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jellesreid · 3 days ago

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Communication

In which Spencer and the reader have their first time together after the reader has cold feet about sex (smut!)

masterlist

tags: age gap, munch!spencer reid, bad sex, smut, giver boyfriend, fingering, eating out, kissing, making out, first time, cold feet, honeymoon phase, early relationship, love, relationship, subtle masturbation

warnings: talks of past bad sex, talks of masturbation, fingering, mention of vibrators, spencer going down on reader

notes: sorry for being away so long but i’m back!! I’ll be more active after june tho!

———————————————————

You and Spencer met through one of your close friends, Penelope Garcia, around four months ago, and your relationship was going great. The only thing you worried about was your almost 10-year age gap. Spencer was 33, and you were recently 24. There were a lot more things he had experienced that you hadn’t, and you didn’t want them to interfere with your relationship.

One of these things was sex. It wasn’t that you didn’t like sex you had done it a couple of times but it wasn’t enjoyable, you had more pleasure in doing it yourself than either of the times you had been with men in the past.

You knew Spencer was a man, he most likely wanted to have sex but you also knew he was respectful and would never force you to do something you didn’t want to. You’d spoken to Penelope about it and she told you to speak to Spencer about it but that was over a month ago.

Spencer was at your apartment watching a movie and you had been kissing for a little while until you pulled away and turned back to the TV.

Spencer fidgeted beside you rubbing his shoulder after getting comfortable, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” You said not looking away from the TV.

“I think we need to talk about something,” Spencer said pausing the movie.

“What is it?” You asked turning to face him again, spotting that he was flustered.

“Are you… attracted to me?” He asked.

“Yeah obviously baby,” You said kissing his cheek, “Play the movie?”

“No that’s not all…”

“What is it?” You asked again.

“I don’t want you to think I’m rushing you or that this is a massive deal to me but I think it’s something we should discuss…” Spencer started.

“Okay,” You dragged out the last letter of the word.

“We’ve been together 4 months by that time most people have gone further than kissing on the sofa, I didn’t want to bring it up because it doesn’t bother me that we aren’t having sex, I would love to when you’re ready I want to make you feel good… sexually.”

“Oh, right well I’m just not compatible with sex stuff so it doesn’t matter to me but I know guys want or need sex so I understand you asking.”

“No honey, I don’t need sex, I went a long time of my life without it. Wait what do you mean you’re not compatible with it?” Spencer raised an eyebrow.

“Umm,” You blushed and looked down, “Men can’t make me… you know orgasm.”

“That’s not got anything to do with you or your compatibility with sex,” Spencer said.

“What do you mean? It’s definitely something wrong with me if both the men I’ve been with haven’t been able to get me there,” You rolled your eyes so Spencer couldn’t see.

“Let me ask you some questions, is that okay?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you masturbate?” Spencer asked without hesitation.

You blinked and opened your mouth to speak but closed it again not

expecting that to be his first question, “Sorry, I didn’t expect- um yeah I do.”

“And do you reach an orgasm on your own?”

“Yeah… most of the time,” You looked up at him.

“There, there’s no problem with you it’s just the men you were with.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“You said yourself you orgasm when you’re spending time on yourself, you know what you like so you’re the best example to go off. If you need me to keep going I can ask, Did these men do any kind of foreplay?”

“Not really,” You shrugged.

“Foreplay is essential, studies show that only thirty percent of women can orgasm by intercourse alone,” Spencer said tucking a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Really? So it’s common?”

Spencer hummed, “Yes sweetheart you need someone who communicates with you that’s the main factor. Communication.”

“Okay�� I’m happy to try having sex,” You said, you were already slightly turned on from the kissing and his factual knowledge of female orgasms.

“Not today,” Spencer said.

“Oh… okay,” You shrugged feeling slightly rejected.

“Wait I mean I want to make you come,” Spencer corrected himself, “without sex, I want to show you how you should be treated.”

You smiled, “Okay, how?”

“You are going to tell me what you like while I touch you,” Spencer said but phrased it more like a question that you needed to respond to.

“Okay.”

Spencer tilted your head up with his thumb and finger before leaning in to kiss you once again.

Your kisses were a little more electric and passionate than usual and when your tongues curled together a wave of butterflies burst inside your stomach. A small gasp escaped your mouth when one of Spencer’s hands moved to your thigh, running it over your clothes.

“Is that nice?” Spencer asked pulling back from the kiss.

“Yes,” You reconnect your lips before he squeezes your thigh.

The kissing continued for a little while until you pulled away, “What’s next?” You asked out of breath.

“What do you usually do?” Spencer asked, a hand moving to your hair and playing with it.

“Well, I like being in my bedroom for starters.”

“Should we go there?”

You nod, standing up from the sofa and taking his hand. He’d been in your bedroom before when he had slept over but this was different.

“What next?” He asked sitting on the end of the bed.

“I usually use a vibrator, sometimes I finger myself,” You couldn’t help but blush at your words, you couldn’t believe you were telling your boyfriend this.

“Good, we can work with that,” Spencer smiled, pulling you closer to him.

“I don’t want you to use my vibrator on me.”

“That’s fine honey,” Spencer kissed your swollen lips once again.

You took it upon yourself to lay down on your bed after your lips disconnected.

Spencer lingered over the top of you playing with the hem of your shirt, “Can I undress you?”

“Yes,” Within a matter of minutes, your clothes minus your panties were on the floor.

“You’re beautiful,” Spencer kissed your collarbone and the tops of your breasts.

“Thank you,” You sighed softly.

“I’m going to start here okay?” Spencer asked his mouth in line with your left breast.

“Mhm o-okay.”

He lowered his mouth to your nipple taking it inside his mouth and lapping circles around it in between quick sucks while he massaged the other one.

“Oh,” A breathy moan left your mouth, “That feels so good.”

Spencer hummed sending vibrations to your breast. Your fingers threaded in his hair pulling it gently neither of the men you had been with before had ever done this.

Spencer switched breasts doing the same for your right one as he had the left. You felt yourself growing wetter than you had ever felt, he knew exactly what he was doing.

One of his hands made its way between your legs as he used two fingers to run over the fabric of your panties.

“You’re wet honey,” He dipped his fingers inside the underwear, “Do you want me to take them off?”

“Yes please,” You sigh with pleasure.

Spencer slid the underwear down your legs throwing them somewhere on the floor, “I might have to buy you a new pair,” he laughed.

His soft fingers connected with the slick wetness between your folds rubbing from the entrance to your clit several times. He used his middle and ring fingers to rub the small nub of nerves in circles in a mix of different pressures to see what brought the best reaction out of you.

The harder he pressed the more your eyes flickered closed, it felt amazing what he was doing, “Mhm Spence.”

“Is this good baby?” Spencer asked massaging it faster.

“A-amazing,” You stuttered with a moan.

Without much notice he used his other hand to start penetrating, He pushed his middle finger inside of you slowly making sure not to hurt you as he entered.

Long breathily moans exited your mouth at the feeling of him inside of you and the moans only got louder as he curled the finger moving it in and out a bit faster making sure to hit the spongy wall inside of you.

“More,” You groaned, You could feel your stomach tightening but nothing like how it usually felt when you came on your own. You didn’t want to be upset but you were starting to feel frustrated that nothing anyone else did to you could ever get you to that point.

Spencer plunged another finger inside of you copying the same movement as the first finger, curling it and moving both of them at a quick pace.

“I can’t,” You groaned in frustration.

“Honey, you can, I’m here for you. What doesn’t feel good?” Spencer asked stilling his fingers.

“It feels good, so good, it’s just taking too long,” You frowned.

“It’s not taking too long, It will take as long as it takes, I’ll be here for hours if I have to,” Spencer thrust his fingers again, adding his thumb to rub on your clit.

You took your breast into your hands and fondled with your nipples to try to add some extra pleasure.

“I’m going to try something else,” Spencer said. He kept his fingers inside of you still pushing them into your g-spot but he removed his thumb from your clit.

In a matter of a few seconds, his mouth was on you, flicking his tongue over the bundle of nerves.

You rolled your eyes back, the subtle ache burning inside your stomach. It intensified as his lips attached to your swollen clit sucking it gently.

“Spencer, fuck!” You growled while trying to catch your breath.

When he realised it was working based on the sounds you made and the clenching around his fingers he sped up both of the actions; sucking harder and thrusting harder and deeper.

This was the familiar sensation you felt from when you used your vibrator burned inside of your stomach, “Please don’t stop,” You moaned grabbing hold of his hair.

“Yes, Yes Spencer oh my god!” You rocked against his face to pick up as much friction as possible.

Your walls fluttered around his fingers as he sucked harder on your clit just before you came undone, his name falling from your mouth with loud moans.

After regaining your breath he removed his fingers, sucking them clean to taste all of you.

“Oh my god, thank you,” You pulled him up between your legs so his head was resting near your chest as you kissed his lips.

“Honey there’s no need to thank me, I’ll always make sure that happens.”

“That may have been the best orgasm I've ever had in my life,” You giggled.

“I’m going to keep competing with myself to give you better ones each time,” Spencer smiled, laying his head on your breasts and using them as a pillow.

“What can I do for you?” You asked running your fingertips through his hair, scratching his scalp lightly.

“Nothing honey, Just this is perfect. Tonight was about you,” He said, closing his eyes.

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vunblr · 10 hours ago

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The Trouble With Saturdays -Puesto-

Pairing: Thunderbolts! Bucky Barnes x Curvy! Female Reader

Tags: Fluff. Slight sprinkle of angst if you squint. Pinning.

Summary: Life at the Thunderbolts Tower is loud, chaotic, and full of questionable moral choices. Bucky’s used to keeping to himself, until one night, after one of those questionable moral choices was made, the guys got him high.

Word Count: About 7.6k.

They didn’t recruit her for the violence.

The Thunderbolts had enough of that. More than enough, actually. Three supersoldiers, a walking quantum anomaly, a man with literal god-tier potential buried beneath trauma, and Yelena, who didn’t need powers to make anyone cry.

No, she was brought in to patch what was left behind.

Civilians mostly. Collateral damage.

The ones caught in the debris cloud of a botched extraction, or buried under the wrong side of a knocked-over building. She’d move between the screams and the smoke, crouch in the rubble with her hands pressed to scorched skin or crushed lungs, and pull people back. Not metaphorically. Literally.

She didn’t stop death, but she slowed it. Called it off. Reversed it in some cases. No one liked to use the word resurrect, not even her, but she knew what it looked like when a rib cage stopped collapsing under its own weight, when air found its way back into lungs that had already forgotten how to breathe.

It didn’t take long for the team to realize she wasn’t there for them.

Mostly.

The first time Bucky came to her, it wasn’t after a mission.

It was late, the tower was in that in-between time when most of the team had gone to bed or passed out somewhere inconvenient. The common room was only lit by the flat screen, where Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth danced around each other in the 1995 Pride and Prejudice adaptation. She had a blanket over her knees and a mug in her hands. The night was ordinary. Unremarkable.

Then she felt him.

She didn’t startle, just looked up to find him standing by the edge of the couch. His eyes weren’t on her, but on the TV, and his arms were folded too tightly across his chest.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said.

“You didn’t.”

A pause. Then, quietly. “Could I… borrow your time?”

She tilted her head, studying him. He wasn’t bruised. No dried blood, no marred tac suit. But his posture was wrong. His left shoulder sat higher than the right, tensed and pulling across his collarbone.

“Is your back?” she asked softly, setting down her mug.

He gave the barest nod. “Shoulder and neck are acting up. Pulls when I use the arm too much. Been pushing it. And that strains my back, too.”

“Sit.”

He obeyed without question, sitting on the rug in front of the couch with a faint wince. She shifted to sit behind him, spreading her legs on each side of his shoulders.

When she laid her hands over the thick knot of muscle at his trapezius, he didn’t flinch but he tensed, just slightly. Then he exhaled. The heat under her palms was sharp and wrong, deep where metal met skin. She let the current of healing rise gently from her hands, coaxing away the ache like drawing poison from a wound. It wasn’t dramatic -there was no holy glow, no divine wind- just a flush of cool relief that sank slowly into his muscles. His eyes closed as he relaxed.

“Sorry to bug you so late,” he murmured after a while.

“You’re not.”

“I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d wait it out, but…” He trailed off, shrugged with his good shoulder. “Saw the glow of the tv. Damn, this helps.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’m glad.”

He was quiet for a while. Let her work, let himself rest a little. Then, after a long pause- “You like this series? I think there is a more recent movie.”

“I love it,” she said. “It’s my comfort watch, wouldn’t trade it for any other version.”

He hummed.

She smiled, pressing a little deeper into the heat at his shoulder. He made a sound then -not a groan, not quite- but something close. She felt him soften beneath her palms.

When she finished, he didn’t move right away. Just sat there, with his head bowed.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“You’re welcome.”

He stood up a moment later, with his shoulder visibly lower, freer, and his arm hanging loose again at his side. He looked at her then and nodded, padding back to his room.

----

She got along with all of them eventually. Yelena dragged her into a chaotic kind of sisterhood almost immediately; Alexei insisted on teaching her Russian phrases she didn’t ask for; Bob started helping her when she baked and apologized whenever he accidentally thew something panicked with the blender’s noise; Ava didn’t speak much, but once left a book outside her door with the title underlined in black. John well… he was an asshole, but a tolerable one.

But with Bucky… it was different. There was something in him that calmed her when he was near. She couldn’t tell. He kept a certain distance, like it were policy. She never took it personally. Still, there were moments.

Moments when he stood too close to her while scanning for exits, like he’d throw her over his shoulder if a ceiling caved in.

Moments like the night he sat on the other end of the couch, halfway through Pride and Prejudice, and watched in silence, asking questions with real interest, even when John heckled him for it, something about finally a period older than him.

Like the time he set aside a tupperware for her when she got back late, grunting something about how the “jackals already circled the kitchen.”

Like how he always lurked just close enough when she healed others, as if assessing what it might cost her.

That’s why she asked him.

One night, after a debrief, while everyone else argued over takeout orders and Bob tried to fix the busted kitchen fan by staring at it too hard, she leaned in at the counter beside Bucky and- “Teach me how to shoot.”

“No.” He didn’t even look up.

She raised a brow. “You don’t even want to know why?”

“Don’t care.”

“Bucky-”

“You already help people,” he said, clenching his fingers around the cheap ceramic mug with Yelena’s printed face. “You do enough. Let us manage the other part of the job.”

She didn’t argue. Not out loud. Just stood there, with heat crawling up her neck, unsure if it was from frustration or the way he said it.

----

The next morning, she didn’t bring it up again.

Bucky had said no, flat and final, with a tone like he was trying to crush the idea before it had a chance to grow legs. She wasn’t one to beg, so she thought of an alternative and left him alone.

So there she was, helping Yelena to repot the herbs Alexei kept murdering by accident in the kitchen.

Feet away, Bucky and Alexei sat in the common area. A soccer match was running on the TV. Bucky leaned back, with socked feet up on the coffee table, silent as ever. Alexei was cracking sunflower seeds and muttering something in a mix of Russian and fatherly disappointment.

Then came the voice.

“So! Guess who I’m gonna teach shooting after lunch?” John swaggered over, like he’d invented testosterone. “As a hint,” he added, wagging a finger, “it’s not the guinea pig.”

Bucky’s face soured instantly. His jaw ticked. “The hell does that mean?”

Alexei perked up. “Bob? Oho! I knew the kid would want to jump into heroic deeds instead of making waffles!”

“Nope.” John popped the p with relish. “Our group’s walking panacea.”

Alexei blinked. “Her? Da. Makes sense. She’s not bad with her hands. Has calm eyes, like assassin nun. I approve.”

John grinned like he’d just won a bet at someone else’s expense.

“I’m the only one here who thinks it’s a bad idea?” Bucky asked, frowning. “She doesn’t need to learn that,” he muttered.

“Uh, yeah, she does?” John scoffed, raising his brows like it hurt to explain. “Let’s face it, she’s super cool with the healing mumbo jumbo, but couldn’t reduce-”

“That’s not her role.” Bucky’s voice cut him promptly.

He stood slowly in all his height, his shadow stretching over the rug. “She doesn’t go on heavy missions. She takes care of us. She assists when we’re with civilians. That’s what she does.”

“And what happens,” Walker shot back, closing the gape, “when none of us are there to save her ass, huh? What happens the day it costs her life, or fucks up a mission because we’re too busy babysitting her?”

The room went still. Even the TV dulled down, like it knew something ugly was about to happen.

Bucky’s fists closed. “You’re not teaching her.”

John took a step forward. “Oh yeah? And what- what assembly named you the fucking leader, Bucky?”

No answer.

“I don’t take orders from you. She asked me. She’s a grown-ass woman who wants to learn, so, fuck off.”

Bucky moved.

Quick. Sharp. Enough menace in that single step that John instinctively squared his shoulders. But before anything snapped, Alexei clomped forward, stuffing himself between them in his garish yellow AvengerZ tracksuit like a human foam wall.

“Look, mister soldier,” he sighed, hands up like he was negotiating hostage terms. “He has a point, da? And she did ask. Haven’t you heard about women’s rights and determination?” He wagged a seed-covered finger. “Maybe in your time -and I’m not saying it was wrong- women belong in the kitchen, but-”

Bucky stopped listening.

She’d asked John.

She wanted this.

And clearly, she wasn’t going to let him stop her.

He shut his eyes. Counted to three. Didn’t make it to two.

“She’s not learning from you,” he told Walker, calmly. “If someone’s teaching her, it’s gonna be me.”

“Oh yeah?” John tilted his head, smiling all wolfish teeth. “And why’s that?”

Bucky snapped the case on the remote shut.

“Because I’m the fucking Winter Soldier.”

----

The tracksuit didn’t fit.

Or more specifically, the zipper refused to participate in any fantasy where it might slide up over her chest without protest. She wrestled with it anyway, with stubborn fingers pulling and tugging, trying to wedge the metal teeth up over her sports bra and the too-tight cotton clinging to her skin.

Her breathing had picked up. The top gaped open, exposing the rise of cleavage as she tried to smoosh herself flat enough to force the zipper into cooperation.

A quiet mutter escaped her lips. “Goddamn tits…”

Across the room, the door opened.

Bucky froze just inside the threshold.

There was a second -a full second- where all conscious thought left his brain.

He'd been expecting a shooting lesson.

What he got instead was the kind of image that used to be currency in the field. Back in the war, a photograph like that -wide hips, full breasts straining against cheap blue polyester- could’ve bought a man a whole week of smokes. Maybe two, if she smiled.

She wasn’t smiling now.

She was squishing herself with both arms, muttering curses, oblivious to his presence. He couldn’t move. His brain short-circuited somewhere between don’t stare and holy shit.

She heard the footsteps, finally.

Didn’t look up.

She thought it was John. For some reason she couldn’t picture, he told her they were going to start with rifles.

“Hey there, teach,” she called, still focused on the zipper. “Ready to show me your long gun?”

Silence.

It hit like a brick.

She looked up slowly, dragging her eyes from boots to black pants to the unmistakable slope of a broad chest under a grey Henley. Metal arm. Stubbled jaw. And that face. Oh god. That face.

Not stupid John.

“Bucky,” she breathed. The horror crept up her neck in a heatwave.

He blinked.

She scrambled to yank the zipper up in panic, gave up when it snagged under her chest, then crossed her arms to hide the worst of it, which only shoved her tits higher and made everything worse.

“I- uh- ” she stammered, backing toward the bench like she might vanish into the wall if she just concentrated hard enough.

Bucky’s voice came late. Gravel rough. “You’re not learning from Walker.”

She blinked.

“What?”

He stepped in, closing the door behind him. His jaw clenched once. “I’m teaching you.”

Silence again.

She wanted to die.

He hadn’t even blinked at her joke. No snort. No teasing comeback. Just that serious scowl and the ghost of something unreadable behind his eyes.

“I thought you said-” she started, still not daring to lower her arms.

“I changed my mind.”

Another beat.

Then, under his breath, almost too low to catch: “He’s not careful enough with you.”

Her heart kicked.

He didn’t look away. Just moved to the weapon rack methodically, like nothing had just happened. Like he hadn’t walked in on a living pin-up girl wrestling her zipper, talking about his long gun.

But his ears were red.

She exhaled through her nose and quietly regretted waking up at all that morning.

----

He handed her the rifle like it was made of glass.

“Start with the stance,” he instructed.

