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texanpanda · 1 day ago

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Bob Reynolds x gn!reader

This is the first thing I've written in a very long time and probably the first story I've ever posted. Not sure how to format but I'll figure it out. I cried on my floor listening to the Let Down cover by Mack Lorén and then this idea popped into my head and wouldn't let me rest so here ya go.

I think I've kept the description and interactions with the reader pretty neutral even though I was picturing my oc Stella the entire time. Let me know if you like it and I might try to be creative again lol.

It had been over an hour since Bob saw you disappear into your bedroom. You had come out in an oversized sweatshirt and gotten a cold bottle of water from the fridge. When he offered a quiet "Hey-" you had hummed quietly in response then continued down the hall.

His leg bounced as he sat in his usual reading spot, occasionally glancing down the hall to your room. You had been acting distant that day and it sent his mind into overdrive. He wasn't sure if you were mad at him or if maybe something else was bothering you but he felt an overwhelming need to fix it.

He tried to go back to reading his book but couldn't get past the first sentence on the page before needing to lift his head to look down the hall again. His gut was telling him that something was wrong. He wanted to brush it off as his usual anxiety but couldn't because what if something really was wrong with you? What if you were hurt and hid it from him? What if you were mad at him for not helping with the dishes or for leaving the coffee creamer out yesterday? Did he even do that or was he making up reasons for you to be upset with him?

Snapping his book shut, he stood and made his way down the hall. There was nothing wrong with checking in, right? You always told him that he could come talk to you about anything. And that you wouldn't be mad if he asked a dumb question. Even if it sounded rude or inappropriate, there was always a way to move forward with the conversation.

You were helping him figure out how to communicate better. Not just with you but with everyone else in the tower and beyond. You had been in therapy for several years and had done your own research on the coping skills you had learned so you were the go-to person when anyone in the tower was struggling. But who do you go to? Who checks in with you when you are struggling?

Bob wanted to be that person. Not just to help you, because he definitely cared about you and wanted to make sure you were okay but also to be useful. He wanted to help in any way that he could so that him being here meant something. So that he meant something. To you.

When he reached your door he hesitated. He could faintly hear music playing from behind the door. Tilting his weight from side to side he contemplating actually knocking on your door or trying to go back to reading. What if you just wanted some alone time and him checking in was actually ruining your day? He shouldn't be trying to take up your time with his stupid need to help. He'll just make it-

His thoughts were cut off when he heard a sniffle sound. Had he heard correctly? Were you okay? He leaned his head closer to the door, the scolded himself mentally for trying to eavesdrop. But got distracted when he heard the sound of you blowing your nose and something almost like a whimper.

All doubts forgotten he knocked and called out your name. The sniffling stopped and he knocked again. The music went quiet and he faintly heard you call out "come in" . When he opened the door he was met with a sight that made his stomach drop and his head spin.

You were curled up on the floor hugging a pillow. Tears were streaming down your face as you blew your nose again then tossed the tissue into your nearby trash can. You looked like you had been full sobbing the entire hour he hadn't seen you and his chest clenched at the very idea of you suffering alone.

"Oh my God- ar- are you okay? What happened? What's wrong?" He stumbled into the room and knelt next to you, hands uselessly hovering in the air as if to grab you and check for injuries. He couldn't see anything immediate but that didn't mean there wasn't something hidden.

You let out a snort of laughter then sniffled again. "I'm fine, Bob." You replied so casually like your eyes weren't red and your breathing wasn't stuttering.

"You don't look fine." He fired back, no longer worried about upsetting you. "You look- what happened? Why- why are you crying? On the floor?" His hands flexed mid air as if instinctively wanting to hold you but not knowing if that would be welcome right now.

You blinked up at him then reached for the water bottle sitting beside you. "Oh, it's floor time." As if that would answer any questions he could possibly have about your current state.

"Floor time? What's floor time?" He'd never heard of floor time and was a little afraid to find out if it left you in tears.

"Oh yeah. It's a coping thing my old roomate and I used to do." Even with some context he was still confused. You had taken a small sip of water and then let out a deep sigh. When you looked up at him again you could see the confusion clearly on his face. "Lying on the floor and listening to sad music is a good way to cry." You explained simply.

"Uh, yeah. I can see that. But-" He couldn't quite wrap his head around you seemingly happy to have a full meltdown on the floor, like it was normal. "I don't get why?" His hands dropped to his knees as he looked you over again.

You nodded as if his confusion made perfect sense to you. "It's not for everyone. But with our line of work, I don't always have time to express my emotions in a healthy way, y'know?" You waved your hand in the air in a dismissive gesture. "We're constantly on the move with missions stuff and it gets pretty overwhelming, so I decided to pick a time to cry before my body decided for me." You cracked a smile at your joke and he felt his lips twitch in an attempt to match it.

He nodded in understanding. There were times when the others got loud or someone made a comment that had him holding back tears. He never really thought about how often he felt overwhelmed with everything. Most of the time he tries to push it aside or hold it back.

"Yeah, so I like to set aside time every couple of weeks to just, have a good cry." You gesture to you self and your little set-up on the floor. That's when he realized that everything around you had been placed deliberately. The water bottle for hydration, the pillow for comfort, even the tissue box and mini trash can were all within easy access.

He'd never heard of purposely setting yourself up to have "a good cry" as you called it but he could see the benefits if letting all your feelings out.

"So you...you're not hurt?" You smiled at his concern and shook your head.

"No, I'm not hurt. And I was pretty much done when you knocked anyway." He nodded along, feeling embarrassed that he had freaked out about something you considered so normal. You watched him sit there staring at the bottle in your hands like it held the answers to the universe.

"Would you like to have some floor time too? I've got a good Playlist." His eyes trailed up to your face where you held a calm smile. His gaze dropped back down and he shrugged a shoulder.

"I don't think I'd be very good at it." His voice was quiet, still embarrassed and now wondering if he should have just stayed in his reading corner. Your hand reached out to brush his arm gently.

"There's no being good or bad at it. There's just letting yourself feel." You squeezed his arm slightly and he leaned into the touch. "It can be hard to do and there's no pressure to do anything but lying on the floor and listening to sad music helps me personally so if you want to try it you totally can."

Now that he was sitting on the floor with you, in your bedroom, there was a part of him that wanted to take any excuse to stay with you. Even if that meant crying in front of you.

He chewed on his bottom lip in contemplation. You sat beside him, body relaxed with your thumb gently rubbing his sweater.

"What do I do?" He finally asked. Your responding grin was bright enough to make his heard stutter.

"Alright first things first, make sure you have comfy clothes." He looked down at his usual ensemble of sweater, and sweatpants. "Check. Next get something for hydration. If you're gonna cry you gotta replenish that water. I've still got some in mine if you like." You'd managed to drink about half the bottle and handed it to him. He took it without question and held it like a life line.

"Check." He said softy.

"Next we lay down and get comfy on the floor. C'mere." You gestured to the emtpy space next you and lay down on your back. He followed your instructions and lay down on his back beside you.

It was then that he noticed you had tiny glow in the dark stars on your ceiling. His eyes traced over the imaginary constellations as you shifted and brushed your shoulder against his.

"Alright, final step is play some deep emotional music and then let yourself feel whatever you feel." You reach up to grab your phone and press play. Instantly the room is filled with a soft piano song that he doesn't recognize. "Don't forget to breath."

You both lay on the floor quietly breathing and letting the notes from the song wash over you. Bob let's out a deep breath and feels his body start to relax into the carpet. He isn't really sure what he's supposed to be feeling but he knows he's feeling something.

You reach over again and brush your fingers against his. He wiggles his fingers back until they are hooked with yours. Not quite holding hands, but connected in a way that feels comforting. Something in his shoulders let go and a tension he didn't know he felt finally releases.

The song changes to the ballad cover of a rock song. As you lay there next to eachother he thinks about everything that's ever happened in his life. His parents, his addiction, the vault. None of it really makes him cry but it feels good to think about everything without a voice in his head bringing it up first.

A sniffle pulls his attention back to you. He glances to the side to see slow tears seeping out of your eyes. Your face isn't scrunched but relaxed as the tears slide down the side of your face into your hair. You slowly reach up to wipe one when it gets to close to your ear.

Bob watches you for a second before turning his eyes back to the stars on the ceiling. He lays there for another minute, listening to the vocals of the ballad and waiting...

But nothing happens.

His body is more relaxed but no tears come. He wants to cry. He has so many reasons to cry but it just- isn't happening. His body isn't in the moment and he doesn't feel the need to cry. He let's out a frustrated huff.

"I don't think I'm doing it right." He speaks finally, annoyed at himself that he can't do something as simple as cry. You sniffed again then turned to face him.

"You're not doing anything wrong, Bob." You told him and gave his fingers a slight squeeze. "If you don't need to cry right now then don't worry about it. We can just sit here and listen to music." He turns to look at you again and you offer him a teary smile. He feels a pull in his chest at the sight, but nods and searches the ceiling for constellations again.

"We can just...sit here." He repeats like the concept of simply existing was entirely new to him. Your fingers curl into his his again and together you simply...exist.

The next half hour is spent mostly in silence as your tears dry up and you both enjoy the peaceful atmosphere in the room. Bob didn't shed any tears but let his body relax for the first time in a long time and that was kind of the whole point wasn't it?

@may-daye here's the full one-shot for you

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #thunderbolts #robert “bob” reynolds #x reader #gn!reader #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds x gn!reader #pretty proud if myself for actually writing something #i dont remember how tags work #is it still just the first five that matter?#mythings #panda posts #sad sunshine husband #Spotify

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grapejuicebrat · 13 hours ago

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back to friends

It starts with a lie.

He says, “Hey.”

You say, “I’m good.”

And you both pretend that’s enough.

⸻

You haven’t seen Rafe Cameron since he slammed your car door on a Wednesday night in April and never opened it again.

Spring turned into summer without him.

You dyed your hair. You started wearing rings. You slept on the right side of your bed instead of the middle.

Your friends started saying things like “I’m so proud of you.”

But none of it mattered the second you saw him in that shitty gas station parking lot in OBX, leaning against his truck like heartbreak hadn’t ever touched him.

The same tousled hair. That smug, sideways smile.

And a bottle of Coke pressed to his bottom lip like it had taken your place.

⸻

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he says.

You want to say, I live here too, Rafe.

But instead you just shrug. “Didn’t think you looked at me anymore.”

He doesn’t flinch. He never does.

“We were better as friends,” he says. “Weren’t we?”

You snort. “We were never friends. We were a habit.”

His jaw ticks. He looks away.

You walk to your car. You don’t look back.

⸻

You last four days.

Four days of pretending you don’t still check if he views your stories.

Four days of lying to your best friend, saying, No, I’m over it. I swear.

Four days of trying to delete his playlist but stopping halfway through every time because some part of you still thinks maybe he’ll come back.

⸻

He texts you on the fifth day.

Rafe: You busy?

You: Do you care?

Rafe: Always did.

Stupid.

So stupid.

But you go anyway.

⸻

He’s sitting on the hood of his truck when you get there. The dock near Figure Eight where you first kissed. Where he told you he’d never felt like this before.

Now he looks up like nothing’s changed, like your history isn’t sitting in the passenger seat of your car with its arms crossed and a gun to your heart.

“I missed you,” he says, voice low.

“No, you didn’t,” you answer. “You missed how I made you feel.”

He exhales through his nose. Nods once. “You’re not wrong.”

You sit beside him.

It’s quiet.

It always was, with Rafe. Everything loud in the world — but never between you. The screaming happened in silence. The worst pain came without words.

“You look happy,” he says.

You blink. “Do I?”

“No,” he admits. “Not really.”

⸻

You talk for two hours.

About nothing. About everything.

He tells you Topper still can’t keep a girlfriend. That Sarah moved again. That he stopped drinking during the week.

You nod. Pretend you aren’t noticing how his hand keeps brushing yours.

And then he says it.

“Let’s just go back to friends.”

You freeze.

He looks at you like it’s a solution.

Like it’s a fix.

But friendship was never what broke.

It was the in-between. The almost.

The I love yous that never made it past his teeth.

So you say the cruelest thing you can muster in the softest voice:

“You don’t want to be my friend, Rafe.”

He stiffens.

You continue, “You want me close enough to keep, but not enough to lose. You want someone who will stay when you disappear. I was that. I’m not anymore.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

Then: “You really done?”

You nod, even though your throat closes around it.

He nods back.

And that’s it.

No kiss.

No fight.

No screaming or slamming doors.

Just two people pretending to rewind something that broke in the fast-forward.

⸻

You get in your car.

Drive away with your windows down.

The breeze doesn’t help.

Nothing does.

He texts you later that night.

Rafe: If we can’t go back to friends, do I lose you for good?

You type. Delete. Type again.

And finally, you send:

You already did.

#rafe cameron #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron smut #dark rafe cameron

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rain-feather · 21 hours ago

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Skin hunger (perhaps？)

Two Time x Reader

I'm sorry first 🙇‍♀️! English is not my native language. I used a translator, so there might be pronoun errors or more… I hope they don't seem too strange or offensive when read 😭

I was very sleepy so I wrote randomly, but I still want to post it. However, I hope you can like it ❤��

I only used "they".

Two Time curled up on the bed. They had no idea how many days it was. Their fingers were inserted into their hair and rubbed, and their nails scraped their scalp from time to time, trying to relieve the itchiness from the skin cells.

In the early stages of the symptoms, when they can still be with you, because of the inexplicable restlessness in their hearts, they are always absent-minded and less efficient when fixing the generator, he turns to you at the edge of his sight, thoughts of what he wants to do emerge in his mind, looking at the dusty hands, watching your fingers hook up the wires to connect them, and wisps of thoughts start to overflow.

'Want to touch it, hold it, just do that. '

When the thought gets the upper hand for a moment and Two Time doesn't even realize what it has done, a finger touches your skin in an instant and casually wraps your hand completely.

A momentary sense of satisfaction fills the void in , and it's a very comfortable feeling

But because I'm wearing half-finger gloves, the skin is not in full contact, so the feeling of dissatisfaction starts to arise again, until it overcomes the pleasure that just emerged and takes over again, simply put, it becomes more and more demanding.

"What's wrong with you?" You look at them, feeling strange about their behavior.

"No... "Nothing," then said "May I hold your hand for a moment?"

Ah... It must be the Spawn that leads its own behavior to make itself desire you, telling them that you are two lines destined to be connected, only requiring them to pull you up and then tie the knot themselves to make you closer to them.

Two Time thought to himself that the unquenchable desire also made them more agitated.

When Two Time looks at the hand they have placed on your hand, and then raises their eyes to look at your face, the scene in front of their eyes turns into a dark black... They got it, they got the solution to all this.

At first, as soon as they lay in the bed, they felt empty inside and unconsciously wanted to hold the quilt or something to fall asleep peacefully. But gradually, these were no longer enough to ease the craving, as if returning to infancy, longing for more touch, warmth, completely real touch, and even scratching red marks on the skin for relief. Unable to satisfy one's own needs, every inch of skin cries out for contact from you, even if you wrap yourself up tightly, it still gets close to insomnia, loneliness and unease wrap around the body instead of the quilt.

I can't remember how many days it has been since I last saw you. !!!!!!!!!

Two Time won't be teleported to the lounge and will go straight back to a new single room after the game, unable to open the door, but there will be food every day, round after round but never see you.

But everyone says they've seen you.

It must be a test that comes with....

————————————

You haven't seen Two Time for a long Time. It seems as if it was done deliberately. Logically, in a game, everyone would take turns to form teams once and be able to see everyone in the lounge. But unfortunately, Two Time wasn't in the lounge, and everyone's answers were the same.

Although no one has seen him in the hall, he has been in contact in the game, and his condition seems to be getting worse and worse each time.

Someone asked that one question and they would reply, "Where is y/n?"

That's all the information you get, but who shuts Two Time and where? His room is empty. Is anyone trying to stop you from meeting? The person who threw you into this so-called game? This is also starting to get your mental state down.

You unconsciously raise your hands to scratch your hair, impatiently open The lounge door, whether it's The Spawn hearing their prayers or the ghost wanting to watch something else, you see the Two Time that you've been worrying about.

Wait... Is that Two Time? Did they show up in front of me?

The other person is somewhat confused about the situation, the whole person looks paler than before, the eyes are somewhat dazed, the whole person exudes exhaustion, in a trance see your figure, a glimmer of light flashes in their eyes, a smile is squeezed out of the corner of the mouth, you think you are mistaken, but the fact is different, Two Time look at you just raised your hand, fingertips finally hooked only on your fabric Your vision suddenly turned pitch black, and after a moment of tinnitus, when you opened your eyes again, you had already been teleported to the opponent's map.

