in your hands, only to be hit with the sight of Tyler hugging your mother on the doorstep. Or your mother hugging Tyler, more like. Either way, you're suddenly frozen in place.

But then your mother opens her eyes and sees you standing there and she lets go of Tyler with a sharp cry to come running at you instead. She throws her arms around you with so much vigor you're almost knocked off your feet. You meet Tyler's eyes over her shoulder - crinkled with lines of laughter as he smiles at you. Your eyes dart away again just as quickly.

"It's fine, mom, I'm okay", you reassure.

"Yeah, thanks to Tyler", she mutters into your hair. "I already told him we'll pay him whatever he wants for saving our daughter."

"And I already said I don't want any money", Tyler clarifies.

...

The next morning, you wake up comfortably late in a warm bed. You walk down the stairs in fuzzy socks and start the day with a simple cup of tea.

A simple cup of tea and Tyler Owens' YouTube channel.

You'd looked him and his Tornado Wranglers up the very second you'd sat down in your mother's car. Then you'd subscribed to every channel you could find. And then... you'd kind of got obsessed. You'd watched so many of their videos that by one am, you'd simply fallen asleep to one of them.

"Aunt May's gonna be here in half an hour", your mother informs you casually, a stack of plates in her hands as she rummages around in the kitchen. You're still sitting at the table in your pajamas, a spoonful of cereal in your mouth, your phone propped up against a water bottle in front of you, playing a Tornado Wranglers video from a year ago.

"Seriously?", you get out, chewing on your cereal before you can swallow it down. "Mom, I still have to shower and get ready and all."

She throws you one of those eyebrows-raised glances that immediately let you know she's judging you for something.

"We only let you sleep this long because you almost died yesterday", she says matter-of-factly, then she eyes your phone. "And if you weren't watching Tyler's videos so obsessively, you would be done by now."

"Really, mom?"

You let out a resigned sigh. She only shrugs and grins at you. She's a little bit right, anyway.

"He's good-looking, I get it", she says, then she strolls out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself while you curse at her. He is good-looking, fuck this. You need to get it together before the rest of your extended family arrives.

...

The doorbell rings for the umpteenth time that day, just as you step out of the bathroom and smooth down the front of the red-checkered shirt you're wearing. You call some version of "I got it", down the hallway, not too sure if anyone even hears - they're all in the backyard anyway. Then you open the door with a smile on your face, a smile that instantly pulls into a wide grin when you see just who's standing there.

Because it's not another aunt or uncle or cousin. It's no one in your family, not even close.

It's Tyler.

Tyler Owens.

"Hi", he says. Just that. Hi.

You lean against the open door and cross your arms. Your grin only grows.

"Hi", you echo.

His eyes rake down your body and it seems like whatever he'd wanted to say gets stuck in his throat as he realises that the shirt you're wearing isn't your shirt, really. You can't help but bite down on your lip.

Look, you hadn't expected this. You hadn't expected him. None of this was a scheme or a plan or anything even close. You'd just seen it lying there this morning, right next to Lilly's pants on your desk, and you hadn't been able to help yourself. It smelled so fucking good.

"Nice shirt", he grins, eyes snapping back up to yours.

"Thanks", you grin back. "I got it from this guy after he saved me from dying in a tornado yesterday."

Tyler chuckles.

"Seems like a great guy."

"So great", you agree. "Even though he prints his face on t-shirts."

Tyler is just about to retort something - all toothy grins and laughter lines - when your mother calls out his name, very obviously pleasantly surprised as she comes down the hallway. She smiles at him, big and wide.

"What are you doing here?", she asks, stopping next to you to ask the very question that had been on the tip of your tongue too when you'd opened up the door.

"Oh, I'm just bringing these back", he says and holds up his hand to show a stack of neatly folded clothes with your bra right on top. You have to bite down on your cheeks to stop from outright grinning.

Okay, so even if wearing his shirt hadn't been a scheme, and even if you hadn't expected to see him... You might just have done something to ensure you would see him again. But hey, he's about the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes on, you'd be damned if you'd have to watch him on the screen of your phone for the rest of your life. So yeah, you may have accidentally 'forgotten' your wet clothes in his bathroom after you'd hung them over the heater to dry. You just hadn't thought he'd find them so quickly.

"And you drove four hours for that?", your mother asks, more baffled than you are. Tyler only shrugs. Your mother reaches out for your clothes, grabs them from him and puts them on the cupboard in the hallway. Then she looks at him.

"You're coming in, yes? We're having barbecue now and cake in a bit. I'm not letting you drive four hours here just to deliver her clothes."

...

Twenty minutes later is when you get Tyler alone for the first time. Your mother has schlepped him with you through the whole garden and introduced him to every single person there - "He's the guy who saved her yesterday!" (because, obviously, your story had been about the only topic anyone had talked about so far) - your father first and foremost, who hugs Tyler so tightly that for a moment you're afraid he'll break him.

You catch up with Tyler just as he finishes loading his plate with food, finally on his own after your mother has excused herself to go cut up more bread.

"How'd you find me?", you ask, sipping at your ice-cold coke and eyeing him up. It's the one question that had been burning in your mind for the past twenty minutes. How in the hell had he managed to find you? It's not like you'd left a note with your address next to your clothes (though in hindsight, you don't remember how you'd meant for him to bring them back to you).

He looks almost bashful for a second.