She nodded, lifting the long weapon with both hands. It was heavier than it looked, and she nearly tilted forward trying to keep it level. Her elbows wobbled. Feet shuffled on the mat. Then, squinting down the barrel, she bent her knees and leaned forward the way she’d seen in action movies.

Bucky made a noise.

Not a word.

Not a breath.

A noise.

His lips pressed into a line. He looked like someone who’d just bitten into a lemon and was trying to hide it. She was too focused to notice. Which was good. Because from behind, the way she bent into the stance, with her hips back, tight thighs under the stretch of her track pants, spine arched just enough to lift her ass like an offering, was testing his military-grade self-control.

He cleared his throat and walked forward like he wasn’t dying inside.

“Okay- no. You’re compensating too much.”

“What?”

“You’re sticking your ass out,” he said flatly.

She looked at him, half mortified, half amused. “Oh, so that’s your professional assessment, Sergeant Barnes?”

His ears turned red. “I’m just correcting your form.”

“Right.”

“Look,” he muttered, stepping behind her. “Feet shoulder-width. Hips square. Don’t tilt forward like that unless you wanna throw your back out.”

She smirked but followed directions. He reached out, -hesitated- then touched her shoulders very lightly to guide them back. She tensed under his hands. Not from discomfort, but something else. Awareness. Warm and prickly.

“Better,” he said, stepping to her side. His metal hand touched her wrist now. “Elbow up. Relax your grip. You’re not strangling the thing.”

“I didn’t know rifles were so delicate,” she murmured, still hyper-aware of him in her personal space.

He didn’t reply.

Because the sight of her shoulders pulled back, chest forward, arms braced in that stance, it was just too much.

In his head, he was screaming.

Professional. Stay professional. She’s trusting you. She’s trying. You’re a trainer. You’re a sandbag with instructions. Do not look down. Do not-

He looked down.

Her chest, barely contained by the track jacket, rose with each breath. A single drop of sweat slid down between her breasts and disappeared under the zipper that still refused to close fully.

He stepped back.

Farther than necessary.

“I’ll, uh. I’ll get the smaller rifle. That one’s… too much.”

He turned on his heel and walked off, jaw clenched, neck red, pretending he wasn’t about to re-evaluate every decision that led him to this exact moment.

They trained three times a week after that.

She was better than he expected, quick to learn, surprisingly capable once she stopped overthinking every movement. He still didn’t like it. Hated it, actually. But the touch-starved part of him -the one that had been pining for months- thrived under the excuse of proximity. Guiding her hand to the trigger. Adjusting her shoulders. Watching the way her eyes narrowed when she focused, the way she grinned when she nailed a shot. He got to stand close. He got to see her.

And she let him.

It was enough.

Until it wasn’t.

Like every other Saturday, he was chewing through a leg of an aggressively over-roasted chicken, sitting sideways on the kitchen bench with his legs stretched out and one boot hooked on the rung. Bob was mid-scrubbing dishes, with his sleeves rolled up and humming some offbeat tune under his breath.

Then came the death sentence.

“You know, it’s cool Yelena’s taking Y/n out tonight,” Bob said casually, flicking soap off his fingers. “It’s good they get to chill. She deserves it.”

Bucky didn’t look up.

Didn’t blink.

Just kept chewing.

Harder.

The meat turned to ash in his mouth.

Bob, kept going, oblivious. “I think they’re hitting that new place near the pier. The one with the neon sign that looks like a melting martini. Or a fish. Dunno.”

Across the room, something cracked.

The chicken bone, under Bucky’s grip.

“Right,” he said, voice like gravel. “Great.”

John didn’t miss a thing. He leaned back in his chair, with his arms crossed, smirking like a wolf catching scent of blood. “What? Don’t like your girlfriend going out?”

Alexei perked up like a dog hearing a squirrel. “Oh? You sly fox! Had it all covered up! So it wasn’t shooting lessons, eh?” He gave Bucky’s shoulder a hearty slap. “Were other kind of action? Da? Oh, Mister Soldier, you are so cool.”

Bucky threw him a sideways glare sharp enough to skin bark.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly. “And I don’t know what the hell you're talking about.”

Nonchalance didn’t suit him, his jaw was too tight, his voice too frayed. The tension sat around him like a storm cloud in a leather jacket.

John made a wheezing sound and shook his head. “God, you are so emotionally constipated, Bucky. One day you’re gonna blow up and take half the damn tower with you.”

Alexei blinked. “Ima… I am missing something in translation. Constipation and feelings do not go well in same sentence.”

Bucky’s eye twitched. His glare swept across both of them like a loaded weapon.

“I’m going out.”

No further explanation.

He dropped the bone-scarred plate in the sink with a loud clang and left the kitchen without a backward glance.

----

The kitchen fell silent.

“God, it’s painful seeing him like this,” John muttered, rubbing his face. “It’s not even fun anymore.”

“Da. I say, what if we do our Men’s Night here!” Alexei declared, triumphant like he’d cracked the formula for world peace.

“What?” John wrinkled his nose.

“We drink! We bond! We order from that new shawarma place with the 2-for-1 coupons I got as a special gift!”

“They give those to everyone. They hand them out on the street.” Walker muttered.

“They recognized me,” Alexei said, offended.

John gave him a look. “I’m not wasting my Saturday with you losers. Bucky brooding in a corner, Bob vacuuming in sweatpants, and you doing… whatever it is you do on Weekends.”

Alexei stared at him, unimpressed. “Oh, because you sure have a lot going on tonight, American Bachelor. Come on. It will be fun. Do it for Mister Soldier!”

“He doesn’t even like me.”

“Da. But he would. After tonight, eh? Alcohol and food strengthen friendship!”

“You do know we’re supersoldiers, right? We can’t get drunk. Or high, for that matter.”

“Uh-” Bob’s voice floated in meekly from the sink, one squeaky-clean dish still clutched in his hand. “I’m not proud of this, but… I could help you with that.”

Both heads turned toward him.

“See, Ava found… well, a lot of Asgardian ale once. Inside a wall. Don’t ask. She never told anyone.”

Alexei blinked. “Inside a wall?”

“I saw her disappear into the surface and come back with a bottle,” Bob shrugged. “That’s how I know.”

John frowned. “What wall?”

Bob pointed.

Without another word, John walked over and punched straight through it.

Plaster rained down, dust curled into the air, and nestled like a hidden altar, six bottles gleamed behind cracked drywall.

Alexei gasped like he’d just witnessed a birth. “I told you! Men’s Night! It is fate!”

John coughed through the dust. “This is stupid.”

Bob set the dish down. “We’re doing it?”

“We’re doing it,” Alexei grinned. “For Mister Soldier.”

“What if he doesn’t drink?” John asked after a beat, crossing his arms as the dust started to settle.

“Oh, he will,” Alexei declared, solemn and sure. “He is so manly. So cool. Like brooding tiger in small kitchen-”

“God, stop worshipping that asshole,” John groaned. “He’s not in the mood. Might not even show up.”

“Well…”

Two pairs of eyes slowly turned toward Bob.

“What if,” Bob began, twisting his hands, “we give him special muffins?”

“Da!” Alexei clapped. “With sprinkles and that Nutella thing stuffing! You’re such a good boy.”

“No- I… I meant a muffin that could, uh… make him a little merrier,” Bob clarified, dropping his gaze.

“Well Nutella muffins do that,” Alexei reasoned, proud of himself.

John ran a hand down his face. “Oh my god. He’s talking about getting Bucky high. Drugged. Doped.”

There was a pause.

John straightened his back with a pleased smile.

“And I’m so in.”

It was late afternoon when Alexei thudded into the common room, with blind optimism. “Bucky! Tonight we bond. Men’s night. Like real men. With food. And feelings.”

Bucky didn’t even look up from where he sat, sharpening a knife that didn’t really need it. “No.”

Before Alexei could plead, Bob shuffled in, all wide eyes, hands tucked behind his back like he’d rehearsed this exact moment in the mirror. “It’d be nice to chill a little,” he said softly. “Just… hang out. Please?”

Bucky looked up, met the kicked-puppy eyes, and his jaw worked like he was chewing gravel. “I’ll… think about it,” he said finally, voice low. “I’m tired.”

“You told me you don’t get tired,” Alexei pointed out smugly.

Bucky muttered without meeting his eye, “Emotionally tired.”

Silence stretched uncomfortably.

Then Bob, eyes lighting up with now or never, reached behind his back and presented something small and innocent, cupped in his palms. “At least take one of these. Y/n made them earlier. John and Alexei almost emptied the tin.”

He didn’t even get through the sentence before Bucky’s hand reached out and snatched the muffin like it might vanish if he waited.

“She made them?” he repeated, already halfway through the wrapper.

He bit in fast, like someone might try to steal it back. The sponge was warm, soft, sugary- but with something odd underneath. Something behind the sweetness, bitter at the roof of his mouth.

He frowned.

But then he glanced at the supposedly empty tin on the table and got distracted, scowling harder. “Should’ve saved me more,” he muttered, licking a crumb off his thumb.

Bob and Alexei shared a look.

Showtime.

----

It was already dark when she stepped out of her room, one heel on, one still clutched in her hand, the dress tugged halfway down her thighs as she hobbled to the hallway mirror. Short black dress, modest enough by most standards, but the V neckline dipped just enough to remind her why she always paired it with the golden earrings, something to balance the look. She only found one.

“Yelena!” she called out flatly. She didn’t even have to elaborate.

“Maaaybe I borrowed them?” the younger woman called back from her own room, with no hint of guilt.

“Yelena.” She sighed.

“And maaaybe I lost one in the kitchen or somewhere near the couch while dancing. But in my defense, I looked very good with them.”

With another sigh, she slipped on her second heel and made her way toward the common room to check. If she were lucky, Bob might have found it while doing his usual nighttime sweep of crumbs and inexplicably misplaced socks.

But as she turned the corner, '90s music hit her ears, loud, obnoxious, unapologetically nostalgic. High laughter. Male voices, overlapping and hollering. Glasses clinking. A plastic thunk against a tabletop.

She blinked.

What the hell-

The sight made her stop short.

Bucky, John, Alexei, and Bob sat huddled around the coffee table, with a half-collapsed Risk board between beer bottles and empty snack bowls. Bob looked like a benign god of war, deploying his little plastic soldiers across Asia while sipping from a glass of water. John was mid-yell, stabbing a finger at the board. Alexei was roaring with laughter, slapping his thigh so hard the couch creaked.

But it was Bucky who made her forget why she’d come.

He was laughing.

Not a scoff, not a breathy exhale of amusement, but laughing. Open-mouthed, with his body leaning back against the couch like he hadn’t carried the world on his shoulders for years. He made a circle with one hand and penetrated it with his index finger toward John in an unmistakably rude gesture, still chuckling as he stole a red soldier from the board and hid it behind his ale bottle.

She almost tripped.

What the hell were they drinking?

The three supersoldiers were clearly tipsy. No other word for it. Pink-cheeked, all glassy-eyed, loose-limbed. Whatever they’d found had bypassed their enhanced metabolism. She would bet Bob had something to do with it, but couldn’t prove it. But there he was, the only one completely sober, amused, controlling half the world map without a single drink. Still, it was a responsible thing to do, since no one knew what could make the void peek through some crack in his mind.

But it wasn’t Bob’s fault she couldn’t take her eyes off Bucky.

God. He looked… relaxed. Warm. Happy in a way she hadn’t seen before. It panged her chest in the worst -best- way.

Don’t look at him. You're here for an earring. She focused on Bob. Nice, predictable, unenhanced Bob.

Bucky’s eyes tracked her every move. Every sway of her hips. Every sparkle of skin not covered by the dress. His mouth parted slightly. His back pressed against the back of the couch as if he were bracing himself for a blow.

She stopped at Bob’s side and leaned slightly over the table. “Hey,” she said softly, “you haven’t seen one of my earrings around here, have you? Yelena borrowed them and thinks she left one in the kitchen or something.”

Bob blinked, like waking from a gentle trance. “Uhh- n-no. But I’ll help you look. Maybe it rolled under something?”

John caught Bucky’s expression and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Dude, that's so uncool."

“What?” Bucky grunted, eyes not moving from her.

“Have some dignity, man. You're practically drooling.”

Bucky didn’t look at him. Just muttered, “I think it’s time to tell that cookie to take a powder and go cut some rugs.”

John stared at him like he’d finally lost it. “I don’t understand half a word you say. What powder? What rugs?”

Alexei slammed his pint down. “I think Mr. Soldier wants to invite her to dance.”

“No. No-no-no.” John’s voice lowered to a sharp hiss as he leaned toward Alexei. “As much as I love to see him crash and burn, I’m not letting him throw himself into the fire before he’ve even boarded the damn boat.”

He turned back to Bucky. “Maybe it’s not the best time, Buck. She’s going out. This is men’s night. You gonna ditch us?”

There was almost hurt there, buried deep under John's usual smugness, but there. Maybe seeing Bucky relaxed, laughing, not shadowed by silence or some kind of grief, had touched something vulnerable in him.

Bucky, still staring across the room, shrugged one shoulder lazily. “Well, yeah. Look at 'er. If someone’s gonna swag with her, it’s gonna be me.”

John reeled back. “What is this? His ‘40s casanova era? And what- don’t say swag. It sounds dirty. And old.”

But Bucky wasn’t listening. He was already shifting, gripping the armrest with one hand, the other adjusting the hem of his shirt. Calculating.

John reached out and gripped his wrist. “Don’t.”

“What?” Bucky finally turned to look at him. “You wanna make love to her too?”

John made a strangled sound. “Okay. Ew. Don’t say it like that. I’m not trying to fuck her, I just-”

“I think Mr. Soldier means… if you are interested in her, or like her. In that manly, old-timey way of speaking,” Alexei chimed in, grinning like a gossiping aunt.

Bucky raised a brow, slowly and deliberately. “I don’t see how it’s any of your business either way.”

And with that, he rose to his full height, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and turned toward her, toward the woman in black, who had just straightened, with her earrings forgotten, because now he was coming.

----

She looked at him like a doe caught in the road, because one thing was the usual Bucky: Serious, broody, dry, grumpy. But this?

This was something else.

This was Bucky Barnes with his hair tousled back in a calculated sweep, like he’d done it a thousand times in mirrors with lipstick on his collar. Like he knew he looked good, knew it with the finger-snap confidence of a man who used to leave dances with someone on his arm every single time.

And he was walking toward her like he owned every inch of the floor he stepped on. Chin up, loose shoulders. A sexy smirk blooming slowly across his face.

“The fellas tell me you’re steppin’ out with Yelena tonight?” he asked, his voice was velvet and low, laced in something that sounded far too close to a purr.

Her lips parted. Her throat forgot how to work.

Behind him, John made a dramatic groan and slapped a hand over his own eyes.

“Uh- yeah,” she managed, dragging her eyes away from the collarbone peeking out of Bucky’s shirt. “She’s taking me to some club I’ve never heard of. Girls’ night. More or less what you’ve got going here, but…”

“But more high-tone?” he cut in, lifting one brow like he already knew the answer.

“A little,” she conceded, suddenly very aware of her bare shoulders and the heat of his gaze. He was looking at her like a man who knew all her tells.

He tipped his head, just slightly. “Well, sweetheart, you show up in a swell little number like that, and those clubs’ll be thick with chiselers tryin’ to make time.”

She blinked. “With what?”

“Chiselers,” he repeated, solemn as a preacher. “Sharp-dressed fellas with quick grins and slick intentions.”

Behind him, John groaned again. “Oh my god, he’s time-traveling. Somebody stop him.”

But Bucky wasn’t done. His voice dropped lower, the charm coming out his lips like it had never left. “Lucky for you, I’m around to keep those lounge lizards in line.”

She blinked. “So… you wanna come with us?” she asked, trying to keep her tone dry, unaffected, casual, though her voice pitched up at the end like it didn’t get the memo.

“More like with you, but yes,” Bucky said, straight-faced and warm-eyed, like he hadn’t just rearranged the atmosphere around them.

A flash of heat bloomed up her face. She opened her mouth, fumbled. “Uh- but Yelena…”

Bucky turned, scanning the room like a man surveying a poker table before placing a bet. His gaze landed on Bob, sitting primly with his water glass, a solitary yellow pawn in hand.

“Maybe…” Bucky drawled, one hand finding his hip, the other gesturing vaguely toward Bob without breaking eye contact, “Bob can come too. And we four can go have a little fun. What d’you say?”

Her stomach dipped. What.

This was definitely not the quiet man with a staring problem she secretly admired.

Asking her out? Softly trying to ditch Yelena? Proposing some sort of double date?

Her eyes dropped instinctively to his mouth, then to the Risk party behind him, as if the answer were hidden somewhere between the scattered pieces and unlabelled bottles.

He was too close. That was the problem. He smelled like leather and woodsmoke. His pupils were wide, swallowing up the blue like he'd stepped out of a memory and into a daze. He looked like he wanted to crawl under her dress and make himself useful there.

She narrowed her eyes, dropping her voice. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing,” said everyone, far too quickly.

Alexei raised his glass like a shield. “Mr. Soldier here only wants to bond a little, eh? Have a nice ni-”

“Bucky, honey,” she said, turning back to him, her voice as gentle as her hand reaching up to fix the front of his shirt, “what did you drink? What did you take?”

“Maybe I wanna take you-,” he started, voice syrup-slow.

She pressed a finger to his lips before the rest of that sentence escaped his mouth. He went quiet instantly, grinning behind her touch like a smug idiot. His eyelashes fluttered. He looked drunk on her.

Fuck.

She spun toward the other two supersoldiers, stalked over, her heels clicking sharply across the floor. She leaned in close enough for Alexei’s eyes to widen and John to shift in his seat.

“Tell me what the hell is going on,” she whispered-hissed. “And don’t give me that ‘Asgardian ale’ crap.”

They both looked, for once, appropriately ashamed.

“Well…” Alexei rubbed the back of his neck.

John offered a shrug that could be described as some level of guilt. “Maybe… we kind of doped him?”

Her jaw dropped. “You what?!”

“Just to loosen him up!” John hissed. “Like- get him to chill a little! Maybe the combination of getting him high and drunk was a bit much, but hey- he’s smiling!”

“Oh my god,” she hissed, looking back at Bucky.

Who, by the way, was currently spinning her missing earring between his fingers like a prize he’d just won in a festival just for her, and winked when she caught him.

He Winked.

She exhaled, slowly, willing down the disappointment. Right. Of course. He was intoxicated. That was all this was.

That’s why he’d cornered her with those warm, ruined eyes and soft, rakish confidence. It made sense now, so painfully obvious. It could’ve been her, Ava, Yelena, or a delivery person with the wrong timing. A warm body and a curious face.

She crossed the floor toward him, gently curling her hand around his wrist.

“Let’s get you some air,” she said quietly, tugging him away, ignoring how he let her lead him with that boyish smirk still playing at his lips.

She tossed a glare sharp enough to gut a man over her shoulder. The three still seated at the table winced like kids caught stealing candy.

Out on the balcony, the air was cool. Bucky leaned against the sliding glass door, running his hands through his hair, with a lazy grin stretching his mouth.

“Well, I wanted to dance,” he murmured, tilting his head toward her with a little shrug, “but I ain’t complainin’, dollface.”

“Bucky.” She kept her voice even.

“Hm?” he blinked slowly, eyes glossy and confident.

“You’re high.”

He scrunched his nose. “No, I’m not.”

“And drunk,” she added.

“Doll, you know I can’t.” His smile was crooked, defiant and soft.

“But you are,” she insisted. “So I’m going to sit with you a little, then see if I can purge it from your system. Yeah?”

“I’m not feelin’ bad.” He tipped his head back, eyes half-lidded as he looked at the sky. “In fact, I don’t remember feelin’ this good in decades.”

Her chest clenched.

That wasn’t fair. That made it worse. What was it to her if he wasn’t hurting anyone else? If he wasn’t hurting himself?

But he was. He was hurting someone. Her.

This -whatever he was doing- acting like he wanted something more with her, only now, only tonight, only when he was under some substance’s spell.

“Alright then,” she said carefully. “If you feel good… just stay with the guys, hm? I’ll go out with Yelena. Tomorrow you can tell me who won at Risk.”

He shifted visibly. His mouth fell open like he wanted to argue but couldn’t yet find the words. His brows drew together.

“If you don’t wanna go out,” he said slowly, “how ’bout a dance here?” His voice was soft again, tentative, hopeful. “Don’t make me beg, doll.”

