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tinyshyteacup · 2 months ago

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Tw: cussing, angst, carbohydrates

Part 1

Words of Command - Part 2

You stand just a little to the side of the elevator, arms wrapped around yourself for comfort, eyes fixed on him.

The Soldier—or—Bucky—or was it Soldat? hasn’t moved. Not more than the occasional shift of his weight, the twitch of that metal hand, the faint flick of his blue eyes every time you breathe too loudly.

Steve and Tony have stepped back to whisper, but you can feel their attention lingering.

Watching.

Judging.

Worried.

Your voice is small when you try again.

“Excuse me…Soldat?”

His gaze whips back to you. Immediate. Unyielding.

That dead-focused, razor-sharp intensity tightens your chest, but you keep going—gentle, slow, like you’re talking to a scared animal that might bolt.

Or bite.

“Do you… understand me?”

There’s no answer.

But he stares, and something in the corners of his eyes shifts—like he’s searching, trying to find something inside the words.

Like he knows he should understand.

But doesn’t know how he's supposed to respond.

You try again.

“Do you speak English?”

A pause. Then “…Handler.”

Soft. Gravelled. Russian-coated.

But he looks at you longer this time. Tilts his head ever so slightly.

Then—halting, broken “Yes ... Handler... I speak ... english.”

His voice is scratchy from disuse, like sandpaper dragged across silk.

You blink, startled. “You do speak…english ...cool. cool. cool.”

His face doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes—like he knows he got something right.

Tony mutters under his breath to Steve, “Great. She’s got a new puppy. One with a kill count.”

Tony’s voice cuts the moment in two, sharp and dry.

“Alright. Fine. He stays. For now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “But only under strict rules.”

He points at you. “You’re now—congratulations—his unofficial translator, wrangler, emotional support human. You don’t leave him alone with anyone unless Steve’s around."

Tony paces before continuing.

"You don’t give him any new code words. And if he starts twitching like he’s about to go full ‘Nuclear-powered meltdown’ in the kitchen, you run. Got it?”

You blink. “I—I didn’t agree to any of this—”

“You talked to him,” Tony interrupts. “He responded. That makes you the most useful person in this room. Sorry, Cap.”

Steve just nods, gaze serious. “We’ll keep him close. And monitored.”

Tony turns back to Bucky. “You break anything, you pay for it. With labor. I’ll teach you how to vacuum or something.”

“Vakum?"

Bucky repeats, confused.

He turns back to you like he’s waiting for confirmation.

You swallow. “Um… yea ...yes. You… do or we do, I dont know”

He nods, stiff but obedient. Like a soldier again. Your stomach knots.

Tony sighs. “Great. He’s trained and housebroken.”

The others drift off. Steve to talk logistics. Tony to complain to JARVIS. You’re left behind… with him.

You stand in awkward silence.

Bucky doesn’t look at you the way a man does. He looks at you the way a soldier does—alert, aware, waiting for purpose.

But something softens in his stance when you step a little closer.

“Do you… remember your name?” you ask gently.

He’s quiet for a long time. Too long. Then he shakes his head.

"Soldat.”

“Not that,” you murmur. “Your real name.”

His brows knit like it’s painful. His mouth opens—closes. Then just a almost imperceptible shake of his head.

You nod slowly. “Okay. That’s okay.”

He watches your expression like he’s trying to memorize it. Trying to learn how to interpret softness. Gentleness. Safety.

The hallway outside the security room smells faintly like ozone and recycled air. You’re wringing your fingers in front of you, stealing glances toward where Bucky—no, Soldat—sits motionless on a bench near the elevator, eyes tracking every flicker of movement like a wolf in a den of mirrors.

Steve watches him too. But not with fear.

With sorrow.

“He’s so…” you start, unsure of how to finish the sentence. “Still.”

Steve sighs, deep and rough. “That’s how he was trained. Hydra carved the hesitation out of him. Left only reaction.”

You glance at the grime and dried blood on Bucky’s face.

His hair is stringy, tangled.

His hands both metal and flesh are blackened with dirt. The metallic arm catches the fluorescent lights—dull, but still somehow menacing.

“He needs… a shower,” you say scrunching your nose slightly.

Steve looks over. “Yeah. He does.”

“I could… he could use mine”

Steve's mouth twitches into the smallest smile. “You’re braver than you look.”

You fidget. “Everyone deserves hygiene ... its a basic human right.”

Steve nods slowly. “That’s true.”

The elevator ride up to your room is silent—oppressively so.

You keep sneaking glances at him.

He doesn’t blink much. Doesn’t fidget. Just stands with his shoulders squared, metal hand curled tight at his side like he’s expecting orders or a trap.

His boots are caked in filth.

His face still bears the shadows of too many nights in the street.

You whisper, just loud enough for him to hear

“You’re safe. No one here will hurt you.”

His eyes slide to yours. Brief. Intense.

Then he nods—just once.

Your room in Stark Tower isn’t large, but it’s lived-in, Tony had allowed you to shift in when you where between apartments in the city, and he didn't seem in a hurry for you to find somewhere else.

Warm lamp light glows from the corner. There’s a little potted succulent on the windowsill. That your honestly not trying to kill.

A pile of books beside the bed. A tea mug forgotten on the nightstand. The air smells faintly of vanilla and lemon.

Bucky walks in like a soldier clearing a room. Silent steps. Eyes scanning corners. He doesn’t relax, but he stops moving once you speak.

“I thought… you could shower in here. In the bathroom. It’s clean, and there’s towels—soap—uh—just, everything.”

He stares at you blankly.

Then… something clicks.

Without hesitation, he starts pulling off his clothes.

You let out a squeak and spin around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet.

“Oh! Holy shit ...Um—okay! Privacy! You can—just—I’ll wait out here!” your voice cracks at least twice.

Behind you, clothes hit the floor. The dull thud of boots. The click of the door shutting, then the soft muffled hiss of the shower turning on.

Your face burns.

You press your hand to your chest.

There’s a naked super soldier in my shower… Oh my god… holy cow...wait ... is that arm waterproof?

A soft knock draws you from your internal spiral.

You open the door just wide enough to peek out—and there’s Steve, holding a bundle of clothes, grey sweatpants, a simple t-shirt, hoodie, and socks.

He raises a brow at your pink face. “Everything okay?”

“Fine! Totally fine! He’s… uh ...showering.” You hesitate. “He stripped. Like, immediately.”

Steve snorts softly, amused. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You take the clothes and thank him in a whisper.

He turns to leave but glances back over his shoulder. “He’s not trying to scare you.”

“I kinda figured.”

Evening hums low outside your window. The sky’s painted in the soft indigos of a city winding down. In your room, the overhead light is dimmed, replaced by the golden warmth of a bedside lamp.

The tower feels quieter now—like even its bones are holding their breath.

Bucky sits on the floor at the foot of your bed, his back straight, legs folded.

He’s wearing the clothes Steve brought. He hasn’t said much—not beyond, "Yes" "No" and “Handler”

Your starting to hate that word.

You’re sitting nearby, cross-legged on the bed, watching him with a quiet ache in your chest.

His hair is damp from the shower but already beginning to dry in unkempt waves, tangled and wild like a forgotten sea.

There’s something about it that doesn’t sit right with you—not because it’s messy, but because it wasn’t his choice.

It was neglect.

“Would you like to brush your hair?” you ask gently, holding up the comb you keep in your drawer.

He doesn’t move.

Not a flinch.

But his eyes flick to the comb. Then to your face.

Then back to the comb.

No understanding.

No hostility.

Just… frozen confusion.

You realize it a second later, It wasn’t a command.

And he doesn’t know how to process choice.

You try again, slower. “It’s not an order, Soldat. It’s something people do for comfort. To feel clean. To feel… themselves.”

He watches your mouth like he’s decoding a language that doesn’t belong to him.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Then “...You brush?” he says, the words clipped, thickly accented. His voice scratches like gravel dragged over concrete.

“No, not me. You. For you.” You hold the comb out to him carefully, showing him. “You can brush your own hair. If you want.”

His brow furrows. You don’t think he’s ever been asked if he wants anything before.

“I don’t… remember.”

That is the closest thing to a sentence he’s given you.

The words nearly break something inside you.

“Then…” you whisper, “Would it be okay if I helped? Just for now?”

A breath passes. His metal fingers twitch against the floor.

Then he nods—once.

You ease down from the bed, kneeling behind him. His broad back dwarfs you, but he stays very still. Every muscle tense, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong.

You gently set the comb on your lap and take out a small, circular compact mirror from your drawer. You flip it open and set it on the floor beside him, tilting it so he can see your hands reflected when you reach for his hair.

“It’s... so you know you’re in control. You can stop me at any time. Okay?”

“Understood, Handler.”

That word again.

The first pass of the comb is tentative. Gentle. You start from the ends, working up in soft, practiced movements. His hair snags in places—clumps still matted from god only knows how much neglect. You’re careful. Patient. Like you’re brushing knots of memory, not just strands.

His breath is steady. But not relaxed. It’s like he doesn’t know how to be during this.

When your fingertips graze his scalp, he flinches—but doesn’t pull away.

In the mirror, you watch his eyes track your every movement. His jaw is clenched, but not from pain. From effort. He’s fighting an instinct you can’t see, but you feel its tremble under your palms.

And then—almost imperceptibly—his shoulders lower. Just a little.

After several minutes, you offer him the compact.

“Here. Want to hold it?”

He stares at it like it’s some delicate alien thing. You nudge it gently into his flesh hand.

He holds it like it might shatter under the wrong pressure. Turns it. Sees himself.

He frowns.

Not in disgust.

Not quite.

More like... he’s seeing a ghost in the reflection and doesn’t know what to do with him.

Then he looks at you.

And in that single look—there is confusion.

And something almost like wonder.

“You… don’t have to do this,” he murmurs. “it's not protocol.”

“I don't mind,” you say, voice thick with emotion. Despite the smile you offer him.

The Tower’s kitchen is lively at this hour—typical, not at all surprising.

Clint is hunched over a bowl of cereal, watching something on a tablet, probably a terrible reality show. Natasha lounges sideways on one of the bar stools, legs crossed at the knee, flipping through a glossy black dossier with quiet intent.

Sam is leaning against the fridge, arguing with Steve about something that sounds like football but escalates fast enough to involve several gestures and a thrown grape.

Then there’s Tony.

Leaning across the counter in a charcoal t-shirt, sipping an espresso as if he invented the machine.

Because well ... he did.

You step into the room, barefoot and slipping between them with muttered "Excuse me's", sleeves pushed up to your elbows and hair a little tousled from where you’d tied it up lazily.

You hover near the fridge, mumbling something about making pasta. No one really pays you much mind—

Until they notice him.

He appears in the doorway like a shadow that forgot to blend in.

The Winter Soldier.

Bucky.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t announce himself, doesn’t stomp. He just is—standing in the doorframe, silent and still, eyes flicking from person to person like he’s assessing threats. Or calculating exits.

You glance back at him, offering a smile, and he responds not with words, but motion.

He follows you.

Not close enough to touch. Just behind. Always behind. Like a ghost dog, cautious but fiercely loyal. His bare feet make no sound against the polished floors. He stands when you stand, moves when you move.

You’re pouring water into a pot when you hear Clint whisper

“Is that who I think it is?”

Natasha doesn’t answer. But she puts her file down. That’s answer enough.

Tony's voice cuts through the tension like a scalpel made of sarcasm.

“Well well, look who’s lurking in my kitchen like a Soviet-themed Dracula.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. His gaze flicks to Tony, then to the coffee machine, then back to you. The moment doesn’t register as an insult—because to him, it’s just noise.

“Didn’t realize the Asset came with a tracking chip,” Tony adds, lifting his espresso.

You turn slightly, cheeks flushed, fumbling the box of pasta.

“He’s just… hanging out” you say over your shoulder. “It’s okay.”

Tony blinks. “Yeah, I see that. Very Terminator-chic. Adorable. Kind of unsettling.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “You sure he’s not about to snap a fork in half?”

At that, Bucky shifts. Just a little. Not threatening. But present. A statement.

Natasha leans in, narrowing her eyes. “He’s not looking at any of us. Just her.”

You glance back at him. “Soldat?”

His head turns toward you instantly. Eyes locked. Waiting.

“…You hungry?”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t nod. But his lips part, like he’s trying to answer in a language he forgot.

“Da,” he rasps.

Tony claps once. “Fantastic. Our newly adopted murder machine has a preference for carbs. That’s going in the file.”

As the pasta boils and the kitchen returns to a fragile rhythm, Bucky remains near you. Close, but never hovering too much. Watching your hands. Taking in the way you hum under your breath. Your calm presence seems to dull the sharp edges in him.

When the steam rises and you lean over the pot, he shifts slightly to keep you in sight.

Tony catches it and, for once, doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he murmurs to Steve, “It’s like some sorta twilight zone imprinting. Is that normal?”

Steve shrugs. “Nothing about this is normal.”

You hum softly to yourself, cheeks warm from the stove’s heat as you serve up a big bowl of sundried tomato pasta with crumbly cheese and herbs.

You’ve made enough for everyone—even Tony, who pretends to be above “home-cooked carbs” until you set a plate down in front of him.

“Looks like someone’s gunning for our hearts,” Sam jokes, taking a forkful. “I mean—she made pasta, and the Asset isn’t killing anyone. That’s two wins.”

You smile timidly, brushing hair behind your ear. “It’s nothing, really. I just thought... maybe it would help.”

Bucky sits rigid at the end of the bar, back straight, legs parted just slightly in a posture that screams tactical readiness more than dinner guest. His eyes never leave you.

He eats slowly, methodically. Like every bite is a foreign ritual he’s relearning. His spoon clenched tight in his metal hand. His expression unreadable.

The others are trying.

They talk softly.

Laugh a little.

Tony throws in occasional dry commentary to cut the tension.

You start to relax.

Sam tosses a crumpled napkin at Clint, who bats it away with a grin.

“Real mature,” he mutters.

Then Sam turns to you. He points his fork in your direction, mock-annoyed. “And you—you better not be trying to replace me as the favorite cook.”

You laugh, turning away to get another serving. Sam stands up dramatically, crossing over to nudge your shoulder with exaggerated playfulness. “I mean, who told you you could just waltz in here and become the team’s comfort cook?”

It’s lighthearted.

But it’s too much.

Too close.

Too sudden.

There’s no warning.

One second, Sam is jokingly reaching out to gently nudge your arm—

The next, metal slams against flesh with a sickening crack.

Sam is thrown backwards across the kitchen, crashing into a barstool that shatters beneath him.

Gasps. A plate clatters to the floor. Someone shouts—Natasha, maybe—but it’s drowned out by the low, inhuman growl that echoes from the center of the chaos.

The Winter Soldier stands between you and the others.

His body is coiled, one foot slid slightly in front of the other in a combat stance. Left arm bent, metal fist clenched so tightly the grooves in his knuckles press white-hot into the soft light of the room.

His right arm—the flesh one—is stretched in front of you, shielding.

His face is a mask of violence.

Emotionless.

Focused.

Predatory.

He sees a threat.

He’s eliminating it.

“Soldat!” Steve yells, standing up. “Stand down—!”

Tony’s hand flies to his chest, activating the arc reactor with a sharp whine. “You have got to be kidding me—”

Sam groans from the floor, coughing. “I’m okay—Jesus—he’s got an arm like a truck—”

But Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t hear them.

Only you.

He turns to check you—slowly, like he’s scanning for wounds. Eyes scanning your arms, your shoulders, your face.

Then he turns back toward the others, every muscle wound taut. A silent protector. A guard dog whose chain has snapped.

Clint inches forward. “Uh—he’s not gonna stop, is he?”

Tony’s voice is sharp now. “Tell him to stand down. He’s keyed in on you, not us. You have to do it.”

You blink. Your breath has caught in your chest.

Then slowly, trembling, you step forward, touching the inside of Bucky’s flesh arm—just above the wrist.

“Soldat,” you whisper, “It’s okay. I’m not hurt. I’m okay.”

His head tilts slightly. You see something shift.

“I need you to stop,” you say, your voice cracking. “Stand down.”

He blinks.

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders like breath leaving a body. He straightens slightly, fists unclenching. The tremble in his chest dies down.

His eyes drop to the floor.

"Understood, Handler,”

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witherby · 6 months ago

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More mermaid please! Pretty please! With sprinkles on top!

With sprinkles? Can't say no to that, can I 😏🍦

Human!Damian x Mer!Reader, part 5

The previous part is Here!

The locks to the tank entrance have changed. When Damian tries his key, it doesn't turn, which nearly takes him to his knees. His fists clench, the flesh of his palms soon littered with crescent moon indentations, and he storms away from the gate to your enclosure.

He's been separated from you for two weeks and it's taken a toll on you both. You were sedated too heavily from your tank escape to perform the next day, so your exhibit was closed, but when you were aware enough you absolutely refused to come out from your castle spire.

Clark, the on-staff physician in charge of general animal welfare at the aquarium, is unable to treat your scrapes and other wounds from beaching yourself. Getting too close to you ended in him rushing out with gashes in his arm and cheek, bloodied from your razor-sharp talons. He promises Damian he doesn't hold it against you, knowing how much you adored the youngest Wayne and how big of an upset his absence caused.

Your new primary handler was trying his damndest to bond with you, but the first time you surfaced to the top of your tank and didn't see Damian, you shrieked and splashed him, then refused to come up again even for your feedings. They've had to resort to dumping the food into the water for you to fetch instead, and even still you barely pick at it.

Bruce can't get anywhere near you. When you catch sight of him, you bellow and try to breach the tank to hurt him. Damian doesn't feel particularly upset by this when he's told about it.

You only show yourself when Damian leads tours through your part of the Aquarium, pacing around the tunnels and dragging your claws against the glass, otherwise you are never seen. Concerned customers ask about your missing scales and why you seem so desperate to get to him, but he can't do anything except grit his teeth and give them the pre-approved answers per his script.

You're also starting to exhibit depressive symptoms: aimless spinning through the water when you leave your castle spire, discoloration in your tail and fins, lack of appetite, and large bouts of lethargy are the biggest signs.

To put it simply — you miss Damian so much the stress is hurting you. If there's no serious turnaround soon, it's going to turn into a medical crisis.

Damian waltzes into Bruce's office without fanfare. The older man doesn't look surprised to see him, just holds up a finger and continues speaking into the phone on his desk.

"Yes, that's fine. Let me know when you can send both down here to look at them. Alright. You too. Goodbye."

He puts the receiver down and heaves a sigh, rubbing his temples.

"Yes, Damian?"

"I want to see them."

"No, Damian."

"They're suffering, father!" He snaps, arm cast wide. "Visitors aren't buying the excuse that they're getting over some bad Tail Rot. They won't play or engage with the new handler. They're not eating! Let me see them!"

"That's being taken care of." Bruce stands up from the desk and walks around it to address Damian face to face, arms crossed. "I just got off the phone with a veterinary clinic that specializes in Mer care. They're sending a behavioralist and doctor to come examine them properly in the morning, and help us make a care plan to get them healthy and properly readjusted."

He leans down a little to emphasize his point, gaze imploring.

"They're going to be okay, Damian. I need you to trust me when I say that this separation is what's best for you."

"It doesn't feel that way," Damian scowls. "It feels like we broke their trust by taking away someone that's supposed to care for them, and now they're justifiably lashing out. This was a reckless move, even for you, father, and now our mer has to suffer the consequences."

Bruce sighs. "Tadpole —"

"No!" The boy whirls around and jams a finger into his father's chest, relishing in the wince. "You don't get to do that! You don't get to talk about how wonderful Gotham Aquarium is to me, offer me a job here when I turn 18, let me finally do something that brings me joy and then rip it away while you give me useless platitudes and childish nicknames! I've had enough!"

"Damian —" Bruce tries again, a note of warning in his tone.

"Spare your breath. If you won't let me check up on the mer then we have no more business here." Damian turns, fists clenched, and marches out of the office and down the hall. His father calls out for him but doesn't chase after.

Good.

He only keeps up the angry act until he enters the employee locker rooms, then opens his fist to stare down at the key he swiped from Bruce's pocket during their confrontation, and smirks.

"Don't worry," he whispers, pulling out his wetsuit, "I'm coming."

#damian wayne x reader #mermaid au #batfam x reader #damian wayne #damian x reader

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sweetromanova · 4 days ago

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Crisis Management: Part Three🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relatable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

A/N: i was supposed to upload this days ago but every time i re-read it, i was unhappy, i still am but here is the third instalment! there will be one more...

Natasha wasn’t looking for trouble.

She was just walking through the training wing, finishing a sparring session with one of the senior agents, wiping sweat from her neck with a towel, already mentally halfway through a black coffee and a five-minute nap.

Then she heard it.

It wasn’t loud but it was clear. Just voices echoing off the hall’s concrete, a few of the younger agents in the corner, tossing back jokes and smirks like they were in some locker room comedy special.

“—PR girl? Damn. I’d sit through a whole press seminar if she was the one giving it.”

“Right? She’s hot and smart. Those are the ones that ruin your life in the best way.”

“I bet she’s got that whole hidden freak vibe. Quiet ones always do.”

And then: “Wonder if she and Romanoff are actually hooking up.”

“I was on nights and they were sparring the other day. Like Natasha was just tossing her around like a rag doll.”

“…Could be a kink thing.”

“I mean, I’d be into it. Wonder if they need a referee…”

That was as far as they got.

Natasha’s boot hit the floor harder than necessary as she stepped into view. The smile she gave them wasn’t a smile. It was a barbed wire snarl wrapped in silk.

“Care to repeat that?” She asked, voice low and lethal.

The agents froze, one of them paling instantly. Another opened his mouth, probably to make a joke but nothing came out.

Natasha stalked forward, hands at her sides but ready. Her whole body spoke threat in that cold, perfect way only she could.

“I didn’t quite hear you.” She said again. “Say it louder.”

One of them actually stepped back.

“You think because she’s kind, she’s an object? Because she does her job with grace and patience, especially with all of you walking PR disasters, you get to talk about her like that?”

“No- I- We-“

“I- I- I-“ Natasha mocked, her voice razor-sharp. “What? You thought nobody would call you out? You thought you could sit there, make your little jokes and it wouldn’t get back to her?”

The group stood frozen, the tension crackling in the air like a storm just about to break.

“She’s twice the person any of you could hope to be.” Natasha continued, stepping forward now, voice steady, low and deadly calm. “And believe me when I say, if you ever speak about her like that again, you won’t just be explaining yourselves to me.”

She let the silence stretch, let them squirm under the weight of her gaze.

Then, almost softly, but with unmistakable steel. “Apologise, now. Then get out of my sight.”

They didn’t hesitate. A chorus of stumbling apologies, averted eyes, and hasty steps followed, leaving Natasha alone with the stillness.

She exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Idiots.”

“Romanoff.” Came a sharp voice behind her. Maria Hill. “You wanna turn that PR into HR?”

“Please.” Natasha scoffed. “The new agents need a bit of humbling.”

“You’re not wrong.” Maria said carefully. “But not here. If you’re going to bully the recruits, do it out of the training room”

Natasha stood still, still vibrating with fury. Her knuckles were white where she clenched the towel.

Steve, who had appeared not long after Maria, clearly also having overheard the conflict, stepped forward. “Come on. Let’s walk it off.”

“I’m fine.” She snapped.

“You’re not.” Maria said, voice gentle but firm. “You’re cracking that water bottle… So let’s fix that.”

Before she could argue, the elevator chimed.

Pepper and Wanda, walking with a coffee in hand, brows already raised like they’d sensed the tension from three floors up.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Let me guess, you’re here to tell me to calm down too.”

“No.” Wanda said. “But I did sense your mood from upstairs. What happened?”

“Some idiot agents talking shit.”

“Oh.” Pepper blinked. “When has that ever bothered you?”

“It didn’t.” Maria cut in. “Until they started talking about her.”

“Oh. OH.”

Natasha didn’t answer.

“Let’s take a walk.” Not giving the redhead a choice, the two women whisked her away. “Do you want to know why you’re… hulking out?” Pepper didn’t wait for answer. “She gets under your skin because she’s not built like us. Not hardened by missions and violence and trauma. But she’s strong in a different way.”

“She’s just good and you’re not used to that.” Wanda added softly.

Pepper nodded. “She sees people. The real parts. Not the headlines. Not the failures. Just the things worth holding onto. And she makes you want to live up to that.”

That cracked something in Natasha’s chest.