"Boone noticed you'd followed our account", he explains then. "He figured out your last name from your handle and searched the phone book of the city on your mom's license plate. And then he read out all the names until I recognised your mom's because she'd introduced herself to me yesterday."

Your eyebrows raise, further and further the more he speaks. You swallow. Silence falls for a second, then two.

"You know, some people would call that creepy", you say, but your lips tug up into an involuntary grin that gives away more quickly than you'd wanted that you aren't one of those people. Tyler grins right back at you.

"Personally I think it would've been more creepy if I'd kept your bra."

...

It's 9:20 when your mother comes over. You've long since switched from barbecue to cake, then to snacks. Your feet are tucked underneath Tyler's legs, propped up against the side of his garden chair and he's running his fingers up and down your calves.

You'd spent the afternoon chatting away and laughing, barely talking to anyone but him. Your 'family get-together' had turned into more of a date. You certainly aren't about to complain, though.

"Tyler, you're staying the night, right?", your mother asks, a fresh plate of chips in her hands that she puts next to the almost empty one on the table in front of you.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome", he says, all gentlemanly even as your mother rests her hands against her hips and stares him down.

"Young man, you're welcome in this house any time, for however long. I'm not letting you drive home four hours. You're staying the night." Then she points at you. "She's still got a couch in her room that you can sleep on. I'd offer you a guest room, but half the family's staying here and we're already out of air mattresses."

So an hour later, you're rummaging about your room, picking up clothes off the couch and stuffing them in your closet to make room for Tyler. He's leaning against your doorway, looking around, taking in the mess that is your childhood bedroom.

"Nice posters", he says, and you throw him a look over your shoulder that could be deadly. He's grinning all sarcastic, only chuckling as his eyes meet yours. "You could put up one of my shirts here."

You have to snort at that and before you can even really think about it, you've pulled the shirt Boone had given you yesterday from where you'd put it down on your desk. You throw it at him carelessly and he catches it with no effort at all, which - paired with that fucking grin - shouldn't be as attractive as it turns out to be.

"Knock yourself out", you say, then you turn back around to your closet and tug out bedsheets for him. "My old poster glue should be in one of the desk drawers."

You don't think he'll seriously do it, but you seem to have misjudged him. Badly. Because he gets to work immediately.

You watch him for a few stunned seconds before you decide to just leave him to it. So while you turn the couch into a makeshift bed for him, he glues that goddamn "Not My First Tornadeo" shirt to your wall.

"Fits perfectly if you ask me", he declares eventually, barely concealing the amusement dripping from his words. You smooth down his sheets before you look up at your wall. He's put the shirt up in one of the few empty spots, right between your Maroon 5 and Destiny's Child posters.

"Yeah", you snort. "Perfectly."

You give him a toothbrush and let him use your bathroom. While he's gone, you change into your pajamas, fold his shirt carefully and put it on a pile with Lilly's pants and her socks. Honestly, a little part of you already mourns the loss of it - but another part of you already has hope for another shirt. Maybe in a different context.

"What're you doing?", Tyler asks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. You don't look up as you fold the other clothes you'd thrown onto your desk yesterday.

"I put Lilly's things and your shirt there, you can take it back tomorrow", you explain, starting a second pile of your own clothes next to his.

"Keep my shirt", he says. That finally makes you look up at him.

Which isn't a good idea. Not at all. Because he's standing there in nothing but his briefs and good fucking lord-

You'd known he's handsome. You'd known he's broad. But you hadn't known he's fucking ripped. You shouldn't stare. You're very aware. You definitely shouldn't stare. It's incredibly rude to stare. It's very inappropriate to stare. But goddamn, this man is built so perfectly god himself must be jealous.

You have to forcibly blink yourself back to reality. You're definitely red in the face when you finally manage to meet his eyes again. And he's raised his eyebrows in a way that tells you he's reading your every emotion right off your face.

"Sorry, come again?", you croak out, brushing your hand through your hair and realising just a second too late that your eyes have travelled down too far again.

"I said you should keep my shirt", he repeats, a very, very obvious grin on his lips. "It looks better on you."

"Okay", you agree, a little too quickly. The heat in your cheeks comes from more than just the half-naked view of him now. He thinks his shirt looks better on you. You don't even care if that's a line. "I'll... I'll go brush my teeth real quick."

When you come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Tyler has made himself comfortable on your couch. It's a little too small for him, you realise, but he doesn't seem bothered. He's pulled the covers up to his hips - you can still stare at his chest, to your delight. And he's put one hand under his head, flexing his bicep in a way that has you hurrying over to your own bed so you won't jump him right then and there.

"Alright, goodnight, Tyler", you breathe, adjusting your pillow and wrapping your blanket around your body as if grabbing at it will somehow ground you.

"Goodnight", he echoes, and then you turn off the light.

It's quiet. The only noise is the laughter of your family a floor below, all settling into bed themselves. It's quiet and it's dark.

And you're staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing.

Oh, god. He's so fucking hot. He's so fucking hot you want to throw yourself out of the window. He's so fucking hot and he's on your fucking couch, barely ten feet from you. He's so fucking hot and he'd driven four hours here just to bring your clothes.

"Tyler", you say, barely two minutes after you'd turned the light off. He hums in response - still awake. You don't know what you'd expected. "Thanks again. For, you know, for everything."

"Anytime", he replies, and even though you can't see his grin, you imagine you can hear it. You nod into your pillow. Then silence falls again.

It lasts maybe another two minutes.

"Your family's nice", he says then. You can't help but smile.

