#Files like that are real. Yup

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They���ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[sweetnothingtm]

part ii of biker!simon, based off of this video! ☆

at first, you think dating biker!simon is a bad idea.

your neighbors hate him, a new complaint filed every time simon rolls up to your apartment in the middle of the night and revs the engine. he said something like he doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and how he likes seeing you flustered.

but biker!simon starts showing up everywhere, casually leaning against the bike with his arms crossed in front of him. you always greet him with a smile, planting a kiss on his helmet as he reaches for your waist. he would complain about getting pulled over for the third time, and you joke that seeing you must be getting expensive for him, huh?

but he shrugs, saying something about how he’d die a happy man if he kept getting to spoil a sweet thing like you rotten.

he takes you on long drives, weaving between lanes of traffic and letting you absently talk about anything that’s on your mind. and when he tells you that he couldn’t hear a bloody thing, you roll your eyes and say something like he just wants you to sit there and look pretty for him - but he’s got a smirk plastered across his face when he says yup, that’s what good girls like you are made for.

you have a habit to play with his belt when he rides, feigning innocence when he glances back to you with dark eyes. he asks do you really wanna get there on time? and you’re biting back the smile as he pulls to the nearest exit, tugging off the helmet to give you a wicked grin. he says something along the lines about needing to make a detour, and you’re going to be late, but that’s alright, yeah?

when you ask him teach you how to ride for the first time, you’re shyly planting kisses across his balaclava with a little smile on your face. his eyes are trained on your features, sharp and focused as you whisper gently in his ear with your arms wrapped around his neck.

biker!simon would plant his hands on your waist, grabbing at the skin and groaning to himself. he’d ask do you really wanna learn how to ride? - and you’d look at him with eager eyes, playing with the ends of his hair as you hummed a yes, please.

biker!simon would pull you firmly into his lap, biting and nipping at your neck as he whispered something about how - if you really wanna learn, you should practice on me first.

pretty soon you’re starting to wait for the sound of his engine, giddy with excitement whenever he runs a hand up your thigh and gently squeezes. you tell him that he can always stay the night, isn’t it too dark out to ride? you don’t want him to get pulled over again, right?

so he starts leaving his boots at the foot of your bed. biker!simon calls you when every time he gets another ticket, grumbling over the line about how he didn’t do anything stupid, just a bit of speeding - he didn’t want you to wait, and he’ll be there real soon, so don’t get too comfortable, okay? you joke that it’s just nice to have free rides, but he’s got his head tilted back as he laughs, saying that you’re just being coy - c’mon, admit that you kinda like having him around.

he bought you a helmet that matches his own, placing it snuggly on your head before your first drive. biker!simon would knock his helmet against yours, whispering sweet praises about how you look bloody good, sweetheart. talking about the fact that you’re just so brave, huh? what a good girl you are, guiding you onto the bike as he sits behind you.

and you’re so nervous, taking glances at him from behind your shoulder as he gently instructs you what to do. he’s got a hand on your waist that squeezes when he tries to get your attention. he’s telling you that you don’t need to worry about a thing, since he’s here to keep you safe, yeah?

he’d gently turning the engine over, letting the bike hum to life as you take in a breath and relax against his touch. one tap for slow, he’d say to you, patting your thigh gently, and two taps for speed up. you can do that, right sweetheart?

he whispers into your ear the whole ride, coaxing out that nervous energy until you’re running on pure adrenaline. biker!simon says something like you’re doing so good, huh? you take it like a natural - how come you’re acting so shy?

and afterwards you’re parked on the side of the road, wrapped up in his arms as he tugs you closer and hums in satisfaction. he asks you how it was, pulling up the visor to your helmet so you see two dark eyes lit up with affection. and you shrug your shoulder, saying something about how you’re not really sure what all the fuss is about, talking about the fact that now you can do it all by yourself. at that, he laughs and says see - it wasn’t so bad, huh sweetheart? but let’s save the riding for home, yeah?

dating simon couldn’t be all that bad, right?

[demie90s]

She loves me, I Promise

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ Nika Mühl x READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST MORE

⭑ pairing: Nika Mühl x reader (Nika!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: You’re doing a Get Ready With Me live and Nika’s in the background, minding her business… until she’s not.

⭑ genre: humor, flirtation, casual chaos, team teasing

⭑ warnings: language, flirting, eye contact that deserves jail

⭑ word count: ~0.6k

⸻

Your phone’s propped up against an empty Stanley, angled just right to catch the smooth curve of your cheekbone under dorm lighting. You’re half-dressed, half-focused, and completely lying to everyone watching this impromptu “GRWM for film day” live.

“Y’all, I really woke up and chose to be cute,” you say, pulling on your socks with one leg up like you’re in a Vogue shoot. “Like, I didn’t even stretch. I just stood up and was fine.”

Nika’s across the room on her laptop, headphones on, hoodie up, pretending not to hear a word. The comments immediately catch her shadowy figure in the background.

📱 Comments:

is that nika? why she look like she bouta file taxes.

she breathing real judgmental rn.

girl blink twice if she got u hostage.

You glance behind you. “Yup, that’s my emotional support Croatian. Say hi, Nika.”

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even twitch.

“Nika,” you say again, this time using your softest, most passive-aggressive voice. “My followers think you hate me.”

Still no reaction. Until she finally lifts her gaze, dead in the camera’s direction. “I do.”

You blink. “…She loves me, y’all. She’s just European.”

Nika gets up, walks past you to grab a protein shake from the mini fridge, and everyone in the chat notices two things:

1. She’s fine.

2. She’s wearing your shorts.

📱 Comments:

oh she got the WAG shorts on

those ain’t hers. I know your wardrobe when I see it.

pls y/n get her out my screen before I act up.

You lower your voice but keep it playful. “You gonna act like I didn’t buy those?”

“I’m gonna act like you didn’t say that on live,” Nika fires back, and the way she says it without looking at you is somehow worse.

You swallow, playing it cool, mascara wand paused mid-air. “They love us, babe. Embrace it.”

“I am embracing silence,” she mutters, dropping back onto the bed.

Your phone buzzes. Paige texted:

: why she got you blushing on camera like that 😭

: she playing you like a violin and YOU LETTING HER

You laugh so loud the camera shakes. “Y’all ever met someone who can ruin your entire train of thought just by looking at you like you’re the problem?”

Nika’s eyes flicker up again. “You are the problem.”

“But like… a sexy one?” you offer, hopeful.

A long pause. Then she tilts her head. “Eh. Mid.”

You gasp, hurt but entertained. “That’s crazy, coming from someone who literally kissed me with tongue not even two nights ago.”

You forgot the live was still on. Chat did not.

📱 Comments:

WITH TONGUE?????

NAH GO BACK.

oh so yall just giving up our dreams like that now huh.

paige ain’t the only guard with handles cause nika got u FOLDED.

You laugh nervously. Nika smirks without breaking eye contact.

“I’m ending this live,” you announce dramatically.

“No you’re not,” Nika says, already rolling over and grabbing a hoodie to throw over your head. “You love attention too much.”

“And you love me, but here we are.”

She chucks a pillow at you.

⸻

You end the live ten minutes later, after Nika steals your phone, flips the camera, and roasts your skincare routine for the masses.

Last comment before it cuts out:

petition for Nika to do a skincare routine titled “how to survive dating a you.”

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 6

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 4.5k words

Chapter Warnings: language, fluff, smut implied

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

The Men of Letters bunker was full of many wondrous and wacky things. From weapons to ancient texts, to objects that looked like they’d been pulled right out of a sci-fi movie. 

Some were dangerous, plenty were extremely so, and others, Dean wouldn’t touch even if he was wearing a lead-lined radioactive safety suit. Screw ten-feet poles. 

Sam would say the same about the vast collection of handwritten reports and records the place had, too, but he would be wrong. Dean did, in fact, read on occasion. And it wasn’t just in times of researching for cases or when he had the mark. 

Sometimes he simply got bored.

It’s how he’d stumbled on one particular document regarding mated pairs from another world and learned that not all of Chuck’s creations had heats, ruts and knots like they assumed. Although he should’ve known that without reading it in a file. He always knew there was something funny about the doppelgangers in the Fiat besides the other Sammy’s man-bun. 

Douchebuggery aside, somewhere in God’s vast universe, there were humans who weren’t categorised by secondary gender and thus alpha males who didn’t have bulbous muscles at the base of their dicks. 

Yup. There was at least one Dean Winchester whose junk was the same width the whole way along, except for the tip. That perv Sinclair, who’d written on the subject the most, had actually drawn a picture of one. Not his, per se, but some random guy’s. Dean hoped.

There were also no marks or claims. No soulmate’s even. Just straight up male and female pairs, shacking up together, sometimes casual, but when serious, showing off their unions with rings and a piece of paper. 

This world and its marriage thing sounded so much simpler in some ways. No marking meant no biting, and no knotting meant you could fuck off once you were done. That had to be convenient for one-night stands. 

Who’d complain about that?

But this society had another thing Dean remembered, and it was something that seemed to fit what the past two weeks had been like for him and you.

The honey-days period. 

At least, that sounded about right. He wasn’t about to reread the file again because the dick pick had scarred him for life.

Whatever the name was, after meeting four weeks prior, that was the stage he was at in his relationship with you, minus the swanky hotel and room service. 

Every moment you had been together had been spent well, together. And Dean hadn’t had enough. 

Was he whipped? Maybe. Obsessed? If that label satisfied Sammy, then sure. But as he looked down at you, lying satiated on top of him, he didn’t care, because the word that came to mind for him was happy. And the happiest he’d been in his life to date that he could recall.

He’d slept like a baby last night, and your wake-up call earlier had been awesome. Exactly what he needed after another long hunt away. 

His arms wrapped tighter around you, basking in the afterglow of your latest romp in the sheets. Not that they were anywhere nearby. One half had ended up tangled in his ankles, while the other was on the floor. 

He nuzzled his chin into your hair. The smell of cinnamon, a touch of apple and a nip of whisky from his lips, reminded him of his favourite dessert, and his mouth twitched. Those movies had gotten it right. If only his stomach wasn’t rumbling beneath you like a crazed animal, he might have gone in for a second helping.

He was starving. Wasting away to nothing and needing to do something about it real soon.

“What do you say I make us a big breakfast once we’ve cleaned up?” he asked. It wouldn’t be as fancy as room service, but he’d put in the extra effort for you. He knew how to whip up pancakes, bacon and eggs and would even add some fruit in it for you if it’s what you wanted. 

But who was he kidding? What he had in mind wasn’t for your benefit at all.

Still, he hoped you’d agree to it. While not heavy, your hips were pressing into his bladder, and taking a leak was fast becoming the top thing to do on his imaginary list.

“I think you mean lunch,” you mumbled.

Dean strained his neck to look at the alarm clock on his bedside. Fuck. It was close to twelve. No wonder he was feeling pangs from both organs. Normally, he’d be up and about by now. “I haven’t slept this late in a long time,” he said.

“Last I recall, you weren’t sleeping.” You chuckled and raised your head up to meet his eyes. The cool morning air rushed straight to his nipples, nipping at them, and yours, sending signals to his still deflating knot. 

Damn bunker was always cold. 

There must’ve been a few drops left of his release because he definitely felt a pulse at the root of his shaft and you quirked your brow.

“I just spent three days without you, sweetheart.” He shrugged. 

He’d missed you every second of them, too. Though, unlike the case in New Mexico, his insecurities had become more lax. 

You now had an anti-possession tattoo, and you knew how to shoot a pistol and shotgun, sort of. 

The revolver he kept under the war room table was a start. It was loaded, cocked and ready to use, which yes, he was well aware went against every piece of gun training his father and Bobby had ever taught him, but precaution was key. He needed to protect you, even when he wasn’t there to do so. 

“You just got home,” you said, finding a sudden interest in his own ink. “And you’ve been working a lot. How about you let me make something for you?” 

His fingers brushed through your hair, tucking the strands behind your ear that had fallen down. “Last I recall,” he said smugly, “you were working, too.”

“What? Reading text books. You and Sam had it all figured out.” 

You pushed away from the mattress and crawled back to sit upright. But his hands found your hips, and he stopped you from moving any further. He didn’t like your tone or the way you frowned. 

“We didn’t know we had to light it up,” he said, hoping praise was what you needed to hear. 

