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theconstantsidekick · 1 month ago

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Thunderbolts* ft. Static (3) | b.b

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader, Tony Stark x Stark!Reader (siblings), Natasha Romanoff x Stark!Reader (flirtationship)

Genre: pining? is that a genre?

Summary: Y/N gets a call she can’t refuse — and surprise, it leads her right to where her dear husband, Congressman Barnes, is running a mission in Utah. A little less romantic getaway, a little more threats of violence.

(These scenes incorporate y/n, codenamed—Static, into the pre-existing story as a character without making drastic changes to the plot or mythos. All the major plot points from the MCU remain in place with the addition of the reader as Static, who is not only a Stark but also enhanced. Whatever events from the canon aren’t mentioned, take place without much change.)

Warnings: SPOILERS FOR THUNDERBOLTS*, Cursing

a/n: TIME SKIP BABYYY also, @astraealupinblack thanks for beta-ing this. ly.

“We were just trying to get home, alive actually,” she hears Yelena say.

Y/n can easily gauge that Yelena is at the end of the hall, from somewhere inside the room.

“That’s even more pathetic,” Bucky responds, his voice trailing off.

She doesn’t need to look to know he’s walked toward the huge windows on the other end of the room. She can hear the retreat in his voice. She can feel the distance.

She could tune in more. Could lean in and do the thing she’s been trained to do—eavesdrop on the conversation, gather intel, listen for weaknesses, decipher tone, use it all like currency. But she doesn’t.

Not out of courtesy. Please.

It’s just… it’s complicated.

With Bucky—everything’s complicated now.

She walks quietly through the hallway of the half-dead garage, sidestepping collapsed shelves, a busted tire jack, and a trail of cigarette butts that no one’s owned up to—which she will be adding to shortly, she’s sure. The air smells like burnt rubber and the kind of damp you can’t clean out.

She steps into the main room, pausing just inside what used to be a doorway—now just a fractured frame where drywall dreams go to die. Her shoulder meets the wall, casual, like she belongs there. Like she hasn’t rehearsed this fifty-seven times and overthought exactly how she’s gonna play this.

“I see you got your mission, Congressman.”

Bucky jolts so hard he nearly punches the window.

She stifles a smirk. How is he still not used to her?

“What...” He blinks, scrambling. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

She smiles. “That any way to greet your wife?”

“Are you spying on me?”

Rolling her eyes, “Like I have nothing better to do?”

“Then that brings me back to my original question: what the fuck are you doing here?”

She pushes off the wall and steps into the center of the room. The place looks like it was once used to service cars—or kill people. Hard to say, really. Now it’s just a bunker with no warmth, all cement and shadows.

At the heart of it is the pit—a literal drop in the floor that now functions as a holding cell. Bucky’s version of hospitality.

Across it, her husband’s captives are arranged in two halves like a dysfunctional debate team: Yelena and Walker on one side.

Ava and… Yelena and Natasha’s dad on the other.

She knows who he is, of course. Big guy. Loud voice. Soviet dad jokes. His name’s just… gone. Floating somewhere behind three years of classified codenames and one hell of a breakup.

“She called me,” Y/n says just as Yelena chimes in, “I called her.”

“Why would you call her?” Big Soviet Dad glares at Yelena like she’s just committed a war crime. “You don’t call your father, but you call her?” He motions to Y/n with bound hands. “The traitor?”

Y/n pulls a face.

Traitor?

Is she missing something here?

“Can you fly?” Yelena asks, deadpan, like it’s the most natural redirect in the world. There is barely any time to react before she adds, “Bob can fly—she can fly.”

“You can fly?” Ava snaps her gaze over, eyes wide behind—what must be—the power dampener cuffs clamped around her wrists.

“She can fly,” Bucky answers before she can.

“I can levitate,” Y/n corrects. Precision matters.

“Really?” Walker adds, sounding more intrigued than skeptical. “How?”

They all look so genuinely interested, it’d be rude not to answer.

“I can create small portals under my feet,” she says, raising a boot and conjuring one—a glowing circle, pink and ridiculous and very much hers. “And then I can just… walk on air, I guess.”

She takes a casual step upward, lets the portal flicker under her sole, then blinks it out again.

“That is the same as flying,” Yelena chides, tone flat, as if Y/n has just said something outrageously dumb.

Y/n shakes her head. “Nope,” she says. “Flying’s more efficient.”

“You can teleport from one place to other. That is cool and efficient. Flying is stupid. Why do you want to be stupid?” Yelena and Natasha’s dad says, with such unwavering conviction in his eyes, she actually falters.

She shifts her weight, one foot to the other. “…I know I’m gonna sound profoundly stupid when I say this, but—I never thought of it that way… so… thanks?”

“You are welcome, traitorous viper.”

Her face contorts. Pure confusion.

Where the fuck, she thinks, is this hostility even coming from?

But honestly, Y/n doesn’t have the bandwidth to figure it out. Not today. “Okay… sure. Whatever,” she mutters, walking deeper into the room, still vaguely baffled. “Come on, Yelena. We’re leaving.”

It’s almost comforting, how predictably fast her husband moves.

Bucky intercepts her before she can reach Yelena’s cuffs, blocking her path with that same ex-soldier precision that used to give her butterflies.

Now it just gives her a headache.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

She straightens, chin lifting. “Getting her out of here.”

“You can’t,” Bucky says, calm but firm.

That makes her tilt her head. Slowly. Dangerously. “Is that so?”

He sighs. The kind of sigh that says you’re being unreasonable again—like she hasn’t made a career out of walking that line on purpose. “I need this,” he says. “It’s evidence against Valentina.”

And that shouldn't piss her off as much as it does.

But it does.

“She, as in my client, will be happy to testify against Valentina,” Y/n snaps, “if you can get her full immunity.”

Bucky laughs.

Not a real laugh. Not the kind she used to love.

It’s short and mocking, laced with disbelief, like she just told him the moon’s a hologram.

“She was part of a shadow ops unit assembled specifically to erase evidence in an ongoing Senate investigation. Full immunity isn’t even in the same zip code.”

Y/n smiles then. Cold. Razor-edged. “The Winter Soldier was found guilty of twelve assassinations,” she says, voice dangerously casual. “Including the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. And I got you a fucking pardon.”

That quiets the room.

Every eye is on her now.

She jerks her chin toward Yelena, who’s straining to watch the fireworks from her seat. “She was following orders,” Y/n continues, “from the Director of the CIA. You bet your perfect little ass I can get her full fucking immunity.”

“You’re getting cocky, don’t you think?” Bucky’s voice is low, but there's heat underneath it now.

She steps closer. That mocking smile still frozen in place. “No. You are.” She jabs a finger toward Yelena. “I am taking her.”

“I cannot let you do that.”

“You can’t stop me. What are you gonna do?” she spits. “Arrest her?”

“Yes.”

She snorts, a burst of disbelief escaping her. “You can’t.”

“Why the hell not?”

She shakes her head slowly, mouth curled into something venomous and victorious. “Because you’re a fucking Congressman, dear.”

The word lands like a slap.

And then it’s quiet.

They just stare at each other.

The kind of stare that lasts too long. That holds too much.

He doesn’t flinch.

Neither does she.

There’s no yelling. No weapons.

Just years of history compressed into a single, unbearable silence.

She can see his jaw tick. The slight twitch in his left hand. The way his chest rises just a little faster.

He’s not going to back down.

But neither is she.

And for one sharp, suspended moment, it feels like the world might actually crack under the weight of whatever the hell still exists between them.

It’s weird, she thinks. It’s fucking weird to have to fight with this man over this—to fight with him over anything at all… other than doing the dishes. It seems like it was yesterday that he’d stare other people down like this, for her.

God! How much can things change in nine months?

“Is it just me, or has the tension risen remarkably in the last three minutes?” Yelena chimes in, bone-dry.

“No,” Walker says. “I feel it too.”

“Yes, yes, I agree,” the Big Soviet Dad adds, far too chipper for a man in restraints. “Very tensed.”

“And I cannot tell if it’s violent or sexual,” Ava muses aloud, genuinely perplexed.

Bucky clicks his tongue then—just once. And a small, sad smirk curves his lips. The kind Y/n hates. The kind that used to mean trouble, or flirting, or both.

“There was a time it wouldn’t matter,” he says quietly.

Motherfucker.

It slices through her. A scalpel of a sentence, said too lightly, meant too deeply.