Ahl...... Why?

You punch the nearby wall and vent feebly.

You finally believe that you just saw him, but now there's nothing left, damn...

Will Two Time show up in the game?

You quickly check the list of chosen survivors, they're not on it, you clench your fist, take a deep breath to relax yourself, and try to search the map as much as you can to help your teammates to find some traces, maybe they'll be here?

You do that every round, hoping it's the last time.

As Time goes by second by second, you ask everyone you meet about the whereabouts of Two Time, and each time you ask, you feel your mouth getting drier.

Until a glimmer of hope kindled, Dusekkar said he could sense that Two Time was in the game, even if they weren't on the list, and then gave you a rough direction.

Just run... Running on and on, searching around, until the wind in the ear mingled with a chant, the eyes were covered by a fleeting white light, the eyes were pricked by the light and closed, and could faintly hear someone moving ahead.

Looking at the blurry figures in front of them, they lost their balance due to the pain brought by rebirth. They staggered forward and fell down peacefully following their intuition. They spread their arms and held the person in front of them in their arms. You supported your body by bearing the entire weight of the person, avoiding close contact with the floor.

"I really want to see you... My angel. spawn heard my PRAYER I'M GOING CRAZY...." Two Time 's voice is horribly hoarse, their breathing is rapid, the breath is hitting the neck again and again, the wings behind follow the owner' s consciousness to pull forward and surround you, there is even a little blood dripping from above, the face is buried in the side of your neck, the messy hair runs through the skin to bring a little itch.

Like a fish stranded on the shore, suddenly someone pours a cup of cool water to give them a brief peace of mind, and a greater craving for water comes over them.

"I never thought you would be here, I just saw you, I thought it was an illusion! To be honest, I've seen this kind of illusion many times." Their lips touched the back of their necks from time to time, and they breathed warm breaths as they spoke.

Feeling the movements of the people in front of you, you just hold them a little tighter, with countless questions in your mind that you want to say, but when you see the red scratch marks on the exposed part of their upper arms and their fair skin, you still want to ask about their condition first.

“Two Time... What's going on with your hand?"

"Hand... ? Don't worry, it's no big deal, you are my antidote, y/n "they murmured" in the name of spawn... We've been linked together."

They close their eyes, craving the tight embrace of the skin contact, so strong that it seems to melt you into their body, feel your body temperature, press your fingers into the skin, feel your body temperature through your clothes, suck your scent, truly perceive your presence, the tense spirit is relieved at this moment.

Two Time suddenly becomes very clingy "I won't let you leave me again... I mean it." Their voices grew fainter and fainter.

The hug was too strong and you felt a bit suffocated. "Two Time?" You try to swap them "I think you can, be gentle."

Two Time says straightforwardly, "I'm sorry, I just really want to make contact, really."

"But I don't know if I'll be able to see you again when I get back. I'm scared."

You didn't say that, it's an uncertainty, but now you just want the other person to be able to enjoy the moment, you raise your hand to stroke the back of their head, straighten their hair, just reply softly

"I know..."

Neither of you noticed the countdown, just hugged, and in the last few seconds Two Time seemed to sense the passage of time, holding you tighter.

Perhaps Two Time's devout prayers were answered, and you returned to the lounge together, but not in the same lounge as the rest of the survivors, but in the corridors of your respective rooms, and in the same positions as in the game.

Phew - they let out a deep breath.

They finally let go and look straight into your eyes. "I've been praying for this... The Spawn heard my prayer." The wings that emerged from Two Time's second life have been retracted.

Let go of your hands and grope to find you, hook your fingers and cross them together.

Take advantage of the gap to care about the other person's physical condition, then ask about what happened recently in Two Time, and they tell it all.

Anyway, Two Time gets a strange symptom. They want to have physical contact with you. If they can't have contact with you, they will feel uncomfortable at first and then start to feel uneasy... Fear of being abandoned.

They say they stayed in that room for a very long time and used many ways to try to relieve the symptoms, so there would be those marks on the skin, trying to hug themselves to balance the relief with the pain.

Imagining that they won't see you again or that you won't come to see them, the unease in their hearts intensifies, and they are about to be swallowed by the darkness, which also leads to some seemingly serious scratches.

"Does it hurt?

They just said indifferently, "It's okay. There's nothing more to care about now than you being in front of me."

You and they both heard footsteps on the stairs. Two Time gave a somewhat displeased look downstairs, took your hand and walked towards their room, unlocking, turning the door handle and opening the door in one go.

You've been cleaning Two Time's room all the time, so it's not that bad to be empty for so long.

Be clean and tidy, and try not to disrupt what Two Time does for Spawn.

"May I ask you to stay in my room tonight? Dear. '

They look at you, the dim light on their faces, and under their deep eyes lies a desire that could devour you.

They knew you would agree, but their hands had already quietly locked the lock.

'Sure.' You said, and then sat down on the bed with them, just like that.

The embrace just now has relieved them a lot. At least they don't have to endure anything anymore. Now it's just a simple longing.

They suddenly said, "y/n."

"What's up?"

"You won't leave me,... Just as I won't leave you, right?" Two Time's voice trembled a little. They were indeed frightened by the nightmares that kept coming up these days. They wanted to hear you say it yourself.

"I won't, just as you won't leave me."

You gently kiss the words into their mouths, hoping that they will ease their unease sooner.

#forsaken x reader #forsaken #two time x reader

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electric-guillotines · 6 hours ago

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Dolls Are For Playing With

WandaNat x Female Reader

Summary: You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha? Is that what we call her now?”

Content: 🔞 Fluff, light angst, praise and degradation, mommy kink, Dom/sub, enchanted strap, dumbification, Natasha is "Auntie Tasha" during playtime, mild age play if you squint, aftercare

Word Count: 5,856 Also available on [AO3]

Part 3 of "Her Lovely Shadow" series

Ever since the two of you settled in Sleepy Hollow, Wanda began hosting get togethers for her female friends, most of them people you at least knew in passing, and all of them rendering you helplessly outnumbered by a pack of dommes who loved nothing more than flustering you with playful banter.

More often than not, those evenings left you feeling small and pliant, and Wanda didn’t discourage you from feeling that way, at least when it was appropriate. She made sure you knew it wasn’t to be expected of you just because you were, for the most part, a submissive. Your boundaries were paramount. But if you happened to feel softer and quieter around those friends that wasn’t anything to feel guilty about.

It took a while to get used to others playfully teasing and cooing over you like an adorable treat, so at odds with your own self-image no matter how beloved Wanda made you feel. Now, you looked forward to seeing them, happy to soak up the attention.

Pepper was almost always the first to show up, elegant, put together, and relieved to truly relax for once. She was the most like Wanda with you, sweet and doting, but always conscientious about touch and what you were comfortable with.

Next was usually Natasha, confident and casual, already familiar. She was comfortable, safe, and yet a source of increasingly confused feelings, the one Wanda gave the most slack when it came to you.

Maria tended to arrive with or just after Natasha. Quieter than the others, she seemed to take the most joy in catching you unawares with a sly comment.

Carol was always last, making up for any tardiness with a platter of baklava after learning it was your favourite. She would wink as she handed it over, like she was sharing a secret with you.

Despite the collective teasing it often brought, you enjoyed the gatherings not only because the company was great, but because the atmosphere of understanding and acceptance put you at total ease. No one batted an eye if you felt the need to snuggle in Wanda’s lap, and if they did comment it was out of affection, sending your Mommy knowing smiles or cooing over your clinginess.

For the most part, it didn’t go further than teasing remarks. If it did, Wanda wasn’t above getting territorial, touching you with deliberate, bruising purpose that left your knees weak and your cunt dripping, all the while her eyes were fixed on the offending individual. You flushed red whenever it happened, yet you couldn’t help but feel giddy over it, and there were never any hard feelings when all was said and done. It was just easy , and while you’d grown comfortable with all of them you were especially fond of Natasha.

Natasha who happened to be the exception to that territorial response, who could get away with familiar touches, hugs, and even a cuddle if Wanda was dealing with something in the kitchen.

It occurred to you that perhaps, at some point along the way, certain wires had gotten crossed in your brain, and the moment it occurred to you was during a particularly frustrating session in the gym.

The problem started when you shared feelings of discontent with your fighting techniques one evening. The last mission had seen you forced into a close quarters brawl and though you survived it wasn’t without significant bruising both to your body and your pride.

Wanda had smoothed her hand across your brow, tucking some loose hair behind your ear.

“Oh, dorogaya (darling), you know Natasha would help if you only asked her. She hated seeing you like that as much as I did.”

The suggestion was so simple you felt a little embarrassed for not thinking of it sooner.

Truthfully, the thought had occurred to you, swiftly shanked and stuffed in a closet by the aforementioned bruised pride. But Wanda was right, for all her worry and fussing on the way home, Natasha was eerily quiet, checking you for breaks with the utmost care, her gentleness catching you off-guard.

Of course, when you approached her Natasha was more than happy to help work on your weak areas and you trusted her. She was a teammate and a friend, it just made sense to feel comfortable around her, defer to her superior rank and knowledge, follow her lead—it’s what you did on missions when paired and it’s what you did in training.

Embarrassing was the only word for it as you hit the mats with a damp thud, your legs swept out from under you in a move you should have seen coming.

With an annoyed huff, you sat on your knees, hands clenched in your lap as you replayed the last few seconds in your mind and immediately noted at least three things you’d done wrong.

“That’s alright,” said Natasha, a little breathless. “Take a minute to breathe.”

She was so certain, standing over you in the same tight fitting gym clothes as you with every perfectly sculpted muscle glistening in sweat and looking so much more at ease, so much more capable .

Your stomach curdled with something sour.

The voice of your old ‘instructor’ back in Hydra flitted through your mind, as harsh and unforgiving as his boot on your neck, berating your mistakes, your shortcomings, how pathetic and embarrassing you were for not meeting their standards.

With no small amount of effort, you pushed the memory down.

”I’m not getting this,” you sighed, picking at the hem of your shorts.

Natasha shook her head. “You know improvement doesn’t happen overnight,” she said, measured and understanding. “It takes time, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost.)“

The moniker was meant to soothe, to mollify, yet it only highlighted how useless you were being.

How pathetic, to need such coddling over a mistake you shouldn’t have made to begin with.

Worthless .

Bitterly, you muttered, “and I am a waste of yours.”

Warm fingers lifted your chin, holding you like steel wrapped in velvet, immovable and gentle at the same time, and found yourself staring up at Natasha with a look you had never seen on her face before.

Her jaw was tight, the line of her lips flat and humourless and her eyes were sharp and bright, piercing like a scalpel poised against the jugular.

It made your spine straighten.

She searched your eyes, letting you sit in the sudden heaviness wrapping around you. “No,” she said, low and firm. “No, you aren’t. I never want to hear you say that again, do you understand me?”

The words caught in your throat.

It wasn’t suffocating, the weight, rather it felt grounding, like being held from all angles, fixed to this point in time and space. Everything else fell out of focus, leaving only the warmth where her fingers held your chin and the intensity of her eyes.

Natasha’s brows raised. “I said, do you understand me?” She repeated, still in that hard, quiet tone of voice that should have made you cower if not for the obvious tenderness behind it.

Swallowing thickly, you wet your lips and answered her with a soft, “yes.”

When she continued to stare, you spoke again, louder. “Yes, I understand.”

Natasha searched your eyes again, scrutinising, looking for a sign you didn’t mean it. You did, you didn’t want to upset her, and on some level you knew what you said was both unwarranted and cruel.

Finally, Natasha relaxed and the piercing steel of her eyes softened. She brushed her thumb across your chin, a small gesture of affection. ”You’ll get it right, it just takes time. Now, are you going to behave?”

With a hasty nod, you tried to hold on to some kind of coherent thought and Natasha pulled you to your feet. The rest of the session passed in a mild haze you didn’t fully shake off until you hit the showers, and Natasha was never far, only leaving you to your own devices once she was sure you’d had something to eat and drink.

She squeezed your shoulder, smiling apologetically as she encouraged you to head home. “You did good today.”

You murmured a thank you and watched her leave, the lingering warmth of her touch curling in your chest.

---

Upon returning home, Wanda seemed more attentive than usual, like she expected to find you out of sorts.

Sitting down with you at the kitchen island with a fresh pot of tea, she laid her hand over yours, brushing her thumb across your knuckles.

“How was your session with Natasha?” she asked gently.

Her eyes were warm and soft, yet intense in a way that made you want to melt into her presence.

“It was…good,” you said, a little lost. “Nat was good with me. Patient.”

Wanda hummed encouragingly.

Taking a breath, you tried to articulate yourself better. “I got frustrated with myself and she corrected me,” you said, meeting Wanda’s understanding stare. “She was gentle. Held my chin and told me to stop beating myself up.”

She tilted her head slightly, stroking the back of your hand in slow circles. “And were you okay with that, malysh (baby)?”

Rather than rush to answer, you took a moment to consider how the interaction had made you feel. Not negatively, you knew that much, quite the opposite and that brought with it a wealth of other feelings.

Taking a breath, you nodded. “Yes. I felt safe.”

Wanda smiled, eyes sparkling with pride as you gave yourself space to think it through. “I’m glad you felt safe, thank you for telling me.”

You flushed lightly, blurting out, “I think I really like Tasha.”

A mischievous light entered Wanda’s eyes at that and she leaned forward, lowering her voice to something teasing and conspiratorial. “Oh, Tasha ? Is that what we call her now?”

Blushing, you looked away and started chewing your lip.

Wanda lifted her hand to your jaw, thumb brushing across your chin. “Tch, none of that,” she chided gently. “Look at me.”

You met her gaze without hesitation, making her smile, a little smug. “Tasha is very pretty, isn’t she, dolly?” Wanda teased, adoring the way you squirmed.

Helplessly, you nodded.

Wanda grinned like a fox who’d caught the hens. “How would you feel if she could see what a good little toy you are for me?”

The thought was like a pulse through your body, making your heart jump and an ache settle between your shifting thighs.

A tiny whine escaped your throat.

Chuckling, Wanda slid from her chair to move closer, pressing light kisses across your brow, your cheeks, your nose. “Words, baby,” she urged quietly, “how does that thought make you feel ?”

You wet your lips, trying to filter out the fuzz rapidly building between your thoughts. “Excited,” you whispered. “Nervous. Shy. Wet.”

Wanda leaned back enough to meet your hazy stare, her expression softening. “Then we should talk about this when you’re feeling a little more grounded,” she said, cupping your face with a care meant for spun glass. “What do you need from me, sweetheart?”

Feeling a little restless, you bunched your hands in the soft fabric of her blouse. “Jammies in the den?”

She laughed softly, kissing your hairline. “And all the cuddles you could ever need, malyshka (little one .)”

---

You did talk about it, of course, thoroughly, and you knew Wanda discreetly discussed the matter with Natasha.

That didn’t make you any less nervous the next time Wanda hosted, welcoming everyone in for a night of movies, wine, and decadent snacks.

While the den was a preferred location, it was small and cosy, and the living room was much more practical for an entire group to comfortably fit, not that it stopped Wanda from trapping you between her and Natasha. You half expected to be teased within an inch of your life only for Natasha to flash you a soft smile and Wanda to casually lay her arm around your shoulders, both actions anchoring you to the immovable fact that you were genuinely cherished.

After that, the rest of the night was easy as you relaxed, snuggling between them, enjoying the atmosphere as jokes and commentary flew at the film's expense.

Eventually, the evening wound down and as guests began to leave you took the opportunity to go to the bathroom, saying your goodbyes as you passed.

The cold water on your face was a relief, bringing back some clarity for the conversation you knew was going to happen.

Wanda had already spoken to Natasha separately. Doubtless, Natasha would be the last to leave tonight.

If she left at all.

Heat bloomed low in your stomach.

Taking a grounding breath, you finished drying your hands and stepped out into the hall.

You found them in the kitchen, standing close enough that they looked positively conspiratorial , like they were scheming together, and that thought sent a heady shiver down your spine.

Wanda spotted you first and made a ‘come hither’ gesture, her smile so disarming that you almost forgot your nerves.

“There you are,” she murmured. She slid an arm around your waist and kissed your brow. “It’s time for that talk, malysh (baby.) ”

You glanced up at Natasha to see a gentle look on her face you’d never seen before, open and warm in a way that immediately put you at ease, soothing the butterflies in your stomach.

“Okay,” you said.

Leading you into the den, Wanda sat down and pulled you into her lap so you were sitting sideways, easily able to see Natasha at the other end of the corner couch and allow Wanda to stroke your back.