Pepper stepped closer. “I’ve known her quite a while but she doesn’t talk much about herself, not really. But people talk and well… she’s been through things that would’ve broken most people.”

Natasha said nothing.

“And instead of closing off, she got better. Softer. She doesn’t let the past make her cruel.”

“She’s not naive.” Wanda added. “But she still chooses kindness. Not because she has to, because she believes it changes people.”

Natasha was quiet for a long time. Then: “She deserves someone better than me.”

Pepper gave her a long look. “She deserves someone who sees her. And protects her when she’s not looking. I think that might be you.”

Something twisted hard in Natasha’s chest.

Because she’d fought wars. Escaped empires. Dismantled entire networks of evil. But this?

This was terrifying.

Caring for someone who mattered. Caring for someone who could be hurt.

And maybe worst of all, being cared for back.

Natasha Romanoff, legendary spy, killer, child assassin was scared. But not of pain or even of love.

She was scared that someone like you might reach for her one day, with all that light and stubborn hope and she’d be too broken to hold it.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You knew something was wrong when the third person asked ‘Is she running late or just blowing this off?’.

The event had started almost an hour ago.

The press was already circling like bloodthirsty drones, influencers taking selfies in front of the charity’s golden banner while you stood off to the side in the dress you’d picked carefully, hoping and stupidly that tonight might finally feel like something real.

You kept checking your phone.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’

You tried to hold your smile when reporters asked if Natasha was on her way. “She’s probably just… delayed.”

When someone whispered ‘Guess the soft launch wasn’t real’ loud enough for you to hear, your cheeks flamed hot.

You left before the main speech. Before dessert. Before you had to feel the weight of every turned head and half-sympathetic glance.

By the time the Tower elevator dinged open, you weren’t sad anymore.

You were furious.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The team was scattered around the couches, Tony and Sam mid-bicker, Clint tossing popcorn at Steve’s head, Wanda trying to read a book but failing miserably through the chaos.

And there she was.

Natasha.

Perfectly calm, sitting on the armrest, sipping a drink, scrolling through her phone like the night hadn’t just imploded around you.

You stormed in and the room went still.

“Where the hell were you?” You snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel. In the elevator ride, you planned your exact argument, down to the last word. But when you saw her there, nonchalantly on that damn phone that you’d spent the last hour calling and texting, it went out of the window.

Natasha didn’t look up. “I didn’t feel like going.”

You blinked. “You didn’t feel like it?”

She shrugged, indifferent. “Seemed like more of a PR thing than a me thing.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Are you kidding? You agreed to be there. You confirmed. We planned it, we rehearsed it. I stood there like an idiot while people asked if you were even real.”

She finally looked at you, still unreadable. “They’ll get over it.”

You took a step forward. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” She said. Too fast. Too flat. “It wasn’t personal.”

The team had all practically dissolved into the couch at this point, wincing at every word Natasha said and looking everywhere but at you.

“Not personal?!” Your voice cracked, your composure fracturing along with it. “You made me believe I could trust you. That we were building something. You let me in, let me- care about you and then the second it matters, you bail. You don’t even bother to lie about it.”

She said nothing. No apology. No reaction.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “You know what? You’re exactly what people say you are. Cold. Closed off. A performance.”

That made her blink but still, she didn’t answer.

So you pressed harder. “Was any of it real? Or were you just bored and thought I’d be fun to play with?”

Her jaw tightened but she kept still and infuriatingly calm.

“I guess that’s my answer.” You whispered, stepping back like you’d been slapped. “I really thought you were different. You’re a coward, Agent Romanoff.”

It wasn’t until Wanda gently touched your arm that you remembered the rest of the team. She was standing beside you now, eyes soft, hand light on your wrist.

“Come on.” She said gently. “Let’s take a walk.”

You didn’t even nod. Just let her guide you toward the elevator, your chest still burning.

You didn’t look back.

If you had, you might’ve seen Natasha’s shoulders fold in on themselves the second the door closed.

But you didn’t.

And she didn’t stop you.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The night air was cool, heavy with city sounds and the quiet hum of traffic below. Wanda walked beside you, hands in her coat pockets, giving you silence without pressure.

When you finally spoke, it came out hoarse and bitter.

“I know she’s complicated. I know. I didn’t walk into this thinking she was going to knit me a sweater and write me poems.”

Wanda didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

You shook your head, blinking hard. “But I thought… I thought if I showed up, if I stayed patient, gave her space, gave her me- that maybe, eventually…”

“That she’d meet you there.” Wanda finished quietly.

You nodded, arms crossing tight over your chest. “And tonight wasn’t even about us. It was work. It was something she promised to do. But she just… didn’t.”

You paused. “I stood there like an idiot while people whispered that I was being used. That it was all fake. And she didn’t even bother to text.”

Wanda finally looked over at you, gentle but firm. “That’s not about you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Feels like it is.”

“She’s scared.”

“Of what? Me? I’m not the one who disappears. I’m not the one who shuts down the second someone gets too close.”

“No.” Wanda agreed. “You’re the one who shows up. Every time.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “It hurts. It’s not even about the event anymore. I trusted her. I defended her. I let her in. And she made me feel like I was nothing. Like it was all… one-sided.”

“It’s not.” Wanda assures you, almost desperate to tell you what happened but she knows it’s not her place to say.

You looked at her. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The second the elevator doors closed behind you and Wanda, silence settled over the common room.

And then… “What the hell was that?” Tony said, no sarcasm for once.

Steve stepped forward, arms crossed. “You left her there, Romanoff.”

Natasha stood by the window, arms folded, expression unreadable but her silence said everything.

“You humiliated her, at her work. The reputation she’d spent so long building you, you nearly ruined it.” Clint added, quiet but firm. “That’s not like you.

“She’ll bounce back,” Natasha muttered, too low to be convincing.

“Bounce back?” Clint scoffed, wanting to throw the remote in his hand at the redhead’s stupidly frustrating head.

That’s not the point.” Sam said. “You��re not a rookie. You know what that kind of public embarrassment does to someone. especially someone whose whole job is to keep you from looking bad.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“She looked gutted.” Bucky said, tone unusually gentle. “I’ve seen you walk away from a hundred things. But her?”

He shook his head. “This wasn’t tactical. This was self-sabotage.”

“I don’t need a team of emotionally unavailable idiots to start playing Cupid with me and her. When did I ask?!”

“We were helping.”

“I didn’t ask!” Natasha almost growled, defensive and angry. “And you guys inserted yourself anyway and now what? You’re mad because you thought you were right. You believed in some fairytale-“

Pepper’s voice cut in, cool and cutting. “She believed in you. Fought for you.”

That one made Natasha flinch. just barely. But it was there.

“I never asked her to.”

“No.” Pepper agreed. “But you let her.”

Another long silence.

Natasha finally spoke. “I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I wouldn’t… ruin it.”

Tony snorted. “Well, congrats. You managed to ruin it anyway.”

Steve’s voice softened. “You don’t get to do this halfway, Nat. Not with someone like her. If you want out, be honest. But if you’re scared? That’s fine. Just don’t use fear as an excuse to hurt her.”

No one said anything else.

They didn’t need to.

The weight of what she’d done filled the room and this time, Natasha felt it.

She turned back to the window, jaw tight, trying to pretend the sting behind her eyes was nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure how to fix what she’d broken. She couldn’t throw a grenade at it and watch it collapse. She couldn’t shoot someone in the name of justice or throw a pair of handcuffs on you and feel a little lighter that she just saved the world of another monster. This was something different, something new entirely and she had no idea.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t plan to go back to the Tower the next day.

You were tired. Still bruised from the embarrassment, still sore from the fight, worse than a physical one because the person who’d hurt you knew where to land the blows.

But your laptop had updates syncing through the Tower server and if you didn’t at least check in, the PR team would start sending passive-aggressive gifs.

So you walked through the front doors, bracing for awkward silences, maybe a few pity looks.

What you weren’t expecting was chaos.

The common room lights were dimmed, someone had shoved a ring light into a plant and the Smart TV was looping a series of shaky, self-recorded videos. Natasha’s face filled the screen. She was wearing a hoodie, actually your hoodie you realised and squinting into the camera like she was trying to disable it with her eyes alone.

“Hi.“ She said. “I’m Natasha Romanoff. You may know me from such headlines as ‘Scary in Black’ and ‘Does She Ever Smile?“

You froze.

She took a beat, clearly reading from a barely hidden script.

“I’m here to tell you about-“ She glanced off-screen, “What was it? Oh. Lip gloss. From this… tube.” She held up a pale blue tube like it might detonate. “Apparently, this one’s vegan and has emotional undertones.”

Cut.

The next video appeared, a microphone placed strategically on a table with nothing else around. You almost burst out laughing as suddenly two hands appeared, armed with a knife and some kind of gadget, slowly sharpening it.

You never thought you’d see the day Natasha did ASMR and with weapons no less, it was weirdly hot. Her voice echoed in the bathroom.

“Ok, now I kinda get the appeal. Let’s try guns…”

Cut.

Then she appeared again, this time with the rest of the team. You actually did start laughing now as the redhead lip synced along with the audio ‘…You can pack your things and leave. There’s the door.’

The rest of the team jumped out from various places behind her and pointed as they chorused ‘There’s the door bitch!’

Cut.

You stood there, stunned.

Then her voice came, not from the speakers but from behind you. “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry without it sounding… like strategy. So I figured I’d show you instead. I didn’t forget what you said, about what you like, what makes you laugh, what matters to you. I’m sorry I didn’t show up. But I was listening.”

You blinked fast and turned, there she was. Standing in the soft light, hands in her pockets, looking unsure in a way that was very un-Natasha.

You laughed through your nose, still watery. “You made content.”

She nodded. “I made so much content.”

“I’m being honest when I say I’m not good at this.” She muttered quietly. “But I really wanted you to know that I was paying attention. I just… panicked. I hurt you because I got scared and that’s not fair. It’s not what you deserve.”

You looked at her. “I don’t want perfect.” You shrugged. “I just want honest.”

She stepped closer. “Then I’m terrified. And trying. That’s honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay.”

She gestured toward the elevator. “Walk with me?”

You nodded.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You walked through the city, not speaking for a while. Just existing beside each other. Shoulder to shoulder. Not touching but closer than space really allowed.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence.

“I didn’t think someone like you could be real.”

You glanced at her. “Someone like me?”

“Soft. Not scared of me. Actually the opposite.”

“I’m terrified of you.” You said, dryly. “I’m pretty sure that day I walked in with a binder, you could have killed me with it at least 30 different ways.”

“You don’t act like it.” She huffed a laugh. “But that’s true.”

“That’s because somewhere under the assassin stare and the world’s worst text etiquette, you’ve got a good heart.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Not to me.”

She looked down at her hands for a second. “You really think I can be good?”

You slowed your pace. “I think you already are. You just don’t know what it looks like to share it with another person yet.”

Another long pause.

Then, quietly. “Will you show me?”

Your chest squeezed so tight you could barely breathe.

You nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

She didn’t reach for your hand but her fingers brushed yours.

Just enough that it said I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The walk back to the tower was easy, light and refreshing, which someone would never describe Natasha Romanoff as.

Unless they was you.

You soaked in the quiet, city buzz, breathed in the soft, spring air, tried not to lose your train of thought when her sleeve brushing yours.

You weren’t holding hands but it was close. You smiled, still feeling the ghost of her voice in your chest. Will you show me?

You were just about to say something, something dumb and soft and probably embarrassing, when you heard it.

A click. Then another.

A chorus of camera shutters.

Then voices. “Wait—wait, is that her?”

“Is that Natasha Romanoff?!”

“Oh my God, it’s them! The one from that video and- GET A VIDEO!”

“Are they dating?!”

And just like that, it hit. A wall of people, phone up, shouting and pushing. Some were laughing, some trying to get selfies, others just yelling her name.

“Natasha! Look this way!”

“Smile for us!”

“ARE YOU TOGETHER?!” You stiffened instantly, shrinking back without thinking, trying to block the flashes from your face but it was too late.

A hand shoved too close. A phone nearly hit your cheek. Someone grabbed your arm, not hard but hard enough to make your pulse spike. You barely had time to register it before Natasha moved.

Fast. Fluid. Pure instinct.

She stepped in front of you like a shield, one hand gripping your wrist, the other out in a sharp, commanding gesture. “Back up NOW.”

Her voice cut through the crowd like a blade.

Her eyes were fire and her jaw was tightly locked. The same look she wore before a takedown.

“Move.” She snapped, already steering you through the crush.

You let her. You didn’t have a choice.

Every time someone got too close, she was there, guiding you behind her, using her body to wedge open space. A shoulder turned to block an arm. A hand on your back to keep you close. Her head down, scanning, protecting.

You heard someone yell. “You can’t touch me, I know my rights!”

And then a camera was shoved too close. Too close.

Natasha caught it mid-air and shoved it back, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to make the guy stumble. “Touch her again.” She said, flatly. “And we’ll find out exactly how much training I’m not using right now.”

The crowd didn’t fully disperse but they hesitated, just long enough for her to get you into the Tower’s entryway, where security finally swarmed.

The doors shut.

The noise dropped.

Your breath was ragged.

Natasha was still standing in front of you, chest rising and falling fast, like she was waiting for another threat.

Only when she turned around did you realise her hand was shaking.

You blinked. “Nat…”

Her jaw twitched. She didn’t look at you.

“I shouldn’t have let you walk with me. That was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. They aren’t usually like that, not that bad but I-“

“Hey.” You stepped forward, catching her wrist gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, wild and guilt-ridden. Scared, in a way she never let herself be.

“I should’ve known,” she said, voice tight. “They watch everything. I should’ve-“

“You protected me.” Her breath hitched.

You took her hand, slowly. “You protected me. From them. From that. I’ve dealt with paparazzi before and that could have been intense but you-“

“Hey, look! My favourite couple! Did you get caught in that mess?” Tony appeared, all bright-eyed and almost hyped up on the chaos that waited outside. “Sorry about that! Some groupie just told everyone her two year old son is mine so it’s a little crazy. All in a day’s work, right?”

“What?” You breathed, you couldn’t take dealing with a scandal like this.

“Na, don’t worry about it. Happens at least once a month, right Nat?”

“Strangely, yes.”

“See you lovebirds later…” He winked, sliding on his glasses and flocking to the many that waited outside for a picture, a comment or even just a selfie.

“I- Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The gala was meant to be a celebration. An Avengers public appearance. A press-heavy fundraiser. Civil, polished, contained. Easy.

The whole team was there, dressed like they’d been told not to bring weapons, even though you knew better. Steve giving careful interviews, Tony charming bored billionaires, Wanda nodding along to some roundtable about ‘moral frameworks’.

You were centre stage, scheduled to moderate the live Q&A. Natasha was seated beside you, perfectly composed, looking ten percent bored and ninety percent hyperaware.

You smiled as you tapped your mic. “Let’s open the floor for some-“

Then the floor shook.

An explosion, not close but loud enough to send panic through the crowd.

People screamed. A glass wall shattered.

Chaos.

You turned just as Tony’s voice came over the comms. “We’ve got incoming. Unknown hostiles. All hands now.” It wasn't unusual for this to happen to the Avengers, some idiot trying their luck with a bunch of groupies but never did you think you'd find yourself in the presence of it.

Natasha was on her feet instantly, pulling you behind the stage. “Stay here. Don’t move.” Her voice was steel.

“But-“

“Stay.”

Then she was gone, vanishing into motion like she was never in heels to begin with.

You peeked through the curtain. The rest of the Avengers were already dispersing, charging into the chaos breaking through the building’s west side.

That’s when it happened.

They came from the other side. Half a dozen of them, knock-off tactical gear but heavy firepower and zero hesitation. While the heroes went west, the real plan entered from the east.

The stage was suddenly theirs.

You didn’t get to run. They spotted you immediately, centre spotlight, mic still warm.

“Her!” One barked. “Take her!”

Several hands grabbed you, yanking you back. You fought. Kicked. Bit someone’s wrist hard enough to make them curse.

A gun cracked across your cheek and everything spun.

You hit the ground hard, blood in your mouth, ears ringing. You heard one of them laughing. “Guess she’s tougher than she looks. They must have taught her well.”

Another shoved you forward, dragging you to the middle of the stage.

And through it all, people were still filming.

Phones up, flashes going. The whole world watching in terror and entertainment.

A voice barked orders. “They’re coming back. When they do, she’s our message.”

They forced you to your knees. One knelt beside you, gun pressed to your head.

You could barely think. Blood was dripping from your temple, running into your left eye, your vision was still a little blurry.

But then somewhere in your haze came a flicker of clarity.

They’re waiting. They want an audience. Buy time.

So you started talking. “You don’t want to do this.”

The man beside you laughed. “Don’t make me sick with some moral high ground bullshit.”

“You want headlines? I’m the headline.” You murmured. “But if you kill me now, they’ll turn you into dust before the article’s even out.”

He raised the gun. “You think I won’t?”

“I think you’re trying really hard to prove something.”

He grabbed your collar. “You’ve got a mouth.”

“Yeah.” You muttered, tasting blood. “So I’ve been told.”

“You won’t have for much longer if you don’t shut the-“

Before he could finish, there was a swooping side then a thud echoed throughout the arena.

He looked confused for exactly half a second.

And then Natasha dropped from above.

No warning.

No sound.

Just a black shape exploding from the ceiling and breaking the first guy’s neck before he even saw her.

Gunfire erupted.

Two more went down before anyone could scream. Blood sprayed, hot, sharp, and too close. You flinched as one of the shooters collapsed behind you, brain matter splattering your shoulder and neck.

Someone screamed, might’ve been you.

Natasha was all motion, all death.

Precision shots. Blades thrown. Hands breaking bones.

Within forty seconds, they were down. All of them.

And you were still on your knees, covered in blood that wasn’t yours, arms shaking as you stared blankly ahead like your brain hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey, hey.” Natasha’s voice was suddenly right there, breathless and full of panic she’d never admit.

You blinked.

She was crouched in front of you, hands hovering near your face like she wasn’t sure where she could touch you without hurting you more.

“Don’t. Don’t look at them.” She whispered, reaching out to gently tilt your face away from the bodies. “Look at me.”

Your bottom lip trembled.

She saw it and her heart suddenly shattered.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She murmured, finally pulling you into her arms.

You didn’t even flinch. You just folded into her, arms limp, mind on delay, blood soaking both your clothes as the room lit up with more cameras.

Flashes everywhere.

Security charging in.

Media shouting questions.

But all Natasha could do was hold you tighter, her hand gently cradling the back of your head.

“Don’t look. Don’t move. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in her life, truly, completely, she didn’t care who was watching.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

They’d tried to get you to go to medical.

You had stubbornly refused. You let Natasha lead you into the Tower instead, silent, pale, still wearing the dress she’d watched you pick that morning, now stained in dried blood and soot.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

She just walked you to her room.

Straight to her private bathroom, wordless, efficient, careful. On auto pilot, she turned on the shower, tested the temperature and then turned back and started undoing the zipper on your dress like she was defusing a bomb.

You didn’t stop her.

And when she peeled it away when the fabric dropped to the floor and she saw the bruises already forming across your ribs, the cut on your cheek, the blood on your thighs that wasn’t yours, her hands trembled.

She didn’t speak, she didn’t cry.

She just pulled you gently under the stream and followed you in, fully clothed.

You stood in the water, both of you silent, her arms wrapped around you.

She held you as the blood washed away, as your shaking slowed, as the horror finally left your bones.

She didn’t say she was scared.

She didn’t say “I love you.”

But she didn’t have to.

You were alive because she’d come for you.

And now she wasn’t letting go.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

By the time Natasha guided you into the kitchen, it smelled like garlic, rosemary and the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you needed until it wrapped itself around your ribs.

Everyone was there.

Tony in pajama pants and a hoodie he definitely stole from Peter. Steve manning the stove like he wasn’t a genetically enhanced war relic. Clint perched on the counter like a raccoon with snack rights. Wanda and Sam were at the island, quietly chopping vegetables and tossing bread into a pan like it was just another night.

But the second you stepped in, blood gone, skin scrubbed pink, hair damp and clean, something in the air shifted.

No one stared. No one asked.

They just made space.

Natasha’s hand stayed in yours. Not gripping or demanding. Just there, a steady anchor wrapped around your fingers like she was terrified to let go.

She guided you toward a stool at the kitchen island. The seat was still warm.

“Sit.” She said softly.

You did.

A moment later, she placed a plate in front of you. You hadn’t even seen her build it, just that it was perfect. A little pasta. Some grilled chicken. Soft, roasted vegetables. A chunk of warm bread. Light enough that it wasn’t going to make the nauseous in your stomach come out. She set a glass of water down next, watched you until you took a sip.

Your throat felt raw. You didn’t know if it was from crying or not speaking for too long. Maybe both.

But the water helped, so did the food. But what helped more? The way she pulled up a chair beside you, close enough for her knee to brush yours helped more than you could say.

She didn’t push. Didn’t speak unless it was to quietly encourage.

“Eat a little more.”

“You’re doing good.”

“That’s enough for now, if you’re tired.”

She didn’t flinch when your hand trembled against your fork. She just gently covered it with hers and waited until you steadied.

And through it all, the team talked. Not to you. Not at you. Just around you.

Clint was retelling the story of the time he got locked out of a safe house in just a towel and combat boots. Steve was trying not to laugh. Tony kept throwing popcorn at Sam, who was definitely encouraging it.

The volume, the normalcy, it was intentional.

They weren’t pretending nothing had happened.

They were reminding you that you were still here. Still part of this messy, ridiculous family.

You ate enough to quiet the twist in your stomach and Natasha gently tapped your thigh once like permission to move.

You nodded so she led you to the couch, where the rest of the team were settling.

The lights were low now, TV casting a soft glow across the room. Clint had crashed into an armchair. Wanda curled up with a book. The others slowly trickled out, giving you privacy without making a show of it.

Natasha sat first.

Then waited. Like she knew the choice had to be yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You curled into her like you were made to fit there, your knees tucked to the side, body half in her lap, arms circling her waist like she was the only thing holding your bones together.

And she was.

Her arms wrapped around you instantly, not too tight or too tentative. Her hand slid up and down your back, slow and steady, not even really a rhythm, just a presence. Her fingertips brushed over the cut on your side, the bruising forming beneath your ribs. She didn’t flinch. Just pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head then rested her cheek there.

You felt her breathing. The rise and fall of her chest. The soft thrum of her pulse where your face pressed against her.

You could still smell the shampoo from your shared shower, Still feel the echo of gunshots vibrating through your skull.

But here? There was only her. Her heartbeat. Her hands. Her warmth.

The world had turned to static but this was real.

Your fingers curled into the hem of her shirt. Her breath caught. You didn’t speak. You just let yourself go limp. Let yourself trust her to hold you. And she did.

For minutes. Maybe hours. You didn’t know. Time melted into warmth and pressure and breath.

You felt your body sink. Your limbs get heavy. The weight of everything you’d been holding finally released.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But you did.

Your face pressed into her neck. Your fingers curled in her shirt like an anchor. Your whole body slumped into her, safe for the first time since you’d stood on that stage and watched the gun swing your way.

And Natasha? She didn’t move. Not when Steve peeked round and saw the two of you. Not when Tony whispered ‘She’s out cold’ and backed out like a cartoon villain sneaking offstage. Not even when your breath hitched in your sleep and your fingers gripped tighter.

She just held you, rocked you a little when you shifted in your unconscious state, whispered something in Russian you didn’t understand but your bones did.

And when she finally rested her chin on your head and let her eyes close, it was the first time she’d slept without her gun within reach in years.

Because you were worth the risk.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You woke slowly, with warmth and with weight. With the soft, steady rhythm of someone else breathing beneath you.

It took a moment to realize where you were. Curled up in the Tower’s living room, a blanket you didn’t remember being tucked around you, your entire body molded into the side of one Natasha Romanoff.

Her arms were still wrapped around you.

One hand resting lightly on your hip. The other threaded through your hair. She was leaned back into the couch cushions, head tilted, cheek resting on yours.

And she was awake. Barely.

But awake. Her thumb brushed absently over the fabric of your shirt like she’d never stopped touching you all night.

You stirred gently, shifting just enough to look up at her. Her eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.” You whispered, voice raspy.

Her fingers tightened slightly. “Morning.”

You could hear the relief in her tone, even though she’d been awake for who knows how long, holding you like you’d slip through her arms if she so much as blinked.