"Thanks", you mutter.

"I like your mother", he says. Your smile only grows. You turn onto your back and stare at the dark ceiling.

"She likes you too."

It's the truth.

Tyler stays quiet. You don't even try to close your eyes this time - you can hear him breathe, deep and relaxed. It's calming. You're sure it could lull you to sleep. If you were anywhere near tired, that is. This way, you just blink at black nothingness.

"Were you really a Destiny's Child fan?", Tyler asks eventually, his sheets rustling.

"Yep", you say.

That's it for that conversation.

You don't know what it is, the darkness or the silence, but something pushes on your chest and weighs you down, warming your skin as it settles on your body. It's a tension, thick and heavy, one that had grown with every scrap of conversation.

"You know-", he starts again, but this time, you've got enough.

"Tyler", you interrupt, turning onto your side and pulling your covers with you. "Get up here."

You can't see him as he throws his bedsheets off himself, can't watch as he heaves himself up, can't look at him as he strides over to your bed - but you hear the rustling of his covers, you hear the couch creaking, you hear his steps on the floorboards. And you feel the mattress dipping when he finally sets his knees on your bed.

You don't wait until he's actually in there. You don't think you could possibly wait until he is. You just push yourself up, grab onto the first part of him you can get your hands on (his shoulders), cup his face in your palms and pull him into you.

Right into your kiss.

Tyler Owens kisses you for the first time in the darkness of your childhood bedroom. For the second time in the morning light in your bed. For the third time in your parent's kitchen, right as your mother walks in. For the fourth time in his truck, after your parents all but throw you out of their house and force you to go home with him. For the fifth time in front of his own house, where his crew watches through the window.

And after that, Tyler Owens loses count of just how often he kisses you. Because he kisses you every day for the rest of his life.

#x reader #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens #twisters #tyler owens twisters #twisters 2024 #twisters x reader

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whisperofaflame · 1 day ago

Text

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 2: A Tale of Two Cities

Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: Wanda drives you to your drab apartment to grab some necessities, before welcoming you to her home.

Word Count: 6.4k

Featuring: Hints of praise/mommy kink, and desperate attempts to describe NYC by an author who's never been there.

When you near a red SUV, Wanda pulls out her keys and unlocks it with a button, making the brake lights flash on momentarily. You start towards the passenger door but she pulls you back gently, fingers pressing against your bicep.

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” Wanda asks, her voice slightly teasing in tone. “I don’t think I’ll be letting you drive today.”

You blush, realising your error. “Sorry; I — I’m not used to the passenger seat being on the right side.”

“Ah, of course darling, don’t worry,” she says, softer now and paired with an understanding smile. She doesn’t separate from you though, keeping hold of your arm and leading you up to the front of the car, where she opens the door for you.

“Thanks,” you whisper, and she lets you clamber in. But she’s still holding the door, waiting. Once you’re sat down, you look at her in confusion.

Wanda bends her knees and starts to lean over you. Having her this close, briefly seeing her cleavage before you rip your gaze away, makes you feel breathless and warm. Surprised and unsure, you hold your breath and watch as she places your bag at your feet and then takes hold of the seatbelt, which she carefully manoeuvres it around your right arm, avoiding the sling as she leans in a bit further to click it in beside you.

“There,” she murmurs, placing a hand on your knee. “All sorted.”

You manage a smile, the only thing you can offer in this moment, when you have no oxygen to give voice to words. Her actions were sweet, and your interpretation of them edges towards intimacy — but you know, in the remaining rational part of your brain, that it makes sense to give you help. You would have struggled to sort out your seatbelt on your own. Wanda is just being nice, you tell yourself. You need to stop letting it fluster you.

Wanda stands up again, looking down as if checking you’re safely enclosed, then closes the door for you. You watch as she walks around the front of her car, bringing your attention to the shiny red bonnet, the one which you were unceremoniously flung upon just a few hours earlier. You wonder if your body has left a mark — scratched the paintwork or left a dent. Or what if your bike hit her car too?

Your bike…

You turn around swiftly, bring about a new wave of pain in your collarbone, but you’re too shocked by what you see to register the ache.

Your bike — or rather, what’s left of it — lies in the boot and across the folded back seats. The frame is warped, the wheels buckled. The seat lies separate, the fabric torn and the seatpost bent. Coiled through spokes and cogs and metal is the snapped remnants of your chain. All these pieces, unsalvageable.

You shouldn’t care this much, because it’s not your bike really, not the one you’ve spent years riding and maintaining. That one you sold to a friend before you moved, a reluctant but necessary dissolution of your bond. This bike is one you bought secondhand the first full day after you arrived here. You’ve only used it a handful of times, not enough to justify becoming attached.

But somehow, the disfigured remains of this bicycle bring up an array of emotions: disappointment; horror; grief… And fear. Because this activity, this means of transport which you took so much for granted back home, suddenly seems entirely unfeasible in this new place. Not just because of the mangled bike, but also your injury, and the seeming inevitability of more accidents. Cycling, which offered and represented freedom and independence, has been taken from you. And this loss just seems to confirm all the worries that have been brewing: that this move has been too much; that this place is too different; and that you’ll never fit in or feel safe.

And so, when Wanda opens her door and climbs in, she sees you staring tearfully at the wreckage in her trunk. You hastily wipe your eyes with the wrist of your good arm when you feel her presence.