She doesn’t get a second to recover. No chance to armor up. Because Walker, in his infinite, all-American brilliance, decides to blurt:

“You two broke up.”

And just like that, it happens.

Her eyes lock with Bucky’s across the room.

She hates how fast it happens. How automatic. Like muscle memory.

And for a second—just one suspended, impossible second—the world narrows.

She sees all of it. Every piece of the wreckage.

The late-night fights. The mornings where neither of them spoke. The mission she didn’t tell him about. The thing he didn’t say when it really, really mattered.

The distance. The silence.

The refusal to admit that love had never stopped being there, even when it got ugly.

His eyes are darker now. Tired. Like he hasn’t slept properly in weeks.

She wonders if she still looks the same to him. Or if he only sees the parts that hurt.

God, she used to know what he was thinking. Used to be able to read the tiniest shift in his face like a headline. Now it’s like trying to decipher a language she used to speak fluently—but forgot.

She feels her throat tighten, stupidly. Embarrassingly.

But she doesn't look away.

And neither does he.

They just stare, caught in whatever’s left between them—whatever hasn’t been burned to ash. And there’s a lot of ash.

“What are you talking about?” the big Soviet dad blurts out, accent thick—especially on the t’s, like he’s trying to punch them through the drywall. “Of course they didn’t break up! They are everywhere! I saw pictures in the newspaper—from gala last night. They looked perfect. As always.”

There’s a hint of annoyance in the last word—like the compliment physically injured him—but Y/n lets it slide. She’s too busy watching her husband’s face. Trying to read it. Trying and failing.

“They’re the superhero it-couple,” Ava says, nodding. “I read somewhere that Oprah wants to come out of retirement to interview them.”

“This is crazy—even for you, Walker,” Yelena mutters. “Bucky and Y/n would never break up.”

And isn’t that funny? How absolutely no one believes it. Not because they’re so in sync. But because no one ever imagined them not in orbit around each other—even if the orbit was violent.

“You won’t believe me when I say it, but I wish I was wrong…” Walker says, voice lower now. “But I’m not. Am I?”

The question is aimed squarely at them.

Someone’s gotta answer.

Y/n clenches her jaw so tight it’s a miracle her molars don’t crack. “If you were right—and that’s a big if—how the fuck would you even clock it?”

Walker just looks at her. And it’s not smug. Not triumphant.

It’s sad.

There’s this horrible broken look in his eyes when he answers. “From personal experience.”

Oh.

Fuck.

Of course.

His wife left him. Took the kid. The house. The future.

Of course he would be the first one to see it. Not that she and Bucky were being subtle—she knows that. But most people just chalk up their animosity to regular old Y/n-brand bickering. The same bickering she’s famous for, loved for. Loud, messy, affectionate chaos.

But Walker? That asshole would recognize heartbreak.

Because he lives in it.

And then there’s the part where he’s partially responsible for it. That just makes her want to punch through the nearest wall.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t need to.

Because then—like he’s been waiting for the perfect time to twist the knife—Walker asks:

“Why?”

Almost like he can hear her spiraling.

Her hands curl into fists. Her lungs are tight. It enrages her—awfully—that he would even ask.

But before she can speak, Bucky cuts in. “You fucking know why, John.”

She sees it—clear as day—the way Bucky’s answer throws Walker off. Knocks something loose behind his eyes. And Y/n knows, right then and there, that she can’t do this anymore.

Not right now.

Not one more question about them. Not from Walker. Not from anyone.

The next one might break her, and she’s not breaking in this fucking garage surrounded by handcuffed vigilantes and her ex, who she pretends to still be together with to maintain his approval rating as a Congressman.

So she pushes past Bucky—shoulder brushing his as she moves. It's firm, not aggressive, but definitely not gentle either. Deliberate.

Her boots echo over the concrete floor as she crosses to the pit. Kneeling beside Yelena, hands halfway raised toward the cuffs, she mutters— “Come on, Yelena. We’re getting out of here.”

But Yelena doesn’t move. “I’m not coming with you,” she says flatly.

Y/n freezes, halfway crouched, a breath caught in her throat. “…What?”

“I didn’t call you to get me out of this,” Yelena replies, voice calm, arms resting loosely on her knees.

Y/n rises slightly from her crouch, weight shifting to the balls of her feet. “Then what the fuck am I doing here?”

Yelena looks up at her, unfazed. “I called you to help out with Bob.”

Y/n blinks.

“Who the fuck is Bob?”

She sighs—loudly, dramatically—the kind of sigh that makes it clear she’s two seconds away from breaking something. It's the sigh of someone who’s clearly being forced to explain the same thing for the second time. Maybe it is the second time. Y/n wouldn’t know.

Fuck.

She should’ve eavesdropped.

Complicated emotions with Bucky be damned—this is exactly the kind of intel she’s supposed to catch. But no, she’d chosen dignity. Privacy. Emotional boundaries.

Rookie mistake.

“He was with us inside the vault,” Yelena says, her tone flat like she’s been over this already.

Y/n narrows her eyes. Her pulse skips.

She does not like where this is going.

“Wait,” she says slowly, standing straighter, “you mean the guy from last night? The one who shot into the sky, crash-landed like a goddamn asteroid, and casually created the second Grand Canyon in the middle of Utah without a single fucking scratch on him?”

“You know about that already?” Walker asks, brow furrowed.

“Of course she knows,” Bucky says before she can even open her mouth. There’s no sarcasm in it. No bite. Just fact.

It lands with the kind of weight only familiarity can carry.

The kind of sentence that says: She always knows.

“Yeah,” Yelena confirms, nodding toward the ground like she’s mentally reviewing disaster reports. “That is Bob.”

Y/n blinks once. Then twice.

Nope. Still doesn’t like it.

“Valentina did something to him.”

Y/n holds up a hand, eyes shut tight for half a second, like she’s bracing for impact. “Please don’t say it.”

Yelena does not give to fucks. “It’s called Project Sentry.”

“You said it.” Y/n groans, rubbing her temple like she can massage the coming ulcer out of existence. “Goddamn it.”

“You know about that too?” Walker asks, visibly struggling to catch up.

Y/n straightens fully, frustration crackling in her every movement. “About Valentina’s delusional wet dream of having a pet superhero? Yeah, of course I know about it!”

“How?” Walker’s voice sharpens—his confusion bordering on accusatory now.

Y/n barely has time to formulate the insult in her head before Bucky answers for her again. “Because it’s her fucking job to know.”

She doesn’t thank him. She doesn’t look at him. She just lets that one ride—because yeah, it is her job. And she’s so fucking tired of doing it.

But Walker—dumb, bulldozing Walker—keeps going.

“Then why didn’t you stop her?” He says it like he’s caught her red-handed. Like she wanted this to happen.

And if that isn’t the funniest thing she’s heard in weeks.

She laughs. Short, bitter, and loud. Whirls on him with venom in her voice and fire in her eyes. “You shittin’ me, Walker?” Slowly she takes account of the room before she begins, “Everyone in this room exists because someone wanted to build a better weapon. Some country, some organisation, some genius-in-a-garage thought: wouldn’t it be neat if we could make a superhero?” She starts pacing. Slowly. Her boots scuff the concrete, her fists tight at her sides like she’s wringing the answer out of herself just to stay standing. “We’re hot fucking commodity, man—more precise than a drone, less of a PR disaster than a nuke.” Her smile turns razor-sharp, practically carved into her face. She pivots mid-step, pointing to herself with mock drama. “We’d be the primary defense infrastructure of every country on this godforsaken planet if we were just a little cheaper to make.”

A beat.

“And a lotta bit easier to control.”

She lets out a sharp, humorless snort. It's almost a laugh, but not quite. “Everyone and their mother is making a superhero, Walker. So tell me—how the fuck am I supposed to stop them? Better yet, who the fuck am I to do it?”

There’s silence.

Tension.

And then Walker sits up as much as the rope and rebar will allow, straightening his spine like he’s about to deliver some grand truth. “You’re the last of the Avengers.”

Y/n turns toward him slowly. There’s no fury in her face now. Just quiet disbelief.

You gotta hand it to the guy—he’s got fight. And the raw, stupid courage to say it.

What a shame he’s so fucking stupid.

“That’s some real spicy bullshit,” she says, voice low and cutting. “Sam is the last of the Avengers—I was their lawyer.”

Walker opens his mouth again, and she already knows she’s not going to like what comes out. “You’re Steve Rogers’ ex-girlfriend. You’re Tony Stark’s sister. You’re fucking legacy.”