You smiled, a little shy, a little raw. “Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For…” You hesitated then leaned your forehead against hers. “All of it. Coming for me. Holding me. Letting me lose it and not making me feel stupid for it.”

“You weren’t stupid.” She said, instantly.

Her voice was steel for a split second, instinctive and protective.

Then she softened again. “You were brave. And you scared the hell out of me.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I scared myself.”

“You nearly died.”

You opened your eyes. Her face was so close now, too close to hide anything.

“Yeah.” You whispered. “But you made sure I didn’t.”

Her hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You don’t get to do that again.”

You blinked.

“Run in alone. Put yourself in the line of fire. Be brave like that. Not if I’m not right behind you.”

You nodded slowly. “Deal.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped, husky from too little sleep. “Because next time, I’m bodychecking you to the floor before you can even try it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You made it to the kitchen eventually.

You walked on your own, talked in full sentences, even made a very weak joke. But none of that mattered to Natasha, apparently, who sat right beside you, close enough to supervise your water intake like it was a security clearance.

The team was all around. Chatting, joking, pretending to ignore how Natasha gently nudged your glass toward you every ten minutes.

“Drink.” She ordered.

“I just did.”

“Again.”

You sighed. “You know I’m okay now, right?”

“Mm.” She passed you a forkful of eggs from her plate, held out expectantly. “One more bite.”

You gave her a look.

“I’ll tase you.” She said sweetly.

Clint snorted into his coffee. “You guys gonna go full domestic before lunch or…”

You blushed. Natasha did not.

Instead, she calmly fed you another bite.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Should we be leaving the room?”

“No.” Wanda said, sipping tea. “This is adorable. This is my show now.”

Natasha didn’t seem to care who was watching anymore. She just rubbed slow, absent circles against your back with one hand while eating toast with the other.

You sighed, leaning your weight against her. “I should probably… do something about the PR fallout. That whole gun to the head on stage thing probably has the internet in flames.”

Tony, from across the kitchen, muttered. “You think?”

But before you could reach for your phone, Clint raised a hand. “Handled.”

You blinked. “Handled what?”

He smirked and slid his phone across the table.

The screen showed a picture.

You.

Asleep.

Curled up impossibly tight against Natasha, half in her lap, cheek pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around you like she was guarding the last piece of something sacred.

The blanket had slipped halfway down. Her hand was tangled in your hair. The photo wasn’t posed, it was intimate and safe.

He tapped the caption.

They’re both okay. Healing. Alive. Let them rest. ❤️ #PRSPYAGENDA #IDONTHAVEPERMISSIONTOPOSTTHIS #NATWILLKILLMEFORHER #FINDMYBODY

Below it? Hundreds of thousands of likes and comments flooding in.

‘Not me crying at 8am…’

‘Can someone hug me like that???’

‘I will never be over this!’

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘We ride at dawn!’

You blinked hard.

Natasha leaned over your shoulder, reading. “Subtle.” She murmured but she couldn’t hide her smirk.

Clint raised his coffee. “I have range.”

You turned, giving Natasha a look. “So… we’re soft-launched again?”

She brushed her thumb along your cheekbone, looking right at you. “No.” She laughed. “I think the kids call that a hard launch.”

You melted a little.

And when she pulled you back in to rest against her chest again, arms around your waist, lips against your hair, you didn’t fight it.

Wanda squealed from somewhere behind you. “They’re SO ENDGAME!”

#natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha romanov #fan fiction #light angst #natasha romanoff x female reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #wanda maximoff #bucky barnes #steve rogers #clint barton #bruce banner #tony stark #sam wilson #natasha x reader #marvel #fanfiction #fanfic

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ijustwannabecool · 17 days ago

Text

White Flag - PT. 2

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Driver!Reader

Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.

A/N: I'm sorry it took so long to post part 2. I just got really into it and I wanted to keep writing on here but I reached my Tumblr limit, so I might have to post a part 3 soon lol... but here you guys goooo.. I hope you guys enjoy it and part 3 will be post soon.

Part 1 - Read before you read this part :)

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Ferrari’s media team knew a goldmine when they saw one.

Two top-tier drivers. Former lovers. Now teammates.

It wasn’t just a headline—it was content. It was clicks. It was drama wrapped in designer race suits.

“From lovers to rivals: Leclerc and Y/L/N gear up for 2025.” “Scuderia's Spiciest Season Yet: Can Ferrari's new duo keep it professional?” “Breakups and Burnouts: How tension off track might fuel fire on it.”

Charles wanted to strangle someone every time he saw one of those headlines. But the PR team only leaned in harder.

The official campaign slogan?

"Two hearts. One team. One goal."

It made him sick.

They paired them for every promo shoot. Every sponsorship feature. Every “day in the life” segment.

You would smile like it meant nothing. Laugh politely when the hosts made jabs about “familiarity.” Maintain a neutral distance.

Meanwhile, Charles was unraveling.

They wouldn’t even let you use separate PR handlers.

“Unity,” they said. “Cohesion,” they insisted. “It sells,” they didn’t say—but didn’t have to.

One day, they were forced to film a bit where they stood back-to-back, arms crossed, smirking.

Charles hadn’t realized how intimate standing back-to-back could feel until you shifted slightly, your shoulder brushing his just barely, and his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

You didn’t react. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it hadn’t meant everything once.

------

Australia

Melbourne was warm. Too warm for a black polo, but the Ferrari dress code didn’t care about comfort.

Charles adjusted his collar and checked his reflection in the mirror one last time before stepping into the media room.

Youwas already there.

Of course you was.

Hair pulled back. Aviators on. Red polo perfectly tucked. Smiling as you leaned over a table to sign posters for the fan zone.

He hated how effortlessly cool you looked. How unbothered.

The moment the press spotted you together, the room buzzed.

Click click click. Leclerc. Y/L/N. Ferrari’s power pairing. Exes on the grid. Tension or teamwork?

Charles forced a smile as you were called forward.

“Let’s get a joint shot for the socials,” the team rep chirped.

You stood next to him, closer than you’d been since that night in Monaco.

“Hi,” you said under your breath, not looking at him.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Click.

“Closer,” someone said.

Charles didn’t move. You didn’t either.

More clicks.

“Tell us,” a reporter grinned, “what’s it like sharing a garage with someone you used to share—”

You cut in, voice honey-sweet but razor sharp. “We share a team, not a past. And the only thing we’re focused on is winning.”

That shut them up. But the damage was done.

The soundbite was already being clipped, posted, quoted.

Back in the Ferrari hospitality tent, Charles found you alone by the espresso machine.

“I hate this,” he said quietly.

You turned, eyebrow raised. “The coffee?”

“This circus,” he gestured to the media tent. “The narrative. Us being—this.”

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have walked away.”

It wasn’t cruel. Just honest.

And it landed like a gut punch.

Before he could say anything else, the comms manager appeared.

“You two are up next for the Sky Sports segment. Smile, yeah?”

You walked off without another word.

Charles followed, knowing that for the next ten minutes, they’d have to pretend it didn’t still hurt.

------

The garage smelled like burnt rubber and nerves.

It always did on Saturdays, but this time it wasn’t just the usual pre-quali tension. It was you, three meters away, head bowed as a race engineer adjusted your headset, lips moving into the comms.

Charles wasn’t looking.

Except he was.

He always was.

“P2 and P3 look tight this weekend,” Fred Vasseur said, walking in with his clipboard. “If we want front row, we’ll need clean laps and clean heads.”

He looked directly at both of you when he said it.

Neither responded.

Q1 went smooth. Q2 went tense. Q3… was war.

Charles radioed in first. “Tell her not to back me into dirty air.”

His engineer’s voice crackled. “You’re two seconds behind her. You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, and last week I was ‘fine’ and I hit traffic.”

“We’ll relay it.”

A beat later: “She says tell him to stay out of her mirrors and focus on his own damn lap.”

Charles snorted inside his helmet. “Copy.”

Back in the garage post-Q3, the timing screens lit up.

P2 – Y/L/N P3 – Leclerc

Silence.

A few claps. A few murmured congratulations.

You walked past him to grab a towel. “Nice lap.”

He grabbed his own. “Yeah. Yours was better.”

“Guess I still know how to deliver under pressure.”

There it was.

He turned, a bit too fast. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You looked at him finally. Really looked.

Helmet off. Hair damp with sweat. Eyes fierce.

“You tell me, Charles.”

They finished P4 and P5.

Missed the podium by a few seconds.

Not a bad result, but not what Ferrari needed. Not what they needed.

The debrief room was cold, sterile. Screens flickered with sector data, lap comparisons, tire degradation stats.

Fred stood at the front, running through post-race notes.

Charles sat across from you.

You hadn’t spoken since the grid.

“Turn 11. Charles, you lost time on Lap 39. What happened?”

He shrugged, eyes flicking to you. “Dirty air. Wasn’t willing to risk taking her out.”

Your jaw tightened. “I gave space.”

He laughed under his breath. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Fred cut in quickly. “Let’s keep it constructive.”

Silence again.

Until you spoke, clear and direct. “We need a cleaner release strategy. And if he wants space, tell him to earn it next time.”

Charles’s head snapped up.

Fred sighed.

“Got it,” the strategist muttered. “We’ll review.”

The debrief ended five minutes later.

Charles stood.

So did you.

Your eyes met again, tired, sharp, something dangerously close to familiar.

But you walked out first.

Again.

-----

Bahrain

The room was packed.

Media day in Bahrain always felt intense, but this year? It was a feeding frenzy.

Two Ferrari drivers. One very public breakup.

The FIA insisted you sit together. "Transparency," they said.

Charles on the far left. You beside him. Lando, Carlos, and Oscar completed the row—but all eyes were on red.

“So,” a reporter grinned. “Ferrari’s newest pairing—how’s the vibe in the garage? Awkward breakfasts? Shared playlists?”

Lando laughed into his mic. “They sit further apart than the hard and soft compounds.”

You smiled politely. “It’s been professional. We’re both here to drive, not to relive 2023.”

Charles nodded. “We communicate what we need to. That’s what matters.”

A second reporter jumped in. “Y/N, any lingering tension after qualifying in front of Charles last week?”

Your eyes flicked to Charles, then back to the mic. “Only the competitive kind.”

Someone in the back raised a hand. “What’s your biggest strength as a driver?”

“Focus,” yousaid quickly.

“Control,” Charles added.

Lando snorted. “That didn’t age well.”

Y/N cracked a small smile. “Didn’t know you were a relationship therapist now, Norris.”

Charles almost laughed.

Almost.

After the panel, they filed out in silence.

Until Charles caught up to you near the paddock entrance.

“You handled that well,” he said quietly.

You kept walking. “Didn’t stab anyone with a mic, so I’d say yes.”

He glanced at you. “Look, I know we’re not… whatever we were. But if you ever want to talk—really talk—”

“I’ll let you know,” you replied, then turned into the Ferrari hospitality tent.

But your steps slowed just slightly, like part of you wanted to look back.

Charles didn’t follow.

Not yet.

-----

The floodlights buzzed overhead, casting the Bahrain circuit in an artificial glow. The air was dry. The engines roared.

Ferrari lined up P3 and P4. Charles ahead. Y/N behind.

“Smooth launch,” the engineer said. “Respect the plan. Strategy window opens Lap 11.”

You both confirm over radio.

And for the first ten laps, it was calm.

Until the tire degradation started to hit.

“Box, box,” said your race engineer.

You dove into the pits first, fresh mediums. Charles stayed out, covering the undercut.

Lap 12, he came in. Rejoining nose to tail.

Lap 16. The chaos began.

You had better grip. Charles was still defending.

The paddock held its breath as you launched down the inside into Turn 4.

Too late. Too hot. Too close.

“Whoa! Y/N just dove on Leclerc—”

“Contact?”

“Nearly!”

Charles had seconds to react, jerking the wheel just enough to give you space without going off.

You held the line. You didn’t touch. Barely.

Over team radio, silence.

Then Charles’s voice: “Tell her next time, commit or back off. No half-measures.”

One lap later: “Tell him thank you for not wrecking us both.”

Ferrari pit wall didn’t breathe again until Lap 57.

Crossing the line in P4 and Charles P5.

Clean. Barely.

But something had changed.

-----

The debrief room was tense.

Fred stood at the front with his tablet. “Let’s talk about Lap 16.”

Neither spoke.

Fred looked at you. “Too aggressive.”

He looked at Charles. “Too stubborn.”

“I gave her space,” Charles said flatly.

“Barely,” you muttered.

Fred exhaled. “Look, I don’t care what happened last year. Right now, we need points. Not pride.”

More silence.

Until Charles glanced at you. “That move… it was good.”

You blinked. “You sure? I thought I nearly ruined your race.”

“You didn’t. I adjusted. Trusted you would finish it clean.”

Tilting your head. “You trusted me?”

He nodded once. “Didn’t want to. But I did.”

Something soft flickering inside.

Fred cleared his throat. “Great. Now bottle that energy for Saudi.”

-----

Saudi Arabia

Jeddah at night was pure adrenaline.

Fast. Narrow. Dangerous.

You had qualified P5, Charles in P3. Both knew this track didn’t forgive mistakes. But neither expected what happened on Lap 22.

Yellow flag. Then red.

Oscar Piastri had gone into the wall. Marshals flooded the track. Everyone filed into the pit lane.

And just like that, the race paused mid-chaos.

Yanking your helmet off, pacing near your car.

Charles was sitting on the halo of his own, elbows on knees, gloves still on.

Fred walked over with the strategy lead. “We’re flipping it. You two are going hard tire to the end. But we need to control the restart.”

With a raised a brow. “As in… team orders?”

“No,” Fred said. “As in teamwork. You box first. Charles follows. You go aggressive. Charles defends.”

Charles finally spoke. “That’s risky.”

Fred stared at you both. “Only if you don’t trust each other.”

A pause.

Charles looked at you. “You okay with that?”

You held his gaze. “Can you handle being rear guard?”

His mouth twitched. “Can you handle being first out?”

You smirked. “Try and keep up, Leclerc.”

They fist-bumped. Small. Wordless.

But it meant something.

Race restart. Lap 25.

You launched. Clean getaway. Charles slotted in behind you perfectly.

The next 15 laps were chaos.

McLarens attacking. Mercedes on alternate strategy. George on softs, trying to divebomb.

But Charles covered you like a shield. Blocked every move. Clean. Aggressive. Masterful.

And when you crossed the line P2, Charles P3—it felt like more than just a podium.

It felt like healing.

----

The media pen was buzzing.

Carlos was talking to Sky Sports. Lando had already thrown his cap into the crowd.

You slipped into the corner of the garage, helmet still in hand, flushed cheeks cooling off under the LED lights.

Charles found you there. Silent, soft-footed, holding two water bottles.

He passed you one without a word.

You took it. “Thanks.”

He sat beside you, not too close. Just enough.

“You raced beautifully,” he said after a beat.

You looked at him. “You covered for me. Better than anyone else could’ve.”

He smiled. “We were a good team today.”

You tilted your head. “Today?”

He met your eyes, quiet. “Let’s start with today.”

For once, you didn’t push.

Just nodded, capped your water, and whispered, “Okay.”

----

Japan

Charles hated qualifying at Suzuka.

He used to love it. The rhythm. The corners. The history. But today, nothing clicked.

His rear snapped loose in Sector 1 twice. Oversteer in the Esses. Lock-up into Degner 2.

Q2: Eliminated. P11.

He didn’t even wait for the interview. Just pulled off his helmet and stormed into the back of the Ferrari garage.

You managed P3. But you didn’t celebrate.

You saw him disappear, saw the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he didn’t even speak to his engineer.

So you followed.

You found him in the corner, still suited, gloves off, jaw clenched.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he mutters without looking up.

But you step closer anyway.

“I’m not here to lecture you,” you say gently. “I’m here because I’ve had days like this too.”

His head turns, but his eyes don’t meet yours yet. “It was the car. It was me. It was—everything.”

You sit beside him, close but not touching.

“Look at me,” you say.

He does. Slowly. Hesitantly.

“You’re not done. This was just Q2. You still have tomorrow. We’re a team, remember?”

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Then quietly: “We are now.”

You nod once. “Then let me help. Whatever you need.”

He exhales, like something in him unclenches for the first time all day.

“I’ll need a miracle start.”

You smirk. “Good thing I’m not using mine.”

He laughs, just barely.

But it’s real.

Charles made up four places in the first ten laps.

Another two by Lap 38.

Finished P5. You held onto P4 despite tire drop-off and a late push from Hamilton.

Not their strongest weekend. But they walked away with points.

In the post-race cooldown room, you nudged his elbow lightly.

“You still think you needed a miracle?”

Charles gave a tired grin. “Might’ve had one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “From who?”

He didn’t answer.

But he didn’t have to.

------

It started as a joke.

Some Sky Sports producer thought it would be hilarious: "Charles and Y/N, do a mock argument for a TikTok—act like you're squabbling over setup or who's the favorite child at Ferrari.”

You both agreed. Begrudgingly.

They set up two chairs. One mic. A ridiculous prompt: “Pretend you’re in a team meeting and the other person won’t stop interrupting.”

The cameras rolled.

You fold your arms and cock your head at him. “If you’d actually listen to the data for once—”

He cuts you off. “If you didn’t divebomb every corner like it owes you money—”

“Oh please,” you laugh, playing it up. “Just admit you hate being second best.”

“Only to Verstappen,” he fires back smoothly.

The crew laughs.

You don’t.

Not really.

You lean in slightly, voice lower now. “That supposed to be a dig?”

He doesn’t break character—but something shifts in his eyes.

“You tell me,” he says. Still smiling. But not really.

You glance at the producer. “You got what you needed?”

“Yeah, that was gold.”

You stand. Walk off.

He follows, slower.

Outside the garage, just far enough from the cameras, you spin on your heel.

“What the hell was that?”

He shrugs. “It was a joke.”

“No, that was you throwing a jab while we’re still smiling for the world.”

He frowns, crosses his arms. “You said play it up.”

“I didn’t say twist the knife.”

Silence.

You hate this part. The stillness after anger. The too-honest parts neither of you mean to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nod, jaw tight. “I know.”

You don’t talk the rest of the night.

But the next morning, there’s coffee on your table with your name scribbled on the cup.

And one word underneath it.

“Sorry.”

The race was messy.

Two safety cars. A virtual. DRS trains for half the grid. But somehow, you both came out of it ahead.

P3 for him. P4 for you.

Twenty-seven points for Ferrari.

In the hospitality tent after media rounds, you find him standing at the espresso bar, towel around his neck, half-buttoned race suit still clinging to his waist.

He turns when he hears your footsteps.

“You always drink coffee after a race?” you ask, grabbing a water.

He grins. “It’s tradition.”

“You qualified tenth and still made the podium. That deserves something stronger.”

He lifts his cup. “Double shot.”

You roll your eyes but smile. “WDC standings?”

He shrugs. “I’m third. You’re fourth. Two points between us.”

You raise your brows. “Still can’t believe I let you overcut me.”

“Let?” he repeats.

“I was being generous.”

He smirks. “Call it generosity when I’m leading after Austria.”

“You wish.”

Lando walks by and hears the tail end.

“Oh my God,” he mutters, dramatic. “Just snog already. The tension is exhausting.”

Carlos snorts behind him. “They’ve been like this for months.”

You and Charles glance at each other. Then look away.

You sip your water. He drinks his espresso.

Neither of you says what you're thinking.

But it's loud in the silence.

----

Miami

Miami was madness.

Neon everything. Celebs everywhere. Race suits clinging in the humidity. Cameras flashing like it was the Met Gala instead of a Grand Prix.

You’d qualified P4, Charles in P6 after a rough Q3. Grid penalties had bumped you both up a row.

Ferrari was flying under the radar. No drama this week. Just quiet consistency.

But the paddock? Loud.

“You know there’s a TikTok calling us ‘the parents of the grid’?” you ask, sliding into your seat for the drivers’ parade.

Charles adjusts his cap, smirks. “We’re barely speaking some weeks.”

You grin. “Exactly. Divorced parents.”

“Who share custody of Fred.”

You laugh, full and real, and it makes him pause for half a second. Just watch you.

“I like when you do that,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“Laugh like you don’t hate me.”

“I never hated you.”

He nods slowly. “I know. I just made it easy to pretend.”

The truck jolts forward. You look ahead again.

But your smile doesn’t fade.

The race was brutal.

Hot track temps. Double-stacked pit stop. A late safety car.

Y/N crossed the line P2 after a perfectly timed overtake on Checo. Charles held off George for P4. Nearly lost it on the final lap.

Back in the paddock, the post-race buzz is everywhere.

Champagne. Sunglasses. Music thumping somewhere from a sponsor tent.

Carlos walks over holding two beers. Tosses one to you, hands the other to Charles.

“To the newlyweds,” he jokes. “Still pretending you don’t like each other. Cute.”

You clink bottles with Charles without even thinking. “We’re just co-parenting Ferrari, remember?”

Charles grins. “The healthiest toxic duo on the grid.”

Lando, passing by, yells, “Divorced but still sleeping together vibes!”

You almost choke on your beer.

Charles? Just smirks and takes a sip.

----

They barely talked in Imola. Just strategy meetings and quiet nods between corners. No drama. No fireworks. Just a solid P3 for Charles, P5 for Y/N. Business as usual.

But Monaco?

Monaco was different.

The tension in the air was tighter. The roads narrower. The stakes—personal.

It wasn’t just another race for Charles. It was his race. His home. His curse.

Everyone knew it.

Race Weekend – Saturday Quali

You watched from the monitors in the Ferrari garage, suited up but still, hands clenched at your sides.

Charles had gone purple in Sector 1.

“Come on,” you murmured under your breath. “Come on, Charles…”

The team radio crackled as he crossed the line.

P1.

Pole position.

He’d done it.

You exhaled a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

When he came back into the garage, helmet off, jaw tight but eyes bright, you were one of the first to meet him.

“You did it,” you say, the corners of your mouth lifting before you can stop it. “Finally.”

He grins—really grins—and for once, doesn’t guard it.

“I did.”

You nod. “Go win the damn thing.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and says quietly, “I’ll try. But either way, thanks.”

You shrug, but your heart stumbles.

“Don’t thank me yet. It’s still Monaco.”

Sunday – Race Day

He leads from lights to flag.

No technical failure. No strategy blunder. No crash.

Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix.

The grandstands explode. The team jumps the pit wall. Red flags wave in the sea of blue.

He pulls into parc fermé and slams both fists on the halo of the car.

He’s yelling something, words swallowed by noise, but it’s pure release.

You watch it all unfold from the pit wall, tears stinging behind your visor.

Later, when he comes back to the garage, hair damp from champagne, cheeks still red from adrenaline, he finds you waiting with a towel in your hand.

“I knew this one meant everything to you,” you say, holding out the towel.

He takes it, breathless. “You cried?”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You definitely cried.”

You glance away. “It’s allergies.”

“Bullshit,” he says, laughing. Then quieter: “Thank you. Again.”

You tilt your head. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did,” he says. “You believed in me.”

You don’t answer that. You don’t have to.

Because it’s written all over your face.

Later That Night – Ferrari Hospitality

The party is in full swing. Champagne, laughter, blurry sponsor reps trying to dance.

You sit off to the side with your engineer, nerves humming low in your gut.

“You ready for Spain?” he asks.

You force a smile. “Sure. First home GP with Ferrari? No pressure.”

“Cameras will love it. Fans too.”

“Yeah. Just hope I don’t crash it into Turn 5 and cry on national TV.”

He laughs, but you don’t.

That’s when Charles walks by. Slows down when he catches the look on your face.

He waits until your engineer steps away, then slides into the seat beside you.

“You nervous?” he asks.

You nod. “Terrified.”

He sips from his drink. “Good. That means you care.”

You let out a breath. “This is the first time I’m going back to Barcelona and not just racing, but representing Ferrari. It’s not just about me anymore.”

He leans back. “You know how many times I’ve tried to win Monaco? How many times I choked on it?”

You nod slowly.

“This year, I stopped racing it for everyone else. I drove it for myself.”

You look at him.

“You should do the same,” he says. “You don’t owe anyone perfection. Just honesty.”

You blink. “What if I mess it up anyway?”

He shrugs. “Then you mess it up. But it’s yours to mess up. You don’t have to earn your seat. You already did.”

You smile. Really smile this time.

“Was that… support?” you tease.

He grins. “Don’t get used to it.”

You clink your plastic cup against his glass bottle.