“Oh sweetheart, I’m sorry,” she says, sounding genuinely sad on your behalf. You avoid looking at her, embarrassed by your emotions, trying to compose yourself before turning around. You feel a hand being placed on your knee, warm and grounding. You appreciate that she’s not rushing to fix your feelings, like telling you that you can get a new bike, or that you should just be thankful to have come out of the collision alive. You know both of those things, and you’re still sad. So it’s nice to just have the physical comfort of her hand on your knee, and the patient silence that allows you the time to calm down.

When your tear ducts close and you feel assured they’re not going to betray you again, you turn around, careful not to meet her gaze. Not yet. You look down at your knees, the left one still blanketed by her long fingers, which give a light squeeze.

“Sorry, I — I don’t know why I’m so upset… I’m just being stupid,” you whisper, voice cracking with the remainder of your sobs, viscous in your throat.

Wanda hushes you, and draws light circles on the outer edge of your knee with her thumb.

“It’s okay to cry, Y/N,” she tells you in a quiet, soothing voice that makes you close your eyes. You feel like her words cloak you with a heavy warmth that clouds your brain and puts you at risk of… something. Falling asleep maybe? You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it feels dangerous somehow, this feeling. Like teetering on a precipice.

“You’ve had a very eventful morning,” Wanda continues, her thumb still tracing patterns on your knee, prompting goosebumps to emerge under the denim of your jeans. “And you’re definitely not being stupid, darling.” The intensity of her tone causes your heart to flutter, and you feel inclined to agree now despite yourself, because she speaks with such assurance, such authenticity. Her serious statements are made all the more persuasive by the inclusion of such sweet nicknames; like sugar in a pill, they make you willing to swallow whatever she may serve you.

You look up at her, basking in the warmth of her gaze and the glow of her touch, and smile slightly. Your face is wan from crying, making Wanda only melt more at the adoring expression you gift her.

“Y/N, can I drive you to your place so we can pack a few things for you?” Wanda asks, still treating you to the tantalising touch of her thumb.

You think about this, then nod. When she tilts her head slightly, you feel compelled to add speech. “Okay,” you manage, small and unsure. But it seems to be enough for her. Wanda smiles so approvingly at you that you feel a glow of pride, as if you have done something much more than speak a mere word.

With her remaining hand, Wanda presses on the car’s display screen and pulls up the Sat-Nav. You watch her dazedly, and stare in confusion when she stops unexpectedly and turns back to you. Wanda suppresses a chuckle, seeing your baffled expression.

“Darling, you will need to tell me your address, I’m afraid,” she says, lifting her hand from your knee and then, just soon enough that you don’t let loose a whimper at the loss of her touch, she tucks some straggling hair behind your ear. You feel your cheeks heat up at her proximity, but perhaps she thinks it’s due to your apparent assumption that she can read your mind.

You hasten to find your phone, checking your pockets with light pats before leaning down, a little painfully, to search your bag. You find it in your front pocket, and pull open Google Maps to find the pin you set as your new home. Then, with trembling fingers, you type the Zip code onto the display.

You lean back then, unsure how to set it properly and not wanting to assume or overstep. Wanda smiles at you, and presses a single button which pulls up the route and ETA. It should take 25 minutes to reach your apartment. You bunch up the fingers of your left hand in your lap as Wanda begins to drive, anticipating awkwardness, and pulling your body in to shield yourself from the strangeness of the situation.

You needn’t have worried about the journey. Wanda seems easy and relaxed around you, pointing out landmarks in the distance, and telling light stories triggered by places you pass. You are grateful not to be asked questions; your brain is still murky, impossible to fish answers from with any accuracy. Plus, you can feel a tiredness settling in to your being, cemented by the ache in your bones and the blossoming bruises which will surely paint the accident vivid on your body by tomorrow. What little energy you have left you cling to and wield as a weapon against sleep. You can’t sleep now, not in Wanda’s car, as you approach your tiny, grimy apartment in a neighbourhood you don’t yet know.

You prod your faculties to produce a list of items to pack, but it proves futile. The concept of 72 hours in Wanda’s company is too big, too unbelievable to pin any mundane necessities to. And you seem to have lost the capacity to plan, all attempts being derailed by distraction of a most beguiling kind. Wanda.

When Wanda parks the car, it takes a moment to orient yourself and recognise the street. There is the takeaway beside the door to your block, shutters closed and graffitied. In front of it, the fire hydrant which caught your attention, day one, as a staunchly iconic article of Americanism, despite its mundanity. And beside the car, the skinny tree in the pavement — or sidewalk — rooted in a rectangle of scorched soil, audacious weeds and sun-dried dog faeces.

Your new home.

“Um, I guess this is me,” you announce awkwardly, unsure how else to initiate this transition.

“I’ll come up with you,” Wanda states smoothly, leaving no room for disagreement. “I can help you with the doors and carrying stuff down.”

You smile briefly, and nod. It’s hard to summon anything but horror at the thought of Wanda seeing the hovel you inhabit now, the only apartment you could arrange — and, more importantly, afford — at this stage.

Wanda, at least, seems unabashed by the surroundings. “I’ll come round and let you out,” she tells you, and she’s already walking round the car by the time you process and prepare a protest. So you sit meekly, awaiting her support and watching her hair swing against her shoulders as she walks, producing glints of red as she catches the sun.

There’s a fluttering in your stomach when she opens your door and reverses what she did before like a choreographed dance, unbuckling your seatbelt, folding it back into place and lifting your bag onto her shoulder.