“Firstly,” Natasha started, “thank you for trusting me, both of you.”

You nodded, as did Wanda, and she continued, “secondly, I want to be clear that whatever way this goes, it’ll be done at the pace you’re comfortable with. And, if you decide this isn’t what you want, there will be absolutely no awkwardness or hard feelings. Your comfort is paramount.”

A small smile turned your lips. “Thank you, Tasha.”

Her brows raised ever so slightly at the name, and she smiled.

Wanda smirked, brushing some hair behind your ear. “Now is that the name you want to use?” she teased.

You shivered, shyly ducking your head. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you mumbled, heart pounding against your ribs.

Wanda gently forced your head up. “It’s rude not to look at someone when you address them,” she whispered, her warmth breath on your neck making you twitch.

The heat in your belly was warm and thick like honey as you raised your eyes to look at Natasha properly again. “Thank you, Auntie Tasha,” you said without looking away, loud enough to be heard clearly.

Natasha didn’t look surprised in the slightest, the smile on her face shifting to a playful smirk. “Of course, kukolka (little doll) ,” she purred, a hint of condescension dripping into her raspy voice, “Mommy’s polite little girl, hmm?”

Swallowing thickly, you tried to keep your thoughts somewhat coherent and looked at Wanda.

She tilted her head at your imploring expression. “What is it, malyshka (little one )?” she asked warmly, running her finger down the bridge of your nose in a gesture that immediately soothed you.

Gathering yourself, you glanced across at Natasha. “Can Auntie Tasha stay tonight?”

Wanda and Natasha shared a look, before Wanda asked, “would you like that?”

You looked at her and nodded firmly, feeling a little bolder. “Yes, Mommy,” you said, and turned your head to give Natasha your best doe eyes, “I want her to see you fuck me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, from Wanda or Natasha you weren’t sure but it was probably both of them, the tension in the room suddenly feeling like the jaws of a beartrap about to snap shut, and you were quite happily poking the trigger, willing it to close on you.

Natasha’s eyes darkened, locked onto yours with a hunger you hadn’t seen before.

Warm lips brushed your throat. You shivered, clutching at Wanda tighter, your hips jolted in search of friction. The tingling between your thighs had become a persistent ache.

Pulling herself away from your neck, Wanda asked, “boundaries, malysh (baby.) Do you only want Natasha to watch us?”

You shook your head. “No.”

Wanda rubbed at the small of your back. “I know you have an idea in that adorable little head of yours,” she said encouragingly. “Let us hear it.”

You hurried to speak before your nerves could get the better of you. “I want Auntie Tasha to warm me up before I ride you, Mommy. Want to kiss her while you fuck me.”

Heat burned its way up your neck as the words escaped. “W-would you like that?” you asked quickly.

Wanda hummed with satisfaction. “Oh, I would, dolly , I would,” she husked.

Natasha leaned forward on her knees, her dark eyes more intense than ever. “Dirty girl,” she said, her tone somewhere between teasing and ravenous, “I would love that.”

Carefully grabbing your chin, Wanda brought your eyes back to her. “You remember what to do if you want to slow down or stop?”

Nodding, you answered firmly, “traffic lights, and my safeword is Basilisk.”

It was a word you could never forget and even saying it now made your shoulders tense, bringing a shot of clarity to your thoughts. The codename Hydra used for you when you were still just a weapon, an experiment. No one but the people involved in your rescue had that information, the public knew you by the alias ‘Revenant,’ so this was the only time you would hear it. Cold, startling, and immediately anchoring.

Wanda’s expression softened, like she was looking at something impossibly delicate, held you like something delicate, and kissed the tip of your nose. “Thank you, dorogaya (darling).”

A warm feeling fluttered through your chest, light and soothing, easing the tension in your shoulders. You pressed close, kissing Wanda properly, sliding your hands up her neck and into her hair, sliding your tongue between her lips and drawing a low moan from her.

After a moment, Wanda broke the kiss and smirked. “Now, now, dolly,” she said, “you wanted Auntie Tasha to get you ready for me didn’t you?”

Blushing, you looked over at Natasha, who was now reclining, watching the two of you with a mix of amusement and desire.

She lifted her chin with a smirk and made a ‘come hither’ motion. “Come here, printsessa (princess.) ”

The command hooked somewhere low in your stomach, Natasha’s voice low and coaxing, like honeyed smoke, and you easily got up from Wanda’s lap to stand in front of Natasha, unsure if she wanted you in hers or standing.

Natasha held out her hand like she was offering to help a princess down from the carriage.

Taking her hand, you sank down and straddled her. It wasn’t a new experience to be so close after training and fighting alongside her, that wasn’t what made your heart flutter, it was the way her eyes dropped to your lips.

Her hands slid confidently up your thighs and pulled you closer by the hips, slipping over your waist, the dip of your spine—the firm pressure of Natasha’s hand on the back of your neck almost made you go limp. Instead you leaned in and kissed her, grasping at her leather jacket.

Natasha kissed you at an indulgent, unhurried pace, taking the time to savour this new experience. She slowly kneaded at the back of your neck, helping you relax against her.

You couldn’t help your soft moan at her touch and the moment it escaped her tongue slipped between your lips, the silky sweep of it sending your thoughts into a tailspin.

Just as you began to need air, she pulled back, briefly catching your bottom lip between her teeth. She dragged them down the line of your jaw, nibbling and kissing her way to your throat.

You whined, sliding your hands into her hair so you could pull her against you.

She nearly growled, making you tremble. “Oh, I would mark you, kotenok (kitten,)” she sighed, “but your Mommy would be very upset with me. You don’t want that do you?”

Looking over your shoulder, you were met by the sight of Wanda casually lounging in lingerie, faint red wisps lingering around her body, and your cunt throbbed. The lingerie was sheer and silky, the black material stark against her pale skin, and your eyes were immediately drawn to the scarlet strap-on jutting between her thighs that almost seemed to pulse with its own unearthly light–you knew immediately what she’d done.

Gracefully, she rose from her place on the couch and leaned over you, trapping you between their bodies as she pulled Natasha into a fiery kiss.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from their lips, watching Wanda plunder Natasha’s mouth with such ease that you briefly imagined Natasha on her knees for your Mommy. Wanda casually resting a hand on Natasha’s throat only reinforced that particular little fantasy.

Pulling away, Wanda smiled down at Natasha, who looked more than happy with her position. “You are both very overdressed,” Wanda husked, “shall we change that?”

You and Natasha hurried to agree, and in a sweeping rush of red energy both of you were rendered naked.

A shiver of delight ran through you feeling Wanda pressed against your bare back and Natasha’s breasts against your own, your thoughts scattering as they caught up with the sight of her naked body beneath you.

You whimpered, squirming between them. “Please,” you begged, “need you both.”

Natasha chuckled softly. “It’s okay, kukolka (little doll) . Mommy will take care of you soon,” she soothed, slowly moving her hands down your body, teasing your breasts and rubbing your nipples in slow circles with her thumbs. “We just have to make sure you’re ready for her don’t we?”

Nodding helplessly, you whimpered and moaned as Natasha pinched your nipples hard enough to make your spine straighten. One hand she returned to your neck for stability, the other slid further down, skating across the lithe muscles of your stomach and finally meeting the soaking heat between your thighs.

Her fingers slipped through your folds, gathering your wetness and rubbing it over your throbbing clit. “Oh, your little dolly is very needy, Wands,” Natasha crooned. “Her pussy is just begging for Mommy’s cock.”

The words made you flush all over again and you whined, hips rocking in search of more relief.

Natasha grinned, pressing harder on your clit in slow, rough circles that made you tremble between them, arousal starting to drip down your thighs.

Wanda’s hands moved down your shoulders and the slope of your back, nails dragging against your skin just hard enough to raise red lines in their wake. You relaxed at the warmth of her palms sliding into place around your waist, holding you steady just as Natasha leaned in to kiss you again.

With the two of them on you you couldn’t decide where to focus your attention, pulled between the newness of Natasha and the comforting familiarity of Wanda, it was making your head spin. Not that you could do anything about it—you didn’t want to.

Something big and firm pressed between your thighs, making you squeak and cling to Natasha. You canted your hips and felt a pleasurable rush down your spine when Wanda chuckled darkly, murmuring praise you heard as intent more than words, your thoughts becoming loose and soupy.

Wanda slowly rocked her hips, grinding the strap against your slick cunt, the ridges catching against your swollen clit and making you moan into Natasha’s mouth.

Breaking off, Natasha trailed kisses down your jaw and softly bit at your ear. “Hold still, kotenok (kitten) ,” she said, sliding a hand into your hair and gripping just hard enough to keep you in place as she lavished your tender neck with attention.

You trembled but did as you were told, trying not to squirm and buck and whine for them to fuck you already. You knew if you were good you’d get what you needed, and you so desperately wanted to be good for them, even if it meant fighting your own body so you didn’t try to take Wanda’s strap before she decided to give it to you.

Wanda laughed, leaning close so her lips were next to your ear. “You’re trying so hard, dolly,” she teased, all faux sympathy, “what a good little slut you are.”

Heat rushed to your face. Your thoughts were so easy for her to hear in this state, but you trusted her completely, you knew you were safe, so all you had for her was love.

With a telling softness, Wanda kissed your temple. “I love you too , ” she whispered.

Straightening up, Wanda slid her hands down to your hips, kneading appreciatively at the swell of your ass before she carefully guided the strap to your dripping entrance. It slipped in easily, stretching you open in one long, slow push that left you trembling in Natasha’s lap, whimpering when Wanda finally bottomed out.

Natasha smirked at the slack look of pleasure on your face. “Oh, does that feel good, printsessa (princess) ?” she purred, lazily toying with your clit.

You could barely find the words to answer her and Wanda didn’t give you the chance, withdrawing only to thrust back inside hard enough to force a keen from your lips.

Her pace was steady and forceful, your eyes beginning to roll back each time she plunged into you, hitting a spot that had you clenching hard around her. Wanda growled at the sensation, pulling you back to meet her thrusts, the smack of skin on skin easily filling the small space of the den.

At a tug on your hair you refocused to find Natasha staring at you mesmerised, a lazy smile on her face. “Is Mommy making you feel good?” she teased, sweet and condescending at the same time. In a clearer headspace you might have assumed Wanda told her what effect that tone had on you, as it was all you could do was nod dumbly, whimpering and moaning as Wanda fucked every last thought out of your head.

Natasha chuckled. “Are you gonna cum on Mommy’s cock like a good little slut?”

The tightening in your belly certainly said so, but you knew better than that, quickly babbling, “please may I cum? Mommy, can I cum, please, please, please?”

Wanda dug her nails into your hips. You could hear the smirk in her voice when she said, “I don’t know, dolly. What does Auntie Tasha think?”

Desperately, you wrapped your arms around Natasha’s shoulders, doing your best to focus and look at her pleadingly.

Natasha cupped your face in her hands, staring at you like an intricate treasure she could spend hours appreciating.

The tension in your belly was only getting worse. “Please, Auntie Tasha,” you begged, “please may I cum?”

She pretended to think about it, watching every little twitch and shudder as you got closer to falling apart between them despite your best efforts to hold on. “Of course you can, kukolka (little doll),” she purred, “give me a show.”

And you did, babbling your ‘thank yous,’ your eyes rolling back, your spine arching, and the tension in your belly finally snapping, rippling through your body from head and curling toes like fire in your veins. Wetness gushed around the stretch of Wanda’s cock, your walls milking her length and making her groan, her hips stuttering against you.

Growling, Wanda fucked you harder, prolonging your orgasm while she chased her own, hissing what a filthy girl you were, so desperate for Mommy to fill you.

Natasha echoed the sentiment, “the little whore wants to feel Mommy’s cum dripping out of her needy cunt, doesn’t she?”

You keened, unable to find the words, clutching Natasha’s shoulders like an anchor in a storm.

Finally, Wanda bottomed out with a snarl, rocking into your ass as her cock throbbed inside you, spilling silken heat against your fluttering walls until it started to leak, glassy and shimmering.

You had a moment to breathe, sagging against Natasha who stroked up and down your back, kissing the top of your head soothingly. “You’re so beautiful when you fall apart, printsessa (princess) ,” she murmured.

Wanda gently pulled out, rubbing your hips when you whimpered at the emptiness. “You did so well, malysh (baby).”

A single coherent thought passed through your head and you grabbed it immediately, looking over your shoulder at Wanda. “Mommy, can Auntie Tasha fill me too?” you asked, far too innocently for what you were saying.

Both women inhaled at that, a beat of silence passing between them.

Natasha raised a brow at Wanda, silently deferring to her, and Wanda smirked. “Of course she can, sweet girl,” she said.

They easily manoeuvred you between them, Wanda reclining in the corner of the couch with her thighs spread and you nestled between them, her hand in your hair as she brought your mouth to her cock.

She smiled sweetly at you, “you made such a mess of Mommy, malyshka (little one), it’s only right that you clean up after yourself.”

You were more than happy to open your mouth for her, letting her slide her cock passed your lips and set the pace as you diligently licked and sucked all traces of yourself from the warm silicone.

Wanda lifted her free hand, scarlet energy snaking across her fingers.

Behind you, there was a brief flash of red and your heart jumped, moaning around Wanda with excitement.

She chuckled, staring down at you with adoration and just a hint of sadism in her eyes. “Yes, dolly,” she said, adjusting her grip on your hair. “Auntie Tasha is going to fuck your needy little cunt now.”

The head of Natasha’s strap found your entrance, soaked and still dripping with the syrupy magic Wanda left behind. She found no resistance when she started to push, slipping inside you so easily that she bottomed out in one swooping motion.

Both of you groaned and some distant corner of your mind wondered if this was the first time Natasha got to feel it, but now wasn’t the time for thoughts, quite the opposite.

With your hips raised and a cushion placed beneath them, you relaxed completely with Wanda’s hand in your hair and Natasha’s on your waist, both of them moving you as they wished, using your body for their pleasure.

Wet, muffled noises escaped you as she guided your head up and down her cock, sucking at the tip and rubbing your tongue against the underside when she had you all the way down. All the while she cooed at you, equal parts mocking and sweet, “aw, is dolly’s head all fuzzy?”

Words were impossible so you hummed in agreement, staring up at her with glazed, adoring eyes.

Natasha growled a quiet curse in Russian, thrusting with a steady, pounding rhythm that had the heat in your belly stoked higher and higher. Even with the new sensation, she was careful, methodical, paying attention to every shift of your body, any cues from Wanda that this was too much, only getting rougher when you canted your hips so she could fuck you harder.

Wanda smiled darkly, giving your hair a light tug and sending a tremble through your body. “Are you just a mindless little slut for us?” she teased.

You moaned loudly at that, sucking harder on her cock and making her breath hitch.

Panting slightly, Wanda held your head still and began rocking up into your mouth. “She’s such a pretty toy, isn’t she, Nat?” she hissed, her lips curling in a satisfied sneer, her eyes glowing with a faint red light you wanted to lose yourself in.

Natasha wrapped her arms around your waist, leaning down until she was flush against your back as she drove her hips into you. “ Prekrasnaya printsessa ,” she said raggedly, “ ty sozdana dlya nas (beautiful princess, you are made for us.)”

Whoever came first it didn’t really matter, one set off another, and another. All you knew or felt was a bone melting heat rushing through your body, happily swallowing what Wanda gave you, feeling Natasha throb inside you and fill your cunt with more pearlescent cum. Every nerve felt electrified and you shuddered between them, loose-limbed and hazy without a single clear thought passing through your mind.

When it finally calmed, you went slack, utterly worn out.

If they spoke you didn’t notice, all you really paid attention to were the gentle touches, the soft, soothing tone they spoke with to you as they gently extricate themselves from your body and began to take care of it. Soft, slender fingers stroked through your hair, and firm, calloused hands slowly rubbed up and down your back.

The second pair of hands withdrew when you responded to a question with a hum, recognising the intent rather than the words themselves.

A warm damp cloth began to wipe the sweat from your skin and you whined when you were encouraged to roll onto your back, clinging to Wanda whose lap you were in.

She leaned down until her hair fell in a red curtain around your faces, touching her nose to yours. “You did so well for us, sweetheart,” she said warmly, “you were perfect.”

You jumped slightly when you felt the cloth gently clean the slick mess between your thighs, whimpering from the sensitivity.

Wanda hushed you softly, kissing your brow. “It’s okay, malysh (baby) , just Tasha taking care of you just like I do.”