Her heart stuttered.

“How about another day?” she said gently, stepping back just enough to put some air between them. “Trust me. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“For not acceptin’ a dance?” he asked. “You think I’m makin’ a fool outta myself?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just-” she began.

“Today’s the sixth of July,” he interrupted her. His tone shifted, serious, deliberate. “This mornin’ Ava ate the last of Walker’s sugar cereal and he pissed in her apple juice's bottle outta spite. We trained after breakfast. I taught you how to shoot a movin’ target with a Beretta, and you gave me three cherry candies you swiped from Yelena’s stash ‘cause you know I like the red ones.”

He took a breath. Didn’t blink.

“We didn’t see each other at lunch,” he continued, “but I know you went out to buy heels ‘cause you don’t own a proper pair and you were nervous ‘bout tonight.”

His gaze softened again. “I ain’t impaired, doll. Just-“ he reached up, combing his fingers through his hair, tousling it further, “uninhibited.”

She froze.

“Maybe I’m sayin’ the first thing that pops in my head. Maybe I’m talkin’ like a radio host from a bygone decade ‘cause I don’t give two shakes about findin’ the modern way to tell you what’s spillin’ out.”

He stepped closer.

“Okay,” she muttered, trying to sound stern, and failing. “One dance. And that’s it. But you’ll have to guide me, because-”

She didn’t get to finish.

Bucky caught her hand like he’d been waiting all night for the excuse, and in one smooth pull, he brought her against him.

His vibranium arm slid around her waist protectively. But it was the other hand -the warm one- that pressed low on the small of her back with possessive pressure. She barely managed not to gasp.

“‘Course I was gonna guide you, sugar,” he murmured, with mischief. He grinned, a flash of something old -young- too self-assured for the Bucky she knew. She pressed her hands on his shoulders, and then he started to move.

There was no music playing on the balcony. Just city sounds. Wind. The buzz of far-off traffic. The flicker of neon on glass.

But he was hearing something. That much was obvious in the way his head tilted, his shoulders rocked, and the cadence of his steps moved like an echo from another decade. The rhythm was slow, nostalgic. Something big-band, maybe, soft horns and a crooner’s voice threading the moment together in his mind.

Through the glass behind him, John, Alexei, and Bob were stacked like dumbasses at the edge of the living room, jockeying for a better view, faces half-lit by the apartment’s glow, whisper-arguing like overgrown kids at a school dance.

She looked away from them. Looked up at Bucky instead.

He was humming now. Not to her. Not even aware he was doing it, maybe. Just lost in whatever old tune was spinning inside his head, something warm, velvet-smooth. He had a ballroom behind his closed eyelids.

“You did this often?” she managed.

“Almost all weekends,” he said, words slurred not by drink, but nostalgia. His palm shifted slightly on her back. “Used to cut a rug like nobody’s business.”

“I bet you did.”

“Won a jitterbug contest in ‘39,” he said seriously, then laughed like he surprised himself remembering that. “Didn’t even plan on enterin’. Some girl pulled me in off the floor and said, ‘You got legs, use ‘em.’”

She swallowed.

He was… different. And not just because of whatever he took.

The natural charm. The half-smirk. The way he looked at her like she was a sure thing, and he was still the kind of man who could offer something worth saying yes to.

She felt her eyes go wet. Damn.

Because tomorrow he’d wake up with a predictable headache and maybe beat the shit out of John just for sport. He’d lecture Bob with that kind exasperation he reserved for people he secretly cared about, barking something about “drugging someone without their consent isn’t quirky, it’s a felony.” And he’d ignore Alexei entirely because you could never win against that man’s stupid arguments about good intentions and “power of friendship.”

But above all, he might not remember any of this.

Or worse, he would. And it wouldn’t mean to him what it meant to her.

That part was the sharp edge. The one she couldn’t dull with a smile or a healing touch.

One thing was secretly pining for him. She could survive that. She has been surviving it. It was almost fun, in its own pathetic way, watching him when he taught her shooting, stealing hours of intimacy disguised as routine. A hand on his arm as she guided him through a breathing exercise. The quick flick of her thumb across his temple to soothe him after a flashback. Getting to touch his skin under the guise of professional concern when she healed him.

That was her safe little corner of yearning. Controlled.

This was something else. This was another tier entirely. Pressed against his chest. Held by him. Stared at like a woman and not a teammate or a responsibility.

And she knew -knew- that it was going to cost her.

Because you didn’t survive someone like Bucky Barnes looking at you like that and walked away unburned.

Their bodies moved slowly, barely more than a sway. His breath warmed her temple, and the weight of his metal hand was solid at her waist. He kept humming that soft tune that probably hadn’t been on any airwaves in eighty years, and for a moment, -God for a moment- she let herself pretend.

That they were somewhere else. Somewhen else.

Her fingers pressed gently on his shoulders.

She didn’t want it to end.

But it had to.

She drew back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were still too bright, pupils wide and swimming in the low light from the tower. His lips parted like he was going to say something devastating again, something pretty and unfiltered, something he’d never say sober.

So she shook her head softly before he could.

“We should go back in,” she said, her voice barely louder than the city breeze.

Bucky’s brow furrowed, confused. “Already?”

She nodded, squeezing his shoulders lightly before stepping back. “One dance. That was the deal.”

He followed her retreat with a small frown, stumbling half a step like he wanted to close the gap again. “I could walk you out. Or tag along. You, me, Yelena, Bob-”

A smile tugged at her mouth, bittersweet and careful. “Not tonight.”

She reached up, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips.

“C’mon, sit down,” she said gently, nudging him toward the cushioned bench tucked against the balcony railing. He obeyed, blinking slowly, draping his metal arm over the backrest while his flesh hand reached to one of hers as she crouched in front of him.

“Tomorrow,” she murmured, maintaining his gaze, “you’re gonna hate them for what they did. You’re gonna yell at John, probably kick his ass. You’re gonna scold Bob. You’ll try to ignore Alexei, and fail.”

He gave a lopsided smile. “That sounds about right.”

“And, about this…” She hesitated, vaguely motioning her hand between them. “You’ll pretend that it was nothing.”

“That’s not fair to say,” he whispered.

She nodded, swallowing the ache. “No. It’s not. But it’s how this works, right?”

His fingers caressed hers. “You think I’m gonna forget?”

“No,” she murmured. “I think you’re gonna remember. And wish you hadn’t.”

She stood before he could answer, slipping her fingers from his. Her voice was quiet but firm as she added, “Stay out here a little. Cool off. I’ll go find Yelena.”

But his hand caught hers again. Not tightly, just enough to hold her there.

“What if I ask again tomorrow?” he murmured. A too sober question for someone that wasted.

She raised a brow, trying to match his tone with a smirk. “With a massive hangover and the outburst of vengeance in your heart, as Alexei would say?”

“Yeah.” He said it without blinking. He licked his bottom lip, not quite smirking now. “Even then.”

It stunned her for a second. Just a second. She held his gaze, then slipped her hand from his slowly. Didn’t step back yet. Just stood there, close enough for his knees to brush the hem of her dress. Then, with the gentlest smile on her mouth: “If you ask tomorrow… you’ll find out.”

And then she turned, walked back toward the glass door, ignoring the frantic scramble of limbs as Bob and John tried to act casual, as if they hadn’t been spying through the window like gremlins. Alexei didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.

She didn’t care.

Bucky leant back on the bench once she disappeared, with the city wind tousling his hair, and still feeling the ghost of her touch on his skin.

He smiled. Slow and crooked.

Because it hadn’t been a no, she would’ve said so if it had.

It was a careful maybe. A thread left loose for him to pull, if he wanted to. Because saying yes tonight would cost her if he didn’t follow through tomorrow.

This way… she stayed unexposed.

Unless he reached. Unless he asked.

Unless he remembered.

And he would.

What a coincidence to find you right here

Qué casualidad fue encontrarte justo acá

Me so high, you so alluring

Yo tan puesto, vos tan apuesta

How sophisticated it was to invite you to flirt

Qué sofisticado fue invitarte a coquetear

Me so slow, you so elegant

Yo tan lento, vos tan regia

You're beautiful, you're beautiful

Sos hermosa, sos hermosa

Taglist: @civilbucky @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska

Dividers by: @/enchanthings

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fluff #bucky fluff #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky x curvy!reader #bucky barnes/reader #thunderbolts!bucky

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mintyys-blog · 10 hours ago

Note

…dawgg whahshdd literally the most random thought ever but imagine one day, ONE day bringing it up to Mark how you’re considering getting nipple piercings and wanted his thoughts? ☺️

Like, you look real nonchalant asking about it and I can just imagine the reaction LMAO - Him processing the question, probably sputtering and blinking as he imagined you. With the piercings. Then mark becomes tomato and he just watches you’re neutral expression turned devious with a grin and a giggle. Like you WANTED to fluster him.

OHHH that’d be a fun thing to play on the variants lmao. You treat it like a joke when the marks are all 100% 👍🔥 about it. You alr planned to do it anyway but them wanting it def helps.

NEED YOUR OPINION (AND YOUR HANDS) | mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: nipple piercings, smut, nipple sucking

Mark was sprawled on the couch like usual, socked feet up on the coffee table, hair wild from the shower and a big bowl of popcorn balanced on his chest. It was a rare day off—no supervillains, no explosions, no flying off to space. Just a B-movie about mutant sharks and bad green screen.

And you ruined it instantly.

“So, I’ve been thinking about getting nipple piercings.”

He choked on a kernel so violently you had to pause the movie. He sat up straight, coughing and red-faced, pounding a fist to his chest like he was dying. “I’m sorry—what?!”

You blinked at him like you hadn’t just dropped a nuke in his lap. “Piercings. On my nipples. Y’know, like jewelry? I think they’d look really cute.”

Mark looked like you’d just short-circuited his brain. He stared at you, blinking dumbly while you tapped through pictures on your phone.

“These are so pretty,” you mused aloud, showing him options. “Look—this one has tiny diamonds. Oh, and this one’s got little star dangles. I’d love something with chains, too. Like, super delicate gold.”

Mark leaned over slightly, and you caught the exact moment his eyes registered the photos. His face went crimson so fast you actually giggled. That innocent, lopsided grin you gave him only made it worse.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, ears glowing. “You’re not serious. You’re just messing with me, right?”

You shrugged. “Dead serious. Why, you don’t like the idea?”

“I didn’t say that!” he said way too fast, then immediately bit his lip. “I mean—I don’t not like it. You’d…look good. Like, really good.”

You leaned closer, voice dipping teasingly. “You picturing it?”

“I’m trying not to!”

You raised your brows. “Aw. You didn’t already imagine what I’d look like with them?”

“Wh—!” His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “Okay, that’s a trap. I’m not answering that.”

You snickered and leaned back smugly, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Mmhm. Thought so. You’re so easy, Grayson.”

“I’m gonna combust,” he whispered to himself, burying his face in a pillow.

Three hours later, you were in the bathroom with a piercing needle, a saline spray bottle, and YouTube open to a DIY piercing video you definitely weren’t following closely enough.

“This is fine,” you muttered under your breath, heart racing. “This is definitely smart and fine and cool.”

The first one hurt like hell, but you powered through with grit and sheer spite. The needle shook a little in your hand, but you got the barbell in—barely—and hissed as you tried to screw the cap on with trembling fingers. “Ugh. Nope. Can’t reach.”

You called down the hall like you were asking him to grab the remote. “Babe! Can you come here a sec?”

Mark walked in with his usual casual saunter, shirt half tucked into sweatpants and a slice of pizza in hand—then froze in the doorway.

You were standing there in just pajama shorts, bralette pushed up, holding your breast in one hand like a war-wounded soldier.

“…I wasn’t ready for this,” he said weakly.

You smiled sweetly. “Can you help screw this on? My hands are shaking.”

His jaw dropped. “You already did one?! You said you were just thinking about it—!”

“I thought fast,” you said nonchalantly. “Just need help with the cap. I can’t grip it right.”

Mark looked terrified to move. “Am I—am I allowed to touch you? Is this like a medical emergency or a sexy trap or both?”

You laughed. “Mark, it’s a titanium barbell. You’re not going to turn me on by touching the metal. It just hurts to reach. Be a good helper.”

He approached like you were a live grenade. His hand hovered for a second before gently taking the end of the jewelry between two fingers, twisting it in slowly, carefully, lips slightly parted in concentration.

“Holy crap,” he muttered under his breath. “This is the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.”

“Careful, doc,” you said, smirking. “I might start calling you Dr. Grayson.”

He visibly faltered. “You are evil.”

You winked. “You love it.”

Once the first one was in, you sprayed it down and grabbed the second needle.

Mark’s eyes widened in alarm. “Wait, wait, you’re doing both tonight?”

You snorted. “You think I’m walking around lopsided? C’mon, be serious.”

He watched in awe and low-key panic as you did the second one yourself, breathing through your nose, eyes fluttering shut as the needle slid through. You winced again, but your hands were steadier this time.

After both were in, you stared in the mirror, head tilted thoughtfully.

“…I look hot as hell.”

Mark, who had not sat down the entire time: “Confirmed.”

You turned to him, smug. “Wanna see?”

His soul left his body. “YOU’RE LITERALLY SHOWING ME ALREADY—”

“No, like with jewelry. Later. I’m gonna get those chains I showed you.”

He made a strangled noise.

You pulled your bralette back down and sauntered past him like you hadn’t just personally restructured his brain chemistry. “Oh, and remind me to order some of that gold saline spray. This cheap one stinks.”

Mark just nodded silently, pizza slice forgotten in his hand.

You paused in the doorway, looked over your shoulder, and whispered like it was a secret: “You should see how good they look under thin shirts.”

Boom. Mark.exe has crashed.

TWO WEEKS LATER…

Mark was scrolling through his phone on your bed when you stepped out of the bathroom in a loose tank top—no bra. He glanced up once, not thinking much of it, until you turned just so, the fabric brushing against your chest and—

Click.

His brain shut off.

There was a soft glint under the shirt. A subtle outline. Just enough to confirm that yes—those were definitely the piercings. And they were healed. And you were showing them off on purpose.

“You’re staring,” you said, voice all silk and mischief.

Mark tried to look anywhere else. He failed.

“You’re doing this to me,” he mumbled, sounding personally victimized. “You planned this.”

You tilted your head. “Did I? Or am I just comfortable in my own home?”

Mark was already halfway under the covers trying to hide his face. “This is bullying. You’re a menace.”

You laughed as you climbed into bed next to him, casually stretching so the tank slipped again and the light hit just right.

Mark peeked. Groaned. “You’re literally killing me.”

“You’ll live,” you purred. He sighed, “I’m not so sure..”

It started the same way all your heated makeouts did lately—with you on top of him, lips tangled, fingers slipping under each other’s clothes. But the second your chest brushed his, you felt the shift. Mark paused. Just for a second.

You pulled back, slightly breathless, lips wet from kissing. “What’s wrong?”

He looked up at you with a flush creeping over his cheeks and a familiar, bashful look in his eyes.

“Nothing. I just…” he exhaled slowly, eyes dropping to the curve of your chest. “Are you sure they’re healed enough?”

You blinked, then smiled. Soft. Warm. Affectionate.

“They don’t hurt anymore, Mark.”

“I know,” he said quickly, pushing his thumb across your hipbone, grounding himself. “But you said that like, two weeks ago. And I—I looked it up.”

You snorted. “You Googled it?”

He looked offended. “Yeah? Of course I did! Six to twelve months for full healing? Cartilage tissue? Possible migration if they get irritated too early? I read like three blogs.”

You bit your lip to hide a grin. “So you’ve been suffering all this time out of scientific guilt?”

Mark groaned, head thunking against the pillow. “I just—if I touch them and it sets something back I will never forgive myself.”

Your smile softened into something sweeter. You leaned down, brushing your nose against his. “Hey,” you whispered. “I trust you. I know you won’t hurt me.”

He looked up at you with those wide brown eyes—so full of love and barely restrained hunger. “Okay,” he breathed. “But I’m going slow.”

“Good,” you whispered back, settling over him. “I want slow.”

His hands came up so gently it almost didn’t feel real. Fingers skimming under the edge of your top, knuckles grazing bare skin. He pushed the fabric up, waiting for your nod before fully lifting it off.

His breath caught.

There they were. Delicate titanium. A glint of gold. Nestled through soft, perfect skin. Slightly pink, but healthy.

You looked down at him and asked, so sweet it was cruel, “Well? You like?”

He laughed under his breath, absolutely wrecked. “That’s not a strong enough word.”

Then he sat up, kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck. One hand cupped your side while the other hovered near your chest, thumb brushing just beneath one piercing, not quite touching yet.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin. “You have no idea.”

“Mark,” you whispered, arching slightly into his hand. “Touch me.”

He finally did.

So carefully, so gently, like you were porcelain. His thumb grazed the jewelry first, testing pressure. When you didn’t flinch, he let his hand fully rest there, thumb rolling slowly over the metal, teasing but never rough.

You whimpered, thighs clenching tighter around his hips. “God, you’re so careful.”

“You deserve careful,” he murmured, kissing just above your breast. “And I’m gonna take my time.”

Then he kissed one. Slow. Open-mouthed. Right above the barbell. His tongue barely brushed the jewelry, and your whole body shivered.

You whispered his name, a desperate sound, hips rocking gently against the pressure of his body under you. He kept one hand on your waist and used the other to thumb at the other piercing—light pressure, just enough to make you twitch.

He looked up, lips parted, pupils blown wide. “You tell me the second it hurts,” he whispered. “Okay?”

You nodded, panting. “Yeah. Just—Mark—don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He kissed and touched and worshipped you. Moving so slow it was unbearable in the best way, teasing you until your legs were shaking and the only thing you could say was his name over and over again.

At one point, he paused just to look at you. Sweaty. Blushed. Piercings gleaming under his fingertips.

“You’re unreal,” he said, voice shaking. “Like—dangerous.”

You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss you deep and hot. “Told you I’d ruin you.”

He laughed breathlessly, grinding against you with more confidence now. “Mission accomplished.”

You were already breathless. Chest rising fast. Mark had you under him now—your crop top pushed all the way up, your hands in his hair, your legs tangled around his waist. He had his mouth on your neck, your jaw, your collarbone. His hands were everywhere but not quite there.

Until he glanced up at your chest.

At them.

His pupils blew wide again. Tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Can I—?” he rasped, already leaning down.

You nodded, dizzy. “Please.”

That was all he needed.

He sucked one into his mouth, slowly and reverently, lips parting just enough to slide over the piercing. You weren’t ready for how good it felt—the soft pull, the cool jewelry against his tongue, the wet warmth of his mouth sucking gently and carefully, like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment.

You moaned.

Loud.

Too loud.

The kind of sound that echoed off the walls and made Mark freeze, mouth still latched to your chest, eyes flicking up with sheer awe and panic all at once.

“Holy shit,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re gonna get us evicted.”

You didn’t care. You grabbed his hair and arched into him, gasping, “Don’t stop, oh my God, Mark—”

And he didn’t. He sucked harder.

One hand braced under your back while the other cupped your opposite breast, thumb gently rolling over the other piercing. His mouth was perfect—tongue flicking just enough to make you keen and rock your hips up against him in desperation.

Your nails dug into his shoulders. Your moans only got louder. Messier.

He popped off your chest for a second just to look at you—wrecked and trembling and desperate for more.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he said, voice wrecked and ragged, before ducking down to suck again, even slower, deeper, watching your eyes roll back like he’d just hit the jackpot.

You were trembling under him now, mouth falling open with each breathy, filthy sound you couldn’t stop making.

And when he dragged his teeth gently—not hard, just enough for pressure—you screamed.

Mark choked. “Baby,” he laughed, pulling back, flushed and amazed and terrified. “We’re gonna get a noise complaint.”

You pulled him back down by the collar of his shirt, already panting against his mouth. “Then make it worth it.”

His mouth was still wet from your skin. He’d just popped off your nipple, flushed and overwhelmed, trying to play it cool—but the second you tugged him back down by the collar and whispered “Then make it worth it”…

Something snapped.

He kissed you hard, teeth clicking, tongue already in your mouth. No hesitation. Just want. Raw and deep. His hips rutted against yours like his body had stopped asking for permission. You were already grinding up to meet him, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist.

Clothes were gone in a blur. His shirt discarded behind him. Your top yanked off, finally exposing the piercings completely—and God, the way his hands trembled as he looked at you, like you were too much and still not enough.