You’re about to ask why she’s taking it, but it occurs to you that she maybe doesn’t want to leave it in the car. You don’t really know the area well enough to trust or suspect it yet, so you trust her judgement. The bike, at least, will pose no temptation to any passers-by.

You swing your legs around and slide out the car. The drop is larger than you expect, and Wanda steadies you with a hand cupping your elbow as you land like a baby deer, skittish and uncoordinated.

“Thanks,” you murmur, adding clumsiness to your mental list of I hope she puts this down to the concussion.

You lead her to the door, hearing her lock the car behind you. You pat your pockets again, this time finding the phone you unearthed, but unsurprisingly nothing else has magically appeared there since you last checked. You turn, blushing, to face Wanda, and gesture to the bag. She doesn’t need words to understand what you need, swinging it off her shoulder and holding it out to you. It’s hard to undo the zip with one arm, but she responds to your movements by providing helpful opposition, tugging the fabric of the bag away from your zipping movement to give it more purchase. You find your key, and she zips the pocket back up for you, saving you the trouble. Again, you just smile your thanks.

You unlock the door and lead her up the musty smelling stairway to reach your flat door, pausing a moment to take a steeling breath before opening up your new life entirely to this woman you met mere hours ago.

Your flat is very small, more of a glorified studio apartment than anything. The ‘bedroom’ is essentially the same room as the kitchen, distinguished only by its position round the corner of the L-shape. The bathroom, thankfully, has its own door, but it’s also shaped like an afterthought in the architect’s design, tall and narrow like a closet, coming off the ‘hallway’ space. And by that, you mean the square metre your feet first touch when you walk in.

You’ve already unpacked all the worldly possessions you brought with you on the plane, and it still feels empty in here. Especially because it’s tidy, which is against your base nature but seems to be inevitable here, where you both lack enough things to create clutter, and have a wealth of lonely, anxious time in which to clean. When you first arrived, you subjected everything to a near-existentially erasing scrub, gutting out the remnants of the previous tenant and elevating the space from unsanitary to outdated.

Your brain is spinning with apologies and excuses you feel the need to express, but you decide just to hurry and complete your task so that you can extricate Wanda as soon as possible. This, however, proves difficult, as your thoughts fail to coalesce with any relevance to packing. Wanda watches you a while as you rummage through your drawers of clothes, whole body betraying your inner struggle.

“Sweetheart, let me help,” she intones, stepping forward to your side. You look up at her, embarrassed but admittedly desperate now for any support that makes this activity more efficient. “Do you have another bag we can use?” Wanda prompts, and you pull a rucksack from under your bed, eager to fulfil her request and at least make the process of helping you less painful for her.

Wanda instructs you one step at a time: tops, pants (you nearly open the wrong drawer at this, before remembering she must mean trousers), and then underwear. For this step, she subtly looks away, saving you the humiliation of parading your intimate items between the drawer and the bag.

She reminds you of toiletries next, and you do a quick sweep round your bathroom, grabbing everything you might need. Finally, she prompts you to pack things to do, whilst reassuring you that you can also borrow books and watch films at her house if you get bored at any point. You slide your kindle into the bag first. Since the remainders of your bookshelf are packed in boxes back home in your parents’ attic; you’ve become a minimalist out of necessity, and it pains you. Next, you slide in your Nintendo Switch, a little sheepishly, wondering if she’ll think it is childish. On that note, you’re glad your stuffed rabbit is tucked beneath your duvet, out of sight.

“All done?” Wanda asks, when you awkwardly buckle the backpack closed with one arm. When you nod, she smiles and adds a quiet “good job, honey” which seems to singe your face with heat and embarrassment. You try to wrestle down the elation inside you, not wanting to acknowledge the addictive nature of her recognition and praise. Because if you do, surely it will bury you.

“Come on,” Wanda says, reaching out and taking the bag away before you can sling it over your good arm. “Let’s head to mine and get you settled.”

She has a bag over each arm now, yet still she reaches out for your hand like it’s no bother, like she wants to. You look at her outstretched fingers, your shoulders folding in to your centre in automatic bashful reception. When you clasp her hand, it makes the pain a little more bearable, even as it ripples down your arm from the self-protective movement. She’s leading you slowly out the flat, letting you turn as you leave to lock the door behind you.

On the stairs down, she is watchful, attending to your cautious movements. You’re being extra careful; the sling is making your body feel uneven, difficult to trust. Wanda stays by your side, matching your pace and applying some upward pressure against your hand to allow you to lean on her when necessary.

As you approach the car, your stomach flutters in anticipation of the ritual. Wanda lets go of your hand to open the back door and carefully tuck your bags into the footwell, out of reach of the disassembled bike. You stand on the pavement waiting, hoping she will help you again. It’s strange how you’ve surrendered your independence so fully, seeking out assistance and leaning in to the supports. Although, maybe it’s not your willingness that is surprising, but rather the speed. You hardly know her, and already you’re falling to your knees in your mind.

When Wanda closes the door and turns to you, her face breaks into a radiant smile. Like she’s pleased at your patience and trust that she will help.

“Alright, let’s get you in, sweetheart,” she intones, voice low and delicate, like she’s talking late at night, and using a tone conducive to sleep. Wanda opens the passenger door for you, and you shyly slip past her to sit down and swing your legs in. Holding your breath as she leans over with a smile, pulling on your seatbelt and buckling you in. Your faces are so close, they almost touch. Her lips… they are tinted red and glossy, and you’re staring at them far too long, you know, but you can’t seem to control yourself. Wanda looks at you, and you can’t even summon the decency to look away. You are frozen in enchantment.

