#paper Slitting Machine

[selfadhesivepaperindustry]

Label stock Kraft Paper Lamination Film Jumbo Roll Release Paper slitter

This model jumbo roll slitter rewinder machine mainly use for converting pressure sensitive material, such as self adhesive paper, sublimation paper, BOPP, OPP, PVC film. Differential friction rewinding shaft for better control tension.

sonia wei E-mail: sonia@makwell-mech.com whatsapp: 008613306265137

[angelx]

warnings: nsfw! pussy drunk bf! katsuki, timeskip au, i headcannon this like months ago but i finally dared to post it, pussy eating, cunnilingus, katsuki is pervert

pussy drunk katsuki who can't help to do a little inspection once in a while...

Like imagine this. He’s laid between your thighs like he’s clocked in at the lab, gloves off, safety goggles metaphorically on, and his tone is like he’s narrating for National Geographic:

“Look at it—fuckin’ glistenin’. You see that? She’s already drippin’and I ain’t even touched her yet.” (Yes. He refers to your pussy as her. With reverence.)

“So damn soft... fuckin’ pink as hell… tight, too. She clenching just from me breathin’ on her?”

He runs a thumb along your slit—slow, lazy, methodical—and watches like your body’s reacting to him like a machine he built himself. He spreads you open, just slightly, gaze dark and intense like he’s about to write a peer-reviewed paper.

“You see that?” he mutters like you’re not right there gasping, “Already suckin’ me in. Greedy lil’ thing. How the hell is this real?”

“Katsuki—”

“Nah, don’t talk. I’m inspectin’. This is serious business.”

And when he finally puts his mouth on you?

Oh, it’s over. It’s OVER.

Because he eats you out like he’s on a timer, like he’s proving a point, like he’s trying to become one with the pussy. Man’s got a technique and a personal vendetta. It's all growling, sucking, slurping, moaning, and not a single fuck given about being polite. He’s out here trying to break records.

And if you try to squirm away?

Nope. Denied. He grips your hips so hard, dragging you right back to his face like:

“Nah, sweetheart. You’re stayin’ right fuckin’ here until I’m done.”

(He’s never done.)

And the worst part? (Best part.) He remembers everything. How your pussy looks when you’re just a little turned on. How it flutters when you’re close. How it throbs when he growls against it. Man could draw your pussy from memory. He’d win a forensic sketch competition with just vibes.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

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[urmomschocolatemilk]

Simon Riley x Alternative!fem!reader

I went thrifting td with a friend and got this idea. Reminder that my inbox is open ghost headcanons and requests

If there was one thing Simon knew about you from the moment the two of you met, it was that you loved to sew. Almost every piece of clothing you owned was handmade or altered. You’d cut up shirts, using the lace or frill at the top and add it to another piece of clothing. You’d tailor dresses and shirts for your friends and family and always patch up Simon's on base uniform.  

You weren't sure what made sitting in front of the sewing machine, eyes trained on a certain strip of whatever you were working on that was so therapeutic but it was. Not only was it that you loved the art of sewing, but in-store brands never seemed to have something you liked, or fit your personal style, so being able to make your own clothing really came in handy.

Your birthday was coming around and Simon, being the best boyfriend he was, had already picked a restaurant and booked a reservation. What you didn't know however, was that he’d been learning to sew for the past couple of months because he wanted to make you a dress that you would absolutely adore. He knew nothing he could buy would cut it, and he also knew that you loved handmade gifts. So, he found that this was the perfect gift. 

Now Simon knew what you liked about your clothes and what you didn't. For example, you didn't like light tones because you felt they highlighted any hyperpigmentation you had. Or that you didn't like to wear dresses with too high a slit on the side because you felt that it caused the fabric to fall weirdly around your legs.

Even with all this knowledge Simon didn't want to get it wrong. He wanted this gift to be perfect and as previously stated, something you’d adore. So, he stole your sketch book, which contained every preview of a design you’d created in the past year and flipped through it. Taking mental notes of each similarity and alteration.  

The week after that Simon enrolled in a regularly scheduled sewing class to begin working on his project. Simon did feel out of place there, especially at the start. He was the only man there, let alone a 6’2 military buff, but the instructor didn't treat him any differently, and he didnt pay any mind to it either.

“You want this to be your first project?” the teacher asked when Simon first showed her the sketch. He nodded. “This is quite difficult for a beginner. You understand that, yes?”

Simon shrugged ‘It’s going to be a gift.”  

Every week, twice a week Simon showed up to class. He never skipped a session. He needed this dress to be perfect. It took a month for him to get it looking decent, and then another half month to get it looking perfect. It seemed he was a fast learner.  

Finally, he was able to take it home, and the first place it went was to the dry cleaners. He wasn't going to risk throwing his masterpiece, and more importantly, your gift, into the washing machine to get ruined. Then when he picked it up he folded it neatly and placed it in a gorgeous red velvet box he had bought.  

Hiding it was easier than Simon had expected it to be, considering that you lived together and every part of the house was easily accessible to you. The only thing you didn't ever touch was his desk. So, he decided to keep it there, placing it at the bottom of the desk cabinet and neatly stacking some papers and folders around it to keep it concealed.   

Finally, the day came around and you were just about ready to begin getting ready for dinner when he stopped you mid-way into the bathroom.  

“I want to show you something,” Simon said, taking your hand and sitting you down on the bed. You furrowed your eyebrows, slightly concerned.  

“Is everything okay?” You asked  

“Just wait here,” he told you, walking swiftly out of the room and into his office. Simon rarely smiled, like really smiled, but when he came back into the room, red velvet box in hand his lips were turned up in subtle excitement.  

“What's this?” you asked with a grin, taking the box from him and running your hand over the soft, plush exterior.  

“Your birthday present," he answers. Simon is nervous as he watches you lift the lid, placing it gently next to you and taking out the soft fabric in the box. Your lips part in awe as you realize what it is, and you pinch it at the top, holding it out in front of you and letting it unravel itself. He watches as your eyes glaze over it slowly, taking in every detail. You love it. 

“Where did you get this?” you ask, not taking your eyes off the beautiful piece of fabric. He swears he can see your eyes glittering in the light as you look at the dress.  

“I made it.” He states. You’re already smiling, but when you hear his answer, your smile widens. You look beautiful, he thinks.  

“You made this?” You repeat excitedly, your head turning to look up at him. He nodded. “This is gorgeous baby!” You were so touched by the length and effort he had put into something for you. You knew he didn't know how to sew so the fact that he learned to and took the time to learn what you liked and didn't like made your heart bloom with adoration.  

“You like it lovie’?” he asked. You nodded profusely, setting the dress aside as you stood and threw your arms around him. Pressing a kiss to his lips you answered.  

“I love it.” 

[jessiso]

"Mine"

A Criminal Minds one-shot | Dom! Aaron Hotchner x Sub! Reader (18+)

After you flirt with a new agent, Hotch’s jealousy snaps—and he shows you exactly who you belong to in the most possessive, dominant way possible.

cw: smut 18+ minors dni, rough sex, possessive behaviour, spanking, dirty talk, jealousy, dom and sub dynamic, degradation/praise kink

w/c 1,200

...

You don’t mean anything by it.

Really, you don’t.

The new transfer from DC—Agent Carter or whatever—is just there, and you’re bored. A little sass, a little eye contact, a little smirk. Nothing major. Just enough to let your lips curl when he compliments your shooting stats, or when he leans too close under the excuse of reading your file.

But someone else is watching.

You feel it—him—before you even see him.

Aaron Hotchner is a constant presence in your peripheral.

Silent, watchful, calculating.

You can feel the heat of his gaze from across the bullpen, his posture stiff, arms crossed. That jaw of his is tighter than you’ve ever seen it, the muscle ticking like a warning.

You should stop.

You don’t.

...

It’s after hours when it happens.

Everyone’s gone, the office dim and quiet except for the soft hum of the vending machine and the sound of your heels echoing down the hallway.

You don’t expect the door to your office to slam shut behind you.

You whirl around—your breath catching—just in time to see him.

Hotch.

His tie is gone. Sleeves rolled. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, and his eyes? God, they’re molten black.

“What the hell was that today?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

You blink, playing dumb. “What was what?”

“The flirting.”

You cross your arms, cocking a brow.

"With Carter? It was harmless. You jealous, Hotch?”

He doesn’t respond.

He just walks. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a predator with all the time in the world.

You back up until your thighs hit the edge of your desk, heart pounding.

Then he’s in your space. His hands slam down on the wood beside your hips, caging you in.

“You think that’s funny?” His voice is gravel. “You think it’s cute? Letting some boy sniff around you like that?”

You swallow, trying to stay composed. “I don’t belong to you.”

A dangerous smirk curls his lips. “No?” He leans closer, his breath hot on your ear. “Then why are you soaking through your panties right now?”

You gasp, and it betrays you.

He knows.

You’re fucked—and you love it.

He doesn’t kiss you. Not right away.

Instead, he spins you around and bends you over your desk like a goddamn doll.

Papers scatter, your breath whooshing out as your chest hits the wood.

“You want to act like a brat,” he growls behind you, “you get treated like one.”

You feel his hand snake up your skirt—rough, fast—then yank your panties down.

Cool air hits you and your knees almost buckle.

Then—

SMACK.

The first slap lands on your ass, sharp and loud.

You whimper.

“Count.”

“What?”

Another slap.

“Count.”

“One,” you breathe out.

“Louder.”

“One!”

The second is harder. Then the third. You count each one through gritted teeth, your core throbbing between your legs, dripping down your thighs. By the fifth, you're moaning the numbers, thighs shaking.

“Look at you,” he hisses. “Flirting with that little agent like a whore, and now you’re dripping all over my shoes. Filthy girl.”

“Hotch, please—”

“What do you want?” he snaps. “Use your words.”

“I want you—God, I want your cock, please—”

He laughs, low and cruel. “Oh, now you remember who you belong to.”

You feel the head of his cock rub along your slit—teasing, punishing.

“Beg for it,” he growls. “Beg me to fuck you like the slut you are."

“I’m yours,” you pant. “Please, Aaron—I need you to fuck me. Claim me. Make me forget his name—please.”

The growl that rips from his throat is feral.

He thrusts into you in one smooth motion—deep, brutal, unforgiving. You cry out, fingers scrambling for purchase on the desk as he pounds into you with zero hesitation.

“Say it,” he grits between thrusts, each one rougher than the last. “Say who owns you.”

“You do! You—fuck, Hotch—you do!”

He grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, your back flush against his chest, cock still buried deep inside you.

“I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. The only one who gets to hear you moan like a whore.”

“Yes—yes, only you—”

His hand snakes between your legs, fingers circling your clit with expert pressure. You sob, the coil in your belly tightening unbearably fast.

“You gonna come for me?” he murmurs, mouth pressed against your neck. “Gonna soak my cock like the desperate little slut you are?”

“Yes—fuck—Aaron, I’m so close—”

“Then come. Now.”

His voice—his command—tips you over the edge.

You shatter.

Your body spasms, pulsing around him, crying out his name as he fucks you through it. You’re barely coherent, trembling, when you feel his pace falter.

With a groan, he thrusts deep, filling you to the hilt as he spills inside you, hips jerking.

Then silence.

Just the sound of your ragged breathing and his hand resting on your ass, rubbing softly.

“You ever let anyone else look at you like that again,” he mutters, voice rough, “and next time, I won’t be so gentle.”

You laugh—hoarse, breathless.

“That was gentle?”

He smirks.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re already on thin ice.”

You slump forward, skin slick with sweat, chest heaving against the desk.

Your legs feel like jelly, your brain a haze of overstimulation and satisfaction.

You barely register the soft grumble of your name, not until his hands—those big, capable hands—grab your waist and pull you upright, pressing your spine to his chest again.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, he stays inside you, holding you there, like he’s making a point. Like he wants you to feel him, long after this moment ends.

“Still think you don’t belong to me?” he murmurs into your neck, voice low and wrecked.

You shiver, tilting your head as his lips graze just below your ear.

“I didn’t think you cared,” you whisper, still breathless.

His hand drifts up, cupping your jaw. Gently. A sharp contrast to the way he just claimed you.

“I’ve cared since the first time you walked into my office with that smart mouth and those eyes,” he says. “You just didn’t notice.”

You blink, chest tightening in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

Hotch finally slides out of you, and you whimper at the loss. He turns you around carefully, lifts you up onto the desk, and starts to clean you with one of the tissues from the box nearby. His touch is precise, gentle, almost reverent—like he’s making up for every filthy thing he just did.

“You okay?” he asks, meeting your eyes.

You nod, smiling a little.

"More than okay.”

His gaze flickers to your throat, then your lips.

“You’re not allowed to flirt with anyone else,” he murmurs. “Not unless you want me to bend you over in front of them and remind you who fucks you like this.”

You laugh, throat raw, and grip his tie that's still draped over the chair beside you.

“Noted, sir.”

He leans down, lips brushing yours finally—soft, this time. Like he’s sealing the deal.

When he pulls back, he’s smirking.

“You’re coming home with me.”

It’s not a request.

And God, you don’t want it to be.

[uglypastels]

Hey can you do a coffee shop AU ab Gambit where the reader works at the shop Remy frequents? But one day there’s an attack and her mutation manifests?? Love your writing!

stick with me as I try to figure out how to write his accent lol. it's just a quick and fun lil thang but i hope you like it. [also, is this my first ever coffee shop au?? it might be. don't quote me on that tho]

warnings: slight cursing. supervillain attack.

~ X-Men Requests Open ~ Masterlist ~

‘Will that be the usual, Remy?’ You already pulled out the paper cup to write his name and order on it, looking up expectantly for him to confirm your suspicion.

‘You know it, chere.’ 

‘One cafe au lait, coming up.’ You chirped with a smile, noting it down on the side of the cup. Like the well-oiled machine the two of you have become over the past weeks, he didn’t need to hear the price and just slid a five-dollar bill across the counter and pushed another exact bill through the slit of the little tip jar next to the register.

‘Well, you know,’ and just like any other time, you couldn’t help but comment on his generosity, ‘you really don’t have to do all that. It’s just coffee.’ As much as you appreciated his gesture, a twinge of guilt struck you as he practically paid double for what already was an overpriced beverage.

‘It ain't for the coffee,’ he smirked, which, with a flash of heat, immediately radiated onto your cheeks. It all happened like clockwork, and so you reminded yourself that that’s just who he was.  You were sure he did it with anyone, so you mustn’t let it get to you. To not get too hung up over a customer who made it a habit throughout his day to flirt with his barista.

‘Here ya go,’ you presented him with the drink. 

‘I donno how you do it, belle,’ Remy said after his first sip, a satisfied expression spreading over his face. ‘Perfect. Evry time.’

‘Why, thank you.’ You reciprocated his smile, but really, it was no big deal. You were just doing your job—something that was only easier considering your talents. Practically being a human heat conductor made preparing a perfect cup o’ joe fairly simple. Still, when a charming Cajun walked into your establishment and showered you in compliments on a nearly daily basis, the effect might have been a bit stronger than a one-off comment from a stranger. No matter how hard you tried, it was impossible to deny his allure. 

For a Tuesday morning, the café was surprisingly clear of customers besides a couple of taken tables at the windows, where some early birds had begun their day by reading the paper or getting a headstart on their work. And so, with no line rushing him off behind him, Remy sipped his coffee right by your side. 

‘Say, don’t you have somewhere else to be, Rem?’ you teased as you wiped the counter.

‘With a beautiful lady righ in front of me, there ain't nowhere I rather be.’