“Can I fuck you?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Please—baby, I need to.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Now. Right now.”

He was already reaching between you, fumbling with his boxers, swearing under his breath until he got them low enough to free his cock—hard, flushed, leaking.

You were soaked.

Mark lined up, and when he finally pushed in, the both of you groaned, your head falling back against the pillow.

He buried himself to the hilt, slow and deep, like he was savoring it. His hands braced on either side of your head, but his eyes?

Locked on your chest.

On the way your piercings moved with every bounce of your breasts. On the faint shine of the barbell as you clenched around him and moaned again, high and filthy.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice cracking. “You feel—fuck, baby—”

He thrust again. Harder. Your hands clawed at his back, dragging him closer, urging him deeper.

“You keep looking,” you whispered, smirking between gasps. “You wanna suck them again while you fuck me?”

Mark whimpered.

“God yes—fuck yes—”

He bent down and took one into his mouth again while still thrusting, rolling his hips against yours in a rhythm that made your brain short-circuit. His tongue circled the piercing while his cock dragged in and out of you—deep, steady, perfect.

Your moan tore out like a scream.

Mark cursed against your skin, mouth never leaving your nipple, like he couldn’t bear to stop. His other hand slid up to cup the opposite breast, thumb stroking the other piercing while his hips snapped faster.

You were close. He knew it.

And he didn’t stop. Not once.

“Scream for me,” he begged, voice wrecked. “Come on, baby—be loud—don’t hold back—”

And when he bit gently—just the faintest graze of teeth on metal—you shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave. Back arched, thighs trembling, a broken cry escaping your throat that probably did alert the whole building. You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

Mark nearly came just from watching you.

But he held on—barely—until you opened your eyes, dazed and glowing, and whispered, “Come inside me, Mark.”

He broke.

A ragged sound tore from his throat as he thrust deep once, twice more—and then he was spilling into you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, a mix of curses and your name falling from his lips like a prayer. You stayed tangled like that—sweaty, breathless, bodies molded together.

The room was hot and quiet. The kind of quiet that settles only after something loud—the kind that wraps around both of you like a warm blanket, heavy and safe.

Mark was still half on top of you, his cheek pressed to your shoulder, one arm wrapped tight around your waist like you’d disappear if he let go.

You ran your fingers through his damp hair, slow and soothing, until he let out a quiet, boneless sigh. His body was still buzzing, still trembling a little—not from exertion, but from emotion.

From how close he’d just felt to you. From how much it meant.

“Hey,” you whispered. “Still breathing?”

He made a weak noise that might’ve been a laugh. Or a groan. “Barely.”

You smiled, turning your head just enough to kiss his temple. “Too good?”

He pulled back to look at you, face flushed, lips swollen, eyes soft in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Baby,” he said, voice hoarse. “Too everything.”

Then he glanced down between your bodies—and froze.

“Wait—hold on—are you okay?” he asked suddenly, sitting up just enough to look at your chest. “Did I… I wasn’t too rough? Are they okay?”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in his tone. But then your heart melted.

“They’re fine,” you murmured, brushing his cheek. “Still shiny. Still attached.”

But he was already moving—carefully, gently—leaning down to kiss the skin around one piercing, then the other. Reverent. Tender. His hand ghosted over your ribcage, fingers so soft it made you shiver.

“You’d tell me if they hurt, right?”

You nodded. “Of course I would.”

He exhaled shakily. “Okay. Good.”

And then he lay down beside you again, pulling the blanket up over both of you, pulling you tight against his chest like he wanted to shield you from everything.

His thumb traced circles over your hip.

“You know I didn’t just like them because they’re hot, right?” he murmured, almost shy. “It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your throat tightened.

“I know,” you whispered. “But… hearing you say it still makes me melt.”

Mark smiled, soft and sleepy and in love.

You cuddled closer, cheek pressed to his chest. His heartbeat was slow now, steady under your palm.

A few minutes passed before he spoke again—barely above a whisper.

“You make me feel like I’m home.”

You turned your face into his skin, hiding your expression, suddenly too full of warmth to speak.

He rubbed your back.

“You’re so loud, by the way,” he added playfully. “Like, I think I blacked out somewhere around your second moan.”

You snorted. “You’re welcome.”

He grinned. “No complaints. Just… maybe next time we tape a sign to the door?”

You laughed, curling into him, kissed-out and safe and so loved.

“You still thinking about dying if I get anything else pierced?” you murmured against his collarbone.

Mark groaned dramatically. “I swear to God, if you come home with a tongue piercing, I will ascend to another plane of existence.”

“Promise?”

He cracked up, kissed the top of your head, and held you tighter. “God help me,” he whispered. “I’m so gone for you.”

#mark grayson x reader #x reader #reader insert #x female reader #invincible x reader #invincible #mark grayson #mark grayson smut #smut

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fic-girlie · 2 days ago

Text

All that I see

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x f!reader Summary: Insecure about your body, you pull away — but Pedro’s love helps you see yourself through his eyes. With his support, you learn to embrace who you are. Warnings: body image issues, insecurity, angst, soft Pedro, explicit smut (+18), unprotected sex, p in v sex, aftercare, supportive Pedro A/N: It was made by another request from @kellyxo1, so thank you!

The laughter in the next room makes you flinch.

It starts as a light trill—carefree and bright—and then it sharpens, cutting through the air like fine glass. Feminine voices layer over each other, weaving between flirtatious teasing and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. The soft thud of a heel on hardwood. Another giggle.

Someone’s perfume trails into the hallway like smoke—musky jasmine with a vanilla finish—and even though you can’t see her, you know who it is. She had kissed Pedro on the cheek when she arrived, lingered a little too long near his side, and you’d watched from the corner of your eye while pretending to tidy the drinks tray.

You shift your weight against the kitchen counter, your arms crossed, hands tucked deep into the cuffs of Pedro’s oversized hoodie. The fabric is worn and warm and still faintly smells like him—cedar and something leather-soft, familiar. You burrow into it, pulling it tighter around you like it could protect you from the way you feel.

You tell yourself not to look toward the doorway again. But you do.

From this sliver of an angle, you can see the edge of the living room. Just the corner of the couch, the pale spill of light from the chandelier, and one perfectly manicured hand resting casually on Pedro’s forearm. Her laugh cuts across the room again.

You stare down at the floor.

The insecurity doesn’t slam into you—it creeps. A slow, quiet thing, like water seeping under a closed door.

You know you’re beautiful. That should be enough. You're a working model, after all. Booked and praised. But it never feels like enough, not really—not when the lingerie jobs come in and you say no before you even read the offer. Not when you remember the fitting for that swimwear campaign and how you stared at your reflection too long, wondering if they’d notice your chest wasn’t quite full enough to hold the cut of the top.

They didn’t say anything. But you could see it. The slight shift in the stylist’s face, the way she made a note in her phone. It stuck with you.

You walk slowly to the sink, pick up a clean glass, and rinse it as if it needs something. Anything to do with your hands. Water rushes over your fingers, warm and steady, and you stare through it, your jaw tight. You think of their voices again—co-stars, stunning women who move like they don’t question the space they take up.

You remember what one of them whispered last week, when she thought you were out of earshot.

“She’s got a pretty face, but she’s more�� artsy model than sexy. Kind of flat, don’t you think?”

The words had rolled over you like a soft wave with a hidden undertow.

You never said anything. Not even to Pedro. Especially not to Pedro.

Because what if they were right? What if you were the exception in his world, the woman who was nice and kind and cool enough to be with—but not the kind who turned heads in the same way. Not the kind who made people say of course he’s with her.

You feel it every time someone looks at the two of you. A pause. A question. Her?

You set the glass down, a little too carefully.

And then you hear it—his voice. Pedro. Deeper, grounded, threaded through with something warm and soft that always seems to pull you out of yourself.

“Hermosa?” he calls out, just loud enough to reach the kitchen, but not loud enough to be heard over the music. “You okay?”

There’s a beat. You hesitate.

You want to say yes. You want to walk in there with your head high, to sit next to him and pretend none of this gets to you. But the words catch in your throat, like a pebble lodged there.

Instead, you dry your hands slowly and glance toward the mirror that hangs on the far wall. You study your reflection with a clinical eye—your lips, the outline of your chest under the hoodie.

You look like someone trying to disappear into fabric.

The hoodie makes your shoulders look small, your frame even narrower than it is. You used to like that. Now you’re not sure.

You walk into the living room anyway.

Your smile is practiced, soft at the corners, the kind you’ve worn to castings and red carpets. It never quite reaches your eyes.

Pedro’s standing near the fireplace, drink in hand. His sleeves are pushed up slightly, revealing the curve of his forearms, and his hair curls just a little at the nape—still slightly damp from his earlier shower. His laugh rumbles in his chest at something one of the women says, but his head turns the moment he sees you.

And he always sees you.

He hasn’t done anything wrong.

Pedro never makes you feel less. Not once. Not in private. Not in bed. Not when he cups your cheek like he’s memorizing every inch of you or runs his hands over your body like worship.

Not when he whispers hermosa into your skin like a prayer. Not when he looks at you like you’re the sun.

But the truth is, sometimes his light makes your shadows sharper.

It’s not him.

It’s everything around him.

The world that eyes you sideways, that asks, “What does she do?” even after knowing you’re a model. The world that puts you side-by-side with his co-stars and makes you feel like you have to justify why he chose you.

His gaze lands on you like an anchor. It softens instantly—eyes creasing, mouth tipping into the kind of smile that’s only ever meant for you.

But the woman next to him doesn’t miss it.

Neither do the others.

You see it in the way their gazes follow his and then flick to you. There’s a subtle shift in the air, like heat in a room you didn’t notice until someone closed the door. One of them raises a brow. Another glances at your hoodie, then at your legs, then smirks to herself before sipping her wine.

They say nothing. But it echoes louder than words.

Your stomach tightens.

Pedro lifts his arm as if to welcome you in—to touch you, hold you close, tuck you under his side like he always does. And God, you want that. But right now, every cell in your body is coiled tight with the fear of being seen, really seen.

“I just need to check something real quick,” you say quickly, voice light, feigned ease. “Left my phone charging.”

Pedro’s face flickers with something—confusion? Worry? But he doesn’t push. He just nods, slow, eyes following you as you back toward the hallway.

You slip into the bedroom and close the door behind you.

The sound is soft. Final.

You lean back against it, hoodie still tight around you, and let your head fall back with a quiet, shuddering breath.

You hate this. The way the noise from the party fades through the walls while the noise in your head gets louder. The way even Pedro’s kindness—his devotion—can’t always silence the doubt rooted deep inside you.

You tell yourself this is just a bad night.

But in your chest, it feels like the truth.

——

You were quiet again.

It had been a few weeks since the night you avoided Pedro’s touch. Since the moment his lips had hovered just beneath your ribs and you’d gently, insistently, tugged his curls and whispered, Not tonight. He hadn’t pushed. He never did. But something had changed.

Not in him. Not outwardly, at least. He was still his tender, attentive self—always checking in, brushing your hair from your eyes, calling you mi amor in that low, molten voice like it belonged only to you. Still warm in the kitchen over morning coffee, still eager to wrap you in an oversized hoodie when you’d come in from errands, still smiling at you with that softened, starstruck expression when he thought you weren’t looking. But it was there, in the way his eyes followed you longer, slower, searching. Watching you retreat inside yourself like you were folding, quietly, into a smaller shape.

And you had been. Retreating, bit by bit. Skimming past mirrors faster. Turning away when Pedro would come up behind you with his arms loose and affectionate around your middle, trying not to flinch when he pressed kisses into the curve of your neck. You still loved him—God, more than anything—but something deep inside you kept pulling taut like a wire drawn too tight. A coil of shame, anxiety, and self-doubt wound into your very core.

You weren’t sure when it started.

Maybe it was the comments under a photo—one of those soft candid shots he posted of you two in the kitchen, your head resting on his shoulder as he cooked. You in a t-shirt, his hand on your hip. You remembered it so clearly—how safe you’d felt in that moment, how natural.

But the comments were ruthless.

Doesn’t look like his type. She’s cute, but she looks like a teenager. No curves? Odd choice for Pedro. Flat as a board. Is she twelve?

That one gutted you.

It wasn’t the first time either. Whispers on set when you visited him. The glance a co-star had given you before turning to another with a smirk. They didn’t hide it, not really. She’s sweet, one had murmured too loudly, but she doesn’t have the kind of body I’d model with. Another, even more brazen, laughed and said, Pedro always did have a thing for the shy ones, huh?

You hated that it got to you. You hated how much it sunk in.

Because you were a model. Technically. You’d done editorial spreads, art-house fashion campaigns, brands that prized mood and face and presence—but never lingerie. Never anything that showed too much skin. Not because you were modest, not really. But because you were afraid. Afraid of being compared. Afraid of the world confirming what you already suspected.

That you weren’t enough.

So you pulled away. You turned down two new campaigns that featured sheer or open fabrics. You didn’t tell Pedro. You just said you were being picky. And you grew quieter. Shrinking from his praise. Laughing a little less. Avoiding his gaze when he told you you were beautiful.

You didn’t notice him watching you now, across the living room, until you heard his voice—low and careful.

"You gonna tell me what’s going on, sweetheart?"

You blinked, startled out of your thoughts. You were curled up on the far end of the couch, blanket over your knees, your phone in your hands though you weren’t looking at it. Pedro sat on the other side, body turned toward you, brows drawn tight with concern.

You swallowed. Forced a smile. "What do you mean?"

He let out a slow breath. Not irritated—never that—but aching, almost. His voice softened.

"I mean... you’ve barely said more than a sentence at a time the last few days. You won’t let me touch you like I used to. And I know something’s wrong—I just don’t know what."

You looked down at your lap. Your fingers twisted the blanket.

"I’m just tired," you mumbled.

Pedro shifted closer, his hand coming to rest on the couch between you, not quite touching you yet.

"You’re allowed to be tired. But this is different. This is... something else. You’ve been carrying it like a weight."

You blinked hard. Your throat burned.

He was so good. So patient. And you hated this. Hated feeling like some broken thing in the presence of someone so endlessly whole.

"I just—" Your voice cracked. You shook your head. "I don’t want to talk about it. It’s stupid."

His brow furrowed deeper, but he didn’t push. Instead, he spoke even quieter.

"It’s not stupid if it’s hurting you."

You bit the inside of your cheek until you tasted copper. Your hands were trembling now beneath the blanket.

He saw it. And that was what finally made you speak.

"It’s about my body," you whispered. "About me."

Pedro was still. Listening.

You inhaled sharply, voice falling out in pieces. "People say things. About me. About how I look. How I’m not... enough. Not the kind of woman they expect you to be with."

You couldn’t look at him.

"They say I’m flat. That I look like a girl, not a woman. That I don’t deserve someone like you. And I know I shouldn’t care, but it’s everywhere. And your co-stars—they look at me like they agree. Some even say it out loud. And I—"

Your voice cracked. You laughed bitterly. "I didn’t even want to model anymore. I turned down jobs because I didn’t want to see myself in something that would prove them right."

You paused. The silence between you was full.

Then, barely above a breath: "I didn’t want you to see me, either. Not like that.”

A quiet exhale from him. Something deep and shaking.

Then he moved.

Not to touch you. Not yet. First, he knelt in front of you on the floor, his hands resting on the edge of the couch, eyes level with yours. Dark and warm and glassy.

"Look at me, cariño."

You didn’t want to. But you did.

His voice was low. Steady. Like a lifeline.

"You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. And not just in some abstract, I-love-you-so-I-say-it way. I mean it. Every single part of you—your eyes, your mouth, the curve of your waist, the line of your collarbone, your chest. All of you. I’ve memorized you. And I never once looked at you and thought you weren’t enough."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going.

"The people saying that shit? They don’t know you. They don’t get to have opinions about what makes you desirable, what makes you a woman. You’re not just enough, you’re everything I want. Everything I crave. And it kills me to know that you’ve been hurting like this and felt like you had to hide it from me."

He reached for your hand now, slow and gentle.

"You never have to hide from me, baby. Not ever."

You broke. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but soft and quiet and real. Your eyes welled, breath hitched, and you leaned forward like your bones couldn’t hold you anymore. Pedro caught you. Pulled you into his arms with so much care it nearly shattered you. One hand cradling the back of your head, the other circling your waist, fingers splaying across your back like he could shield you from every word, every gaze, every inch of self-doubt you’d ever held inside.

You buried your face in his neck. Let the tears come.

And he held you.

He held you until you calmed, until your breathing slowed, until your hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. He pressed kiss after kiss to your temple, your cheek, your hairline.

"I’ve got you. I’ve always got you."

And when you finally pulled back to look at him, there was something in your eyes that hadn’t been there for weeks—trust, clarity, a kind of hesitant hope.

You didn’t say anything.

But you kissed him.

Softly at first, like you needed to remember how. Then again, slower, deeper, your hands cupping his jaw as his breath caught against your mouth.

And you knew, just from the way he kissed you back—steady, reverent, aching with love—that he meant every word.

And maybe, just maybe, you could start to believe it too.

——

The soft glow from the bedside lamp bathes the room in a warm, golden light, the shadows dancing gently on the walls as Pedro’s hands never cease their worshipful exploration of your skin. Every inch of you, from your collarbone to the curve of your waist, he treats like sacred ground, as if your body is the most precious thing he’s ever touched. The slow, rhythmic motion of his thumbs on your breasts sends tiny electric jolts of heat through your core, and you find yourself melting into him, the earlier insecurities dissolving like mist.

Your breath hitches when his mouth trails down from your jawline to your neck, his teeth nibbling just enough to make you shiver without pain. He pauses, lips brushing a tender kiss along the hollow of your throat before his hands travel lower.

You let your eyes flutter closed, your body arching instinctively toward his touch as Pedro’s fingertips brush along the lace of your underwear. Slowly, deliberately, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, the contrast between the cool lace and his warm skin sending a shiver through you.

Pedro’s voice is a low murmur against your skin, “You don’t have to be afraid here. I want to know every part of you.” The tenderness in his tone wraps around you like a soft blanket, soothing the last flickers of doubt.

When he finally slides your panties down, it feels like an act of trust—sacred, slow, and full of reverence. His eyes never leave yours, searching for any sign that you want to stop, that you want more, or that you simply want to be held. Instead, you reach up to cradle his face, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him close for a deep, soul-stirring kiss that speaks of promises and belonging.

Pedro’s body aligns with yours as he slides between your thighs, his warmth pressing against your bare skin, filling you completely. You gasp softly at the sensation, a delicious mixture of fullness and closeness. His hands cradle your hips, holding you steady as he begins to move—slow, deep, and measured.

Each thrust is a whisper, a conversation between your bodies, a dance choreographed by trust and desire. You feel the heat of him with every movement, the pulse of his heartbeat syncing with yours beneath the soft sheets. His lips trail back to yours, the kiss deepening as your hands explore the strength in his shoulders, the muscles taut beneath his skin.

Pedro’s breath fans warm against your cheek as he murmurs, “You’re mine. So beautiful, so perfect. I love every part of you.”

Your fingers clutch at his back, your body trembling with waves of pleasure that build gradually, each crest higher than the last. His hands slide up your sides, fingers pressing into the softness of your skin as he holds you close, grounding you in the moment.

When he shifts, adjusting his angle to hit you deeper, your breath catches in your throat, and a soft moan escapes your lips. Pedro responds with a growl of pleasure, his hips moving with steady, patient rhythm—never rushed, never rough—always tender and deliberate.

You feel utterly seen, utterly loved, every fear and insecurity melting away beneath the heat of his gaze and the softness of his touch. Your body moves with his, slow and fluid, an intimate melody of skin on skin, heartbeats echoing in the quiet room.

Pedro’s hands find your breasts, his thumbs brushing your nipples gently, coaxing them to harden beneath his touch. The sensation sends sparks of heat trailing down your spine, your body arching toward him as he leans down to kiss along your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck.

Your lips part, breath hitching as he deepens the connection between you, his mouth worshipping your skin with an almost sacred devotion.

When the waves of pleasure finally crest, it’s like the world falls away—just you and Pedro, bodies entwined, hearts pounding, the soft glow of the lamp witnessing your love in its purest, most vulnerable form.

He stays with you, arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body, his breath slow and steady against your ear as you both come down from the intensity of the moment. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your skin, grounding you, holding you safe.