Her smile, so soft and accepting, produces warm tingles in all regions of your body. it widens a little, as she gives your knee a singular, pausing pat.

“All sorted,” she whispers, and you have to gasp for breath when she closes the door, because you’ve been holding it without realising for a while. As she walks round the car, you pull yourself in, trying to centre yourself before she reappears. Slowing your breath, willing your cheeks to cool down. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the insistent feeling which is pooling in the depths of your body.

Wanda enters on her side, sits down and closes her door. She reaches for the screen with a perfectly manicured finger, tapping it with a sparkling red nail and selecting the button marked ‘home’.

“It’ll be a fifty minute drive, Y/N, so feel free to sleep if you need. You look a little tired.”

You are tired, whether by her influence or the drugs in your body. But you don’t want to fall asleep, it would feel rude when she has to drive you, when she has done all this to help.

“I’ll be okay,” you whisper, giving her a small smile. She looks back at you, her eyes flickering up and down ever so briefly, lips hovering on the edge of a smirk. Like she doesn’t believe you.

And she’s right to doubt your claim. Mere minutes into the journey and your eyelids are fluttering, head drooping intermittently as you catch yourself slipping away. In the midst of your slow succumbing to slumber, you miss the sideways glances Wanda makes, watching you in awe as you slip away so sweetly.

You awake to a soft, hushed voice. Soothing, it calls you out from under the blanket your brain has placed on your consciousness.

“Y/N, honey, we’re here.”

Your brain unwraps the blanket tentatively, peeling it back. Your eyes open, blinking as you adjust to the light and your surroundings. You turn to see Wanda watching you with interest as you wake.

“Hi sweetheart,” she welcomes you, “you were out like a light.”

You still feel a bit foggy, disorientated and stiff. You roll your body a little in the seat, trying to stretch your muscles awake, but you’ve forgotten that your limbs are littered with emerging bruises, and your shoulder is sitting severed in a sling. You wince and emit a tiny squeak of pain, which you are too sleepy to stifle.

“Careful, darling,” Wanda reminds you, as she brushes some hair out of your face and tucks it behind your ear with a gentle, lingering finger. Her words, her touch, are like a soothing balm.

Slowly, you look out the windows at the street surrounding you. A neat row of townhouses — mostly reddy-brown in colour, with a few exceptions painted in muted tones — face you on either side. There are trees flanking the parked cars, leafy and green, all curling in to meet each other in a sun-dappled embrace over the narrow street. You shrink a little in the realisation that this is where Wanda lives, the same Wanda who saw your seedy street and entered your dingy flat.

Again, Wanda comes round to help you out, and you debate undoing your seatbelt yourself, to save her the trouble and you the embarrassment, but you don’t move. And you’re not sure if you’re frozen in fear of breaking the ritual or denying the feelings it gives you. In your lap, you pinch the fingers of your left hand together in a stilted rhythm.

When Wanda opens the door and sees you sitting still, she beams at you, as if pleased you waited. Though maybe she’s thinking you’re silly? You’re not sure. The only thing you can comprehend when she again leans over to release you is her scent, distinguishable now that you’ve been exposed enough to note it. It’s floral but not sickly, and soft, a mere whisper to your nose. A whisper you hardly catch, elusive and intriguing, making you yearn for it to be repeated.

She steps back to let you get out, holding the door and watching as you turn and slide into standing. You manage to stand steadily now, though a wild wish to wobble grips you momentarily. When you step forward out of the way, Wanda closes the passenger door and opens the door behind to retrieve your bags, again swinging them onto her back, one strap on each shoulder, before closing the door. She doesn’t mention the bike, and neither do you. You both know it’s irretrievable. At some point, you’ll have to arrange for it to be recycled or scrapped. Not today though. Today you just want to lie down and let yourself be numbed and soothed by pills and Wanda’s presence… Two potent cures, both with potential side effects which you will gladly endure.

“This is us,” Wanda tells you gently, gesturing up to a four-storey tall residence, with an ornate staircase up to the main door. Above the entrance level, the next floor has a rounded bay window, decorated with plant pots. You wonder which floor Wanda and her wife live on, and whether they are responsible for the plants.

She leads you up the steps to the door, constantly attentive to your movements, supporting your elbow at your side as you climb. The outer set of double doors open with Wanda’s push, then there is a wide wooden door which she has to unlock. You’ve only just registered the lack of buzzers when she holds the door open for you, letting you walk in. You see a long open-plan room, and you realise that this is not a block of flats, but rather one residence. The whole thing. Her home.

This level is open plan, narrow but extending a long way back. Beneath your feet are dark walnut floorboards, shining and clean. There is a sofa and a few armchairs with a coffee table here, and further back is a small wooden table and chairs. In the far end of the room, you spot a fancy staircase that curls at the bottom, and large glass doors leading out to a balcony.

Wanda is taking her shoes off beside you and placing them in a little cupboard, on a rack. You mirror her actions, pressing your shoes off with opposite feet to avoid awkwardly stooping and removing them with one arm. When Wanda spots you, she opens her mouth — perhaps to tell you there’s no need — but you’re already leaning down and picking them up. She lets you pass her and place them neatly on top of the rack, where there is space.

“Thank you darling,” she says softly, “but next time, it’s okay if you want to keep them on.”