And that word—it hits different.

It’s supposed to mean something.

But for people like her, it never means what they want it to mean.

She drops to a crouch in front of him, slow and deliberate, so they’re eye to eye. So he can feel her words rattle in his bones.

She stares at him hard. Doesn’t blink.

“The only legacy the likes of us get to have,” she says, voice like gravel and goddamn scripture, “is death, Johnny boy.” She leans in, just a fraction. Just enough to make sure it burns. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking otherwise.”

And then—of course—the phone rings.

It’s Bucky’s.

He wordlessly turns and walks toward the far corner, back to the broken window he always gravitates to when he needs space he won't get. He answers it like it's routine.

“Yes?”

Yelena immediately starts bickering with her father.

Y/n tunes it out.

Bucky’s tone shifts—quieter. “What is it?”

Y/n—now done surgically dismantling Walker’s soul—rises to her feet, brushing invisible dust off her jeans just for something to do. Her knees ache. Her heart aches more.

She glances around. Walker looks worn down. Ava looks unsure. Honestly? Y/n is pretty sure she looks worse than both of them. All this—this room—it’s a mess of ghosts and grudges. Her husband. Her best friend’s baby sister. Her best friend’s complicated dad. The two people who have fucked her over the most in the last year without really meaning to. Y/nual Tuesday.

“Project Sentry?” Bucky asks into the phone, eyes flicking up to meet hers. It’s a glance. That’s all. But it’s a habit from when they were together. A habit that Bucky hasn’t given up—almost as if he’s refused to give it up.

Yelena shushes her father instantly, spine straightening at the mention.

Every head in the room swivels toward Bucky.

“What guy?” he asks the caller, and Y/n watches his face as it drops into full 'you’ve got to be fucking kidding me' mode.

“Bob?” he says, with the exact same level of disdain one reserves for finding out their date thinks the earth is flat.

Y/n has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop from laughing.

“Bob!” the four captives shout in unison, victorious. Vindicated.

And that does make her laugh. Just a quick, exasperated sound that escapes before she can smother it.

On the other end of the line—Y/n doesn’t need to guess—it’s Mel. Valentina’s very tired assistant. Whatever she says, it makes Bucky go still.

He’s quiet. Listening.

And then his face changes. Just barely. The edges go sharp, eyes narrowing—focused, serious, and that thing she recognizes like the back of her hand.

Then he hangs up.

He stares at his phone for a second too long before tucking it away. Everyone in the room’s watching him now. Like they’re waiting for a verdict.

And he gives it, deadpan:

“Bob.”

“Bob,” they all repeat, like it’s a prayer or a punchline.

“How many times…?” Big Soviet Dad chides under his breath.

Then Bucky looks at her.

And there it is again—that look. Not a glare. Not a plea. Just… searching. He’s looking for something in her face that she doesn’t know how to give him anymore. That hurts. And not in a poetic, aching-heart way. It hurts in a bone-deep, I-might-explode-if-you-don’t-stop-looking-at-me-like-that way.

“It’s bad, Bucky,” Yelena says quietly.

Y/n sees it then—the decision building behind his eyes. Weighing options, calculating risk, doing the responsible adult thing for all of five seconds—before hurling that entire thought process straight into the nearest dumpster fire.

He begins uncuffing his captives, one by one.

He takes the chains off of Yelena and Natash’s dad first then walks over to Ava and starts undoing her power-dampening cuffs.

“What are you doing?” Ava asks, more curious than alarmed.

“I’m letting you go,” he says simply. “You’re coming with me.”

“Why?” Ava presses, as he walks over to Walker.

“Shhh!” Big Soviet Dad interrupts. “For the glory…” he adds gravely with poorly hidden excitement.

Y/n rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle she doesn’t dislocate something.

“Well,” Bucky says, yanking the rebar off of Walker’s wrists with a grunt. “You know Valentina. She’s got this thing out there.” He moves to Yelena and begins untying her rope. “People are gonna get hurt. And I gotta stop it.” He straightens near the window again, that old posture—the soldier, the leader—settling into his shoulders like armor. “And you’re gonna help me.”

There’s a pause.

“Wait, us?” Yelena asks, rubbing her wrists, visibly caught off-guard.

“Why? You got someplace to be?” Bucky replies without missing a beat.

There’s a silence. Not long, but long enough. Y/n watches it land across Yelena’s face—a flicker of hesitation, of doubt, of maybe wanting to run.

She knows that look.

She’s worn that look.

“Bucky, you have the wrong people,” Yelena finally says.

He meets her eyes, and for the first time since he walked into this place, he speaks from somewhere deep. For the first time since this conversation began, Bucky is honest. “Look, I’ve been where you are,” he begins, empathy clear in his words, his eyes, his tone. “You can run but it doesn’t go away. Sooner or later it catches up to you—and when it does, it’s too late… So you can either do something about it now… or live with it forever…”

The words hang in the air.

Y/n watches them land—in Yelena’s chest, in Walker’s shoulders, in Ava’s careful, clinical stillness and Big Soviet Dad’s eyes that look desperately to his daughter.

Yelena exhales. Loudly. Her head drops for a second. When she looks up, her face has changed.

Set. Solid. Tired.

“Stop Val and save Bob,” she says. Then she turns to Walker.

He looks just as tired as her. “Fine.”

“Hmm?” she asks again, chin raised.

“Yeah,” he says, even less firm than before. Worn down, but still in the fight.

They turn to Ava, expectant.

She nods after a brief pause. Slow, thoughtful. “Go on then.”

And then they turn to Yelena and Natasha’s dad who just—”YESSSSSSSS!!!! YESSSSS”

Y/n has got to say Big Soviet Da—RED GUARDIAN! That’s his fucking name! Red fucking Guardian! Alexie Shostakov! That was his goddamn name! She said it would come to her, didn’t she?!

In the excitement of having figured it out, she clicks her fingers grabbing everyone’s attention immediately.

Then they’re all staring at her.

“What?” She asks, a little scared.

“What do you think?” Yelena bites back.

“Stop Val and save Bob?”

“Yes,” Yelena answers, like she’s unbelievably annoyed.

“No,” Y/n tells her.

Her response seems to piss Yelena off. “Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“NO!”

“Why not?” comes Bucky’s voice, soft and gentle.

It makes her turn, on instinct, on habit—perhaps similar to his, one she doesn’t want to get rid of. It’s this same reluctance that perhaps is what enrages her more. “You know why not!”

He sighs with his eyes so, so kind. “Y/n…”

His tone is too sweet, too fucking sweet.

She’s glad for the interruption from Yelena. “You have to help.”

“No, I don’t,” she bites back.

“Yes, you do!”

“No, I—”

Yelena cuts her off. “You are the most powerful person I know, and you promised.”

“Yelena…”

“You promised.”

Now, everyone knows Y/n is a mountain that isn’t the easiest to move. She’s more stubborn than a mule, so much so that she once got into a screaming match with the former Captain America over freedom and government.

So yes, she’s stubborn. Very stubborn.

“Fine,” Y/n acquiesce.

She gives in.

“What?” Bucky yells out, clearly surprised by the surrender. “Just like that? A stern look and some puppy dog eyes and suddenly you’re on board?”

“Yes,” Y/n says, battle lost.

“WHY?!” Bucky shouts.

She sighs, before she says, “Because her sister told me I was her legacy and then obviously died. Which means I gotta take care of it—which means I gotta take care of her!” She throws her hands up in defeat, “Okay?” Everyone looks at her as if she’s losing her mind. And she might as well be.

Look, what you have got to understand, what no one might ever understand—not unless they have experienced loss—is that when someone you love dies, you’re left with all this love. You’re left on the side of the street in the pouring rain, with this massive pile of love in your arms and you don’t know where to fucking put it. It doesn’t fit in your closet. It doesn’t look good next to the bookshelves and the bedside table is sure as shit not big enough to house it. You cannot put it up in the attic—because come on! You want to be able to look at it. Of course, you do!

So then the question becomes:

Where the fuck are you supposed to put it?

Like it or not, it spills.

Try as you might to hold it tight to your chest, to manage it, to fold it into something quieter—it slips through. It gets on things. On people.

It always spills over.

And in this particular case, the love Y/n had—has—for Natasha Romanoff has spilled all over Yelena Belova. It just has. It wasn’t a mistake—she would not call it a mistake. It was almost inevitable.