“I love you,” he whispers again, voice thick with emotion. “All of you.”

And this time, you believe it—not just the words, but every touch, every look, every breath you share.

——

The weeks after that night on the couch and in the bedroom unfold gently, like a quiet dawn breaking after a long, restless night. Pedro’s words echo in your heart every day — I love every part of you. It’s a promise, a truth, and slowly, it begins to dissolve the walls you’ve built around your insecurities.

You find yourself noticing the small changes first. How you catch your reflection in the mirror and don’t immediately flinch. How you stand a little taller when you enter a room, your shoulders easing away from the weight of self-doubt. The old fears that clung to you — about your chest, your body, the whispers from others — they don’t disappear overnight, but they lose their sharp edges.

One afternoon, you’re back at the studio for a new photoshoot. The folder with the campaign’s styling details sits on the table before you. It’s a lingerie campaign — something you would have turned down without a second thought a month ago. But now, looking at the delicate lace and satin pieces, the bold yet elegant designs, you feel a strange flutter of excitement instead of dread.

Your fingers trace the images in the folder, and you take a deep breath. The thought of stepping in front of the camera wearing these pieces no longer feels like exposing your flaws. It feels like reclaiming your power.

That evening, Pedro’s waiting for you when you get home, his eyes lighting up the moment you walk through the door. He pulls you into a warm hug, his hands steady and sure on your back.

“How was the shoot?” he asks softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You smile, your heart swelling with a new confidence. “It felt… good. Different. I’m thinking about saying yes to the campaign.”

Pedro’s grin is slow and proud. “That’s amazing. You should always say yes to what feels right for you.”

You settle beside him on the couch later, your fingers intertwining. “You know, I was scared. Scared of what people would say or think. But after everything — what you said, what we shared — I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He cups your face gently, thumb tracing your cheek. “You don’t have to hide from me. Or anyone. You’re perfect as you are.”

The night stretches on with soft kisses and whispered promises, but this time, your body moves with ease, with joy, not with hesitation.

——

In the following weeks, the campaign begins. The fittings, the shoots — each moment feels like a small victory. You wear the lingerie not as armour but as celebration. The camera catches your natural curves, the confidence radiating from within. Your smile comes easily, no longer forced or shy.

When you scroll through social media, you see comments under the campaign’s posts — some kind, some less so. But they don’t reach you. You’ve learned to sift through the noise, to hold tight to the truth of who you are. Pedro’s presence is your anchor.

One evening, after a long day, you and Pedro lie together on the balcony, the city lights flickering below like stars brought down to earth. He pulls you close, his voice soft in the night air.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Stronger. Braver. More beautiful than ever.”

You rest your head on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear. “Thank you,” you whisper. “For believing in me when I couldn’t.”

Pedro’s hand strokes your hair, warm and gentle. “I always will. No matter what.”

In that moment, you realize the journey wasn’t just about your body or the opinions of others. It was about learning to love yourself — fully, fiercely, and without apology.

And with Pedro by your side, you know you never have to doubt your worth again.

#pedro pascal #pedropascal #jose pedro balmaceda pascal #pedro pascal fanfic #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal x f!reader #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom

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twstfanblog · 2 days ago

Note

Can I request Jamil just getting loved on by your Yuu? His repressed ass needs it. Here, get your hair played with. Take a nap on your girls thick ass thighs. Listen to your weird music playlist. Chill tf out

Relaxed Against Your Will

Jamil x Yuu (OC)

Kalim didn't text Yuu often. One part was from Jamil, who claimed it was a distraction that quickly spiraled into something horrible, caused by their joint stupidity. But it was mostly because Kalim just liked telling people things in person. Kalim still texted, but it was more of a useless alarm that he was en route to their location with news. So, Yuu wasn’t all that surprised when her phone chimed ‘Hey Macareana!’ and Kalim appeared. The housewarden had quickly taken her aside, looking around as though he were about to give her secrets of his country’s royal family, which only happened one time, surprisingly enough. Instead, he had asked a simple request of her.

“Jamil’s been…busy lately. I think he needs to take a break, but he doesn’t listen to me when I tell him he can have the night off to relax. I even offered to order dinner in for the dorm and then he got really offended-”

Yuu held her hand up, already nodding her head. The complex dance of getting Jamil to unclench his jaw was one she knew all too well, “No worries, Kalim. I know what to do. Just…Don’t let anything happen to you before next week rolls around. Because I think he’d explode.”

“Yeah…We don’t want that, right?”

“No, Kalim. No, we don’t.”

“Got it.”

So, Yuu did her normal routine of attempting to seduce Jamil into relaxing. Flirtation, mild bribery, and even ‘Pixie-Style’ trickery as Malleus called it. Nothing had worked and the weekend was fast approaching. After another failed attempt, promising Jamil prime cuddles and thigh pillow naps if he came to Ramshackle, Yuu had decided to use more…dire means.

At the midpoint of the NRC basketball team's practice, Yuu had walked into the gym with a smile on her face. Jamil noticed her, sighing but jogging over to greet her with a brief kiss and an annoyed look.

“What are you doing here? You hate the gym.”

“I hate how it smells like sweat. But, I have another offer to make you.”

With an eyeroll and groan, Jamil folded his arms and raised a brow toward her.

“I've set up a hot pot in your room. Azul got our matching hoodies professionally cleaned and I have a wonderful selection of media that I know for certain you would enjoy.”

“I'm in the middle of basketball practice. I have an essay to start. I also still haven't meal prepped for the weekend because someone was threatening to walk around the dorm with ‘her titties out’ last night unless I sat down and read a book for two hours. Sorry, hayati, I'm too busy to spend time with you. We can schedule something at a later date.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“...” Jamil briefly looked away from her, a million thoughts racing in his mind before he looked back at her, “Yes.”

“Ok. FLOYD!”

The eel in question paused, pulling the basketball away from his open mouth, “Yeah, Shrimpy?”

“Remember that thing I asked you to do for me a few days ago?”

“...Oh!” Floyd's eyes light up, excited as he reached into his pocket and pulls out a small brown object. Giggling, as he winded up and launched it directly at the back of Jamil's head.

Jamil, making the terrible choice to turn around, yelled out at the object hitting him in the middle of his forehead. He stumbles back, hands over his face as he groaned, “What was that!?”

“Avocado pit.” Yuu, unphased, bent down. Grasping Jamil from behind his legs and lifted the Junior over their shoulder, fireman-carrying their mildly bludgeoned boyfriend out of the gym.

Kalim found them a few hours later, smiling at the scene he walked in on. On the vicewardens's bedroom floor were Yuu and Jamil, each in hoodies with snake-patterned sleeves and large headphones. The hotpot station was within reach of both of them even though Jamil had his face firmly squished against Yuu's exposed thighs while she gently carded her free hand through his loose hair. He walks in, smiling as Yuu was kind enough to offer him a slice of cooked beef.

“Glad to see Jamil's relaxing properly.”

“And I only had to give him a mild concussion.”

Kalim looked over their headphones, tilting his head in curiosity, “What are you guys listening to? Music?”

Yuu only smiled, taking her headphones off and handing them over to the housewarden, “True crime podcasts from my world. Have a listen.” Taking their time to hand-feed Jamil while Kalim listened.

“Huh? Are there ‘fake crimes' in your world? He placed the headphones on, tapping the button on the ear.

“-her arms were cut off, her legs were cut off, her ears were cut off, her tongue was cut off, her nose was cut off, her eyeballs were plucked out, her eyebrows were then waxed, her tongue was sliced open, her hair was cut off-”

Kalim slowly removed the headphones, handing them back to a smiling Yuu, “Yeah, this isn't for me…”

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twst #twst wonderland #yuu oc #jamil viper #jamil x yuu #requests

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breadandblankets · 1 day ago

Text

Stephanie Brown, not the Spoiler, pokes her head into the Hatch at around 5 pm, Duke hadn't checked the time in a while.

"How are you holding up?" she asks.

"Man, people keep asking that," Duke shakes his head. "But like, I'm fine?"

Steph cocks her head a little.

"You think he's lying?"

Steph always had a knack for asking the important questions. Duke pauses for a moment to mull through his answers.

"No, no I don't think he was lying. It just- It doesn't matter."

"Practically," she starts, and Duke has the urge to snort a little. "It matters a little. There's some big bad out there out for you specifically."

"Okay, sure sure, that matters," Duke agrees, rolling his eyes. "But I'm not about to start calling that asshole dad and invite him to dinner."

Steph laughs a little at that.

"Yeah don't do that," she says. She lets them lap into silence for a moment.

She breaks it after a while: "Your parents are important to you right?"

"Of course," he squints at her suspiciously. "Where are you going with that?"

Steph just shoots him a knowing look.

"That's why people keep asking you how you're doing."

Duke's teeth grit together almost involuntarily.

"Just cause he donated material doesn't make him my father," he snaps. "He doesn't get to do that."

Steph doesn't say anything, just waits. She must think he's not done, but he feels done. Like the weight of the week is pressing down on all sides, like he's learning how to swim all over again.

Words bubble up from his throat without his say-so.

"I miss my dad, Steph," its barely above a whisper, when it finally escapes his lips.

Sometimes he feels silly telling her or Cass this, that he misses his parents with everything that he is. That he wishes against the rules of the universe and everything that he could just go back.

He doesn't know if he'd hang up his cape to go back, he can see the outline of the kid he could have been, the man he could have grown into. Maybe he would, put up the heroing and change the world with his mind instead of his fists.

That better, kinder world he reaches for but never grasps.

"Do you want a hug?" she asks.

He's shaking.

Huh.

"Yeah," he says, almost desperate for the anchor back to earth.

She's warm and soft the way Cass isn't. Hugging Cass is always a prayer to whoever is listening that you don't get poked with some new bone she's invented.

"I'll spare you any speeches," she mumbles into his shoulder. "You're the last person I'd try to tell about finding your own path and finding agency."

"Damn right."

She laughs and its a good sound, always has been. Duke likes hearing his friends laugh.

Out of nowhere she speaks again: "You want us to kill that guy for you? Because we can totally kill that guy for you."

A laugh startles out of Duke so fast he almost chokes.

"I don't think you can do that," he says. "Like physically."

"Plus Ultra!" Steph says, flexing.

Duke squints at her and the sudden bright light she's emitting.

"How did you do that with your face?"

"Blonde superpower."

"That is not real."

"I traded my eyebrows for this shut up."

Maybe this isn't the dark cruel timeline he imagines it to be. It's bleak, its miserable, but it isn't hopeless. Never really was, now that he thinks about it, maybe he's just sad.

His dad's going to be alright, his mom's going to be alright.

He's going to be alright.

#batfam #duke thomas #stephanie brown #bread talk #we all have a bad case of the stephs alright #just thinking about duke and steph talking post gnomon reveal and this is where we are #i don't think duke gives a fuck that gnomon is his sperm donor #you dont get to swoop in at the last minute and claim all the credit okay his dad is DOUG FUCKIN THOMAS #he IS the dad that STEPPED THE FUCK UP #this is just some yellow guy that got his shit rocked that one time #vs steph who idk wanted? her dad to be better to be her dad and he failed time and time again so she would ensure the AOE on that was #just her family #i think in some ways steph misses her dad too #or at least the idea of him #steph-perts tell me im wrong and also dumb lmao #i love them theyre homies

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midnight-mourning · 2 days ago

Text

Follow the Leader

i wrote this for fake currency on a discord server, please enjoy

(house fans this is meant to be crack please dont take it seriously thank u love u)

Pairing: House X Wilson

Words: 1598

The door opens with a click, slamming shut behind House as he walks inside. He throws his keys somewhere to the side, maybe landing on the table by the door, maybe the ground. He doesn't care at the moment.

His hair is damp against his forehead, as is the rest of him, clothes clinging to his skin. The sudden downpour ultimately caught him off guard, and already halfway home on his bike, wasn't going to just turn around and go back to the hospital. The last place he needed to be right now was there, even if his team would say otherwise.

He could have pulled over somewhere and waited it out but... okay maybe he didn't have a reason for that one but he was home now.

There's no point in hanging up his jacket, it'll just get water all over the floor, so he dumps it on the ground on his way to the kitchen. Yanking open the fridge he finds—it's empty.

Completely and utterly empty.

He opens a drawer, closes it, opens the freezer, same deal. He has enough cognitive function to know that there was something in here this morning, plus he grabbed Wilson's leftovers for lunch. Meaning, the culprit behind the wasteland of a fridge had to be—the front door clicks open and shuts with a slam—Wilson.

While he would be proud if it was a different day, that's not today, and he'd like to scrap together a sandwich so he can think about this case on a full stomach. But based on how his current roommate stomps through the living room toward him, he might not be so lucky.

He speaks first, turning around with a lean on his cane. "Ready for dinner? We're having ice and,"—he cracks open the freezer again—"The grape popsicle you left behind when you cleaned the fridge."

"I'm not hungry." Wilson states, passing him by to go to the sink.

House pauses. Just for a moment though. Again, he turns. Wilson is washing his hands, unfocused, irritated. He's going to add to that to make it even.

"Bummer. I am." A couple steps closer. "Where'd you put everything? Under the bed, stuffed in the closet, hope you put it on ice because otherwise you wasted your own money—"

Wilson slams his hands on the sink edge. "Dammit House not now!" He shouts, breathing heavy, sink still running.

House's brows shoot up, just for a tick.

"Well, I can see you're not in the mood to share so I guess it's take out."

"God you can't even take a break for one second." Wilson scoffs. "Bad enough with the quips, had to take it a step further and stab holes into my umbrella."

House moves over to the wall phone by the doorway. "Thought we were only going to have a light sprinkle."

"And, and stapling my tie to the desk." Growing agitation.

House tsks. "Shouldn't have been sleeping on the job."

"And eating my leftovers!"

He makes it to the phone, spinning around. House opens his mouth, then shuts it. "Eh, they weren't that good anyway. I did you a favor." He picks up the phone, starting to dial the chinese restaurant. "What kind of dumplings you want?"

The receiver is ripped from his hands and slammed back into the base. He flinches, though only slightly.

Wilson stands in front of him, hand still on the wall.

"I thought we weren't doing this now." House questions, staring the other man right in the eye. If Wilson's trying to intimidate him, it's not working. If he's trying to piss him off, he might be onto something.

Wilson sighs, House can feel it on his skin. His housemate folds, looking down, dejected.

"I... saw them. Together. Just... out in the open. Happy, not a care in the entire world." Wilson chuckles. "Eating lunch and chatting without a single worry on either of their faces. It was like I-like I meant absolutely nothing to her. Nothing at all."

House bites his cheek. There's something he wants to say, something he should say if was a good friend.

But he's not feeling like being a good friend right now.

"Well, yeah, she had the affair for a reason." It's harsh, he knows. More than harsh it's just downright cruel. He regrets it the moment the words slip off his tongue, and Wilson solidifies that regret with a shove.

Caught off guard, House stumbles and falls back onto the ground.

Immediately the other man is remorseful of his actions. "House, I-I'm sorry I didn't—"

House rebuttals by taking his cane and jabbing it against Wilson's ankle. He yelps, grabbing at it while House pulls himself back up into a stand. Before Wilson can do anything, House lunges at him, pushing him back into the countertop.

From there it's back and forth, struggling and shoving and cursing each other while trying to get the upper hand. Win the battle of a lost war, so to say. They bang up against the kitchen island, causing the two of them to separate finally.

Both gasp for air as they stand partly hunched, leaning on the island for support. Wilson wipes his mouth, lip busted. House can feel a tingling on his ear. Reaching a hand up it comes back bloody.

He looks back up to Wilson, who's wheezing slightly now. He goes back at him again.

Wilson startles, and attempts to defend himself, arms up. He's able to shove him off and reaches for his long abandoned cane. House tries again and Wilson takes the cane, and cracks it down onto its owner's head, breaking the already damaged stick—once again—into two pieces.

If it hurts him, House doesn't show it. Instead, he stops his pursuit, just staring at his roommate now. Wilson drops the cane, it clatters to the ground. Twisting slightly, he spits blood into the sink.

Glancing back, he sees House staring up at the ceiling, dazed, hands planted on the island on either side of him. Finally shut up, finally quiet, for once.

"Tough crowd tonight."

That's enough to set Wilson off again. He takes the step to close the gap between them, grabs House's face with one hand, and slams his lips into his own. He can feel the surprise, the tension, in his body, but Wilson doesn't care right now. That's the one thing he doesn't want to do, is care.

Care about House's stupid pranks making his bad day worse. Care about how his ex is so happy without him. Care about how his life is in the gutter and how some of that in part is because of the man in front of him, but most of it, most of it is his own fault.

Even if everyone will tell him it's out of his control, that he can't do anything about other's actions, others mistakes. It won't change the fact that he let it happen. Won't change the fact that that's all he ever does is stand by and watch things happen.

He pulls away, meeting House's gaze. The way the blood trickles down his neck, the—already—slight swollenness of his lips. He's panting, they both are.

A bystander in his own damn life, Wilson is.

But not right now.

Before any protest can occur, his lips are back on House's. He keeps control with it. Breaking for air when he wants it, pressing as hard and as rough as he wants to. House fights him on it every step of the way, and doesn't let him get by with everything. But, Wilson calls the shots. He leads.

He doesn't like the angle they're at, so he changes it. Hands gripping House's wrist to spin them both around and now really truly pressing his body up against the other man and against the edge of the sink. Wilson thinks he feels him wince, he deduces it serves him right.

The rain beats down against the pane, thunder booming outside as for the first time in some time, there's nothing going on in either man's mind.

No work, no ongoing cases, no tragic patient diagnoses. No ex wives or pesky teams. It's just this moment.

It's just them.

The loud crinkling of the takeout bag pulls Wilson out of the memory. He hisses, reminded of his busted lip and busted body. He lifts the half melted popsicle from his cheek as House tosses a box into his lap.

He sits down again and tears open part of his own meal. "Gave them twenty percent because they remembered extra pancakes. Took it from your wallet, hope you don't mind."

"I do mind, actually." Wilson sits up fully, setting the popsicle aside. "You said you were going to pay."

House speaks mid bite. "Pay for the food, not the tip. That's on you." He digs in for another forkful. "Only fair since I'm in the market for a new cane, thanks to you."

"I-that doesn't-" Wilson stops, sighing. He reaches under the coffee table, pulling out two beers from the cooler. "Fine. Suppose you'd have another excuse at the ready anyway." He mutters.

House takes both beers from him, cracking them one after the other before handing one back to his couch partner. "I've got at least five if you want to hear them."

"Maybe later, turn it up. Can't hear a thing."

House scoffs, but obliges.

They sit in relative silence for some time, eating and drinking with little to say.

"Should probably restock the fridge. Beer's just on the borderline of being unpleasant."

"Let me eat first."

#house md #gregory house #james wilson #hilson #house x wilson #crack fic #this sure is something #my usuals dont look at me #house fans...#percieve me if you must #cw suggestive #slightly

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zeke-fanfucs · 6 hours ago

Note

Can I request a fanfic of kamor coming home with a random creature or child?

Mmm… okay! Both shall it be.

Stray

One late evening at the crew’s dusty safehouse. The front door creaked open just as Hipswitch was elbow-deep in fixing the water recycler with a butter knife and questionable optimism. He froze mid-twist, sensors flaring with mild suspicion.

“Karmor?” he called out, head swiveling. “That you, partner?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Then the unmistakable shuffle of boots on sand, a weight shift, and… a small squeak?

Hipswitch stood slowly. “You bringin’ home a damn rat or—”

The Obscuran stopped short as Karmor stepped into the light.

Covered in dust and speckled with what might have been blood (hopefully not his), Karmor looked tired—but cradled carefully in his arms was a creature the size of a backpack. It had too-big eyes, stubby paws, antennae that drooped like wet noodles, and was wrapped in a tattered blanket.

No. Wait. Not just a creature.

Behind him, clinging to the back of Karmor’s coat with sticky fingers, was a kid. No older than five, with wild hair, wide eyes, and a gummy smile. She looked like she hadn’t seen a bath or a safe place in months.

Karmor met Hipswitch’s gaze and blinked once, lips tight, shoulders tense. He didn’t need to say anything. His body language read: Please don’t make me explain right now.

Hipswitch stared.

First at the alien possum-kitten thing.

Then at the kid.

Then back to Karmor.

He sighed, long and dramatic, placing the butter knife on the dusty counter like he was about to arrest someone.