You smile bashfully, but in your head you are thinking that you’d far prefer clear rules, so you could follow them correctly and make sure you are as unproblematic a guest as possible.

“Shall I give you a little tour?” Wanda asks, and you nod.

“Yes please,” you say softly. She smiles in return, so warm, so welcoming.

“Alright, sweetheart. We call this part the dining room, though I suppose it’s also part living room.” Wanda walks forward, gesturing smoothly to the sofa and then moving towards the dining room table. “This is where we eat usually, though sometimes we’ll eat downstairs too.” She moves again, you following at her heel like a puppy. “And this is our kitchen.”

You look at the kitchen, tucked slightly out of the way behind the staircase. The patio doors you saw from the entrance lead off from here, onto a small balcony which has stairs leading down to the garden.

“I usually do the cooking, since Nat’s not really a fan,” Wanda says, a little conspiratorially. When you cock your head slightly in question, Wanda clarifies for you. “Natasha, my wife. She’s out at work today but you’ll meet her later.” Then she gestures to the glass doors. “Come on, I’ll take you down this way.”

You follow her out the doors and wait as she closes them over again behind you. Then she leads you down the wooden steps into the garden, which is narrow like the house, though a similar depth. It’s kept beautifully, plants and bushes lining the sides, two good sized trees at the back with a hammock and a canopy strung between. Beneath the balcony coming off of the kitchen, there are a table and chairs, as well as a barbecue stand. A string of fairy lights hangs above, lit up but dim under the overwhelming glow of the sun.

“It’s lovely,” you tell her, appreciating the greenery and serenity of her garden.

“Thank you, darling,” she says appreciatively. Then she gestures with her hand to follow, and she leads you through another set of glass doors into the lowest level of her home. Here is a much larger sofa, and a far more cosy space. A large TV screen hangs on the wall, at a good height for watching movies or playing games without straining your neck to look upwards. You notice a PS5 on the console table, and your eyes flicker up with curiosity.

“You have a Playstation?” you ask, intrigued.

Wanda smiles. “It’s Nat’s… I must confess I’m not very good with that stuff, though she’s tried to introduce me many times. Do you play video games?”

You grin at the formal way she asks, so indicative of her unfamiliarity.

“Yeah, I um, have a Switch. I used to have an Xbox but I had to sell it before I moved, it was too big to bring.”

“That’s a shame,” Wanda responds sympathetically. “Well, maybe you and Nat can play together while you’re here. I’m sure she’d appreciate having some capable company.”

As lovely as it is to hear Wanda’s confidence in this, you can’t help but worry about meeting her wife, Natasha. What will she think of your sudden, unexpected imposition? But you try to stuff down your anxiety and remain present in Wanda’s tour, because she’s being so attentive and helpful, and you don’t want to seem distracted or ungrateful. So you smile and nod at her comments, and look in politely to the adjoining pantry which she indicates to you.

Then she leads you through the rest of the basement floor, briefly showing you the cupboards and a bathroom, then leading you past the staircase towards two remaining doors.

“This one leads to a staircase at the front, going up to the street,” Wanda explains, gesturing to one. “And this one…” — she opens the door and leads you in — “is the gym.”

You’re surprised at how well equipped this room is, how bespoke every fitting seems to be. There are long mirrors on the walls, special flooring which is slightly sprung, an exercise bike, treadmill and rowing machine, as well as a weights station and hanging punching bag. With all this, there would be no need to pay for a gym membership. Not that it seems money is an issue for these women. Again, you wonder vaguely what they do for work, and whether it will ever feel appropriate to ask.

“Wow,” you breathe, not able to hide how impressed you are. Wanda lets out a small chuckle at this, and as your cheeks heat up, you try to summon a more mature and insightful comment. “Do, erm, you use this space much?”

“I’m in here every so often, more so in the Winter really, when it’s too cold to get out,” Wanda considers. “Natasha uses it most days though, mainly in the mornings before breakfast. That’s why we made sure to have it down here, so there was no risk of her interrupting my weekend lie-ins.” She grins at you, and you smile shyly back. “Right, shall we head up again?”

You nod, and so she leads you out, gently shutting the door behind you. She gestures for you to head to the stairs, so you do. When you reach the bottom, you turn round to face her, to wait for her, expecting her to lead. She tilts her head at you a little curiously, then her face breaks into perhaps the softest smile you’ve received so far. She looks so happy, so caring.

“Don’t worry, darling, I can lead you up,” she says quietly, and you blink, doe-like, at the sound of her cooing words.

As you follow her up the winding staircase, the meaning and feeling of her words catch up to you. You feel slow and hazy and warm. And somehow you don’t think you can blame the concussion or the medication this time.

Wanda leads you up two flights of stairs, past the entrance level and up to a new floor. The second floor? Third? You’re not sure in which order you should regard them.

This floor, like the basement, is more closed-plan, with a corridor parallel to the stairs, and doors leading off.

Wanda shows you through one facing the staircase, leading into a large bedroom with a wide bay window — the one you spotted from the street, with green leaves and flowers poking up out of their boxes. It’s chic, with a king-sized bed, dark wooden bedside tables and an intricate rug over the floorboards. But small, contained. Cosy.

“This is where Nat and I sleep,” Wanda says, a little shyly. You hover by the door, not wanting to intrude on their private space. Even though she’s brought you in here.

Wanda walks over to you, and cups your good elbow with her hand.

“Y/N, I want you to know that if you need anything tonight, or any other night, you can absolutely wake us so we can help you. Just come to our room and get us. Do you understand?”