‘Oh, shush, you.’ You tried to ignore it, but the steam coming off from the once wet handtowel you used to clean was saying differently. Both of you were about to open your mouths, the snarky banter already dripping from both your lips, but that all faltered as the ground beneath you shook. The soft ambience brought on by the instrumental music playing in the background over the speakers was overrun by the aggressive shaking of all the products and measuring jugs falling to the ground. But soon, even that was silenced by the screams that followed. A stampede of morning commuters was running through the street, eyes wide and pale with fear. 

‘What the–’ you muttered out, carefully making your way to the window. Perhaps not the smartest move, but the curiosity had gotten the better of you. And it sure had; as right as you had reached your lookout point, all your senses were thrown off guard by an explosion. The world around you turned upside down— or was that just you as you were thrown off your feet and across the room following a million pieces of shattered glass? 

You were ready to fall into the puddle of shards, but instead, you were met with the hold of two strong arms, and once you dared to open your eyes, you saw a pair of glowing red ones. 

‘You alright?’ Remy put you down on the ground. 

Still, in shock, all you could respond with was a nod. You watched as Remy made his way across the glass-covered floor, calling out to the fear-stricken people in the café. 

‘Is gonna be all right, everyone.’ He helped a lady get back up on her feet and make her way to the back of the room. ‘Stay inside. Get z’away from the street.’ And even though you wanted to listen to his command, you found yourself walking back towards him. 

‘What are you doing, cher?’ With his hand on your shoulder, he held you back from taking another step. 

‘I wanna help.’ It was clear enough to you that he was about to fight whatever it was that was scaring all those people outside, and there was no way in hell you’d let him go out there on his own. 

‘Do you even know what you’re up against?’ 

‘Do you?’ you hit back, and that response clearly pleased him. The worry on his lips turned up into a smirk. So, the barista had a spark to her. It didn’t surprise him, necessarily. If anything, the excitement from seeing this side of you sparked a rush through his whole body. 

Side by side, you ran out into the street, avoiding the last few incomers who were trying their best to escape whatever it was you were about to greet. And what that was, you soon found out. All you had to do was look up into the sky.

‘Le Bon Dieu.’ Remy cursed under his breath.

‘Damn.’ You gasped at the sight of what you could only describe to be a giant robot floating above the tall buildings. Eyes glowing with a fire that burst in jetstreams of destruction.

Perhaps you were way in over your head, getting into a fight with a steel giant, fighting with a nearly complete stranger, and yet, when you looked up at him, and your eyes met, you had a feeling that you’d be just fine.

the end.

thank you for reading 💗

if you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging and leaving a comment. or send a message via my inbox. requests are also more than welcome. 💗

[dixons-sunshine]

Discovery | Scud Frohmeyer x Fem!Reader

Summary: While the two of you were supposed to be working on a new project for Blade, Scud had better things in mind. And those better things included a discovery that you'd most definitely use to your advantage in the future.

Warnings: Suggestive content, fingering but not really.

Word count: 584.

A/N: Dedicated to @celtic-crossbow. Hope you like this, my love 💜.

The machine that had to be repaired was a forgotten memory on the table. A half-smoked joint was burning out in the ashtray next to the machine, blueprints and other papers were strayed all over the floor and the rock song that filled the air was almost completely drowned out by the loud, lewd moans that filled the air.

You and Scud were supposed to be working. You knew that. Blade would be back any minute to collect the machine Scud was working on and to get a report on the blood tests you were running to improve his serum. However, as you found yourself sat upon one of the workbenches and as Scud's lips trailed down your jaw, down to your collarbone, you couldn't care to be worried about being late with it. What was happening was way more fun, and it definitely deserved all of your attention.

“Josh,” you moaned out breathlessly, tilting your head back to allow him better access to your neck. Your mind was foggy, your only thoughts being him and how good he was making you feel at that moment. His fingers were languidly rubbing circles over your clit through the fabric of your underwear.

Scud hummed against your skin, his kisses burning a fiery trail down your neck as he began to suck at your collarbone. “Yeah? Does that feel good, Baby?” he asked you rhetorically. He knew damn well how he was making you feel. Your downright sinful, nearly pornographic moans told him all he needed to know.

You nodded frantically, your fingers running through his hair in an attempt to ground yourself back down to Earth. Scud took that as a sign to up his game. He slipped his hand into your underwear and let his finger glide through your slit. The action made you gasp. Without even really thinking about it, you lightly yanked on his hair as another moan escaped you. However, your moan was drowned out by the obscene sound that left Scud's mouth.

You looked at Scud in surprise at the sound that had escaped him. The sound bordered on both a whimper and a groan. You had never heard him make that sound before. To say you were surprised would be an understatement. And as Scud's cerulean eyes locked with your own eyes, you could clearly see that he was just as surprised about that revelation as you.

“Well shit, I'll be damned,” he laughed, his hand slipping from your underwear to rest on your thighs. “I think you just unlocked a new kink for me.”

You giggled and brushed some of the hair away from his face. “And here I thought I knew everything about you.” You cupped his cheek and caressed it lovingly. “I'm surprised I didn't do that sooner. We could've figured it out a whole lot earlier.”

Scud leaned forward and pressed a messy, tender kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, he leaned into your touch, a small smile on his face. “You're gonna use this to your advantage, aren't you?”

“Oh, definitely.” You laughed. “I'm gonna overuse this piece of knowledge. Just you wait.”

You pulled him in for a fiery, hungry kiss. Scud moaned and returned the kiss with a fervor of his own. And as your hands trailed back up to his hair, he couldn't help the excitement that pooled at the pit of his stomach.

Yeah, you could use that little discovery all you wanted. He definitely didn't mind.

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed [ pt 3 ]

{☆} characters neuvillette, wriothesley, furina {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings none {☆} word count 1.9k {☆} previous [ 1 ] [ 2 ]

Wriothesley was not a man of superstition. He did not kneel at the altars until his knees bled, he did not pray until his voice gave out– he did not, contrary to popular belief, suffer divine punishment for his apparent lack of respect.

After all, what Divine would look so deep beneath the waves just for a glimpse of the sinners that inhabit it?

Not them, evidently.

He hadn't slept in the past four days, though. There was a heavy air of something where ever he walked– it followed him like a thick fog, lingering and choking him until it dragged him to his knees like a chain. His thoughts inevitably linger on the striking, extravagant letter so conveniently adorning his desk at the fortress– the broken wax seal, the letter tucked into his pocket.

He'd recognize the seal of the Iudex any day. Wasn't often he spoke to him– but the shaky, distorted words hastily etched into the paper made him pause. Neuvillette always had a steady hand– elegant, flowing script that him of flowing water.

It had kept him up for days.

The implications were..haunting. He'd poured over the letter for hours, illuminated only by faint light of his desk lamp. Yet no matter how many times he tries to see what must be hidden beneath the ink, the paper itself even, he finds nothing but the shaky script of a request that sends a bolt of pure frost through his veins.

He noticed, of course, the odd goings on of Fontaine. He'd heard vague whispers of the Divine's hunt for the imposter– he'd heard, too, of the ceaseless rain pelting Fontaine until even he wondered if the nation would finally sink beneath the waves.

It didn't, though. And that only made it all the more odd. Days of constant rain, just for it to stop suddenly..he tugged his coat tighter around him, throwing up the hood of the cloak clasped even tighter over it with a grunt as he leaned around the corner of the alleyway.

He didn't believe in superstition, but this was too hard to ignore as a simple weather anomaly.

Maybe that was why he ignored his gut– he knew that this was probably a trap, at the very least it was suspicious. But damn it, he couldn't ignore the instinct to follow the only lead he had.

His boots clicked against the rain stricken streets as he stalked through the shadows, mindful of the clinking of machine patrols just a few streets away. Yet every step felt heavier then the last as he took a long, good look at the Palais Mermonia. He almost considered bringing out his gauntlets, but he thought better of it– if it came down to it, he needed information. And he would need whoever was waiting for him alive for that– the dead don't speak and all that.

The letter's directions led him in a..rather roundabout entrance to a secluded room, evidently, as he lifted his hand and quietly knocked against the door. Two rapid knocks, pause, another knock, pause, four knocks. It doesn't take long until he hears the latch of the door unlock.

The leather of his gloves creaks as he clenches his fists, adjusting his stance. He's ready for a fight, if he must, but as the door quietly slides open he feel the weight on his shoulders relax slightly– the familiar, sharp features of Neuvillette meets him. He almost reflexively smiles at the way his pupils turn into thin slits, a momentary surprise that he quickly hides well behind a cough and the creak of the door as he pulls it open fully.

"Wriothesley. I see my letter has found you well. Please, come in." Polite as ever, Neuvillette steps aside to let him in, but he can see the exhaustion lining his features– the bags under his eyes aren't as well hidden as he thinks, at least to him. "Bit odd to be inviting me all the way out here in the middle of the night, don't you think?"

His tone is smooth as he steps into the room, brushing down his hood and glancing at Neuvillette over his shoulder, watching as he shuts and locks the door behind him.

"I apologize for the..less then ideal circumstances, but I'm certain you will understand when you see for yourself." He wants to retort, but the Iudex beats him to it, vaguely motioning to the room behind him. An invitation– but he wonders if it's worth taking.

His gut says no, but he's feeling a little risky today, he supposes.

He turns back slowly, barely able to make out the two figures he'd missed on the first glance on the other side of the room– though it's hard to mistake the flourish of the Hydro Archon, even in the dark. It's the other figure that makes the breath hitch in his throat, though.

Or maybe, more accurately, it freezes. So does his blood, his whole body even, locked in stasis for a long, tense moment– he can't see them clearly, but his instincts are going haywire. He can feel his vision almost rattle where it rests against his left shoulder, cold leaking through the layers of clothes and into his skin until he has to fight to suppress a shiver.

He'd always fancied himself the hunter– he was the one who dealt with unsavory folks, in the end. But he felt like a rabbit pinned beneath the crosshairs of a gun this time. He could almost feel the teeth of the bear trap snapping shut around him, crushing bone and flesh beneath cold metal.

For a long moment he thinks he feels fear.

And with a sharp click and a burst of light, it's gone and he takes a raspy, choked breath as he blinks away the blurriness in his vision, taking in the room illuminated by the lamp.

He's not sure what he sees is better, though.

Because his body knows that their Divinity is as real as the blood running through his veins.

So why do they remind him so much of himself? Why does he see the look of the boy who died in a pool of blood not his own in them?

It is a sick, cruel kind of familiar.

Wriothesley didn't believe in superstition– but that was born of the unknown. He knew, now. He could reach out and touch the truth with his own two hands.

The throne of the world was a lie.

The thing sitting on it bled red. And if it bled, it could die.

He clenched his fists tighter– and released, letting his shoulders slump with a huff and a half hearted chuckle. "I wasn't expecting you to be in possession of a wanted criminal when you sent me that letter." He could see the gears whirring in their heads, the subtle dampness in the air reminding him just how delicate a situation it truly was.

He wasn't particularly inclined to getting blasted by a jet of water today.

"Relax, I'm not going to spill to anyone else. Seriously– don't get my jacket wet. It's expensive and a nightmare to dry." His lips quirk into a half smile, but it twists into something almost genuine at the laugh covered up by a cough he hears from the Divine. Bingo.

"It's fine, Neuvillette. Let him go." Their voice is like honey dripping from their lips, and he has to close his jaw with his hand before they can see the way it dropped in his surprise. "Of course, most Divine. My apologies." He relaxes at the sharp click of his heels as he joins them on the bed, his posture far more relaxed then he's ever seen. The Hydro Archon, much to his confusion and amusement, is far too invested in playing with their hair to pay much attention to him now that things have calmed, evidently.

Huh.

They seemed pretty cozy about it, he noted. He guesses they three of them had some time to get acquainted.

"So..who's going to explain what the hell is going on?" He probed, crossing his arms over his chest and watching the three carefully– they all looked tired, but even through the exhaustion neither seemed inclined to stray too far from the Divine. "And what exactly your plan is? You can't keep hiding them here forever. Someone will sniff them out sooner or later."

"We are aware," Neuvillette interjects, lips pursed into a thin line and his thin brows furrowed. "But as I'm sure you've noticed, the hunt for the..forgive me, most Divine, but the hunt for the alleged imposter is still at it's peak."

He grumbles in acknowledgment, hanging up his cloak by the door and sliding out of his heavy coat, resting it over the back of a nearby chair. "Hm. Suppose that's why the patrols are so common now a days."

"I'm afraid so. As you can imagine, we cannot simply ask them to..stop the search. It would draw unwanted attention and suspicion. The Divine would be found immediately if we tried to bring them out of the city at the moment." Neuvillette added, looking proper and elegant, despite the circumstances– even in the face of the Divine and the Archon turning on him and tugging his hair into intricate braids. "So I hope you understand that it was a great risk to send you that letter."

He rubs his chin, huffing in amusement– a solid plan, maybe, but his power didn't extend too far out of the Fortress. He had his connections, sure, but what use were they when he had to get the, uh, "imposter" out of Fontaine? Smuggling them out wouldn't be easy, and then there's the point of where to take them they'd have to contend with.

"Yeah, yeah– I get it. But it's not like I can just smuggle them out or keep them in the fortress. Even if we got them out of the city, we'd have to find somewhere to bunker down, and if someone spots any of us lingering there.." Archons, what a mess he'd gotten himself into. He was really looking forward to the next time he could kick his feet up with a cup of tea.

"I understand. I have already made plans, in fact." Neuvillette hesitates, and he can feel the temperature drops a few degrees. "I..cannot share them in full at the moment, but it is not for a lack of trust." Neuvillette reasoned, hands folded neatly in his lap– not that it hid the way they shook slightly. He wanted to ask, but he thought better of it.

"Eh, I don't hold it against you. The walls have ears, even up here." He deflected, running a hand through his hair. He really hoped Sigewinne wouldn't ask too much when he gets back. "I trust your judgment." He hesitates for a long moment, pulling out a simple, neatly folded letter of his own.

"Memorize the code words, then burn it. I'll be waiting for your next letter." He murmurs, plucking his coat and cloak and tugging them back on one after another, shuffling back over to the latched door. He hesitates again, his hand lingering on the door.

"I just hope your plan is worth the risk, Neuvillette."

He leaves before he can respond, the harsh click of the door ringing in his ears even as he steps back into the shadows of the night.

[authorsofghosts]

Snack Cakes | Peter Maximoff x Reader

Summery: There is no way in hell Peter is missing the one time of year where he can get cutesy, pink snacks to share with you. Whether he buys them or steals them, you'll never know (you do).

Themes: Already Established Relationship, Fluff -> Suggestive, Open Ending, Aphrodisiacs, small Argument, Cussing (Reader and Peter), Drugs Mention (weed), Kleptomaniac!Peter (duh), Lots of 'I love you's, Pet names, Twinkies!!

Word Count: 1.2k

You walk down the stair of the Maximoff house to the basement, also known as Peter's "lair" or whatever he decides to call it this week. You see the boxes of Little Debbie treats are all red, pink and white instead of their usually blue. That's the first difference you see. Peter is leaning against one of his many (stolen) arcade machines with a single rose in his hand, looking at you as if you were Cinderella walking down those stairs.

"Hey there." He says in what he thinks is a smooth tone, but his voice cracks slightly. You don't see it, but he slaps him. Peter grimaces slightly, zooming over to the end of the stairs and putting out his hand.

"Hi." You respond, your hand gripping the gift bag in your hand. He looked down at it, then back at you with a knowing grin. "Don't even think about it." You say quickly, swatting his hand. "No peaking, you have to open it and be surprised!"