You blinked sleepily, looking down to see Natasha doing exactly that. When your eyes met she smiled so kindly it made your heart flutter, her stare utterly disarming like she was looking at a tired kitten.

Natasha set the cloth aside and leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your stomach. “All done, malen’kiy prizrak (little ghost) ,” she said fondly.

Lifting your arms, you made grabby motions at her, prompting her to glance at Wanda who just grinned. “I should have warned you,” she said with no trace of apology, “aftercare cuddles are mandatory.”

Natasha rolled her eyes with a laugh. “Alright, just let me grab us some water and snacks first,” she said, smiling down at you, “can you be a good girl and wait a little longer for me?”

You pouted but let your arms drop, grumpily twisting to hide your face in Wanda’s stomach. “Okay,” you mumbled.

Natasha got up on slightly unsteady legs and disappeared to the kitchen.

Glancing up at Wanda, you found her watching you with amusement twinkling in her eyes. “Did you have fun, malyshka (little one)? ”

You nodded vigorously. “Yes! Did you, Mommy? Did Tasha?"

She smiled, scrunching her nose at you as she leaned down to kiss your brow again. “I did, malysh (baby)," she said, "and why don't you ask her when she comes back? But I think you know the answer already."

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda x reader #reader insert #wlw fanfic #wlw smut #wanda maximoff #lesbian #wanda smut #marvel smut #series: Her Lovely Shadow #this has been haunting me for weeks #BEGONE THOT(s)

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hansrkive · 11 hours ago

Text

STILL THE SAME (K.MG)

Everything changed yet everything was still the same between You and Mingyu.

౨ৎ PAIRING: kim mingyu x afab!reader

౨ৎ GENRE: angst angst angst

౨ৎ TAGS: one-shot and literally just sad stuff.

౨ৎ NOTES: wanted something sad to write lmao ++ i figured i’d write my one-shots in second person pov with x reader and my full blown aus in third person pov with x ocs!

౨ৎ HYPERLINKS: pinned post, ko-fi, seventeen’s master-list, and mingyu's master-list.

౨ৎ WORDCOUNT: 1.15K words.

365 DAYS AFTER.

It was as if no one had lived in the house up on the hill. Dust had accumulated by the old fireplace where you once shared your dreams. The old coffee table where you planned your lives were now home to chipmunks who chewed what was left. As the walls that gave you comfort chipped away into dirt gathered slowly on the floor you once danced on, you gave the house one last look as you locked the main door — locking every bit of memory you made into the decrepit, old house. “This house is such a waste,” the buyer sighed as you gave her the keys. “Have you told the other owner you sold it?” she asked.

“He agreed to it, don’t worry,” you smiled bitterly. “So, everything’s done, right?”

“Yeah, we’re all good,” the buyer said. “Do you want a picture with the house? For old times' sake?” the buyer offered.

You hesitantly agreed. Nothing’s bad with one last memory, right? You gave your phone to the buyer and posed in front of the main door. Tears were trying to escape from your eyes, but you pushed through.

You weren’t the type to dwell on the past. You knew that it would just do more harm than good. In your mind, Mingyu has probably moved on with someone new, with someone ready to marry him. Since you broke up, you and Mingyu haven’t seen each other for precisely 365 days. But since you both owned the house you sold earlier this morning, you had to give his share of the money. Did you dread seeing him? Yes. Did you want the Earth to swallow you up instead? Yes.

But you were also curious — curious to see what had changed.

Was he still wearing the necklace you gave him?

Probably not anymore.

Has he changed his hair color to brown? He always wanted to do that.

His hair is different.

Does he still love you?

Maybe, or not.

“Y/N,” a voice called you by a nickname only one knew. As you lifted your head, you saw Mingyu on the other side of the pedestrian lane. Still wearing the necklace, still the same hair color, still the same Mingyu you loved, yet still the same Mingyu you broke.

Without any hesitation, as soon as the walking green man appeared, Mingyu ran towards you as if you were still together — all smiles with a glint of hope shimmering in his eyes. “It’s starting to rain. Let’s go to my car.” Mingyu offered. Drops of rain started to come fast. You didn’t have much choice but to agree. His car was probably the last place you wanted to be in.

“I’ll just give you the cheque and call a cab,” you mumbled as you both got in the car. It was still the same — as if nothing had changed over the past year. The fuzzy dice you won at a festival were still dangling at the rear-view mirror, and the makeup holder you bought was still there, full of unused makeup you had left before you broke up. “You still kept this?” you chuckled, holding the makeup holder to check it. ��Your girlfriend might not like this. You still have your exes’ stuff.”

“What girlfriend?” Mingyu asked. “I’m single.”

“Oh.”

“I haven’t had any since, you know,” Mingyu whispered. “I tried, but I also couldn’t.”

You were shocked, to say the least. You imagined him being with someone. It was easier that way. Mingyu having someone new would’ve been better for you. At least you knew you didn’t have a chance. “How about you?” Mingyu asked, his gaze softened as you played with the hem of your shirt.

“Same,” you whispered. “My sister gave me a reality check. She told me I might break the next person like I broke you if I don’t fix myself,” you laughed.

“You didn’t break me, Y/N,” Mingyu promised, his hand itching to hold yours. “You never did.”

365 DAYS BEFORE.

The lights leading up to yours and Mingyu’s home illuminated the street perfectly. As you walked on the steep hill, coming back home from work was tiring, yet relaxing at the same time. Since the house was the farthest on the street, you and Mingyu had a fantastic view of the city — twinkling city lights, honking cars, and skyscrapers kissing the clouds. “You didn’t have to fetch me from the bus stop, babe,” you laughed as Mingyu carried your bags.

“It’s a different day.” Mingyu smiled. “I wanted to be different.”

As you reached your home, you did notice something different. The lawn was freshly cut, the poinsettias had tiny ribbons on them, and there was a faint smell of coconut and vanilla inside the house. “Did you do something?” you asked as you opened the door. You were right, there was something different.

Rose petals were scattered on the floor, candles illuminated the living room, red and pink balloons were floating on the ceiling, and the four words you avoided were plastered on the wall — waiting for an answer. “Mingyu,” you whispered, shocked at the scene before you. You turned around to see Mingyu on his knee, a diamond ring on his hand.

“I always knew that I wanted to marry you, that I wanted to be your husband. Right from the start, as you walked right in front of me during first day of college, right there and then, I knew you were the one.” Mingyu spoke with clarity, his gaze never leaving yours. “Y/N, will you allow me to spend eternity with you?”

“Mingyu,” you stuttered. “I’m sorry.”

365 DAYS AFTER.

“Still, I’m sorry,” you mumbled, tears finally escaping your eyes as you released all the emotions you’ve bottled up over the past year. “I just left. Without listening to you. Without saying anything. I was just scared, Mingyu,” you said. “I was scared that we would be like my parents. I know, it’s not an excuse, but still. I’m so sorry.”

“If you told me about this, I would’ve understood, Y/N.” Mingyu fretted, finally letting his hand touch yours without any hesitation or doubts. “I love you, that’s all that matters. If you were scared about us becoming your parents, so be it. I’ll do what they didn’t do, fight for us.”

“I’m sorry,” you finally sobbed loudly, your shoulders relaxed as you tightened your grip on Mingyu’s hand. “Please forgive me.”

“You never had to say sorry, Y/N,” Mingyu said as he wiped the tears on your cheeks. “Can we start again?” Mingyu asked.

“One year was too long, Gyu,” you laughed. “We could just hit play again. I mean, it feels like nothing has changed. We’re still the same.”

As you both let your bottled-up emotions out, Mingyu grabbed your face and kissed your lips softly, a part of your face he knew all too well.

“Still the same.” Mingyu smiled.

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bckybrnss · 13 hours ago

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it hurts my stomach // dean winchester x reader

summary • you wonder if your relationship with dean has officially run it’s course pairing • dean winchester x fem!reader warnings • angst with no happy ending, breakups/separation, dean’s been distant for a while, he’s kind of a dick in this one, dean & reader are falling out of love with each other, pain, overall very sad stuff, emotionally checked out of the relationship genre • angst word count • 1271 notes • stomach by aly & aj came up on shuffle and the idea hit me like a vision i immediately had to get this out simply for the line “i just can’t stomach being your ex-wife”

The boys were participating in their normal brotherly bickering. Dean, ever the grumpy of the two, was going on and on about how things went south on a hunt. Sam, the usual voice of reason between the two, was reassuring him that it was no big deal since the job still got done. You hated when they would bicker regardless of how big or small the issue was, usually being the one to constantly remind them that they were being stupid and ‘the only two I know who can say that they’ve literally been to hell and back for each other’.

It was silly really, feeling as if you had to test the waters almost three years into the relationship. The Dean you first met would’ve gotten a kick out of your silly puns and one-liners, it was one of the many reasons he fell in love with you in the first place. You were the comedic relief to Sam’s nagging, the one who kept him sane in the early days.

The motel room was thick with tension long after the argument had settled. It was mostly on Dean’s end, as Sam had gone on a walk to give his brother the space he needed. Dean was laying against the pillows, gaze fixed on whatever nonsense he could find on television to distract himself. He was halfway through a case of beer when you got out of the shower, figuring he must have made a quick store run while you were mid-hair routine.

It was an unspoken rule that whenever Dean made a store run that he would always make sure you got something sweet. Cookies, candy — hell, even the donuts in the convenience store display case would satisfy you. It’s been a long enough tradition that he couldn’t justify breaking that habit, going as far as putting his pride to the side after arguments and complicated hunts to come back with a bag of your favorite snacks.

That’s why it stung so much more to see the empty beer bottles on the nightstand next to him.

Normally after a hunt he’d be all over you, Sam giving you the space to make up for lost time much like he was tonight. Right now, it felt as if approaching Dean was the equivalent of detonating a bomb. He barely glanced your way as you made your way over to your side of the shared bed, shuffling closer to him as you settled under the blankets.

You could handle an angry Dean on a regular basis. Grumpy should’ve been his middle name with his constant bad moods, but you were the calm to his storm. This was nothing new for you.

Right?

“Did I ever tell you about the bossy man who walked into the bar?” You break the silence, matching your boyfriend’s gaze on the television. He muttered what sounded like a ‘No’ before taking a sip from a freshly opened bottle.

Now, make that four bottles on the nightstand. Two remaining in the carrier. You braced yourself for what came next.

“He ordered everyone around.”

Silence. Not even that smile where he pretends your jokes aren’t funny even though he’s crying with laughter on the inside.

A few years ago Dean would’ve laughed at your joke. Now you can’t help but feel as if you were the last person he wanted to be around. It was suddenly hard to breathe under the weight of the amulet around your neck.

“Dean… are you sure?” There’s a bewildered look on your face as he places the amulet in your hand, the one initially given to him by Sam.

“S’not like I’d let anyone else wear it.” Dean shrugs as he crouches down to your eye level, giving you a small smile. His arm wrapped around your shoulders as he held you close to his side. “I’m not afraid to let the world know that you’re my girl, either.”

“You’re such a sap.” You giggle, playfully swatting his chest before draping the necklace in place. Dean couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face.

“Only for you.” He teases in return. “It’s something until I can get a ring, but you’re it for me.”

You suddenly felt sick to your stomach at the memory. The thought of Dean, your rock, your protector, becoming a stranger had become the reality in recent months. The hunts were longer, the communication slowed, the affection disappeared, and intimacy was nonexistent. It wasn’t fair to you to always feel like the only one in this relationship.

Most of your time was spent in whatever motel room the boys scammed themselves into for the night. Dean didn’t want you on hunts unless it was absolutely necessary for you to be in their line of sight, so the most action you saw on a regular basis was walking to the closest diner for a bite to eat; sometimes ordering to-go so you could go watch whatever was on television as a way to entertain yourself. It used to be like clockwork — Sam would take his nightly walks so you and Dean could make up for lost time, but as of late it seemed like he preferred to catch up with a case of beer.

Dean takes one last swig of the bottle before wiping his mouth and standing, turning to grab his jacket and keys while mumbling some sort of goodbye under his breath, eventually exiting the motel room completely. The tears fall as soon as the door clicks and you’re left to cling onto one of the pillows for dear life, sobbing harder as his lingering scent hits your nostrils. You were hoping Sam would extend his walk and God knows wherever Dean went, not really wanting either Winchester to see you in your current state.

You found yourself at a crossroads. Was it still worth it to stay? Most of your relationship was spent on the road and living out of motels. Dean didn’t have the career path that would warrant him want to settle down long-term, and there’s no way you wouldn’t feel guilty for bringing a child into this lifestyle. It was sustainable in the early days when the two of you were younger, the combination of puppy love and high sex drives keeping you two attached at the hip. Now the two of you were getting older and you were wondering if it was ever going to be more than weapons, late night check-ins and random dive bars.

Would settling down even be the answer? There was a part of you that still yearned to be a wife and a mother, but you couldn’t live with yourself if you pulled Dean away from the only lifestyle he’d known. Realistically, he wouldn’t be able to be stationary for more than a few days at a time and he wouldn’t even know what to do with a pet, let alone a child. He’d get the itch to go back to hunting before the first box would get unpacked. You would never get that if you stayed and you loved Dean too much to just up and leave, but at some point you had to choose yourself.

Sam had beaten his older brother home, but you were gone before Dean had made it back. Packing everything into a bag you headed off to the nearest diner, grabbing a bite to eat before calling yourself a taxi. Your phone was going off with calls and texts from the Winchester boys, but your phone was on silent as the yellow cab drove you to the next town over.

#✏️ — 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester one shot #dean winchester imagine

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jinglyjangly · 16 hours ago

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Howdy howdy!

I've written up the WIP first chapter for my fallout OCs. Calling it “Moon River” for now!

I just really want to write about them before the second season of the show before it ruins more lore. It's set a year before FNV in California… again still a wip, still working on more, still not super satisfied but I’m happy I got this much done tbh

When the sunlight begins to bleed into the horizon, everything in the Mojave shifts. That last stretch of dying light stains the sands a burnt orange as the distant mountains catch its highlight on every ridge. The heat that clings to your skin during the day suddenly retreats, replaced by a bone-deep chill that slips in through your clothes and sinks into your core. Dimitri knew that sensation all too well. He’d felt it a thousand times before, traveling the endless wasteland between Death Valley and the Colorado river. Out here, nothing cared about war, not even him.

He’d been scouting the junction where the 127 and 178 met, once a spot that once pulsed with life. Merchants, caravans, and wanderers all visited creating new livelihoods. Now, it lay buried beneath an unrelenting sandstorm, the air thick with grit and blinding white haze. It wrenched at something in his chest to see it reduced such violence so suddenly. No one even seemed to know how it happened, only vague myths and rumors. One day it was bustling, the next it was swallowed whole.

He relayed everything he saw to the nearest outpost, and was greeted instantly with new orders. The crumpled papers were handed off to him by a weary trooper. Her dust-caked face betrayed the exhaustion that hung on every soldier posted in these outer areas. It said something about a captured legionary prisoner having important intel. He noticed who sent it and realized exactly why he was the one who got it.

It had ended up taking him much longer than he expected to to get to Havasu. Every broken down outpost along the way seemed to tug at him, asking for one thing or another. Fix a busted generator, clear out a nest of bloatflies, find a missing kid — always something. One favor turns into two more, and before you know it, you’re knee-deep in nonsense you never meant to be part of. It's the wasteland method he both resented and relied upon, for as much as it delayed him, the caps jingling in his satchel proved it was worth it in the end.

The resort stood before him now, after what felt like an endless trek. The front doors creaked as he pushed them open, and a stale, musty scent of mildew and aging wood greeted him. Soldiers crowded around ancient terminals repurposed for military duty, their faces pale in the sickly green glow of monitors. The rapid clatter of keystrokes mingled with the steady echo of his footsteps on cracked tile, filling the dimly lit lobby as he made his way through. Faded murals of the pre-war paradise peeled from the walls, and forgotten lounge chairs lay rotting in a corner, making way for stacked crates of ammo, rifles, and armor. It felt like a graveyard of luxury, the bones of a fanciful life repurposed for the business of survival.

“Here’s the report.”

The voice snapped him out of the haze. A manila file filled with a stack of papers was shoved into his chest. Lieutenant Cruz. She looked even more tired than the last time he’d seen her — eyes shadowed, lines cutting deeper into her face. The war with the Legion wore on everyone, but some seemed to carry it heavier than others.

“Our prisoner is Legion, no doubt about it,” she said, planting a hand on her hip. “He’s only said maybe two things since we found him passed out on the 95. Mostly screamed like hell when we treated his wounds.”

Dimitri thumbed through the packet. No name. No rank. Nothing but a few notes on his injuries and a location where they found him.