“To not crashing.”

-----

Barcelona

Barcelona was hot.

Not just the weather, but the noise, the chaos, the sheer pressure of it. The home crowd roared every time Y/N’s face flashed on a screen. Every time she passed pit lane. Every time she stepped into frame beside a red car with her name printed on it.

It was her first Spanish Grand Prix as a Ferrari driver.

And everyone expected magic.

Quali – Saturday

P1: Y/N P2: Charles P3: Lando

You’d nailed it. Sector after sector, perfect lines, clean exit out of Turn 10, a final push in Sector 3 that put you on provisional pole.

Then the radio crackled: “P1, Y/N. That’s P1. You’re on pole.”

The team cheered.

Charles clapped from parc fermé. Genuinely. Unreservedly.

“You good?” he asks later, bumping your shoulder lightly in the garage.

You shake your head. “No. I’m gonna puke.”

He laughs. “That’s how you know you’re about to win.”

You glance sideways. “So you’re rooting for me?”

He leans closer, voice low and calm. “I’ve always rooted for you.”

You freeze just a second too long. But he doesn’t push.

Just walks away, leaving you with your heart in your throat and butterflies in your stomach.

Sunday – Race Day

The stands were a blur of red and yellow. Spanish flags waved alongside Ferrari ones. Your name echoed down every straight.

Charles held P2 the entire race. Defended like hell when Checo threatened. Managed tires. Covered DRS zones.

But the focus was on you.

Lap after lap, you pulled ahead. Clean. Precise. Brilliant.

And when you crossed the finish line...

P1. Home race. Home win.

The crowd erupted.

You screamed into your radio. Your engineer cried. The Ferrari garage lost its mind.

And somewhere just behind you, Charles smiled the way only someone truly proud could.

The room is ice cold. But your skin is still burning.

You’ve barely sat down when the water bottle is shoved into your hand and the towel lands in your lap.

Charles is the one who passed them to you. He’s standing across the room now, sipping his own water like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just defend for half the race so you could run free.

“I can’t feel my legs,” you mumble, still breathless.

He leans against the wall. “I’m pretty sure the Spanish anthem gave me goosebumps.”

You laugh softly. “My parents were in the grandstand.”

“I saw them on the big screen,” he says. “Your mum looked like she was crying.”

“She probably was,” you reply, squeezing the towel. “She always said if I won in Barcelona, she’d throw a shoe at someone out of joy.”

He chuckles. “Tell her to aim for Zak Brown next time.”

You snort. Then pause. Then say, quieter now, real. “Thanks. For racing clean. For not pushing too hard.”

His gaze softens.

“You earned it,” he says. “I just stayed out of your way.”

You look at him, and for once it doesn’t hurt. It just feels right.

Like you’re finally starting again. Not as what you were, but something new. Something steadier.

The door opens. A staff member calls you both out to the podium room.

He offers you a hand to stand.

You take it without hesitation.

In parc fermé, after the cooldown room, after the media, you found each other again.

“I didn’t puke,” you tell him, dazed, half-laughing.

He steps forward, curls messy under his cap, cheeks still pink from the sun and emotion.

“You won.”

“I won.”

His arms open without a word. And you fall into them.

For a second, the noise fades. The cameras disappear. It’s just him. Just you.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, so quiet no one else could hear it.

You squeeze him tighter. “Thank you.”

Then you pull away, wipe your eyes, and grin. “Next up: Austria. You better keep up.”

He smirks. “I’ll try. La Reine rouge.” (The red queen)

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, still smiling. “You’ll get it translated later.”

-----

Austria

Austria was supposed to be serious.

Sprint weekend. Short, brutal track. No room for error.

But somewhere between the mountain air, the pasta night in the Ferrari motorhome, and Charles finally wearing that stupid team polo with one too many buttons undone…

Things started to feel fun again.

Driver Dinner – Friday Night

It’s the kind of night that doesn’t feel like work.

The sun’s dipping behind the mountains. The restaurants terrace is strung with soft lights and red napkins folded into fancy shapes none of you can pronounce. Someone from the kitchen is overcooking garlic bread. Carlos is already on his second glass of wine. And you?

You’re trying to act normal.

Trying really hard not to notice how Charles looks across the table with his sleeves pushed up and that laugh that used to be yours echoing across the space like it never stopped.

“So,” Carlos says, swirling his glass like he’s in a telenovela. “Be honest. Which one of you is better at keeping secrets?”

You blink. “Why?”

He gestures between you and Charles with a dramatic flair. “Because there is clearly something going on here, and I refuse to be the last to know.”

You raise a brow. “Carlos.”

He leans forward. “Y/N.”

Across the table, Charles is fighting a smile. “Maybe we just communicate better now.”

Lando chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, like when you told her over radio today to stay off your rear wing?”

You toss a piece of bread at him.

“I was racing,” you say. “It’s called banter. Learn it.”

Carlos winks. “Banter is foreplay.”

You nearly snort water through your nose.

Charles? Doesn’t deny it.

He just shrugs, relaxed in a way he hasn’t been all season.

“And besides,” he adds casually, “If we were secretly back together, you’d think we’d be dumb enough to flirt in front of you lot?”

Silence.

Then Giuliano: “Honestly, yes.”

The entire table erupts.

You laugh so hard you actually slap Charles’s shoulder.

He looks at you with that damn twinkle in his eye.

And for a second.

Just a second,

It feels like it used to. Like before Monaco. Before the silence. Before the pretending.

You’re quiet again by dessert.

Carlos is now deep in a debate with an engineer about which gelato flavor is elite. The others are trading sim rig horror stories.

You sip your drink and feel someone watching you.

When you glance up, Charles is already looking away.

But you caught it.

And that smile you’ve been holding back?

It finally escapes.

Sprint – Saturday

Short, sweet, chaotic. Charles finishes P3, you take P5 after getting squeezed wide by Oscar.

But it’s Sunday that really sets the paddock buzzing.

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 18. Team radio.

Engineer: “Charles, pace is good. Y/N behind on same strategy.”

Charles: “Tell her to stay off my rear wing. It’s not a date.”

A beat of silence.

Y/N (radio): “Could’ve fooled me, Leclerc. You’re blushing.”

The Ferrari garage loses it.

PR rep facepalms. Fred mutters something about needing holy water.

Post-race: P2 (Charles), P4 (Y/N).

Lando tweets: “Y/N and Charles flirting over radio like it’s Love Island.” Carlos reposts with: “Soft launch confirmed? I need mom and dad back together..."

Later That Night – Back at the Hotel

You get a message.

Charles: “Nice overtake today. Also, you’re the one who was blushing.”

You reply: “Shut up. Go to sleep.”

But you smile the entire time you type it.

---

Silverstone

Silverstone was grey. Not raining. Not sunny. Just stuck in that British limbo where the air feels like it might cry at any moment.

You arrived early. Charles didn’t.

And that -that- was unusual.

He was always early. Always first in the sim room. First at track walk. First in the debrief seat with his notebook and highlighter like some overachieving student.

But this weekend, he was quieter.

And you noticed.

Thursday – Media Day

The questions were more pointed than usual. You’d placed P1 in FP1. Charles, P6.

You kept getting asked about “momentum,” “confidence,” “beating your teammate.”

He kept getting asked about pressure.

And still, you sat side by side for the press conference.

“You good?” you whisper before it starts.

He shrugs. “I’m fine.”

You nudge his knee under the table. “That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

And that’s when you realize how tired he is.

Not physically. Emotionally.

You nudge again, gentler. “Hey.”

He exhales. “I’m okay. Just… not here yet.”

“Then where are you?”

He doesn’t say it right away.

Then he murmurs, “August. In a quiet place. Without cameras.”

You blink.

“Summer break?” you ask.

He nods.

You pause. “Where?”

“Southern Italy. Friend’s place near the coast.”

Your stomach dips.

“…You’re kidding.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“I-” you bite your lip. “Booked an Airbnb ten minutes from there. Like. Two days ago.”

You stare at each other.

Then he chuckles. “Of course you did.”

“Pure coincidence,” you insist, suddenly hot in your race suit.

“Sure.”

You glare. “I didn’t even know where you were going.”

“I never said you did,” he says, that stupid smug grin appearing.

You roll your eyes. “Don’t make this a thing.”

“Too late,” Carlos says from three seats over.

Saturday – Quali Day

It’s wet. Classic Silverstone.

Charles struggles in Q2, nearly bins it at Stowe. You hold pole for a heartbeat before George snatches it in the dying seconds.

You’ll start P2. Charles, P6.

Back in the garage, he rips off his gloves a little too sharply.

You wait.

And then...

“You’re allowed to be frustrated,” you say, stepping in quietly.

“I’m not frustrated,” he mutters.

“Charles.”

He looks up. Wet curls flattened to his forehead, eyes sharp and tired.

You lower your voice. “It’s not a weakness to feel disappointed.”

He laughs, short and bitter. “You think I don’t know that?”

“I think you’re hard on yourself,” you say. “I think you punish yourself for things the car can’t even control.”

You step closer.

“And I think I hate seeing you like this.”

That stops him cold.

You watch him swallow hard, jaw clenching like he wants to say something but won’t let himself.

“Thanks,” he says softly. “For… whatever that was.”

“Support,” you say.

“Feels dangerous coming from you.”

You smile. “Only if you let it be.”

Sunday – Race Day

The track dried up. The race was electric.

George retired early. You led for half the race. Charles clawed back place after place, hungry like he hadn’t been since Monaco.

Lap 48: You were running P1. He was P3, chasing Lando.

Lap 51: He took P2.

Final lap: Both Ferraris on the podium.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles. P3: Max.

Ferrari drowned in red smoke and champagne.

Post-Race – Cooldown Room

“You’re two for two,” he says, walking in still half out of breath.

You blink up at him from the bench. “And you’re creeping up on me in points.”

He tosses you a towel. “Scared?”

“Not of you.”

You grin. He does too.

You take a sip of water. “That thing you said the other day.”

“What thing?”

“About August. About being somewhere quiet.”

He nods.

“You still want that?”

He tilts his head. “You offering company?”

You pretend to think about it.

Then shrug. “Pure coincidence, remember?”

He grins. “Sure.”

----

Hungary

Hungary was a slow burner.

Tight corners. Technical turns. Strategy-focused. No chaos unless the weather invited it.

And the weather?

Was knocking.

The forecast kept flipping. Every five minutes a new update. Cloud cover, yes. Rain? Maybe. Thunder? Possible.

You were P3. Charles, P4. Both cars strong. Steady. Waiting for the right storm.

Saturday – Night Before the Race

Dinner was quiet. Everyone focused. No wine this time. No Carlos antics. Just calm.

You sat beside Charles by accident.

Or maybe not.

You didn’t speak much. But your knees brushed under the table.

And this time?

Neither of you moved.

Race Day – Sunday

Lap 28.

The rain hit.

Just as soft as it started, it threw the whole race into chaos.

Slippery pit entries. Unplanned stops. Everyone scrambling.

You both pitted perfectly.

And for fifteen laps—you led.

Charles ran P2. Again. Right behind you. Shadowing you. Protecting you.

Team radio stayed mostly silent.

Because neither of you needed words anymore.

Final Result: P1 – Y/N. P2 – Charles. Ferrari 1-2.

Three in a row for you.

And for the first time all season, it felt like you could breathe.

Post-Race – The Rain Comes Back

The cooldown room was a blur.

Then the podium.

Then the interviews.

Then the chaos.

And finally, finally, you were alone.

Or at least, you thought you were.

You step outside the back of the hospitality tent, just for a minute. The air is wet. The rain’s light but steady, misting your hair, cooling your face.

You close your eyes.

“You always do this?” a voice says behind you.

You open them. He’s there. Leaning on the wall. Drenched.

You exhale. “Needed a minute.”

He walks over. No umbrella. No jacket. Just him.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod slowly. “I think I am.”

He looks at you like he doesn’t believe it.

But he wants to.

You pull in a breath. “Feels like everything’s moving so fast. Like one minute I’m terrified and the next I’m winning. Again. And people keep looking at me like I’ve already become the person I’m supposed to be and I’m just—”

You stop.

He steps closer.

“You don’t have to be her all the time,” he says softly.

You blink.

“You can just be you. With me.”

The silence after that stretches. Soft. Real.

Then you say, “You ever think about us?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Every day.”

You’re not sure who moves first.

Maybe him. Maybe you.

But suddenly, his forehead is pressed to yours, the rain dripping from his lashes, and it’s like the entire world slows down.

No cameras. No team. No finish line.

Just you and him and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you never stopped being something.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes.

“I never stopped.”

And that?

That’s the moment.

Not dramatic. Not loud.

Just true.

Summer Break Begins

The coast of Southern Italy was slow. Lazy waves. Salty air. Golden light. The kind of place where the world paused and no one expected anything from you.

You both booked different villas.

Ten minutes apart.

You told the team it was coincidence. You told yourselves it was, too.

But the second night, you were at his place. And neither of you left much after that.

Day 1

The sand is cool beneath your feet as the sun dips low on the horizon. The sky’s turning pink. He’s walking beside you, barefoot, jeans rolled, one hand swinging lazily between you like he wants to reach for you but won’t unless you do.

“I hated seeing you win,” he says, so suddenly you stop.

You look at him.

“Not because you don’t deserve it,” he adds. “But because I wasn’t beside you when you got there. Not really.”

Your throat tightens. “That was your choice.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

You walk in silence for a while.

Then he says, “I missed you. As a person. As my person.”

You don’t answer with words.

You just take his hand.

And this time?

He doesn’t let go.

Day 3

He says he has a plan. You say you don’t do boats. He says you’ll survive.

You show up in a linen dress and sunglasses. He’s already shirtless, smirking.

The water is impossibly blue. The sky cloudless. It’s just the two of you, a bottle of wine, and playlists you didn’t know he still remembered.

He drops anchor somewhere secluded, switches the engine off, and the only sound left is the sea.

You both lie on the sunpad, close but not touching.

Until he shifts.

And suddenly he’s above you, eyes searching yours, hand gently pushing your hair back.

“You’re staring,” you whisper.

“I’m allowed,” he says. “I used to wake up next to you.”

You reach up. Let your fingers graze his jaw.

“What are we doing?” you ask.

He swallows. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.”

When his mouth finds yours—it’s slow. Familiar. Desperate in a quiet way. Like both of you are afraid you’ll vanish again if you rush it.

You don’t sleep with him that day.

But you fall asleep beside him on the boat, curled under a towel, head on his chest.

And when you wake up, his hand is still in yours.

Day 5

It’s after dinner. Wine-soaked. Candle-lit. You’re sitting on the terrace of your villa, legs in his lap, playlist humming low in the background.

He hasn’t kissed you yet today.

Not because he doesn’t want to.

But because he needs to say it first.

“I want this,” he says. “You. Us.”

You stop playing with the hem of his sleeve.

“But I want it right,” he adds. “No hiding. No fear. No thinking you’ll disappear again.”

You nod slowly. “I want that too.”

“But not yet?” he guesses.

“Not yet,” you whisper. “Let’s keep this just ours a little longer.”

He leans in. “You’re already mine.”

You pull him into a kiss before you can cry.

And when he carries you inside that night, it’s not hurried. It’s reverent.

You undress each other like unwrapping something fragile.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s not lust. It’s homecoming.

Slow. Deep. Whispered names. Fingers tangled. Lips pressed to shoulders.

You don’t speak much.

You don’t have to.

You’ve already said everything.

Day 8

You come back from the beach to find fairy lights strung across your villa’s patio.

A record player spinning something French. A small table set for two.

He walks out from the kitchen barefoot with a dish he clearly didn’t cook.

“Let’s pretend we’re normal for one night,” he says.

You laugh. “We’re not even pretending we’re not dating.”

He grins. “No cameras. No PR. Just you. And me.”

Dinner turns into dancing.

Dancing turns into kissing.

Kissing turns into bodies pressed against the wall, then the bed, then every surface you can reach.

He makes you come twice before the words even leave his mouth.

“I love you.”

It’s breathless. Honest. Like he’s been holding it for months.

You look at him, sweaty, wrecked, completely yours and say it back.

“I love you too.”

---

When the break ends, you pack separate bags.

Fly separate flights.

Walk into the paddock for Race 12 side by side but not touching.

Just friends.

But at night?

You take the long way back to your motorhome.

And sometimes, when you knock?

He’s already opening the door.

------

Netherlands

The sky over Zandvoort is cloudy. The ocean breeze rolls in from the dunes. The grandstands are orange. Loud. Buzzing. Everyone’s talking about Max.

But the paddock?

The paddock is talking about you.

You arrive with sunglasses on, hoodie up, hair slightly wind-swept from the private car ride you didn’t take with Charles. Definitely not. You walked in separately. Your PR manager made sure of it.

But your lips are a little too pink. Your smile a little too soft.

And when Charles walks in ten minutes later with the same sunglasses, same wind-swept hair, and that ridiculous barely-there smirk?

Yeah.

People notice.

“You think they know?” you murmur beside him as you both wait at the Pirelli media wall.

“I think they’ve always known,” he replies. “We just stopped giving them a reason to guess.”

You lean closer. “You remember the rules?”

He recites, low: “No lingering touches. No inside jokes. No heart-eyes.”

You grin. “And?”

He shrugs. “No fucking in the simulator room.”

You elbow him so hard he coughs.

Free Practice – FP2

He follows you out of the garage. Your helmets tap as you pass in the pit lane. Subtle. Routine.

Except he looks at you just before you pull away, and the cameras catch it.

Reddit explodes: "That was not a 'just friends' glance."

Quali – Saturday

You’re faster. He knows it.

Your engineer radios in, tells you your Sector 2 is purple.

Charles’s voice cracks through your earpiece: “Beautiful lap. Go get pole.”

You do.

And later, when he finds you in the back of the motorhome, towel slung around his neck, hair still damp, he doesn’t touch you. Just smiles.

“You’re glowing,” he murmurs.

“So are you,” you say back, even though he didn’t win a thing.

Race Day – Sunday

It’s wet. Again. Light drizzle, slick tires.

You start P1. Charles P3.

Lap 28, you're both leading a Ferrari 1-2.

No drama. No fighting. Just clean, perfect coordination.

P1: Y/N. P2: Charles.

Three wins in a row. Four total. The championship is no longer a dream...it’s real.

Post-Race – Press Room

“So,” a journalist starts, “what’s it like racing alongside your friend Charles Leclerc, week after week?”

You smile.

He smiles.

You glance at him, just for a second too long.

And when you answer-

“He’s… steady,” you say. “He’s where I look when I’m overwhelmed. And when I cross the line first, the only person I want to see waiting is him.”

He turns his head. Slowly.

His eyes are soft.

His voice even softer.

“I feel the same.”

Your PR rep nearly faints.

Back in the motorhome

You shut the door behind you.

His hands are in your hair before you even breathe.

Lips locked. Breathless.

He breaks the kiss to whisper:

“Friends don’t do this.”

You grin against his mouth.

“They do now.”

-----

Monza

Monza isn’t just a race.

It’s home.

Not your home. But his. And by now, it feels like yours, too.

The Tifosi line the track like a sea of worship. Flags wave from balconies. Flares smoke up the sky. Every face wears red.

The pressure? It’s unbearable.

The love? Unmatched.

Friday – Media Day

The questions are nonstop.

“Can Ferrari win at home?”

“Can Y/N hold her WDC lead?”

“Can Charles challenge for a win without team drama?”

No one asks about your friendship. Not directly.

But when a Sky Sports reporter jokes that you and Charles are "dangerously in sync lately," Charles just smirks.

You?

You sip your water and smile.

The same smile you gave him this morning in bed.

Saturday – Quali

Pole goes to Max. You qualify P2. Charles nails P3.

But the radio moment during Q3?

That’s what stirs the internet.

“Let him know I’m pushing,” you tell the team.

A beat.

Then his voice: “You’re always pushing. That’s what I love about you.”

Silence.

Then a clumsy, “I mean. On track.”

You say nothing.

But you’re laughing inside your helmet.

And so is he.

Reddit is on fire within five minutes.

“That’s what I love about you”? HELLO? TELL ME THEY’RE NOT DATING AGAIN I DARE YOU

Sunday – Race Day

It’s chaos. DRS trains. Tire degradation. Early pit stops.

But somehow, it’s still a Ferrari 2-3.

P2: Y/N. P3: Charles.

Max wins. Again.

But the crowd doesn’t care.

Because Ferrari is on the podium.

Because you’re on the podium.

Because when the national anthem plays, and Charles looks at you, not like a teammate, not like an ex, but like everything. The whole world sees it.

Post-Race – Parc Fermé

You throw your arms around him before anyone else can.

You don’t kiss him. Not quite.

But your face is so close that the cameraman actually gasps.

His lips brush your cheek. His hands grip your waist. And when you pull back, flushed and breathless, he whispers:

“A couple more races.”

You nod.

“Then we stop pretending.”

Garage – 45 minutes later

Carlos finds you both tucked in a back corner.

“You two are so bad at hiding things,” he mutters, peeling a banana.

“We’re not hiding anything,” you say.

Charles nods, deadpan. “We’re just teammates.”

Carlos raises a brow. “Teammates don’t leave lipstick on each other’s necks.”

You slap Charles with a towel.

He just smiles.

-----

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft love you’d forgotten how to feel.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You spot her before he does.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. One of those PR-model hybrids who floats between teams and beds with the same trained smile.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

TAGLIST:

@angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd

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endless-ineffabilities · 8 months ago

Text

Diet Mountain Dew

chapter 2 of the National Anthem series

President Aemond Targaryen x f!reporter reader

synopsis: a reporter finds herself entangled in an affair with Aemond Targaryen, the President of Westeros.

in this chapter: In her new assignment, the reader has to immerse herself in political affairs. But will she get caught up in another kind of affair altogether?

word count: 6.5k

themes/warnings: smut! (18+), tension!, language, pining, power imbalance, infidelity, a bit of a slow burn then a decisive unravelling

series masterlist ▪︎ main masterlist

How did you get yourself into this?

You’ve been asking yourself that question a lot lately.

You’re not sure when your job as a reporter became quite so complicated. But you had prepared yourself for hard work, for late nights and challenging deadlines. Highgarden News granted you this assignment—a high-profile, career-defining opportunity to shadow President Aemond Targaryen, as he campaigned from city to city. It was the type of assignment that could make a career, a ticket to bigger stories, bigger roles, maybe even a permanent spot in King’s Landing.

Yet here you are, two weeks into the campaign trail, and you already feel yourself slipping.

What started as an assignment became something else, something you’re almost afraid to name.

Only one news team is granted access for each region, with yours being the one assigned from The Reach. The reporters from the other regions had arrived in droves in Lannisport weeks earlier, and then now in Riverrun, trailing Aemond’s every public appearance. In each city, his campaign team organised luxurious setups, from lavish hotel suites to VIP access at his events. It was a calculated display of power and promise—a future where the country could have all the sophistication and glamour it desired, all thanks to the Targaryen name.

And you are always closest to him. You.

As you move from one city to another, you can feel it growing, that silent speculation from your colleagues. You’re special, they whisper. His favourite. His go-to for the tough questions, the tough days.

At first, it was easy to ignore. But when Aemond singles you out in every briefing, when his publicist Margaery—almost maternal in her role as his chief handler—asks if you need anything on behalf of “the President’s office,” it gets harder to deny that connection lingering between you and him.

Every day, it’s something else: a small smile sent in your direction, a private nod, a comment to you and only you when a question gets a little too personal. It’s like he’s let you into his inner circle, and even your best friend Theon, who kindly volunteered to assist you throughout this assignment, has become more insistent in his insinuations.

And, as much as you tell yourself otherwise, you find it impossible not to watch him just as closely.

Aemond is, without a doubt, relentless. It’s as if he’s constantly at war, a one-man show of steely-eyed ambition and razor-sharp wit. He doesn’t just address his audience; he commands them. His campaign team circles him like hawks, eager to please, but he always keeps them at arm’s length, rarely indulging in their advice.

His grandfather and campaign manager, Otto Hightower, is the only one who gets close, hovering, guiding Aemond’s every move with a careful hand, though it’s clear they clash. Otto wants a puppet, someone to execute his carefully curated, well-worn tactics to keep the Targaryens in power, and Aemond… Aemond wants something else entirely.

He’s made it clear—he will not be controlled.