“All right,” he said, clapping his hands. “Lemme get this straight. You got yourself a mystery fuzzball and a feral child in one day?”

Karmor nodded sheepishly.

“And you didn’t even bring back snacks?” Hipswitch drawled, already heading to the back room to get blankets.

The little girl gave a tired giggle.

That sound softened something in Karmor’s chest—and Hipswitch’s, too, though he’d never admit it. When he came back, he had a pillow, a clean water bottle, and a tin of those nasty chalky ration crackers that kids weirdly loved.

“What’s her name?” Hipswitch asked, kneeling beside the kid and offering the crackers.

Karmor hesitated, then scribbled quickly on the pad clipped to his belt:

She said it’s Moss. I think.

“Moss, huh?” Hipswitch offered the creature a piece of cracker, which it devoured with a wet gulp. “Well, that thing’s name is now Toothpick. I don’t care what it answers to.”

Toothpick chirped in approval.

Karmor looked relieved. And grateful. And guilty.

“You know you don’t gotta explain nothin’,” Hipswitch said, settling in beside him while Moss curled up on a ratty couch with Toothpick in her arms. “You got a heart bigger than your head. I’ll always help carry whatever you drag in.”

Karmor wrote again, slower this time:

I didn’t know where else to take them.

“You did good, Karmor,” Hipswitch said, resting a metallic hand on his friend’s (coughs bullshit coughs) shoulder. “You brought ’em home.”

#goodboyaudios #bastard vs zombies #goodboyaudios karmor #goodboyaudios hipswitch #they have child now.

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sugardollcurse · 3 hours ago

Note

what do you think john and corruption kinks? like perhaps of virgin reader who's embarrassed about it but john's very into it, hypothetically? 😁

𝑠𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑠𝑖𝑛 | john lennon x reader

𐙚 contains ; nsfw!! minors dni! female anatomy, corruption kink, john being obsessed with “ruining” you (lovingly!!)

𐙚 summary ; you finally tell him you’ve never done this before. john is over the moon.

𐙚 note ; this sounds more like a question than a request but i don’t care i’m writing this anyway!!! BUSSAANUTTT

The room was washed in amber. That soft low glow of the bedside lamp, like the world had narrowed to just this space, this hour, this breath. Rain murmured at the window. The bedsheets were tangled at your hips.

John lay beside you, shirtless and long-limbed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped over your stomach like he didn’t want to let you float too far away. His fingertips idly traced shapes against your skin, thoughtless, almost, but you could feel the intent behind it. Like he was thinking.

He’d been quiet for a while. Not an uncomfortable quiet. A warm one. Reflective. A rare kind, with him.

Your heart had slowed from earlier, kisses and touches and a half-dressed tangle of limbs that fizzled out only because he’d paused, pulled back, asked you if you were alright, and you’d hesitated just a second too long. Not enough to spook him. But enough for him to know.

Now his fingers stopped moving. His eyes flicked sideways, studying your profile.

“You wanna tell me what that was?” he asked, gentle.

You blinked. “What…?”

“Just now. That moment. When I kissed you there,” he brushed your navel for emphasis “and you looked at me like I’d just pointed a fuckin’ gun at you.”

You flushed hot. Rolled to face him, biting your lip. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not-I wasn’t scared. Just…”

He propped himself up on his elbow, gazing down at you now. He looked impossibly calm. Curious. But soft. Always soft with you.

“Just what?”

You stared at the ceiling. Willed your voice not to shake.

“I’ve never… done it.”

A beat.

Then another.

And then, “Done what, love? Taxes?”

You smacked his arm, face burning. “Sex, you dick.”

And oh, Christ, he grinned. Not mean. Not mocking. Just slow and sharp, lazy and delighted.

“Ohhh,” he said, dragging out the syllable. “Ohhhhhh.”

“Stop it.”

“No wonder you looked like I’d cursed you.” He shifted closer, chin propped on his hand, eyes gleaming. “You’re a bloody virgin.”

You groaned, turning your face into the pillow. “I knew I shouldn’t’ve said anything.”

His hand caught your wrist. “Hey, hey, don’t hide. C’mon. Let me see you.”

You looked up at him reluctantly. He still had that look in his eyes. Not pity. Not disbelief. Something else. Something darker. Lighter. Interested.

“You’re embarrassed,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.

You tried to pull your hand back. “Of course I am. You’ve probably fucked half of Liverpool.”

“Three quarters, actually.” He grinned again when you shoved at him. “Kidding.”

You sighed, exasperated. “It’s not that I didn’t want to. I just, never really felt right. Never met anyone I trusted enough.”

John was quiet. Still watching. Still there. Not backing off.

“‘Til now?” he asked softly.

Your eyes met his.

“Yeah,” you said.

He smiled. But there was a shift in him now... he looked like a cat who’d just noticed the mouse under the floorboard. Not moving yet. But poised. Fascinated.

“Y’know,” he said, voice lowering, “you tell a bloke something like that… especially a bloke like me…”

You swallowed. “Like you?”

He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers. “The kind who gets off on the idea of ruining lovely little things.”

You shivered.

“But not in a mean way,” he added, more gently. “Not in the toss-you-aside way. Nah. More like… keep you. Keep you all to meself. Make you remember it forever.”

“John-”

He leaned closer, mouth ghosting your jaw. Not kissing. Just hovering.

“You ever think about it?” he murmured. “Letting someone have you?”

Your breath hitched.

“Yeah,” you admitted.

His hand slid to your hip. Rested there, not pushing, just holding.

“Ever think about me doing it?”

You nodded. Felt your cheeks burn.

He groaned, low and quiet. “Christ. That’s dangerous, love. You can’t go saying shit like that.”

“You asked.”

He laughed softly. “I know. And I liked the answer.”

Then he kissed you. Not urgently. Not hungrily. But possessively. With an edge. Like he’d just been handed something delicate and priceless, and he was figuring out exactly how he wanted to unwrap it.

When he pulled back, he was smiling. Soft, smug, reverent.

“You let me know when you want it,” he murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ll make it good. I’ll make it fuckin’ perfect.”

You nodded, heart in your throat.

And he kissed your forehead like it was a promise.

“I want it.”

Just three words, barely above a whisper, trembling from your lips like steam.

But John heard.

His body went still. You could feel his breath hitch where his chest pressed against yours. And then, slowly, he pulled back enough to see your face.

You could tell the second it registered.

His eyes changed.

Not darker. Not colder.

But sharp. Honed. Like every soft bit of teasing had suddenly realigned with ruthless purpose.

“You’re sure?” he asked. Not casual. Not coaxing. Serious. Quiet. Reverent.

You nodded. “I want you.”

And that did it.

His lips crashed back onto yours, all heat and urgency, one hand cupping your jaw and the other gripping your hip like he needed to anchor himself to keep from shaking apart.

He kissed you until you couldn’t think. Until you were making those helpless little noises into his mouth, clutching at his back like you’d fall off the edge of the world if he let go.

Then, he broke away, panting, dragging his lips down your throat.

“Fucking hell,” he rasped against your skin. “You’ve no fuckin’ clue what you’ve just done, do you?”

You whimpered, arching when his tongue flicked at your collarbone.

“Gave it to me,” he muttered, like he couldn’t believe it. “Could’ve been anyone, and you picked me.”

His hand slid down your thigh. Squeezed.

“God, love. I’m gonna ruin you.”

You nodded, mindlessly. “Want you to.”

He groaned, long and broken, and then he was sliding down the bed, kissing every inch of you he could reach, shoulders, chest, stomach, hips, thighs, his hands always moving, stroking, learning.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to the inside of your thigh. “That for me?”

You nodded again.

He kissed you there, soft and deep. “Good.”

Then he spread you open and looked.

And something in him snapped.

“Oh, fuck me,” he breathed. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty, love. All untouched. Tight little cunt and no one’s even seen it, have they?”

You gasped, hips twitching.

He grinned up at you. “You’re blushing.”

“I... it’s embarrassing.”

“No, it’s perfect,” he said. “You’re perfect. God, I love that you’re shy. Love that you’re mine. That I get to be the first.”

Then, without warning, his mouth was on you.

He started slow. Gentle, reverent licks, like he was getting a taste he’d been dreaming about for months.

Then he moaned... deep, filthy, needy, and buried his tongue deeper.

You cried out, hips jerking. He just held you down, hands firm on your thighs, eating you like he was starving.

“That’s it,” he murmured between licks. “Let me have it. Let me feel you fall apart.”

You were soaked. Trembling. Gone.

And still, he didn’t stop.

He licked and sucked and groaned, like every drop of you made him drunker.

“Bet you didn’t know it could feel like this,” he said, voice rough. “Bet no one’s ever made you feel like this.”

“N-No,” you choked out. “Never-never like this-”

He smirked. “’Course not. ‘Cause they’re not me.”

And with one more flick of his tongue, you were gone, coming hard, thighs clenching around his head, moaning his name like a prayer.

He licked you through it. Didn’t stop until your legs were trembling and your breath was ragged.

Then he pulled back, eyes glowing, lips and chin glistening, and crawled up to kiss you, deep, wet, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You ready?” he whispered, hips settling between your legs.

You looked down. At some point, he had took his trousers off. His cock was hard, flushed, leaking.

You nodded.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised. “But you’re gonna feel it, love. Gonna stretch you open and make you mine.”

He lined up. Teased your entrance with the head.

Then, slowly, he pushed in.

You gasped.

He swore.

“Fuck, you’re tight. Jesus Christ, this cunt’s fuckin’ unreal-”

You whimpered, gripping his shoulders.

He kissed your cheek, your neck, your mouth. “You’re doin’ so good. So good, love. Just relax for me.”

Every inch was hot and too much, but never bad. Just overwhelming.

He kept whispering. “Takin’ me so well. Look at you. Fuckin’ made for me.”

When he bottomed out, you both froze.

Then he looked down at you, eyes dark and full and mad with love.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s me. Inside you. Where no one’s ever been.”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes.

He rocked his hips. Slowly. Gently.

You gasped again.

“Yeah,” he groaned. “Gonna fuck you open, sweet thing. Make sure you never want anyone else. Never need anyone else.”

You moaned, clinging to him.

He moved again, shallow thrusts, coaxing more slick out of you, more moans, more of that helpless, wrecked look on your face that made him ache.

“I’m close,” he warned, groaning. “Fuck-so close-”

And then, he looked down at you.

Your lashes were fluttering, mouth open, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. Your arms were limp above your head. One trembling leg curled around his hip.

You looked, God. You looked like a ruined thing. Fragile. Marvelous. Used.

And somehow, still unimpeachable.

Still you.

And something about it, about the way you blinked up at him, confused and trembling and full of trust, made John falter.

Made his stomach flip.

Made him feel filthy.

You looked like you’d been dragged straight from heaven, and he was the bastard who dragged you through this.

He pulled out in a rush, hand flying to his cock, stroking fast and messy as he gasped.

You whimpered at the sudden emptiness. He pressed his forehead to yours, jerking himself furiously. “I know, love-I know-just need to see you-”

And then he came, hard, groaning low through his teeth, thick ropes of it spilling across your stomach and chest, your skin so soft and flushed and fucked it made him choke on it.

You flinched a little at the warmth, shivering beneath him.

He looked down.

Your belly was rising and falling in tiny gasps. His come painted your skin, thick and white and obscene against your flushed chest.

And your eyes. Those wide, blinking, dazed eyes.

You looked like a fawn in the aftermath of something sacred.

And John? He felt like the devil.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Look at you.”

You blinked slowly, like you couldn’t form words yet.

And John just stared, utterly wrecked.

“I did that,” he murmured, stunned. “I-fuck, I did that to you.”

You nodded a little, eyes still dreamy.

He reached out, soft, trembling fingers tracing the mess on your stomach, watching it pool into your navel, painting your skin like something divine.

“Came all over you,” he breathed, voice gone thick. “And you let me. Sweet thing, look at you. Fuckin’ ruined.”

You caught his hand. “John,” you whispered, voice hoarse. “It’s okay. I wanted you to.”

He groaned, quietly, like the words punched the air from his lungs. Leaned down and kissed you, slow, reverent, possessive.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re doin’ to me,” he muttered against your lips.

You smiled, dazed and warm. “I think I’m starting to.”

He laughed, low and broken and giddy. “That’s it, then. You’ll never forget this. I’ll make sure of it.”

He pulled you close, tucking your head beneath his chin, still panting softly like the sight of you had gutted him.

“I’ll clean you up in a minute,” he murmured, kissing your hair. “But fuck me, love… you were perfect. Better than perfect. Never seen anything so beautiful in my life.”

You sighed, melted into him, skin still tingling where his come clung to you.

And John held you like he wanted to brand your shape into his chest forever.

Because you were wrecked.

And he’d never want you any other way.

taglist: @sharksausages, @wavvytin, @wimpyvamps, @finallyforgotten, @lennongirlieee

#john lennon #john lennon imagines #john lennon oneshot #john lennon fanfic #john lennon x reader #the beatles #the beatles fanfic #the beatles oneshot #the beatles x reader #oneshot #fanfic #fanfiction #beatles x reader #beatles

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atamascolily · 2 days ago

Text

Okay, so no release date for Walpurgis no Kaiten yet in spite of them selling advance tickets at Anime Japan this year (what), but there's a new key visual! I was away when it originally came out in March and I ended up sitting on what I originally wrote and thinking about it some more rather than posting it right away because I doubt we'll get any more news until September at the Aniplex Online Fest, just like the last two years.

Putting my thoughts under a read-more because this got very long.

Whereas the first key visual emphasized duality in the form of two different Homuras, this one takes a different tack by contrasting Homura and Madoka in their cosmic aspects. I think this is the direction that most people were originally expecting for Walpurgis no Kaiten (myself included), so it's interesting that they're going back to that after so much focus on multiple Homuras.

I also notice that each drawing has the same arch shape as the windows representing salvation from the Law of Cycles from Rebellion, except here they seem to be contrasting two different paths--salvation and destruction.

The Madoka panel is reasonably straightforward--both her gold eyes and her posture indicate she is being "possessed" (for the lack of a better word) by the Law of Cycles, which is emphasized by the doves, white feathers, and circle of clouds mimicking Gustave Doré's engraving of the Empyrean (heaven) from Dante's Divine Comedy, as many people pointed out back when that particular trailer came out.

(Re: the Doré engraving, I also want to note that it shows the sun at the center, while the WnK version doesn't really show us what's at the center--yet--and that scene may be one where our expectations are subverted. Though it's probably still a circle because everything is in this show ends up circular in the end, lol.)

The Homura panel gave me pause for a bit, because "which Homura is this?" is a reasonable question at this point. I was on the fence for a while because her eyes are red, but given everything else in this image, I think the situation is similar to Madoka's in that Homura is embodying her role here and that is indicated by her eye color. Yes, there's also a red-eyed Homura in the trailer, but given the headband and the outfit and the context, I'm leaning towards the "real" (for a given value of "real", lol) or original flavor Homura here.

The eye color shift also makes me wonder if "Devil" is a role that both/multiple Homuras can take on at different points, since the headband Homura with red eyes in one of the trailer is also shown with brown eyes in the first key visual. Eyes are not only "windows to the soul", they're also a key way of differentiating characters and their mental/emotional states. This would be fascinating, and go a long way towards explaining why the dopplganger!Homura dancing wth Madoka has red eyes in that scene but not in the key visual, where her eyes are brown, which had always flummoxed me before.

I'll also note that while Madoka's posture makes her embodiment feels more passive, Homura's embodiment is conscious and deliberate. Whatever this path is, she is choosing it--emphasized by the caption about fulfilling "the promise that we made that day" against Madoka's wishes, presumably referring to the scene from episode 10 where Madoka asks Homura to go back in time and prevent her from becoming a magical girl, i.e., the most traumatic moment in Homura's life that shaped everything that came after it.).

The flames are pretty obvious (Homura's name, as the show takes pains to point out, is a homonym for "flame") and fit with the Devil aspect, but it seems odd to me that the original Homura would destroy the world she spent so much time building. Would she if she thought she needed to? Absolutely--and she already did once before in Rebellion--but "burning everything down to ashes" is an odd choice if you're literally the system incarnate.

But that is what witches do... even though they also build them up, and of course, we have the cranes constructing buildings in the background; Walpurgisnacht being the "stage-constructing witch". In Rebellion, Mitakihara City reflected Homura's mental state and priorities, so what does it say that she is simultaneously building and destroying everything? Is she of two minds about this?

Or to put it a different way: If Homura is not fully in control here--if there is another being with radically different views of reality, who is working to build that vision from the ground up--then suddenly Homura burning everything down makes a lot more sense. And conveniently, there's at least one candidate--the other Homura, who shares her face and presumably her powers as well!

(While I think it's likely that this other Homura will either create or become Walpurgisnacht--i.e., metaphorical shadows and reflections will eventually prove to be literal shadows and reflections--you could also make a case for some other as yet unknown puppetmaster working "behind the scenes". TBD.

Also, as witches can only manifest in a world where the Law of Cycles is no longer fully applicable, Walpurgisnacht can only form if something goes haywire with the Law and/or Homura's world. Ether way, the only person who has been able to stop Walpurgisnacht in the past is Madoka, thus putting her in danger in spite of all of Homura's efforts to keep her safe. Oh, the irony! And given how powerful the new Walpurgisnacht is likely to be, only Madoka restored to the Law of Cycles will be able to stop her.

Unless something changes, history is doomed to repeat itself, but I do not think this series will return to the old status quo. Something will change, and I hope it will be Homura and Madoka working together to build a new system as equals, but again TBD.)

Much has been made of the costume shifts, but what's striking on seeing Madoka and Homura's magical girl costumes juxtaposed like this is how they have shifted to accommodate their current situations--i.e., the lock on Madoka's costume reflects how she is "locked out" from the Law of Cycles and her full memories/awareness of herself, just as the black feathers on Homura's shoulders resemble her devil form's wings. Given that costumes seem to reflect magical girls' self-image and also their powers or lack thereof (cf. Mami's costume lacking her ribbons, Sayaka in bandages, etc), this seems entirely plausible.

That said, I'm not a huge fan of these new costumes and I'm low-key hoping they are relatively temporary in the grand scheme of things, but you do you. The art style is also different, but that's probably inevitable after such a long gap between installments; things naturally can and do shift, even if it takes a while for me to get used to it.

It seems like the position of their feet are mirroring each other, but in reverse, in contrast to their different arm positions. Both of Madoka's hands are open and visible, but Homura has 1 closed fist and 1 hidden arm behind her back, which is reflective of their respective personalities but also their situations. We have a pretty good idea of what's going with Madoka, but Homura is not only a mystery, there's at least two sides/versions of her in conflict.

You can see the shadow of someone who looks like Madoka in front of Homura pointing a bow at her, which I find odd since she usually advocates for magical girls not to fight each other. Not sure what's going on there, but I think this may be one of those things that isn't necessarily what it appears to be at first.

But here's the thing that gets me. Look at what Homura is standing on. It's a stage, no? And in addition to the giant cogs, which have always represented the "gears" of fate and inevitability (and thus have been associated with both Walpurgisnacht, as the one who brings about that fate and Homura as the one who reverses time to overcome it), there's something else there that had me screaming when I noticed it. It's also her shield.

Or, more specifically, the two tomoe from her shield that hold the sand representing the flow of time.

I don't want to read too much into this just yet because the angle and the lighting aren't great, and it's unclear how much of this is going to end up in the finished film, but let's just say I'm very interested in where this particular piece of symbolism may be going, even if I don't love the CGI here.

Interestingly, Madoka appears to be floating over a different part of the clock/shield (in addition to the color shift). This was surprising to me because the drawings are otherwise the same, but you can see that Homura is standing over a series of cogs, while Madoka isn't. I'd originally thought they were supposed to be facing each other--and maybe they are--though if that's the case, it's even more interesting that the "Madoka shadow" we see on Homura's side is different.

Am I overthinking it and reading too much into a single image? Perhaps, but this is the only new thing to chew on for a while, so I might as well make the most of it, right?

I didn't notice this until other people pointed it out, but Homura's left hand (with her soul gem mark) is conveniently not visible, and the ribbon she's holding connects to Madoka on the other side, forming a loop. Great work, everyone.