Yelena’s so very different from Natasha in so many ways, in almost every single way but there’s this thing in her eyes. Y/n thinks it’s probably the crazy kind of drive that both sisters shared. But it could, just as easily, be kind determination.

Either way, there’s something. Something that tugs at her, that hurts, because it reminds Y/n too much of what she lost. What she’s still holding. And that’s why she can’t walk away.

Which is the reason why she now has to protect Natasha’s legacy and by proxy, she has to protect Yelena.

The group of captives begin to get to their feet, as her inner monologue continues to let her spiral.

“So yeah! I will help you stop Val and save Bob, but in the interest of full disclosure? I am not the most powerful person you know.” She reaches out and helps Yelena up.

“Yes, you are!” Yelena looks beyond frustrated. “This is not the time to be humble.”

“I am not being humble,” Y/n points out. “I used to be the most powerful person you knew… Now it’s Bob.”

Read the next part here. Read the part where Natasha calls y/n her legacy here. Find the Static Verse Masterlist here.

next one will give a bit more context to the time skip situation, i swear

@mirandastuckinthe80s @rattyfishrock @jeyramarie @yourbane @yikesdrama

143 notes · View notes

mistercrowbar · 5 months ago

Note

Terribly sorry if you've answered this before, but what would Companion Aldiirn's greetings be, at those varying approval levels?

(I only ask bc I'm writing my character's rn and im curious lol)

I did write some ages ago but I could never figure out any for flirting/partnered stages because I am bad at that. So thank you for getting me to dust them all off and add more:

Negative Approval: has the air of a retail employee who cannot leave their post under threat of reprimand.

Hello.

Did you need help with something?

Is there something you need?

May I be of service to you?

(contextual) Yes, Mistress?

Neutral Approval: Chipper, retail voice.

Whatever you need, I can provide.

Aldiirn, at your service.

Good day, saer!

Every moment is a brand new opportunity!

(contextual) What does the mistress require?

Positive Approval: More cheeky and animated in his movements, but isn’t dropping the bit.

My favourite client! What can do for you?

Whatever you need, I can provide - terms and conditions apply please check regulations with your local outpost before placing an order.

G’day, mate!

Whatever you ask, you’ll have the Iaurrhen Guarantee.

(contextual) May the mistress be pleased with my service.

Flirting: Not too different from Positive.

Bright one today, isn’t it? But there’s always opportunity.

The Aldiirn Guarantee, just for you!

Many hands lighten the load. How may I unburden you?

My new friend, always delighted to work at your side.

Partnered: Sappy and sing-songy, big eyes just looking at the player.

Ussta alurlsrin.

My love, my loam, my home away from home.

I will forever wade in the shadows of your wake. To where shall we go?

Yes, my brightest cap?

Being sent back to camp:

Has my performance not been satisfactory? Give me the chance, allow me to make it right.

[on confirmation he must go] Oh… well, then… I’ll be counting inventory.

Spoken to by someone other than the player:

Pardon me, I’m currently busy with another client.

#aldiirn ask #bg3

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caoimhewritesfics · 2 months ago

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Firefighters

TF 141 + König as firefighters who help you out

CW: Mentions of fires/floods, minor injuries, mainly fluff

WC: 1k

Ghost: You stood outside your office building, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to shake off the shock. The fire had been small, and contained quickly, but the panic was real. A shadow loomed over you, and you looked up to see one of the firefighters who had ushered you out of the building. “Sit still,” he said, voice commanding yet oddly comforting. You hadn’t realized until now how badly your arm hurt. He crouched down in front of you, his dark eyes flicking over the small, minor burn before he gently took your arm in his gloved hand. "It's not too bad, but we'll need to take you to the hospital anyway," he mutters, eyes focused on the bandages. “Thanks… for helping,” you murmured, wincing slightly as the burn stung. Ghost glanced up, his eyes softening. “It’s my job.” You feel your cheeks heating up slightly. "Thanks anyway," you give him a small, bashful smile. "You uh... see a lot of fires?" You regret it the second it leaves your mouth. Do you see a lot of fires? Seriously? Out of everything you could have said, why that? Before you faint from embarrassment, he chuckles. "How did you know?" You breathe a sigh of relief at his humor, your eyes meeting his brown ones, "Just a feeling."

König: You stood in your front yard, eyes fixed on the tree in front of you. Your cat was perched on a branch near the top, her wide eyes with fear. "Mrs Platypus!" you called, trying to coax her down. She meowed in response but refused to move. Panic rose in your chest. You'd tried everything, calling, shaking treats, even using the neighbor's ladder, but nothing worked. “You need help?” You turned to see a towering figure approaching. You swear you've never seen a man so tall. "I- yes." You nod, your eyes glued to the skyscraper of a firefighter. "I didn't call anyone or anything," you add. You were surprised to see a firefighter there on your lawn. "I'm off duty, I live next door. I thought you could use some help." he says simply and effortlessly reaches up, pulling your cat out of the tree. "What's her name?" You let out a chuckle of embarrassment, "Mrs Platypus..." He lets out an amused bark of laughter. "Really? Now that's one I definitely haven't heard before." He gently hands you the cat and smiles. You notice he has quite a nice smile. The way it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Thanks. I thought I would never get her down," you thank him. He just smiles and says, "Anytime."

Price: The screech of metal against metal echoed in the dim light of the elevator. You pressed the button repeatedly, but the display above the door only flickered. Your heart raced, panic bubbling up as you tugged uselessly at the sliding doors. "Come on," you muttered, trying to calm your breath. You have no idea how long you've been in there. The emergency button naturally wasn't working and the service on your phone was pathetically weak. You were sure you were going to have a breakdown just before you finally got help on the phone. "Hey! You in there?" You froze for a moment. Was that… a man’s voice? "Yeah, I’m stuck," you called back, your voice laced with anxiety. "I need help. Please, can you get me out?" You heard the loud wrenching of the doors as they are pried open. They snapped open just enough for you to see the man on the other side. "Hey, love. You alright in there?" If your jaw dropped any wider it would be on the floor. He's gorgeous. "I'm fine," you nod rapidly, suddenly feeling like every word you've ever known has dripped out of your brain. "Sorry we took so long, love. Busy day." He gives you a wink and pries the doors open wider, extending a hand to you to help you out. You give him a small thank you as you take his hand and step out. "How ya feelin'?" He asks softly as he gazes down at you. You stammer for a moment, "good... great, excellent," you say rapidly, blushing like a tomato.

Gaz: The air was thick with smoke, the scent of burnt wood and fabric stinging your nose. Firefighters moved around you in a blur, shouting orders, directing people away from the ruins of the apartment complex. A hand on your shoulder snapped you back to reality. You looked up, blinking through the haze, and met the gaze of a firefighter in full gear. “Hey, you alright?” he asked, his voice calm and comforting. “I—I don’t know,” you stammered, swallowing back the lump in your throat. “My apartment… it’s gone. All my stuff was in there." He nodded, stepping closer. “We’ve got the fire under control now,” he said, eyes scanning the wreckage, “but I’m sorry about your place. That’s a tough break.” You sighed and nodded, "I'll figure it out." He thinks for a second, "You know, me and my team are heading back to the station after this. We can give you a ride somewhere if you want. We can even put on the sirens for you," He says teasingly and smiles down at you warmly.

Soap: The storm had ravaged everything. Floodwaters had quickly turned your neighborhood into a river. Luckily your house wasn't damaged too badly but you definitely couldn't stay. You were lost in thought when you heard the loud knock at your door. When you opened it, there stood a firefighter, drenched from head to toe, with a look of determination in his eyes. His dark, mohawk was soaked flat on his head, and his uniform was heavy with water, but he didn’t seem to care. “Hey, you alright in here?” His voice was warm, calm, but laced with urgency. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I—I don’t know what to do." He cuts you off, “Don’t worry, love. I’m here now,” he said, stepping inside without hesitation, boots squelching in the water. His steady presence was an instant relief. "We've got time," he says reassuringly as he gently helps you out the door. He catches you when you stumble through the water. "Careful, love. I got you."

#call of duty #könig #könig x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #john price x reader #john price #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz x reader #soap x reader #john soap mactavish #soap cod #caoimhewrites

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apollabarnes · 3 months ago

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part two

thanks to @beanarie and @fiyaerrigan for cheerleading for more — hopefully this scratches that itch!

tommy's not sure how it happens, but he and athena start grabbing food once a week. sometimes it's dinner, sometimes breakfast, rarely it's lunch. they're both shift workers, so the changing schedule doesn't bother him.

it means that he has to keep going to the meetings, but… it's not so bad. if he talks, he talks around evan, because athena is close to evan and there's some things that she probably doesn't want to know. it's not as if he doesn't have a whole lifetime's worth of bad relationships to talk about.

he doesn't mention abby by name, either — that's a whole confusing mess that he just doesn't want to get into it with a member of evan's extended family.

mostly he listens, remembers, tries to use some of the reframing that they suggest.