You feel somewhat distracted by the feel of her hand, warm against your elbow, heat seeping through the light fabric of your long-sleeve top. But when you pull yourself together, you nod. Even though you have no intention of ever waking them up, because what reason could you ever have, good enough to disturb them?

“Words please, sweetie,” Wanda prompts, her voice low and enchanting. You swallow, feeling caught. Like she could read your mind and see that you were only nodding to appease her, and not really buying in to her words.

“Y-yes, Wanda,” you stumble out, eyes dipping from hers but always being pulled back, like hers have a magnetic draw.

“Good girl,” she praises, and you can feel your breath stuttering, all the air having evaporated from your lungs. The effect these two words have on you is frightening. You feel both the slow, foggy feeling from before, as well as a giddy sort of elation. Like you’re floating on a high, a high which you will surely seek again when it is gone. You feel complete.

Wanda brushes your hair behind your ear, then her hands drift away from your body as she turns to lead you out. A small thought tugs at you; you can’t remember feeling any hair out of place.

You’re frozen for a moment, before an invisible string between you and Wanda seems to pull you to catch up. You go from spaced out and still to a kind of desperate trotting, eager to be near her warmth again.

“Through here…” Wanda continues, as if nothing happened back there, as if your sense of self wasn’t upended with her words and her touch. “Is Nat’s study.”

She shows you, and you glance around, acknowledging the sleek contemporary space only vaguely in your mind as you replay her words over and over like a mantra. Good girl. Good girl.

Wanda seems to analyse you for a moment, and you ought to rearrange your face to seem calm and unaffected, but you don’t know how and you don’t know if you can even if you did. She seems to shake off whatever concern she may have had though, because she’s promptly leading you up the stairs to the final floor. Up here, there are skylights which flood the corridor with sunshine. She shows you a bathroom, and tells you that you will have sole use of it while you are here, though you’re welcome to borrow any toiletries from downstairs if you need. Then she shows you the room facing the back of the house.

“My library,” she says quietly, and your breath seems to go missing again, though this time from the wonder of such a space, hidden within the older shell of the building and the distinctly contemporary interior besides. The walls are lined with built-in wooden bookcases and furnished with rows upon rows of colourful, gilded covers. You walk in automatically, past Wanda, who stands aside to let you roam. As you glide around, taking in the books and the armchairs and the soft red lighting, you yearn to trace the spines of the hardcovers, to open an old book and breathe in the smell of the pages.

“Do you like it?” Wanda asks, bringing you back to the present.

You turn quickly to her, and flush at your eager and forward actions. You can’t find the words, but you’re sure she understands from your emphatic nod.

“I’m glad, darling,” she says. “You’re welcome to pop in anytime while you’re here. And read anything, nothing is too precious for you to touch, okay?”

Your eyes widen at the offer and the possibilities it entails. You can really read anything from here? It takes you a moment, but you manage to smile and whisper a small “Thank you.”

Wanda nods, looking pleased. “Right, the last thing to show you is your room, and then I can make us some lunch while you get settled.”

She walks out the library, and this time you follow with a hint of reluctance. Still, you feel happy to be walking in her wake. It gives you purpose. It gives you a goal.

Wanda opens the door opposite the library and leads you into the final room of the house. Your room — for the next night or so, at least. It’s hard to remind yourself not to get attached, when Wanda speaks so easily and generously in those terms.

It’s lovely, decorated simply with a calm energy that makes you feel at home at once. There’s a small desk in the corner, facing one of the two tall windows looking out towards the street. There’s a lovely skyline view here, one that matches the view from Wanda and Nat’s room just below. The bed is maybe a little smaller than theirs, but plenty big enough for you and far bigger than the one in your flat. Wanda shows you the walk-in closet attached, and pulls out some fresh towels for you.

“Thank you,” you tell her, and you hope she can hear in your voice and see in your face how grateful you are.

“You’re most welcome, darling,” she assures you. “Now, would you like some help to unpack, or do you think you’ll be okay on your own while I make some lunch?”

“I’ll be okay. Thank you though,” you respond carefully. You’re not sure how much unpacking she is imagining, given you have only two small bags and there’s not much point unpacking anyway for such a short stay.

Wanda smiles. “Alright, Y/N, I’ll just be down in the kitchen making us some lunch. Do you have any allergies, or anything you don’t like?”

“No allergies,” you tell her, “but I, um, don’t eat meat. Just fish, sometimes.” You decide not to relay the rather long list of foods you don’t like based on taste and texture. For her, you decide, you’ll eat anything. Even maybe olives.

She nods. “No problem. You just come down whenever you’re ready, darling. And if you need a rest instead, I’ll save some food for you.”

“Thanks,” you murmur, and she matches your soft smile before she leaves.

When she’s gone, you sit on the edge of the bed and let out a deep, shaky breath, letting remembered words reverberate in your head like the constant flickering of stars in the night sky.

Thanks for reading! The above artwork was created by the amazing Lulu ( @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ) and it beautifully encapsulates the vibe of the car journey in this chapter. I'm so in love with it, and I hope you can follow Lulu and show your love on the original post too ♡

If you want to continue reading this fic, you can find Chapters 1-12 here on AO3. (I'm slowly posting on Tumblr too but my AO3 updates are more regular!)

#wandanat #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel fanfiction #wlw fanfic #f/f fanfic #collision course #stories #mommy!wanda #mommy wanda #mommy wanda x reader #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff

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