#puella magi madoka magica #walpurgis no kaiten #pmmm analysis

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bridgetlynn · 2 days ago

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For the drabble game, Frank and Dana and, because I like pain, number 69 :)

Okay, so thanks for the kick to get something written. #69 was Annoyance. And I'm not sure if this is what you were thinking about - but I think there's a general overall feel of that emotion throughout. I just kind of wrote and wound up in an interesting place. And Robby showed up to play as well. Hope that's okay. Five sentences went out the window around 1pm. It actually clocks in at 4290 words. It's still untitled. Hope you enjoy it - even if it went in a different direction then I necessarily expected it to. So here are Dana dealing with Frank and Robby and Annoyance.

The start of a shift cycle, following the two day break, always came around too soon in Dana Evans’ opinion. This one, following the roughest shift she’d had in her entire career when not counting a global pandemic, had seemed to come a little sooner than usual. It also happened to be, on top of everything, a Monday.

And now, something had been blown up that couldn’t be put back into its box; and according to her computer, it might not have needed to have such a large blast radius.

Needless to say she’s had better mornings.

“Hi!”

Dana looked up from where she was reviewing the status of the patients currently inhabiting her emergency room, as she had been off for four days, and met the bluest eyes she had ever seen in person. It would be a lovely sight if those eyes weren’t currently in the skull of a puppy turned human. A puppy wearing black scrubs which meant it was going to probably be her problem eventually.

“Who are you and why are you bouncing in front of my desk an hour before you should be?”

“Frank Langdon. Intern,” he introduced himself and then to her horror brought a hand up and proceeded to drain a can of Red Bull at six o’clock in the morning. “Nice to meet you,” he added once he was done.

Dana just groaned, loudly, and held a hand out as she saw him start looking around for, hopefully, a garbage, “Give me.” He frowned slightly but passed the can over. “Sit,” she added, pointing at the chair directly next to her. “If I let you wander you’ll get lost or stolen and I don’t have the time to make flyers today.”

“Yes ma’am?” he questioned more then replied and slowly sat in the chair while Dana got back to reviewing the computer charts.

Two minutes later the puppy’s feet started tapping and shortly thereafter the chair she had put him on started swinging back and forth. She glanced to the side and watched as the swinging slowly became spinning and let him have four rotations before her own hand snapped out and grabbed the arm of the chair, “Bad puppy. Q-word time. Shhh.”

“Q-word? You mean quiet?”

“Fuck,” Dana groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Bad puppy. No more talking.”

“I thought you were quitting?”

Dana rolled her eyes, and gritted her teeth, before looking up and replying, in a very serious tone, to Robby’s overly sarcastic question, “I’ve quit at least once a year since long before you strolled through those doors as a cocky fellow, barely out of his twenties, ready to blow through all the young and pretty nurses,” she said very pointedly.

“Well, that’s not true at all,” Robby replied, laughing slightly and missing the way Dana’s eyes hardened somewhat.

“No. It is,” she assured him. “Back then you were absolutely what my daughter would refer to as a Grade C Fuckboy with your floppy hair and ‘fix me’ energy.” She smirked, kind of meanly, at his widened eyes and added, “Oh! But don’t worry; by now you’ve reached at least an A. And you still need to be fixed. I’ve been told it’s your most attractive trait. Until those women actually date you.”

Robby opened his mouth and paused; then he examined Dana’s face and seemed to finally register that she wasn’t remotely amused at the moment, “Okay? What’s wrong? You’re pissed at me.”

She quietly gathered up the stack of papers she had just finished printing shortly before Robby arrived, the reason she had been here two hours before shift, and slid the folder across the counter to him.

“Is this the thing?” he asked, dropping his voice to a nearly incomprehensible volume and Dana rolled her eyes again.

“Yes; that’s the pharmacy audit you had me run against Langdon’s hospital ID. I’d have done it quietly - like you originally asked - but I figured that was blown to hell after you started screaming about it for all and sundry to hear in the ambulance bay,” she responded at a normal level since as she pointed out - everyone knew even if they didn’t officially yet. “Stop fidgeting Francis James Langdon. God didn’t bless me with sons for reasons. Please stop doing things to remind of some of those reasons,” Dana stated without looking away from where she was double checking the inventory in Trauma Two’s cabinets and med-carts for various medications and supplies.

As it was, normally, she wouldn’t even be doing the inventory in the trauma rooms; however, they had six fairly major trauma’s roll through one after the other in the course of an hour and a half, three for each room, and hadn’t had time before now to fully flip the rooms for much more than cleanliness. Which meant that her LPNs who had acted as Scribes for the traumas also hadn’t had time to get their notes into the computer; and therefore, Dana had no final inventory numbers of what was used and two very bare trauma rooms. It was definitely a case of doing for oneself when you need it done quickly and correctly - and she needed to get an order to Central Supply within the next hour.

On any other day Dana wouldn’t mind him letting off a little energy while it was on the calmer side in the department; but she was on a time crunch and Frank had already dropped one box each of tubing, gauze and gloves in the last ten minutes and they were getting to the more breakable items shortly. Easily distracted and over-caffeinated residents still in their puppy stages bouncing on her last shred of patience was not a great combination at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon eight days into a July heatwave. She was half convinced they weren’t packed, beyond the traumas, because no one had the energy to leave their houses and get here unless they were ready to bleed out. Unfortunately, that could flip in a moment with no notice so, fidgeting wasn’t going to fly right now.

It was also her own fault for asking the hyperactive R2 to help her. The gangly boy was useful for high places and bulky crates.

“I think I’m meant to be insulted by that,” Frank muttered while pushing the cart she pointed at over to the other side of the room. “But I’m awesome. So I won’t be.”

“Don’t think sweetie,” Dana replied. “Know. Know that you are to be insulted by that.”

“Oh come on Dana,” Frank grumbled, shuffling back over to her looking for all the world like Tanner and not for the first time Dana wondered if Abby hadn’t just cloned and shrunk her husband. “What’d I do now?”

“Knocked up your wife while she’s trying to finish her Master’s degree when you already have a two year old ,” Dana said decisively. “This is why I don’t have sons. My girl’s know not to let any nasty penis’ near them until after they finish their degrees. Boys would need to be tied up in their bedrooms through puberty. Too much work.”

She saw Frank smirk and shake his head before responding with a laugh, “No boy of yours would dare. Also, Kate’s married with a kid, Julia’s a lesbian and Rose is fourteen. I think you’re…okay?” She watched as he suddenly stopped moving the next cart and slowly turned to face the Charge Nurse before sputtering out a denial, “What did you say first? Because…no I didn’t!”

Dana blinked, because that was genuine confusion, “Oops?”

“What oops?!”

“I mean, Congratulations?”

Frank scowled and pulled his phone out of his pocket, glaring at the older woman, he snapped, “Excuse me. I have to go make a phone call right now.”

“I said oops!” Dana called after the resident. “Sorry puppy,” she mumbled and grabbed her tablet to keep marking down what needed to be restocked within the next hour.

When Robby walked in a few minutes later she just raised an eyebrow at him, not in the mood to deal with the older version of the resident had just stalked away. He merely raised his hands up and, despite a clear warning on her face, asked, “Why did Langdon just ask me how to ask his wife why she told you something before him?”

Dana froze for a second and then burst out laughing, “He asked you for advice on talking to a wife?”

“I think I’m supposed to be insulted by that,” Robby mumbled and left the room while Dana continued to laugh. Robby scowled and Dana held up a hand before he could say anything else, loudly or otherwise, and continued speaking, “I do not appreciate it when orderlies whose names I do not even know start asking me if a senior resident is in jail for shooting up fentanyl or something. And when I ask what the hell they are talking about the response is, apparently, Dr. Robby was screaming about him being arrested for stealing medication and being high at work.”

Robby visibly winced at that and scrubbed a hand over his face, “I wasn’t thinking. He just got me so mad. I sent him home and he wouldn’t leave. And yes, I should have handled it a little better; I can admit that. He did approach me calmly and I am the one who blew it up into…loud.”

“Yes,” she snapped and then immediately lowered her voice. “Into “loud” is one way to put it. I mean, seriously, Robby? It was a bad day there is no doubt about it; but you’ve been spiraling for over a year and you crossed a line Friday. There is no excuse for Frank’s shit to be aired all over the fucking hospital,” she hissed at him.

“And what about what he said to me?”

Dana raised an eyebrow at that and then pointedly looked around the ER, where no one was even looking in their direction, before replying, “You’re Chief. Remember what I said to you when you asked what people were saying? No one sees anything or says anything where you are concerned. A fourth year resident in a competitive program who is more talented than most of the other residents put together? Hmm, I wonder how fast they want that star to fall?”

Robby nodded and fiddled with the stack of papers and rather than respond to what she had said he simply asked, “How bad is it?” She shrugged, “Well in thirty-three years I’ve seen worse. Hell, there was an anesthesiologist here in the early aughts, before your time here, who probably could have given Escobar a run for his money.”

“Dana,” Robby admonished. “Seriously.”

“I am,” she responded with a shrug. “What Langdon did isn’t good. But, when I tell you I’ve seen worse I mean it. And don’t tell me you dare tell me you can’t say the same.” Robby frowned deeper and tapped the folder with a pointed look to which she, again, rolled her eyes at the stubborn man. “Okay. Fine. I went back three days like you asked and the only somewhat questionable thing other than Louie’s meds was a, technical, pedes case on Wednesday.” “Pedes!?” Robby practically shrieked and Dana held up a hand, glaring at him. “Before you immediately jump to the worst case scenario, I remember that patient and the mother was so high strung that I jumped on as Frank’s nurse for it. You know he doesn’t deal well with mother’s that are clones of his own.” “Dana. Point please?” Robby implored, though he at least visibly paled at the comparison the nurse made. None of them liked thinking back on the one time they had met Louse Langdon in person.

“I’m getting there,” she muttered, resisting the urge to throttle him as she had been since early that morning. “Kid was almost seventeen, a wrestler and couldn’t stand up straight after practice. Back was totally frozen from the shoulder to hips. He admitted his partner screwed up some hold they were not supposed to be doing and he felt like he just got stuck. Scans showed no skeletal damage or tears, exam indicated that he probably just, essentially, pulled everything. Langdon called in a neuro consult and Janson came down.”

Robby winced again, “He should retire. Or be retired.”

“Yep,” Dana agreed, exhaling through her nose tiredly. “Janson prescribed valium and percocet. And Frank argued with him over here by the desk; pointing out, ironically, how bad of an idea it is to give a kid access to that kind of medication. Janson disagreed; but like you said - he’s old. So, Janson sent the script. Frank delivered the meds…and the mother winged them back at his face. The bottles landed halfway to the trauma rooms,” Dana explained, pointing behind her. “I don’t know what happened to them after that,” she admitted with a tight smile. “But Langdon changed the prescription to what he originally wanted.”

“Which was?” “Prescription strength ibuprofen and a week-long course of metaxalone. The mother was a bit more receptive to that after Frank explained that it was non-narcotic but that she should still disperse the meds to him herself at the correct times.”

“Skeletal muscle relaxer? Yea, I guess that’s a little better for that injury at that age,” Robby admitted quietly.

“Right,” she replied, nodding slightly. “So, then I went back to April, around when he got injured, and he only prescribed lorazepam ten times in that six month period and he never actually accessed the Pyxis himself for any of them before Friday. So take that how you will. Sometimes it is just a shitty vial or maybe he did something to that one. No way to really prove it.”

“OH Jesus what happened?!” Dana almost screamed and hurried across the room to her bouncing baby R3 who was currently walking through the ambulance bay doors alone, despite having the weekend off, and bleeding profusely; looking like someone had taken a bat to the side of his head.

“Baseball bat,” he mumbled, more than slightly dazed, as she steered him towards an exam room reminding herself that head wounds bleed a lot, and his white t-shirt being half red was probably not a big deal.

“Robby!” Dana called, waving him down and pointing. She saw his eyes widen and he then proceeded to shove the tablet he was holding into the hands of Dr. Scott, one of the other A shift Attendings, who he had been speaking with before tearing across the department, tugging Heather Collin’s sleeve as he passed her to get her to follow him.

“What happened?!” he asked as both doctors came into the room while Jesse and Dana helped Frank up onto a gurney, ignoring his protests that he was fine. “You are not fine,” Robby calmly replied before Dana could do it herself.

Which was probably a good thing as she was currently more likely to scream at him out of sheer terror then do anything calmly. “Frank baby,” Dana said, trying to keep herself calm and stepping aside to allow Jesse to begin hooking the resident up to monitor’s at Robby’s quiet directions. “What happened? Did someone hit you with a baseball bat?” she asked carefully. “Do we need to get the police?”

Frank stared back at her, with thankfully even pupils even if he did look like he wasn’t fully aware of what was going on, and then burst out laughing. The fact that Jesse and Heather were both snickering a little and staring back at her and Robby while they did so was swiftly making her terror be replaced by aggravation.

“It is not funny,” Robby snapped. “Look at him,” he added, and started listing off a barrage of lab tests, a full body CT, a chest x-ray and, after peering into Frank’s ear on the side of his head that was hit, an ENT consult, since his ear was bleeding.

“It’s a little funny,” Collins disagreed. “No one hit him on purpose with a baseball bat. Don’t you remember he said his family was in town this weekend? Look how he’s dressed,” she added, pointing to Frank’s dirty clothes that Dana just realized consisted of baseball pants, a t-shirt and cleats.

“Oh,” Dana mumbled and then froze again when Frank interjected something that she was sure she misunderstood in a spacey tone. “I’m sorry sweetheart what was that?” she asked.“Heather’s wrong. Henry absolutely hit me on purpose.”

“Henry?” Dana croaked out the question and felt somewhat justified in the pointed eyebrow she shot at Heather who looked horrified herself now.

“My older brother,” Frank explained, shrugging and then wincing. “Ow.”

“What ow?” Robby asked, looking exhausted.

“Shoulder.”

“Did he hit you there too?” Jesse asked, since all four of them were a little flummoxed by the situation they were in; as were the various people who had been popping their heads into the exam room for the last ten minutes. “No, I wrenched it” Frank disagreed and then turned a pout in Dana’s direction. “I left my fidget.”

“Frank,” Robby redirected the younger doctor’s attention. “How’d you also wrench your shoulder?”

“Ginny,” he replied, still sounding distracted. “Heather? Can I have your clicky pen please?” he asked, pointing at the pen hanging on her shirt collar. “I won’t click it. Much.”

An hour later Dana was praying for her strength and her blood pressure.

“Mrs. Langdon, your son has a grade two concussion because your other son hit him in the head with a baseball bat,” she explained slowly, glaring at the woman and not bothering to hide it.

“Oh dear, honestly though boys will be boys. Henry didn’t do it on purpose. Frank caught out Henry’s home run. He wasn’t actually going to hit him; but Frank stepped the wrong way. He stepped into the swing instead of away from it. Henry would never want to hurt his baby brother. Henry’s my good boy. Always has been,” Louise Langdon explained, as though that made everything better. “Besides, Frank’s had that type of concussion before and he was fine. The last time it was his fault too. He was always getting hurt as a child. He just never pays attention to things; even now as an adult and it’s still happening. Are you sure I really can’t see him yet? Frankie can not make decisions about things like this. He’s very distractible,” the older woman was almost rambling at Dana by the end of her explanation, sounding like she was trying to justify it all in her own mind as much as to Dana.

“Right,” Dana muttered. “And his shoulder? He said that Ginny wrenched it?” she asked, as that was the one thing that they couldn’t figure out; none of it made sense but at least most of it had a clear cause and effect.

“Oh, well, yes, Ginny. Henry’s wife. She might have had a few too many cocktails last night; it was a family bar-be-que,” she began explaining with a laugh and a shrug. “Well, she almost dropped Ellie.” Dana blanched and leaned back on the desk behind her as this woman casually explained that her son’s wife had almost dropped her five month old granddaughter because she was drunk. “Frank lunged, but since we were standing at the top of the back porch stairs he had to grab the railing to keep from falling when he overreacted.”

“Right,” Dana mumbled. “Well thanks for letting us know so we can treat him properly,” she added and hurried away before she got fired for murder. Suddenly everything Abby had ever said to Dana about never seeing her in-laws despite them living a half hour away and Frank avoiding all mention of his parents except in the most serious circumstances made a lot more sense. “Oh,” Robby mumbled and began quietly flipping through the papers in the folder, skimming through the information for himself. “These are Hagan’s records too?” he asked in surprise.

Dana nodded as she slipped on the cardigan she had worn that morning, “Sure are. He was prescribing the same dose of medication to Frank from when he got hurt up until last week. Right about the time he went on vacation. Or, more accurately, according to Lisa Jacobs, the charge nurse for the day shift on Five, otherwise known as the ortho floor, he has been encouraged to retire quietly due to inconsistencies in his prescribing. So yes, those are Hagan’s records. I thought they might help when you pull your head out of your ass and make sure he can keep his job.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Robby admitted. “I told him what needs to be done and he’s not answering his phone now.” “Yea, well I took care of that for you too,” she responded. “His cell phone is currently off and in the bottom of Abby’s purse. As of an hour ago Frank himself has been checked in across town at Presby to detox for the next week to ten days. They might pull some strings to keep him there; but Abby didn’t like that because that would mean keeping him in the psych ward since they don’t have an inpatient facility for just rehab.”

“So what you’re saying is I have a week to figure out where to send him that is covered by insurance?”

“I’m saying you have a week to pull a few favors out of your ass because insurance will stick that boy in a hell hole that’ll be overcrowded and understaffed and he’ll twiddle his thumbs for a month and bullshit his way past whatever first year psych resident he gets assigned to. This isn’t the 80s anymore Robby. Insurance doesn’t actually want people to get clean. They make less money that way.”

“I hear you,” he agreed and then noticed something. “Why are you wearing jeans?”

“Cause for the next two weeks I am on medical leave,” she explained, gesturing at her own face. “I mean, I’m fine. But, hey, free extra vacation days? I’ll take ‘em. Better than pizza. And I’m serious Robby. Figure out something. Because even if you’re pissed at him as your friend, you’re a damned doctor and Hagan fucked a lot of people up it looks like. I know he’s an adult; but there is a reason I mentioned the Grade C Fuckboy.” “Oh?”

“Yea; you made Frank Langdon look like the most responsible boring straight laced by the book rule following residents to ever walk through those doors. And you were two years older then than he is now. See you in two weeks.”

“Abby shouldn’t have called you. Not after last night,” Frank whispered as Dana took a seat next to him on the couch in the basement den of the Langdon’s small house three in the morning mere hours after they got off the worst shift of his career. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” Dana disagreed and squeezed his clammy hand. “Here’s what is going to happen,” she began, taking on her best no bullshit tone. “You are going to take this pill,” Dana explained, slipping a librium into Frank’s hand and gestured at the bottle of water sitting on the table in front of him. “Abby has six more upstairs that she will give you, in halves if necessary, you will use these pills to keep from going into DTs.”

Frank shifted on the couch looking uncomfortable and avoiding her eyes so she just squeezed his hand tighter and continued explaining the plan she had started coming up with the moment he had left the break room that night, “No later than Tuesday you will get a call to go to Presby. My sister-in-law is a Nurse Manager in behavioral health over there and she said she can get you in as soon as a bed opens up in their detox program. She said the absolute latest should be Tuesday morning.”

“You didn’t need to do that,” he replied softly, finally looking at her with tear filled eyes. Dana simply shook her head and wiped away the one tear that fell. “Sure I did,” she disagreed. “I’ve told you for years; I just don’t have time to put up flyers. Also, you’re finally housebroken,” she joked and then frowned when he had no reaction other then to still look like he was minutes away from a total breakdown. “Listen to me Frank, for as much as I’m very angry with you right now? I still love you and I will not lose you to this.” Dana leaned back into the couch and stretched a kink out of her neck before continuing, “Also you owe your wife a vacation, Robby an apology and that overly cocky brat who caught you at least one month’s rent coverage.”

“Dana,” Frank groaned in protest and she smirked even as she reached over and pushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’ll let you send it anonymously because lord if she doesn’t make Intern-you look cool, calm and collected. It’s got to be karma of some sort. She’s the universe’s gift to you for the headache inducer you were to every senior resident you had.”

“And what is she to you?” Frank joked back, even as he started looking like he was falling asleep, where he was sitting, from her repeatedly running her hand through his hair.

“A reminder that boys aren’t so bad afterall,” Dana replied a few minutes later after he had finally fallen asleep. “See you in two weeks kid.”