"my dad was a real shithead," tommy says one night when he's halfway through a stack of waffles. "joining the army was just a way to get away from him."

athena makes an understanding noise, snapping her bacon in half.

they've both learned that if she talks, tommy's likely to clam up and drop the subject.

"he wrapped the car around a tree three years into my deployment," tommy continues. there had been a whole thing involving bereavement leave and a hardship transfer stateside because his mom couldn't cope afterwards. he doesn't like remembering that part, either. "it's probably the best thing he ever did with his life." tommy's still not sure whether he means killing himself or doing it in a way that meant no one else got hurt. the damage was limited to tommy and his mother, but that's been a hell of a shadow to deal with.

"i've met a few of those," athena says, after a pause to make sure tommy didn't want to add anything else.

"i'm not surprised." tommy methodically cuts a waffle along every raised imprint, popping a square into his mouth.

it's kind of like having a sponsor, he guesses. if that was something the family groups actually did. athena tells tommy how may's classes are going, that harry wants to stick around for college after he graduates. she tells him about a fire at an animal shelter that bobby had dealt with, and that buck — evan — had fostered a dog for a few days.

tommy wonders how that worked. evan had told him about hoover one night over dinner.

athena pauses mid-sentence and tommy stops her from apologising. "i can hear his name, it's fine." he's not sure how to explain that he's managed to… silo off evan from buck. evan is his ex. buck is one of athena's coworkers. hearing about buck doesn't make tommy sad, because he never really spent time with buck.

she gives him what he's dubbed the maurice stare. (he saw it a lot in the six months between bobby arriving and transferring to harbour. sees it more now.) but tommy is unflappable and therefore not bothered by it.

the standoff is broken by her phone buzzing. "that's my ride," athena tells him. "my car's in for service."

"i could have given you a ride," tommy offers before he can think better of it. "you didn't have to call an uber."

"that's cute, but i called my husband."

tommy breathes in. doesn't react. can feel the tension coiling around the base of his spine. "tell bobby…"

"he's not coming in, tommy," athena reassures him. "i told him i was grabbing food with someone from work."

tommy thinks about that. they're not in front of the windows, and his back is towards the door. the chances of bobby seeing or recognizing him are definitely lower than they would be if tommy showed up in his truck to drop athena off. and if bobby looks around the parking lot, well, how many grey trucks are in los angeles?

he'd still prefer the drop-off option.

"it's not like you need to keep this a secret," tommy says instead, even though every fiber of his being is screaming that he doesn't want anyone to know. that he doesn't want bobby, specifically, to know, because once he knows it's only a matter of time before the rest of the firehouse finds out.

"of course i don't, tommy. same time next week."

part one // part three

#tommy kinard #athena grant #bucktommy #911 fic #not me writing this ages ago and forgetting to post it #tw parent death #tw car crash #tw drunk driving #bobby lives au

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lotusmar · 2 days ago

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pastors daughter

pastorsdaughter!reader x badboy!rafe

WARNINGS: religion, guilt, sneaking, lying, emotional tension, kissing, toxic fluff, suggestive themes

You weren’t supposed to talk to boys like Rafe Cameron.

Not with your last name. Not in this town.

You were the pastors daughter. Sweet as pie, always in white. You said “yes sir” and “no ma’am,” baked cookies for the women’s prayer group, played piano on Sundays. People looked at you like you were made of glass.

And maybe you were — until he touched you.

The first time you kissed Rafe, it was behind the chapel after youth service.

You still had lip gloss on and a bible in your hand. He smelled like sweat and weed with a hint of gasoline. He was leaning on that beat-up truck of his, watching you from across the street, like he had nothing better to do than ruin a girl who was just trying to be good.

He didn’t even speak at first. Just smiled — slow, crooked. Like he already knew you were gonna cross the street. And you did.

“I’m gonna go to hell for this,” you’d whispered against his mouth.

“You’ll look good there,” he said, mouth still warm on your jaw. “Real good, n' ill save you a seat." he whispered, like a prayer, as his mouth eventually made way down to your collarbone, and well- you knew what would happen next.

Now it’s been two months, and you’re still sneaking out. Still crawling back into your room at midnight with swollen lips and your cardigan on backwards. Still lying to your daddy’s face over breakfast, your hands folded neat like a prayer while guilt gnaws at your ribs. Unable to look your daddy in the eyes as ya'll would pray at the dinner table.

Rafe never makes it easier. He’s cocky. Smirking. Always saying things like, “You look real holy on Sunday mornings. Shame what you let me do Saturday night.”

He texts you during church.

You know you shouldn’t answer. You do anyway.

One Wednesday night, after choir rehearsal, you hear your name.

“Hey,” a voice says. Sharp. Accusatory.

You turn. It’s Nathan. He’s the boy your daddy wants you to date. Polite. A little bland. From a “good family.” He’s frowning now, arms crossed, eyes flicking down to your smudged lips and the hickey you forgot to cover.

“Where were you just now?” he asks.

You freeze.

“Don’t lie,” he adds.

“I wasn’t—”

“I saw you. With him. Rafe. He dropped you off.” Nathan scoffs. “Does your father know?”

Your throat goes dry. “No.”

He stares at you for a long time. “He will.”

You run. Straight out the back of the church, past the sacristy, through the field behind the building — and find Rafe waiting by the fence.

He sees your face, your panic, and his smirk fades instantly. “What happened, doll?”

You don’t even answer. You just throw yourself at him, hands fisting in his shirt like you’re begging for something. Anything.

“Rafe, I can’t— I can’t do this anymore,” you say, voice cracking. “They’re gonna find out. They’re gonna ruin me.”

He cups your jaw, firm but gentle. “You’re not ruined.”

You shake your head. “You don’t understand. You’re not the one who has to look your father in the eye.”

“No,” he murmurs, pulling you in close, “but I’m the one who has to let you go. And I won’t.”

You try to pull away, but he won’t let you. His hands settle on your hips. His mouth brushes yours, not quite kissing yet, just holding you still. “I’ll take the blame. All of it. Say I lied. Say I tricked you.”

You blink up at him, stunned. “Why would you do that?”

His voice is low. Raw. “Because I love you. I know I’m not supposed to, but I do.”

You stare, heartbeat in your ears. “I love you too.”

And right there — under the cross-shaped steeple, in the shadow of everything you were told not to want — you kiss him like it’s the last thing God will ever let you have.

And maybe it is.

But for now, it’s yours.

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ouijacine · 10 months ago

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🌆 cover design I recently did for @aj_barlowe ‘s debut novel A Series of Rooms 🌆

This was such a fun project to work on (as I very rarely draw scenery especially cityscapes)! And I’ll drop the blurb below 🍂

A SERIES OF ROOMS:

On the night of his twenty-first birthday, a domino effect of unfortunate events leads Liam Cassidy to a chance encounter with a stranger. What he thinks will be nothing more than a moment of shared refuge in a bar bathroom takes a turn when he finds the same young man waiting in his hotel room that night.

Jonah Prince is just trying to survive another night, same as he has done since his life derailed at seventeen. When his services are requested as a surprise for someone’s birthday, the last person he expects to see is the man from the bar who showed him kindness.

It doesn’t take long in a room together for Liam to see the cracks in Jonah’s facade. Hungry, guarded, and jumping at shadows, it’s clear he is in desperate need of a break, and Liam is in a unique position to grant him one-even if it’s just for a night.

Drawn together by their mutual need for escape, the two of them fall into an arrangement of weekly meetings inside the cheapest hotel rooms Chicago has to offer. The encounters are not sexual in nature, but an unexpected intimacy blossoms between them over time. For Jonah, it’s one night a week of guaranteed safety. For Liam, it’s the first real friendship he has ever known.

But soon, the circumstances that exist outside their private series of rooms begin closing in around them, reminding them that they can’t live in a bubble forever.

🍂The book will be released winter 2024 and is available to add to your TBR on storygraph 🍂

#digital art #book cover #a series of rooms #bookish #lgbt books #debut novel #cover design

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blacktabbygames · 1 year ago

Note

Hi, I admit I dont really know what the process for this looks like, but would you ever consider adding Slay the Princess to the Playstation Plus subscription service, or to Xbox GamePass? Even temporary, with a time limit?