He chuckles, rolling his eyes. "Fine. Whatever you say." He takes the bag and places it on the couch. "But lemme give you my gift first." He laughs out, pulling you into his arms and pressing a littler of kisses on your face before meeting your lips.

He's gentle at first, but as his tongue traces the slit of your lips for access, you can feel the hunger behind his actions. You pull away, laughing softly. "Peter, later, alright?" You say, looking into his eyes as you hold his face.

He huffs slight, defeated, knowing that he can't fight you. You make him melt, though he'd never admit it out loud, or sober for that matter. He might have mumbled it once or twice while high, but never loud enough for you to hear it.

His hands run down your arms before grabbing hold of your hands, intertwining your fingers with his. "Okay, I'll open your stupid, cheesy gift." He laughs, pulling you over to the couch. "I'm joking, I don't think it's stupid, I mean, I haven't even seen it."

"You talk too much." You say, hinting you know he's had a sneak peak at it.

He opens the bag after you've both sat down, eyes widening as he fully sees it. He pulls out the two foot long box of Twinkies that says "I love you thiiiisss much." He laughs softly eyes flickering from the box to you. "This is ridiculous. Adorable, even. Where did you find this?"

"Whole Foods, why-"

Aaand... he's gone.

Great. You tap your foot, sighing as you wait for him to reappear. You don't have to wait but thirty seconds for him to come back, a stack of the same boxes now adorning his shelves and a gift bag of his own, for you. "You know, just a crummy rose and some kisses aren't enough for you. I think that you deserve the world. So I did a little shopping..."

"Shopping? So you paid for it?" He laughs, which he makes a face to.

"Well, uh, not exactly, BUT I didn't steal their whole stock, so, uh-" He laughs, looking at you as he shrugs, "That's something, right?"

You groan, taking the bag from him and shaking your head. "I'll judge based off your present." You mumble, throwing the tissue paper on the floor and looking into the bag. Your jaw drops as you pull out the assortments of chocolates, candies, and of course, snack cakes.

Of course, sweets are something that you and Peter have always bonded over, he even asked you out using the cheesy 'Wanna kiss?' trick, a Hershey's kiss in his hand. He's nothing more than a blabbering, speedy bundle of puns and love.

You stand up and wrap your arms around him, not even caring about the card just yet. You pepper kisses over his face, eventually locking your lips with his. "I fucking love you, you stupid fucking klepto."

"I love you, too, you control freak." He laughs out, pulling you closer and falling back onto the couch, placing you in his lap as he smirks up at you. "Can't I have just a little fun?"

"Stealing is fun?"

"It's exhilarating, actually."

"Do you even know what that word means?"

"Uh, yeah? Why would I use a word I don't know the meaning to? Hmmm?" He laughs softly, pressing his nose against yours.

"Then what's the definition, smart ass?"

"Uh... something like thrilling, no? I mean, I could go get a dictionary." His smirk widens looking up at you with those dark brown eyes. "Jackass." He throws out.

"Oh, I'm the jackass?" You laugh, lowering your face so your lips hover his. "How so, Peter?"

He tenses slightly as you say his name, eyes widening as he laughs. You usually call him some pet name, not his real one. He's speechless for a moment for he sucks his lips into his mouth, releasing them with an audible pop. "Well..." He starts, blinking a few times before continuing.

"You're the one that pushed me onto the couch." He lies, "Kissing me out of nowhere, and pulling on my hair-"

"I didn't pull your hair!" You interrupt.

"Interrupting my list of the reasons you're a jackass, wow, you're just digging yourself into a deep hole, huh?" Peter laughs, shaking his head before pulling your lips back to his. "I love you."

"Love you, too, baby." You murmur against his lips, wrapping your arms under his and settling in his lap. "You know what? I think you're exhilarating."

"Exhilarating?" He chuckles out, your head notching between his neck and shoulder as you get comfortable.

"Mhm." You hum, closing your eyes and taking in the scent of him; cologne and aftershave, a faint smell of junk food. You press a kiss against his pulse point, making him jolt up slightly.

His hands comb through your hair as he looks at your body softly melting into his. His other rubs soothing circles on your back. "Happy Valentine's, hon." He murmurs into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your head.

"Happy Valentine's, babe." You respond in a mumble. You get off his lap and reach into the gift bag, grabbing a piece of chocolate from the bag.

"Oh, wait, that one's special, hah..." He says, grabbing it from you. His face is actually serious for once.

"What is it like... an edible?"

"Well, something like that. I mean, if you don't want them, I can take them back, uh..." He laughs, shaking his head. "They're those little candies that make you... you know, really horny?"

"Peter!"

"What? I mean, it's Valentine's Day, I thought... You know..." He looks away, biting his lip. He looks back at you, a faint blush on his cheeks as he smiles.

You sigh, shaking your head as you look down at the chocolate in his fingers. You quickly take it, unwrapping it and breaking it in half. Before he can even react, you push it past his lips.

"Shit? Really?" He laughs chewing the sweet chocolate.

"Yeah, why not? And like you said, if I don't want them...." You smile, getting back onto his lap and plopping down on it. "How long till these things work, baby?"

[justmeinadaze]

Little Girl Gone Part 4 (Steddie X You)

Warnings: Officer Steve harrington/ Gangster Eddie munson & Doctor fem submissive Y/N, SMUT, degrading, some spanking, LOTS of dirty talk, handcuffs, slight overstimulation, after care of course.

ANGST, Jason causing problems before the meeting with his dad. Mentions of explosions and shooting. Eddie being sexily intimidating <3, Steve's dad makes a cameo and undermines the readers profession like a dick. Slight cliffhanger ending...I guess. Idk lol

Word Count: 5993

Last Chapter Here

“Last chance, sweetheart. Are you sure you want to do this?”

Your hold on Eddie’s arm tightens as you exhale out your nerves. This entire week had been rough not just on you but them as well. You were ready for it all to be over so you could just enjoy being with the new men in your life. If this is what you needed to do for that to be done so be it. 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” 

As you smile up at him, he leans down to kiss your lips making you laugh as you quickly wipe away the lipstick that lingered on his mouth.

Both your demeanors hardened as the door to the venue was opened and Eddie led you inside. 

***

The gangster ran into the hospital room with you trailing behind, glancing at the chart that was attached to the wall as Steve stood by Chrissy’s bed side. 

“What happened?!”

“Witnesses say they don’t know. Just, suddenly, her store was fire.”, the officer relayed with a sigh. “It’s all gone, Ed.”

“It says here she should be fine…physically at least.”, you add as your sad eyes shift towards the unconsciously girl in front of them. 

“We-we can rebuild her store. That won’t be an issue—”

“EMS found a note pinned to her sweater.”

Steve handed him the slightly charred piece of paper that Eddie read aloud.

 “No, Kiddo, this moment…this is me at my most masochistic.

Three.”

“The fuck does that even mean?”

“It’s a quote from Kill Bill. Everything but the three. I don’t know what that means.”, you answered, trying to hide the fear and worry.

Placing his hands on his hips, Eddie begins to pace. 

“I really think you two should stay in my apartment until we get this resolved.”

“You and I both know I can’t do that.”, Steve murmurs as his face scrunches in thought. “And we both know she’s not because of her patients.”

A knowing smirk flashes along your features as you shrug. 

“I don’t like this. I still think—”

“I know what you think, Ed, and I’m telling you no.”, the officer cut him off. “You already went and attacked him once and look what’s happening.”

“I feel weak, Steve. Like I’m letting him get away with this bullshit.”

“You’re not weak. If anything, he’s weak for reacting this way.”, you respond as you wrap your arm around his waist and in response he kisses your forehead. 

“I just… I’m still going to have some of my guys watching over you two. Y/N, Gareth will be in the clinic with you and Steve, Jeff can linger out of the way so he isn’t seen.”

######### 

“Jesus, ALL of Hawkins High Society is here.”, you murmur as you two enter the garish ballroom style area where extremely well-dressed people had gathered. 

Eddie had taken you shopping and bought you a beautiful (expensive) red evening dress that flowed to your ankles but had a slit up to just below your hip. He had bought you some equally expensive jewelry to match except for the bracelet around your wrist. 

“I know it’s not as lavish as what Tony Montana here got you but I saw it in the store and it made me think of you.”, Steve blushed as he hooked the bracelet to you and spun it around. It was a simple silver chain but in the middle was what looked like a heartbeat reading you see on ECG machines at work. “Since you, ya know, stole the other half of my heart.”

“Wow, Steve Harrington. That was smooth.”, Eddie chuckled. “Um, here. Here’s MY other half as well.”, he grinned softly as he slides one of his rings onto your finger. 

“Yeah like you said before, ‘rich people trying to make themselves feel better.’.”

Eddie insisted you both should stand out so not only would people see you together and know you’re his but it would draw the eye of Mr. Carver so he’d hopefully come talk to you two. His suit matched your outfit with a red button up but every other piece on him was a crisp black that made him seem even more handsome. 

While your hair was down around your shoulders, his was up and pulled back so you could see his face a bit more. Occasionally during the car ride, you would lean over and kiss his cheek just because you could making him beam over at you as he squeezed your hand. 

Leading you to the bar, he ordered you both a glass of champagne making you giggle as you watch him chug it down and ask for another. 

“Nervous?”

“Uh a little but not for the reason you might think. I’ve never met Steve’s parents. I’ve heard stories and of course they don’t know about us but for some reason I still want them to kind of like me.”, he playfully winces making you laugh harder. 

“That’s normal, baby. You love him so you want them to like you; to approve.”

Grinning in your direction, Eddie leans down to kiss your cheek while you were taking a sip from your glass.

“What was that for?”

“I’m just so glad we met you. I wish it was under different circumstances but—”

“One bourbon, straight, please and thank you.”, Steve sighs heavily as he leans over the counter waiting for his drink. “My parents are on their bullshit tonight.”

“I’m sorry, honey.”, you whisper with a smile as he thanks the bartender again and knocks back his drink. 

“Steven, I thought you were bringing everyone back something.”, a man practically whined as he came up behind him. 

“I was. Dad, this is Dr. Y/N Y/L/N and—”

“Edward Munson, sir. Nice to meet you.”, Eddie greeted as he enthusiastically extended his hand for him to shake. 

As the officer turns to grab the drinks and hide his smirk, you subtly bumped him with your hip.

“Hm. I’ve heard your name around town. Very prominent young man. What do you do exactly?”

“Management you could say sir.”

“And you young lady? Are you a real doctor or just one of those professor types?”

“Um, I own my own clinic and treat patients.”

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“It’s Hawkins Virtue Clinic on the lower west side.”

“Ah on the crime riddled side of town where people can’t even afford napkins from a restaurant let alone healthcare.”

Your gaze shifts to Steve who tilts his glass towards you in a cheer gesture with a little smile as he knocks back its contents. 

“I guess you could say that. That’s why I don’t charge them more than they can afford.”

“How do you make money then?”

“It’s not always about money. For me, all that matters is people can live long healthy lives.”

“Not in Hawkins, honey, but it’s a cute dream. Come on, Steve, your mother is waiting.”

“I’ll see you peasants later.”, he teases as he winks and follows his father. 

“Well, that was a good test run.”, you joke as you turn to face Eddie. 

“Yeah, hopefully George isn’t that cynical.” 

#############

“Thank you for keeping an eye on me these past few days.”, you beam at Gareth as you both walk to your car. 

“Of course. It’s actually been oddly exciting. I learned that green is never really a good color especially on or IN your skin unless its vegetables, obviously.” He grins when you laugh. “I also learned that sick kids are VERY loud and nurses deal with way too much. 

“They really do. I try to give them raises as much as I can to show my appreciation but it’s hard with my lack of funds.”

“I’m sure Eddie could help if you asked.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t impose.”

Your guard paused, holding his arm out to stop you as well.

“Stay here.” Drawing his gun, he slowly walked forward towards your car, scanning the interior and around the side. Noticing a note tapped to the door handle, he carefully pulls it off and reads the contents before his wide eyes meet yours. 

“Y/N RUN!”

As he starts sprinting your way, you suddenly feel heat and a strong wind that knocks you off your feet as your car explodes.

***

Eddie’s tires skid as he slams on his breaks when he arrives at your clinic. Bypassing all the fire fighters and EMS, he entered the building hunting for you. 

“What happened?! Baby, are you alright?”

Silently, Steve grabbed his partner’s arm and dragged him off to the side. Digging into his pocket, he handed Eddie the note that was taped to your car.

“I'm not gonna kill you. Your job will be to tell the rest of them that death is coming for them, tonight. Two.”

“I looked it up, it’s a quote from another movie involving revenge. And I’m assuming—”

“He’s counting down.”, Eddie interrupts. “I’m going to fucking kill that son of a bitch.”

“No, hey. We have a plan, remember? Right now, she needs you.”

After coming back around the corner, Steve shoos the EMS people away as he sits beside you in your waiting area with his pencil and pad pretending to take your statement while the gangster takes a seat on your other side. 

“Princess, look at me. Are you ok? Did you get hurt?”

“Uh, no. Gareth, he, um, he did though.”, you respond as your tear-filled eyes meet his. “I tried to do what I could, Eddie. H-He was badly burned. I-I-I don’t have stuff here for those kinds of burns.”

Tilting you against him, he presses your head to his chest as you sob.

“EMS said that he will most likely be ok and if you hadn’t been there he would have died. Honey, you saved him.”

“H-He saved me, Steve.”

“You’re both staying with me. No arguments.”, Eddie announced as you nodded.

“I have to go in and fill out my report—”

“Steven…”

“I know, I know. I’m probably next but there’s nothing I can do, Eddie. I have to go in and do this. Plus, I have Jeff and a station full of cops. I’ll be ok.”

############

“I’m going to go smoke a cigarette, sweetheart, ok? Don’t go far.”

You nod as you watch him reach into his pocket and pull out his pack as he disappears out on the nearby patio. Glancing at all the people around you, you suddenly feel extremely isolated completely unsure of what you should be doing. 

“Don’t let them see you crumble.”, an older man chuckles as he steps closer to you. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I know what it’s like to walk into this sea of rich people and feel completely out of place. When my father and I moved here, we had nothing but a few pennies in our pocket but he knew how to finagle. Networked his way to his first 100K and used that to start an empire.”

“That’s amazing. My, uh, my grandparents were the same. They said personality goes a long way in any business. My grandma opened a tutoring center on the east side and helped so many underprivileged kids go on to college. My dad thought she was ridiculous. ‘You’re barely making ends meet, ma!’”, you roll your eyes.

“Ah, one of those.”, the man smiles. “I inherited my father’s company and then gave it to my son. Did your grandmother do the same?”

“Oh, no. She got sick pretty early on in her life and I moved in with them to help take care of her. It’s what actually sparked my interest in medicine. I’m a doctor and I run my own clinic, Hawkins Virtue.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of that place. You help a lot of people who are struggling.”

“I try.”, you grin, happy to meet someone who seems to genuinely find interest. 

“Do you need funding? I’d love to come by and see what you do.”

Shifting your gaze, you notice Steve watching you intensely from beside his parents.

“I would like that very much. I’m Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.”, you introduce as you offer him your hand that he takes and kisses the back off.

“George. George Carver.”

***

Steve sighs as he heads out of the police station to go home. Placing the ear bud in his ear, he taped his phone to immediately call Eddie. 

“What’s going on?? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, babe. I’m fine. I’m on my way now.”

“Ok, stay on the phone with me till you’re almost here.”

“Heh. I love when you get protective.”

Eddie listens to every footstep with anticipation as the officer heads towards his car.

“You’re my Paladin, babe, but I’m the Master. I can take care of you to.”