It was the truth, and he and Sam had been grateful. They could’ve spent longer away from home if you hadn’t found the solution. The damn thing, that still had no name, had similarities with vamps, but it still wouldn’t stay put, even after a machete to the neck and the rounds of lead and silver they blasted into its torso.

But you scoffed. “How often do you guys burn things?” 

Without hesitation, he opened his mouth to speak. Only you had him stumped. His brain had no words to counter with. 

They burned shit all the time, vengeful spirit or not. If they were ever in need of disposing of a body real quick, it was digging a hole and lighting her up, or finding a wood chipper. And it wasn’t like he had one floating around in Baby’s trunk. 

That answer wouldn’t help him or you, though, and there was more to this than you being upset about the method they’d used to get the job done.

He saw the pout, the subtle nod that you’d made your point, and the way your fingers continued to trace the lines of the pentagram on his chest. Any idiot could tell that something was wrong. He just needed to know what. 

You were his mate after all, with or without his claim, and his current bodily function issues aside, it was his duty to look out for your welfare, both emotional and physical. Yet, he was hesitant to open up whatever rabbit hole he was about to. 

Luckily, his inner Sammy was having a conniption. ‘Talk to her,’ it said. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions like you always do.’ 

And for once, rather than saying something stupid, he listened. “Is everything okay?” 

“I just—” You bit your lip. 

His stomach had decided it was the perfect time to gurgle in protest. 

“You know what, nevermind.” You patted him gently. “We should clean up. You haven’t eaten yet.” And you swung your leg off of him and moved to the edge of the bed.

Fuck. Guilt crept in on him. Something was bothering you, but things were getting desperate for his stomach and his plumbing, and the last thing he wanted to do was wet the bed, so ultimately, his own predicament won out. 

He sat up, wrapped his arms around you, and pulled you down onto your back, catching you by surprise. Your squeal of delight telling him distraction was key.

Dean captured your lips with his, placing all of his feelings into it to soothe whatever was troubling you. Promising himself that he would work on fixing things as soon as the horde rumbling in his insides had ebbed. 

Sam had been busy himself that morning.

So far, he’d searched the web for anything resembling a case, and found nothing. He’d also gone for a run, taken a shower, and was finishing up in the bathroom when he received the text.

Where are you? It read.

He didn’t think much of the message. Why would he? 

It wasn’t unusual for Dean to use his phone rather than look for him. The bunker was large, after all. Three levels, multiple halls and passageways, and those were just the areas they’d discovered. Who knew how expansive a place could be when it had a giant telescope and a shooting range amongst other rooms?

While he found some interest in that stuff, Sam still prioritised cataloguing the library. Something he hoped to get you on board with, because Dean never helped him, and you had some experience with your former job.

He sighed as he picked up his phone to type out his response - My room. At least he would be when his brother arrived at his bedroom door. It wasn’t far away and Dean liked to go slow on rest days. Especially now with you around.

Unfortunately for Sam, however, he had misunderstood Dean’s intentions, and dawdling by account was the last thing he should’ve done. 

He took his time, putting his boots on, getting the socks into position so that the seams didn’t annoy his toes in the corners. He threw his dirty clothes in the hamper, making sure each piece was turned the right way out and separated. Finally, he returned his damp towel to the metal rung he kept it on, folding it just so that the edges lined up, and stepped out into the corridor with a wave of steam close behind him. 

Swivelling on his feet, he strolled back towards his room, continuing with his leisurely pace. 

He had not a care in the world.

That was until he rounded the curve and found himself in front of his brother, carrying you over his shoulder, and he did a double take.

“Sammy?” 

“Dude! What the hell.”

Unlike Dean, you had some shame and scrambled to make sure the sheet you’d been wrapped in covered your body, though you had done a fair job of that before Sam had run into you both, and he appreciated it.

He liked you. You seemed kind and sweet. Too good for Dean if he was honest, but he respected the soulmate thing and knew that for whatever reason, even if it was unknown, you already had a profound bond.

With Dean, however, he’d rather not have shared as much as what he was seeing. It was bad enough he’d heard things the past two weeks since returning from New Mexico, but this? “Please tell me you’re wearing something.” He sighed.

“Why’d you think I sent that message for?” Dean grinned, and Sam shook his head. 

“Because you were looking for me?”

“No.” His voice was higher than usual. “I wanted to know where you were. There’s a difference.”

Fucking hell. He may have been awake for a good six hours now, but it was still far too early for semantics, especially with Dean. “Well, here I am,” Sam said, his arms and chest jerking forward in frustration. 

“This ain’t your room.”

Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. Why did he bother? It was days like these he wished he’d stayed at Stanford. Or left Dean alone to succumb to that djinn in Illinois. Either way, he would’ve saved himself some crap. “I was headed there!”

“Well, keep heading there. I gotta take a leak,” Dean said as he sped past. Your hands reached down, doing their best to cover the parts of him Sam didn’t want to see. 

“Sorry,” you mouthed, and he shook his head in return.

He knew he liked you. He just wasn’t sure how he was going to handle his brother with you around. Especially if what he’d just witnessed was about to become a regular occurrence.

Dean jiggled, flushed and flipped the lid. He was a courteous guy. And just maybe, had learnt his lesson a long time ago while living at Lisa’s. 

You were already in the shower waiting for him when he padded across the tiled floor to wash his hands.

You’d been quiet ever since he’d mentioned their recent case in Iowa. Quieter still when he’d made a joke about Sammy, having the personality of the Mountain despite being younger after he’d lied about where he was, and Dean was growing concerned. You normally laughed along with him about this stuff, and sure, it had been only four weeks of knowing you, but this was different to how you usually were around him.

Were you really upset that they’d ganked the last d-bag by lighting ‘em up in flames? Had you wanted to help more on the case? Did you want to, Chuck forbid, hunt with them?

Over his dead body. 

There was no way you’d ever take up that life. The guns and tattoo were only there as a precaution, nothing more, so he hoped there was another explanation.

But what else?

Your heat was due soon. 

Maybe this change in mood was a sign it was starting? 

‘You ain’t asking that,' he chuckled silently to himself. He didn’t have a death wish. Though he was screwed if this was going to become daily life for him.

He pushed those thoughts to the side. He was being a douchebag just thinking of them, and that wasn’t him. 

That belonged with man-bun Sammy and the version of him that wore dress shirts without a suit and tie. The guy was one good looking fella, he’d give him that, but Dean didn’t need a fancy-ass shirt to pull off the same amount of charm with you, or anyone else. He was like Swayze. Better with age.

He glanced over the reflection of his torso in the mirror, catching your silhouette behind the glass screen sitting just above his shoulder.

The room was quiet besides the shower and splashing noises made as you washed. There was no sound of tears or smell of them, and he took that as a good sign. Great, when you smiled warmly at him as he entered the cubicle with you.

“Better?” You squinted through the stream.

“I am now,” he said as he stepped closer to steal the warm water from you, earning himself a wet slap and you a cheeky grin.

His hardened chest pressed against your soft one, leaving barely any room for the spray to flow. 

There was something sexy about slippery skin. There was something sexy about your skin. Who was he kidding?

Still feeling playful, Dean’s hand moved to perch on your hip. He leaned in as if he were about to plant a kiss on your lips, but swooped behind you last second, reaching for his body wash on the inbuilt shelf. 

That earned him a firmer smack. One he revelled in. Violence was never the answer. He’d made that clear when he screwed with Dick. It told him his shenanigans were working, though. 

That, and you hit like a girl.

He caught your arm and poured a generous amount of soap into your palm, proceeding to use your hand to wash himself. 

“I need to teach you how to throw a punch,” he said as he draped your fingers around his neck first, then down over both shoulders and pectorals. All guided by him, and his even bigger grin.

“Why? I’m not a hunter.” You scoffed.

You weren’t interested in being one, either, by the sounds of it, thank fuck. 

Your hand pulled against his movements. “You thought I wanted to be?”

How did you do that? “I was worried you might.”

“What made you think that?” 

Now that he was being asked, he didn’t have the answer. “I, ah… I dunno. Something’s bothering you ‘bout the last hunt.”

You took a step back and hit the wall with a soft slap, looking at him as if he’d just told you werewolves weren’t real, even though you very much knew they were. He’d ganked one in between the witches and their most recent case. 

“So you thought I wanted to join you? It…” You shook your head. “I thought you were hungry?” 

You would be wrong. He had lost his stomach minutes ago and now had Famine banging around in there instead. But he didn’t tell you that. You’d think he was crazier than you already did if he started bringing up the apocalypse. That was a discussion for another time when he brought up their not so straightforward relationships with God and the King of Hell.

“I am.” He laced his fingers between yours and pulled you back to the centre of the shower, watching as the spray hit your shoulders. “But it can wait. There’s something you’re not telling me here, and I need you to tell me.”

Your head lowered, drawing him down, too. 

Bad move. The water now ran over your breasts to your pert nipples, the curves creating tiny waterfalls that captivated his attention with the way droplets pooled at the edges. He had to swallow hard.

“I want to make you breakfast,” you said.

Uh… The statement would’ve made him revert back to eye level, but when you bounced on the heels of your feet, it didn’t help his resolve. The words, though. What? “You wanna cook?” You cooked all the time.

“No.” You shot back up. “Well, yeah. That came out wrong… I want to…help more…around the bunker. You know, earn my keep.”

Earn your keep.

Do more?

“You do plenty around here.” You’d been cooking for them almost every meal since you’d moved in. Organised the kitchen and kept on top of the use by dates in the fridge. He hadn’t drunk off-milk or been in the laundry room in over a month. Maybe even two for the latter. But he wasn’t about to admit that.

“No, I don’t.” You shook your head. “Not enough. I know hunting doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but you and Sam go out there and save people, and here I am, making the occasional meal for you guys when you get home.”

Your hand came up to his stomach and smoothed over the creases that highlighted where his muscles lay beneath. “I wanna help more,” you said. “Dick took all my—” 

Dean smirked at your usage of your ex’s nickname. That was his ‘endearment,’ not yours. 

“Don’t do that.” You swatted him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking about it. I felt you smile.”

You did? Well, that was new. But he didn’t question you. He had no heart to. Your mind was on a one-way ticket to that spark he knew. 

“…Ritchie took everything I have, and now I don’t have a job to help pay my way.” You reached for the soap and squeezed out another dollop onto your palm and started running it over his body once more. “I can’t even help you with your cases. I just…don’t want you to think I’m mooching off of you guys.”

So that’s what was wrong.

Dean had forgotten all about that dickbag bleeding you dry. Too happy and lost in the life he’d been building with you to realise that your baggage was still weighing you down.

“It ain’t mooching if there’s nothing to mooch, sweetheart,” he said, pulling you back against his chest and wrapping an arm around your waist while his hand came up to cradle your head. 

“But I’m used to working. Contributing. And I’m going stir crazy not doing that.”

Dean sighed. There was that guilt again, only now he had cause for it. He and Sam always had each other, but they were leaving you here for days at a time, with no transport, no respite, no purpose, while only his phone calls kept you company. 

It’s no wonder you were struggling.

This place must’ve felt like a prison to you, compared to the life you’d had, even with that abusive fucktard. It was still cold in the warmer months. Creepy, as you’d complained about when they were in New Mexico, and you had no nest here, or space to call your own so you could make one. 

Dean could relate to all of that if he was honest, minus the nesting thing. There’d been times in his life when he felt frustrated because he couldn’t do jack. A broken leg. Heart problems because of some crazy-ass ghost. Sammy in hell. Okay, that was a little out of the present perspective… All in all, though, he didn’t know what to do to help you.

That was until you said, “How about you let me make you breakfast?” with a smile, and while he was perplexed once again by how the fuck you’d done that, he kissed you on your forehead, and smiled against your skin in return.

“We’ll do it together,” he whispered. And then grabbed your hand and moved it to wash his ass cheek.

Dean fumbled through the contents of the fridge. His fingers and ears were now at risk of frostbite on account of how long he’d been searching in there for. "Where’d you say it was?” 

“Top shelf,” you said over the sizzling of bacon in the pan. 

He’d looked there already and there was no fucking butter. 

He raised his head and pushed past the milk, juice and whatever the hell vegetable Sam had blended into liquid this time. If smoothies weren’t meant to be green, they probably weren’t meant to be brown either. 