Dimitri paused for a second and huffed under his breath, “screaming isn't really words.”

“He eventually said words, alright? Figure of speech. And now you’re here to do your thing. Says he won’t tell us anything unless we cut him loose.”

“How would that work?”

“It doesn’t. It’s why you’re here.”

Dimitri grimaced. Interrogations weren’t his style. He could talk his way through most situations, but trying to pry answers from men too stubborn or too proud to break gets exhausting.

“I’m not going to tell you to be careful,” Cruz said, eyes narrowing. “But stay sharp. There’s something about this one. He’s… strange.”

Dimitri grinned. “What, got a crush on him?”

She snorted a short laugh. “No, you idiot. I just know you. You’re persuasive… but you can be persuaded. Get me anything on Blythe. Or the dam. Or hell, Caesar’s grocery list. Anything.”

He paused hearing the town, his grin fading, brow furrowing as a flicker of unease crept in. “Blythe? What’s going on there?”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Did you even read the brief?”

“I skimmed.”

“Goddamn Rangers…everyone of you are practically allergic to paperwork.” She shook her head and continued, “Blythe went dark a while ago. There were reports about random legion sightings, and then nothing. You were supposed to check it out before Mr. John Doe showed up.”

“Think he’s connected?”

“No idea. That’s why you’re here. He’s in the cell down the hallway.”

“You’re not—”

“I’ve got shit to do. Good luck.” She clapped a firm hand on his shoulder, handing him the key and disappeared down the hall.

Dimitri lingered a moment, a knot of unease coiling in his gut. Blythe being silent was bad. The faster he wrapped this up, the faster he could see what waited for him downriver.

He walked up to the door and nodded to the soldier guarding, opening the door with the key she gave him. The “cell” wasn’t so much a cell as it was a repurposed laundry room. Broken washing machines lined the walls like rusted tombs. Snapped ironing boards and piles of rotted linens cluttered the space. A single figure sat among the debris facing away from the door, handcuffed to a dented folding chair beneath a flickering overhead bulb.

Dimitri frowned. The prisoner didn’t fit the usual mold of a hulking brute in Legion armor. He was slender, tall, with unkempt black hair and a scattering of old scars across sun-worn skin. The tattered scraps of clothes baring red barely clung to him, and fresh blood darkened the bandages around his midsection. And then there was the bull, branded into the back of his neck.

He poked his head back out the door, “This is the guy she wants me to ‘interrogate’?”

The guard shrugged. “Only Legionary here.”

“He’s not… the usual-”

“Is there a problem?”

Dimitri clenched his jaw. “No.”

He stepped inside, locking the door behind him. The man stared at him with unsettling clarity, pale eyes glinting in the dim light. Dimitri sat opposite, the sun’s last light slashing through the grimy window and reflecting off a dented metal table, forcing him to squint.

“Not the typical interrogee,” he muttered, flipping open the file, clicking his pen. “Name's Dimitri. Do you have a name? Or do I have to call you John? You really don’t look like a John. Johnny maybe, or JJ. Jr?”

He got a dismissive eye-roll in response.

“I should be guessing Roman names, huh? Although I don’t know a whole lot. How about…Alexius. That sounds cool.”

“That's Greek.”

“Is there a difference?”

That made him turn his head, and Dimitri greeted him with a smug look at the break in the prisoner’s silence. The voice did catch him off guard, low and crisp. He leaned back from the glare of the window, idly tapping the pen against his jaw, a thoughtful glint in his eye. Cruz was right about him being a bit strange. He noticed a shift in the prisoner's jaw as he went back to looking at the clock on the wall.

He sighed and realized this wasn’t going to go very far. Dimitri tilted his head and looked at the same broken clock on the wall. 9:47 like every other single one. Why doesn’t anyone ever fix them? He opted to look at his watch. 17:02. He doesn’t really have the time to keep doing this if what Cruz said was true.

“Look, since you’re not talking, I’m left guessing. So, I'm guessing you have no rank either by exile or by choice, so you have no allegiance. Here, right now, you're a prisoner, but you're safe. If I'm right, that means if the legion does find you, you're worse than dead. If you’ve got something useful, now’s the time. Talk, and maybe things get a little easier for you. Cruz said you wanted free, but you have to talk first.”

He stayed perfectly still, though his gaze slid back to Dimitri’s with the slow, deliberate weight of sizing him up.

“I have nothing.”

Dimitri stared into the man’s pale eyes and saw nothing but an unbroken calm. No fear. No desperation. He sighed, closing the file. Whether he did know anything or not, there was no point in wasting time. Dimitri pulled back and got out of the chair.

“Alrighty. Thank you for your participation.”

He left the room, the soft scrape of the door dragging against the warped tile floor, and locked it behind him with a metallic click. The key felt heavy in his hand as he passed it off to the guard. Without a word, he turned and made his way down the dim hallway, each step echoing alongside the steady chorus of keystrokes from the command post terminals. The combined rhythm of hurried typing and his bootfalls filled the air, a sharp, hollow percussion against the crumbling rafters of the old resort.

The kitchen sat at the furthest end of the hall, repurposed tables cluttered with ration tins and dented canteens. A few soldiers loitered there, faces drawn and weary, savoring the illusion of rest. The stale scent of scorched mirelurk meat hung thick in the air, mingling with acrid wisps of cigarette smoke. Dimitri’s stomach gnawed at him, a sharp reminder that if he was going to cover ninety miles of wasteland, it wouldn’t be on an empty gut.

He sat down to a plate of half-burnt potatoes and stringy mirelurk tail, barely tasting the briny, overcooked flesh as his mind churned. Lying to Cruz would be easy, a simple mercy for everyone involved. Blythe was likely already ash, overrun by Legion, and this entire interrogation had been a pointless inconvenience. Confirm her fears, get a handful of troopers, maybe a truck or jeep, and the mystery man gets buried in paperwork and eventually let go. The Legion mark was the only thing keeping him here, and if Dimitri spun this right, he might wrangle something better than a rusted seat at NCRCF.

The clatter of dishes and dull murmur of conversation broke suddenly as Cruz stormed into the room, her palm slamming against the table hard enough to rattle his plate.

“Did you lock the fucking door?”

Dimitri blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. “Uh… yeah?”

“Well, he’s gone.”

He frowned, glancing down the hall as if he might see the escapee lurking in the shadows. “He couldn’t have gone far.”

“I know that, smartass. Just—ugh!” She spun on her heel and stalked off down the corridor. Dimitri let out a long sigh, abandoned his plate, and stacked his dishes onto the cart with a dull clatter.

The hallway felt colder now, an undercurrent of tension tightening around him. He double-checked his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and headed for the utility room. The door hung ajar, the dim overhead bulb throwing a wedge of light across the cracked tile. The cuffs lay discarded on the floor, dull against the grime. Cruz was already inside, pacing in a tight line, gnawing at the edge of her thumb.

“It’s like he vanished,” she muttered. “And so did my soldier.”

Dimitri’s eyes swept the room, past rusted washing machines and sagging shelves. One of the larger machines had its door slightly ajar. He approached, dread creeping up his spine, and tugged it open to reveal the missing trooper crammed inside, stripped of his uniform, with a bruise forming on his head and unconscious.

“Shit—”

He pressed two fingers to the kid’s throat. The pulse was weak, but there. Dimitri exhaled in relief, pulling the soldier free from the cramped metal drum.

“Oh god—”

“Relax,” Dimitri grunted, laying the kid down gently and turning him on his side. “He’ll wake up with a killer headache, but he’ll be fine.”

A deep rumble rolled through the air, the distant sound of an explosion blooming somewhere beyond the walls. Dust sifted from the rafters. Cruz and Dimitri locked eyes.

“Go,” she ordered. “I’ve got him.”

Dimitri bolted, boots pounding against tile and wood, the sharp echo of each step chasing him down the dim hallway. The night air hit him like a slap as he burst onto the porch, dry and cool, carrying the bitter scent of gunpowder and burning wood. The beach was in chaos—troopers shouting over one another, scrambling for weapons, smoke curling skyward from a fresh crater near the supply dump. But out on the docks, one figure moved with eerie calm. A tall man in a trooper’s helmet and mask, no armor, just a standard-issue uniform. That alone made Dimitri’s interest pique. The cool night air carried the harsh, acrid scent of scorched timber from the explosion and diesel fumes wafting from the nearby motorboat, thick and bitter as it filled his lungs.

Without hesitation, he snatched his helmet from his pack, jamming it onto his head as he crept through the shadows, keeping low. Waves slapped lazily against the pilings, a grim, steady heartbeat against the wood. The muffled crunch of his footsteps on sand mingled with the ghostly echo of his own breathing inside the helmet, every sense sharpened by adrenaline.

As Dimitri reached the end of the dock, words failed him. No clever speech, no rehearsed demand. Just raw instinct.

“You really don’t need to do this.”

The figure froze mid-motion, halfway through tossing a canvas bag into the boat, and turned to glare at him. That same cold, calculating stare from earlier. Dimitri’s fingers tightened around the grip of his pistol.

In a flicker of motion, a small butter knife whirled through the dark, catching a glint of moonlight before striking Dimitri’s chest with a dull, metallic thunk, deflecting off his armor. He grunted, instinctively recoiling — and in that heartbeat, the man surged forward. A boot swept his legs out from under him, and Dimitri hit the planks hard, the rotting dock shuddering beneath his back.

The figure was on him instantly, wrenching his pistol free with a swift, practiced jerk. The butt of the weapon cracked hard against the side of Dimitri’s head, a flash of light bursting behind his eyes. Dazed but fueled by sheer stubbornness, Dimitri lashed out, driving his fist into the man’s gut. He felt the impact in his knuckles, hearing a grunt.

He twisted, grappling for control, and managed to knock the pistol loose, sending it skittering across the dock. Gritting his teeth, Dimitri shoved his forearm against the man’s throat, straining to flip him. As he tried to pin the other wrist down, he could feel a hand reach around his back. A sudden, hot sting bloomed in his thigh — a knife, buried deep. He screamed in protest, and his grip faltered.

He then felt a force to his chest as he was kicked back onto the boards. He hissed in pain, eyes darting to the gash on his leg where blood welled up, dark and thick in the dim light. He propped himself up on his elbow. It was deep, but didn’t hit any major arteries. He gritted his teeth , clutching the wound. He wasn’t winded, but close combat had never been his strength.

Across from him, the man had retrieved his bowie knife and now toyed with it, flipping it idly in one hand testing its balance on his finger. That smug, practiced arrogance in his stance made Dimitri’s blood boil.

“Are you afraid to die?” The sound of his voice made him pause again.

“No," Dimitri snarled, forcing himself up on his feet.

“No?” the man echoed, his head cocking in faint amusement.

“Because I know I won’t.”

The knife’s tip lifted, beckoning. “Then take off the armor.”

Dimitri’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. He was done playing games. “No.”

The man’s expression darkened. Without warning, he bolted for the boat. Dimitri lunged after him, but the other man was quicker, ducking low and driving an elbow hard into the back of Dimitri’s neck. His balance crumbled. A forearm clamped around his throat, powerful legs kicking out his knees. The dock blurred around him as the world lurched sideways.

He fought the hold, hands clawing at the arm crushing his windpipe. Darkness gnawed at the edges of his vision, his ears filling with the roaring rush of his own pulse. Desperate, he twisted, but the strength drained from his limbs.

Then everything slipped away.

Dimitri came to with a sharp, throbbing ache behind his eyes. The world was hazy, shapes and colors bleeding into one another until the full moon cut through the clouds. Blurred moonlight smeared across the river’s surface, turning the water into rippling glass. His head pounded with every heartbeat, his leg ached, and his throat felt raw where the man’s forearm had crushed it.

He groaned, pushing himself upright. Sand clung to his bloodied hands and the back of his neck, and sharp splinters bit into his palm from the dock’s weathered boards. Around him, the beach had settled into an uneasy quiet. Smoke still drifted in thin, lazy plumes as lights flickered on as the night settled in.

At least no one was around to witness him sprawled in the dirt like a rookie.

He limped back toward the resort, each step sending a hot lance of pain through his thigh. He found Cruz outside the infirmary shack, leaning against the battered frame of the door, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. The soldier from earlier lay on a cot inside, pale and glassy-eyed, an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his temple. Another patient was curled on a second cot, groaning softly.

“Injury from the blast?” Dimitri rasped, voice rough from the chokehold.

Cruz didn’t look up. “Nope. Food poisoning. Bad mirelurk. The explosion was a goddamn dumpster. Distraction.”

Dimitri scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah… he took the boat.”

Cruz sighed, dragging a hand down her face. “Damn it. That was our only one. Mead’s got the rest.”

“Why?”

“Recon runs. Repairs. Supply hauls. Take your pick.” She flicked the spent cigarette into the dirt and fished another from her pocket. The lighter’s flare briefly lit the wear on her face—new lines, old exhaustion.

Dimitri glanced upriver. “I guess that means I’m walking.”

“Sure as hell does,” Cruz muttered through a drag. “No jeeps, no trucks, no soldiers to spare. You’ll have to hoof it to Blythe the old-fashioned way. And pick up the pace while you’re at it. Feels like a timer’s running out for that place, if it’s not already gone.”

Dimitri grimaced, jaw tight. He could feel it too. A creeping weight in his gut and he murmured, “yeah… At least you still have soldiers.”

“I doubt he went upriver,” Cruz went on. “If you move fast, you might even catch him.”

Dimitri arched his brow. “You want your boat back?”

“You gonna carry it?”

He smirked despite himself. “What about your prisoner?”

She snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “You gonna carry him too?” A thin smile ghosted across her face. “I don’t need any more Legion bastards hanging around. If he didn’t give you anything useful, let the river take him. Boat’s worth more to Blythe.”

Dimitri gave a slow nod. “Yeah.”

Before he could brace, Cruz whipped a stimpack from her belt and jammed it into his thigh.

“Shit! Little warning next time.”

“Baby.”

Dimitri grunted, adjusting his pack as the sting dulled to a lingering heat. The desert night unspooled before him, cold and endless, the low murmur of the river threading through the hush. He set out along the bank, his boots scuffing over cracked stone and brittle earth. Somewhere out there, the current carried both a stolen boat and unfinished business.

#fallout #fallout new vegas #my art #work? idk ill hopefully get to the point i want to but i do get writers block pretty bad

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caffeineaddictedturtle · 1 day ago

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Deus ex Machina I.

idol!Minho× afab!Reader genre: angst, slice of life, established relationship warning(s): self hatered, bad dream, stressed out reader, burn out, no beta we die like man an: i explain it here (btw I wrote this when i was struggling to write:) )

You’ve been sitting at it for hours at this point. Somehow nothing fixed it; you’ve done research, watched your current drama, drew your OCs, watched streams, ate, everything someone can name for writer's block, you did. It has been going on for weeks, at this point you considered writing an email to your publisher that you are giving up. You’ve been beating yourself up constantly, how bad of a writer you are, that you are a failure and that you will never be able to achieve your goals. It didn’t help that your boyfriend, Minho, is in Japan with his boy band doing promotion work for their next comeback. You wanted to be finished by the time he will be home, so you two have time, since the boys got a couple of days off in their hectic work schedule.

It was passed 4 am when the front door opened — which you did not realize since you’ve been rewriting the same thing over, and over again — Lino quietly walked into the room after he got himself sorted out, thinking you might be asleep, but he was wrong. All he saw that you are slouching in front of the laptop, earbuds in, probably listening to one of your playlists, writing a paragraph, then deleting it, then writing it again. He knows that you always tried to solve the problem like this: going at it until it is solved, although maybe this time you should approach it differently, and he just knew how to.