This might be something we do towards the very end of Slay the Princess' life cycle, but subscription services are a pretty hard sell for us in general. I don't think they're sustainable for the games industry as a whole, and they're a contributor to some of the race-to-the-bottom mentality. (Absolutely zero judgment for folks who use these services, btw. *I* use these services, but then I also know that I never actually buy a game after getting it on Game Pass or PS+; this is really just about the corporate side of things)

A big news item in the industry over the past month was the closure of Tango Gameworks, the Microsoft-owned studio that made Hi-Fi Rush last year, a wonderful game that got a bunch of awards and scored an 87 on Metacritic.

There's been a lot of speculation around this closure, and to add to that speculation, I believe that at the end of the day, Hi Fi Rush lost a lot of money, at least on paper.

It was shadow-dropped as a day 1 gamepass exclusive, which meant that there was no marketing done in advance, and sales were immediately cannibalized. (Side note— Hi-Fi Rush is maybe the only game I've picked up on Game Pass that I turned around and bought a Steam copy of, mostly because I wanted to play it on my Steam Deck.)

Since Tango was owned by MS, this was almost certainly a deliberate choice to make Game Pass seem more appealing, and even then, the studio behind a *hit* game was closed for financial reasons. So we're not sure that's a part of the industry we want to dance with.

I know this probably seems at odds with our stance on piracy, but at the end of the day, I think they're different beasts, and it's the scale, perceived legitimacy, and corporatization of subscription services that gives me a lot of pause, especially with Game Pass, which tends to double-release for PC and console. And on the flipside, I legitimately don't think piracy hurts developers.

So again, I think if we were to do something like this, it would be towards the end of the game's life, or it would be something tied more to an isolated ecosystem (i.e. if we do mobile, something like Apple Arcade, since people don't really *buy* mobile games, and the overlap with console + PC is very small.)

#slay the princess #scarlet hollow

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patheditprovider · 1 year ago

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professional clipping path service provider

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#clipping path service provider #CLIPPING PATH SERVICE #Add drop Shadow to image #Add drop Shadow #Drop Shadow Services #Natural shadow service #background removing service #path edit provider #PEP

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fameandfiction · 2 months ago

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IMAGINE PART I: “this is not even enemies-to-lovers, this is lovers-to-feral-married-buddies” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Chaotic sapphics with zero boundaries and thousands of viewers.

[Live: @/reneerapp & @/you]

The ring light is barely balancing on a stack of books. The phone keeps tilting sideways every time Reneé shifts her weight on the couch — which is often, because she cannot sit still to save her life. You’ve both been live for ten minutes and only three things have happened so far: Reneé spilled LaCroix on herself, you confessed you forgot this was happening, and someone in the comments just typed “what the hell is going on??” for the fifth time.

Which, fair.

You’re both wearing sweatpants. Reneé’s hair is in a half-failed bun, and you’re in her oversized merch hoodie — the one that somehow has a bleach stain that looks suspiciously like a cat paw.

“Okay,” Reneé says, squinting at the screen. “They wanna know behind-the-scenes lore from the album sessions. Fun facts. Trivia. Something unreleased.”

You snort. “You want lore? I have lore.”

Reneé gives you that side-eye. That “don’t ruin my PR-approved reputation” side-eye that does nothing because she already ruined it herself the moment she said “suck my dick” in a red carpet interview.

You lean in, smiling at the camera like it’s your accomplice. “Last time we were at hers, Reneé popped all the pimples on my back—like, medic-grade, deep-tissue satisfaction—and then she—”

“Don’t you dare.” Her hand is on your arm, like she’s going to yank you off screen.

“And then, after she popped all of them, she leaned down and gave a bite—a BITE—on my freshly wounded back.” You pause. Snort. “Like I was a fuckin’ fruit roll-up.”

Reneé screams. She throws her head back and dissolves into the kind of laughter that comes with no dignity, hand clutched to her chest like she’s been shot. “WHY—WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT ON LIVE—”

“She said it was ‘instinctual,’” you add, looking deadpan at the camera.

“She’s lying—”

“She called it my ‘biteable zone.’”

“I’m BLOCKING you—”

The chat explodes:

🧴: NOT THE BITE 🥲: THIS IS TOO INTIMATE GET OUT 🫧: they’re so married. it’s terrifying. 🩹: what did she taste like tho 😨: what is going on help

You shrug. “Anyway. That’s your behind-the-scenes lore. Album was great. My back is still healing.”

Reneé throws a pillow at you. It bounces off your shoulder and knocks over the ring light, plunging the screen into shadow. You hear her say, “You’re gonna get me dropped from my label,” in between wheezing giggles.

You grin, repositioning the phone. “Say sorry to my back.”

“I kissed it after! I said thank you for your service!”

“You licked it.”

“In gratitude!!”

[Later on Twitter:]

@/popgaysource: Reneé Rapp and her “roommate” went live again and I’m going to need therapy to recover. @/reneerappfan37: “Biteable zone” is now canon @/you: y’all act like it’s weird to bite someone after performing surgery on their back. grow up. 🤨🤨🤨

#fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #imagines #x reader #Reneé Rapp #Renee Rapp #Reneé Rapp x reader #Renee Rapp x reader #RPF #Real People #Real Person Fiction #Real Person Fanfic

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issacballsac · 7 months ago

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Tangent Line

Julian (Smith)

Gender Neutral Reader

Another average day of work finished its gruel passing on your day. As you began to close up the bar; wiping the spilled drinks from before and collecting any leftover trash. One person remained at the end of the bar. God, why couldn’t they just leave like everyone else.

“Hey we’re closing up soon.”

An audible choke erupted from them as they sheepishly apologised before going to gather their belongings, the already rusty door burst open.

Dropping everything they were previously picking up, the straggling customer made a run for it.

Noise akin to a metal chain gravely disturbed your ears while the blue—weapon? Fell to the floor.

“Don’t. Run.”

A figure shrouded in shadows stepped forward into the bar.

At least the day would get more entertaining.

“Where? Exit?”

His newly seen scarlet hair came into view as he hastily questioned you.

“If you go out the employee entrance over there you could probably catch ‘em”

Motioning behind yourself, you took no time in ratting out your paying customer. Perhaps you should add no wanted felons on the entry requirements.

Immediately taking off without giving the chance to take a second look. Or you didn’t get a second look at least, as a cry rang out from outside of the bar. Someone else surely did.

“Man, definitely got him.”

You sighed, continuing your work to close the bar for the day. Cleaning up the glasses and flipping the sign over. It wasn’t unusual to spot purifications taking place across the Moniyan Empire.

Until tomorrow. And there tomorrow came.

With a melodramatic routine of opening the bar once more, the afternoon air flooded in. Setting out chairs and stools, the right ding emitted from the doorbell.

“Already? Well that’s fine what can I get for...you.”

The man—the assassin—the purifier stood in the door frame before all else. With a certain cold gaze that would make the devil shiver. The heels of his boots clinked against the wooden floors with each and every step closer to you.

“Thanks.”

Is all he managed to mutter out. Words don’t seem to be his strong suit, but, he pulled out a chair and sat down with the unease of a child whom had been scolded.

Rummaging through his slim pockets he tossed a few coins over the bar counter whilst shifting into a more comfortable position.

“Oh! You want a drink? What kind?”

Planting his hand firmly underneath his chin he began to lose himself in thought for at least a minute before pointing to a clear—granted almost empty bottle.

“Just the liquor straight?”

“Fruit taste? Please.”

Doubting you’d get anything else from him, you began doing what you did best. Making drinks.

With no time at all the fruit like concoction had been crafted and served to you only customer for the hour it seemed, strange.

Downing the well scented beverage in one swing he slid the glass back to you.

“Name is Julian.”

Finally a semi-coherent sentence.

“Nice to meet you.”

You reluctantly hid your own name as you went to clean the used glass.

“You, what is yours?”

“Oh I’m not from the Moniyan Empire.”

“Name?”

Man was he determined to get your name. The bright red light corresponding to his eyes beamed at you in wait.

Finally giving in after two minutes of intense staring you told him your name.

With only a soft hum the man departed.

“What the actual fuck was that.”

His strange pop up visits began to cease over time but the feeling of his gaze never fell from you.

It had to been—what? Months? Before that familiar desertion of the bar was restored.