“I’m the one they’ll listen to,” he snaps in a rare, private argument you overhear in the hotel corridor one evening. You can almost feel the electric charge in his voice, the tightly controlled anger that lingers beneath the surface. He’s too smart, too keenly aware of his image to lash out publicly, but in these quiet moments, the crack in his polished exterior shows.

“And you’ll destroy your own campaign if you keep refusing to listen,” Otto fires back, with a ferocity that is reserved for his grandson, not the President. “You think they care about you? They want to see power preserved, to see someone they can trust and control—”

“They trust me,” Aemond interrupts, his voice a low, cutting whisper. “And I won’t be controlled by you, or anyone else.”

There’s a silence after that, and you find yourself stepping back, pressing against the hallway wall, your heartbeat spiking as you try to blend into the shadows.

Otto’s voice drops to a chilling calm. “You’d do well to remember, Aemond, that being president means knowing when to bend.”

But Aemond doesn’t bend. Not for anyone.

He finds you, always. In each press briefing, his attention always seems to land on you, pulling you into his orbit whether you want it or not. Because no matter how you deem it to be—inappropriate, overwhelming, distracting—he’s simply too intoxicating.

He relies on you—most of the time only you—when he’s tired, frustrated, or just seeking a confidante. With each private moment, each conversation, the promise you made to yourself of keeping things professional grows weaker and weaker.

The occasional brush of his hand on your hips or on the small of your back as if letting you know that he’s got you, that he’s there, is nearly enough to get you to break.

And then, there’s the pen incident.

In an afternoon meeting, a few people from his inner circle gathered around, including Margaery, Theon, and Aemond’s loyal security guards, Steve and James. You’re taking notes, barely listening to the endless back-and-forth about strategic points in the city that will “swing the voters,” when Aemond turns to you, breaking the hum of conversation.

“Could you grab that pen from my pocket?” he says, his voice low and casual, as if it’s the most natural request in the world.

Your hand falters, and you glance at him, wondering if you misheard. But no—he’s watching you intently, with that strange, intense expression that you can never quite read. There’s a faint curve to his mouth, a glint of challenge in his eyes. He knows you can’t refuse without drawing attention, yet his request feels deeply, absurdly personal. It feels like a dare.

Aware of the eyes on you, you slip your fingers into the front pocket of his suit jacket, which haphazardly rests on the small table beside you. You begin to suspect that he placed it there deliberately, just for this moment, and this suspicion is confirmed when your fingers brush against something unexpected—something soft, delicate, and unmistakably familiar.

Lace. Your lace panties.

Your breath catches, and you feel heat rise in your cheeks as you realise exactly what he’s done. Those were the same ones you had been missing since that night—the same night you made out in his car, crossing a line you’d sworn you’d never approach.

His gaze doesn’t waver, a flicker of satisfaction flashing across his face as he watches your reaction. It’s a possessive look, a reminder of that moment, of the way he had drawn you in, breaking every rule you’d set for yourself. You quickly pull your hand back, clenching the pen and clearing your throat, avoiding his gaze.

“Something wrong, angel?” he asks smoothly as he retrieves the pen from your outstretched, near-trembling hand. Oh shit. Not here, not now.

Margaery raises an eyebrow at the name, her lips twitching in amusement, and Theon, standing off to the side, looks like he’s holding back a loud, theatrical laugh. But Aemond doesn’t break, doesn’t show even a hint of embarrassment. If anything, he seems pleased, his eyes glinting with amusement as he seamlessly segues into the discussion at hand.

After the meeting, Theon doesn’t waste a second before sidling up to you, eyes glinting with barely concealed amusement.

“Angel, huh?” He draws out the word, savouring each syllable. “Didn’t realise we’d upgraded to pet names with the Commander-in-Chief. That’s new.”

You give him a deadpan look. “Theon, don’t start.”

“Oh, but I’ve already started,” he says, all faux seriousness. “I mean, what’s next? Is he going to give you a little heart emoji in his messages? Add a winky face?”

“Don’t you have something better to do than dissect my life?”

“Normally, yes,” he replies, feigning deep thought. “But in this case? Absolutely not.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. “In fact, I think I owe him a thank you for giving me endless material. And you know Margaery caught it too—she’ll have that eyebrow arched for weeks.”

“Are you done?” you sigh, but he’s relentless, clearly enjoying himself.

“Oh, honey, I’ve barely begun,” he says, leaning in as he glances around to make sure no one’s listening. “Because let’s be real. You’re not getting called angel for, what? Your groundbreaking, objective reporting?”

“Theon, what the fu—”

“Yeah, I bet he’s covering you too… literally...”

“You’re gross.”

“...with his tight body, and his thick c—”

“Okay! Okay, I get the picture!”

The next day, it becomes ever clearer that Riverrun—a critical, symbolic region—has remained steadfastly out of reach.

The Tullys, who are influential in Riverrun, have held a deep-seated mistrust toward Aemond’s family for generations. Once allies, the Tullys and Targaryens grew increasingly distant over the years, tensions flaring over each slight, each perceived grab for power by either family. Riverrun is deeply traditional, loyal to old values and wary of Aemond’s ambitious plans, which feel to them like unwelcome interference. And with Cregan Stark—Aemond’s primary rival—making calculated moves to win over the Tullys, Aemond’s approval ratings in Riverrun are slipping even further.

Cregan Stark is as adept at appealing to people’s hearts as Aemond is at appealing to their logic. With his easy smile and steady presence, Stark has positioned himself as the family man, the man who values every corner of the country and pledges to protect its heritage.

Aemond, on the other hand, is seen as a firebrand—a Targaryen not content to merely lead but determined to change, to push, to innovate. Stark’s connection to the Tullys is not just strategic; he has endeared himself to them, winning over not only the common people but Governor Edmure Tully himself, the unyielding leader who holds significant sway over Riverrun’s political landscape.

Still, Aemond persists, though his methods grow sharper and less forgiving by the day.

The morning in Riverrun is bitterly cold, as if the city itself has turned on Aemond. After his latest speech, which was met with only a polite smattering of applause, he retreats with his team to a private conference room in the hotel, his jaw clenched, his demeanour taut as he listens to Margaery brief him on the polling numbers.

“Riverrun isn’t budging,” she says, her voice hesitant but steady. “They’re not warm to us—and to be honest, Cregan Stark’s campaign is winning them over. He’s made a point to connect with the locals, attend Tully family events, visit their memorials. His team’s doing an incredible job of selling him as someone who’s part of their world.”

“Their world?” Aemond repeats, his voice laced with disdain as he leans back in his chair. “Is that supposed to mean something to me? I don’t run campaigns based on sentiment.”

“Sentiment isn’t useless,” she counters, glancing around at the team with a knowing look. “Especially not here. Riverrun values its heritage, its ties to old families. Stark’s giving them exactly what they want—a friendly face who promises stability.”

You observe him from the far side of the room, notebook in hand. You’ve been watching him closely, taking mental notes, seeing just how he ticks under pressure. And right now, his restraint is paper-thin.

Theon nudges your arm, leaning close enough to whisper, “You know he’s never going to win them over with these tactics, right? Riverrun doesn’t want what he’s selling.”

You nod slightly, acknowledging Theon’s point, but say nothing. It’s true: there’s no sense of warmth or nostalgia in Aemond’s approach. Instead, he comes off as cold and unyielding, refusing to play the game of familiarity and tradition that Riverrun adores. Stark, on the other hand, seems to step right into that world effortlessly, casting himself as the everyman with a steady hand and the charm that disarms even the most sceptical locals.

Aemond’s voice breaks your thoughts. “The Tullys can have their nostalgia, their small-minded ways. But it’s a relic of the past,” he says, a sharp edge in his tone. “I’m not here to coddle them. I’m here to bring Riverrun—and the entire country—into the future, not keep them mired in their ancestral grudges.”

Otto clears his throat, his gaze calculating as he turns toward Aemond. “If you ignore the Tullys, you risk alienating a significant power base. And frankly, this region is one you can’t afford to lose. Stark may look like an innocuous threat, but don’t underestimate him, Aemond. He’s winning because he’s using tactics that work, that make him appear… sympathetic.”

Aemond’s mouth twists, barely masking his contempt. “Sympathetic isn’t the same as capable,” he says icily, his gaze flicking to you. “But maybe the press has some insights they’d like to share?”

You feel the weight of his gaze and everyone else’s as the team shifts their attention toward you. For a moment, you hesitate, caught off guard. You meet Aemond’s intense stare and try to keep your response measured. “Cregan Stark’s strategy here seems to be focusing on shared values,” you say slowly, choosing each word with care. “He’s connecting with people on a personal level. He’s convincing them that he’s one of them, someone who understands them. And while you’re pushing for change, they may not feel ready for it… or see the need.”

Aemond’s eyes narrow, his expression unreadable as he takes in your words. “So you’re saying I should be more like Stark?” he asks, his voice carrying an edge that raises goosebumps along your arms.

“No, not exactly. But it might help if you met them where they are before asking them to follow you somewhere else. Sometimes, people need to feel seen before they’re willing to listen.”

His expression tightens, and for a second, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he lets out a low, humourless laugh, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do nostalgia tours,” he says finally, his voice low. “I’ve already won once before, that’s why I’m sitting here. They still don’t know who I really am? Fine. I’ll show them. But I’m not going to beg them to like me.”

It doesn’t take long before he dismisses the team, instructing them to meet later in the evening for the next round of campaign preparations. Everyone files out of the room in a silence that feels heavier than it should, but you’ve only just stood from your seat when he commands, “Stay.”

You look around, and it is only Margaery and Theon left in the room, but they barely pause on their way to the doors, communicating their understanding that Aemond pertains to you. They’re used to it by now.

“So,” he says, his voice smoother and more level than mere moments ago, “we’re here, angel. Riverrun.” He’s perched on the front edge of his desk—his usual spot, whenever he calls you in for a word.

You only emit a noncommittal hum, legs crossed as you sit on the chair in front of him. A small act of defiance because he continues to ignore your request for him to stop calling you angel. Never mind that there is no one else within earshot at the moment, save for Steve and James patrolling the hallway outside.

“Nothing to say…” he posits the question, and you quickly jump into a response.

“Well, there is—”

But then he adds, purposefully cutting through at that moment to catch you off guard, with the slyest of smirks gracing his lips. “...angel?”

You sigh in defeat. “I told you—”

“Not to call you angel, I know, I know.” He waves a hand dismissively, and you know he’s just going to disregard the repetition of your plea. “But it’s the only name that feels right. That or… I don’t know… Baby? Sweetheart?”

Mortified, you look away from him, scanning the view outside the windows and ignoring the warmth you felt from hearing baby roll smoothly off his tongue. “None of those, Aemond, please. You know what, nevermind.”

He carries on, laughter still evident in his voice. “Tell me, are the people here in Riverrun right to be sceptical of me?”

“They’re wary, yes,” you admit, choosing your words carefully. “You’re a Targaryen; the older generation still remembers your family’s history. Frankly, many of them are wondering if you’re actually here for them or if you’re just trying to settle old scores. It also doesn’t help that Cregan Stark has endeared himself to the Tullys, and if he has their endorsement—”

“Then I’ve lost Riverrun,” Aemond states, his eyes darkening at the possibility, but he doesn’t lose his composure. Or if he feels the slightest hint of worry, he doesn’t let it show. If anything, he’s much calmer now, with just the two of you in the room, as opposed to when he was surrounded by his team. “And what do you think?”

“Well, the Tullys—”

“No,” he clarifies sharply. “What do you think of me?”

He stands perfectly still, all of his focus directed at you. Your stomach twists with the sudden intimacy of his question, but you meet his gaze, refusing to back down.

“I think you’re ambitious. Smart, ruthless when you need to be. But I also think you haven’t shown enough respect to the values of tradition and ancestral heritage. It’s clear in how you talk about the opposition, how you dismiss their concerns. People feel that.”

His jaw clenches, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I dismiss what doesn’t matter,” he says coldly. “I’m not here to appease everyone, nor to waste time on people who aren’t willing to listen. I’m here to make real changes.”

“You’re here to secure your legacy, Aemond,” you counter, unable to hold back the accusation. “It’s about power as much as it is about the people. Maybe more.”

The air becomes charged, and his stony mask almost falls to give way to surprise. You’re willing to wager that no one in your position has ever spoken so directly to him before. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve crossed a line. But then his lips curl into a smirk, and he lets out a low chuckle.

“Perhaps it’s both, angel,” he concedes, surprising you. “But ambition isn’t a sin, you know. Everyone in this room wants something out of this campaign.” He gives you a pointed look, as if daring you to argue.

You’re unsure whether to feel guilty of the truth he’s pertaining to. You did accept this position because of the prestige that it offers, the way it can doubtlessly do wonders for the trajectory of your career. And only that… right?

Aemond can’t have been a motivation, no matter how strong his pull is. No matter how often you have imagined that it were his fingers, in the place of yours, stroking your wet folds before you fall asleep.

You cross your arms, standing your ground. “There’s ambition, and then there’s ruthlessness. People don’t trust a man who’ll do whatever it takes to win. They need to believe you’ll put them first.”

His expression shifts, something flickering in his eyes that you can’t quite read. He crosses the space between you with slow, measured steps until he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him, and he plants his hands on the armrest of your seat, caging you in.

“And what about you, my angel?” he asks, voice low, his gaze intense. “Do you trust me?”

Your breath catches, his proximity affecting you more than you’d care to admit. His hand brushes against your arm, featherlike and tantalising, and you feel your resolve hanging on by a thread. How soon until you surrender another pair of your lace panties to be his salacious keepsake?

“I trust you to be who you are,” you say quietly. “The question is whether that’s enough.”

He lets out a long sigh, his gaze softening, and for a moment, you see a glimpse of something more—a vulnerability hidden beneath the polished veneer of the aspiring president. He watches you with a strange intensity, as though he’s trying to read your every thought.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible. “We both know how to play the game.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you force yourself to look away, breaking the spell. You know the price of getting too close, of letting yourself get sucked into his orbit. It would be so easy to lean into him, to let yourself be caught up in his ambition, but you can’t afford to lose yourself.

“I’m just here for the story,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel. But even as you say it, you know it’s a lie.

“Go ahead then, say it,” he murmurs, coaxing you. His gaze is trained on you, hard yet unmistakably interested. “Tell me how I’m arrogant, tell me how you don’t need this job, don’t need me,” he taunts, but his eyes betray him—they’re daring you, almost pleading, though he’d never admit it.

You hold your ground, refusing to let his words twist your resolve. “I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” you retort, but the bite in your voice only seems to amuse him. The corner of his mouth curves, barely a smile, yet somehow even more alluring than a full one.

He leans closer, his scent enveloping you—something fresh and faintly musky, muddled by the thick aroma of premium-grade cigars. “Then why don’t you walk away?” he asks, as though he already knows the answer. “Are you still here because of your job?” he murmurs, voice dripping with sarcasm, “Or maybe… you enjoy this.”

Your words falter, caught in your throat. Because you don’t want to lie. Not here, not with his gaze stripping away every pretense, every defense you’ve carefully held between you.

He reads it on your face before you can speak, and it emboldens him. His fingers trail up your arm, over the thin material of your white blouse, and his touch is maddening. His hand moves to cup your face, and the tenderness in the gesture is an almost unbearable contrast to the edge in his voice.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” he whispers, daring you.

You can’t. And in the silence, he makes his move.

Without warning, his mouth is on yours, fierce and unyielding, a kiss that speaks volumes about everything you’ve both left unsaid. The world blurs, narrows down to the way his hands move against your back, the press of his lips on yours. Every nerve, every inch of you feels ignited, drawn helplessly toward him.

Aemond pulls you from your seat, carrying you to his expansive desk without much effort. He sweeps an arm across the desk, papers and official documents scattering to the floor, pens clattering with a reckless abandon he rarely lets show. For once, the President’s carefully curated world is disrupted—by you.

Your ass slides along the smooth surface, his arms bracing at your sides. And even as you resist, pressing your palms against his chest in some futile attempt at defiance, he only pulls you closer, responding with a hunger that’s every bit as intense as his usual restraint.

Aemond steps back just enough to tug his tie loose, letting it fall to the desk before undoing the buttons of his shirt, each one revealing more of the hard lines of his chest. When he finally shrugs the shirt off, he returns to you, his hands trailing down your thighs, his touch firm, almost searing.

“You don’t want to leave,” he breathes against your lips, his voice roughened by need. His mouth traces a path along your jaw, his breath hot against your skin. “Tell me you do, angel, and I’ll let you go.”

Your lips part, but no words come, just a breath that’s half sigh, half surrender. And the truth is, you don’t want to. Not even close.

He pulls back to catch your gaze, the weight of his stare laden with desire. “You understand what this means, don’t you?” he asks, his voice thick with urgency.

“Wh-what does it mean?”

His mouth curls into a sly smile, one that’s both playful and predatory. “It means you’re all mine, angel,” he declares.

Before you can respond, he lowers his mouth to your neck, trailing soft, heated kisses along the sensitive skin.

“Do you know how much I’ve craved this?” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve fought every part of myself to keep this professional, as you wished. But every time you look at me, I can’t help but want more.”

His fingers trace along the zipper of your pencil skirt, and as he slowly pulls it off, his eyes stay locked on yours. When the skirt falls away, followed by your blouse, and finally, your undergarments, he leans back, taking in the sight of you with unabashed greed. For a brief second, his gaze softens, a look of admiration flashing across his face, before his jaw tightens and he regains his control.

He tugs at your thighs, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist, and as you obey, your body instinctively pulls him closer, pressing against him. You can feel the hard length of him against your core, and a soft moan escapes your lips as he grinds against you.

His fingers dig into your flesh as he rocks his hips into yours, so firmly that his signet ring is sure to make its marking. You arch your back, pushing against him, craving the friction, the connection, the release that feels just within reach. “Aemond,” you manage to gasp, the sound barely above a whisper. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Oh yeah, baby? Shouldn’t… Or wouldn’t?” He knows exactly how to push you, and he revels in it, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Shouldn’t,” you decide, feeling emboldened.

“Good,” he growls, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. He captures your lips once again, and you can taste the desperation in his kiss, a hunger that ignites something primal inside you.

In a sudden movement, he grips your waist and lifts you off the desk, his strength almost overwhelming. He turns you around, pressing you down against the cool surface, your cheek brushing against the scattered papers and pens, the remnants of his work now a forgotten afterthought. He holds you there, his body cocooning you, and you can feel the heat radiating from him, the way he’s anchored in the moment, unyielding in his intent.

You hear the rattling of his belt buckle as he hurriedly shimmies off his suit trousers, until he’s left as naked as the day he was born. The fucking President, in all his glory, his glistening cock fully erect as if saluting the bastard it belongs to.

You can’t help but gasp as he positions himself behind you, his tip propped against your ass. His hands roam your body, gliding over the curves of your hips, the swell of your thighs, and you shudder when he trails his index finger along your slick folds, prepping your hole for entry. The thrill of being so exposed, so completely vulnerable before him, only makes you feel hotter.

Aemond leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. “Are you ready for me, angel?” he asks, the question hanging heavy in the air, thick with implication.

You turn your head just enough to meet his gaze, feeling the undeniable chemistry that crackles between you. “Yes,” you whisper, and the admission feels like a declaration.

And with that, he pushes himself inside you, entering you with a powerful thrust that steals the breath from your lungs. You gasp at the sensation, a mix of pain and pleasure that ignites every nerve ending in your body. The desk creaks beneath you as he moves, holding you tightly, anchoring you against him as he finds a rhythm that’s both unforgiving and intoxicating.

You push back against him, matching his rhythm, letting the heat and pleasure wash over you in waves. Every thrust sends sparks racing through your body, and you can’t help but moan, the sound echoing off the walls, mingling with the soft, urgent sounds of skin against skin.

“Uhh, yeah, baby, just like that,” he growls. “Let me take you—”

Your body responds instinctively, tightening around him, drawing him deeper, and you feel the rush of euphoria just within reach.

“Aghhh… please, please!” you gasp, your words bordering on desperate, a testament to the need coursing through you.

He grips your hips, urging you to meet him, to give in to the wild abandon of the moment. “Not yet,” he snaps harshly, but the smirk on his lips betrays the pleasure he finds in your desperation.

He pulls back slightly, just enough to change positions, and before you can fully process what’s happening, he lifts you up, urging you to wrap your legs around his waist. In a fluid motion, he shifts you both, and he climbs atop the desk so that he has you in missionary, your body flat against the cool surface.

He thrusts into you again, even deeper this time, the sensation overwhelming as he fills you completely.

As he looks down at you, the image of your flushed cheeks, beautifully fucked expression, and the way his name rolls off your tongue in sensual mewls loops in his mind, each time with a sharper pang of satisfaction.

“Look at me,” he growls, gripping your jaw when your head flops to the side. He demands your eyes—he wants to peer into your soul when you finally crumble. “Look at me when you fall apart, baby. I want to see you unravel.”

“Aemond, fuck yes—” He sees you give in, eyelids fluttering as you obey. He likes being in control, but having you like this might be enough to make this part of him fray. Just say the word and he’s yours. You’ll be the only one who can command the Commander-in-Chief.

“Oh, my angel,” he purrs, a sensual melody that is soft and rough all the same, as he stretches you with his girth and brings you to ecstasy with every roll of his hips. “My beautiful, beautiful angel. You like this, don’t you? You like when I take your body like this? You’re so fucking hot, baby…”

“Yeah, yeah… I fucking love it—”

“You’re gonna love me,” he murmurs, his tone dropping to an intimate hush. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You’re gonna love him. Whatever the president wants, the president gets.

“Yes, yes, yes—”

Aemond thinks of making you swear it. To promise that you will love him. Perhaps, if you say it in an official capacity—under oath, for instance—you’d actually fall in love with him for fear of perjury. It’s a childish thought, but he considers it, and mulls it over with as much seriousness as he does the labour policy frameworks Criston is proposing.

He can make you do it. He wants to.

Please, please, angel.

“You mean it, baby?” Aemond asks you, not minding that your pupils are blown out from sheer pleasure and your mind is probably going haywire. “You swear you’ll love me?”

Your lips quiver around a gasp as the swollen mushroom tip of his cock drives roughly into your g-spot, the whites of your eyes visible as they roll to the back of your head. “Whatever you want, Aemond.”

You said it. So he has you now. No takebacks.

He sits back, eyes glued to your writhing figure from above, lording over you like you’re his most prized possession. He takes one hand and uses it to lift your hips, raising your pelvis a few inches off the mattress, while his other hand comes to rest firmly on your lower belly, pressing on your flesh as if sensing his cock buried within. He feels it all—from the outside, the outline of his pulsating length sliding in and out of your core, and inside, your walls clenching on instinct when he slams deep.

The ruthlessness in his gaze spurs you on, as well as how he handles your body, positioning you right where he wants you. His angel, in the perfect angle, a vision as he hits the right spot with every wet-sounding squelch. Your glistening juices coat his cock, and he has to keep himself from bending down and drinking them all up from you. It’s an exercise of willpower to resist sucking your folds and licking every bit of the sticky, tangy moisture. All his, just as you’re all his to eat, to devour.

But that’s for afterward. Now he has to cum in you first, and decorate your insides with his seed. May the gods bless Westeros, his constituents all recite.

But nothing compares to you. The gods don’t hold a candle to your light.

There is only his angel, taking his cock so well like a good girl, like a good little slut.

“I’ll fill you up, angel,” he murmurs, his voice rough and dripping with lust. “Give you everything I have. Bless you with every bit of my fucking… patriotism.”

“Fuck yes, Sir,” you whine helplessly. He is so gone.

“Oh, my angel is so needy, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Sir… need you so much…”

“So mouthy, baby,” he says proudly, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “Are you going to sound this pornographic in the morning? Ask me… ask me how I like my pussy in an interview?”

You reach for him as you sweetly giggle at his words, your fingers curling at the back of his neck as you pull him down for a kiss that’s hot, messy, and all-consuming. He moans in your mouth, looking at you all cunt-drunk with heavy-lidded eyes.

You trace his jaw as you attempt to come up with something coherent. “That’s—” Slam. He slows his pace, punctuating your words with rough thrusts that take your breath away. “—a good question—” Pound. “—Sir.” Plunge. “So… how do you like your pussy, Mr. President?”

He laughs. Now that’s one question he could get used to hearing more often. But only if it’s from you.

“Hmm.” He curls his lips, pretending to consider while caressing your face. “Let me see… I like my pussy… wet, tight, and completely fucking yours.”

“Good answer.”