Yes, it could’ve been melted chocolate…

But it wasn’t. 

Cocoa, or anything else associated with its candy form, did not smell like the contents of his stomach after cheap whiskey. Nor did it have lumps. Or take on that specific colour.

Gross.

And no closer to finding the damn butter.

He shut the fridge with a sigh louder than the metal doors creaking and went to the pantry. Oil would have to do. Surely they had some of that lying round the bunker. The kind he used for Baby’s engine was a no go, obviously, but he wouldn’t say no to blessed pancakes if he got desperate enough to take the holy stuff from her trunk. 

“What’re you doing?” you asked as he scoured the open shelving.

“Wasn’t any.” There was, however, canola or olive oil, and he picked them up and turned around to show them to you. “Which—”

Your hands were already on your hips. 

You scrunched your nose and channelled your inner Samantha before spinning on your heels, searching for the ingredient yourself.

It was no surprise you found it straight away, but in his defence, Dean hadn’t expected it to be in the container Jody had ‘leant’ them a few months ago. The last time he’d seen the thing, there was gravy inside that was definitely gravy and not something he questioned as chocolate.

“Where’d you find that?”

“In the fridge. Top shelf.” You deadpanned.

“Smart ass.” He grinned, but pulled you close anyway when he stepped up next to you. “I didn’t know you’d put it in that.” 

His chin dipped down to your shoulder and nuzzled his initials hidden beneath the fabric. The hiss you made between your teeth brought a smirk to his lips and a familiar pang to his own body. 

“It keeps better. Though I had to clean it out first. I dunno what was in there, but it wasn’t edible.”

He moved to your mating gland and chuckled into your skin, peppering kisses over the sensitive flesh. “And you thought you weren’t helping ‘round here.”

“Cleaning out Tupperware with a living ecosystem growing inside of it does not make up for a nine to five,” you stated.

Though he heard you, his mind focused on the change in your pulse that had taken on a life of its own. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was pulling his into a similar rhythm.

Your skin was hot to touch, warming the surrounding air, and everything started to make sense. “How much longer till your heat, ‘mega?” (And here he swore he wouldn’t be a douchebag.)

Your “Hmm?” was distant, and he grazed his front teeth over your neck, drawing away to find lust filled eyes turning to meet him. 

“Do I need to stop takin’ the suppressants?” His brows wagged, hopeful and just as driven as you had been lost in his attentions. 

“It might be a good idea,” you said, patting his cheek. “Probably best to think about your poor brother too…shit.” Your focus returned to the bacon that was fast becoming a little too crispy even for him. When it spat back at you, you flinched. “Well, excuse me for not letting you burn,” you directed to the pan.

He rubbed a placating hand over your rear, then got to work whipping up a batch of pancakes. It was now past noon and while he may have been hungry before, he was close to eating the raw ingredients he churned the spoon through.

‘Sammy?’ his mind repeated. He’d rather not. But Dean recognised you had a point after this morning.

If things were reversed, there’s no way he’d be sticking around during your first heat. It was surprising Sam hadn’t lost his cool with him earlier, and he wondered if he should send his brother on a fake milk run. All he needed to do was find a suspicious enough murder a few states over. Maybe get Donna or Jody involved and… 

Dean looked down at the butter in the container. Another wider grin spread across his face.

“What?” you asked. Not moving an inch.

“How many days do you think we got?”

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Ahhhhh - any guesses what's happening next?

I started to gain a rather large interest in the concept of nesting as I worked through this story, and the first little signs of it are coming up next chapter (it's in the preview below). As someone who's made a career in retail, it was only natural that my sales brain came up with stores having nesting departments, and it will feature again if you catch my drift.

I won't give too much away, but I'm on the edge of my own seat waiting to give you guys the next chapter to the point I’m considering uploading it earlier! Are you guys ready for him to claim her?

Until then ❤️

Chapter 7: Honeydayimg 04/04

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?” 

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one. 

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride. 

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[2-shots2-thehead]

- I blinked and suddenly I had a valentine -

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Summary : Lego flowers on your desk ? ..You have plenty of kinda dorky coworkers, but..

Pairing : Spencer Agnew (Smosh) x GN!Cast!Reader (Use of Y/n)

Word Count : 638

Warnings/ Fic type : None !! Fluffy little short Oneshot

A/N : the pics I chose felt so him but ESPECIALLY the first one

“What the-“

You started oddly at the tiny vase on your desk, filled with flowers. Well..not real flowers. Lego flowers?

“Who’s it from?”

You could hear Courtney’s voice interrupt your contemplation. You shift your gaze from the small glass vase to her. You shrugged just once, not taking too long before turning to face the gift once again.

“..’Dunno. There’s no card.”

“No card?”

“Yup. No card. ..Maybe they put it on the wrong desk? It was probably meant for someone else.”

“Y/n, your desk is filed with pictures of you and your cats. I think they’d know.”

You sighed quietly to yourself, knowing she was right. It’s not that you were disappointed. Of course not. It was just frustrating to know you’d have to figure it out yourself. With zero clues, other than the fact that they can build cute things with legos.

“Yeah.. I guess you’re right.”

You reached forward to gently push it away from your computer screen, sitting down to get some work done in the meantime. It’s not like you’d focus anyway. You had some sort of..secret admirer. That’s a new one.

After a few hours, Spencer came by your desk to check on you, just like he had twice a day for the past two years. You didn’t have to look up at him to recognize his voice. You’d pinpointed at some point in time that it was one of your favorite things about him.

“Hey, Y/n.”

Even if you didn’t necessarily need to, you look up at him anyway. You didn’t need to, but you wanted to. Curly, messy dark hair, golden thin-rimmed glasses, and a bright smile.

“Hey, Spence. What’s up?”

“Not much. Y’like the flowers?”

…What?

“..Huh? What do y’mean?”

“Y’know, the flowers. Well, the fake flowers. Plastic flowers.”

You could’ve sworn your brain short-circuited at that exact moment. They were from him?? No. No, he’s gotta be talking about something else.

You hesitantly gesture to the lego flowers, already preparing for the sting of rejection. Well, not necessarily rejection, just disappointment.

“..Those?”

You watched his eyebrows crease with confusion. Oh, God. Yup. He was definitely talking about something else. Seriously, why would you ever-

“Yeah? What else would it be? ..Did someone else get you fake flowers?”

You couldn’t fight back the small blush quickly creeping up to your cheeks and ears. So..they were from him. There was no rejection. Just surprise, and..excitement.

“…They’re from you??”

“Yeah..? I’m really confused- Would someone else make you flowers?”

“No- No, I just-…wasn’t expecting it to be from you. ..Why?”

“..Why what?”

“Why’d you give them to me?”

He shrugged, a simple smile on his lips. He leaned down against the little wall divider beside your desk.

“Why wouldn’t I? You said you like flowers. And I can’t grow flowers. But I’m kinda a whiz with legos.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his wording. He always chose unique words like that because he knew they’d make you laugh.

“Yeah, but-.. Okay. You can’t grow flowers, so you built them. ..Why, though? What’s the point?”

He seemed to think a little harder before answering that one, folding his hands neatly in front of him.

“..I thought they’d make you happy. And-…y’know-…it’s almost Valentine’s Day. You didn’t-..have a-..date of some sort, as far as I’m aware, so-..I figured I’d ask you. With flowers. Y’know, like the gentleman I am.”

It didn’t take long for his nervous state to be replaced with the sarcastic jokes you knew and loved. You smiled softly at his words. It was..sweet. Considerate.

“Spencer Agnew, are you asking me to be your valentine?”

“Y/n L/n, maybe I am.”

Your soft smile shifted to just a bit of a smirk.

“Well..I think I’ll just have to say yes. I can’t turn down hand-built flowers.”

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

azul meeting leech parents and leech twins meeting ashengrotto parents?

Family means Nobody is Left Behind or Forgotten.

Azul meeting the Leech parents!

“Ahhh, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Leech. It’s wonderful to finally meet the parents of my dear vice dorm leader Jade and my invaluable associate Floyd. Azul Ashengrotto, at your service.”

His smile was dialed up to 11 as he produced business cards from within his jacket. One for the father and one for the mother, then an extra card apiece in case the first were lost or damaged. Azul handed them over with a flourish. Only Mr. Leech accepted a single card, slipping it from the boy by pincering his index and middle fingers like a crab’s claw.

He held it out for his wife—a hand covering her mouth, hiding her expression. Mr. Leech ran his own gaze over the printed text, reading simultaneously. Name, positions, contact information. His eyes slightly narrowed, in that almost imperceptible way that Jade’s did.

Ah, there’s the family resemblance.

“I would provide you with my own, but I’m afraid you would have to sign an NDA first. Due to the nature of my… occupation, there are many legal hoops for others to jump through.”

“An NDA!! I see that you’re a man after my own heart,” Azul gushed. “I’m a businessman myself, so I completely understand the importance of keeping trade secrets. Please, think nothing of it. Just keeping my information on file is enough for me.”

With a nod, Azul’s business card vanished into Mr. Leech’s suit. “Agreeable young man.”

It was difficult for Azul to hold his smirk at bay. Bingo. I’ve gotten an ‘in’.

“Ehhhh, how strange. You’re a little different in real life than how Jade and Floyd described you,” Mrs. Leech piped up, giggling.

“Oh? And how, may I ask, did they describe me?”

“Let’s see… What was it again? Do you remember their specific wording, angelfish?”

“I believe it was… ‘A cute, squishy crybaby with an absolutely terrible personality. High-strung and hopelessly greedy. Prod him in the right places and his composure will break down completely. A treat to bully.’ Something to that effect.”

“Wh-What…!!” Azul sputtered, his jaw agape. “I-I am no such thing!! I STRONGLY refute their claims.”

Those two…! Making me sound like an utter buffoon to their parents!!

“My, myyy~” Mrs, Leech drawled, latching onto her husband’s arm. “Did you see that just now? His cheeks turned bright pink and his eyes went sooo wide. He really is as adorable as Jade and Floyd said he is!”

“Is that so? Hmm… I’m getting hungry myself. The young man is starting to look rather appetizing.”

“A-Are you joking!?” Azul demanded, bolting up from his seat. “If so, I do not find this the least bit amusing…!!”

“Fufufu. Perhaps you can kindly recommend a hearty octopus dish or two from your eatery’s menu.”

“Ehehehe~ I’m so pleased that Jade and Floyd have such a fun friend around at school!”

“This is no laughing matter!!”

Jade and Floyd meeting the Ashengrotto parents!

“Mr. and Mrs. Ashengrotto.”

“Azul’s mom and dad!”

"It's nice to see you again, ma'am," the twins said in unison. They wore a matching smile, showing all of their sharp teeth. "And it's nice to finally meet you, sir."

“Ah, I recognize you.” Mrs. Ashengrotto’s eyes lit up with realization. “You’re the Leech boys that would come by and drag him out to play with you. You used to be so small—look at you now, you’ve grown so much!”

“Yup, that’s us!”

“We were little rascals back then. It was terrible of us to pull Azul away from his precious studies." Jade chuckled into one hand. "But not to worry, we've been on the straight and narrow ever since those childhood days. Isn't that right, Floyd?"

"Yeah, Jade~"

"It must be fate that you were brought back together at Night Raven College." Mr. Ashengrotto's laugh was warm and hearty, like a stew in the dead of winter. "What do you three get up to nowadays?"

"Lotsa stuff! Azul's got this whooole operation going on, and we're there to help him out," Floyd replied cryptically. "Jade and I advertise and do crowd control! Azul's the brains, he handles the plans and money and whatever."

"Advertise" as in, "luring unsuspecting souls into making deals" and "crowd control" as in, "dealing with debtors who tried to weasel out of those deals". Trinkets, money, talents. Everything Azul collected had a chance of being paid for in blood. Dirty prizes--but it was a secret none had to know.

"You work well as a group," Mrs. Ashengrotto remarked. "Reminds me of myself and my own restaurant staff!"

"Well, Azul does often speak about how he respects you. It does not surprise me that he works to live up to your sparkling reputation." Jade's eyes cut to a table across the way, where Azul was seated and chatting with his own parents. He appeared to be flustered about something, having risen from his seat, his mouth flapping in protest while Mr. and Mrs. Leech grinned widely. Jade himself smirked at the sight.