“Slow day.”

Was the cursed words that triggered the door bell once more.

“Welcome!”

Beginning your daily customer service, as a group of three strutted inside. Three importantly dressed individuals. With a fourth shyly tagging along that you knew all too well.

“Hey it’s you again! Julian right?”

His piercing stare loosened, properly taking you into his sight. In contrast to all three sets of eyes now straying to him.

“You know this guy? No way, you do have friends!”

"Don't tease him Melissa. We are just here for a break."

A seemingly older member of their group chimed in. With two out of the four's names being disclosed. "I don't like alcohol, do you guys have anything else?" A boy-teen-person? With long tamed hair leaned over the counter scouting out the drinks. The rest of the group scoffed in unison. "Don't huff at me you guys aren't even allowed to drink!" Pony-tail wasted no time ratting out his fellow travel mates.

"Damnit Yin, now I'll never get to try some."

"How about you just wait like normal people!"

Awkwardly third--fifth wheeling the conversation you rested the glasses back into their caddy.

"So cola for everyone?"

"From before, the drink. Thank you."

Deviating your eyebrows from resting position your stare intensified. "I thought you were not allowed to drink? Oh man-I already served you before."

"I can. Thank...you." The coins flew across the counter once more. He did not seem interested in arguing the matter. And neither were you, prepping the fruitful concoction once more.

"WHAT? I want one too!" The girl, Melissa? Had taken coins from the elder's pockets and dished them forward. "Would you mind me asking, just how old you guys are? Just for my sanity."

"Not old enough. I will take a Gimlet. Mocktails if you can for the rest." He whispered the last bit , concealing the truth from the party.

"That makes two of us--four of us?"

"What." The man of blaring blue hair had dilated his eyes in a concerned manner. "Oh yeah I can't drink either, I just work here."

A sly series of stares burned holes through your soul as you stood awkwardly. “So, I’ll get those drinks for you.”

Glass clinking across the island perked the eldest’s attention to retrieve the beverages. “Hey we should probably get goin’ soon so we get there in time.” Yin dutifully commented downing his faux liquor.

Viciously digging through his pockets, the blonde boy wearily peered over at Xavier. And with his reluctant sigh, the bill was paid. “Thank you for your service. Let’s go.” The group exchanged bids of farewells, while exiting the doors.

With a boiling confliction within himself, your new regular slid a note on the counter. “I will return. Maybe, you—us can go.” Evidently struggling with his words, you briefly cut him off.

“Of course, if I’m not working that day, then of course.”

An acute smile disguised as a smirk fought its way onto his face as he regrouped with his friends outside. Eagerly awaiting to see you again.

I love Julian sm I’m kicking my feet in the air

Totally not proof read either I made this on my phone 😨

#fanfic #fanfiction #x male reader #x masc reader #x female reader #x gn reader #mlbb x reader #MLBB fanfic #julian smith #Julian MLBB #julian mlbb x reader #game fanfic

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corazondebeskar-reads · 1 year ago

Text

remember what you're staring at is me

jackson!Joel Miller x f!reader

originally for Febuwhump 2024 Day 8 - found footage | Febuwhump masterlist

words: 2.9k

summary: A videotape is left on your porch one morning, and it changes everything about your budding relationship with Joel Miller.

warnings: Jackson!Joel, some dark!Joel, some soft!Joel, we love a man who contains multitudes, ambiguous ending, I wish I had made this a much longer one shot but oh well, references to The Hospital Incident, oral (f & m receiving), implicit p in v

dividers by @saradika-graphics

You find it on your porch one morning in an old paper bag. Someone’s written right onto the brown wrapping with black crayon—”you need to know the truth.” It seems rather dramatic once you peel back the paper to find a videotape.

It's not high quality—the footage is fuzzy and crudely edited together. But there’s just no mistaking the man on the screen.

Joel and Ellie came into your life when they arrived for the second time in Jackson. You had heard the gossip the first time, but never met the pair.

You met him fairly quickly when he swung by with a torn jacket, gruff and blunt but polite. Steady. “They, uh, said to ask you about some mending?”

“Sure thing,” you say easily, smiling at the very handsome stranger. “Let me take a look.”

It was a casual thing, the sewing, and you liked it that way. You didn’t make anything, didn’t haul things to the market. You spun the wool for those who did craft things, and then you kept to your little projects at night.

The push and pull of the needle was the meditation you needed to keep going every day, even now, even safe here in this bubble. Something productive, something to keep your trembling hands busy and your mind blank.

And in return, you got company and conversation. Most folks knew your services could be bought with a warm drink or baked good, a promise of a favor you’d never call for.

“How long?” he asks, voice flat and serious, but it didn’t prick at you, didn’t land as rough as it set out.

“Not long,” you muse, looking over the tear—a knife gash of some sort, and the thin lining that peeked out. “Ten minutes if you just want it sewn up, or if you give me a day, I can get it properly stuffed.”

“Sewn, please.”

Please. You like that. Manners at the end of the world.

“You sure? Be a lot warmer if I fill it out.”

“I don’t—” he scowls at the ground. “I barely have anythin’ to offer ya for the mending.”

You want to tell him it’s on the house, call it a welcome basket, but he’s holding out what he does have to offer and your jaw drops just a little, lips parting to make way for a soft, pleased “oh” that has him straightening up.

“I can find somethin’ else,” he says.

“Oh, no. That’s… amazing,” you say, taking the jar into your hands and popping the lid. They certainly aren’t potent, not like you remember, but oh, you could die from just the faint smell of the cinnamon sticks. “This is… more than enough. I’ll owe you, I reckon.”

“I dunno about that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Seriously,” you say, eyes wide. You set the jar on the counter. “For that, I’ll get the whole thing done tonight.” After all, the delay had only been so you could go to bed.

“Y’ain’t got to do that, I don’t mean to be a bother.”

You brush him off and start gathering your supplies. If you steep the thread in tea for a bit, you think, you might be able to get close to the color of the fabric.

He turns down a cup when you offer but does take a seat at the table. He’s as stiff as your late husband’s favorite bourbon, but the blunt edges grow a little duller when you don’t try to keep up small talk.

The bright overhead light casts him in shadow, deepening the circles under his eyes and drooping his wrinkles in inky black. But his eyes are bright and curious as he watches you start to add unspun wool from your stockpile into the jacket, trying to shape and layer it evenly through the inside. You have to make a couple incisions but keep them tight to the hemlines and existing stitching.

The thread dries quickly with the hearth raging and he speaks for the first time as you weave it through the needle’s eye.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a threader,” you say, offering it to him to see after you’ve pulled it loose. “I, um. I’m not as dexterous as I used to be and I can’t say my sight’s as keen, either. Makes it easier to use these damn tiny needles. Luckily, it wasn’t a very in-demand item when people were raiding shops.”

“Huh,” is all he says, sliding it back across the table to you.

The stitching is quick and rote. You’re used to people pouring out their life stories and desires and drama when they sit at your table or on your sofa, feet kicked up on your coffee table while you sew.

But this silence with Joel is warm, too. You’re almost regretful the job didn’t take longer.

You stand up and he follows, pushing his chair neatly back into its place. He takes the coat and runs a gentle finger across the original wound.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly.

You give him a wan smile, never having found those words to settle right in your skin. “Nice meeting you, Joel,” you say instead. “You know where to find me if you need anything else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, and lets himself out.

You lock the door behind him and wonder why you feel so energized. That tea was decaf, after all. And a little fuzzy, if you were totally honest, but you weren’t going to dump it down the drain just over a few fibers.

One day when he comes, it’s with a bundle of thick socks and another, smaller jacket. Not a difficult job, but the gift he brings to trade knocks you off kilter so hard that you have to sit down.

“Not sure if it’ll be any use to you, but figured you’d know someone who can use it if you don’t,” he says, looking at the floor.

You’ve gotten to know him a little better, though his visits are few and far between. But he’s gotten more comfortable around town, more interested in following that wild daughter of his than hiding away.

Sometimes, he’ll even sit at your table in the mess. You’d even go as far to say that the two of you were friends.

So you can tell what he’s trying so hard not to project. He’s nervous.

It looks almost like a desk lamp with its sturdy base and bent wooden arm, but in place of a shade and bulb is a hoop. You recognize it immediately and your stomach swoops. It’s an embroidery stand and you might faint just from that, just from having a steady way to hold the fabric tight as you sew.