“Warm around my cock… just like this.” His aforementioned member twitches as it massages your inner walls, and it feels so good when you tighten around him, that he has to bite his lip to restrain from letting out a feral growl.

“—s’that so?”

“Yeah, angel,” he smirks, reaching down to flick your aching bud. “You see, it’s gotta be on this body right here.”

“Sure,” you say in mock defiance. “Bet you tell that to all your women.”

“No,” he breathes, his roguish smirk in place, “only the journalists.”

With an indignant whine, you slap his chest. “You ass!” Your voice is light, full of warmth, and it prompts him to make a face at you, pulling the corners of his lips downward. Your laughter echoes freely, and something in him switches, as if he’s been disarmed.

He lets his forehead rest against yours. He knows he’s teetering on a precipice of something he won’t be able to pull back from, but he feels like jumping into the void if it means being with you. “Are you calling your president an ass? My, my, angel, that could be a felony,” he teases, his brows quirking.

“What, are you going to send me away?”

Aemond’s expression hardens for a moment. “Not a chance.”

He increases his pace again, his hips blurring in the motion. The two of you desperately chase your climax, settling in an unforgiving rhythm—your ankles suspended in the air with your legs spread wide, him ducking down to suck your tit or bite along your jawline, his balls grazing the flesh of your ass.

When the moment overtakes you, his grip tightens, an unspoken command, and you give in, your whole body quivering underneath him. He follows you over the edge, groaning deeply as he reaches his own release, warmth spilling into you as he involuntarily shudders. His breathing is heavy against your skin when he finally collapses beside you, his arm slipping around your shoulders, holding you close as the last ripples of pleasure fade.

“You know, if I’d known what it would take to get that fire out of you,” he murmurs with a smirk, “we’d have done this sooner.”

You raise a brow, playfully challenging. “Assuming, of course, I’m even coming back after this.”

Aemond rolls his eyes, drawing you even closer, but there’s a hint of vulnerability lingering there.

His forehead presses against yours, and his pulse steadies as he allows himself a moment of closeness, a silent confession. "Stay with me," he whispers, and he is suddenly stripped bare, because the words slipped out without his permission.

“Aemond—”

“I don’t want you going anywhere, okay?” Though his words are possessive, there’s a plea just beneath the surface.

You don’t answer with words; instead, you let your hand reach up to cradle his face, thumb brushing the faint scar underneath his ghost-white prosthetic.

And he deems it more than enough.

The next morning dawns bright and unyielding, the weight of Aemond’s words lingering in your mind, but you’re determined to focus on the task at hand, burying yourself in notes and strategies for the day’s events.

But your sense of composure shatters, when you’re met with the imposing figure of Floris Baratheon, the First Lady herself. She glides toward you under the harsh lighting of the hotel lobby, impeccably dressed in a tailored fuschia suit that speaks of authority and sophistication, her presence commanding the room’s attention.

“So, you’re the flavour of the month,” she says, a mocking lilt colouring her voice. “I’ve… heard about you. Honestly, I was expecting more.”

You straighten, feigning confidence despite the nervous flutter in your stomach. “I’m here for the campaign coverage, ma'am,” you reply, keeping your tone professional, but she’s not having any of it.

Her eyes dance with cruel amusement. “How quaint. Must be quite the thrill, getting special treatment from the President himself. Access like that must mean you’re more than just another reporter. Just a passing phase, I’m sure. A little distraction to help him cope with all this pressure.”

You bristle at her insinuation, indignation rising within you, along with the inevitable shame. “I’m just doing my job.”

She leans in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Let me give you a word of advice—don’t get too comfortable. My dearest husband has a habit of moving on when the novelty wears off.”

The venom in her words strikes a nerve, and you’re struck speechless, searching for a retort that won’t come off as surprised or defensive—and finding none.

Floris laughs at your expression, a cold, biting sound that sends a chill down your spine. “You know, you’re not the first ‘angel’ Aemond has forcibly inserted into our marriage, and I assume you certainly won’t be the last.”

With that, she flicks her hair over her shoulder and walks away, but she glances back one last time, adding, “Enjoy your little fling, angel.”

a/n: and so it officially begins! It's going to be tough out here for our girl, getting involved with a married man. The fucking President, at that! Oh well. As long as she doesn't fall in love. Let me know what yous anticipate from the story (apart from even more filth that's sure to come) 🤍🤍🤍

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#national anthem #diet mountain dew #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell #house of the dragon #hotd #ewan mitchell x reader #president aemond #president!aemond

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followingthebutterflies7 · 2 months ago

Text

Sweeter Than Honey | Part One: The Game

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part Six

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Part One: The Game

You were built to ruin men like him. So why does it feel like you’re the one being led to slaughter?

The first rule of your honeypot training: they can’t know you want something.

Desire must look effortless. Seduction must feel accidental. You don’t chase the target. You become the thing they chase.

You learned that early, somewhere between the controlled flirtation drills and the hours of psychological deconstruction in sterile underground rooms. They stripped you down, not your body but your mind, in rooms colder than morgues until there was nothing left but raw, pliable instinct.

Then they built you back up, piece by piece. A different version of yourself, designed to fit the voids inside others. You were taught to map a man’s mind the way others mapped coastlines: to find where he was soft, where he was strong, where he could drown.

Comfort. Chaos. Curiosity. Control.

You learned to be whatever the moment demanded. Whichever hook would sink fastest into the heart, or throat, of the mark.

You were the FBI’s best recruit, the golden child of the honeypot program. Every lesson they had put in front of you, you had devoured like a starving dog. All the tests you were put through, you had passed with the kind of effortless precision that made others whisper in jealous awe.

Every operation you touched ended the same way: completed, clean, and without a trail.

Your instructors said you adapted like water, slipping through cracks and reshaping yourself into whatever was needed. You preferred to be compared to honey, patient, trapping, and sickly sweet.

You were cunning. Ruthless. Resilient.

And you were beautiful. But not in the way that mattered.

You were beautiful like a loaded gun left on a nightstand: inviting from a distance, deadly up close.

That was why you were their best.

Because you didn’t just know how to make men want you. You knew how to make power want you.

Still, this time felt different.

Because this time, the target wasn’t just dangerous.

He was danger.

“Spencer Agnew,” your handler, Claire Marlowe, said as she slid the slim black dossier across the table like it was a loaded weapon. Her fingers brushed the edge of it briefly, a silent warning.

The FBI's underground briefing room in D.C. hummed with cold fluorescent light. No windows. No clocks. No distractions. It was sterile, quiet, and cold, humming with tension of deep silence. The kind of place where reality was optional and morality was a suggestion.

You didn’t touch the folder yet. You knew better. Marlowe always delivered the worst of it first.

Marlowe’s gaze was razor-sharp, fingers steepled in front of her. "He's not a hammer," she said. "He's a scalpel. Precise. Surgical. Patient. He slices right through his enemies with a soft voice, expensive suits, and exquisite elegance. He lures everyone past a false sense of security, and into safety and comfortability. He doesn't bludgeon his way to power, he dissects his enemies while they're still smiling at him."

You nodded once, silent.

“He slices through his enemies with soft words and softer hands,” she went on. “You’ll want to underestimate him. Everyone does. That’s why they’re all dead.”

You let the silence stretch.

“I won’t underestimate him,” you said.

Marlowe arched a brow, skeptical but not argumentative. “He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. But bodies drop when he says jump. Political leverage, international trafficking networks, arms deals. We've only scratched the surface of what he’s done. And now he’s started laundering through legitimate logistics contracts. He’s starting to buy himself into respectability.”

You met her gaze. She leaned back, exhaling. “That’s why we need you, Agent Dahlia.”

You opened the file. And stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.

Spencer Agnew’s photo was clipped to the first page. You weren’t sure what you expected. A brute, maybe. A thug with blood under his nails. Not this.

Spencer Agnew looked like a man who belonged in a penthouse suite above the city. The man in the photo was tailored to perfection. Charcoal suit, slightly messy curls, a half-smile so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t trained to look for the little things.

His eyes were dark and sharp, but with a detached air, like he was already five moves ahead on a board you didn’t even know you were playing. Every bit the predator who knew he could play with his food.

You weren’t new to infiltration. You’d seduced tech brokers, cartels, crooked hedge fund heirs. But none of them had a reputation like his.

They called him the Gentleman Reaper. And no one ever saw him coming.

Your stomach tightened. Not with fear, but with something colder, sharper.

Marlowe slid another folder across the table towards you. It contained a carefully crafted undercover persona, put together by the FBI’s best, your new life.

Your new identity was Elise Hawthorne. Ivy-educated logistics consultant with offshore shell companies, a brilliant paper trail, and a long resume of profitable, morally gray ventures. Believable. Polished. Just dangerous enough to catch a man like Agnew’s attention.

“You’d be inserted through a fake corporate front, an intelligence-created laundering contact.” Marlowe says. “Win his trust. Earn a seat in his inner circle. Gather intel. Bring him down.”

All roads led to one destination: proximity to Spencer.

"You’ll gather everything you can. Names. Accounts. Evidence. And when the time’s right-" She mimed pulling a trigger. "We take the whole empire down."

But first? You had to survive his gatekeeper. Standing between you and Spencer Agnew was his right hand.

Alex Tran.

Marlowe didn’t sugarcoat it.

“He’ll interrogate you before you ever breathe the same air as Agnew,” she said. “And he doesn’t care about manners or boundaries. He's a former intelligence, some black ops ghost, who vanished after a mission in Bangkok. Rumor is Agnew pulled him from a kill team and gave him purpose. Or maybe Tran found him. No one really knows.”

You tapped the edge of the file.

“What does he want?”

Marlowe's eyes glinted. “To protect Agnew. At any cost.”

“He'll vet you first," she continues. "And he doesn't play games."

Neither did you.

--------------------------------------------------------

The first time you met Alex Tran, it was like walking into a den of knives.

You were taken to a penthouse in Manhattan under the guise of a private consulting contract. The residence was all glass and steel. No personal touches. No softness. Just the subtle hum of a building too secure to be anything but a fortress.

Your heels clicked softly against polished floors as you entered a living room designed for quiet intimidation. Polished stone. Chrome accents. A view that swallowed Manhattan whole.

And there he was. Alex Tran.

He was leaning against a black-paneled wall, dressed in matte black, arms crossed. Cold eyes. Movements so still he barely seemed to breathe. Watching you walk in like he was memorizing the sound of your footsteps.

“You’re early,” he said.

You smiled coolly. “Professional habit.”

He said nothing, just studied you with the detachment of a scientist examining a specimen he didn’t believe was real.

“Sit,” he said, nodding at the leather high-back chairs. “Let’s begin.” You did.

“You come highly recommended,” he says, standing behind the chair across from you, not sitting. “I don’t trust recommendations.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

The interrogation didn’t feel like one at first. It was conversational, subtle. Questions layered in questions. He asked about your past contracts, your strategies, the way you handled risk. Then the tone shifted.

“Tell me, what’s your price for betrayal?” he asked, casual as a knife slipped between the ribs.

You didn’t blink. “That depends. Who’s betraying who?”

For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes. Interest? Approval?

Maybe.

“You’re clever,” he said.

“You wouldn’t have let me through the door if I wasn’t.”

Another pause. Then, softly: “You lie like someone who’s done it for a living. That’s dangerous. For you.”

Your heart tapped a slow warning in your chest. You allowed yourself a fractional shrug. "It’s part of the job."

"Not the job you think you’re interviewing for," Alex said, stepping closer. "You’re not here to help Spencer Agnew. You’re here to survive him."

The room seemed to tighten around you.

“You think Spencer’s going to trust you,” Alex said, voice like icewater. “But here’s the thing, he doesn’t need new people. He doesn’t want them. I’m the reason you’re even being considered for a meeting. I’m also the reason it could be your last.”

You met his gaze. Unflinching.

“I’m not here to replace anyone. I’m here to solve problems.”

Alex tilted his head slightly. “Then let’s see how you handle one.”

He was suddenly uncomfortably close. Almost breathing down your neck.

“Your name,” he said.

“Elise Hawthorne.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

“Elise-”

His hand hit the table.

“You’re a liar.”

You didn’t flinch. Your training was a steel wall around your pulse.

“Everyone in this business is a liar,” you said calmly. “What matters is what I can do for him.”

Alex studied you like he could see the gears in your mind turning.

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

“You’ll get your meeting.” He decides. “I’ll be watching you. Every second.” He waves you off.

You get up from your chair and walk calmly, even-paced, towards the door. Alex calls after you. You paused in the doorway.

His mouth tilted into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile.

“Just remember," he said, voice almost gentle. "Spencer’s not the only one who kills for a living."

--------------------------------------------------------

You waited a week until any instructions came for your meeting with Spencer Agnew. A note on embossed paper had appeared on your kitchen table in your assigned undercover apartment. In dark ink were the instructions, just a date, time, and dress code.

A car pulled up in front of your apartment on the day. Not a second early or late. Your car door was opened for you, and you were escorted to the meeting location. Same city, different level of hell.

Your meeting with Spencer wasn’t hosted in a flashy club or a cold boardroom. It was a private speakeasy-style lounge beneath a closed restaurant. There was no signage, no cameras, only the faint thump of jazz through the walls and the metallic scent of money in the air. The kind of place where the carpet muffled every footstep and the walls drank secrets.

Security was invisible but omnipresent. Eyes followed you down the hall like ghosts. Your heartbeat was steady, but something coiled in your stomach, a quiet, anticipatory dread.

This was it.

Everything about the mission so far had felt technical. Strategic. You were the player and the board. But now, walking into this curated underworld, it felt less like a game and more like stepping onto a stage. And you weren’t entirely sure who you were playing anymore.

A hostess led you through the velvet curtain and into a room bathed in low amber light. Your heels sank into the plush carpet as you walked further away from the safety of the exit. The whole thing left less like walking into a negotiation and more like stepping onto a stage.

Then you saw him.

Spencer Agnew.

He was seated at the end of a dark mahogany table, backlit by low golden sconces, looking like a king in exile. A glass of something expensive sat untouched beside him. One leg crossed over the other. Perfectly still.

He didn’t look up right away.

You took in the tailored charcoal suit, the undone cufflinks, hair curling rebelliously against his temples. The sharp edge of his jaw softened only slightly by the curl of his lips, like he knew a secret no one else did. Like he was the secret.

You felt his gaze before he even looked up. When he did, it was like a slow burn.

Then his eyes met yours.

Dark. Intelligent. Bored, at first, as they slid over you like a hand tracing a weapon’s edge. Not hurried. Not surprised.

Then, something else.

Recognition? Curiosity? A flicker of interest? You weren’t sure. But it landed.

And suddenly you weren’t FBI. You weren’t Elise. You were seen, and you didn’t know how he’d done it.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” he said, voice smooth, warm, and utterly disarming. “I hear you solve problems.”

You stepped forward, unhurried, measured.

You managed a soft smile. “Only the expensive ones.”

He smiled back. A real one, this time. Slow. Dangerous.

“Good,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Because I have a few.”

He raised two fingers. A glass appeared in front of you.

You didn’t touch the drink they offered. He noticed.

The conversation started innocently enough, unfolding like a dance. You were deliberate in your steps, feints, and flourishes. You talked about your fabricated background, your “expertise” in laundering sensitive funds through unstable foreign markets. You were smooth, measured, confident. Everything your training demanded.

But Spencer had a way of listening that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he watched you. Calculated. Curious. Quietly… amused.

“Tell me,” he said, swirling the amber liquor in his glass without drinking it. “Why this line of work? You could be running a legitimate firm. A big one. Why take on clients like me?”

You tilted your head. “Because clean money doesn’t come with nearly as much satisfaction.”

His brow lifted. “Danger turns you on?”

You smiled like it was a joke. But neither of you laughed.

There was a beat of silence too heavy to ignore. His gaze locked on yours again. This time it was colder. Testing.

“I don’t like games,” he said softly.

“Neither do I,” you replied, steady.

Another silence. Then:

“But you’re playing one,” he murmured. “Aren’t you?”

Your throat dried, but you didn’t blink. “If I were,” you said, “I’d be very good at it.”

Spencer leaned back slightly, eyes still on you.

“I think you might be.”

You didn’t reply.

You watched as his gaze unraveled you. Not your story, but you.

And for the first time, a cold trickle of doubt slid under your skin.

Spencer Agnew didn't look at you like a mark.

He looked at you like a puzzle.

Something to be solved.

Something to be wanted.

Something to be broken.

“You’re not afraid of me?” He asks.

"If I were," you said, "I wouldn’t be here."

For the first time, Spencer laughed, a low, quiet sound, more vibration than voice.

It was almost...genuine. Almost.

When the meeting ended, you stood. So did he.

He offered a hand, not for a shake, but to take yours gently in his, like a kiss might follow. You placed your hand in his, but he didn’t lift it to his mouth. Just held it.

You let your hand linger in his just a moment longer than necessary. Enough to signal an invitation. Enough to hold a knife behind your back.

His hand was warm. His eyes were colder than ever.

His eyes flicked to your lips. Back to your eyes.

And when he let go, you swore you could still feel his touch branded into your skin.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, voice like silk and smoke.

But you had the distinct, sinking feeling he’d already made a decision. And whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be about business.

--------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t exhale until you were back in the black town car that had brought you in.

The streets of Manhattan slid past the tinted windows, but your mind was still inside that velvet-lined room. Inside that amber gaze. You touched your wrist, where his hand had rested.

You should’ve felt power. Progress. Triumph.

Instead, you felt seen. Not as Elise Hawthorne, not as the FBI’s Agent Dahlia, but as something closer to yourself. And that wasn’t part of the plan.

You felt utterly disarmed after your meeting with Spencer. Like he had taken all your defences, all the knowledge of your fake identity and mission and stripped them from you as he had seen right through you. But as the fog that clouded your brain like the smoke from the speakeasy, you clung to two things you did know.

One, he was interested. Two, you were already in over your head.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a single thought coiled tight: You weren't sure you wanted to climb out.

Marlowe was waiting in the basement of the apartment when you returned, a secure location for you two to meet. She had a coffee in one hand, suspicion in the other, and a frown etched deep between her brows.

"Well?" she asked.

You kicked off your heels, letting exhaustion hit like a delayed blow.

“He’s interested,” you said, voice low. Marlowe didn’t smile.

“Interested,” she echoed.

You dropped onto the armchair, rolling your neck. “I’m in. He’s giving me access to a tier-two contract, movement logistics. Alex Tran will supervise.”

Marlowe raised a brow. “You passed Tran’s screening?”

“Barely.”

You didn’t mention how close Alex had gotten. How much he had seen.

Marlowe crossed her arms. “Good. That means it’s working.”

She tossed you a burner phone. “You’ll report every 48 hours. No exceptions. If you miss a check-in, we’ll assume you’re compromised and move in.”

“Understood.”

“You look rattled.”

You hesitated.

Then: “He doesn’t act like a man afraid of being caught. He acts like the world already belongs to him.”

Marlowe gave a dry smile. “It does. That’s why we’re here.”

That night, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the encounter.

His voice. His stillness. His quiet dissection of you like he already knew the things you hadn’t said.

You told yourself it was tactical. That it was good he noticed you. You needed him to.

But something about Spencer’s gaze didn’t feel like simple interest. It felt like recognition. And that was dangerous.

--------------------------------------------------------

The next day, you were back at the Agnew Syndicate’s Manhattan front, a sleek logistics office disguised as a boutique firm. You were introduced to staff, led through the maze of operations, briefed on files that were mostly for show. Your cover identity was airtight. Your credentials flawless.

But you still felt eyes on you.

Alex Tran wasn’t in the office that morning.

He arrived just after lunch, moving like a shadow, silent and perfectly controlled. He said nothing to you at first, just watched as you took a call from a “client” and as you made notes in your new desk.

Then, finally, he approached.

He didn’t speak until everyone else was gone.

“You did better than I expected,” he said.

You didn’t turn around. “Is that a compliment?”

“No.”

You stood slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone. But you?” He stepped closer. “You’re lying about something. I don’t know what. Yet.”

You swallowed.

He tilted his head. “But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not afraid of Spencer. Not the way most people are.”

You didn’t answer.

“You should be,” he whispers.

There was silence between you. Then he added, almost too quietly: “And if you’re not careful, he won’t be the one to get hurt.”

He turned and walked away before you could respond.

That night, you sat by your apartment window watching the city breathe below. The burner phone buzzed once, a coded ping from Marlowe.

“Status?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Your reflection stared back at you in the glass, half shadow, half smirk. The city lights blur into gold and blood against the dark glass.

You’d spent your whole career becoming exactly what people needed to see.

But Spencer?

He hadn’t looked at you like a solution. He’d looked at you like a question he wanted to solve. And you weren’t entirely sure you wanted him to stop trying.

Somewhere out there, Spencer Agnew was waiting.

And for the first time in your life, you weren’t sure who was hunting who.

#smosh #spencer agnew x reader #spencer agnew #smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #smosh x reader #alex tran #mob boss au #fbi #secret agent #mob boss

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 7 months ago

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I know you've probably gotten a lot of requests for PRESSURE, but hear me out? Reader X Anglers (platonic), where reader was sent to work in the Hadal Blacksite. Urbanshade was Reader's only chance at a job due to circumstance and they were desperate; they weren't aware what they were getting into UNTIL Urbanshade had signed them up. Now a "handler" of these mutant fish, the least they can do is lessen their misery... Until the Saboteur let's everything aggressive loose.

YAY! Angler request thank you. As annoying as those fish(?) are I think they're very underrated

(in case this needs to be reiterated, this is all PLATONIC)

......

Being desperate for a job and willing to pretty much do whatever it took to get hired anywhere, Urbanshade was the only one willing to offer you an immediate position.

However, you had to be sworn to secrecy and go through an extensive background check and other trials....just for them to transport you to the Hadal Blacksite, where they said you'll be informed of your duties.

Given the extensive security measures already in place, you assumed you were dealing with endangered sea life--or even extinct species Urbanshade revived or rediscovered.

Then you were sent to the heavy containment sector and saw what they were actually hiding down here:

A mutant angler fish--one pink and one grey--a viperfish, a frog with razor sharp teeth, and a dead(?) green blobfish. They were all huge and unlike anything you've seen before.

They were all designated as Z-283, although there were nicknames given to four of them: Pinkie, Blitz, Froger, and Chainsmoker.

The Angler was just, well, Angler.

You didn't know what kind of aquatic rehabilitation facility this was, but they didn't even look like fish that belonged in one, especially as their tanks didn't contain any water, although according to documents, that wasn't even necessary.

Smoke clouded every part of their bodies except their faces, so you couldn't get a good read on how their fins and tails are holding up (assuming they have those at all).

Least to say...it took some time getting used to seeing their frightening looks every shift.

Especially as sometimes Angler, Blitz, and Pinkie liked to scare the hell out of you by shrieking, ramming into the window barriers of their cells, and causing brief power surges.

Your main tasks were to monitor them and keep them fed and happy, although you weren't allowed to make physical contact with them.

Apparently their touch can kill...so you can understand why they needed somebody to watch them at all times and keep their behaviors in check.

But the more you interact with them, the more you start to realize that these anglers (and viperfish, frog, and blobfish) were probably just animals who were simply trying to live within the Let-Vand Zone, only to be taken and shoved into a distressing environment.

Urbanshade claims they aren't "alive", but all you see are scared animals who only knew misery.

You especially didn't like overhearing that they've used prisoners as test subjects. And they're not even food.

Out of water, they can all recognize you by scent and are seemingly aware of how good you've been to them compared to most operatives.

Because when Sebastian/The Saboteur sets them loose and causes the lockdown, and you nearly get killed by one of the many Wall Dwellers...Angler comes to your defense, eating its flesh whole.

At first you think you've finally tamed it--until the fish creature gives you that same murderous and hungry look as it gave those test subjects.

Luckily it gives you a head start and you manage to find a crawlspace out of its line of sight, watching it cause chaos and kill whatever poor sap happened to run into that same room.

Yeah...your job definitely didn't quite prepare you for this kind of scenario..

When the Expendable Protocol is initiated, Sebastian found you and only allowed you live because you could keep the anglers off his back while he's trying to find supplies and figure out how to escape.

They'll listen to you sometimes, although you learn Pinkie and Blitz are very brash and like to do their own things sometimes--while Froger and Chainsmoker are more willing to obey.

But if Pandemonium ever caught sight of you?

May god help you because none of them will.