"He's been a blast to be around!" Floyd agreed, slinging an arm around his twin. "Azul's suuuch a good leader. Think we'll be stickin' with him to the ends of Twisted Wonderland and back, hehe."

"That's right, Floyd."

Until he becomes boring, he had once claimed. It had been winter break, and they were seated on the floor of Scarabia's lounge, mancala beads in hand. Azul had agreed, had already considered that inevitability.

But Moray eels were not known for their honesty. The truth, they only spoke out of his earshot.

"It's nice that you'll always be there for each other. I envy that deep bond you share." Mr. Ashengrotto raised his glass--provided free, courtesy of Azul. "A toast? To the future of our boys and their friendship."

Mrs. Ashengrotto followed her husband's lead. Then Jade, then Floyd.

Their glasses met in the middle with a resounding clink.

[loverstrings]

Project Spindle (Chapter Two) - Established Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Even in the heart of the team’s loudest chaos, something quiet builds underneath. Y/N can’t ignore it anymore.

a.n - im glad you guys are enjoying it so far! im enjoying giving you guys these chapters! ill try to do one chapter a day but with finals it might be a little slower.

spoiler warning for thunderbolts* | masterlist

——

The Tower was still dark when Y/N finally pulled herself from bed, the faint buzz of energy still prickling under her skin. She hadn’t really slept—not after what she and Bucky talked about the night before. It was too much to keep sitting with, too big to leave unspoken.

She tugged one of his hoodies over her head, the familiar scent grounding her slightly as she padded into the kitchen. A soft click of mugs and cabinets filled the silence. Her fingers twitched faintly. The energy hadn’t stopped humming. Not since she’d opened that file.

She barely had time to sip her coffee before the pitter-patter of chaos began.

Bob shuffled in, wrapped in a ridiculous fleece blanket printed with cartoon puppies. His curls were a mess, eyes half shut, and he was holding an empty mug like it was a lifeline.

“Mom? Dad?” he called out in a gravelly voice. “I need guidance. And coffee.”

Y/N, already sitting at the counter, raised an eyebrow over her mug. “We’ve talked about this. I’m not your mom.”

“You say that,” Bob mumbled, dropping into the stool beside her and leaning his head dramatically on her shoulder. “But I feel emotionally abandoned when you're not near me, so explain that.”

Bucky entered from the hallway, tugging on a dark T-shirt, damp from the shower. “You’re too big to be this clingy, Bob.”

Bob perked up instantly. “Dad!”

“Stop that.” Bucky pointed at him. “I will ground you.”

“You did ground him last week,” Y/N added. “You took his dessert privileges.”

“Exactly,” Bucky said, smirking as he leaned over to press a kiss to Y/N’s temple. “Consequences.”

Bob let out a dramatic sigh, like the weight of being the team’s emotionally needy golden retriever was just too much. “I just want to be loved.”

“You are,” Y/N assured him, patting his cheek. “Just... from over there.”

“No,” Bob whined, clinging to her arm again. “I’m a literal weighted blanket of affection.”

Yelena walked in wearing mismatched socks and a hoodie that belonged to Natasha. “Is this a family meeting or a cult?”

“Depends,” Ava said, trailing behind her with a banana in one hand. “Is there coffee or just sad boys pretending they don’t need therapy?”

Walker came in last, in full workout gear, looking like he’d been up since 5 am because, of course, he had. “We have training in ten. Where’s Alexei?”

“Probably still asleep in the laundry room again,” Yelena said, unfazed. “He said the dryer ‘reminds him of home.’”

“I told him he’s going to overheat and die in there,” Ava added.

“He said that’s how a hero should go,” Y/N muttered behind her mug.

Bob suddenly sat up. “Wait. If we’re training in ten… are we doing hand to hand again?”

“Yup,” Bucky said, checking his phone. “So finish up and get moving.”

“I’m gonna get tackled again,” Bob groaned, burying his face in the blanket. “You guys are supposed to protect me.”

“We’re not your real parents,” Y/N said, though her tone was affectionate.

“But you could be,” Bob said with a grin, peeking up at Bucky. “Look at him. He’s totally a stern but loving father figure.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “You’re going to run laps for this.”

“See? That’s such a dad thing to say!”

Yelena took one look at the chaos and turned back toward the hallway. “Nope. Not dealing with this before caffeine.”

Ava followed. “I’m out. This dysfunctional family is too loud.”

Bob reached for Y/N’s hand. “Don’t let them separate us.”

She peeled his fingers off her arm. “I’m going to pretend I don’t know you in the training room.”

He gasped. “Mom!”

Bucky just shook his head and nudged Bob off the stool with his foot. “Up. Or I’m giving Walker permission to be your sparring partner.”

Bob scrambled. “I’m up! Totally up!”

Y/N laughed into her coffee. “I love this team. But I also want to lock myself in a soundproof room sometimes.”

Bucky handed her an orange slice as they followed the rest of the team out. “Yeah. But hey—at least it’s never boring.”

——

The training room echoed with the sound of punches hitting pads, grunts of exertion, and Bob’s running commentary on how this was “basically child abuse.”

“You’re twenty-seven, you absolute man-child,” Ava huffed, sweeping his legs out from under him for the third time in five minutes.

Bob hit the mat with a loud thud. Dragging himself upright with a groan, he adjusted his sparring gloves. “I get zero respect around here.”

“You earn respect through discipline,” Walker said, dead serious from the sidelines, arms crossed.

Bob blinked at him. “How is it that everything you say makes me want to give up?”

“Focus,” Ava called, already circling him again like a predator. “Or I’m going for your ribs this time.”

“You’re a menace,” Bob muttered.

Y/N had fallen quiet. She stood at the edge of the room, arms crossed tight, her eyes unfocused. Remembering the files Sam had sent over.

And her powers… were seeping. Soft pink wisps floated around her fingertips, glowing faintly—uncontrolled, leaking emotion like fog.

Bob was the first to notice, pausing mid-spar with Ava. “Uh… hey. Y/N? You’re kinda... glowing.”

Yelena blinked and jogged over, concern etched across her face. “That only happens when something’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Y/N said quickly. Too quickly.

Ava stepped closer, her usual teasing demeanor gone. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“Guys—” Bucky stepped in, hand up like a stop sign. His tone was calm but firm. “Don’t push her.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked to Y/N’s hands. “That kind of energy drain messes her up. You know it does.”

Bucky turned to them with that same patience he gave her. “I know. I do. But trust her.”

Y/N glanced up, catching the moment—how they were all looking at her like they were ready to fight for her without even knowing the war.

Her voice came softer this time, but steadier.

“I need to show you guys something,” she said, meeting each of their eyes. “The reason why I’ve been feeling off.”

——

series taglist:

@rafesgurl, @seventeen-x, @moompie, @starstruckfirecat, @torntaltos, @rlphunter,

[aryaryxoxo]

04 — [⏮] [masterlist] [⏭]

I'm fucked, aren't I? #soshiro hoshina x lara jean coded!reader ⤷ Sure, why not add accidentally losing the love letters you wrote for your VICE CAPTAIN to the list of the dumb shit you did this year...Why did I even write it in the first place, you pondered. You knew why…writing helps you let loose your overflowing feelings for the vice-captain. But maybe—pray to God. Whoever has the used—to—be—chocolate—now—letter storage tin threw it in the trash you wished DING!

Of course not, I’m fucked—aren’t I?

...

Dear Soshiro Hoshina, I never thought I’d be the type to notice small details, but somehow, I’ve started paying attention to the little things about you, ever since that Honju attack. Like the way your eyes seem to brighten when you talk about the things you care about, or how you move like everything around you is just... natural, like it’s all under your control. I’m not sure when it started, but now, every time you do something like that, it makes me feel... something. I don’t know if it’s just admiration, or something else. Sincerely, Ami

...

…

You find yourself standing in front of his office door, a place that once made your heart flutter with excitement whenever you passed by. Now, though, it feels terrifying. Well, there’s no getting out of this… Just grab the handkerchief and go, you tell yourself, trying to muster the courage.

You knock three times, your knuckles grazing the wood gently.

“Come in.”

At the sound of his voice, steady and low, you take a breath and push the door open.

You’re greeted by the man who once took your breath away—the one who saved you from an Honju before it nearly tore you apart. A memory that has a special place in your heart. But he’s also the man who could very well cost you your job if the truth came out. That’s why you need to keep your distance… no matter how impossible that feels.

“You’re up early,” Soshiro said, setting the morning report down on his desk. His voice was calm, amused even — and when he looked up at you, there was that damn smile. The kind that made you forget how to function like a normal human being.

“Well, you see, Vice Captain, I... um... uhhh—” Why am I awkward? I’m not this awkward. Get it together!

“Yes?” he prompted, one brow slightly raised, clearly entertained.

“I like... getting ready in the morning. Yep. That’s it.” You nodded far too quickly. “Big fan of mornings. Love 'em.”

Totally not true.

You laughed—nervous, high-pitched, and painful—and immediately wanted to slam your face into the nearest filing cabinet.

“Well, good morning to you, early bird,” Soshiro said, reaching into his drawer with that calm demeanor. He held the handkerchief in his hands, but didn’t hand it over immediately.

“I have a question,” Soshiro said. Yup. Here we go. This is it. I’m dead. My funeral will be held at the base gymnasium. Closed casket.

“Why did you ask if you could switch weapons after being recruited?” Soshiro asked.

Your heart stopped for a second. Shit. I did ask. And I definitely wrote in the letters how I wanted to use a sword real bad. LIE.

“Umm, because, uh... you know, the gun is heavy,” you gulped.

Soshiro looked at you closely, then gave a small nod before finally handing you the handkerchief.

“This is your handkerchief. I washed it—don’t worry.”

He held it out casually. You snatched it from his hand faster than you meant to, nearly smacking his fingers in the process.

“Thank you!” you blurted, clutching the handkerchief. You were already halfway to the door when Soshiro’s voice stopped you.

“You’re acting strange,” he said lightly. Soshiro blinked at your reaction, lips twitching as if he were trying not to laugh. "You’ve never been this agitated." Wait, how does he know that?

You turned back around, teeth clenched. “Strange? Me? Pfft. I’m just... well-rested.”

Three hours of sleep and a growing mountain of panic about you finding out and me getting kicked out of the force. Totally fine. Normal. Thriving.

Soshiro looked at the calendar, and a thought popped up in his head. “Oh—is it because—it's okay if you don’t want to reply. If it makes you uncomfortable,” Soshiro said, his voice gentle. You blinked. 

I swear to god this guy wants me dead.

“The end of the month is near,” he added.

Huh? “I’m sorry?” You blinked at him in confusion.

“I meant…” He paused, then gave a small sigh, the smile fading from his face. “I don’t mean to pry. But I am the vice captain—and I’m in charge of your training. Captain Mina mentioned your performance in the field’s been... declining. You’ve been placing last.”

You looked down and gripped the handkerchief in your hands tighter as if it could somehow steady you. Your fingers twisted around the fabric, knuckles white with the pressure.

You couldn’t look at him. Not when your brain was screaming at you: You’re pathetic. You are nothing compared to him. If you weren’t so busy admiring him, maybe you could use that stupid gun efficiently. Maybe you wouldn’t be failing at everything.

You bit the inside of your cheek, feeling the sting of your own self-loathing, and forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.

Might as well confess up.

You muttered to yourself, your nerves getting the best of you. Taking a deep breath. “Sir—”

But before you could continue, Soshiro cut in, his voice casual, almost teasing. “I can personally train you, you know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, eyes never leaving you.

You blinked. Wait, what?

You weren’t sure if he meant that as a joke, but your heart skipped a beat. 

“W-What?” you stammered. “No, I—what does that even mean?” You wanted to look anywhere but at him, but somehow, your eyes kept gravitating back to that damn, confident smirk.

Soshiro leaned forward slightly, his tone still light but now laced with a hint of something more serious. “It means I can help you get back to where you need to be. No more placing last.”

"But sir, with all due respect... aren’t you an expert with swords, not guns?" you asked, brows furrowing as you tried to make sense of his offer.

Soshiro didn’t answer right away. He studied you, arms loosely crossed, his expression unreadable as always. His gaze moved from head to toe, pausing briefly on your left hand. Tiny scar on my palm.