But that isn’t all. He shows you how to turn the peg that loosens the grip of the handle on the side, a raw hewn thing that doesn’t match the worn stain of the stand. You’re burning, head spinning, and the fuzzy darkness at the edges of the world stop you from focusing on the gift.

The carved handle, he says, with hands curling around either side of you, has been partially hollowed to accommodate the end of the magnifying glass. You can raise and lower it with the peg and rotate the handle to use the other side of the glass.

“Joel,” you say uncertainly. He doesn’t really seem like he’ll want the attention drawn to it, but you have to know. “Did you make that?”

“Nah,” he scoffs. “Just added the glass is all.”

“Just added the glass,” you echo in a whisper. But you know he doesn’t mean he only attached it. He made the entire attachment and fit it onto the stand.

His ears are red and he won’t look at you.

You set a cautious hand on his arm where it reaches across your shoulder, still resting on the table. He’s caging you in from where he leaned over to demonstrate. “Joel, this is incredible. This is… this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Ain’t a big deal,” he mumbles but he doesn’t shake off your hand. “Just saw it and thought it might be useful.”

You feel emboldened by his kindness, so you curl your hand around his bicep. “Can I thank you?”

He looks down at you now, seeking something that he must find, confirmation in your blown out pupils and parted lips, and nods.

He doesn’t break away as you slip from the chair to sink onto your knees or when your fingers loop around his belt to pry it open.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” you say, voice tight.

He shakes his head. “You’re not.” His voice is the rumble of thunder breaking a tense summer night.

You don’t bother removing his belt, simply knocking it open to reach for his zipper.

You’re about to tug his pants down when the door opens.

“Hey sugar,” Tommy drawls, “all my fuckin boxers have holes. Can you help a guy out? Promise they’re cle—“

His loud mouth gave just enough warning for Joel to pull his shirt down over his belt and for you to fumble at rolling the cuff of one pant leg up just so, reaching for a pin.

“Oh hey, Joel!” Tommy says happily. “Finally fixin’ those ratty old things?”

It’s a fucking miracle that he’s in these jeans, his favorites. Actually, it’s not, he wears them all the time, and they’re just a little too long so the bottoms are torn up.

“Guess so,” Joel scowls. He’ll have to finally let you hem them now.

“Just leave ‘em on the table, Tommy,” you say around the needle between your teeth. “And tell Maria to stop bein’ so rough with them.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “She can’t help it, sugar. I’m irresistible, see?” He claps his brother on the back and takes his leave.

You slump a little, sighing as you set the needle on the table before moving to resume your activity.

But Joel steps back. “I should get goin’,” he says. The line between his brow is cavernous and his lips are tugged down at the corners.

“Oh. Okay,” you say, and pull yourself up with a hand clutching the table.

“So. Thanks again,” he says. And then he’s gone.

You let yourself drop dramatically into a chair, groan growing as it turns physical when your tailbone hits the seat wrong.

You’re rubbing your forehead and thinking about going to bed to give yourself a pity orgasm when the door opens. He’s quiet and cautious, but he pushes the door shut behind him and locks it.

“M’sorry,” he says. “I…”

“It’s okay,” you say with a tired smile. “I understand.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, offering you a hand.

You take it and let him pull you to standing.

His other hand finds your waist. “I was bein’ a coward.”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable—”

“Darlin’, you couldn’t,” he says. His arm slides further around, pulling you to him in a gentle embrace. He looks down at you through heavy lids, watching the way your lips part just a little. “You still want this?”

You bring a hand up to cup at the hair that curls down the nape of his neck. “Please,” you whisper.

He matches your motion, cradling your head in his palm as he dips his head to kiss you. He wastes no time, licking into your welcoming mouth, seeking out the earthiness of the tea still lingering on your tongue and the sweet shiver of goosebumps prickling across his skin as you wind your fingers into his hair.

“Shit,” he mumbles when you break away for air. “What do you want, baby? What can I have? You gotta tell me now, before I can’t think straight.”

“You can have whatever you want, Joel,” you say, hot breath brushing his swollen lips before he presses them to you again with a growl.

It’s a much quicker kiss, and he breaks away to drop to his knees and push your skirt up to your hips. You have to lean back with both hands clenching the edge of the table not to fall over in shock.

He nuzzles against the soft cotton of your panties and groans at the smell of your wet cunt. He mouths at it gently over the fabric before hooking his finger around the gusset and pulling it aside to part your lips with his tongue.

“Not fair,” you gasp as he feasts. “I was supposed to—supposed to do that for you.”

“You said whatever I want, darlin’,” he says against your pussy, chasing the taste of you.

“Fuck,” you pant. “Fuck.”

“Gimmie one and I’ll let you suck my cock if ya want it so bad,” he says, plunging two thick fingers in and basking in the way you squeal and squirm. He doesn’t give you a chance to adjust, pistoning in and out like he’s trying to win a race.

It works, with his tongue on your clit and his fingers against that soft, secret part of you that no one has touched before, you gush around where he spreads you. “That’s it,” he croons, “good girl. Good fuckin’ girl, give me another.”

“You said—”

He cuts you off by sucking on your clit and your hips rock, wobbling the table as he takes another from you anyway.

“Couch or bed?” he says, tugging your panties down your legs now that he’s sated the immediate urge.

“Don’t care,” you say.

“Alright, bed,” he says. “Wanna do this right.”

“Don’t think you could do it wrong,” you say, a lazy, sated smile on your face and a lightness to your eyes that he thinks he could get addicted to.

He does let you suck his cock, and thinks maybe he could die happy from the warm, wet of your mouth and the way you look up at him like he’s the only thing in the world.

At that moment, he is. You had resigned yourself to keeping your little crush a secret until it faded, too fond of him to risk it, but here? Now? Now that you’ve had him, you don’t think you can ever go back.

He’s gentle in a way you can’t quite name. It’s not that he’s soft with you, but just aware. Like he knows where you’re capable of meeting him and settles there. He makes room for himself in you like you’d done for his coat, opening you up and stuffing you until you’re warm and full and renewed.

He doesn’t leave you to stitch yourself up, either. He buries his face in your tits and holds you tight after, cleans the both of you up with a warm towel, and kisses you before he leaves.

Neither of you want him to go, but he’s got Ellie at home and won’t—can’t—worry her by not coming home. Not without warning. Next time, he whispers, and it carries a question and a promise.

There is a next time. And another. And another. You think you might be in trouble. You do far less mending jobs once your evenings are taken over by Joel. You still take them, darning socks on the soft with your feet in his lap, or basking in the way he looks proud and satisfied when you use the stand to fix up bigger projects. Some of your favorite nights are when he sits and strums his guitar while you sew, just two people finding peace by creating it themselves. Together.

So when eight months later, that tape finds its way into the VCR you’ve only used twice, you’re more than familiar with the bulking shape of him. The way his hair sticks up when he runs worried hands through it. The grip of those hands, sure and steady.

He finds you there on your third viewing. You didn’t even hear him come up the porch, didn’t realize the sun was starting to crest over the mountains, that he’d be coming by with breakfast just like he promised.

The little Joel on screen is working his way to the operating room. You’ve stopped flinching at each crack of the gun or collapsing body.

“Where the hell did you get that?”

You do startle when he speaks, unaware that he’d been watching you watch the tape for a minute. His voice is low and slow, something lurking beneath the baritone that trips an alarm.

This isn’t your Joel. This is that one, the one from the TV.

He moves like a jaguar, slinking and graceful. “Where,” he snarls, breath curling off your clammy skin, “did you get this?” His hand curls around your shoulder at the base of your neck.

“It was on my porch,” you whisper.

His fingers dig in a little where he holds you in place. “Try again.”

“It’s the truth, I swear. I didn’t know what it was.”

“How much did you watch?”

“All of it,” you whisper, though it feels like the click of a lock.

“Goddamnit, baby. Why’d you have to do that?”

There’s an actual click, the unmistakable flick of a release.

“Joel, please,” you say, voice breaking. “I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I can’t take that chance,” he says.

He still hasn’t brought the knife close to you, though, so you hazard a glance over your shoulder. You wish you hadn’t. He’s gone, his sweet eyes dead to the world, no whisper of his gentleness to be found.

“I swear, please. You can trust me.”

“Can’t trust anyone in this world, darlin’. You shoulda realized that by now.”

*title from "Through Glass" by Stone Sour

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #jackson!joel #dark!joel #the last of us fic #joel miller fic #dead dove fic #febuwhump #febuwhump2024 #febuwhumpday8

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