“You’re such a nerd.”, he chuckles, pausing at the sight of the note on his windshield.

Trying not to startle his boyfriend, he carefully removed it as he backed away from his car.

“Killing's got to be accepted. Murder was the only way that everybody stayed in line. You got out of line, you got whacked. Everybody knew the rules. One.”

Something suddenly whizzed passed him, shattering his driver’s side window.

“Fuck me.” As soon as he hit the ground, multiple rounds of gunfire went off around him. Steve could barely hear Eddie in his ear as he crawled behind a nearby vehicle and waited.

“STEVEN! ANSWER ME GODDAMN IT!”

“I’m ok! I’m ok!”

Pointing his gun towards the car, he fired a few rounds before it disappeared around the corner. 

***

Eddie paced as you cleaned the cuts on Steve’s hand he had received from all the glass on concrete. The gangster was on edge since he had to wait for police to scope the scene and take the officer’s statement. 

“Fucking asshole. Steve, I’m sorry but I can’t let this slide. Two of my friends are in the hospital and he almost killed you two.”

“No. He wants to kill us in front of you remember. This was just to toy with you and us.”

“I don’t like the casual way you said that.”, Steve teased as he pokes your nose with his free hand. 

“Excuse me. Not a joke here!”

“You’re right, baby. Talking with his father won’t be enough. He crossed a line but we need to focus on this first to keep Y/N safe. After we handle that, then we can handle him.”

“I may have an idea that won’t upset his father IF we get that approval and will get your message across.”, you announce as they give you their attention. 

############

“Mr. Carver.”

“Ah, Mr. Munson or should I saw Edward. We don’t want to confuse you with your father now do we?”, the man laughs light-heartedly as your gangster circles a protective arm around you. “Do you know Dr. Y/L/N here?”

“Oh, please, sir. You can call me Y/N.”, you beam trying to remain as calm as possible.

“Yes, sir. I met Y/N when she saved me from a nasty wound I got. I had heard of all the things she’s done for the community so, of course, I had to get to know her better.”, he grins as he pulls you closer.

“That ‘nasty wound’ wouldn’t have been inflicted by my son per chance?” Eddie stiffened a bit beside you as the man gave him a once over. “Yeah, I know you and Jason don’t get along but that doesn’t give you the right to invade his turf and kill his best friend.”

“If I may, Mr. Carver, is there a private place we can talk?”

“No, you may not. Whatever is going on between you and him doesn’t involve me. You two are in charge now. Handle it.”

As he starts to walk away, you reach out to grab the man’s bicep.

“Please, sir. So many innocent people have gotten hurt just in this week alone. Your son is throwing a tantrum over something he started and is upset because Eddie didn’t let it go like his father used to. Please, just listen to what he has to say. We don’t want anything in return or anything like that. Just…listen.”

Jason’s father sighs as he glances you over.

“You would even decline the generous donation I was thinking of giving to your clinic? That’s a lot of funds that could help a lot of people.”

“This will help more.”

At your sentence, he blinked and stood up straighter. 

“Ok. Ok, Mr. Munson. Let’s talk.”

***

Jason exhaled as he took off his tie and laid his gun on the kitchen counter with his keys as he headed towards his living room. 

“Long night?”

“Jesus Christ, dad!”, the man jumped as he clutched his chest. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. I thought you were going to the fundraiser event tonight.”

“I was busy.”

“I hope you weren’t busy with anything involving the Munson crew.”

As his father rose to his feet, Jason stood up straighter.

“I told you. That asshole killed Andrew—”

“After you broke into his girlfriend’s house and pulled a gun on him?”

“He killed Patrick and my friends!”

“AFTER you kidnapped his friend WHO IS A COP and beat him up! You stupid idiot!”, his dad growls as his son flinches. “What’s this I hear about you starting fires, blowing up cars, and doing shootings outside of a police station?! And leaving these moronic notes like this is some gangster movie!”, George shouts as he grumbles the papers he was given and tossed them his way. “This is not how we run our business, Jason.”

“Edward Munson needs to be taken out.”, he seethes. 

“Edward Munson will be left alone and so will his crew. That includes Steve Harrington and Y/N Y/L/N. Do you understand me, son?”

“Are you kidding!? He just gets away with killing my friends?!”

“BE GLAD I DON��T KILL YOU! Sit down!” Jason cowers at his father’s anger as he sits on the couch. “If you weren’t my son, I’d have gotten rid of you for how sloppy you’ve been. That being said you still need to understand that there are consequences to your actions.” Looking past him, George addresses the darkness behind his son’s ear. “He’s all yours.”

Something sharp stings the gangster’s neck as his world begins to spin. 

“I trust whatever you come up with, Mr. Munson, the punishment will fit the crime.”

As you and Eddie come into view, Jason’s world goes dark.

#################

“Good morning, sunshine.”, Eddie jests as Jason’s eyes flutter open. “I wouldn’t wiggle too much if I were you. The view up here is pretty great but not when you’re falling down eight stories.”

The rival gangster’s eyes finally adjust to see the other man in front of him with you and Steve on either side. He tried to move but soon realized he was bound to a chair with duct tape over his mouth, completely at your mercy as he was perched near the edge of a tall building. 

“You know, I’m a fan of movies myself. The one thing my father and I could connect on was The Godfather trilogy. Did you ever see those, Jason?” The man’s only response is trying to tug at his restraints. “No? That’s ok. The third one is utter garbage but that second one. Oof…so good. There’s one line in there that always stood out to me. ‘Chiedi di me ai tuoi amici del quartiere. Ti diranno che so come ricambiare un favore.’”

Stepping forward with his hands in his pockets he continues. 

“It’s Italian. ‘Ask your friends in the neighborhood about me. They'll tell you I know how to return a favor.’”

The rival gangster’s eyes widen as Eddie kneels to his level, balancing on his heels as he speaks to him again is a soft tone laced subtle venom.

“You crossed a line, Carver. If it were up to me I would have killed you and your entire enterprise after hurting Steve and threatening Y/N. After the stunts you pulled this week, I almost did. You can thank this young lady here for talking me out of it.”

Jason’s eyes flick to your angry ones before looking at the other man again. 

“She also suggested we talk to your father which was a brilliant idea. He’s very levelheaded and kind of funny. Right, guys?”

“Hysterical. He thought what you did at the police station was so amusing he recommended I take you in and throw you in a cell with Allen since you miss him so much.”, Steve quipped with a smirk. 

“After blowing up my car and breaking into my apartment, he thought I should use some of things I learned at medical school as a punishment. Oddly enough, castration was the first thing to came to his mind. I told him I didn’t think you had any balls to remove since you were acting like a five-year-old.”, you add making Eddie’s smile widen. 

“He also suggested we make the punishment fit the crime thus you’re ours for the next week, buddy!” As the gangster lightly taps his face, Jason starts to cry. “But, Carver, I’m not going to do that. Do you know why? I’m not my father and I’m not like you. I don’t kill for pleasure and I don’t like hurting people. I want this to stop. But make no mistake…” Eddie reaches for Jason’s throat and squeezes it between his ringed fingers. “If you ever threaten or hurt these two again or even fucking think of coming on to my side of Hawkins, I will burn your side to the ground and make you regret ever being born let alone taking your father’s mantle. Am I being clear?”

Ripping away the tape his lips, the gangster squeaks as he continues to cry. 

“Yes! I understand. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Eddie.” After tapping his cheek again, Eddie turns taking your hand in his as you three head for the door to leave the roof of the building. “Hey! What about me?!”

“Oh, we’ll call the building super in the morning. Just…don’t lean back.”, Steve answers with a sarcastic thumbs up as the door closes behind him.

##################

You giggled in Eddie’s arms as he held you to him, kissing your lips with vigor as he carried you up the stairs with Steve trailing right behind. 

“You…are…amazing.”, he cooed between each breath as he fell with you onto the bed. 

“You really are.” Steve added as he threw himself beside you and began sucking on your neck. 

Ringed fingers glided hastily up the slit in your dress, moving the silk blocking your core, and effortlessly pushed into your entrance, pumping in and out so quickly the sound of your arousal filled the room. 

“Fuck, Eddie.”

“You got me so hard, sweetheart, watching the way you took control talking to George. Jesus and in that beautiful fucking dress.” Your hand floated down to cling to his as his digits inside of you moved at a relentless pace. “I had to keep telling myself to focus because all I wanted to do was push you against that wall and fuck you till you couldn’t walk straight.”

Steve gripped your chin turning you so your lips could meet his as the gangster’s head fell into the nook between your head and shoulder. 

“You’re a bad girl now, baby. OUR bad girl.”

“Tr-treat me like one.”

The officer chuckled at your needy tone as you panted into his mouth. 

“Yeah? You want us to show you how bad girls get treated?”

“P-Please…please. Fuck I’m gonna cum.”

“Ask nicely, Y/N.”

Leaning your head against the gangster’s, you murmured consistent pleas, begging for relief that he granted as the coil snapped and you practically screamed his name. Offering his fingers to his partner, Steve licked them clean before leaning over you so their lips could mingle together. 

After digging in one of his drawers, Eddie produced some handcuffs and passed them over to Steve who took hold of your wrists restraining you to the headboard. 

“These are my own set so they should feel more comfortable on your skin than his steel ones.”, Eddie grinned as he kissed your lips.

“Babe, you forgot to take off her dress.”

“Fuck, silly me.” Grabbing the slit in the fabric, he yanked it apart tearing it up the middle till it split in half and fell away. “There we go.”

“No bra, honey? Definitely bad girl behavior.”

“Eddie told me not to wear one.”, you whine as Steve’s gaze shifts his way. 

“What? I like her tits. Sue me.”

While Eddie removed his suit, the officer yanked down your panties and tossed them onto the floor while he kissed your lips. 

“I bet you want to suck my cock, don’t you dirty girl?”

“I do. Please.”

“I like that. Keep beginning me like that.”

Jumping back into bed, the gangster took hold of one of your legs and lifted it over his shoulder before guiding his cock into your entrance.”

“Oh my god.”

Fingers circled tightly around your neck as your eyes met Steve’s anger filled ones. 

“I said beg me for my dick, little girl.”

“P-Please, Steve. I wanna—fuck, Eddie—I wanna choke on your cock. Please! I need it!”

Quickly, he unbuckled his belt and shimmied down his pants enough to free his length, allowing it to hover over your lips. 

“Tap three times loudly if you need to stop, ok?”

“Yes, yes sir.”

“Oh, look at that, Eds. Little girl found her manners.”

Eddie smirked as he continued to slam his hips into yours at a rough pace, his thick fingers digging into your thigh as he used it for leverage. 

Opening your mouth, you prepared for some the things they had been teaching you. Flattening your tongue you waited, mewling when he finally gave you what you were begging for. As his cock slid down your throat, his fingers tangled in your hair and you focused on the feeling as he slowly thrust his hips. 

“Good…good girl. That’s it. Shit, baby. That’s it. You’re almost taking all of me.” Feeling your body tremble, Steve holds you still, allowing you choke and gag around him as you cum. “Yes! You’re ok, baby. Just a couple more seconds.”

Tapping once, you signal you need air and he immediately pulls out to pet your head, murmuring praises as Eddie slows his rhythm to almost a complete stop as he caresses your leg comfortingly. 

“Good girl, honey. You did so fucking good. It took all my energy not to cum to but I want to cum inside your tight pussy, pretty girl. So beautiful. What color are we at, Y/N?”

“Green, baby. Green.”

At the word, the gangster lifts your other leg, pushing them together as he slowly thrusts his cock deep inside you. 

As your eyes roll back and you moan, Steve kisses away your tears before murmuring against your lips, “Do you still want my dick, baby girl? Do you want me to fuck your pretty little throat? Feel us both deep inside you. I wonder if I can feel myself here.”, he coos as he gently places his hand on your neck. “I know I can feel Eddie fucking you so good. Right, honey?”

His large palm trails down your skin till you feel him press on your lower belly making you whimper louder as your back arches and you tug on your restraints. 

“Yeah, he’s right here, nice and deep.”

Eddie grunts as his pace hastens, his partners words amping him up as Steve smiles. Lifting up on his knees once more, the officer holds his tip just above your lips, chuckling as your tongue needily reaches for him. 

“Don’t forget what we talked about. Tap if you need to breathe or stop, baby. I’m gonna fuck your throat hard, ok?”

“Y-Yes. Please—fuck—please.”

Sliding his dick into your mouth, your eyes squeezed shut as he did what he said, constantly hitting the back of your throat over and over as the obscene sound of you gagging and drooling filled their ears. Both men became almost feral at the noise, Eddie shaking the bed as he pounded into you and Steve tugging harshly on your hair while mumbling under his breath. 

“That’s it, little girl. Jesus. Your mouth feels so fucking good. Atta girl. Choke on my cock, you dirty little whore making a fucking mess. Mmm!”

Your legs abruptly hit the mattress as Eddie fell on top of you, wrapping his arms around your back as he rolled his hips into yours. The officer pulled back, stroking himself with his hand as he watched you both cum together. The gangster laid still trying to catch his breath as Steve reached down to play his hair.

“Fuck me. This pussy is too good.”, Eddie groaned as he sat up and lightly spanked your behind. “I’m glad it’s ours.” 

After pulling out of you, both men shared a passionate filled kiss as they switched places, Steve wiggling underneath you so your back was on his chest. While the officer ran his palms over your breasts and along your sides, Eddie took hold of his partners cock, spitting over the tip before running it between your folds, teasing you both as it grazed your clit. 

“Please.”, you whine.

Smirking, he did what you asked as the two of you groaned. Steve’s hands gripped your thighs, holding your legs open as he planted his feet into the mattress and thrust up into you. 

“Fuck.”

“God, sweetheart, I wish you could see you both from my angle.”, the gangster moaned as he watched his boyfriend’s cock disappear inside you as he stretched you open. “Fuck me. Stevie didn’t even have the patience to take off the rest of his clothes.”, he chuckles, faltering the man’s rhythm as Eddie tugs his pants that had been pooled at his ankles the rest of the way.

Dropping your legs, one of Steve’s hands pulled your hair back as his other roughly kneaded your breast. 

“Move your hips.”, he growled as you mewled, trying your best to bounce and roll your waist. “Harder, little girl. Make yourself cum again.” He continued to grumble with a rough tone in your ear, commanding you to move faster repeatedly while smacking your tits with his palm. Screaming his name, you stopped moving as your body shook against him and you pulled hard on the cuffs above you. “Atta girl. Fuck, I can feel your pussy quivering around me. You’re gonna give me one more and I’m gonna cum with you.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Color, princess?”, Eddie whispers as he presses his nose to your cheek. 

“Green.”, you mumble as the tears stream down your face. 

“Yeah? Fuck you look so beautiful like this with your make up running down like this. Fuck, baby. You can do it. You can give us one more.”

Steve starts moving again with purpose knowing he won’t last long and you most likely will spent after this. After licking his fingers, the long-haired man places them on your clit, rubbing circles into your nub as your sweaty head leans back while the other man clings to your waist.

“There you go, Y/N. Come on, baby! One more. You can do it!”, Eddie encourages, both men moving so fast you don’t even realize it’s coming till your orgasm hits you like a freight train. “Good girl! Good fucking girl.”

Circling his arms around you, Steve’s pace becomes sloppy till you feel him warm your insides as he grunts in your ear. 

“Please…please…no…no more. I can’t.”

“No, sweetheart. You did so good. I’m going to uncuff you ok?” You nod as the gangster releases you from your binds and you wince at your sore muscles as you slowly bring your arms down. Steve carefully turns you both onto your side before pulling out of you, mumbling soft apologies as he tries not to hurt you. “Whenever you’re ready, we’re going to take a bath, ok? It will feel good on your body.”