After a moment of silence, he finally spoke, his voice calm and measured.

“Yes,” he replied. "My specialty is the sword. But more importantly, I know how to teach. And from what I’ve seen, you’ve got sharp reflexes and fast footwork. That instinct could carry you far."

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to show your nerves. 

"You're struggling with precision, that's clear. But there are ways to train that—habits, drills, techniques." His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of challenge in them. "And I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve that can help you hit your mark every single time."

Your stomach twisted. Was he serious? He didn’t have to do this... but the idea of training with him sent your mind spinning in a completely different direction.

“Is there anything in return?” you asked, skepticism lacing your voice, eyeing him cautiously.

Soshiro shrugged, not missing a beat. “No. I’m just a good vice captain.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at his smugness, but... you couldn’t help but laugh instead. The sound felt lighter than it had in days, and it came out more genuine than you intended.

Soshiro looked at you. His heart beat a little faster for a second, as though the sound of your laughter had caught him off guard.

Something in him twisted—something he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He found himself almost... wanting to hear more of it. But his gaze flicked over to the tin can sitting on the table behind you. His eyes narrowed for a split second.

Dear Soshiro Hoshina, My friends say I have a weird laugh, do you think I have a weird laugh? Wait, I’m stupid, you don’t know me. Sincerely, Ami

You stopped laughing, and followed his gaze, and your heart dropped when you saw where he was looking. SHIT. The tin.

How had you not noticed it there? It sat innocently on the table behind you, but now, with Soshiro’s eyes fixed on it, you could practically hear the gears turning in his head.

He’s piecing it together. He’s going to figure it out.

Okay, think, think your mind is scrambling. You needed a distraction. You needed to do anything!

Without missing a beat, You cleared your throat and mustered every ounce of confidence you could summon. “I’ve heard someone gave a love letter, you know? That’s, uh, giving teenager, right?” You forced a nonchalant smile, but it felt like your face might crack from the tension. “I didn’t even know love letters still existed. I thought they only existed in romance movies.”

You chuckled, hoping it didn’t sound as fake as it felt. Please buy it. Please, please buy it.

Soshiro raised an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. Your brain short-circuited from the pressure. And before you could stop yourself, words just happened.

“I could help you find out who gave you the love letters! Since you want to help me with training, I will help you”

Why did I keep digging my own grave?

...

04 — [⏮] [masterlist] [⏭]

...

a/n — well this just got a whole lot more interesting HAHAHHA

taglist — @vaida-talks-about-everything , @madiexuberant @kokoiinuts

Warnings — grammatical errors; timeline is weird, pls ignore it. I’m new to the fandom, hence there are chance of misrepresentation, my apologizes.

[sabrinajenre96]

“Episode Six ~ Parent-Teacher Purgatory”

Micheal Robinavitch x wife reader x kids

Warning ⚠️: Alex experiments and Spencer causing a Coup d'État or a Revolution

Y/N and Michael were already halfway through their second coffee by the time they pulled into the school parking lot.

“I swear if Alex made another ‘volcano for educational purposes’—” Y/N began.

“I brought aspirin,” Michael said, patting his pocket. “We're prepared for anything.”

The school was split across three buildings: Sawyer’s high school wing, Alex’s elementary section, and Spencer’s kindergarten kingdom, as she called it.

The couple split up—Y/N went to Sawyer’s meeting, Michael headed to Alex’s. They’d regroup for Spencer.

---

Sawyer’s PT Conference:

Her English teacher had a kind smile and a file thicker than a medical chart.

“Your daughter is brilliant,” she began. “Analytical. Focused. But also…”

Y/N raised a brow. “But also?”

“She organized a protest in the cafeteria because they removed the vegan burritos. She brought petitions. Printed. And color-coded.”

Y/N sighed. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“She also convinced the principal to let her write a term paper on Murderesses in Feminist Literature.”

“…Yup. Definitely mine.”

---

Alex’s PT Conference:

Mr. Grant looked like a man who’d aged ten years in six months.

“Alex is… spirited.”

Michael nodded. “We know.”

“He’s incredibly bright. But last week he convinced three other boys to recreate ‘chemical lava’ using ketchup and a stolen fire extinguisher. They almost caused a lockdown.”

Michael rubbed his face. “He gets that from his mom.”

“I HEARD THAT!” Y/N shouted from down the hall.

---

Spencer’s PT Conference:

Michael and Y/N met up outside the bright blue classroom decorated with finger paintings, glitter explosions, and a paper mache tree labeled “The Kindness Tree.”

Inside, Spencer’s teacher, Ms. Tilda, greeted them with a warm smile… and a stack of incident reports.

“Spencer’s a joy,” she began. “Truly. But yesterday… she attempted a hostile classroom takeover.”

Y/N blinked. “I'm sorry—what?”

“She stood on a chair during morning circle, declared herself ‘Queen Spencer of Rainbowlandia’, and told the class she was replacing me.”

Michael coughed into his fist. “That’s bold leadership.”

“She wore a tiara and made Kojo her ‘Royal Knight’ in a picture she drew. She appointed two boys to be guards and assigned another girl as her ‘Royal Scribe.’”

Y/N groaned. “Did she stage a coup d’état in kindergarten?!”

“She didn’t technically remove me. She just said I was being ‘relocated to the dungeon’—which turned out to be the reading nook.”

Michael tried not to laugh. “Did anyone go along with this?”

“Oh, the entire class followed her around chanting ‘Rainbow Queen! Rainbow Queen!’ She gave out crayon-colored scrolls with laws like ‘nap time is cancelled’ and ‘unicorns are real and need snack time too.’”

Y/N buried her face in her hands. “She’s five. Five.”

“She is creative,” Ms. Tilda added. “And passionate. But maybe channeling her energy into… less monarchical pursuits might help.”

Michael nodded. “We’ll have a conversation. After I stop picturing her beheading her snack pack subjects.”

---

Later that evening at home…

“Spencer,” Y/N said gently, “Why did you try to take over the classroom?”

Spencer looked up from her crayons. “Ms. Tilda is nice, but she doesn’t understand Rainbowlandia laws.”

Michael pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kiddo, you can’t depose your teacher.”

“She was interrupting royal nap time, Daddy.”

Y/N muttered, “I swear this is karma for the time I ran for class president on the platform of ‘less math, more cookies.’”

Kojo barked once, as if agreeing.

[crimsonwolf715]

Used as Bait

Jason and Tim, who have been goofing off since getting out of the Batcave, finally arrived at the GCPD building thirty minutes after they were supposed to be there. 

“Got anything for us, Gordon?” Jason asks. 

Gordon looks up from his file, then looks back down. 

“What is he doing?” Jason asks. 

“Ignoring us for the mandatory five minutes because we wasted his time,” Tim answers. “He put it in place when B got into the habit of making a meeting and then being late for it.” 

“And B hates having his time wasted.” 

“Yup. And to be fair, we’re like thirty minutes late. Gordon does usually have some grace if we’re not too late.” 

Jason takes his helmet off and starts messing with his hair. 

“Is something wrong?” Tim asks. 

“Nope,” Jason answers. “We’re just gonna be seeing Maria before patrol’s over.” 

“You have got to be kidding me.” 

“No, of course not. You’re the only one that will let me.” 

“You have to do something for me.” 

“Fine.” 

Gordon offers the file to Tim, so he takes it. 

“Maria your girlfriend?” Gordon asks. 

“Nah, she’s just a friend of mine. But she lives and works in a bad part of town, so I like to try to walk her home,” Jason answers. “She can handle herself, but I literally take out bad guys at least twice a week.” 

“That didn’t work with Barbara,” Gordon says. 

“Yeah, your fiercely independent daughter didn’t want your protection. Maria isn’t a fan of me feeling obligated to walk her home, but she likes that I like to walk her home. We get to talk.” 

“Huh.” 

“We’ve got a possible meeting of gangs?” Tim asks. 

“That’s the thought. We have two officers over there you can meet,” Gordon says. “I want this dealt with tonight if you two can.” 

“Will do, boss. I’ve got something to do at midnight,” Jason replies, “and Red’s got a date with Spoiler.” 

“I already said that I’m not dating Spoiler,” Tim says. “You’re just telling people to get a rise out of me.” 

“Maybe. We’ll come back when we’ve got something for you.” 

“Just call,” Gordon replies. “I’m gonna be in a meeting and then two briefings for the rest of the night. If you really need anything from me, just call.” 

“We will,” Tim says, then the two of them head towards the location in the file. 

They get to the location and there’s an undercover cop car there, just like Gordon said there would be. Tim’s phone rings, so he looks at it. 

“I need to take this. Can you get the info from the officers?” Tim asks. 

“Yeah, of course,” Jason answers, “but it’ll cost you five dollars.” 

“Shut up and go over there.” 

“Whatever.” 

Jason walks over and knocks on the window. He looks inside and nobody’s in the car. 

“Weird,” Jason mutters. “Where did they go?” 

“Red Hood?” 

Jason turns and there’s an officer standing with two cups of coffee. 

“Gordon sent me and Red Robin to help you guys with the incident,” Jason says. “Where’s the other officer?” 

“He’s not in there?” 

Jason shakes his head. 

The officer quickly strides over and looks in the window. “Oh shit, where could he have gone?” 

Jason shrugs, then turns in the direction to check on Tim. Tim’s not standing where he was a minute ago. Jason goes to look around when he feels a needle in the back of his neck. 

“Nighty night.” 

Jason swings his elbow and manages to hit the guy in the face with it before he passes out. 

Tim wakes up to complete blackness. 

“You’ve failed me,” Batman’s voice says.

“What?” Tim asks. 

The scene around him turns from black to a full color image of the city in flames. 

“What happened?” Tim asks. 

“You failed, and we all paid for it.” 

He sees his entire family, bleeding out while the villains are close by celebrating. 

“No, no,” Tim says, shaking his head. “This can’t be real. I… we hold each other up. I can’t be the reason they’re dead.” 

“The most pressure on you to succeed,” Cass says. 

“The most pressure to get everything right,” Dick adds. 

“It’s your fault we failed. Your plan went south and we paid the price for it,” Damian says. 

Tim tries to calm himself down so he doesn’t hyperventilate, but the scene changes to the manor and Tim sees Jason sitting on the couch, reading a book. His blood is still pumping from the stress and anxiety, but he feels a small amount of comfort in the sight of his brother. Tim runs over. 

“Jason!” 

Jason doesn’t look up or acknowledge him. 

“Jason?” 

“I don’t want to be around you,” Jason says. 

“Why?” 

“Because who would want to? You’re annoying, uninteresting, and unable to hold a conversation.” Tim opens his mouth to argue, but Jason continues. “The only reason that Bruce took pity on you was because he was a basket case. If I hadn’t died, you wouldn’t be around. Not even Dick likes being around you, and he likes being around everyone.” 

Tim can’t help the rage that floods him at that moment, especially hearing it from Jason. He was the only one around to help when everything was going up in flames, and any of them feel like they have the right to complain? 

“You’re utterly useless, Drake,” Damian says, appearing out of thin air before Tim can get any farther in his thought process. 

The world goes back to black as Tim tries to figure out what’s going on. 

“Time for you to sleep now.” 

Tim recognizes the voice and he searches for Mad Hatter. He feels himself starting to lose consciousness, but starts thrashing around when he feels something with a similar feeling to a mask being pulled over his face. He passes out without succeeding in getting the mask off. 

Jason wakes up to complete darkness. He hears a familiar laugh that sends a chill up his spine. Jason struggles against the restraints, starting to hyperventilate. Joker comes into view with a bloody crowbar. 

“Ready for round two, little bird?” 

Jason breaks the restraints and throws a punch at Joker. It goes right through him and he starts laughing again. 

“Batman’s favorite toy, how does it feel? You almost caused the downfall of Batman with your death. It must feel fantastic to know that you almost succeeded in your goal solely by getting your head bashed in and then inhaling a little smoke,” Joker says. 

Jason throws another punch at him and it goes through him again. Jason gets his feet untied in enough time for the scene to disappear. Something knocks Jason off balance and he lands on his back. He blinks and when he opens his eyes, he’s lying down in a wooden box. Jason starts trying to bust the box but no matter how much force he uses, it doesn’t break. 