#clanask #anonymous #roblox x reader #roblox pressure x reader #pressure x reader #pressure angler #pressure z383 #platonic #headcanons

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kaijutegu · 1 year ago

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Is It Ok For An Alligator To Have Tape On Their Mouth?

Alligators make pretty amazing animal ambassadors when handled safely and ethically. And it is actually pretty safe to take them out to interact with the zoo-going public (or general public in some settings), when done correctly. Many zoos and outreach organizations do an amazing job of this! Every state has different rules, but even if a state doesn't mandate that alligators be banded... well, if you're a responsible crocodilian handler, you'll band anyways. It's a huge public safety issue! Even an accidental graze against their front teeth can cause injury. See, the alligators that are used as handle-able ambassadors are pretty small, and their teeth are razor sharp. An adult gator has sharp teeth, too, as well as blunt teeth for crushing, and they also have the additional force of their jaw muscles.

Here's what it sounds like when an adult alligator pops his jaw. (Don't worry about the hissing/gaping; this is a trained and queued behavior. The stick towards the top of the inside of the mouth is triggering the bite reflex. Chester probably got lots of chicken and fish as he learned to do this.)

youtube

Skip ahead to 0:32 if you wanna skip the guest commentary.

What's more, biting is an important reflex for crocodilians. The lower jaws of crocodilians are some of the most innervated tissues in the animal kingdom; they are more sensitive than human fingertips! Even the slightest touch triggers their bite reflex, which likely is an adaptation that lets them detect changes in water pressure that signal a snack heading their way.

Here's a pretty good video about the biomechanics of crocodilian jaws:

youtube

So yeah. They need to not be able to bite for public safety. There's just too much risk involved with an unbanded alligator (or other crocodilian). Fortunately, it's easy to get a crocodilian to not bite- you just need to band its mouth!

(This fella is Frodo the dwarf caiman, but the principle is the same.)

This works because while crocodilians have an extremely strong bite force (claims range from 2,000 PSI to 5,000+ PSI, but I don't have time to get into that now but someday I will probably), but not particularly strong muscles to open their mouths. Selective pressure for quickly nabbing prey in murky water where there's not a lot of visibility lead to pterygoid and adductor muscles so big, they extend into the animal's neck. But those muscles only pull the jaw closed- they don't work to open it! That's why you see people holding an alligator's mouth closed with their hands.

Safe bands include:

Silicone tape- this is the best. It sticks to itself and not the gator's snout

Electrical tape

Medical tape

Rubber or elastic bands

There are other options, but these are the most popular- they're cheap, easily available, and safe. So if you see an alligator (or other crocodilian) out in public and it's got tape on its mouth, don't worry too much- it's safe for the gator (most of the time) and it's safe for you!

Here's a couple of safe tape options, modeled by a juvenile American alligator in pink electrical tape (I forget her name, these are from an outreach event a couple of years ago) and Pagasa, a juvenile Philippine crocodile wearing the white medical tape.

So when is tape not safe? When it's the wrong kind of tape. One of the worst offenders is duct tape.

When you're banding an alligator, you need to think about how sensitive their jaws are. A band that's too tight or too sticky can hurt them badly when it's removed- and you want that removal process to be fast, so that it doesn't stress them out too much.

What inspired this post was this picture I saw on Facebook:

That's so much duct tape! Now, this little guy is quite unhealthy; he's been loose in the Pittsburgh area all winter, and he's been struggling. What you see here is a very quick tape job done as he's getting ready for transport. The article didn't say who taped him, but given that he's in a dog crate and was found by bicyclists, I would wager that it was some harried animal control officer who was doing the best they could. And that's fine because this was truly an emergency situation. In an emergency situation, uncomfortable is always, always better than unsafe.

But if you see a tourist attraction and they've put duct tape on their alligator's mouth? That's a red flag! Banding an alligator in public is the safe, correct thing to do- you just want to make sure that it's done right.

If you want more information about alligator jaws, here's some interesting papers to read:

Erickson, Gregory et al. Insights into the Ecology and Evolutionary Success of Crocodilians Revealed through Bite-Force and Tooth-Pressure Experimentation. PLoS ONE 7(3): e31781.

Knight, Kathryn. Croc Jaws More Sensitive Than Human Fingertips. Journal of Experimental Biology (2012) 215.

Sellers et al. Ontogeny of bite force in a validated biomechanical model of the American alligator. Journal of Experimental Biology (2017), 220.

#alligator #crocodilian #reptiblr #Youtube

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gotta-spew-words-somewhere · 2 months ago

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Sperō Universe: History

Masterlist | Bucky x F!Reader | Eventual Enemies to Lovers | No use of Y/N

Summary: how it started, how it ends, and how it starts again.

Please check Masterlist for more detailed description including all trigger warnings for the Sperō Universe.

Count: 3.1k

Warnings: abuse, violence, injury, weapons, trauma, mind control, swearing, all things HYDRA/Winter Soldier related.

A/N: hello!! This is the first fic of what will likely be many in the Sperō Universe. It will not be a beat-by-beat story, instead snapshots in time of these two. I would recommend reading this one first as it sets the premise. This will get dark in places, so please always read the warnings first.

Many Years Ago

It’s pitch black, but your steps don’t falter, don’t slow. You just keep marching, even step after even step, deeper and deeper until the concrete maze seems to swallow you whole.

And then you stop. And you wait. Your breathing even and your eyes straight ahead. No fidgeting, no shifting your weight. It’s as thought you’re not really there- a ghost in purgatory, awaiting divine instruction.

Turns out, divine instruction comes with the flickering of fluorescent lights and jack-booted footsteps.

“Sperō. You’re early.”

You hear, but you don’t respond. You aren’t asked to. Instead, you simply wait, as you know to, hands relaxed at your sides as though you don’t know how this ends. As though there’s nothing to fear.

Fear. You’re not sure you can remember it. You will, soon.

“Tssk. And you’ve gotten yourself damaged.” The voice is deeper, displeased.

A large, freshly purple welt across your cheekbone still throbs, and the thumbprints at your throat are stark in the light. Daring to mar your pretty face.

A far worse injury than your snapped ulnar and shredded tendons.

“Move.”

And so you do. The hand still working opens the lab door, steel grinding against concrete, and the noise sparks a litter of goosebumps down your spine.

You’ve heard that noise a hundred times. Nothing good ever follows. The newly revealed lab looks like every hell you’ve imagined— the chair, crude medical equipment, weapons of every kind— but it’s the demons inside that hold your attention. The slightest tremor takes hold of your left hand, and you swallow- the first sign of true life since you entered this dank hell.

The Handler is right, you are early. Soldat is still here.

The sort of rage you’re not programmed to feel sparks to life in your chest, blackening your ribs and fillings your lungs with curling smoke.

But, you do nothing. Just wait, as you know to do. Like you don’t know how this ends.

Piercing blue eyes are locked on your blank expression, and you can scent the absolute hatred. The barely controlled violence. The pure fucking loathing.

Your eyes tick to his— instinct leaking through, and only for a moment—- but your knee is kicked inward with enough force for the crack to echo.

The noise you make is more animal than human, but The Handler is smiling, and now you remember how this ends.

“The information better serve Soldat well,” she leans down to where you’ve sprawled, hand fisting at the roots of your hair and forcing you to meet her eyes— alive eyes, not like yours, not anymore— and the smile grows. “You know what will happen if it doesn’t.”

You do. And when they break you and fix you and freeze you, over and over and over again, you will know it is because of Soldat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

6 Months Ago

The first breath is always the worst. You’re not sure how you know this— how you know anything, but this particular kind of pain is familiar, like the blurred edges of Deja Vu.

It still fucking sucks, though. Oxygen battles for space with razor sharp crystals of ice, shredding and tearing your at your lungs and throat. Blood starts to move, sluggish at first, coaxing every remaining shard through muscle and vein, scarring you in so many ways beyond physical.

The second breath will be better. Not much, but better. The comfort of knowing this settles into your bones— there’s one thing you know. Just one, but you cling to it like a lifeline, heart stuttering into frenzy as your eyes open, stubborn frost still clinging to your lashes.

Then that sense of knowing is ripped from under your feet like a threadbare carpet, fibres pinching at your soles.

This is wrong. You don’t know how, but it is.

The light doesn’t hurt like it should. It’s warm and it’s gentle— enough to see the world around you but not to blind, as though thought has been taken, like care exists here. The chill from your bones is being chased away by the air— hot, dry, but not uncomfortable, not punishing.

And there’s six women stood staring at you, peering through the open case door— five bald and adorned with armour and finery and colour like you’ve never seen before. Each holds a weapon— gold, it seems, sharp end pointed at you with almost supernatural stillness, steady in their hands.

That seems familiar, at least.

Sound comes to you last, the shrill ringing in your ears finally giving way to the gentle hum of technology, a distant song playing far far away, the steady inhales of the women in your view.

And then they talk, and you really panic, because you can’t understand them. It’s rolling off their tongues to the beat of an unknown drum, a language beyond your grasp, and that doesn’t fucking happen.

Another thing you know. Revealed to you by something you don’t. You fucking hate it.

Frozen muscles groan as you force them to life, shifting in your open glass cage, hands grasping at the rim with enough force to splinter. The red women fall into silence, moving as one to bring the tips of their spears closer—- you don’t need to understand the language to know the intent.

Don’t move.

Your breaths come in ragged pants, eyes feral and snapping between each new face, digging, digging, digging through your opaque memory for some sort of answer. Some recognition. Anything to explain the deep sense of wrong that’s settled in your chest.

Your search returns nothing. You resign yourself to this warm, bright fate. It can be nothing other than a trap.

Finally, you take notice of the other woman in the room, her presence holding gravitas unbefitting of her age. She wears brilliant white, eyes so alive it hurts to meet them with your own, their spark threatening to burn straight through you.

With a raised hand, she steps forward, the women in red parting around her like the sea against shore.

“Hi, I’m Shuri. We found you in an abandoned lab in Morocco. Do you know your name?”

You don’t, so you say nothing, pressing yourself firmly back into the case—- your ears are ringing again, and you’re certain it’s nothing to do with the cold this time.

“It’s okay. We know who you are, and I can help. I’m great at fixing broken things.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Present Day

Bucky POV

When Bucky enters the warehouse, the last thing he expects is for it to look welcoming.

The large space feels whiter, lighter, and cleaner. Where heaps of broken tech and oil stained rags used to live, there is now order among the chaos. Neat piles, wiped down workbenches, open shutters, sparkling shelves. The tiles of the floor have been swept, and in the corner, three plastic chairs have appeared from god-knows where.

There’s pre-poured drinks, the heating is on, and Sam’s face is stretched into a practised smile—not quite natural, but still screams ‘hello, I’m here to help’ as it often does before his vet meetings.

He doesn’t fucking like it.

“What’s going on?” The suspicion in his tone is heavy enough for Sam to snort, gentle facade dropping in an instant.

“Christ, man. You look like I pulled a gun on you.” The tone is teasing, but there’s a tension in his shoulders that does nothing to soothe Bucky’s concern.

He grunts, “I’d prefer that. I’d know what you’re up to then.” Moving further into the space, he lets his eyes linger on Sam, perhaps a little more than necessary. The staring always gets to him. “What’s going on?”

“Stop lookin’ at me like you’re gonna punch me and I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t, but the silence drags on a beat too long, and Sam sighs, giving in. Like always.

“I’m trying to make it nice for the newbie. So if you could not act like a complete ass for ten minutes—“ he doesn’t get chance to finish the sentence.

“What do you mean—newbie? We’re not takin’ on strays.” The tone of his voice drops with his displeasure, eyes level on Sam who, of course, waves off his protest like a simple annoyance.

“The Wakandan’s found her and she seems to want to fight the good fight. She’s little fucked up though, apparently.” He motions to his head and then to Bucky, who can’t help the way his eyes narrow at the implication.

“The government saw what I did with your grumpy ass and decided tagging her to me was a good idea. Besides, we could use all the help we can get.” With a long, slow breath, Sam offers his friend a careful look. “HYDRA have raised their ugly head again. In a big way. And she has more up to date info than you.”

Bucky simply blinks, the furrow on his brow deepening. “She’s HYDRA?”

“Ex-HYDRA.”

“No one is ex-HYDRA.”

“You’re ex-HYDRA.”

“I’m a special case.”

“Not that special.” A new voice cuts through the air, slicing across his skin and sinking into his shoulders like a thousand needles. He knows that voice. That soft, melodic voice designed to entrance, entrap, slaughter.

A voice that is drowned by the roaring of blood in his ears, every nerve alight with long-forgotten purpose, skin prickling with rage. And when he sets his eyes on you, the whole world shatters at its edges, something deep and dark trying to claw its way free from his chest.

You’re dead. He knows this, he read the reports the first time he cracked into HYDRAs system—- yet there you stand, proud and steady and lethally beautiful as a sharpened blade. A perfect spy. HYDRA’s perfect spy, so good you clearly have the government—- and Sam—- fooled.

“You.”

He’s moving before his brain can catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Reader POV

You’re reformed, sure. But over fifty years of training is hard to shake, and, well. You are a spy, and no self respecting spy would ever just walk into a room without doing a little recon first.

And fuck, are you glad you did. Because if you’d walked in and seen Soldat while exposed, you might’ve just died right there. Collapsed to the floor of fright like the pathetic little bird of your namesake.

But you don’t. You hide in the shadow of an opened shutter, watching and listening as Soldat speaks with who you assume to be Sam, bickering like an old married couple. Like he has a friend. Like people like you can even have friends.

Whether it’s shock, or jealousy, or even sadness that stutters in your chest, you’re not sure. One thing you are sure of, though, is the rage.

The Wakandan’s had told you, of course. How this specific type of mind control wasn’t new to them, how the ‘white wolf’ had gone through their treatment, found solace in the peace of their rolling hills and community. You knew he lived. You just didn’t expect him to be here.

To be chatting and joking and glaring. Eyes full of life, even if he still stares too much.

He’s done too much to deserve it. The blood on your palms is a stain, oily red clinging to every pore, every crease. It will never wash clean. And if you’re forever ruined— which you are—- then so is he.

Forever monsters, the both of you. No matter who your friends are or what side you’re on.

Does Sam know? What he is? What he’s done? He must do. There’s a reason you’ve been sent here. Sam must have a handle on it. Or, maybe, he just can’t see the monster in his home, blinded by his big blue eyes and steady voice. A trick, a false belief that no monster could exist wrapped in something so pretty.

You’d seen others fall for it. The rare times he’d been forced to take your approach—- get close, then let the beast take control. Doesn’t mean it’s not lurking beneath the surface of every breath.

Soldat proves you right the moment he moves, facade evaporating and the assassin slipping through, racing across the room and vaulting a table to get to you. To hurt you. You know his rage and his hate well, like an old friend. Like a lullaby.

You’re prepared when he closes the distance.

But so is he.

Your fist slams straight into vibranium, shaking your bones and stuttering your breath, but you’re moving, sweeping low and dodging his grab like you’ve done this before. Because you have, a hundred times in a hundred ways, a dance neither of you have dared forget.

A sharp blow to his ribs is countered with an elbow to your stomach, but you’re scrabbling for the blade you know lives at his thigh, and fingertips graze the cold metal hilt——

Soldat is yanked back, out of your range, with a rough grunt of a curse.

“I ask you not to be an ass for ten minutes and you fucking attack her on sight!” It’s Sam, clutching at the vibranium arm, chest heaving and his expression an almost comical mix of confusion and outrage. You’d laugh if your entire body wasn’t buzzing with the rush of adrenaline, the need to fight clawing at you from the inside.

“She’s a fucking Spy, she’s not some random defector!”

You’re frozen, watching Soldat and Captain America grapple for dominance— they both want to be heard, voices rising and echoing bouncing through the tiled space.

“She’s been deprogrammed!”

“That’s the fucking Sperō, you—“

“Not anymore she isn’t—-“

“You can’t expect me to believe that!”

“Buck, please—“ that seems to get his attention, Soldat pausing in his struggle to get free, get to you. “She’s fresh from Wakanda. She’s just like you.”

The room falls into deafening silence, no sound but the incessant pounding of your own heart in your ears.

You count seventeen heartbeats, and finally Soldat sighs, long and low. “You can’t guarantee that.”

“Do I need to remind you? You’re just as much monster as me, Soldat.” It holds as much venom as you can muster, but it’s still not enough. Still doesn’t capture the feeling of being so, so close to true freedom, just to end up back here. In a room with him.

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“That’s what you are—-“

“Not anymore.”

“What about if I start longing for a rusty furn—“ your head hits the wall with enough force to render the world silent, just for a moment, just long enough for the roaring of your own heart to completely take back control, and you grin, letting the blood from your lips drip down onto the metal fingers at your throat. “See? Didn’t even need all ten.”

And you push all that rage into your boot, colliding with his stomach with enough force to send him flying into the table far behind.

A lull. Just for a moment. Just for enough time for the monster in the room to rise to his feet, blade drawn from the sheath at his thigh and flip through his fingers and—- ah, there he is.

You’re moving forward again, tiles flying under your feet and god your head hasn’t been this empty since—-

“ENOUGH,” and a star-spangled dickhead is suddenly between you, blocking Soldat from view and the heat in your blood cools just a little. Just enough.

You skid to a halt, each breath coming ragged through gritted teeth.

“I don’t know what’s fuckin’ wrong with you both but get it together. The last thing I need is you two tearing each-other— and my goddamn warehouse apart.”

A sharp glare in your direction (he has his back to Soldat, not you, you note) and Sam’s head turns over his shoulder. Even if his eyes never leave yours.

“Is this something the Wakandan’s missed?”

“No,” even the gravel of his voice makes you bristle. “It’s nothing programmed.”

You disagree. How could decades of torture, mental and physical, all centred around another’s actions not be a deliberate programming for hate? How could using you, each of you, as the judge jury and executioner of each others failures be anything less than true conditioning?

It wasn’t the chair, or the drugs. It’s something that’s settled in your bones in a way no Wakandan tech could ever hope to carve out.

Which makes it worse, so much worse. It makes it a choice, the last shadow of the hold they had over you- mind, body, and spirit.

With a harsh breath through your nose, eyes slipping shut, you roll your shoulders. Unclench your jaw. Let the recently revived logic part of your brain stumble back to the forefront, like a minutes-old foal on shaky legs.

“We have some history, that’s all.” God, the word feels quaint even as it passes your lips. History. As though any single word could ever sum it up. But you let it hang in the air, all the same, as you try and force your heartbeat back down to a rate that wouldn’t kill a normal human.

Sam, at least, seems placated, if a little suspicious. His hands drop from where they hang in the air, no longer frozen in a gesture of peace, and he finally breaks eye contact to offer the man behind him a glance. Whatever he sees there must convince him, as he steps to the side, and you’re immediately subjected to that oh-so familiar feeling.

He’s staring, again. But now, you can stare back.

His eyebrows raise, just slightly, as though surprised that you’ve dared. As though happy that you have.

“You both know you weren’t yourselves back then. Whatever happened, wasn’t you. Move past it, or— fuck, just act like you have. We have shit to do.”

And Sam isn’t wrong, but he’s not quite right either. Neither of you were in control, simply following orders barked in a language you never want to speak again, never questioning and never thinking. Drugs and electric and pain drowning out the soft hearted girl you’d been so very long ago.

The girl he had beaten out of you. The girl you had to smother in her sleep— fighting you off tooth and nail but that’s nothing against the serum burning through your veins— in order to cut whoever he had been out of him. A constant game of push and pull until you were both nothing but the smattering of broken parts left behind after a shipwreck.

Floating thoughtlessly, moving with the tide. No thought, no defiance, no hope.

But, you were you. And he was him. And to move past it means to forgive the Soldat. And to forgive the Soldat means to forgive yourself.

And that’s never fucking happening.

————————————

Taglist Baybee!

@chronicallybubbly | @bingbongsupremacy

#bucky barnes x you #fanfic #bucky barnes x original female character #bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel fanfic #marvel #Sperō

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amaris-whisperer · 1 month ago

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The Quiet Storm l Bucky Barnes x Reporter!Reader

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reporter!Reader Setting: Thunderbolts, Washington D.C. Genre: Action-thriller, angst, slow-burn romance

-- People said Congressman James Buchanan Barnes was a changed man.

They didn't say it with hope—they said it like a warning.

Clad in tailored suits now instead of combat gear, he walked the corridors of power like a ghost barely permitted to exist. The world called him the Thunderbolts' handler, the government's weapon-turned-savior. The quiet one. The one who kept Valentina Allegra de Fontaine's dark empire running smooth without anyone getting their hands too bloody.

But I didn't buy it.

Because I watched him in the margins—never in the spotlight. I saw the way his jaw tensed when her name was mentioned. How his eyes hardened when civilians asked too many questions. How he never stayed in one place too long. And maybe, just maybe, I was the only one who noticed the weight he carried behind that stillness.

So I followed him. Because someone had to.

And that night in the alley, I got too close.

He had me pinned before I even registered the motion—my back slammed against cold brick, his vibranium arm glinting in the dim streetlight, breath brushing my skin like a memory of war. Not a man. A storm.

"You need to stop," he said, voice low and razor-sharp.

But I didn't. Couldn't. So I looked him in the eye and said, "Then give me a reason to."

He held my gaze a little too long. Long enough to see something shift in the shadows of his past. Long enough for something soft to twitch behind the steel.

He stepped back, tension still humming in the air between us like aftershock. And without another word, he vanished into the dark.

But that wasn't the end.

That was the beginning.

-- The next morning, I left the files at his door.

Everything I had on Valentina—classified intel, backdoor deals, off-the-books facilities, dead assets who should've never been involved. Names that weren't supposed to exist anymore.

I expected silence.

What I got was a figure sliding onto the park bench beside me two days later, like he'd just stepped out of another lifetime.

"You don't know what you've started," he murmured.

"Maybe," I said. "But I think you're tired of finishing things alone."

That was all it took.

We never called it a partnership. Never defined what we were doing, because words felt too dangerous. Instead, we worked in shadows. Mornings spent at neutral drop points, nights decoding encrypted reports over coffee grown cold. Whispers under flickering streetlights. A brush of shoulders in an elevator we never took together.

He let me in—but only just. Enough to see the edges of the man behind the mission. Enough to know that the Winter Soldier still lived in the lines of his silence, but so did James.

Sometimes I caught him watching me when he thought I wasn't looking—eyes filled with something between curiosity and caution. Like he was trying to remember how to trust someone. How to be someone.

-- And then came the night it all fell apart.

We were in a warehouse by the docks, blueprints and maps spread across a rusted crate, fingers tracing routes and names that should never meet. We were closing in on a weapons facility—one Valentina had quietly funneled assets into for months. Our lead had gone dark. The place smelled like cold metal and betrayal.

He was pacing like a caged animal.

"She's too deep in," he said. "Even if we burn this place, she's already building the next one."

"You're the one who said she could bleed," I snapped. "That we could cut through the smoke."

He turned on me so fast I instinctively backed up a step. His eyes weren't cold—they were ablaze.

"You think this is a story? A Pulitzer? You think I'm some tragic headline with a redemption arc?"

I stared at him, stunned. "That's not fair—"

"You want the truth?" he cut in, his voice cracking at the edges. "You're a distraction. You slow me down. You make me care."

The words hit like bullets. Sharp. Intentional. Cruel in their clarity.

He saw it in my face—saw the way I flinched. Regret flickered in his eyes for the briefest second, but he didn't take them back.

"I'm not going to watch someone else die because they got too close to me," he said, quieter now. "So go. Before this takes you too."

I gathered my things, blinking fast against the sting in my chest. My fingers trembled, but I didn't let him see me cry. I left before the first tear fell.

He didn't follow.

I didn't expect to survive the week.

Didn't expect the black van parked outside my apartment. Didn't expect the two men who dragged me into a garage, zip-tied my wrists, and pressed a needle to my neck.

But apparently, he did.

The moment the syringe grazed my skin, he was there.

Silent. Precise. Devastating.

One man hit the ground with a bone-crunching snap. The other barely had time to draw his weapon before Bucky had disarmed him, turned him into a projectile, and sent him through a car windshield.

When it was over, he stood there—vibranium arm slick with blood, chest heaving, face pale with fury and something dangerously close to fear.

He knelt beside me, cutting the plastic ties with a blade I never saw.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice ragged.

"You came back," I whispered.

"I never left," he said.

I stared at him. "Then why did you push me away?"

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then he exhaled sharply.