After a few minutes of them smiling tenderly at you as they caressed and kissed parts of your skin, you signaled you were ready and Eddie lifted you into his arms as Steve ran the water. Doing what had become the norm, the gangster lit a cigarette as he sat behind you on the edge of the tub with his feet in the water as he began to clean you. What was new was when the officer pulled a wet wipe from a bag and kneeled beside you to clean your face.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, um, makeup remover. I bought it a while ago before all the bullshit happened for when you spend the night with us. Chrissy said this was a good brand for girl’s skin but if you have another just let me know.” It took him a moment to realize you two were staring at him with small smiles on your lips. “What? Hey, I’m a nice guy!”

“Yes, you are, pretty boy.”, Eddie coos sassily as he leans over to give him a peck as the man rolls his eyes. 

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

His eyes remain downcast as he throws it away and places the bag on the counter. 

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. WE want to…want you to be comfortable…and happy. Are you? Happy I mean.”

Tilting his chin, you kiss his lips as well making his smile grow. 

“I am happy. Thank you for everything. It means a lot to me.”

Eddie’s already prepared when you lean your head back to kiss his lips as well making you giggle when he lingers making a loud mwah sound. 

“Just because we settled the stuff with Jason doesn’t mean I’m out of danger does it?”

Both men freeze in place as they blink before Steve climbs into the bath in front of you and Eddie slides in behind you.

“No, it doesn’t. There’s always going to be people that want to challenge me and just because we scared Carver doesn’t mean he won’t fuck up again.”

“And like I told you before, now that people know you’re with Eddie, it may cause some ears to perk up with the police which may put more eyes on you than you’re used to.”

“But, sweetheart, we promise you we will do everything we can to keep you safe. I’d hurt or kill to protect you just like with Steve.”

“And, honey, I would hide evidence or lie to anyone in the department to protect you. Not just from people but any kind of jail time.”

“You’re ours, Y/N, and we will take care of you no matter what.”

You can feel their eyes penetrate you as your own remain off to the side as you absorb what they are saying. 

Gently, fingers grip your chin, turning you to meet Steve’s soft honey hues.

“You can still leave if you want to. We can come up with a story to explain the party if you still want to have some…semblance of normalcy.”

“Whoa. Steve Harrington is breaking out the big words.”

You laughed at Eddie’s joke as the officer narrowed his eyes in playful annoyance.

“I don’t want to leave. I…”

You want to say it so bad. You want to tell them that you love them. But it’s only been a couple of months and they’ve been together for almost a year. No. You don’t want to scare them away after everything they just did to keep you safe. No…

“I…I trust you both.”

When you flash them a smile both men grin back as Eddie hugs you against his chest and Steve kisses your forehead.

##############

@5tud10-54r4h @munsonzgf @eddiesguitarskills @supraveng

@lilaclazer @ima1986 @micheledawn1975 @foreverminliv @corkadymu

@lemme-slytherin-that-dick @joannamuns9n @dashingdeb16 @sashaphantomhive @corrodedcoffincumslut @aactuaaltraash @nailbatanddungeon 

[greatkittencloud]

TW : Mention of injuries

Black Nova

Chapter 12

Location: RAF Base Medical Wing

Time: 0930 Hours – The Next Day

The scent of antiseptic lingered in the air. Machines beeped steadily. The morning light crept through the slits in the blinds.

Nova lay quiet, still bandaged and sore, but no longer strapped to half a dozen machines. Her breathing was steadier now. She blinked slowly as she stirred awake again half expecting the pain to have dulled.

It hadn’t.

But this time, there was a small comfort: Ghost, fast asleep in the chair beside her bed, arms crossed, head tilted slightly down.

He hadn’t left.

Before she could process that fully, the door burst open with a too-familiar Scottish voice:

“Oi oi—look who's awake!”

Ghost jolted upright.

Soap entered the medbay like a storm, a ridiculous grin on his face and in his arms, a massive teddy bear, almost as tall as him.

“Jesus Christ…” Ghost muttered under his breath.

Nova blinked, confused and still groggy.

Soap beamed. “Figured you could use somethin’ soft that’s not a stiff mattress or Ghost’s face.”

Gaz followed behind, carrying a paper bag full of snacks and chocolates. “He insisted we stop by the store.”

“She almost died, mate,” Soap said, setting the bear carefully beside her bed. “A teddy’s the least she deserves.”

Nova stared at it blankly, expression unreadable.

Then—just faintly—a breath of a laugh slipped out of her.

Her ribs immediately punished her for it. She winced, hissing.

Ghost leaned forward. “Take it easy.”

Soap offered her a smug grin. “Bet you never had a bear this big in your lifs, huh?”

Nova gave him a look. “What do you think?”

Gaz chuckled and placed the bag beside her. “Figured you could use something warm. It’s just broth. But it’s not medbay sludge. Have you eaten these chocolates”

Nova was overwhelmed, but she didn’t show it—not in full. Just that slight softening of her eyes. The barest tilt of her head. "No"

"Whahhht you need to eat these. They taste like heaven" Soap exclaimed

"I got a taste of heaven alright" Nova said.

“Hehe...You looked like a drowned cat when they wheeled you in,” Soap continued cheerfully. “But now that you’re not hooked up like a science project—you actually look…”

He stopped.

“...Young,” Gaz said quietly.

Soap glanced at him. “Yeah.”

Nova looked away.

They didn’t mean it cruelly. But she hated the way it made her feel—exposed. Small. Human.

Nova looked down at the bear. Its stitched grin stared up at her like it knew something she didn’t.

“…Thanks,” she muttered.

Soap’s grin softened. “You earned it, lass.”

And for the first time Nova let her shoulders relax.

Even if just a little.

Thankyou for reading!

Taglist: @hyperfixiation-station , @massivescissorsthingperson , @kaoyamamegami , @sweetybuzz25 , @warrior-xe , @sheepispink , @enfppuff , @n-ae-vis

[seralahbloodhaven]

The Ubiquitous Mister Brackwater

TW/CW: GRAPHIC smut for humorous effect? Unethical job interview

When one encounters the surly hand of Fate, one might wonder how far back its machinations extend. Was it the ad in the paper? But she would not have bothered to read it were her family not dead and she was alone, left to her own rather morbid devices. Did Fate take them in screaming agony just to set Seralah on this singular path? It would never be possible to say, but it would be pondered much later when, in the still watches, she would wonder if the price she paid was worth it. 

Lady Seralah Stellara Agatha Bloodhaven lived all alone in the sprawling Bloodhaven Manor in Eversong. The sole surviving member of her House, she lived as though she were in some strange fairytale. Oh, not the ones read to children to help them sleep, no. The ones that were dark, cautionary tales. Had Seralah not been rich, folk would likely think her far more menacing than merely eccentric. But because she had enough money and a good family name, her strange hobbies were not given the proper scrutiny. 

Rumors, being what they are, largely exaggerated her activities. Seralah was not doing blood sacrifices nor hosting ritual orgies in her mostly empty manor in Eversong. But that is what people thought and thus, friends quit calling and there were no more suitors. Only some of the rumors were true, and far less salacious. 

Regardless, the ensuing years left her lonely. Especially after her expulsion from the Alchemy Guild. Her life fell into dreary patterns of much the same every single day. Like the ghosts of her family that haunted the manor, stuck in a loop of repeating time, Seralah too felt she was trapped. 

Until she saw the ad in the paper. She met all the qualifications: she was an orphan, she would not be missed if she were to die, and she had an open mind. Finally, a way to the break the doldrums, something to change the loop she was in. 

The Doctor subjected her to a rather…intimate sort of examination, but Seralah had an open mind and as she’d never had any sort of employment before, so she assumed the strip search was common practice (it wasn’t). After, there was some kerfuffle hardly worth mentioning and she had the position as Doctor Heathcliff Dracone’s laboratory assistant and resident Master Alchemist! 

He put her atop his spectral steed and whisked her away and it all felt very out of focus. The world was suddenly cast in pastel smears and a sweet dreaminess settled over her as they rode away from Silvermoon. 

And because he had a vested interest in a certain famous pillowbook, Island of Depravity, he asked her to read from it. He wished to know all about Arothir Brackwater. 

And since, once again, Seralah had never before been employed, she didn’t find it irregular that her boss asked her to read erotic literature while they shared a saddle. 

She took up the book and looked quite prim sitting there, gazing down at the filth-filled pages. However, it was all quite unseemly. Heathcliff had a young woman in his employ with her pert bottom pressed against his groin, his arms caging her in as she began to read some of the most ribald and lurid things he’d ever heard. 

Seralah cleared her throat. “This is one of my favorite passages,” she told him with a look over her shoulder, eyes twinkling in mischief. 

“Arothir Brackwater slid his broad shoulders under Lady Lyriel’s plump thighs and used his rough, calloused fingers to pry apart the swollen, arousal slicked lips of her cunt,” Seralah said, her voice not wavering. She read not as one would a medical journal, not clinically. She read it as one might an exciting children’s adventure tale. Without any shame and all the enthusiasm. 

“As she whimpered in anticipation, he dragged his tongue up the seam of her slit until her thighs quivered and her hands sunk into his mussed, raven dark curls,” she went, stopping only to lick her leather-gloved thumb to turn the page. Slowly. She went on. 

“He devoured her quim like a man starved and only the slick, musky nectar of her sex could provide him any sustenance. He groaned into her pussy, his hand around his cock, pumping it furiously, the passage of his fist eased by how much his cock had wept for her already.” 

Her voice was so…chipper. She seemed delighted by every word! There was no hint of shyness and as she finished that passage, she laughed, a naughty little snicker. 

She went on, “His long, thick tongue speared into her tight entrance which had been desperately fluttering and clenching around nothing. Oh, she felt ever so empty, wanting only to be impaled upon his throbbing, drooling tumescence.” She shook with laughter. “Goodness, that bit is a tad overdone. Tumescence is not the most arousing word for cock, I should think.”

The ride ended with her nearly toppling out of the saddle and onto her face when her boot became entangled in the stirrup. Into his arms she’d crashed, far too comfortably and far too gently. They gazed at each other a little too long. 

And then a man fell from the sky. Which was the least interesting part of the day. 

Seralah was grateful when he stepped away and made no mention of the awkward moment. Though she’d never been employed, she doubted it was wise to flutter at one’s boss. 

And then the imposing castle comprised of ominous spires and mismatched architecture, threw open the doors, rolled out a violet carpet and showered her with rose petals. It was a most ostentatious and…odd way to be welcomed to her place of employment, but Seralah was charmed and delighted and falling right into the hands of Fate without realizing it. 

@wraheathcliff

[justarandomreaderxoxo]

Shadows of the Heart: Chapter 8

Every Scar, Every Step

Summary: After a brutal and bloody campaign to avenge Natasha, you vanish into silence—pushed away by your guilt, grief, and the belief that love cannot survive the wreckage you carry. Wanda, still reeling from the violence and heartbreak, begins to piece together the truth of your past to understand the woman she still loves.

Word count: 9208

Pronouns: She/Her

Age: 24

Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Warnings: Graphic violence, Gun violence, Injury, PTSD, Emotional trauma

Previous Chapter | Important Flashback | Next Chapter | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The pause stretches for a heartbeat.

“You don’t call unless it’s bad,” Frank says. His voice is rough gravel and smoke, the same as the day he walked away.

“It’s about to be.”

“Whose blood is it?”

“Mine. And someone else's. Someone who shouldn’t be part of this.”

Another pause.

“You hurt?”

“No.”

“But you’re bleeding.”

You don’t answer that. He knows you well enough not to need it.

A breath, then the low click of a magazine being loaded on his end of the line.

“Where?”

You look out over the city; eyes locked on the rooftops beyond the window.

“New York. East end. We’re going after Castillo.”

Frank chuckles, dark and hollow. He’s quiet, then speaks again.

“Okay.”

You hang up without another word.

Back in the war room, the others look up as you return.

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Who’d you call?”

You slide your phone into your coat.

“An old friend,” you say. “And our last warning.”

You arrive in silence.

No lights. No insignias. No hesitation.

The city smells different than home. Dirtier. Staler. The kind of place where bodies disappear and no one asks where they went. You like that. You plan to make a lot of them disappear tonight.

The estate sits on the edge of a dried-up industrial district. Once a processing plant. Now it's been gutted and twisted into a fortress by a two-bit drug king who thinks housing Castillo earns him protection. It doesn’t.

You and Frank Castle sit in the back of the van. He checks his mags without a word. His face is stone, but you can see the storm behind it.

Across from you, Bucky sharpens a blade that already has notches in the hilt. Sam tightens the grip on his tactical shotgun. Steve straps his shield across his back. No speeches. No plans. Just movement. Just war.

Clint’s voice crackles in your ear. “Rooftop position secured. I’ll make sure no one runs.”

You push open the back doors and step into the cold night air.

It begins.

The front gate folds like paper under Steve’s shield. You’re in before the guards know they’re under attack.

The first two die without a sound. Bucky drives his knife up under a man’s chin and rips it out the back of his skull. Blood sprays across the concrete like a busted pipe.

You slit a throat so fast the man tries to speak before he realizes his voice is gone. He collapses face-first in a puddle of his own lungs.

Then the real noise begins.

Gunfire erupts. Alarms blare. Shadows pour out from the building like rats. They fire blind. You fire with purpose.

Frank takes a shotgun blast to the vest and laughs. Then he opens up with a machine pistol and cuts through five men like wheat. He kicks a door down and plants a combat knife in a man’s chest so deep it lodges into bone. He leaves it there and picks up another.

You storm through the eastern corridor with Bucky at your side. A man throws a grenade. You catch it, throw it back. The explosion coats the hallway in flame and pieces of bone.

Screams follow. One man tries to crawl for cover. You catch him by the ankle and drag him back through broken glass, then shoot him in the spine and walk on.

You enter a storage room where three lieutenants are trying to rally. One shouts your name. You silence him with a shot through the teeth. Another pulls a machete. You let him swing once, twice, then shoot his kneecaps out and leave him to bleed on the floor.

Frank moves behind you, leaving a trail of corpses. His face is red. His chest is red. His arms are slick with blood. None of it is his.

You are no different.

You are drenched. Soaked to the wrists in warmth that is not your own. It coats your boots, drips from your coat, runs down your jaw like sweat.

You keep moving.

Clint’s voice cracks again in your ear. “One tried to run out the garage. He won’t again.”

“Anyone else?”

“Two heading toward the west hall. Steve and Sam are on them.”

You push open a door and find four more. You don’t slow down.

You let them shoot first. Let them think they have a chance.

You put a bullet in one’s face. You stab another in the stomach and twist until he pukes blood. You throw one through a plate-glass window and finish him with a hammer to the throat.

The last one begs.

You put your gun to his forehead and whisper, “You backed the wrong man.”

Then you pull the trigger.

You meet Frank in the main atrium. His knife is dripping. His knuckles are bruised to the bone. Your coat is no longer black. It’s red.

Neither of you says a word.

Not yet.

Because this is not done.

Castillo is still alive.

And you are not done burning.

You wipe a smear of blood from your cheek with the back of your hand. It leaves a fresh streak down your skin. You don't care. You stopped caring after the seventh body hit the floor.

The estate is quiet now.

Only the dead remain.

You hear Steve’s voice over comms. “Main floor clear. Sam’s with Clint on the south exit. Bucky’s sweeping the cellars.”

You and Frank move in tandem, boots heavy with blood and broken glass. You know where Castillo will be. Cowards always crawl into the darkest corner they can find.