He can feel the oxygen getting thinner. He’s panicking too much and while he knows it, he can’t seem to get his breathing to slow down. He can’t seem to stop panicking. No matter how hard he tries, he’s stuck in this coffin of dread. He squeezes his eyes closed. 

“Dad!” he cries out, hoping that Bruce is right outside to save him. 

“No father to save you. There never was,” Joker’s voice says. “You really think that Batsy ever loved a little screw-up like you? No, he only pretended to. His savior complex made him take pity on you.” 

Jason shakes his head, refusing to believe it again. 

“My dad loves me!” 

Joker laughs, taunting and mocking Jason. 

“Time for you to sleep now.” 

Jason doesn’t recognize the voice and he searches for the person attached to it. He passes out as it feels something go over his face, like a mask. 

Dick’s watching TV, waiting for Damian to call him to discuss the details of Damian spending the weekend with him. Currently he’s watching a rerun of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but he’s only half-watching it. The screen goes black, drawing Dick’s full attention back to it. The screen glitches, then shows a close-up of Scarecrow’s face. Dick sits up. The camera backs away from Scarecrow’s face enough that you can see more of him. 

“Hello, Gotham,” Scarecrow says. “This isn’t for many of you, so feel free to ignore. Batman, on the other hand, we have your little birds.” 

The camera moves to show Jason and Tim in full uniform, clearly in distress. They’re fighting hard against the restraints, but in a wild and restless way that Tim would never normally attempt to get out in. Dick gets and starts searching his coffee table for his phone. Right on cue, it rings. 

He answers. “Hey, Dami. Are you watching right now?” 

“I’m watching,” Damian answers. “Barbara’s trying to figure out where the signal’s coming from and Father’s getting suited up. I’m already suited up before you ask.” 

“I’ll be there as fast as I can.” 

“Thank you. Father’s panicking.” 

“Yeah, I figured.” 

Dick grabs his keys and rushes out of his apartment. He heads to his safehouse to change into costume then gets on his bike and makes a beeline for Wayne Manor. Once he hits city limits, his comm crackles. 

“Grayson will be here when he gets here,” Damian says. “Nothing we’re going to say is gonna make him get here faster.” 

“Hey, I’m at city limits,” Dick says. 

“Hey, Nightwing,” Barbara replies. “I’m sending the location to your bike now.” 

“Thanks, Oracle. How’s Batman?” 

“I’m fine,” Bruce says gruffly. “I’m heading to the warehouse now. How long will it take for you to get there?” 

Dick checks the location. “Five minutes. It’s closer to the city limit than I thought it would be.” 

“We’ll meet you there. I’m here with Orphan and Robin. Spoiler’s out of town.” 

“Alright.” 

He gets there at the same time they do and runs over. 

“Hey, what did the scan of the building indicate?” Dick asks. 

“Four heat signatures and their trackers are still transmitting from inside,” Bruce answers. “Alright, remember that our top priority is getting them out. If one of them gets away, we can deal with it at a later point.” 

Cass and Damian both nod. Dick notices Mad Hatter and Scarecrow leaving the building. Cass notices them too and looks towards Bruce for instructions. Tim and Jason jump down onto the roof and ready their weapons. Bruce nods at Cass, and she goes after Scarecrow and Mad Hatter while Jason and Tim attack the rest of the Bats. Tim viciously attacks Damian with his bo staff and Damian barely dodges. 

“What the hell?” Damian asks. 

“The masks belong to Mad Hatter,” Dick says, trying to grab Tim so he can get the mask off. “He’s probably controlling both Hood and Red.” 

Tim grabs Dick’s wrist and flips him onto his back. Tim jams a batarang into Dick’s arm, pinning him to the roof in the process. Dick hisses and tries to figure out how to take it out without hurting himself worse. After watching Jason beating Bruce and Tim beating Damian for several minutes while trying to think, he finally just pulls it out as fast as he can and runs at Tim. Bruce can hold his own a little longer. Tim drives a hard kick to Dick’s shoulder, which was slightly injured in a battle earlier that week. 

“Shit,” Dick mutters, grabbing his shoulder. “That hurt, bud.” 

Tim swings his staff at him again and Dick grabs the other end. He uses the momentum to throw Tim on his back. Damian grabs the mask and rips it off. 

Damian checks his pulse. “He’s alive. You should probably go help Father with Hood before he makes him cry.” 

Dick looks up and the two are sparring. 

“I knew that Hood could reasonably fight Batman but seeing it is something else,” Dick mutters, “but I’m gonna go help Batman.” 

Damian nods and starts checking for injuries on Tim. Dick flips over to Jason and kicks him hard in the side of the head. Bruce rips the mask off and stomps on it repeatedly. Dick checks Jason’s pulse while Bruce finishes destroying the mask. 

“His pulse is there. Little weak, but steady.” 

“Good,” Bruce says. “Let’s get them home.” 

Bruce watches his kids as they rest and recuperate. Cass is patching up Damian’s injuries while Dick is patching himself up. Bruce notices that Tim starts shaking. Before he has a chance to get up and get him another blanket, Tim wakes up and sits up, looking concerned. 

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re home,” Bruce says. 

Tim’s facial expression is flat and hard to read. Bruce notices that he seems concerned, but can’t tell about what exactly. He sees everybody and seems to ease a little, but still gets up. 

“You should be resting,” Cass says. 

“I’m gonna go rest in my room. I don’t… I don’t want to be here right now.” 

“Hey, Tim,” Bruce says. 

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Dad,” Tim says, rushing through the words, then hurriedly heads up back to the manor. 

Jason wakes up not long after. He looks around but his fear and anger are completely visible to Bruce. He gets up to walk over and Jason seems to calm down a little, the anger seeming to disappear. 

“Are you alright?” Bruce asks. 

Jason opens his mouth, then closes it again. He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. 

“I don’t want to talk about it… right now. I’ll talk to you when I feel up to it,” Jason says. “Does that work, Dad?” 

Bruce puts a hand on Jason’s shoulder and nods. “Of course it does.” 

Jason nods. “I’m gonna head upstairs and try to sleep off this migraine that’s hitting me.” 

“Make sure to take something.” 

“I will.” 

Jason heads upstairs as Damian walks over to Bruce. 

“How are you feeling, Damian?” Bruce asks. 

“I’m fine,” Damian answers. “Cassandra stitched up my injury. I’m going to speak to Timothy if you don’t need anything else.” 

“Go ahead.” Damian heads upstairs. 

At least someone can get Tim to talk. If Damian can’t, I think I’ll talk Dick into trying.  

Dick walks up. “Hey, you alright?” 

“I’m fine,” Bruce says. “You?” 

Dick sighs. “I don’t know. I don’t like fighting my siblings in such a setting. It hits the edge of that line I swore I’d never cross again. I’m physically fine, but they could have not been. Mad Hatter had them pushing us full strength. The strain that would have put on their brains…” 

“I know. Don’t worry about that right now. Full brain scans show no signs of damage and we’re gonna keep up with scans until we’re completely in the clear. I won’t let anything happen to them without doing everything that I can to stop it,” Bruce promises. 

Dick nods, then hugs Bruce. Bruce hugs him back and they stay like that until Dick’s phone starts ringing. Dick looks at it, then smiles. 

“Hey, babe. What can I do for ya?” A pause. “I’m gonna take this outside, then probably head home.” 

“Goodnight, Dick,” Bruce says. 

“ ‘Night, Dad,” Dick replies, waving as he walks upstairs with his jacket. 

Bruce heads upstairs after a little while and goes to his room. He leaves his door open a crack, a sign that the kids can come in if they need something, then gets in bed to get some much needed sleep.

[mammons-lover]

Fuckin' Sugar!

When I was younger, my older siblings would offer me candies and snacks so I could clean their rooms since I got very hyper and needed something to do. But when we ran out of snacks, they'd give me spoonfuls of raw sugar, lmao. And that shit had me jumping off the walls, cleaning, running around, and then crashing. I believe they would do this with Beelzebub.

Cred: @enchanthings-a for the divider

Buy Me Coffee💖

Satan stared at the list of chores stuck to the fridge like it was personally out to get him. “I’m not doing the kitchen. I did it last time.”

Ugh, same. I just did my skincare routine and there’s no way I’m risking fumes and elbow grease on my pores. Not happening.” Asmodeus said from the doorway, already filing his nails.

Satan turned to glare. “You never do the kitchen.”

“Well then, it’s your turn to keep up the streak,” Asmo said sweetly, giving him a wink.

They both stared at the disaster zone that used to be the kitchen. Crumbs. Grease. Questionable slime. Something was moving in the sink but neither addressed it.

Asmo sighed. “Too bad Beel’s not home. He’d do it if we gave him snacks.”

Satan looked at him slowly. “...Is he not home?”

Asmo blinked. “...Wait. No. He is home.”

Both of them turned in unison, eyes lighting up.

Beel was on his bed surrounded by snack wrappers, eating what looked like a meat bun stacked with marshmallows. He blinked slowly as they entered, mid-chew.

“Hey Beel,” Asmo said, voice sing-songy and suspicious. “If you wash the dishes, I’ll give you this whole box of cupcakes,” Asmo said sweetly, holding it up like a treasure chest.

Beel stared. “...All of them?”

“All twelve,” Asmo nodded.

Beel stood up immediately and marched to the kitchen without a word.

Satan and Asmo exchanged grins.

Five minutes later, Beel was scrubbing the stove with unnatural vigor. Satan dropped an entire blueberry pie on the table.

“Nice job. Do the counters too and this is yours.”

Beel didn’t even respond. Just nodded and kept scrubbing.

Asmo came back with a handful of fancy chocolates and candies. “If you clean the hallways too, I’ll throw these in.”

By the time Levi peeked into the hallway, Beel was on his knees scrubbing tile grout with the focus of a man on a mission.

Levi blinked. “…Why is Beel doing all the chores?”

“He’s working for snacks,” Satan said, arms crossed and smug.

Levi narrowed his eyes. “No way. For real?”

“Yup,” Asmo chimed. “We just gave him some desserts and now look at him go.”

Levi stared a little longer, “...Are there any snacks left?”

“Almost out,” Satan muttered.

Levi ran to the fridge, flung it open, empty. Just sauces and condiments. He checked the freezer. A single bag of peas. He turned to the cabinets. Nothing but flour, chocolate chips, and random baking supplies.

“Guys—there’s no food left.”

“Sucks for you.” Satan said smugly.

Leviathan starts going through the ingredients and pulls out a tub of frosting. “Beel! If you sweep the dining room, I’ll give you this!”

Beel was already halfway there with the broom.

Next came the chocolate chips.

Then some jelly.

They were throwing ingredients at him like bribes.

Two hours in, everything was gone. Every. Last. One.

Levi opened the fridge. “Guys... we’re out of everything.”

Satan slammed the pantry. “Nothing in here either.”

Asmo opened the cabinets, then froze. Slowly, his eyes fell on a giant glass jar sitting at the back. “I mean... we do have the sugar.”

All three were now looking at the big glass jar tucked in the back.

“No way,” Levi said. “Lucifer will kill us.”

“Just one spoon,” Satan offered. “It’s not like we’re feeding him crack.”

“That is his version of crack,” Asmo muttered, but no one listened.

The lid came off.

One spoon went in.

Ten minutes later Beel was moving like a blur.

Like a demon possessed. Like if caffeine had legs.

The living room? Spotless. The hallway? Gleaming. The ceiling? Polished. He was scrubbing walls with one hand and vacuuming with the other. Someone handed him another spoon of sugar and he immediately started cleaning under the couch cushions.

“He’s not even doing assigned chores anymore,” Asmo whispered in awe, clutching the empty sugar jar.

“He’s cleaning the doorknobs,” Levi said. “Individually.”

Satan stares like he was watching a ghost.

By the time the front door creaked open, the house was sparkling. Literally sparkling.

Mammon walked in first, mid-sentence. “I’m just saying, if anyone touched my chips again, I’m gonna—”

He froze.

Mammon slowly took off his sunglasses. “...Did we get robbed by a cleaning crew?”

Belphegor wandered in, yawning. “Is it… glowing in here?”

Lucifer walked in behind them, scanning the walls like they were booby-trapped. “...What the hell is going on?”

Every surface was gleaming. The banister reflected the chandelier. The hallway smelled like sugar and victory. Even the doorknobs looked polished.