He tapped your shoulder, making you jump slightly. You took your earphones out as you looked behind you, shocked. “Min! Wait, what is the time? Oh god, I am so sorry babe, you could’ve called me!” He just chuckles and caresses your face, “I figured that you’d be sleeping, but I was wrong. Why aren’t you in bed? And don’t try to tell me you were just finishing up, I’ve seen you deleting and rewriting the same paragraph.” Minho knows you like he knows the back of his hand, you cannot escape his all-knowing gaze. “Okay, let’s go, we’re going to bed. You can save your progress, but you cannot do anything else, c’mon.” You stare at him in awe — after a while you pulled yourself together, saved your novel, and turned off your PC. He unloaded his dirty clothes into the laundry bin, and got ready for his bedtime. Once you finished packing your thinking, and putting your dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, you joined him. You brushed your teeth, did your skin care, and brushed your hair out; you massaged your neck and shoulders as you walked into your shared room. The smell, and the calming sound of the storm outside hit you just in the right spot; you felt your body starting to relax, as you climbed into your bed, finding a perfect spot in your boyfriends arm. You said your good nights, and you drifted off, not feeling the kiss he gave you on your head nor his worried words. Your dream was horrible: you couldn’t finish your book, so everyone hated you. Minho was disappointed to the point he broke up with you. Minho woke you up, looking a bit worried, “Y/N! Y/N? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” You felt like it was silly, so you just shook it off. Couldn’t believe that you would make him wake you up just after a couple of hours of sleep, because you’re incapable of doing your job. You took a shaky breath trying to fight off the thoughts that yelled how worthless you are, or how you just got lucky, but you don’t deserve any of this. Minho made you turn to him, “Okay, this ain’t funny any more, let’s be honest with each other. I see that you are stuck with your book, I assume you got into a slump. I will help you with it once we slept enough, but it is time to tell me what’s wrong, Missy” His firm, but kind voice is what broke you: you started crying talking about how you are a horrible person being for not waiting him more appropriately, how you cannot just write what you need to write and so on. When you looked up, you anticipated a disapproving Lino, but all you saw is concern. He pulled you closer, and hummed you sweet melodies until you fell asleep.

masterlist ║request something ║part 2

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surreal-duck · 8 months ago

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some business to take care of

#i was tempted to caption this as she was a skater boy and she was also another skater boy but #duck scribbles #midoyuzu #enstars #whats up guys im being embarrassing again on main #been wanting a new phone wallpaper and this was born. its the lesbian version though im not showing that #midori takamine #yuzuru fushimi #yuzumido #ensemble stars #also have additional doodles that r kind of corny and im too ashamed to add into the main post so i might add on a reblog or maybe not #midterms were so awful i had to keep reminding myself i can go ham drawing whatever i want once im done. and naturally its this #anyways ive always liked midos city rider fit it suits her so well #always wanted to find a good one to pair w it and the wink killer 2nd half xscout was toooo good i was inspired immediately #finally could use this good ref pic ive had saved since forever i need to draw backgrounds more too it was rather fun somehow #mental state has been yoyoing an insane degree lately like come on i dont need to be reminded i am a useless hunk of meat every other day #with nothing good going for them. college is amazing at reminding me of such god bless #i have bad tendencies to self isolate behind the excuse of concentrating that i am trying to fix . but its hard to get back when i do #not to mention the entire Big Event happening over in good ol amerika serikat!!! my apathy is naturally immense #but whats some peace of mind here and there idk. im gonna read yuri

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confetti-cat · 1 year ago

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Twelve, Thirteen, and One

Words: 6k

Rating: G

Themes: Friendship, Self-Giving Love

(Written for the Four Loves Fairytale Retelling Challenge over at the @inklings-challenge! A Cinderella retelling feat. curious critters and a lot of friendship.)

When the clock chimes midnight on that third evening, thirteen creatures look to the girl who showed them all kindness.

—

It’s hours after dark, again, and the human girl still sleeps in the ashes.

The mice notice this—though it happens so often that they’ve ceased to pay attention to her. She smells like everything else in the hearth: ashy and overworked, tinged with the faint smell of herbs from the kitchen.

When she moves or shifts in her sleep (uncomfortable sleep—even they can sense the exhaustion in her posture as she sits slumped against the wall, more willing to seep up warmth from the stone than lie cold elsewhere this time of year), they simply scurry around her and continue combing for crumbs and seeds. They’d found a feast of lentils scattered about once, and many other times, the girl had beckoned them softly to her hand, where she’d held a little chunk of brown bread.

Tonight, she has nothing. They don’t mind—though three of them still come to sniff her limp hand where it lies drooped against the side of her tattered dress.

A fourth one places a little clawed hand on the side of her finger, leaning over it to investigate her palm for any sign of food.

When she stirs, it’s to the sensation of a furry brown mouse sitting in her palm.

It can feel the flickering of her muscles as she wakes—feeling slowly returning to her body. To her credit, she cracks her eyes open and merely observes it.

They’re all but tame by now. The Harsh-Mistress and the Shrieking-Girl and the Angry-Girl are to be avoided like the plague never was, but this girl—the Cinder-Girl, they think of her—is gentle and kind.

Even as she shifts a bit and they hear the dull crack of her joints, they’re too busy to mind. Some finding a few buried peas (there were always some peas or lentils still hidden here, if they looked carefully), some giving themselves an impromptu bath to wash off the dust. The one sitting on her hand is doing the latter, fur fluffed up as it scratches one ear and then scrubs tirelessly over its face with both paws.

One looks up from where it’s discovered a stray pea to check her expression.

A warm little smile has crept up her face, weary and dirty and sore as she seems to be. She stays very still in her awkward half-curl against stone, watching the mouse in her hand groom itself. The tender look about her far overwhelms—melts, even—the traces of tension in her tired limbs.

Very slowly, so much so that they really aren’t bothered by it, she raises her spare hand and begins lightly smearing the soot away from her eyes with the back of her wrist.

The mouse in her palm gives her an odd look for the movement, but has discovered her skin is warmer than the cold stone floor or the ash around the dying fire. It pads around in a circle once, then nudges its nose against her calloused skin, settling down for a moment.

The Cinder-Girl has closed her eyes again, and drops her other hand into her lap, slumping further against the wall. Her smile has grown even warmer, if sadder.

They decide she’s quite safe. Very friendly.

—

The old rat makes his rounds at the usual times of night, shuffling through a passage that leads from the ground all the way up to the attic.

When both gold sticks on the clocks’ moonlike faces point upward, there’s a faint chime from the tower-clock downstairs. He used to worry that the sound would rouse the humans. Now, he ignores it and goes about his business.

There’s a great treasury of old straw in the attic. It’s inside a large sack—and while this one doesn’t have corn or wheat like the ones near the kitchen sometimes do, he knows how to chew it open all the same.

The girl sleeps on this sack of straw, though she doesn’t seem to mind what he takes from it. There’s enough more of it to fill a hundred rat’s nests, so he supposes she doesn’t feel the difference.

Tonight, though—perhaps he’s a bit too loud in his chewing and tearing. The girl sits up slowly in bed, and he stiffens, teeth still sunk into a bit of the fabric.

“Oh.” says the girl. She smiles—and though the expression should seem threatening, all pulled mouth-corners and teeth, he feels the gentleness in her posture and wonders at novel thoughts of differing body languages. “Hello again. Do you need more straw?”

He isn’t sure what the sounds mean, but they remind him of the soft whuffles and squeaks of his siblings when they were small. Inquisitive, unafraid. Not direct or confrontational.

She’s seemed safe enough so far—almost like the woman in white and silver-gold he’s seen here sometimes, marveling at his own confidence in her safeness—so he does what signals not-afraid the best to his kind. He glances her over, twitches his whiskers briefly, and goes back to what he was doing.

Some of the straw is too big and rough, some too small and fine. He scratches a bundle out into a pile so he can shuffle through it. It’s true he doesn’t need much, but the chill of winter hasn’t left the world yet.

The girl laughs. The sound is soft and small. It reminds him again of young, friendly, peaceable.

“Take as much as you need,” she whispers. Her movements are unassuming when she reaches for something on the old wooden crate she uses as a bedside table. With something in hand, she leans against the wall her bed is a tunnel’s-width from, and offers him what she holds. “Would you like this?”

He peers at it in the dark, whiskers twitching. His eyesight isn’t the best, so he finds himself drawing closer to sniff at what she has.

It’s a feather. White and curled a bit, like the goose-down he’d once pulled out the corner of a spare pillow long ago. Soft and long, fluffy and warm.

He touches his nose to it—then, with a glance upward at her softly-smiling face, takes it in his teeth.

It makes him look like he has a mustache, and is a bit too big to fit through his hole easily. The girl giggles behind him as he leaves.

—

There’s a human out in the gardens again. Which is strange—this is a place for lizards, maybe birds and certainly bugs. Not for people, in his opinion. She’s not dressed in venomous bright colors like the other humans often are, but neither does she stay to the manicured garden path the way they do.

She doesn’t smell like unnatural rotten roses, either. A welcome change from having to dart for cover at not just the motions, but the stenches that accompany the others that appear from time to time.

This human is behind the border-shubs, beating an ornate rug that hangs over the fence with a home-tied broom. Huge clouds of dust shake from it with each hit, settling in a thin film on the leaves and grass around her.

She stops for a moment to press her palm to her forehead, then turns over her shoulder and coughs into her arm.

When she begins again, it’s with a sharp WHOP.

He jumps a bit, but only on instinct. However—

A few feet from where he settles back atop the sunning-rock, there’s a scuffle and a sharp splash. Then thrashing—waster swashing about with little churns and splishes.

It’s not the way of lizards to think of doing anything when one falls into the water. There were several basins for fish and to catch water off the roof for the garden—they simply had to not fall into them, not drown. There was little recourse for if they did. What could another lizard do, really? Fall in after them? Best to let them try to climb out if they could.

The girl hears the splashing. She stares at the water pot for a moment.

Then, she places her broom carefully on the ground and comes closer.

Closer. His heart speeds up. He skitters to the safety of a plant with low-hanging leaves—

—and then watches as she walks past his hiding place, peers into the basin, and reaches in.

Her hand comes up dripping wet, a very startled lizard still as a statue clinging to her fingers.

“Are you the same one I always find here?” she asks with a chiding little smile. “Or do all of you enjoy swimming?”

When she places her hand on the soft spring grass, the lizard darts off of it and into the underbrush. It doesn’t go as far as it could, though—something about this girl makes both of them want to stand still and wait for what she’ll do next.

The girl just watches it go. She lets out a strange sound—a weary laugh, perhaps—and turns back to her peculiar chore.

—

A song trails through the old house—under the floorboards—through the walls—into the garden, beneath the undergrowth—and lures them out of hiding.

It isn’t an audible song, not like that of the birds in the summer trees or the ashen-girl murmuring beautiful sounds to herself in the lonely hours. This one was silent. Yet, it reached deep down into their souls and said come out, please—the one who helped you needs your help.

It didn’t require any thought, no more than eat or sleep or run did.

In chains of silver and grey, all the mice who hear it converge, twenty-four tiny feet pattering along the wood in the walls. The rat joins them, but they are not afraid.

When they emerge from a hole out into the open air, the soft slip-slap of more feet surround them. Six lizards scurry from the bushes, some gleaming wet as if they’d just escaped the water trough or run through the birdbath themselves.

As a strange little hoard, they approach the kind girl. Beside her is a tall woman wearing white and silver and gold.

The girl—holding a large, round pumpkin—looks surprised to see them here. The woman is smiling.

“Set the pumpkin on the drive,” the woman says, a soft gleam in her eye. “The rest of you, line up, please.”

Bemused, but with a heartbeat fast enough for them to notice, the girl gingerly places the pumpkin on the stone of the drive. It’s natural for them, somehow, to follow—the mice line in pairs in front of it, the rat hops on top of it, and the lizards all stand beside.

“What are they doing?” asks the girl—and there’s curiosity and gingerness in her tone, like she doesn’t believe such a sight is wrong, but is worried it might be.

The older woman laughs kindly, and a feeling like blinking hard comes over the world.

It’s then—then, in that flash of darkness that turns to dazzling light, that something about them changes.

“Oh!” exclaims the girl, and they open their eyes. “Oh! They’re—“

They’re different.

The mice aren’t mice at all—and suddenly they wonder if they ever were, or if it was an odd dream.

They’re horses, steel grey and sleek-haired with with silky brown manes and tails. Their harnesses are ornate and stylish, their hooves polished and dark.

Instead of a rat, there’s a stout man in fine livery, with whiskers dark and smart as ever. He wears a fine cap with a familiar white feather, and the gleam in his eye is surprised.

“Well,” he says, examining his hands and the cuffs of his sleeves, “I suppose I won’t be wanting for adventure now.”

Instead of six lizards, six footmen stand at attention, their ivory jackets shining in the late afternoon sun.

The girl herself is different, though she’s still human—her hair is done up beautifully in the latest fashion, and instead of tattered grey she wears a shimmering dress of lovely pale green, inlaid with a design that only on close inspection is flowers.

“They are under your charge, now,” says the woman in white, stepping back and folding her hands together. “It is your responsibility to return before the clock strikes midnight—when that happens, the magic will be undone. Understood?”

“Yes,” says the girl breathlessly. She stares at them as if she’s been given the most priceless gift in all the world. “Oh, thank you.”

—

The castle is decorated brilliantly. Flowery garlands hang from every parapet, beautiful vines sprawling against walls and over archways as they climb. Dozens of picturesque lanterns hang from the walls, ready to be lit once the sky grows dark.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen the castle,” the girl says, standing one step out of the carriage and looking so awed she seems happy not to go any further. “Father and I used to drive by it sometimes. But it never looked so lovely as this.”

“Shall we accompany you in, milady?” asks one of the footmen. They’re all nearly identical, though this one has freckles where he once had dark flecks in his scales.

She hesitates for only a moment, looking up at the pinnacles of the castle towers. Then, she shakes her head, and turns to look at them all with a smile like the sun.

“I think I’ll go in myself,” she says. “I’m not sure what is custom. But thank you—thank you so very much.”

And so they watch her go—stepping carefully in her radiant dress that looked lovelier than any queen’s.

Though she was not royal, it seemed there was no doubt in anyone’s minds that she was. The guards posted at the door opened it for her without question.

With a last smile over her shoulder, she stepped inside.

—

He's straightening the horses' trappings for the fifth time when the doors to the castle open, and out hurries a figure. It takes him a moment to recognize her, garbed in rich fabrics and cloaked in shadows, but it's the girl, rushing out to the gilded carriage. A footman steps forward and offers her a hand, which she accepts gratefully as she steps up into the seat.

“Enjoyable evening, milady?” asks the coachman. His whiskers are raised above the corners of his mouth, and his twinkling eyes crinkle at the edges.

“Yes, quite, thank you!” she breathes in a single huff. She smooths her dress the best she can before looking at him with some urgency. “The clock just struck quarter till—will you be able to get us home?”

The gentle woman in white had said they only would remain in such states until midnight. How long was it until the middle of night? What was a quarter? Surely darkness would last for far more hours than it had already—it couldn’t be close. Yet it seemed as though it must be; the princesslike girl in the carriage sounded worried it would catch them at any moment.

“I will do all I can,” he promises, and with a sharp rap of the reins, they’re off at a swift pace.

They arrive with minutes to spare. He knows this because after she helps him down from the carriage (...wait. That should have been the other way around! He makes mental note for next time: it should be him helping her down. If he can manage it. She’s fast), she takes one of those minutes to show him how his new pocketwatch works.

He’s fascinated already. There’s a part of him that wonders if he’ll remember how to tell time when he’s a rat again—or will this, all of this, be forgotten?

The woman in white is there beside the drive, and she’s already smiling. A knowing gleam lights her eye.

“Well, how was the ball?” she asks, as Cinder-Girl turns to face her with the most elated expression. “I hear the prince is looking for fair maidens. Did he speak with you?”

The girl rushes to grasp the woman’s hands in hers, clasping them gratefully and beaming up at her.

“It was lovely! I’ve never seen anything so lovely,” she all but gushes, her smile brighter and broader than they’d ever seen it. “The castle is beautiful; it feels so alive and warm. And yes, I met the Prince—although hush, he certainly isn’t looking for me—he’s so kind. I very much enjoyed speaking with him. He asked me to dance, too; I had as wonderful a time as he seemed to. Thank you! Thank you dearly.”

The woman laughs gently. It isn’t a laugh one would describe as warm, but neither is it cold in the sense some laughs can be—it's soft and beautiful, almost crystalline.

“That’s wonderful. Now, up to bed! You’ve made it before midnight, but your sisters will be returning soon.”

“Yes! Of course,” she replies eagerly—turning to smile gratefully at coachman and stroke the nearest horses on their noses and shoulders, then curtsy to the footmen. “Thank you all, very much. I could not ask for a more lovely company.”

It’s a strange moment when all of their new hearts swell with warmth and affection for this girl—and then the world darkens and lightens so quickly they feel as though they’ve fallen asleep and woken up.

They’re them again—six mice, six lizards, a rat, and a pumpkin. And a tattered gray dress.

“Please, would you let me go again tomorrow? The ball will last three days. I had such a wonderful time.”

“Come,” the woman said simply, “and place the pumpkin beneath the bushes.”

The woman in white led the way back to the house, followed by an air-footed girl and a train of tiny critters. There was another silent song in the air, and they thought perhaps the girl could hear it too: one that said yes—but get to bed!