#ask response #writing prompt response #The Pitt #The Pitt fanfiction #Dana Evans #Frank Langdon #michael rabinavitch

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shinyglimmer-cm · 1 day ago

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JJ/Emily

Prompt: Jj and Emily have been together for four months, keeping it from the team until a clothing mix up happens

Not incorrect quotes I know, i’m just trying out stuff :) might delete later

JJ stumbled into the bullpen nearly ten minutes later than usual, breathless and juggling her phone, a travel mug. Emily was right behind her, a suspicious flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the D.C. morning humidity.

They didn’t look at each other.

Not too much.

Because they were trying this new thing called discretion.

It had been four months. Four perfect, chaotic, wonderful months of late-night takeout, whispered phone calls, and the stolen glances across the conference table. They hadn’t told the team yet, not out of fear, but to savor it for a while, to have something just theirs.

But they’d agreed: soon.

Maybe even this week.

JJ dropped into her chair, exhaling loudly. Emily was mid-sip of coffee when Garcia gasped from the doorway.

“Well, well, well,” Penelope said, eyes lighting up like she’d just hacked into Santa’s naughty list. “Jennifer Jareau, is that a Prentiss original you’re wearing?”

JJ blinked. “What?”

Emily looked up, puzzled.

“That blouse.” Penelope pointed dramatically, sweeping into the room with all the subtlety of a glitter bomb. “That is Emily’s red silk blouse. I’ve drooled over it at least four times in the past six months.”

JJ froze. Slowly, she looked down at herself.

The red blouse was unmistakable, deep burgundy, structured collar, slightly loose in the shoulders but tucked neatly into her black slacks. Definitely not her usual style. Definitely Emily’s.

“Oh my God,” JJ murmured, her eyes darting to Emily’s.

Emily looked like someone had just read her search history out loud.

“Wait, it is, isn’t it?” Penelope grinned, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not just, like, some similar fashion choice situation. You wore her shirt.” She gasped again, hands flying to her mouth. “Are you two living together?”

JJ opened her mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

Emily stood, smoothing her blazer like it could somehow distract from the crimson blush crawling up her neck. “Okay, before you go full wedding-planner mode, can we just—”

“I knew it!” Penelope shrieked. “I knew there was something going on! The long glances, the weird shared looks, that one time you both showed up with matching bruises on your necks—”

JJ looked at Emily, groaned, and slumped back into her chair. “We were gonna tell everyone soon. Just… not like this.”

Emily sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “We kind of wanted it to be, you know… intentional.”

Penelope practically vibrated with joy. “You could have told me months ago. I would have planned champagne. Balloons. Confetti. Well, maybe not confetti, Hotch has rules, but still!”

“I guess I grabbed your blouse this morning without thinking,” JJ said sheepishly, glancing down at the telltale fabric. “I was in such a rush—your closet is next to mine now.”

“Well, that answers the cohabitating question,” Penelope said smugly.

Emily crossed her arms, but her smile betrayed her fondness. “Can you keep it between us? At least until we tell the others properly?”

Penelope held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. But you are telling them, right?”

JJ nodded. “Yeah. It’s time.”

Later that afternoon, as the team trickled in for a sudden briefing, case in Nevada, small town, missing kids, JJ and Emily exchanged a look.

It wasn’t a dramatic confession, no big announcement. Just a brush of hands as they walked to the round table, a smile shared in the doorway. No more hiding. Not really.

Morgan paused mid-sentence during the briefing, glancing between the two of them.

“You know,” he said, eyes narrowing, “that’s the first time I’ve seen Emily let anyone touch her coffee.”

Emily blinked.

JJ smirked. “Some people are special.”

Reid tilted his head. “Are you two—”

“Oh, finally!” Penelope groaned from across the table, flopping into a chair. “Do none of you notice anything? I figured it out because of a blouse. A blouse!”

Hotch arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Rossi just chuckled.

“Well,” Morgan said with a grin, “about damn time.”

JJ felt Emily’s fingers brush hers under the table.

Yeah.

It was definitely time.

#criminal minds #cm fanfiction #jemily #bau team #ssa emily prentiss #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #cm fandom

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batsandbirdbrains · 3 days ago

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The one where Dick is secretly Kryptonian and Zod is the only one who recognizes him

I want a fic set in the yj cartoon universe but I want to absolutely fuck with the timeline, as one does. I want Zod to show up way earlier, like just after the end of season 2. I want my usual set up where Dick is actually only like 15-17ish bc I think the younger he is the angst-ier it gets and I love that for him. Love making him suffer. I want Artemis to have refused to come back as Tigress to help Kaldur, so Dick ends up spending the entirety of season 2 with a million responsibilities: he has to sub in as Batman at least a couple times a week in Gotham and whenever the JL needs him so the world doesn’t get suspicious, he has to run the Team as Nightwing, he has to patrol as Nightwing, he has to train Tim to be Robin bc he’s only been Robin for a couple months before Bruce fucked off to Rimbor, he acted as Kaldur’s handler while he’s undercover, and then he convinces Deathstroke to let him be Renegade so he can provide Kaldur with some sort of backup. Oh and also he’s still in high school. Taking extra credits so he can graduate sooner.

And while all of this is happening, he’s also actively hiding the fact that he’s Kryptonian. That he’s actually Superman’s older brother. That he was stuck in the Phantom Zone for years because he was scared to leave his parents and go in the pod, so the explosion set his pod off course. That he was terrified when he landed on Earth and found out that Kal and Kara grew up without him. That he was the only one with the prototype bracelet his father had made to prevent the radiation from the yellow sun giving Dick powers.

So after the invasion, after everything calms down, the heroes around him start questioning his need to keep the undercover op a secret. They question is ability as a leader, as a hero. And Dick, who’s exhausted and overwhelmed and just so so tired, basically gives them all the middle finger and fucks off the Blüdhaven. Screw them all. He doesn’t need them. He doesn’t need anyone. He’s lost two families already, he can lose his makeshift third. Kara’s never even been in the same room as him since Dick has been on Earth. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s totally fine.

Then General Zod shows up four months later, and the JL reluctantly calls in nightwing because they need all the help they can get. And Dick helps. Because he’s good like that. Because even though he barely remembers Zod, he does remember that he was an ass and he didn’t like him, no matter how respectful his parents always told him he should be to his elders, especially one with the rank of General. But that was before Zod got thrown in the Phantom Zone, so Dick likes to think it wouldn’t count now.

Dick is on the Watchtower, lingering in the back, waiting for the debrief to start so he can just go home already. He’s missed a shift at the bar he works at for this. He’s probably going to get fired.

While Dick is brooding to himself, Superman and Supergirl arrive, each holding an arm of the shackled Zod, who’s looking around the room like they’re all dirt beneath his boots. But when Dick looks up, he and Zod look at each other. Even with the mask, Dick can tell he’s been recognized. And it makes his stomach drop.

Because Zod starts laughing, and it makes everyone pause. Everyone is watching him, and it only makes Zod’s smirk widen.

“I haven’t seen you in quite some time,” Zod says, his voice smooth. “Given your youth, it must’ve been you we heard crying in the Phantom Zone all those years. Remind me of your name again, boy?”

Dick stays frozen, even as everyone turns to him after realizing he’s the one Zod is staring down. The further Dick tries to hunch in on himself, the more Zod laughs.

“What was it? Ree-El? Rae-El? Rid-El?”

“Rah-El,” Dick eventually hisses, glaring at Zod. Zod just continues smirking at him, and Dick help but bite at him in Kryptonian, “Traitor.”

Kara is gasping, her hold on Zod going slack, but Kal-El just looks confused. As does everyone else around them.

“Ah, yes,” Zod says, his voice smooth. “Rah-El, firstborn of Jor-El and Lara. I’d thought you’d perished on Krypton when I hadn’t seen you fighting with your family. But look at you, hiding in the shadows. Tell me, it was you we heard in the Phantom Zone, wasn’t it? Your screams were so delightful.”

And just knowing that Zod and the others heard him while he was terrified, alone, locked in the pod with no way out, it makes his blood boil. Because they could have helped him. They should have helped him. He was a child, he was one of their own, and they left him to rot.

“Nightwing,” Kal’s voice is shaking, “what is he talking about?”

“Nightwing?” Zod laughs. “Oh, you really have been hiding in plain sight, haven’t you? Very clever.”

Dick can feel his hands shaking and his breathing get shallower, so he pushes himself off the wall and stomps up to Zod, hissing at him, “I hope they send you to rot in the Phantom Zone for the rest of eternity, you pathetic excuse for a general.”

He leaves before anyone can say anything. He doesn’t know how to answer any of their questions anyway. He doesn’t want to.

#dick grayson #young justice #kryptonian dick Grayson is one of my fav things and it’s So Underutilized

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aeniiverse · 8 hours ago

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FLIRTING SHOULDN’T BE THIS LOUD

Synopsis — You never meant to fall for Giselle. In fact, you were pretty sure she was just a walking fire hazard with a soft spot for chaos, gas station snacks, and frog memes. But somewhere between her fake serenades, vintage bike crashes, and wildly public declarations of love, you find yourself kind of…maybe…very much down bad.

Contains — fluff, Excessive use of pet names, Cringe levels may spike during public serenades, Unhinged romance energy, Slight injury risk due to rental bike chaos, Characters are dangerously down bad, No emotional preparedness for frog hoodie proposals

WORD COUNT — 2.2k

A/N — Hi! Okay so like disappeared for a while, and might for a longer while idk TT

The universe had a funny way of choosing its favorites.

You noticed this most when you were sitting two rows behind Giselle in class, watching her laugh at something stupid her friend said while the entire room tilted slightly in her direction like even gravity was kind of into her.

She was the kind of girl who got away with saying things like “I didn’t study but I still got an A” without anyone punching her. The kind of girl who showed up to school late, with coffee in one hand and an apology you somehow forgave before she even said it. Teachers liked her. People liked her. Even the vending machine liked her. it once spat out two KitKats when she only paid for one.

You didn’t dislike her, of course. You just didn’t get her.

And that was exactly what drove Giselle insane.

Because Giselle, reigning champion of chaotic charm and queen of unintentional thirst traps on her Instagram story, had been flirting with you for the past three weeks.

Or! she thought she was flirting. You, apparently, were just “really nice” and “maybe a little dense” according to Ningning, who had been keeping track of Giselle’s tragic attempts in a Notes app titled “Giselle vs the Brick Wall (Y/N).”

Today was no different.

You were at your locker, calmly placing your textbooks in by size and subject like the mild perfectionist you were, when Giselle swooped in like a dramatic tornado of vanilla perfume and chaos.

“Y/N!” she greeted you like she hadn’t seen you literally forty-five minutes ago in bio. “Crazy question. Be honest, if I were a frog, would you still think I’m hot?”

You blinked. “I mean. I guess you’d be a pretty frog?”

She clutched her chest like you’d proposed. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

You gave her a polite smile. “You’re welcome?”

Giselle, in her brain, was batting a thousand. Compliment? Secured. Heart rate? Elevated. Eye contact? Brief but memorable.

You, in your brain, were wondering whether you remembered to submit that chem assignment.

“Anyway,” she leaned against the locker next to yours, clearly not planning to leave, “I was thinking. Saturday. We should hang out. Just the two of us. Like a date but, you know, casual. Unless you want it to be a date. No pressure. Total pressure. Whatever you want.”

You shut your locker, thoughtful. “Oh. Are you trying to do the introvert adoption thing?”

“The what?”

“You know. That thing popular people do when they adopt a quiet friend so they can feel mysterious by association.”

Giselle stared at you, dumbfounded. “You think I’m trying to adopt you?”

You shrugged. “I mean, if you want to interview a few other quiet candidates, I totally get it. There’s this girl in calculus who doesn’t even talk to the teacher—”

“No, no, no. Y/N.” Giselle laughed, then immediately tried to recover. “I’m not trying to make you my emotional support introvert. I’m literally asking you out.”

“Oh.”

A beat of silence. You stared at her. She stared back. Giselle was mentally shaking you by the shoulders.

You tilted your head. “Like, out out?”

Giselle almost slammed her head into your locker. “YES. Like… date. Romance. I bring you flowers and pretend I don’t stalk your Instagram every night kind of ‘out.’”

“Oh.” You paused again. “Do you want to see my cat?”

Giselle opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a breath. “...Is that a yes?”

“I think so,” you said.

Giselle walked away grinning so wide she nearly tripped over her own feet. Meanwhile, you stood there still trying to process whether the interaction meant you now had plans Saturday or if she just really, really liked frogs.

You met again at the cafe downtown, the one with the weird chairs and overpriced drinks that Giselle insisted was “aesthetic.” She got there first, naturally, in a cropped hoodie and cargo pants that should’ve looked lazy but instead looked like a Pinterest board. You arrived in your “nicest” hoodie, which you’d pulled out of the laundry bin and sniffed twice before deciding it didn’t smell that bad.

She greeted you with a grin and a wave like you hadn’t just seen each other yesterday. “Hey! You came!”

“You told me to,” you said, confused.

“I know,” she said, leaning her cheek against her palm. “Just didn’t expect it to work.”

You stared at the menu, pretending not to notice how she was definitely looking at you and not the options. “So… what are we doing here?”

“Getting coffee?” she offered.

“Right, right.” You nodded seriously. “Is this, like, a coffee coffee hangout or a flirty coffee hangout?”

Giselle choked on air. “I—what—Y/N, this is the date.”

“Ohhhh.”

“You forgot?”

“No!” You looked guilty. “I just thought maybe you changed your mind. Or maybe it was a social experiment. You seem like someone who’d do that.”

Giselle dropped her face onto the table. “Oh my God. I’m going to lose my mind.”

You reached for your wallet, unaware that you were unintentionally stepping on her heart every five seconds. “Well, I’m still here. So. That’s good, right?”

Giselle straightened, grinning with the slightly unhinged energy of someone whose crush just called her a frog and then invited her to meet their cat. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You blinked. “You think I’m cute?”

“I’m literally on a date with you.”

“Oh,” you said, then paused. “Do you want to see a video of my cat chasing a laser pointer?”

Giselle nodded wordlessly, completely whipped, as you showed her a six-second clip of your chonky tabby skidding across hardwood. She cooed. “I love him. I would die for him. I’d go to war.”

“Please don’t,” you said seriously. “He wouldn’t survive without me.”

Giselle wanted to scream. Mostly because you said that with the kind of sincere expression that made her chest do weird gymnastics.

Later, as you two walked back toward campus, she slowed her steps, shoving her hands in her pockets and bumping your shoulder lightly.

“So,” she said casually, “was this a successful introvert adoption?”

You squinted at her. “Giselle.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I like you back now.”

She stopped walking.

“I mean,” you continued, “I’m not great at this stuff, but I think I do. Like, when you asked me if I’d still think you were hot as a frog, I got flustered and went home and made a pros and cons list about dating you.”

Giselle stared. “What was on it?”

“Pro: Very pretty. Con: Slightly unhinged.”

She laughed, loud and bright, and threw an arm around your shoulders. “That’s fair. I’ll take it.”

And you, oblivious no more, smiled like the sun had finally risen just for you.

You weren’t sure how it happened, but by the following week, you were officially Giselle’s girlfriend.

The news spread fast.

You didn’t post about it, of course. You didn’t even tell anyone. But it didn’t matter. Somehow the entire school knew. Ningning gave you a thumbs up in the hallway. Karina winked at you and whispered, “Nice catch.” Even the calculus girl, the one who didn’t speak, gave you a very solemn nod when you passed her in the library.

Apparently, dating Giselle meant inheriting her social reach like some kind of chaotic royalty.

And Giselle? Giselle was thriving.

She held your hand in the cafeteria. She texted you in all caps even when you were sitting right across from her. She started using dumb pet names like “muffin” and “my emotional support genius.” She posted blurry selfies of you with captions like “look at my baby being smart” even when the photo was just you blinking at a worksheet.

Still, it was… nice. Unexpectedly, annoyingly, stomach-flippingly nice.

Especially the way she’d look at you like she couldn’t believe her luck. Like she’d won some grand prize just by making you laugh. Like she was trying not to smile too hard whenever you called her “Giselle” instead of “oh hey, you.”

Your second date was on a Friday.

You expected coffee again. Maybe a movie. Something normal.

What you got was a very dramatic text message at 2 p.m. that said: “Clear your schedule. I’m taking you on a romantic adventure. Pack snacks.”

You replied, “Are we robbing a bank?”

She said, “Maybe.”

So naturally, you showed up at the park with a water bottle, some chips, and a vague sense of concern.

What you found was Giselle, standing next to two very beat-up rental bikes with a bouquet of gas station flowers and a pair of sunglasses that looked like they were stolen from a cartoon villain.

You stared at her. “We’re biking?”

“Yes,” she said proudly. “It’s romantic.”

“These bikes look like they were forged in the 80s.”

She patted one. “Vintage. Aesthetic. Shut up.”

You didn’t shut up. Not even when she nearly fell off hers trying to impress you by riding one-handed. Not even when she tried to race you and hit a trash can. Not even when she made you pull over because “there was a ladybug and it felt symbolic.”

By the time you reached the top of the hill overlooking the lake, she was panting dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d just climbed Everest.

You handed her a chip. She took it solemnly.

“This was worth it,” she said between breaths. “If I die right here, bury me in this hoodie.”

“Do you even know how to ride a bike properly?” you asked.

She gestured vaguely. “Mostly. In theory. Look, not all of us had stable childhoods with weekend park outings and safety helmets.”

You snorted. “I used to ride mine in circles in the driveway and pretend I was escaping the law.”

She blinked at you. “Okay, that’s hotter than it should be.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a chip at her. She caught it in her mouth and grinned like a dog who just learned a new trick.

After the sun started to dip, you sat side by side on the grass, sipping from your water bottle while she plucked petals off one of the flowers and dramatically asked, “Do you love me? Do you love me not?”

“You skipped five petals in a row.”

“I’m manifesting,” she said. “Let me have this.”

You looked at her, really looked at her messy hair from the wind, scuffed shoes from biking too fast, flower petals on her lap, and a sparkle in her eyes like she’d never been more sure of anything than the fact that she wanted to be here with you.

“You know,” you said slowly, “I think I like you more now that I know how uncoordinated you are.”

She gasped. “You like me for my flaws?”

“I like you despite your sunglasses.”

“I’ll take it.”

The next Monday, she took things to a new level.

You were minding your business in the hallway, waiting for class, when you heard the distinct opening notes of an Ed Sheeran song.

Your soul left your body.

Because there was Giselle standing at the end of the hallway with a portable speaker, an unbuttoned uniform jacket, and a microphone made out of a water bottle. Her friends stood behind her like backup dancers. Ningning was holding cue cards. One of them said, “SHE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU, DUMMY.”

You stood frozen.

Giselle launched into a dramatically off-key rendition of “Perfect.” She sang to you. She pointed at you. She dramatically fell to her knees and whispered into the mic, “This is for you, baby.”

You wanted to crawl inside a locker and disappear forever.

“Why are you like this?” you asked once she jogged up to you, breathless and smiling like she’d just won a talent show.

“Because you’re mine now,” she said simply. “And I wanted everyone to know.”

“I think the janitor knows.”

“Good. I want him to come to our wedding.”

You groaned, dragging her away by the sleeve, while everyone around you clapped and cheered like they’d just witnessed a public proposal.

Later that day, you were sitting together under the tree near the track field, your legs pressed against hers and your head tipped onto her shoulder. The world around you was loud, but she was quiet for once. just idly playing with the hem of your sleeve, occasionally bumping your knee with hers like she couldn’t stand to not touch you.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m, like. Really down bad.”

You turned to look at her. “That’s not news.”

She looked fake offended. “Okay, rude. I was trying to have a moment.”

You smiled, letting your fingers drift to hers. “Have your moment.”

She squeezed your hand. “You make me soft. I hate it.”

“No you don’t.”

“Okay, I don’t. But don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

You leaned in, kissing her on the cheek so quickly she barely had time to register it. She froze.

“…Did you just kiss me?”

“I did,” you said casually.

“I’m gonna scream.”

“You’re already screaming.”

She covered her face. “Ugh. I knew dating you would be dangerous. You’re turning me into a blushing loser.”

You rested your head back on her shoulder. “It’s mutual.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then she whispered, “So, hypothetically, if I asked you to wear matching frog hoodies, would that be pushing it?”

You didn’t even flinch. “What color?”

Giselle beamed.

Maybe the universe really did have a favorite.

But this time, it was you.

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