Lucifer narrowed his eyes and walked toward the living room.

Beel was passed out cold on the couch, drooling into a pillow. Asmo was laying face-down on the rug. Satan had his back against the wall, looking dazed. Levi was curled up next to the entertainment system with a bruise on his forehead.

Lucifer blinked. “…What happened.”

Asmo held a finger to his lips. “Shhh… we just got him to sleep.”

Lucifer didn’t say anything. Just slowly turned and walked toward the kitchen. That’s when they heard it.

“WHERE THE HELL IS ALL THE FOOD?!” Mammon screamed.

Lucifer stormed back in.

Levi, Satan, and Asmo all looked at each other and shrugged.

Lucifer gave them a long, murderous stare.

No one moved.

Lucifer stared, fuming. “Explain. Now.”

Satan pointed at Beel. “We... may have fed him sugar.”

“A lot of sugar,” Levi added.

“...Like... half the jar,” Asmo admitted, wincing.

“Well…the whole jar.” Satan added.

Lucifer didn’t speak. His eye twitched.

One second passed.

Two.

Then—

“YOU GAVE HIM FUCKING SUGAR?!”

This basically sums up my early childhood—being the youngest meant I was the designated sugar-powered cleaner. Honestly surprised I don’t have ten cavities and a permanent twitch, lmao.

Mini life update (if anyone cares): I did good in my classes (yay me), but now I’m trying to transfer schools and it’s lowkey a nightmare. I wanna go fully online, but apparently that costs a kidney, a chunk of soul, and possibly a loan (Noooooo). I thought it’d be cheaper since I’m using my own devices and buying my own supplies but nope, it turns out online school is just bougie homeschooling.

Fingers crossed someone gives me a full ride. Anywayyyy bye bye nowwwww 🫶✨

[sweatinghoneybee]

FINALLY FINISHED THIS!!! oh my primus why did this took so long?!! Seriously my ibispaint timer is at 140 minutes and that’s at the fast forward speed?!! UGHHH!!! CURSE MY PERFECTIONIST EYE CATCHING EVERY SINGLE IMPERFECTION!!!

ok now time to ramble after letting out that steam! So this one i drew as a continuation for the first one i made of MC where she’s in the air floating while scheming her rebellious plans in blue and pink background, cause hey i think that there’s no way that girly gonna just stand around in her prison cell to rust when she has her shadow sister to help her break out, so YUP this is the art i drew for that thought process!

I don’t know if the pose made it obvious but they’re posing the Barbie and Ken jail photo pose, MC as Barbie and Nebula as Ken,

tho i made them both smirking and being mischievous vixens cause hey when you don’t like the functionist government then you go out there to piss the ever loving pits out of them! (And cause i just wanna have an excuse to draw them with that pose) And i must say i love how i drew out how very smug MC is with the paint splatters that i gave her in the fanart i drew before, and Nebula being a proud older sister at seeing her dear sister breaking the rules! My thoughts on how they break out of prison is Nebula using her powers to destroy the systems that’s working the whole facility (the reason why the red force field bars shattered) and MC throwing paint bombs everywhere just to spite the pits out of the guards (which is why there are paints covering the walls). And the reason why i chose the colors red yellow and blue primarily in the drawing is cause i want it as a representation of how the whole situation is, red and yellow the colors that are associated with danger is either surrounding (the red force field) covering (the holograms of them with their data) or saying to “others” to keep away (the police tapes) but there’s blue coloring or lighting either surrounding or are outside of the red signifying that the reds and yellows are what the government are presenting them as (dangers) when in actually they are blue (kind or justice).

Also easter eggs from me from the chapter of MC’s database, with MC’s hologram data saying warning and her file having a danger symbol along with her datapad having 0.077 being marked over with the word MC cause she doesn’t like how the government experimented on her. And Nebula’s hologram data and database is just an error and redacted. I just wanted to add those things cause those are fun to add in!

Also a fun tidbit from me, if someone is asking what the words on the force field are saying, i used alphabets in transformers that i found in the wiki for it to spell out MC and Nebula’s personal message to the government when they’re investigating their jail cells.

And it spells,

“F R A G Y O U”

X - X - X - X - X

If someone is wondering what i’m drawing above, it’s from a fanfic that my friend @springingsour made in Quotev, here’s the link

Please give them some love kay? They worked really hard to make their stories so give them some those good supportive motivations kay? And check out some of their other stuff to! They’re all real good! (Also Spring my friend i’m so sorry it tooked this long, my perfectionist side got the better of me. . .)

[wordsvomit101]

As usual credit to Hiki (@shyanimeboi) for this god sent gift they grace me. The amount of lore drops got me feral, it feels like Christmas, it feels like summer coming.

I won't post all of it since it is best that you go support the original poster at here: Hikifans on X: "Here is part 3 of the story. Sorry it was abit of a long wait, was stuck grinding for satans beginner nightmere candy https://t.co/IStdo8f7Xs #whatinhellisbad" / X (twitter.com)

Anyway here is the ramble

True but I don't lust as much as you girl (no problem with anyone that related to MC, she's just not for me). If I have that much sexual drive in me, for more than 70 guys at that??? I need to check myself out for medical attention, or else I gonna feel dread every time the lust comes (it is surprisingly a thing that I saw people talk about on TikTok)

Ppyong is a deadly combo man, he is cocky but also a masochist. His appearance is so my type too

MC being a freak, as usual, you go sis ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

THE WAY I CHOKE ON MY OWN SPIT- Like wtf do you mean?!!!! Why are you doing this to my fujoshi kokoro??!!! I know you want to do it but how do you want to do it?!! Shibari? Choking? WHat Ishb Ittzdhbjsfbnv?!- *Error*

NAURRRRR ༼;´༎ຶ ۝ ༎ຶ༽ MC DON'T TAKE THIS AWAY FROM ME!!!!

ASK HIM!! ASK HIM TO SPILL IT ALL OUT!! I NEED TO KNOW!! TELL HIM TO SPELL IT OUT-

*Error*

So, uh, they show a close-up shot of Juno's chest and he asks if Minhyeok is hard like his and MC is a bad liar, said "probably" and Juno calls her out on it.

And MC actually admitted and said that Minhyeok's chest is actually "wide like this"???

You did??? But then again why am I surprised that she did, they had to be kissing at some point if they stuck together for more than a decade with that amount of tension between them

Ok so Minhyeok played soccer in high school, MC and he are in different classes and they were going to give him back something they lent. But come across Minhyeok changing in the classroom, pretty standard

Yup, he knows, he definitely knows and he is tempting her. Also, apparently, Minhyeok's chest is toned, but flatter than Juno's, his abs also feel different than Juno's...

If you can't tell I'm furiously taking notes right now, someone on the dev team is looking out for my shipper's heart and I wish that person woke up on the right side of the bed every day and had their taxes filled on time, etc.

Woah that has to be some intense session you got there, I awake until 3am before and I still have energy fueling me.

Relatable, highly so, I got deadlines every day during the semester. You think it's fine when you get used to it after 3-4 weeks but then it hits you with a week's worth of exams that you need to finish within that time while maintaining other stuff outside your major, and then combine it with other stuff outside uni (҂ ꒦ິヮ꒦ິ)

Too high of a standard girl, if I were him, I would already be too high on coffee and delirium to even see what I'm typing on the computer.

I'm surprised he's only tired, I expected some breakdown but then again, it's Minhyeok. The guy built different

Wait that's so cute!!! Awww (∗˃̶ ᵕ ˂̶∗)

Minhyeok sure is deep in his sleep, cause the slightest noise or outside touch would wake me tf up, I will go straight back to sleep later if it is nothing but if this happens it would me start kicking before I could even think

Built like a campus crush and act like a campus crush. If he has time to be good at sports then he most likely be in one of the SKY universities in Korea. If he also doesn't go to Hagwon then that would be even more crazy

Ok rude, you not even gonna clean the wet chair up??? Even if you're my best friend, I would still drag you back to clean the mess yourself cause ain't no way I'm touching the juice that came out of your bussy

THE TENSION IS REAL BOISSS

I know what you are MC and don't worry I won't judge, just tell me how big the file is compare to others

Ok, that is it, love part 3, they feed me a good amount of lores, and thank you again to the heaven-sent Hiki (@shyanimeboi), please watch the full video on their channel. I couldn't do this without them sharing this with all of us for free at that 🛐🛐🛐

Thank you for reading through my fangirling and good days to everyone!

[the-chessboard-is-personal]

ii s3 liveblog

I'm a bit sad rn so sorry if my reactions are bad this time

1 - I'm not supposed to relate to Balloon am I. y'know. the guy that did something bad in the recent past and now everyone hates them even though they're trying to change.. sigh. wHAT? h. how is he here?? HOW IS SHE HERE??? ...does MePhone look different from how he was in the first half of s2? it's been a bit since I watched that but I swear there's something different about him. oh, new intrthe island is alive. warp pipe.

2 - yup sure :) 👍 right okay BOW is glitching now. something to do with chairs and maybe she lost her memories? she was obsessed with chairs before she died, so..oh fuck I'm taking as many notes as Cabby huh

3 - oh I thought I had something to say about this one. sorry

4 - if the floor gets eliminated, how will that work? .yo WHAT is going on with candleMUMBO JUMBO CATCHPHRASE ... I. I don't think that's what polishing a screen does.?

5 - what if Box wins lol ..oh. wait there was no formal elimination, I guess that got replaced with Box being pulled this episode

6 - them ,,,,,they,both of them,, the cool(s) -> ☯

7 - well call me a camera because [screenshots the auras file]. . . . . . . . . . a. ..nobody knows about this joke yet but if I had a- uh. nickel. for every time a series I know about had a character named Bow with trigger words, I would have two nickels. which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice what is going on with Bow and chairs. HEY MARSHMALLOW TOO?? yes I will keep doing this strikethrough bit

8 - oh fuck I just realized. "iii" as in Inanimate Insanity Invitational but also as in 3 (roman numeral) because it's season 3. also just based on the title I have a bad feeling about this episode (<-half-right??) wait WHAT. MePhone what the fuck does that rnean. whhaaAAAA- oh. agdjhk s ghdclod damn it the commercial is pLOT RELEVANT. hhhhey quick question. how uh. how do we know that everyone's back in the right body..? like. there were some characters who weren't onscreen after they all died again. uhh

9 - th. this episode is probably not like. actually worse than the other ones or anything. but, with the bias I had already formed because I distrust people with the name of the one this episode is a collab with, some stress I was already feeling today before even starting this liveblog, something Balloon said at around 9:14, said pre-liveblog stress making me associate the whole "animation machine" thing (which is seen as bad) with something I like but everyone else hates, I personally have nothing good to say about it.

10 - why is Cabby gold. oh it's whoever has the Immunity Cookie. wait did Cabby forget about TBD because her file was burned??

11 - bat? pokemon. the game you're thinking of is pokemon. wait did he say backstab HOW DOES HE KNOW CANDLE SAW BETRAYAL?? ..yeah I was wondering how that would work

12 - I knew it. I knew Cabby would forget stuff that isn't in a file! urghhh can they Please vote out silver spoon already. he's not gonna WIN, right?? sorry. but I don't like him.

13 - oh the intro reflected Bot's change in appearance. neat! nononoononoNONOONNO GAUhokay. listen I know it's probably not going to happen but I really want YinYang to win. and holy shit that "for the rest of your life" was foreshadowing.

14 - okay off to a start that makes me want to punch something. okay. okay. it's not a real ad. good. HUH HE GLITCHED holy shit, damn uzumaki lookin rooms what is this /positive(?) ☯ 👈 GRIAN INSTINCT (which. to be fair, mood). p u r p l e . PURPLE ACKNOWLEDGED. WHAT WAS THAT! ohhh what the hell. you fuck off this INSTANT you silver shitface. ohh I hate him. I hate him more than I hate Cobs. ..does Cabby not have parents? SPLRINGY IS FAKE. SPRINGY IS A ROBOT OR SOMETHING MADE BY COBS I'M CALLING IT NOW. please please please kill the spoon kill the spoon plEASE- ARRGHHH

15 - seeing as the next episode has Blueberry in the thumbnail and is called The Great Bluish Bake Off, I have a slight prediction on who will win the rejoin. wait what. yeah I'm gonna be honest I don't think it was murder. NO NONONOONO DON'T NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO WAUGHHH,,,,,

16 - why....why am I finding Nickel so relatable. w h a t . now I've never had oatmeal raisin cookies, but I don't think they're the Number One Cause of global warming. I know it's a cartoon and awHAT THE HELL HE JUST DIED

(between 16 and 17) m. MePhone knows. MePhone knows what's going to happen when the season ends, doesn't he? that's why he doesn't want it to. that's why he's desperate. but the question remains, what does he know that the viewers don't?