—

The second evening, when the door of the house thuds shut and the hoofsteps of the family’s carriage fade out of hearing, the rat peeks out of a hole in the kitchen corner to see the Cinder-Girl leap to her feet.

She leans close to the window and watched for more minutes than he quite understands—or maybe he does; it was good to be sure all cats had left before coming out into the open—and then runs with a spring in her step to the back door near the kitchen.

Ever so faintly, like music, the woman’s laughter echoes faintly from outside. Drawn to it like he had been drawn to the silent song, the rat scurries back through the labyrinth of the walls.

When he hurries out onto the lawn, the mice and lizards are already there, looking up at the two humans expectantly. This time, the Cinder-Girl looks at them and smiles broadly.

“Hello, all. So—how do you do it?” she asks the woman. Her eyes shine with eager curiosity. “I had no idea you could do such a thing. How does it work?”

The woman fixes her with a look of fond mock-sternness. “If I were to explain to you the details of how, I’d have to tell you why and whom, and you’d be here long enough to miss the royal ball.” She waves her hands she speaks. “And then you’d be very much in trouble for knowing far more than you ought.”

The rat misses the girl’s response, because the world blinks again—and now all of them once again are different. Limbs are long and slender, paws are hooves with silver shoes or feet in polished boots.

The mouse-horses mouth at their bits as they glance back at the carriage and the assortment of humans now standing by it. The footmen are dressed in deep navy this time, and the girl wears a dress as blue as the summer sky, adorned with brilliant silver stars.

“Remember—“ says the woman, watching fondly as the Cinder-Girl steps into the carriage in a whorl of beautiful silk. “Return before midnight, before the magic disappears.”

“Yes, Godmother,” she calls, voice even more joyful than the previous night. “Thank you!”

—

The castle is just as glorious as before—and the crowd within it has grown. Noblemen and women, royals and servants, and the prince himself all mill about in the grand ballroom.

He’s unsure of the etiquette, but it seems best for her not to enter alone. Once he escorts her in, the coachman bows and watches for a moment—the crowd is hushed again, taken by her beauty and how important they think her to be—and then returns to the carriage outside.

He isn’t required in the ballroom for much of the night—but he tends to the horses and checks his pocketwatch studiously, everything in him wishing to be the best coachman that ever once was a rat.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be hard. He’d raise the bar, then. The best coachman that ever drove for a princess.

Because that was what she was—or, that was what he heard dozens of hushed whispers about once she’d entered the ball. Every noble and royal and servant saw her and deemed her a grand princess nobody knew from a land far away. The prince himself stared at her in a marveling way that indicated he thought no differently.

It was a thing more wondrous than he had practice thinking. If a mouse could become a horse or a rat could become a coachman, couldn’t a kitchen-girl become a princess?

The answer was yes, it seemed—perhaps in more ways than one.

She had rushed out with surprising grace just before midnight. They took off quickly, and she kept looking back toward the castle door, as if worried—but she was smiling.

“Did you know the Prince is very nice?” she asks once they’re safely home, and she’s stepped down (drat) without help again. The woman in white stands on her same place beside the drive, and when Cinder-Girl sees her, she waves with dainty grace that clearly holds a vibrant energy and sheer thankfulness behind it. “I’ve never known what it felt like to be understood. He thinks like I do.”

“How is that?” asks the woman, quirking an amused brow. “And if I might ask, how do you know?”

“Because he mentions things first.” The girl tries to smother some of the wideness of her smile, but can’t quite do so. “And I've shared his thoughts for a long time. That he loves his father, and thinks oranges and citrons are nice for festivities especially, and that he’s always wanted to go out someday and do something new.”

—

The third evening, the clouds were dense and a few droplets of rain splattered the carriage as they arrived.

“Looks like rain, milady,” said the coachman as she disembarked to stand on water-spotted stone. “If it doesn’t blow by, we’ll come for ye at the steps, if it pleases you.”

“Certainly—thank you,” she replies, all gleaming eyes and barely-smothered smiles. How her excitement to come can increase is beyond them—but she seems more so with each night that passes.

She has hardly turned to head for the door when a smattering of rain drizzles heavily on them all. She flinches slightly, already running her palms over the skirt of her dress to rub out the spots of water.

Her golden dress glisters even in the cloudy light, and doesn’t seem to show the spots much. Still, it’s hardy an ideal thing.

“One of you hold the parasol—quick about it, now—and escort her inside,” the coachman says quickly. The nearest footman jumps into action, hop-reaching into the carriage and falling back down with the umbrella in hand, unfolding it as he lands. “Wait about in case she needs anything.”

The parasol is small and not meant for this sort of weather, but it's enough for the moment. The pair of them dash for the door, the horses chomping and stamping behind them until they’re driven beneath the bows of a huge tree.

The footman knows his duty the way a lizard knows to run from danger. He achieves it the same way—by slipping off to become invisible, melting into the many people who stood against the golden walls.

From there, he watches.

It’s so strange to see the way the prince and their princess gravitate to each other. The prince’s attention seems impossible to drag away from her, though not for many’s lack of trying.

Likewise—more so than he would have thought, though perhaps he’s a bit slow in noticing—her focus is wholly on the prince for long minutes at a time.

Her attention is always divided a bit whenever she admires the interior of the castle, the many people and glamorous dresses in the crowd, the vibrant tables of food. It’s all very new to her, and he’s not certain it doesn’t show. But the Prince seems enamored by her delight in everything—if he thinks it odd, he certainly doesn’t let on.

They talk and laugh and sample fine foods and talk to other guests together, then they turn their heads toward where the musicians are starting up and smile softly when they meet each other’s eyes. The Prince offers a hand, which is accepted and clasped gleefully.

Then, they dance.

Their motions are so smooth and light-footed that many of the crowd forgo dancing, because admiring them is more enjoyable. They’re in-sync, back and forth like slow ripples on a pond. They sometimes look around them—but not often, especially compared to how long they gaze at each other with poorly-veiled, elated smiles.

The night whirls on in flares of gold tulle and maroon velvet, ivory, carnelian, and emerald silks, the crowd a nonstop blur of color.

(Color. New to him, that. Improved vision was wonderful.)

The clock strikes eleven, but there’s still time, and he’s fairly certain he won’t be able to convince the girl to leave anytime before midnight draws near.

He was a lizard until very recently. He’s not the best at judging time, yet. Midnight does draw near, but he’s not sure he understands how near.

The clock doesn’t quite say up-up. So he still has time. When the rain drums ceaselessly outside, he darts out and runs in a well-practiced way to find their carriage.

—

Another of the footmen comes in quickly, having been sent in a rush by the coachman, who had tried to keep his pocketwatch dry just a bit too long. He’s soaking wet from the downpour when he steps close enough to get her attention.

She sees him, notices this, and—with a glimmer of recognition and amusement in her eyes—laughs softly into her hand.

ONE—TWO— the clock starts. His heart speeds up terribly, and his skin feels cold. He suddenly craves a sunny rock.

“Um,” he begins awkwardly. Lizards didn’t have much in the way of a vocal language. He bows quickly, and water drips off his face and hat and onto the floor. “The chimes, milady.”

THREE—FOUR—

Perhaps she thought it was only eleven. Her face pales. “Oh.”

FIVE—SIX—

Like a deer, she leaps from the prince’s side and only manages a stumbling, backward stride as she curtsies in an attempt at a polite goodbye.

“Thank you, I must go—“ she says, and then she’s racing alongside the footman as fast as they both can go. The crowd parts for them just enough, amidst loud murmurs of surprise.

SEVEN—EIGHT—

“Wait!” calls the prince, but they don’t. Which hopefully isn’t grounds for arrest, the footman idly thinks.

They burst through the door and out into the open air.

NINE—TEN—

It has been storming. The rain is crashing down in torrents—the walkways and steps are flooded with a firm rush of water.

She steps in a crevice she couldn’t see, the water washes over her feet, and she stumbles, slipping right out of one shoe. There’s noise at the door behind them, so she doesn’t stop or even hesitate. She runs at a hobble and all but dives through the open carriage door. The awaiting footman quickly closes it, and they’re all grasping quickly to their riding-places at the corners of the vehicle.

ELEVEN—

A flash of lightning coats the horses in white, despite the dark water that’s soaked into their coats, and with a crack of the rains and thunder they take off at a swift run.

There’s shouting behind them—the prince—as people run out and call to the departing princess.

TWELVE.

Mist swallows them up, so thick they can’t hear or see the castle, but the horses know the way.

The castle’s clock tower must have been ever-so-slightly fast. (Does magic tell truer time?) Their escape works for a few thundering strides down the invisible, cloud-drenched road—until true midnight strikes a few moments later.

—

She walks home in the rain and fog, following a white pinprick of light she can guess the source of—all the while carrying a hollow pumpkin full of lizards, with an apron pocket full of mice and a rat perched on her shoulder.

It’s quite the walk.

—

The prince makes a declaration so grand that the mice do not understand it. The rat—a bit different now—tells them most things are that way to mice, but he’s glad to explain.

The prince wants to find the girl who wore the golden slipper left on the steps, he relates. He doesn’t want to ask any other to marry him, he loved her company so.

The mice think that’s a bit silly. Concerning, even. What if he does find her? There won’t be anyone to secretly leave seeds in the ashes or sneak them bread crusts when no humans are looking.

The rat thinks they’re being silly and that they’ve become too dependent on handouts. Back in his day, rodents worked for their food. Chewing open a bag of seed was an honest day’s work for its wages.

Besides, he confides, as he looks again out the peep-hole they’ve discovered in the floor trim of the parlor. You’re being self-interested, if you ask me. Don’t you want our princess to find a good mate, and live somewhere spacious and comfortable, free of human-cats, where she’d finally have plenty to eat?

It’s hard to make a mouse look appropriately chastised, but that question comes close. They shuffle back a bit to let him look out at the strange proceedings in the parlor again.

There are many humans there. The Harsh-Mistress stands tall and rigid at the back of one of the parlor chairs, exchanging curt words with a strange man in fine clothes with a funny hat. Shrieking-Girl and Angry-Girl stand close, scoffing and laughing, looking appalled.

Cinder-Girl sits on the chair that’s been pulled to the middle of the room. She extends her foot toward a strange golden object on a large cushion.

The shoe, the rat notes so the mice can follow. They can’t quite see it from here—poor eyesight and all.

Of course, the girl’s foot fits perfectly well into her own shoe. They all saw that coming.

Evidently, the humans did not. There’s absolute uproar.

“There is no possible way she’s the princess you’re looking for!” declares Harsh-Mistress, her voice full of rage. “She’s a kitchen maid. Nothing royal about her.”

“How dare you!” Angry-Girl rages. “Why does it fit you? Why not us?”

“You sneak!” shrieks none other than Shrieking-Girl. “Mother, she snuck to the ball! She must have used magic, somehow! Princes won’t marry sneaks, will they?”

“I think they might,” says a calm voice from the doorway, and the uproar stops immediately.

The Prince steps in. He stares at Cinder-Girl.

She stares back. Her face is still smudged with soot, and her dress is her old one, gray and tattered. The golden slipper gleams on her foot, having fit as only something molded or magic could.

A blush colors her face beneath the ash and she leaps up to do courtesy. “Your Highness.”

The Prince glances at the messenger-man with the slipper-pillow and the funny hat. The man nods seriously.

The Prince blinks at this, as if he wasn’t really asking anything with his look—it’s already clear he recognizes her—and meets Cinder-Girl’s gaze with a smile. It’s the same half-nervous, half-attemptingly-charming smile as he kept giving her at the ball.

He bows to her and offers a hand. (The rat has to push three mice out of the way to maintain his view.)

“It’s my honor,” he assures her. “Would you do me the great honor of accompanying me to the castle? I’d had a question in mind, but it seems there are—“ he glances at Harsh-Mistress, who looks like a very upset rat in a mousetrap. “—situations we might discuss remedying. You’d be a most welcome guest in my father’s house, if you’d be amenable to it?”

It’s all so much more strange and unusual than anything the creatures of the house are used to seeing. They almost don’t hear it, at first—that silent song.

It grows stronger, though, and they turn their heads toward it with an odd hope in their hearts.

—

The ride to the castle is almost as strange as that prior walk back. The reasons for this are such:

One—their princess is riding in their golden carriage alongside the prince, and their chatter and awkward laughter fills the surrounding spring air. They have a good feeling about the prince, now, if they didn’t already. He can certainly take things in stride, and he is no respecter of persons. He seems just as elated to be by her side as he was at the ball, even with the added surprise of where she'd come from.

Two—they have been transformed again, and the woman in white has asked them a single question: Would you choose to stay this way?

The coachman said yes without a second thought. He’d always wanted life to be more fulfilling, he confided—and this seemed a certain path to achieving that.

The footmen might not have said yes, but there was something to be said for recently-acquired cognition. It seemed—strange, to be human, but the thought of turning back into lizards had the odd feeling of being a poor choice. Baffled by this new instinct, they said yes.

The horses, of course, said things like whuff and nyiiiehuhum, grumph. The woman seemed to understand, though. She touched one horse on the nose and told it it would be the castle’s happiest mouse once the carriage reached its destination. The others, it seemed, enjoyed their new stature.

And three—they are heading toward a castle, where they have all been offered a fine place to live. The Prince explains that he doesn’t wish for such a kind girl to live in such conditions anymore. There’s no talk of anyone marrying—just discussions of rooms and favorite foods and of course, you’ll have the finest chicken pie anytime you’d like and I can’t have others make it for me! Lend me the kitchens and I’ll make some for you; I have a very dear recipe. Perhaps you can help. (Followed in short order by a ...Certainly, but I’d—um, I’d embarrass myself trying to cook. You would teach me? and a gentle laugh that brightened the souls of all who could hear it.)

“If you’d be amenable to it,” she replies—and in clear, if surprised, agreement, the Prince truly, warmly laughs.

“Milady,” the coachman calls down to them. “Your Highness. We’re here.”

The castle stands shining amber-gold in the light of the setting sun. It will be the fourth night they’ve come here—the thirteen of them and the one of her—but midnight, they realize, will not break the spell ever again.

One by one, they disembark from the carriage. If it will stay as it is or turn back into a pumpkin, they hadn't thought to ask. There’s so much warmth swelling in their hearts that they don’t think it matters.

The girl, their princess, smiles—a dear, true smile, tentative in the face of a brand new world, but bright with hope—and suddenly, they’re all smiling too.

She steps forward, and they follow. The prince falls into step with her and offers an arm, and their glances at each other are brimming with light as she accepts.

With her arm in the arm of the prince, a small crowd of footmen and the coachman trailing behind, and a single grey mouse on her shoulder, the once-Cinder-Girl walks once again toward the palace door.

#Well this wasn't my first Cinderella retelling idea that I was excited about BUT -#since that one was turning into a tangle of Too Much Going On (though it's currently at 5k and maybe 70% done; I still plan to finish it)#I tried this one instead!#pros: I think I actually wrote myself out of writer's block? Which is AWESOME #And I feel like I'm starting to notice what needs fixed and mended about my writing; which is very helpful!#cons: due to having the additional pro of a very socially growth-filled few weeks IRL; I did not do much about that fact #please excuse the general lack of editing thus far #I have also learned that I may want to be at least a Level 5 Fairy Tale Reteller #before I tackle stories with hundreds of years of popular retellings and versions?#Although this one came much more easily than my first idea; it still felt more difficult to write than my Nix Nought Nothing story.#So another pro - I learned that I enjoy writing about lesser-known tales the most! Next time I might try a fun obscure one.#All in all this was a ton of fun!! Thanks for running the challenge! <3 #inklingschallenge #four loves fairy tale retelling challenge #love: philia #love: agape #Cinderella #story: complete #basil writes #salt and light

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izzy-b-hands · 1 month ago

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I truly fucking hate how some of these side gig tasks are formatted/instructed. Your shit doesn't make sense; the field you claim exists for me to type in isn't there (if it is, it's greyed out and there's no way to change that on my end) and I appreciate a room full of tech bros doesn't want to take five minutes to have an arts/english major read over and edit their shitty instructions so they're actually something a person can comprehend without reading it over five times, but also. Fuck them; it would not take that long and the money you're wasting on this project won't be any less wasted if you pay someone to proofread your shit that's an actual human, and not an AI.