"Because I felt something. And I didn't want it to be the reason you ended up dead."

"I'm not afraid of dying," I said.

"You should be."

"I'm afraid of never mattering to someone who does."

That broke something in him.

His gaze softened. The steel melted into something else—something almost vulnerable. He reached out like he didn't know how to, fingers brushing my cheek with a hesitance that cracked me open more than any words ever could.

He leaned in, slower this time. The kiss was hesitant—testing. No fire or frenzy, just something real. Something long-denied.

His lips were warm against mine. Gentle. Apologetic. A silent promise he couldn't say out loud.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.

"This isn't the end," he murmured.

"No," I whispered. "It's the beginning."

-- The next morning, we were already on the move.

Whatever veil had separated us—professionalism, caution, fear—it was gone. Burned away by the realization that we had already chosen each other somewhere along the way.

He didn't apologize for the things he'd said. Not directly. But he stayed close now. He called me by my name instead of "reporter." He let his fingers brush mine when he handed me files. And when I woke from nightmares of syringes and blood, I found him sitting in a chair nearby, eyes watchful and unsleeping.

Valentina was still out there. Still too powerful. But the moment we stood together, we weren't outnumbered.

Because he wasn't just the Winter Soldier anymore.

And I wasn't just chasing the story.

We were two people who'd stopped running.

Two people building something in the ashes of what came before.

#bucky barnes #buckybarnes #bucky x reader #winter soldier #james bucky buchanan barnes #marvel #fanfiction #avengers #marvel fanfic #sebastian stan #thunderbolts #the new avengers

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sitp-recs · 7 months ago

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Hi! I love kingsman and i saw your kingsman recs and ive read all of the fics you've recommended! I dont know if this is okay, but do you perhaps have more kingsman recs? Its completely okay if you won't/can't give recs. Love your recommendations (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

Hello friend! I’m so happy you enjoyed that little list. I checked my old bookmarks for additional recs, but please keep in mind that I haven’t read Kingsman in a loooong time so none of these are recent. Hope that’s ok :)

Feel a Little Warmer by blacktofade (E, 3k)

Eggsy has never been much good at coping around Christmas time. Harry helps take his mind off it.

The New Age by DivineProjectZero (T, 3k)

It starts with being cursed. No, scratch that. It starts with a garden and a serpent. And no, it goes a little differently from what you’d think.

Considerably Less Cannibalism by lizard_witch (E, 6k)

It is a real, physical struggle to not stare like a dogger while Harry shrugs off his jacket and undoes his collar, sets his signet ring aside. He has detailed, minutely detailed, fantasies about unbuttoning that fucking collar. At least he’s not wearing the holster right now, or Eggsy’d be sprung already. “It’s time you learned the fine art of the straight razor shave.”

the things we steal (it was only a kiss) by DivineProjectZero (E, 6k)

Eggsy whips around to find Harry Hart standing right behind him, holding a martini glass and just as gorgeous as Eggsy last saw him, three years and two months ago.

into the wails of your windfight by fideliant (E, 8k)

It takes a mission gone wrong for Eggsy to find out that even in real life, the dead don't always stay dead. Sometimes the movies get that part right, it would seem.

Handler by Galahard (E, 12k)

It seemed obvious to Eggsy that he'd be the next Galahad after he successfully offed Valentine. When an agent forces Merlin to stick to the test and refuses to let go of the fact that Eggsy didn't pass, Eggsy finds himself in a different position at Kingsman than he'd originally planned.

A Gentleman's Guide to Popping One's Cherry by callay (E, 12k)

Eggsy squirms under Harry's hands. “Stop being a gentleman and fuck me.” “Eggsy,” says Harry in a low voice. “I’m going to be a gentleman and fuck you.”

our vintage misery by fideliant (E, 23k)

On a difficulty scale of one to saving the world, love shouldn't be this far off the charts.

down dark tides the glory slides by fideliant (E, 24k)

You only ever truly hurt the ones you love.

dig in your fingers by kirkaut (E, 43k)

The lack of a silver suppository has set Eggsy upon a certain path. The way that Eggsy looks, dripping wet and half naked, sets Harry on another.

Patience and Sheer Determination by blacktofade (E, 47k)

Harry goes undercover to infiltrate the circle of a corrupt overlord and is given Eggsy, a young prostitute, as a token of goodwill. Harry has to live with Eggsy and keep him safe, while maintaining his cover.

Legends & Legatees by Fahye (E, 52k)

"You want to make sure I jump when I'm told?" he demands. "It'd better be you doing the telling, Harry."

#asks #anon #kingsman recs #hartwin

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www-bvnny-b4b3couture · 10 months ago

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Teeth

Deadpool and Wolverine needed help and Wade had the perfect(not at all) person in mind.

No idea abt the word count

Warnings: Blood, cussing, inappropriate jokes, small amounts of cannibalism, knarly looking mouth ima tell u now lmao

(Background on her for context, her mutation is actually that she can heal from basically any injury, BUT, she’ll only heal if she dies first. So to heal she needs to kill herself. She’s also just stronger and faster than the average person. Because of this scientists tracked her down and took her hostage, experimenting on her to get the “ultimate killing machine”. So they gave her those teeth and mouth, along with an insatiable craving for human flesh. Think like combining her dna or sum. Now her handlers use her as an assassin, and she’s somewhat succumbed to the instinct implanted in her brain.

I wanted to make a character like Mileena from Mortal Kombat, I love knarly powers 🙏🏼)

_________________________________________________

“Who the hell are we meeting, Wade?” Logan asked once they walked past their tenth storage unit, they were at the docks. “Uhh hold on I remember the number of it.” He held his finger up, inspecting each number and once again shaking his head ‘no’. Logan was starting to lose his patience when he suddenly pointing at a black cargo container.

“Alright- oh! I forgot to mention she doesn’t really like me.” Logan let out a genuine laugh, “Nobody likes you.” Wade just gave him a deadpanned face for a second before knocking on the door quite hard.

They were met with complete silence, Wade turned to Logan, “Mind knocking?” Logan rolled his eyes and knocked three times, this time the noise was startling and the crate was almost vibrating. “Attaa boy, I didn’t think mine would be loud enough.” Wade slapped Logan on the back, earning a scowl from him.

After a few seconds they heard some metal move and the door open an inch, 2 tiny throwing knives shot out. Wade let out a girlish scream, “Honey buns it’s me!” He shrieked, dodging another tiny knife.

“Wade get the fuck outta here!” A female voice suddenly shouted from inside. It was beginning to close but Wade quickly ran and grabbed it from her, pulling it back to open more, “You wanna lose your fingers fine!”

“Well now would be a great time to help, Wolverine!” Wade shouted his hero name mockingly, struggling against her. Logan firmly grabbed the door and all of a sudden the woman was easily overpowered by 2 to 1. An animalistic growl was heard as the door slid open and a black haired woman fell forward.

On all fours she sent a quick to Wade’s stomach, sending him flying back into another cargo container. Logan saw she had a black mask covering half of her face, only piercing amber eyes could be seen. She tried to kick him but he caught her by the ankle, she struggled against his grip. While she was physically stronger than Wade, not against him.

Realizing her situation she slipped her mask off, Logan cringed at the sight of her face. It looked like she had unhealed gashes along the corners of her mouth. A guttural growl escaped her throat and she opened her mouth. Her mouth began tearing at the sides, opening far wider than a humans mouth should, sharp razor like teeth lined her mouth instead of human teeth.

Suddenly sharp cat-like claws came out of her gloves and she slashed at his arm, causing him to drop her. She jumped up, attempting to slice at him but her eyes widened when she saw the giant claws coming out of his hand, stopping her attack. She growled and pushed against him, getting close enough to try and snap at him with her mouth. She wrapped her leg around his, using the fact he was heavier and knocking him over, with him falling first.

She attempted to bite at his face as they fell, using his forearm to block her bite she suddenly let out a painful scream when she bit down. She wasn’t aware of the adamantium encased all around his skeleton. She pushed herself off of him, making sure to get a bit of distance before stopping and clutching her mouth. “You fucking cock I think one of my teeth snapped.”

“Good you ugly bitch.” She scowled at Logan, who was staring at his bloody arm. “Fuck you, who do you think you are coming to MY house and knocking on my door like that?” She cursed back at him.

They both all of a sudden looked to Wade, who was just now getting up. “We need your help! You’re the only one I know who could help me find someone in 24 hours.” She rolled her eyes, “Why would I help you. The last time I saw you, you ran me over AND LEFT ME THERE. Which. FUCK YOU.”

That made Logan snap his head in Wade’s direction, giving him a ‘are you serious bro’ look.

“Well you tried eating me remember darling.” She rolled her eyes at him with a low growl, “Like always you were in my way.”

“Seriously what the fuck is wrong with both of you.” Logan muttered, she glared at him, her teeth becoming more visible.

“I can’t help either of you. Even if I wanted to.” She spoke calmer than she had the whole time, walking back into her box. But not before roughly bumping her shoulder into Logan’s on her way.

“She wants me.” Logan rolled his eyes at Wade, completely irritated with him since he wasted their time.

2 days later…

Wade and Logan were easily cutting down the men in their way of getting to the man they needed. Now on the third floor it was suspiciously quiet. They walked cautiously, guards up.

“Hey fuckheads.” Their heads snapped in the direction of the voice and Wade gasped when he saw her. “Baby! You care about me after all.” She scowled at him, “I will fucking eat you.”

“It’ll grow back every time.” She sighed in frustration and pulled out 2 sai from her sides, “You need to stop getting in my way.” She looked at Logan, “You too.”

Wade’s eyes widened in fake betrayal, but in reality he wasn’t surprised her handlers had her here. “Oh honeybuns, one day you’ll see I’m always there for you and you’ll realize you’re in love with me and we’ll make nasty debilitating hot sex.” He droned on, she shifted uncomfortably by the end before a dagger landed in his mouth.

She ran on all fours at them before jumping up and landing on Deadpool. Letting out the growl of an animal, her mouth open wide, biting Wade’s forearm clean off. Not stopping there, biting and snapping at him like a mad man. Her teeth easily tearing into whatever flesh she could.

She let out a screech when she felt something impale through her shoulder, pulling her back and lifting her up by her shoulder. She bent her back, trying to claw at Wolverine but he landed a punch right in her nose, she growled, using a sai in her hand and slashing at his hand where he was holding her captive by claw.

That caused him to retract his claws and she grunted feeling the metal slide out and landed on all fours, kicking Logan’s knee and making him drop down. As she was turning around she noticed a flash of red and was suddenly blocking a strike from a sword.

“We were meant to be honey buns. I’m your unlimited buffet.” She could see a grin through his mask and she slashed at him with her free hand, jumping up and trying to snap at him. With his other sword he caught her mid bite, she growled, struggling against him. He could see his sword beginning to fold and he kicked her knee harshly, crunch. That made her release his sword and fall on her knees, she wasted no time though and sent one of her sai into his torso.

She let out a shriek when she felt herself be impaled right in the stomach by familiar claws, and then she heard static in her ear piece before hearing a familiar voice. “MK. Scientist Lenovo has successfully been transferred to another location. Pull away.” She gritted her teeth, well it was a bit late now.

The two men noticed her change, now longer looking determined. She went a bit limp in Logan’s claws, looking at Wade, “The man you want isn’t here anymore.”

“What?!” Wade shrieked, looking into her eyes, not trusting if she was lying or not but as he looked into her eyes he knew she was being honest. “God dammit! So you were just here to distract us!”

“Get your fucking claws out of me.” She turned her head to Logan who was behind her. “I should slice through your ugly ass.” She gritted her teeth, “Fuck you old fuck.” She felt his claws dig in deeper somehow and she tried not to let a sound of pain out. She grabbed onto Wade who was arms length and used him to pull herself off. “Oo I knew you would see it one day-” He started before getting socked in the nose. She knocked him back into the wall.

She landed a bit weirdly since her knee was broken, she put distance between herself and the two men. She needed to get out of here soon.

“MK. Pull out.” The voice in her ear piece sounded less patient than before, she looked around a bit frantically. The sound of a helicopter could be heard and she saw a bright light from it appear from outside the window.

Logan was able to hear the voice in her intercom and realized she was looking for an exit. She sighed and realizing the quickest way out.

“Why do you work for them?” The question was out of nowhere and it made her brows furrow at Logan, she stared at him for 2 seconds silently. “What else am I supposed to do?” She scoffed at him before running at the window full speed and jumping out, the glass shattering making her eyes ring.

As she jumped out there was a rope coming down from the helicopter. It began pulling her up, he could see into it. There were a few men in complete black getups inside, one of the men suddenly raised a gun to her head, firing without hesitation.

That made Logan’s eyes almost pop out of his face but Wade laughed and pointed at his face, “Oh my god you should see your face. It’s ok silly goose she can heal like us except she needs to die first. So inconvenient huh? We’re so much better right. Made me shit myself the first time she hopped back up.” He nudged his shoulder earning a glare from Logan.

“Gives me the creeps.” His expression unreadable as he watched the helicopter disappear into the air.

A/n: This is the first ever fanfic I wrote on tumblr guyss. Lowk wish I could say it was better but like I’m barely gettin my groove guys. 🌚 Ima probably make more parts for this since I just like wanted to write how they met first. Also the pics r just refs for her mouth not actual her looks.

#deadpool and wolverine #wolverine fic #deadpool imagine #wolverine fanfiction #deadpool fanfiction #logan howlett #x men imagine #logan howlett imagine #hugh jackman #x men fanfic #wolverine x oc #deadpool x oc #wolverine xmen

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peachy-panic · 1 year ago

Text

Wrong Place, Wrong Time (pt. 2)

I didn't intend to make this 3 parts, but shit happens. The boys are going through it. (Sorry for the delay, hope you enjoy).

< PREVIOUS

WARNINGS: BBU, conditioning, major panic attack, references to past noncon, brief mentions of childhood in foster care

No one moves for a full three seconds.

It’s Julian, of all people, who breaks first. He takes a hesitant step forward, palms raised, and what the fuck does he think he’s doing.

Over Sebastian’s dead fucking body will he come any closer to Jaime, who, at the barest hint of movement flinches back, arms coming up to protect his head. A fiery rage blows through Sebastian. He moves in between them, blocking his line of sight.

“Step. Back.” The warning comes out in a voice he doesn’t recognize as his own.

Julian blinks, apparently processing a shock of his own, but stumbles back quickly enough that his shoulder hits the door. Only when he’s sure that Julian will stay put does Sebastian turn back to Jaime.

The shaking is visible from across the room. Sebastian knows this look. He’s seen it for himself more times than he’d like to remember. Terror. This is what it looks like when Jaime is terrified.

Suddenly they are free-falling back through time, blowing apart every inch of confidence and safety and trust Jaime has fought tooth and nail for over the course of a few months. Sebastian takes a careful step toward him. Under his breath, Jaime is whispering something on a loop, so quiet that all Sebastian can make out is a repetition of consonants. As he gets closer, the words click into place.

“Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.”

Sebastian can’t breathe. “Jaime,” he chokes out.

Jaime breaks his stillness to shake his head, quick and frantic, keeping his eyes on the floor. “No,” he says, “No, no, my… My name isn’t… My l-legal name is among the r-rights—”

“No,” Sebastian and Ezra say at the same time, hard enough to make Jaime flinch. “Sorry,” Sebastian whispers, but he doesn’t think it comes out audible.

Ezra drops to one knee beside, a force of preternatural calm in the midst of panic, and Sebastian follows suit, keeping his body positioned between Jaime and Julian. Behind them, he can hear Aria whispering something low and calm, but Sebastian’s sole focus is on the boy in front of him.

“No,” Ezra repeats, softer. “Your name is Jaime. I know you must be confused, but I promise, you are not in danger.”

Rigid as he is, Jaime somehow stiffens even further at the sound of his voice. His head snaps up, eyes locked on Ezra’s with a sudden, razor-sharp focus.

“You have to go,” he whispers, reaching up—seemingly without thought—to grab Ezra’s shirt. There is a panic that borders on mania in his voice, in the widened whites of his eyes. “Ezra, you… You have to run, you have to—”

“I am not going anywhere,” Ezra cuts him off. He softens the firmness in his voice by reaching up to cover the hand on his chest. “This is my home. He will not hurt me, just as he will not hurt you.” He turns his shoulder just enough to gesture behind him. “This is not the Handler Hernandez you know. He is my friend.”

Confusion and terror swim in Jaime’s eyes. “Your…?” He turns to Sebastian, brimming with tears. “Your friend?” His voice is so small. Sebastian understands that he is asking them both, now.

He swallows. “Yes.”

Something in Jaime visibly crumbles. The tears he has been holding at bay finally tip over, streaking his cheeks. “Please. What did I do?”

Sick understanding settles in. The sort of betrayal Jaime must think is happening right now.

“You didn’t do anything,” Sebastian tells him. His own trembling hands come up to reassure him in some way, to offer the kind of soft touch that they have spent so long working up to, but he thinks better of it and lets them drop to his sides. “He is not here for you, Jaime. He will not touch you.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, kid,” Julian says from behind him, his voice soft to the point of unrecognizable.

Sebastian shoots a glare over his shoulder when Jaime tenses at the sound of his voice, ducking his head once more.

“Jules, let’s step outside,” Aria says.

After a moment of hesitation and a final muttered apology, the front door opens and shuts behind them. Sam, clicking off the stove burners, excuses himself as well.

The silence left in their wake crushes down on the three of them for seconds that feel like minutes

“He is gone,” Sebastian whispers. “Jaime, it’s just us here. You, me, and Ezra. You’re safe.”

Jaime doesn’t raise his head. His shoulders rise and fall with the telltale breathing of a freefall into panic. He doesn’t seem to notice the steady stream of tears now joining the sweat gathered at the neckline of his shirt. “What is happening?” he whispers between pulls for air.

“Something that never should have been sprung on you like this,” Sebastian says. “And I’m so sorry.”

“He’s…” His eyes betray him by trailing over Sebastian’s shoulder, toward the front door. “He’s not taking me?”

God. “No, Jaime. Never.”

The sound of his breathing, hitched and labored and increasing with alarming speed, is the only sound in the house. Then, abruptly, Jaime lunges to his feet.

“I need… I’m—I’m sorry,” is all he gets out before bolting toward the hallway. They hear the bathroom door click shut, and the walls are not thick enough to mask the sound of his retching.

****

It’s hard to breathe. Jaime goes through all his usual tricks—the ones WRU taught him, and the ones he has come to learn on his own—but his chest still aches with the need for a full breath that he just can’t manage to pull.

No one has come for him yet. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. More than ten. Less than thirty? It’s a good thing, he thinks. Jaime doesn’t know if he’s ready to face them. He doesn’t know how to.

The feeling that finds him on the bathroom floor, as he comes down from the heaving nausea, is one that Jaime hasn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time. There are others, more familiar: confusion, pain, fear. But beneath that, perhaps because of it, something else simmers.

He keeps playing through the events on a loop, obsessing, trying to make sense of it, but his mind is a fractured mess of past and present, fragile trust and familiar betrayal. Because as Jaime knelt on Ezra’s living room floor, the world crashing around him, all he could think was: Is this how it ends? After months of fighting for every half-step of progress, of reaching for his last threads of fragile trust, of finding reasons to want to be a person again, had Sebastian given up on him?

No. He hasn’t. He wouldn’t. Sebastian isn’t like that.

But he doesn’t owe Jaime anything either.

Jaime has known betrayal before. Deeply, fundamentally. From foster parents he was meant to trust, teammates who were supposed to have his back, and men who pretended to be kind but who were all after the same thing. No one else had ever waited so long to show their true colors.

No. Sebastian is kind. He is not like the others.

And yet a crushing grief had fallen over him in that moment, because Jaime thought of Bella back at the house, and the last time he had scratched between her ears before they left, not knowing it would be the last time. He thought of the pineapple cheesecake in the refrigerator that they had made together three nights ago, half eaten, and wondered if Sebastian would throw it away or finish it when he’s gone. If he would feel bad about it. He thought of the clothes hanging in a closet that Jaime had finally come to think of as his own.

He thought of a hug shared in the kitchen to the backdrop of birthday candlelight and wondered if Sebastian had already made his decision, then.

He thought of all of this, and he wished he never had to know the taste of any of this happiness if it was only ever going to be taken from him. Because Handler Hernandez was here to take him back. And it was the end of Jaime’s world.

But then, it hadn’t been. Isn’t? He doesn’t…. Jaime doesn’t understand.

“You are not in danger,” Ezra told him. “You are safe,” Sebastian said. But Jaime doesn’t know what to believe. He found it hard to look at them in the moment (he couldn’t look at anyone, really, because a Handler entered the room, so it’s eyes down eyes down quiet quiet quiet).

Friend, they called him. Handler Hernandez is their friend.

He is Sebastian's friend.

And suddenly it’s hard to recall with any clarity the times he interacted with him inside the facility. Suddenly the months he spent there are a blur of faceless men in gray canvas and shock collar remotes and hands and hands and hands. Was Handler Hernandez one of them? Jaime can’t remember. Suddenly he can't tell any of them apart.

Friend. Friend. Friend.

Jaime doesn’t know how he is supposed to face them now—these people he has come to trust—with that word in their voices looping in his head.

But a knock on the door tells him his time is up.

***

They give him time. We could all use a moment to process, Ezra wisely suggested, and so Sebastian took a seat at the bar while Ezra sank into the couch. Both of them are silent for several long minutes. Outside, Aria, Sam, and Julian must have moved far enough from the house that their voices don’t carry.

“He was so afraid.” Sebastian is the first to speak, barely raising his voice from where his head is cradled in his hands.

“I know,” Ezra says.

They give him time, but Sebastian starts to worry that Jaime might be too scared to come out of his own volition, trapped in the bathroom by a self-imposed sense of shame or embarrassment or fear.

“I’ll go,” Sebastian says, rising from his stool, but Ezra stands alongside him.

“I’d like to speak to him as well,” he says. And although it doesn’t quite sound like he’s asking for permission, Sebastian nods anyway, silently grateful for the support. Ezra is always much better at hard conversations.

Sebastian starts to worry when the first knock is met with silence. They don’t try again right away, but he can’t help but listen for sounds of distress. Sebastian would rather die than force open a door that Jaime has closed between them, but he will at least feel better if hears signs of life on the other side.

“Jaime?” Sebastian tips his forehead against the door, feeling the cool, wooden grain against his skin. “You don’t have to come out if you’re not ready to. I—we—Ezra and I, we just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’d like the chance to explain some things to you,” Ezra adds, keeping a step behind Sebastian. “Whenever you are ready. There is no rush.”

They wait. Sebastian glances back at Ezra, who meets him with a steady gaze that says patience. Finally, the handle clicks and the door pulls inward to reveal a disheveled Jaime. The bags under his eyes are nearly the color of bruises, and his hair tufts messily at the sides, as if he has been pulling at it. A sheen of sweat glistens at his forehead, and Sebastian clocks the way he holds onto the door frame to try and disguise his shaking.

Guilt nearly bowls him over where he stands.

Sebastian is glad for the flash of foresight he had to fill a glass with water before he and Ezra came to see him. He holds it out now, the condensation sweating over his fingers.

“Here,” he says. Jaime lifts an arm robotically to take it from him, but he doesn’t take a sip, and he does not meet Sebastian’s eyes.

“Is there anything I can get you, Jaime?” Ezra says when it’s clear Sebastian is lost for words. “Anything you need?”

Jaime stares in the direction of the glass in his hand and shakes his head.

“Would you like to go somewhere and talk?” Ezra asks. “Sam has informed me that the others are gone now. We have the house to ourselves, just you, me, and Sebastian.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Sebastian starts to worry about the possibility that he is in genuine shock. But then he lifts his eyes to his and a lead anchor drops in the pit of his stomach.

There is a flatness like cold steel in Jaime’s eyes, a distance that lacks any familiarity or warmth; an expression Sebastian hasn’t seen since the first day he met Jaime, alone in the exam room at the clinic, when Sebastian was nothing more than another stranger in power over him. A direct threat to his safety.

“Wherever you’d like to go,” Jaime says to him. The implicit, resounding “sir” doesn’t need to be vocalized at the end for it to echo through the walls of the house.

****

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#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #whumplr #whump writing #bbu #like bbu adjacent?#guys #much like part 1 #i also struggled with this one for a long time #so i hope it came out how i pictured in my head #because i have lots of strong feelings and imaginings about this whole saga

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