17 - wait this episode is from 10 months ago. is- is the series not over? damn it! I prefer to binge watch stuff so I don't forget while waiting for new episodes. oh don't even fucking go there. 14:01 FUCK OFF.

(between 17 and 18) y'know I was trying to watch this to ESCAPE all the drama and discourse everyone hates me for. this just feels personal at this point. but hey, who cares about me, right? onto the next damn episode!

18 - there's another 4 under that 4. are they all 4s. ohhh noooo, what an inteeense moooooment. wow it's really fucking difficult to care right now.

19 - again final episode so I'll break this into sections. kinda

..,.Cabby..I think I understand a bit more about my own..situation because of Cabby. wait wait. "built" to? BUILT to?? HMMMMMM 4S is still here?? what ??? ? well at least the one that YinYang wanted to win won..!

and that's season 3 huh.

well. that was kinda filler? tbh?

and the message in episode 17 sucked- ..eh. hold on. I'm getting too angry over some discourse. I need a break from typing this.

okay after like half an hour I realized something. they were trying to win an award. I like AI art, but I don't think it should ever win any awards in competition with human art. the two are fundamentally different. I don't think there should be any competitions that have both, especially high prestige ones. that line at 14:0whatever was too far though.

my opinion is that human art and AI art are both art. but they're VERY different forms of art, and should probably be kept that way.

overall I liked the season. sure, YinYang didn't win and episodes 9 and 17 are...like that. but it's not that bad tbh.

probably gonna watch the rest of s2 tomorrow, but for now I just want to play minecraft.

[superiorsturgeon]

Rookie-Angel!Pyrrha: wow. Theres so much to being a guardian angel.

Angel: yup. Dont worry, you have the heart and spirit. You'll get there in no time.

RA!Pyrrha: Thank- hey, what's that commotion?

Angel: oh, that? Well, some Valkyrie and Angels are having a free for all to see who gets to collect the soul of the Rusted Knight. He's apparenly about to fall off a tree mid-battle soon.

RA!Pyrrha: oh ny! The Rusted Knight is real? That's Grand! I remember my mother reading me that story.... w-wait. He didnt die when he drank the poison? A-and he's about to d-die? And they're all....

Angel: Fighting over his soul, yeah. The Valkyrie claim their "little sis" on Remnant called dibs already, but we Angels know the Knight, his family has fought our fight for generations and he's even fought at the side of the God of Light's champion.

RA!Pyrrha: ooo-oh, wow! The truth is stranger than any legend. Still, i hope someone who will be kind to him wins..... dying in the line of duty still hurts.....

Angel: oh, they'll be 'kind' alright. This group is mostly just thirsty thots looking to score with a new arrival. Bah, i say we should just send a reaper spirit for this Arc dude, plenty of time to make a pass on him later.

RA!Pyrrha: *twitch* what.

Angel: oh yeah, that wasn't in the legend, right? His real name is Jaune Arc or something. I read the file; some time travel bullshit and a stable time loop happened. It's kinda-

RA!Pyrrha: It's a free for all, correct? (Hard eyes)

Angel: uh

RA!Pyrrha: And the heavenly blacksmith is over there, right?!? (Flexing muscles, swords rattling in the distance)

Angel: uhhhhhhhhh

RA!Pyrrha: And im ALLOWED TO GUIDE SOULS AS WELL, CORRECT? (Wings extend, a circle of floating swords forming a halo)

Angel: y-es? (Sweating)

Angel-Of-War!Pyrrha: (sweetly) oh good!

(Her eyes narrow)

AoW!Pyrrha: word of advice. Don't get in my way-HEY, I HAVE A PRIOR CLAIM, THOTS. BACK OFF!!!!!!

Angel: *gulps*

Jaune: *blinking, lying on the ground where he fell* Oooohhhhhh…I don’t think my aura will save me this time…

????: It’s okay…I’ve got you…

Jaune: *blinks and squints* P…Pyrrha…? Is that you…?

Pyrrha: *cradling Jaune in her lap and tenting her red-feathered wings over him* Hello again, Jaune! You had quite a nasty fall!

Jaune: *looks around and sees piles of beaten/bruised angels and loose feathers everywhere* Wha…what happened…? Am I dead?

Pyrrha: *brushes Jaune’s long hair back* It was close, but I saved you just in time!

Jaune: What happened to all the other angels?

Pyrrha: Oh, well…it turns out sometimes there’s…competition…when it comes to being a guardian angel! 😡

Pyrrha: Luckily I was able to convince everyone else that I was the one for you! ☺️

Jaune: *looks back up into Pyrrha’s eyes and reaches up to touch her cheek* I can’t believe I get to see you again…! 🥹

Jaune: I like your horns and black wings!

Pyrrha: …my what…?

Pyrrha: *looks at her wings which have turned black* 😧

Pyrrha: *feels for her halo and finds two curving horns* 😨

Pyrrha: …Uh-oh…!

[schlattslonghairytoes]

chapter five

real life!

talia

I haven't even been here for a full day and I've been grocery shopping two times. everyone wants to film a youtube video before the misfits party tomorrow so they sent me to get all the food for the video, 'swell as more food for the house

im still thinking about me and schlatts conversation last night, I feel like I fell right back into what we used to be, its like my mind is forgetting how bad he hurt me, betrayed me even, and it seems like he doesn't even feel bad, or remember it ever happened.

ugh he makes me feel like im going crazy. when I get to the store I get out and look for a cart, cooper is going to text me the list so I can get everything.

iMessage!

coopdawg🐶

hi taliiii

ok so heres the list

gummy bears (for me)

flour

sticks

lots of butter

apples

carrots 

eggs

steak

string

lettuce

and

milk

thats it!😄

ok sounds good

you sure that's everything?

yup!

it wasn't everything. I had to go back and forth to the grocery store three times. im so done already. when I finally get back to the house with everything I call everyone down to get the stuff, I am not carrying all that in. a mister schlatt comes running out the door.

"I am here my lady where are the bags?" he was never good at British accents. "its all in the back." I respond. schlatt goes to grab the bags when the rest of the boys come filing out of the house, so I leave them to get the bags.

I walk back inside and settle on the couch so they can start setting up and filming, I also have to make a cake that looks like the Minecraft one later so I decide to just rest for a bit. im barely listening when they start the video

that is until ted walks over to me with a apple covered in butter and tells me "talia your health is going down fast, you need this apple to replenish your hearts" he yells. "im ok, let me go ted it will be ok" I say dramatically falling off the couch 

"NO" Charlie screams running across the living room, "talia we need you to eat the apple, please we need someone to do the dishes!" he holds his hand on his heart. I was so close to hitting him when schlatt pipes up "is that a misogyny?" and I loose it.

im not really In the rest of the video till the very end when they finish their "cake" or whatever they want to call that. when I come out with a cake that actually looks like it could be in Minecraft and place it infront of schlatt like ted told me to.

ted hands me the camera and walks behind schlatt, "hey why don't you try this cake talia made." ted puts his hand on schlatts shoulder and whispers in his ear before staring into the camera looking like flynn rider. "this actually looks kinda good, fine ill try it." schlatt says.

but before he can even try it ted shoves schlatts head into the cake as hard as he can. as you can guess, schlatt was not very happy about that so I had to film schlatt throwing ted in the pool, and he even tried to get me to go in.

"do you wanna join him talia, you two were conspiring against me weren't you!" he walks toward the camera. "no! I swear ted didn't even tell me, schlatt stop!" and I start running, and schlatt kept chasing me for 5 minutes, no joke.

at the end of the video, there is a montage of him chasing me around the house to the fucking scooby doo music, taken by charlie I believe. I ran into my room and locked the door, but my dumbass forgot that our bathrooms connected. long story short, I ended up in the pool, but hey, so did schlatt

once we both dried off we kinda just sat outside on the chairs, in silence. it was nice, I thought more about the boy next to me, he made it hard for me to think with him so close, I wish nothing ever changed, I really wish our friendship stayed the same

"lets go inside" he walked me to my room, I said thank you before opening my door into my room, walking to my bed, and face planting on my pillow. I wasn't ready to be this close to him.

the next day!

twitter!

talia😩      @taliatalks4ever

ya'll ever get high off that za🍃

💬736       ♻️92     🤍12,386

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@jjshlatty

no I am a holy man of god, I would never smoke the devils lettuce out of respect for my creator and his beliefs, watch out the hand of god will strike you down.

                  reply:

                  @taliatalks4ever

                           this u?

@user8214673

can u share? my dealer died.

real life!

third person

schlatt and talia sat in their respective rooms, getting ready for the misfits party tonight. they both had the other on their mind, schlatt more then talia.

talia asked hansum for a joint and he graciously said yes, so there she was smoking weed while listening to tyler the creator, getting ready for tonight. she hadn't hooked up with anyone in a while, not because no one wanted to, because she didn't want to. no one was up to her standards

only one man had ever been and he broke her heart, so she strayed away from hook ups and situationships. she wasn't willing to put herself through that, so she didn't. with one exception. 

when she was high she didn't care, anyone was good enough, whatever eased the pain of her heart a little bit more.

schlatt on the other hand, was the opposite, throughout high school he ran through girls everyday, hooking up but never anything more, it never went beyond that. at parties he only got with people drunk.

now he's too scared to repeat the mistake he made in high school, being too drunk and stupid.

he just wanted a drink and to observe, something most people don't know about schlatt, is he wanted to be a phycologist before the youtube stuff happened, his passion was helping others with their troubles, even if he couldn't solve his own. 

so now at most parties he sat, quietly, observing who liked who, who hated who, anything he could do to learn more about others, so that was his plan, a glass of whiskey and a comfy bean bag.

the party started in an hour and was roughly forty minutes away at the misfit house. the crew were splitting up into two cars, as there were only two designated drivers. Charlie and their cameraman max. it would be ted, maddie, charlie, talia and schlatt in one car, and max, hansum, cooper, travis and noah in the other car.

when the time came everyone got into their designated cars and they began the drive

real life!

schlatt's pov

we got in the car, me ted and maddie in the back and charlie and talia in the front. I had called shotgun but I remembered talia gets extremely car sick so I let her have this one. "who's on aux?" talia turned around and looked at me with her eyes hooded and one brow raised, Jesus she was baked, but she still looked beautiful.

"ill hop on it" ted grabbed the charger and plugged in his phone. "that's what she said." talia laughed before starting to cough hysterically. "you good?" I wrap my hand around the seat and pat her back.

"im good I swear, god I need some air." she rolls down her window and "she" by Tyler the creator starts playing. "hey take some insta pics for me" talia says before laying her head out the window and laughing. 

I lean out my window and take pictures of her laughing with the wind blowing through her hair. eventually she put her head back in the car and I sent her the pictures. I took really good ones, I was always her photographer.

"jay please tell me you got my good side, that angle is gonna make me look fat." talia lifted the phone from my hands and started to look through the pictures I took. I don't think she was overly pleased with them all being of my face. "god you suck." she laughs

"love you too." but she didn't know I meant it.

real life!

talia

we arrived at the party and I hear Disturbia by Rihanna blasting through the ceiling speakers, and my inner slut is clawing at the bars containing it. we all head over to where everyone else is and from what I can see (and smell) everyone here is already wasted and high.

I see schlatt go over to a girl in a corner and I roll my eyes, such a whore. tonight was not ment for me to mope around, anything me and schlatt might of had in the past, is done.

our lips moved at a feverous pace, hands exploring each other like never before. smoke lingering from our forgotten blunts, his mouth moving down to my neck and planting itself there. I grab his shirt and stretch it over his head, I slide my hands to his hair and tug lightly.

"fuck talia" he whimpers into my neck

a chill runs down my spine, remembering our moments together was not a pleasant memory, it was time to forget.