And you made sure to leave only one door open.

He’s in the panic room.

You reach it through a back stairwell, past the remains of two more guards who tried to slow you down. One had his arm blown clean off by Frank’s rifle. The other took three shots to the chest before you put one in his mouth just to be sure.

You stop at the steel door.

Frank pulls out a charge. Slaps it on the lock. Stands back.

You nod.

The blast rattles the hall. Smoke pours out into the corridor. You walk through it.

Inside, Castillo is crouched behind a tipped-over metal desk. His hand is on a pistol, but he does not raise it. He knows.

You step in slowly.

Your coat is soaked in red. Your gloves drip with it. Your face is painted with it.

Frank follows close behind. He says nothing. His eyes burn.

Castillo starts to shake. You can see it now, the look in his eyes. Not fear of death. Fear of something worse.

“Go ahead,” he spits, trying to sound braver than he is. “You want it so bad, finish it.”

You tilt your head.

“I’m not here to kill you.”

He laughs, short and bitter.

“No? Then why the fuck are you-”

You shoot him in the leg.

He screams, slams to the floor.

You walk over and press your boot to the fresh wound. Hard.

He chokes on the pain.

“I’m not here to kill you,” you repeat. “But I need you to feel it.”

You lean closer, crouching beside him.

“You made a mistake when you went after her. You should have known I’d tear through cities to get to you. That I would never let it slide. But you didn’t think I’d be merciful, did you?”

He snarls through gritted teeth. “You think this is mercy?”

You grab him by the collar, drag his broken body to his feet, and whisper against his ear.

“No. This is a delivery.”

Frank steps aside as you slam Castillo against the wall and cuff him. You keep the pressure on his wound just long enough to make him scream again.

Then you drag him outside.

The others wait by the armoured transport. Steve. Bucky. Sam. Clint above on the ledge. All of them watching, silent.

You toss Castillo to the ground.

“We’re taking him to New York.”

Frank wipes his blade on his sleeve and steps back.

“Nat gets the kill,” you say.

No one argues.

No one speaks.

Because everyone knows what this is.

This is not justice.

This is a gift.

And Natasha Romanoff never leaves debts unpaid.

The drive back is silent.

Castillo is cuffed, half-conscious in the back of the armoured truck. His leg is wrapped just tight enough to keep him breathing. You sit across from him, eyes fixed, heart unmoving. You do not speak. You do not offer comfort. Frank sits beside you, arms crossed, watching the bastard like he’s daring him to twitch.

The others follow behind.

You arrive just before sunrise.

You do not take him to a prison. You do not take him to a safe house. You take him to a quiet neighbourhood on the far edge of Brooklyn. The house is old. Two stories. Faded blue paint. A rusted mailbox.

It is the house where Castillo grew up.

You had it found weeks ago. Kept it waiting.

Now it becomes the last place he’ll ever see.

The moment Natasha sees him, she doesn’t move.

She stands in the open doorway of the living room. Her ribs are still wrapped. One arm in a sling. But her eyes are sharper than ever. Cold and clear. Focused only on him.

You shove him forward.

Castillo stumbles. Bleeding. Cuffed. Weak.

He looks up and meets her eyes.

The colour drains from his face.

“You,” he mutters.

Natasha says nothing. She steps aside and lets you drag him inside.

The house is empty. No furniture. Just wood floors and dust. The smell of old wood and forgotten years. You push him down to his knees in the middle of what was once a living room.

She steps forward. Slowly.

You stay back.

Frank leans against the wall near the door, silent.

The only sound is Castillo’s heavy breathing and the soft click of Natasha’s boots on the floor.

She stops in front of him.

Her voice is quiet.

“You put a bomb in my car. You sent a gunman to my sister’s building. You sent men to shoot my family in the back.”

Castillo laughs, dry and wet with blood.

“I wanted her to feel what I felt,” he spits, looking past Natasha toward you. “Loss.”

Natasha crouches in front of him.

“You came for my blood. Now you’ll drown in yours.”

She pulls a knife from her coat. Short. Serrated. Familiar.

It was her mother’s.

She drives it slowly into his thigh. Not deep. Just enough to make him scream.

She doesn’t flinch.

“This is for my sister,” she whispers.

Another stab, this one under his ribs.

“This is for the child you almost killed.”

She grips his chin, forces him to look at her.

“And this... this is for me.”

The last stab goes through his chest. Clean. Swift. Right between the ribs.

Castillo gasps.

His body trembles.

Then stills.

Blood pools around him like spilled ink.

Natasha breathes in once. Then stands.

She looks at you. Eyes hollow. But calm.

“It’s done.”

You nod once.

Frank opens the door. You all walk out into the dawn.

The city breathes again.

And the war is over.

You send the message just after midnight.

Short. Direct. No fanfare.

You can come home now. It's over. If you still want to.

You stare at the screen for a long time before locking the phone and setting it face down on the counter.

You don’t expect a reply. You don’t even know if she should come back. But the city is quiet now. The blood has dried. And she deserves to decide for herself.

You don’t sleep.

Morning rolls in heavy and grey, clouds pressed low against the skyline. The kind of morning that feels like it should be raining, even if it isn’t.

You’re sitting in the SHIELD bar, nursing a glass of water, your coat still draped over the same stool it’s occupied since the night you returned.

The door opens.

You don’t need to turn around.

You feel him before you see him. The way the air shifts. The tension that follows him in.

Pietro.

He walks toward you without hesitation. His boots land heavier than usual. You can tell he hasn’t slept either.

You glance up as he stops in front of you.

No smile. No warmth. Just fire under ice.

“You sent for her,” he says.

You nod. “She deserves the choice.”

He leans on the counter beside you. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t relax.

“She’s not the same.”

You swallow once, slow. “Neither am I.”

“She still dreams about the café,” he says quietly. “About the blood. About the way your hand wrapped around that gun. Do you know what that did to her?”

You stare straight ahead.

“Yes.”

He exhales sharply through his nose.

“I don’t hate you,” he says. “But I would’ve, if she didn’t come home safe.”

Your hand tightens around the glass. You don’t speak.

“She loves you. God knows why. You bring violence everywhere you go.”

“I tried to keep her out,” you reply.

“You failed.”

He finally turns to look at you directly. His voice drops.

“If you hurt her again, I won’t threaten you. I’ll bury you. And I know exactly how deep your empire goes.”

You meet his gaze. Calm. Unshaken.

“She comes first,” you say.

He studies you for a moment longer. Then, with a nod, he steps back from the counter.

“She’s in the city,” he says. “She didn’t want to rush. She wasn’t sure if you’d be ready.”

He looks toward the door.

“Make sure you are.”

Then he’s gone.

The silence that follows is heavier than the one before.

You finish the water and set the glass down.

This time, you don’t reach for a weapon.

You wait.

The day drags on, stretched thin between anticipation and dread. Every footstep outside the SHIELD bar makes your chest tighten, but none of them are hers. You don't check your phone. Not because you aren't hoping. Because you're afraid you already know what you'll find.

When she does arrive, you feel it before you see her. The silence shifts. The city, the bar, your breath, everything stills.

She steps inside quietly; her fingers curled around the strap of a soft canvas bag. No makeup. No armour. Her eyes meet yours across the room, and for a moment, the world tilts back into place.

You rise slowly, unsure whether to move toward her or wait. She answers for you, walking halfway to the table and then stopping short.

You study her posture. It isn’t distance. It’s restraint. The difference hurts more than it should.

“Hey,” she says softly.

“Hey,” you echo, voice dry.

She looks around the bar, then back at you. “I thought about calling. But I needed to see you.”

You nod, not trusting your voice.

There’s a long pause. She shifts her weight, her hand tightening slightly on the bag strap.

“I’m not here to leave,” she says, eyes flicking toward you. “But I’m not here to fall into anything either. I need time. I need... space.”

The words fall gently, but they hit like a blade.

Something in your chest seizes. The room feels smaller.

You nod again, slower this time. You look down at your hands. One of them is shaking. You hide it beneath the table.

“Right,” you say. “Of course.”

She steps forward slightly. “Y/N, I just-”

But you're already standing.

Too fast. Too rigid.

“It's fine,” you cut in. “You don’t owe me anything. I knew what this was. I should have never let you get pulled into it. I ruined everything I touch.”

Her face shifts, brows drawing together, but you don't let her speak. You can't. Because if she says anything more, you might shatter right in front of her.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, already turning toward the door. “Take all the time you need.”

You don’t look back.

You don’t wait for her to call your name.

You walk out with your jaw clenched and your eyes fixed on the street ahead.

Because this is what you were built for.

Loss.

And this time, you're sure you earned it.

She watches you walk away; her fingers still curled around the strap of her bag like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. Her mouth is half open, your name caught behind her teeth, but it doesn’t come out.

She came here knowing it wouldn’t be easy.

She didn’t expect easy.

But she didn’t expect that look on your face either. The one that told her you'd already made up your mind the moment she asked for space.

Wanda stares at the door long after it closes, her chest rising and falling too fast. The echo of your footsteps is already gone, but the weight of your absence lingers. It always lingers with you.

You misunderstood her. And she let you.

She should have reached out. Should have caught your sleeve or said your name or stepped forward. Should have told you that space didn’t mean goodbye. That she was here because she still loved you. That she was trying to find a way to love you without drowning in the fear of what she saw that day. Without collapsing under the pressure of a world she barely understands.

But her voice failed her. And you didn’t give her time to fix it.

She turns slowly, her steps quiet as she moves to the seat you left behind. She sinks into it, staring at the empty space across the table. You’d been sitting there just minutes ago, guarded and exhausted, trying to hold yourself together with nothing but grit and memory.

And now you’re gone.

Wanda places her bag on the floor and lets her head fall into her hands. The silence around her rings louder than any gunshot.

She whispers your name, finally, but only the walls hear it.

You had come back from war expecting ruin. She offered space, hoping it would be the start of healing. You heard it as the end.

She presses her palms against her eyes, trying to steady her breath.

You left before she could tell you that she still wanted you. Just not broken. Not bleeding. Not halfway present while carrying the weight of a hundred dead men.

She wanted you whole.

And now, she fears she might have to wait forever to see that version of you again.

If it even exists.

You leave the bar with your hands curled into fists and your breath stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. The cold hits your face, but it doesn’t slow you. You walk because it’s the only thing that feels like control, because standing still would mean thinking, and thinking would mean remembering the way Wanda looked when she said she needed space. You heard the words, but what echoed louder was the silence that followed. The absence of a promise. The lack of “I’ll come back.”

You tell yourself she’s better off. That maybe now she’ll be able to sleep at night without wondering if someone’s going to come through her window. That maybe she’ll smile again without tasting gunpowder in the air. You want to believe you’re doing the right thing by stepping out of her light. But deep down, some part of you knows the truth. You didn’t give her time. You didn’t ask what she meant. You just ran like you always do when the hurt is too close to name.

Inside, not long after your footsteps vanish down the block, the front door creaks again. Wanda doesn’t lift her head right away. Her hands are folded in her lap, her shoulders tense, her thoughts a thousand miles away. The silence is thick, heavy with everything left unsaid. She only looks up when she hears the slower, softer steps crossing the room.

Natasha enters without a word.

She takes in the scene quickly, eyes scanning Wanda’s posture, the hollow look in her face, the way the chair across from her is pushed back slightly, still warm from where you sat. Nat doesn’t say anything at first. She just walks over to the empty chair, takes off her coat, and eases down slowly, careful with her injuries. Her ribs are still healing, and her left arm is strapped to her chest, but none of that seems to dull her presence.

You aren't there to see it, but if you were, you'd recognize the look she gives Wanda. It isn’t pity. It isn’t judgment. It’s something closer to reflection, like she sees her younger self sitting in that same spot, aching for someone who couldn’t stay still long enough to be loved.

“She thought I was breaking up with her,” Wanda says finally, her voice soft, raw. Her fingers tighten around the edge of the table as if it might steady her.

Natasha leans forward, good arm resting against the table. “Were you?”

“No,” Wanda breathes. “I just needed time. Everything happened so fast. I still wake up hearing the gunfire.”

Nat nods once, slowly. “And she wakes up thinking she’s the one who pulled the trigger on everything that ever mattered.”

Wanda’s eyes flicker. “I didn’t want her to think I was leaving. I just wanted her to know I need to heal before I can be whole for her.”

“She doesn't know how to wait in the quiet,” Natasha says. “She hears space and assumes it means distance. She hears pause and thinks it’s the beginning of goodbye.”

Wanda looks at her then, really looks. “I didn’t know how to stop her.”

“She’s used to people walking away. So, she leaves before they do.”

There’s a long silence between them. The kind that carries weight but no blame. Natasha picks up the half-empty glass you left behind and takes a sip. She grimaces slightly. Warm. Stale. Still, she sets it back down gently, like it means something.

“She thinks she scared you,” Natasha replies. “And maybe she did. But not because of the violence. Not really.”

Wanda's eyebrows pinch. “Then what?”

“She let you see her,” Natasha says. “That’s the scariest thing she’s ever done.”

The words land hard. Wanda blinks, processing them like a weight pressing against her chest. “I didn’t run from her. I ran from the blood. From the version of her that had to exist to survive. I was trying to understand how to love that person without losing myself.”

Natasha studies her for a long moment. “Did you figure it out?”

Wanda nods, slow and sure. “Yes. I want her. All of her. I just don’t want her to think I only want her when she’s bleeding.”

“You should talk to her,” Natasha says. “And this time, don’t let her walk first.”

Wanda nods, slowly, lips pressing together. Her eyes drift back to the door you disappeared through.

You’re already long gone.

But maybe, just maybe, not too far to come back if someone dares to chase you.

And Wanda finally knows she has to be the one to move first.

What none of them expected was the silence.

Not the kind you wore in meetings. Not the pause between commands or the stillness before a kill. This was different. This silence was complete. Final. It began the moment you walked out of that bar, and it never ended. You didn’t go home. You didn’t show up to SHIELD. You didn’t even answer the phone when Fury called, and he never called unless it was serious.

Someone reported you as sick. Someone else updated your schedule to “unavailable.” But it wasn’t anyone in your crew. You had left no orders. No instructions. You had simply disappeared. For two weeks, no one saw your face. No one heard your voice. Not Yelena, not Natasha, not even Clint. You weren’t at the manor, the safe houses, or the quiet apartment on the river where you used to vanish for the weekend. Every trace of you had been wiped clean, like you had stepped off the edge of the map and let the shadows swallow you whole.

You didn’t plan it. You didn’t sit down one night and decide to disappear. It just happened. One morning bled into the next until you didn’t know what day it was. The phone was off. The mirrors were covered. The only sound was the slow, steady beat of your heart, and even that felt wrong. You ate what was necessary. Drank enough to keep the ache down. And every night you lay down on a mattress that might as well have been stone, staring up at a ceiling that would never offer comfort.

It wasn’t about Wanda. Not just about her. It was about everything. The blood. The weight of your name carved into walls and skin. The ghosts that refused to fade no matter how many bodies you stacked between you and them. You got your revenge. You finished the war. And yet, here you were, more lost than ever. You told yourself this was the cost. You told yourself you were protecting her. But deep down, you weren’t sure you believed that anymore.

You replayed that moment over and over again. Wanda’s voice, soft and uncertain. Her eyes wide, but not cold. The way she had looked like she was choosing her words carefully, not because she wanted to leave, but because she didn’t want to hurt you. And you had turned your back before she could even finish a sentence.

Maybe that’s what hurt the most. Not the silence. Not the distance. But the way you made her choose between truth and goodbye without giving her the time to understand either.