#text post #part of it is me and how my brain has just. nosedived from health issues over the last couple of years #but half of this is me just trying to rewrite their instructions so I can make sure I understand what the fuck they want me to do #then searching the work mode page looking for the fields they mention #only to find they aren't there any longer and oh look! the instructions page hasn't been updated since they changed the task #(shout out to them using a google form where you can see the last edit made and date it was made)#like. im so frustrated. i need to be working on these but how the fuck do i work on something I'm not parsing #with instructions that don't reflect what they actually want done in the new task #'write your response in the box below but not the one for chatting with us abt tech issues!'#(page has nothing open BUT said tech issues chat box; everything else is greyed out and there are no buttons to try and click to fix that)#I'll keep staring at this shit until it starts to make sense but also i do hope all the ppl who are making these projects #stub their toes weekly until they take the time to write their own instructions better and manage their projects to ensure said instruction #are actually useable and understandable #i know they love AI but I can just TELL they outsourced their instructions to an AI service and it makes this so much worse overall #if you don't want to work on YOUR project in any way including the instructions then why the fuck should I?

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uniiiquehecrt · 2 years ago

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Just wanted to say your knowledge of movies in general and Thor lore in specific in amazing!

Realistically speaking, can we expect to see Fosterson together again? I still have hope in my heart that we will.

Thank you, Nonny ❤ Your words are very kind! I'm lucky enough to have had some amazing teachers who were able to help me understand story fundamentals... so it's a topic very near and dear to my heart.

And my friend I have a twofold answer. Speaking optimistically, and betting on Thor's success as a standalone franchise, and as an avengers franchise, I do think it's possible. Or in the very least, it's surely possible to at least see Thor again for a fifth (and preferably final) standalone installment.

He's a consistent money-maker. Even Love and Thunder made about as much as the other films in the THOR franchise, with each film grossing about 3.75 times the production budget of each film. (Fun fact: Thor (2011) and Thor: Love and Thunder both made ~3.0 times the production budget, versus Dark World that did 4.3 times better, and Ragnarok that did 4.7.) Critically, his worst film is L+T at 63%. This is actually worse than Dark World which sits ~67%, and between the two it's pretty clear that L+T is not a fan-favorite, but he DOES make money, and continues to be incredibly well-liked regardless. Something that I'd wager Marvel's Phase 4+ needs. Thor has prestige, and people like him and his actor. He's consistently made profits for Marvel in ALL of his films, so Marvel would be pretty stupid not to double down for a fifth movie and the promise of "thor will return". (And as much as I loathe the film, L+T might have gotten some of the mcu normies to actually bother at least paying attention to Jane, whether it's for good reason or not.) So it's a bit of a no-brainer to bring back a character, and one of the last mcu couples, that is reliable. People like heroes and they like romance. Fosterson is both rolled into one.

Within this thought process, I do think that if Marvel knew what was good for it (...debatable... but again being optimistic) then they would reunite Thor with Jane and the rest of his family where he belongs. Give him that happy ending he so deserves as the final survivor of his original cast (discounting Sif), and of the Avengers' Big Three. No one in the whole of the Avengers franchise deserves a happy ending more than Thor does.

So with that in mind, for Thor's next appearance, either it's bring back Jane similarly to the end of the Mighty Thor comic arc, or have Thor end up in Valhalla where the whole rest of his cast is. Either way, Fosterston fans like you and me would ultimately get what we want (the two reunited). Then it's a matter of "but would it feel earned to the audience who's kept with Thor for the past decade"?

As it stands: Thor is in an odd position where his options are limited, but still technically open as a character. Narratively his story simply will not be finished until he's been put to rest one way or another... Ultimately he needs to find peace, and I think anyone in the MCU fanbase can at least agree that MCU!Thor won't be able to for as long as all of his castmates are dead or otherwise written out of the picture. (Thanks to the decision to write Thor out of Asgard by revoking his birthright he can't even at least have THAT as a reason to keep going.) Even Hemsworth feels as much, whether he'll say it so explicitly or not. ("Thor lost his mind that last one. He’s got to figure it out now.")

Really a reunion should be in a 5th installment, but if they wanted to play it cheap they could maybe wrap up Thor's story in a B Plot or a cameo in whatever they have lined up for Avengers: Secret Wars. Were it up to me I would argue ostensibly that it's a "pick one" situation at this point in time. (and given they might attempt to shoehorn TVA!Loki into meeting MCU!Thor at some point to call that a day, the most profitable answer seems pretty cut and dry.)

Realistically speaking within that...? I think that all depends on Marvel/Disney's budget, and ...honestly, probably Chris Hemsworth on the whole.

There are many shifting variables in Hollywood right now. Lots of budget cuts, cancelled tv shows and films, job losses, etc. While I think the big names and upper league of the industry are going to come out relatively unscathed, I do think that Disney/Marvel may need to slow its productions down, and greatly decrease the quality and quantity in order to survive. That, and, again, the fact of the matter is that the quality of Marvel's Phase 4+ has been pretty hot garbage.

Which then leads me back to the point that: Thor is a decent money maker. He's still got material to work with if they wanted to wrap him/Chris' iteration of him up as they did with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. And this is keeping in mind that Chris Evans, despite Steve's story definitely being wrapped, is willing to come back for cameos in future appearances out of respect and love for his character.

....That said, you'll notice that I mention "respect and love for his character" when mentioning Chris Evans. Frankly, Chris Hemsworth is a bit more of a wild card. I've mentioned it (here), but it seems as though Hemsworth has largely fallen out of love with Thor. Now, when I say that I don't mean that he hates Thor. Thor is a very special character to him. Something he has stated multiple times in interviews — especially since becoming Thor really helped launch his career forward.

... The GOOD news is Chris has commented on coming back for future Thor films.

“Yeah, I think [Marvel] always [teases the characters return in films]. Look, I’m completely open to it, [...] I’ve always loved the experience. I’ve been very thankful I’ve been able to do something different each time.”

The ... BAD news is he's also commented on being largely contented with the character as is (albeit wanting to move on from Taika's take) and otherwise finding him "boring", and that there is not a lot he'd want to do with Thor now that they've spanned the course of ... mostly everything.

“You look at Thor 1 and 2, they were quite similar. Ragnarok and Love and Thunder are similar. I think it’s about reinventing it. I’ve had such a unique opportunity with Infinity War and Endgame to do very drastic things with the character. I enjoy that, I like keeping people on their toes. It keeps me on my toes. It keeps me invested. I’ve said this before but when it becomes too familiar, I think there’s a risk in getting lazy then because I know what I’m doing. So I don’t know."

He, like Evans and Downey Jr. I'm sure, wants a happy ending for his character — and I would argue that absolutely includes Jane, but the course of Disney/Marvel's Phase 4 is uncertain, because they seem to have no plan. Or at least not one beyond "insert cool cameo here"

...And Chris' faith in the character that kickstarted a large portion of his career has seemed to have utterly tanked in recent years especially. (Particularly since it's been rather hot and cold for him. If a film does well and is written wonderfully, then there isn't enough Loki in it so the MCU fanbase decides to go nutty. If it's written poorly with an ill-cast director, it does well. But then when they double down on that ill-casted director people get fed up with it because the Russo Bros. did it better in Infinity War and rightfully so. Though Chris seems to favor the IW depiction too so even he isn't immune.) So it's hard to say whether or not Chris will actually take up another contract, fulfill any that he's (allegedly) previously made or make so much as a cameo appearance to fulfill that "Thor Will Return" we were promised at the end of L+T.

"I have no idea. I've said it before, it all depends on the type of story. It has to be something unique. What I don't want is to do the same with the character until the end, until there is a feeling of exhaustion in the audience. But if there is excitement for it, I am always willing to return. If there is a new story, it has to be something very special. I'm sure there's something exciting to tell, so we'll have to wait and see. You have to wait to find it." "Again, I don’t know if I’m even invited back. But if I was, I think it would have to be a drastically different version in tone, everything, just for my own sanity… (laughs) … Thor lost his mind that last one. He’s got to figure it out now."

I'm afraid that sounds rather dour... but unless we actually get confirmation of a Thor 5, or Thor appearance in the inevitable Avengers movies down the line, it's really just... hard to say. As ever this is all simply hypothetical conjecture based on sheer observation. Though of course, I don't work for Marvel. And even if I did, NDAs exist, so it's not as if I could confirm or deny anything anyways. We simply have to wait and see.

PERSONALLY if I were to take a crack at it, I'd at least give Thor a 5th movie, completely wrap him up in a way that is respectful to his character while also ... attempting to acknowledge and semi-respect what Marvel has already done thus far ... and then leave the rest up to cameo and side character appearances, like what they're doing with Evans and Steve Rogers.

#(though then if it were me i'd have written ragnarok completely differently.... and would /slightly/ tweak-)#(-a few details about dark world but honestly that film is like 95% perfect in my eyes)#(watch me slowly put together a 'thor arc rewritten' hypothetical at this point ansjkfsabkdsabk fix-it fics my beloved)#anyways is this the answer you were looking for nonny? lord if i know #but alas it is what it is from where i'm standing and where it is... is all over the place #we're living in the timeline where everything is a mess. do i think fosterson will get back together? personally? yes.#i think it'd be short-sighted of them to refrain from reuniting them + giving Thor especially one last hurrah.#do i think it's /realistically/ going to happen? debatable. Marvel/Disney has done nothing to make me have faith in them #as a studio and with all of their writers and directors they've hired on ever since phase 3 ended >>;;#thor also unfortunately puts butts in the seats because we all know him and like him and chris is a phenomenal actor #....so ... who knows when they'll actually retire him as they did with steve/chris evans and tony/rdj #&&. whispers #&&. | marvel. |#&&. thor.

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swankpalanquin · 2 months ago

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every time i see people being like, why don't universities just use their endowments to like fix financial problems but don't expand beyond that simple statement i know they have no idea what they're talking about

#and this is like... from people who literally work at a university lol #people don't realize how a lot of the time you are at the mercy of some freak donor who has all these weird rules for using the money #and that really you're only spending the money that has grown from the original donation not that base money itself #and like i'm not even an expert or have especially researched this topic.. its just what i've learned from like admin briefings #i try not to dwell too much on how higher ed is fucked cos it is my career lol but like its also been like this since the last recession #so like... it is what it is and nothing was done to fix it since then #i mean as soon as they started framing college as a way to to get better jobs and not as a way to learn and grow as a person we were fucked #running a university as a business was never going to work cos its Not a business but we are so past that point now it doesn't matter lol #my wednesday work from home morning rant i guess

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holeforzenin · 12 days ago

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cw - boy next door!choso x milf!reader, age gap (20, 34), sub choso, slight mommy kink, pwp, overstimulation.

The knock on your door came exactly five minutes after you texted him.

You immediately smiled, already knowing the hesitant rhythm belonged to Choso Kamo—your sweet, awkward neighbor who just moved into his older brother’s house for the summer. The sweet boy had been nothing but polite since the moment he offered to help carry your groceries, always looking everywhere but directly at your chest when you leaned forward to thank him. You liked him immediately. Poor boy was too sweet for his own good.

Especially when he showed up in a worn hoodie and some beat-up Converse to fix your sink.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you purred with a soft smile, standing aside by your door to let him in. “Sorry to bug you. The pipe’s just leaking a little under the kitchen sink. I’d bend down and do it myself but I just got my nails done this morning and I don’t want to ruin them”. You muttered while wiggling your nails to show him.

Choso looked like he wanted to melt through the floor. “Oh!—um, yeah, no problem. I’ll check it out”.

You let him crouch beneath the sink, sneaking a few glances at his narrow waist and the way his hoodie rode up to show a glimpse of his abs as he twisted under the cabinet. He was muttering to himself, sleeves rolled up and revealing thick, pale forearms that trembled just a little as he worked.

And you leaned against the counter, legs crossed with your hips hilted at a certain angle so your robe slipped up your soft thighs. Just enough to tease. You weren’t even wearing much underneath.

“So good with your hands,” you murmured in a sing-song manner, dragging a finger down your collarbone with a low sigh. “Bet you’re good at all sorts of things, huh?”

Choso made a choking sound and accidentally bumped his head on the cabinet.

You smiled down at him. “Careful, baby”.

“I—I think it’s just the P-trap”. He couldn’t even meet your eyes. “I can, um, tighten it. Real quick”.

“Mmm. You’re so helpful, choso”.

The moment stretched a bit awkwardly, well not for you at least, because boy were you enjoying his reactions. His ears were red and his gaze flickered—briefly—to your bare legs, then away so fast it was like it burned his eyes. And that’s when you knew the poor boy wanted it. Need it, but poor cho was just too scared to ask.

You crouched down slowly beside him, letting your robe fall open further. “Wanna see what you’re helping out, choso?” you whispered enough for him to hear. “Wanna see what a real woman looks like when she’s needy?”

He didn’t answer and he didn’t really had to.

Because within the next two minutes, your hips are frantically bouncing over his lap—riding the shy out of him, the nerves, the hesitation until all that was left was a glassy-eyed, whimpering mess beneath you.

“F—fuck,” choso gasped, his head thrown back with his arms shaking as he held your soft thighs. “C-can’t—”

“You can”. You grabbed a fistful of his hoodie and yanked him into your chest, burying his face between your bouncing tits while you grind down more desperately—using the thick stretch of him to satisfy that gnawing, hollow need inside you. “You can take it baby—you’re here to fix my pipes remember?”

He moaned so loud it echoed off your kitchen walls.

The cheap old chair creaked beneath you with every heavy bounce. Your knees ached from the force, your robe long discarded, tits bouncing freely in circles as you slammed down over and over on his cock and using the poor boy like he was your dildo. He was so deep inside of you that you could feel every faint twitch and throb of his cock rubbing against your gummy walls. His hips jerked up uselessly beneath you as he tried to keep up.

His jacked arms wrapped around your waist, holding onto you like you’re his lifeline, face buried so deep in your cleavage you could bearly hear him sob.

“You’re s’pretty,” he whined, kissing the soft swell of your breast between helpless gasps. “S’soft…s’warm”.

You rocked your hips and ground yourself down harder, addicted to the ache of every girthy inch. You move like you’re trying to draw his shape into your body, carve it into muscle memory and it’s so fucking nasty.

His legs twitched and you could feel how close he was and how badly he was holding on. His fingers dug into your hips, then slipped, then grabbed at your rippling ass like he couldn’t decide what to worship. You cupped his flushed face in your hands and pulled him off your boobs to make him look at you.

“Such a good boy, you like being used, don’t you?” you moaned out, voice sweet and syrup-thick. “Like when mommy calls you over to sit on your cock?”.

Choso blinked up at you, pupils blown and dilated with his mouth trembling. “Y-yesyesyes!”.

“You wanna cum?”

He nodded so fast it looked painful.

“Then beg for it”.

Your hips didn’t stop. If anything, they got meaner—tilting them to feel every ridge of him scrape where it matters the most, grinding down until your legs shake. Milking his throbbing dick with each controlled grind. He whimpers and moans into you so pathetically with his eyes crossed that you almost feel bad.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please wanna cum. Been s’good—did the sink—nnghh—need you s’bad—!”

You moaned at the pitful sound of his voice cracking, how desperate and dumb he sounded like you already fucked all the sense out of him.

“That’s it, sweet boy,” you purred. “You can cum, give it to mommy”.

And fuck, did he give it.

He cried out, warm tears dripping between the valley of your tits—his entire body shaking as he came hard inside you—spilling deep up your pussy, his hips violatently jerking up against yours like his body was trying to get closer, as if he wasn’t already balls-deep in paradise.

But you didn’t stop, obviously.

You kept fucking him right through it, bouncing your ass on his oversenstive cock until his mouth fell open in a silent scream and his hands scrambled weakly at your hips. His cum leaking out from the sides of your pussy and onto his thighs.

“Can’t—f-fuck—no more—s’too much-”

But his dick twitched inside of you again.

You smiled sweetly like an angel, and bent down to kiss his jaw.

“You’ll take what I give you, baby,” you murmured lowly, licking a sweat-damp line up his throat. “You came in me so that means you’re mine now”.

And poor Choso just nodded dumbly, more tears slipping from the corners of his eyes as he moaned and cry into your tits and let you ride him into another orgasm.

He’s so helpless and obedient for you.

All yours.

———

Afterwards, you cupped his warm, flushed cheek, still seated on his lap, his softening cock buried inside you as you leaned in to kiss the sweat from his temple. He looked so ruined and fucked out—hair damp, rosy lips swollen from mouthing at your tits, eyes half-lidded and dazed like he couldn’t believe what just happened. You smiled satisfiedly, rocking your hips once more just to hear the soft whimper he gave. “You did so well for me, baby,” you whispered. “Now…how do you feel about coming over every week to help mommy with some ‘housework’?” His breath hitched and he nodded enthusiastically and stupidly with whatever energy he had left, already hardening again inside you. And you knew then—this was only the beginning.

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