You didn't want to be found. But part of you was still waiting for someone to try. You were nowhere to be found.

Not in the places that had once been safe. Not in the corners of the city where your influence reached deepest. Not even in the silence you usually used like armour. And so, Wanda turned to the past. If she couldn’t find the version of you that lived in the present, maybe she could begin to understand the one that came before. Maybe, just maybe, that would lead her to you.

It began with Natasha. A name. A location. A warning to be careful where she dug.

The first time Wanda saw the estate, she understood. Not just the scale of your family's legacy, but the weight it must have carried on your shoulders. The building itself was nothing more than ruins now. Vines growing through broken stone, charred remains where a fire had consumed what had once been beautiful. But even in its ruin, it was still elegant. Still commanding. Wanda stood at the gates for a long time before pushing them open and walking through, each step slow and reverent, like she was trespassing on something sacred.

This was where your parents were killed.

And suddenly, the coldness in your eyes made sense. The silence. The walls. The fact that you had once watched everything you loved turn to ash and still stood tall afterward. Wanda let her fingers trail across a piece of scorched railing, her thumb brushing flakes of blackened paint. She tried to picture the child who once lived here. The child who had smiled. The one who had known softness before it was ripped away.

There was an old basement that had survived the fire. Sealed off, reinforced by SHIELD years ago, then forgotten. Wanda had clearance now. Fury had not denied her. Maybe part of him knew she needed this too.

Inside, it was colder. Dustier. Preserved in ways the upstairs could never be. A place where time had simply stopped. There were photographs on the wall, somehow spared by the fire. One of you as a child - around seven - standing between your parents. Your father stood tall, sharply dressed in black, his hand resting on your shoulder with firm pride. Your mother was softer. Not in presence, but in the way her eyes followed you instead of the camera. She looked dangerous. Beautiful. Someone you had clearly taken after.

Wanda stared at the photo for a long time.

This was the bloodline you had never spoken about. The legacy you had buried beneath a different name. The fire that built you, and the silence that raised you after it was all gone.

There were newspaper clippings too, tucked into an old wooden box. Headlines about the explosion. The assassination. Whispers about who might have been behind it. Political hit. Gang war. Rival syndicate betrayal. No arrests. No justice. Just another tragedy folded into history.

And yet, you survived.

Wanda sat on the floor, knees tucked to her chest, the box of clippings open beside her. Her fingers were smudged with ink, but she didn’t care. For the first time, she felt close to you again. Not because of the weapons or the empire or the blood you shed. But because now she understood what it had cost you just to become who you were.

She realized then that you had never really let her in. You had shown her pieces. Let her stand in the light while you fought in the dark. But you had never shared this.

This was the origin of your silence. The root of your rage. The reason your name still echoed in back alleys and haunted the men who dared speak it.

This was why you left when she asked for space. Because all you had ever known was being left.

Wanda wiped her fingers clean and stood slowly. She looked around the space one last time, then reached into her bag and pulled out a small, folded photo. It was of you and her, smiling, mid-laugh, from the last rooftop breakfast you shared.

She placed it gently inside the box.

“I’ll find you,” she whispered into the silence. “And when I do, I won’t run.”

Then she walked out. And the ghosts stayed behind.

Natasha had one arm still healing and a drink she hadn’t touched. Wanda sat with both hands wrapped around a warm cup of tea she didn’t remember ordering.

“Was she always like this?” Wanda asked, her voice quiet but not hesitant. “This… withdrawn?”

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes drifted to the place you usually sat, the chair still slightly turned as if expecting your weight to fill it.

“No,” she said finally. “She used to be worse.”

Wanda looked up, surprised. “Worse?”

Natasha’s lips pulled into a half-smile. Not amused. Just knowing. “Back when she was still learning how to be human again. After her parents were killed, she didn’t speak to anyone for almost two years. Not a word. She communicated through notes and hand signals. Fury tried to get her into therapy. She scared the therapist so badly on day three, the woman never came back.”

Wanda swallowed. “What changed?”

“You did,” Natasha said, not looking at her. “And before that, Clint. Me. Yelena. People she couldn’t push away fast enough. We kept showing up. Every day. Every scar. Every mistake. Every time she disappeared, we waited.”

Wanda was quiet for a long moment.

“She thinks I left her.”

“She thinks she became everything she warned you about.”

“But she didn’t.”

Natasha finally looked at her. “Then you need to tell her that. Because the longer she sits in the dark, the more she starts to believe she belongs there.”

Wanda gripped the cup tighter. The warmth barely reached her fingertips.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You don’t need to,” Natasha said. “You just have to show up.”

The bar stayed quiet. Outside, the rain started again, soft against the windows. The world kept moving, but Wanda’s thoughts stayed with you.

She didn’t know where you were. But now, she was starting to understand why. And that was enough to light the first spark.

Fury never said much. That was his way. He let the world assume he always had the answers because most of the time, he did. But there were things about you that not even the most seasoned operatives could figure out. Things that never made it into any dossier, not even the classified ones. Things buried in blood and memory, in instinct and habit.

So, when the rest of the team gave up searching, when Clint stopped pacing rooftops and Steve stopped combing through logs, Fury stayed silent. He didn’t check the safe houses or the supply routes. He didn’t bother with cameras or pings.

He just waited.

And on the first of the month, he walked into the bar where Wanda sat alone, holding your name like a wound, and said two words.

“I know.”

He drove her himself.

Didn’t say a thing for the whole ride. He just kept his eyes on the road, fingers loose on the wheel, the hum of the engine the only sound between them. Wanda didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t need to. Somewhere in her chest, the answer had already settled like a breath she hadn’t taken in weeks.

They pulled up to the cemetery just as the wind started to shift. The sky above was a dull silver, neither mourning nor forgiving. Just cold.

Fury led her past the newer stones, past the clean rows and polished marble. He knew exactly where to go. He had been there once before, when he first found you as a blood-soaked child kneeling over two bodies that would never speak again. He had been the one to carry you away, to bury the names behind locked doors and secrets. But this place? You had kept it sacred.

And you never missed the first.

There you were.

Slouched against the headstone, legs stretched out and boots half-caked in dirt. Your shirt was wrinkled, collar tugged open, sleeves bunched around your elbows like you had stopped caring how they sat on your skin. A half-empty bottle of vodka sat by your side, the cap long gone. Your jacket was on the ground, folded too roughly to be neat, as if you had tried and given up halfway.

Your head leaned against the side of the grave; the one marked with your mother’s name. Your eyes were closed. Not asleep, not drunk enough to be lost, but heavy with something deeper. Something darker.

Wanda stopped walking.

Her breath caught in her throat, fingers curling at her sides.

You hadn’t heard them yet.

Fury gave her a long look and nodded once. No words. Just a quiet retreat, steps fading back toward the car. This wasn’t his moment. It never had been. He had brought her here for a reason, and now, it was time to let the rest unfold.

Wanda stepped forward slowly, each movement measured, as though approaching a wounded animal, or someone halfway between breaking and rebuilding.

She stopped just a few feet away.

You didn’t move.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was. You had felt her before you ever heard her. That was the problem, wasn’t it? You could never stop feeling her. Even when you tried.

Her voice was gentle, almost inaudible.

“You kept coming here.”

You nodded slowly, eyes still on the stone.

“Every first of the month,” you said, voice gravel and regret. “Doesn’t matter where I am. Doesn’t matter what’s burning. I always come back to them.”

Wanda crouched down beside you. Not touching. Not pushing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your mouth twitched. A tired, bitter smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Because I wanted you to see who I could be. Not who I’ve always been.”

She looked at the bottle, then at your hand resting limply on your thigh, the knuckles scraped raw like you’d punched the earth itself.

“I went to your house,” she said. “The one that burned. I saw what they took from you.”

You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her.

The edges of you were frayed, eyes rimmed with the kind of red that didn’t come from alcohol. You looked like a man who had tried to hold the world and failed but kept the scars anyway.

“I didn’t want you to see the girl they broke,” you murmured. “So, I gave you the one I rebuilt.”

She reached for your hand, slow, certain, and closed her fingers around yours.

“I want all of her,” she said. “Even the broken pieces. Especially those.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t pull away either.

The moment her fingers wrap around yours, something in your chest loosens. Not all the way. Not enough to feel like breathing. But just enough to stop the slow, steady collapse you’ve been feeding for days. Her touch is warm, steady, without expectation. She doesn’t press you for words. Doesn’t fill the silence with apologies or soft, sweet promises that everything will be fine.

She just stays.

The cemetery around you is still. Even the wind seems to pause, as if giving you both space to exist in this fragile, in-between moment. You look back at the stone. The lettering is worn, carved deep into the granite, but softened at the edges from time and rain. Your mother’s name. Your father’s name. No epitaph. Just a date. Just an end.

“I didn’t cry at the funeral,” you say quietly, your voice distant, like it belongs to someone else. “Not even when they closed the coffins. I just stared at them, waiting for one of them to sit up and say it was all a test.”

Wanda shifts slightly beside you, her thumb brushing against your knuckles.

“I didn’t cry until a week later. In the middle of the night. No one heard me. No one ever did.”

The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s thick with memory. With the ache of a life shaped by shadows, raised on instinct, forged by necessity. You close your eyes for a second and let the past rush in. The smell of smoke. The sound of your mother’s laugh. Your father’s hand resting on your shoulder the last time he ever said your name.

“I’ve built so many walls to keep them close. But all it’s done is keep everyone else out.”

You turn to Wanda then, really turn, and meet her eyes. They’re glassy but strong, a storm held behind quiet restraint.

“I thought if I gave you space, I was protecting you from this. From me. But all I did was prove I never really believed I deserved you.”

Wanda’s grip on your hand tightens. Not painfully, but with purpose. Like she’s anchoring you to the here and now. To her.

“I didn’t need protection,” she says softly. “I needed honesty. I needed you. Not the version you thought I wanted. Just you.”

You feel something rise in your throat then. Not words. Something heavier. Something old. The part of you that learned silence before it ever learned to ask for help. The part that always assumed love had to be earned by bleeding for it.

“I don’t know how to be with someone without ruining it,” you admit, the words dragging out of you like broken glass.

Wanda shifts closer, her other hand rising to brush a streak of hair from your temple. Her touch is light, but the weight of it lands deep.

“Then we’ll learn together,” she says.

You want to believe her. You want to reach for that hope and hold onto it with both hands. But a part of you still trembles, even now.

So, she moves first.

She leans in, forehead resting lightly against yours, her breath mingling with yours in the still morning air. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just closeness. Just truth.

“We’ll start here,” she whispers.

And in that moment, you let her. You let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, love could live even in a place built on graves and ghosts.

You let her stay.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe.

You don't remember how long the two of you stayed at the cemetery. The bottle remained untouched after that first conversation, forgotten in the grass. Your jacket was still rumpled where you'd dropped it, but Wanda picked it up without a word, shook the dirt from it gently, and folded it again, better this time before draping it over your shoulders. The quiet between you wasn’t heavy anymore. It was shared. Not something you sank under, but something you carried together.

When she asked if she could take you home, you didn’t hesitate. You didn’t ask which home, or for how long. You just nodded. And you let her lead you away from the ghosts.

The drive was uneventful. You didn’t speak. Wanda kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting between you, palm up, just in case you wanted to hold it. You did. And you didn’t let go.

Her apartment was warm when you stepped inside, and you realized you hadn't felt warmth in days. Maybe longer. You sank onto the edge of her couch without even thinking, your legs too heavy to carry you farther, your head already starting to lower in exhaustion. But she was there before you could fall. Her hand found your arm, guiding you gently, voice soft as a blanket.

“Let me take care of you.”

You had spent your whole life taking care of others. Protecting. Fighting. Bleeding for the ones you loved. But now, for the first time in years, someone was offering you softness without a price. You didn’t know how to accept it, but your body did. It surrendered before your mind caught up.

She helped you out of your boots. Pulled the jacket from your shoulders and set it over the back of the couch. Her fingers were patient as they unbuttoned your shirt, only halfway, just enough so you could breathe properly. She brought you a glass of water and sat on the floor at your feet, waiting until you drank every drop.

The smell of her apartment was different than yours. No steel. No gun oil. No antiseptic. Just lavender, faint and comforting. A candle burned somewhere in the corner, and the sound of the kettle on the stove reminded you of early mornings long before blood stained your name.

She coaxed you into the shower next. You tried to argue at first, said you’d be fine, but she gave you a look that shut that down instantly. You stood under the water while she waited just outside, passing you fresh towels and clean clothes, they were hers, oversized on your frame but softer than anything you owned. The steam worked something loose in your chest, and for the first time, you let it fall. You didn’t sob. You didn’t break down. You just stood there and let the hot water run over your face until it washed away everything you couldn’t say.

When you stepped out, she was there with tea. Chamomile. Lightly sweetened. She placed it in your hands like it was something sacred. You drank because she needed you to. Because she wasn’t going to let you fall apart without at least trying to hold the pieces.

She let you rest your head in her lap as the hours passed, her fingers running slowly through your hair, over your scalp, along the side of your temple. You didn’t speak. She didn’t ask questions. She only watched you, her expression unreadable but full of something steady. Something safe.

Eventually, she guided you to bed. You didn’t resist. You let her pull the blanket up to your chest, tucking it just beneath your chin. You felt her settle beside you, not pressing too close, just enough that you knew she was there.

And that night, you slept.

No gun by your side. No boots at the door. No alarms in your chest.

Just Wanda’s breath steady beside yours. And the faint, unfamiliar feeling of beginning to heal.

You didn’t hear the knock when it came. You were too deep under, pulled into a sleep your body had needed for far too long. The kind of sleep that doesn’t come often, not for someone like you. It wrapped you slowly, softened the sharp edges in your mind, dulled the ache behind your ribs. You didn’t dream. Not that night. It was the first time in weeks that the silence in your head wasn’t haunted.

Wanda heard the knock.

She had been lying next to you, half awake, not wanting to move. She had grown used to the shape of your breathing, the way it shifted when you started to stir or quieted when her hand rested gently over your chest. But the knock pulled her up, carefully, quietly. She slipped from the bed without disturbing you and padded down the hallway, her bare feet silent on the floor.

When she opened the door, Pietro stood there.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked past her, eyes scanning the room as if checking for threats. Or maybe just checking to see if she was really alright. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, and his jaw was tight. Wanda crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorframe.

“You didn’t call,” he said, low and casual, like he was trying not to sound like he had been pacing his apartment waiting to hear from her.

“I was going to,” she replied. “But I needed to be here. With her.”

Pietro gave a short nod, eyes flicking past her shoulder. “So, She’s... alive.”

Wanda’s lips pulled into something between a frown and a tired smile. “Barely. But yeah. She’s sleeping.”

He looked like he wanted to say more. Maybe something bitter. Maybe a comment about how you didn’t deserve to be in this home, in her bed, not after the way you disappeared. But instead, he took a step back and sighed.

“I just needed to make sure you were safe,” he said. “That’s all.”

Wanda tilted her head. “And maybe to check on her?”

Pietro rolled his eyes. “Don’t push it.”

She smiled, really smiled this time, and reached forward to touch his arm.

“She’s not okay. Not yet. But she let me bring her back. That has to mean something.”

He stared at her for a long moment. Then, softer than before, he asked, “Did she eat?”

Wanda nodded. “Drank some tea. Slept for six hours straight.”

Pietro looked relieved, though he’d never admit it. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away.

“I hated seeing you hurt,” he said. “But if this is what you want... I’ll try.”

Wanda stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He hugged her back without hesitation, pulling her close in the quiet way siblings did when there were no good words left. When she pulled away, he cleared his throat.

“You call me if she slips. If she breaks again.”

“I will,” she promised. “But she’s here now. That’s the first step.”

Pietro nodded once, then gave the apartment one last look before backing away.

“Tell her... no. Never mind. Just keep her breathing.”

Wanda didn’t push for more.

She closed the door, leaned against it for a moment, and then turned back toward the bedroom.

You were still asleep; your body curled slightly toward the place she had been moments ago. Your face was softer now, the tension in your brow eased. She returned to your side, careful not to wake you, and laid down again.

And this time, when she closed her eyes, she let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the only one being rebuilt.

Peace never lasted long for you. Not fully. Not really. But for a few days at Wanda’s apartment, it lingered longer than usual. Enough to make the stillness feel unfamiliar. You woke to quiet. To soft tea and warm showers. To meals Wanda insisted you finish and silence she never forced you to break. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t push. She simply stayed close. Her presence was enough. Her steadiness more powerful than anything you could offer in return.

But the calm was always temporary. You felt it building like a storm you knew you couldn’t stop. And on the third day, it came.

The knock at the door wasn’t a knock at all. It was thunder. Sudden, hard, unrelenting. Four hits, then five more. Like someone was trying to break through the wood with their fists alone. You rose from the couch slowly, setting down the mug Wanda had made you, and Wanda moved to answer it first.

But you stopped her.

Something in your gut knew.

You walked to the door, shoulders still sore, ribs tight from days of tension finally beginning to thaw. You unlocked it, pulled it open, and there she stood.

Yelena.

Her eyes locked onto you instantly. Her hair was messy, face flushed, and every emotion she had ever tried to bury was written clear across her face. Anger. Fear. Relief. All wrapped in a silence that felt like screaming.

Before you could say a word, she stepped inside and shoved you hard in the chest.

You didn’t move.

She hit you again. Not with her fist, but with the edge of her palm. Hard. Sharp. Right over your heart.

“You don’t get to disappear,” she spat, voice already cracking.

Another hit. You let her.

“You don’t get to shut us out. Not after everything. Not after we stood by you.”

She kept hitting your chest, not with enough force to break, but enough to bruise. Not your skin. Your soul.

Wanda stepped forward, concern flashing in her eyes, but you lifted a hand gently. Stopped her with a look. She didn’t understand, not fully. But she trusted you. So, she stepped back.

You stood still. Let every strike land. Let her shake. Let her rage.

And then Yelena broke.

Her hands fisted in your shirt as she slumped forward. Her body hit yours, her forehead pressed into your chest. You caught her immediately, arms wrapping around her small frame as she finally stopped fighting.

“You didn’t call,” she whispered, her voice muffled. “You didn’t even leave a note.”

Her shoulders trembled. Your fingers threaded gently through her hair as you held her close.

“You didn’t care what that would do to the rest of us.”

You closed your eyes.

She wasn’t wrong.

You had been selfish. You had vanished into your grief like it was yours alone to bear. You hadn’t thought of how it would feel for the people who loved you. The ones who would have gone to war for you, bled for you, waited for you in the dark with knives drawn and hearts open.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice thick. “I didn’t know how to stay. Not when I felt like I was already gone.”

Yelena clung tighter. Her breath hitched, her tears soaking into your shirt, and for a long time neither of you moved.

Eventually, her grip loosened, but she didn’t let go. She stayed pressed to your chest, like she was anchoring herself to the part of you that had finally come back.

You glanced over at Wanda, and she just nodded. No words. No questions.

Just you, standing in the wreckage of your silence, finally surrounded by the people who refused to let you disappear without a fight.

You held her tighter as the tremble in her arms turned to shaking. You didn’t need her to explain. You already knew. You knew the fear that had lived inside her every day since you vanished. The anger was a mask, and now that it had broken, all that was left underneath was pain. And love. A lot of love.

You leaned your head down, your lips brushing against her temple as you spoke, the words soft and familiar. The language of home. Of family.

“Ty moya sestra. Ya vsegda vernus’. Vsyo khorosho, Yelena. Ya zdes’.”

Her fingers curled into your shirt again at the sound of your voice, trembling harder for a moment before slowly settling. Her breath hitched once, then again, and then she let out a long, broken exhale. A surrender. Not of strength, but of weight. She had carried too much in the space you left behind, and now that weight was finally being lifted.

“Ne dumaĭ, chto ty dlya menya nichego ne znachish’. Ty moy mir.”

You felt her nod against your chest, and after a moment longer, she finally pulled away. Her eyes were red, her cheeks damp, but the storm had passed. She swiped her sleeve across her face, then looked at you with that same old fire you had missed, tempered now with understanding.

“I’m still mad at you,” she muttered switching to English. “But I’m glad you’re not dead.”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh, and that was enough to pull a faint smile from her.

You motioned toward the couch, and the two of you sat downside by side, the distance between you replaced by something quieter, safer. Wanda brought a blanket and sat on the other side of you, but not before exchanging a look with Yelena that wasn’t just permission, it was recognition.

The two women who had waited for you. Who had found you. Who had held you together when you forgot how to hold yourself.

Yelena glanced at Wanda, a little wary still, but curious. “So, you’re the one she disappeared for.”

Wanda smiled softly. “I suppose I am.”

“She’s difficult, you know,” Yelena said, arms crossed, eyes narrowing playfully. “You sure you want to keep fixing this one?”

Wanda chuckled. “I’m not trying to fix her. Just trying to love her right.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lifted slightly, impressed despite herself. She nodded once, then leaned back into the cushions.

“Good. Because she’s got the emotional range of a bulletproof refrigerator.”

You groaned under your breath. “You just cried on my chest five minutes ago.”

“And I will deny it until my grave,” Yelena shot back, smirking through swollen eyes.

Wanda laughed, warm and real, and you felt something inside you shift just a little. It was the sound. The way it filled the room. The way the air didn’t feel so heavy anymore. There was no blood here. No ghosts. No weight that couldn’t be shared.

The three of you stayed like that for a long time. No drama. No missions. No expectations. Just you, Wanda, and Yelena curled together on a couch too small for the history between you, speaking in quiet tones and glances, learning to exist in the kind of peace none of you ever believed you’d earn.

And for the first time in a long time, you thought maybe this could be enough.

Ty moya sestra. Ya vsegda vernus’. Vsyo khorosho, Yelena. Ya zdes’. - You are my sister. I will always come back. Everything’s okay, Yelena. I’m here.

Ne dumaĭ, chto ty dlya menya nichego ne znachish’. Ty moy mir. - Don’t ever think you don’t matter to me. You are my world.

[popodoki]

Hey, teacher! aka my motorcycle Catwin AU, part 5

still sfw! Fancy that x

Edwin’s grateful for the small pile of laundry Thomas left on the bed for him to busy himself with. Ignoring the warmth of his cheeks, he peers at the washing label of the faded band t-shirt on the top of the pile, as he passes back through the guest room, and notices Thomas's leather jacket hanging off the bedpost. 

He shouldn't. But he does. 

Leather has always enticed Edwin. Whether it be a fine pair of Italian gloves, an expensive belt that compliments his suit so nicely, or a finely crafted genuine leather book cover. Oh, he’s long filled up the most beautiful notebook collection from England. Pure poetry, the combined scent of paper and leather. The soft creak of the spine, the shift of paper, the scrape of his pen.  

The smell of leather has always enticed Edwin. 

The jacket in his hands is black and worn, obviously not cared for in the traditional sense. There are some cracks, mild damage to the cuffs, all to be expected if worn every day. There is a large piece of artwork on the back, stitched there by someone who knew what they were doing, even if they weren't classically trained in tailoring. It's a large depiction of an orange cat, with fierce golden slitted eyes, predatory gaze locked on the viewer, as if following along with every angle. Charming, in a sense.   

Along the bottom, in a very ornate yet blocky script, framed beneath the orange cat’s unsheathed glinting claws, are the words "Cat-o-nine Carnivores." The name doesn't ring a bell, but he supposes it shouldn't. In any case, Edwin appreciates the wordplay. 

On the front of the jacket is a name patch, that reads "Cat King." Well at least Thomas wasn't lying about that. Edwin idly wonders if it's a name he gave himself, or one given to him by his peers. Or subjects? Is Thomas the leader, self-dictated King? Does he have a clowder of other leather-clad, motorcycle-riding, vagrants, with kind eyes, strong hands, broad chests…Next to it is a patch that looks like a cat’s paw print, claws out, tinted red as if bloodied. Above it, a smaller patch, a neon red crown framed in a pair of equally bright turquoise rings. Under the guise of wanting a closer look at the decorative patches, Edwin brings the jacket close to his face. His ruse falls away immediately the moment the scent of the worn leather fills his nose. Leather softly creaks in his white-knuckled clenching grip, as Edwin buries his nose near the collar and breathes in the mixed scent of the jacket itself, and the hints of Thomas’s cologne, sunk and buried into the inner layer of soft leather, from repetitive usage. He stands there, fills his nose and lungs with the enticing combination of smells, until even the air leaving his mouth tastes the same as the air flowing in with every deep pulling breath. 

Edwin hears the shower stop, and he almost trips over his own feet in his haste to get out of the guest room. He barely remembers to re-grab the small pile of laundry on his way out. The washing machine and clothes dryer are out on the back porch, and he takes in a breath of fresh air to calm his nerves as he deposits the clothes into the washing machine, with a more than modest helping of soap.   

The next stop is the kitchen. Settling on a light dinner, something filling, yet easy enough on the stomach, he thinks. Pulling ingredients out of the fridge, Edwin sets to chopping his small selection of vegetables for the stir fry. He’s almost ready to add them to the chicken, setting the bowl next to the wok, while he peers into the fridge again in search for a lemon, mentally going through the contents his spice rack.  

He hears a strange noise from the doorway, realizes with a start that Thomas is standing there, impersonating the sounds of a trumpet. "Presenting," he affects a posh accent, "the most well-dressed man in the room." Thomas ends the statement with a flourish, taking up an appropriately dramatic pose, and Edwin immediately bursts out laughing. Full bodied, head thrown back, so open and loud he fears he might come across as rude, but he can’t help it, and he doesn’t think Thomas minds, judging from his expression. It’s not something Edwin can currently decipher, struggling to blink away tears, but its near enough encouraging, as is the way Thomas keeps up his exaggerated stretches, arms swinging to and fro, to highlight, to, to entertain him. 

To Edwin’s credit, the pyjamas almost fit. At first glance. The pants are… They would be fine; if Thomas had seen fit to actually roll up the ankles. As is, the bunched-up fabric seems to pool around and over his feet, in a damning contract to the way the fabric seems to struggle at the seams near Thomas’ hips. Lengthwise, Edwin reasons their size discrepancy is easy to ignore. But there’s no denying their difference in build. The shirt ends a good four to five centimeters above the waistband of the pants, leaving an exposed stripe of abs, offering a hint of Thomas’s bellybutton. To say the rest of the shirt properly covers the remaining chest, would be straining the truth about as much as the material seems to strain with every push of Thomas’s chest, even just as he takes a breath. Edwin’s honestly surprised a button hasn’t popped off. It seems painted on him around his shoulders, and the sleeves stop well above his wrists. It's almost as if he's wearing a child's shirt. It cannot be comfortable. 

Edwin clearly underestimated their differences, but he can't stop laughing long enough to apologize.  As he gasps for breath, he actually snorts, which sets Thomas off on his own fit of laughter, except his is louder, unrestrained. He clutches the wall with one hand, his ribs with the other, beaming smiles sent Edwin’s way at the end of every bout, before he inhales, loses the air again to laughter, and Edwin reflects on what it must look like; two grown men, giggling so hard they can't speak, in the middle of his kitchen.   

Finally, Edwin is able to get himself under control, straightening, hand moving without much thought to lower the settings of the furnace, add the vegetables, while he wipes an errant tear off his cheek.  "I'm so sorry," he chuckles apologetically, "That cannot be comfortable, let me get you a T-shirt or something.” He busies himself for a bit with stirring the food, checking for any signs of burning. Nodding to himself in relief when he catches no sign of the meal lessening in quality, he turns his head to Thomas. “Do you want a different set of trousers, as well?" He adds. 

"All good, Edwin. I’m actually used to walking around without a shirt." Thomas grins, fiddling with the too-small shirt. “Do you mind?” Thomas asks, and Edwin shakes his head in a negative before he’s consciously thought of it, but truly, why would his opinion matter on something another likes to do in the comfort of his own home? He’ll just go look for the biggest shirt he owns, offer it as an option.  

Edwin turns back to the food for a final stir, before he heads back upstairs, hears the rustling of fabric, the scrape of a chair, imagines the shirt is getting neatly folded over the back. Oh.  

Edwin is partly relieved his guest feels comfortable enough in his home. He keeps his eyes on the food. Maybe just a bit more stirring. He has to make sure it doesn’t burn.  

[fandom-gt]

COMMISSION TYPE: Full Page +1 addon

PRICE: 65

FANDOM:  MCU

CHARACTERS:  Steve Rogers

REQUESTED SUMMARY: ”I'd love a continuation of the growing Steve Rogers quick fill! He's a few kilometers tall and is just getting off on his new power and size, Avengers try to stop him but are absolutely powerless. And when he's done he ends up tripling in size again. Please keep me anonymous when you post this!”

WARNINGS: Violence and implied tiny death, mass destruction, nsfw

——

Steve Rogers has been a large man for a number of years now. Ever since they slipped his small, skinny body into that machine and let him come out the other side feet taller, a hundred pounds heavier, muscular and strong, he’s known that he was always supposed to be big. It felt good at first, but after a while, a secret part of him had kind of wished for just a little bit more. 

Finally, here smack-dab in the center of New York City, Steve’s finally got his wish. He stares down at the roaming little dots that make up people, the slightly larger little squares that must be cars, and a thrill of absolute satisfaction runs through him. 

Everything below him, every building, every structure, every person, is tiny. The ruined tatters of his uniform are all but invisible to his naked eye now, and it’s only because of the serum enhancing his eyesight that he can even make out vague details of those ant-sized people.

He kneels, naked, knees crushing pavement and concrete and roads and sidewalks and anything that happened to be in their way as he grew, massive craters beneath his muscular thighs and calves, with barely even the hint of resistance despite being made of reinforced steel beams and the finest construction the human species is capable of. It all crumples like paper under him.

What really gets him going, once he notices it, though… is the tiny cracked crater underneath the place his cock gently dipped and smacked onto the road. Even it, even just the engorged head of his member, is enough to devastate what must be most of a city block. It brings a surge of heat through him, has his balls tightening, and he can’t keep himself from reaching down to wrap a hand around it.

Down below him, the world is in chaos. He cannot hear the screams, he doesn’t know the sight that he makes to the regular-sized humans trapped underneath his crotch. Tony stares up from his place on the cracked and broken sidewalk, mouth agape in utter disbelief even as he engages the nanite of his Iron Man suit. 

Steve’s too large for him to take in all at once. All he can see at first is the shadow of his cock filling Tony’s skyline bigger than any skyscraper, the size of an entire mountain, with every vein and every ridge and every wrinkle of it in hyper-vivid super-high definition detail. 

Before him, he watches in horror as a new monumental event enters the chaotic landscape — Steve’s massive hand descending from the heavens to wrap around his titanic dick. The rush of wind blows back signs and people’s hair as his hand moves forward in one stroke so big it almost seems slow-motion thanks to the scale. The sound of it, skin on skin, is deafening. People too close to him feel their eardrums splitting under the immense pressure of Steve’s low grumble.

That’s not what scares Tony. What scares him is the glistening pearl of precum that buds at the volcanic crater of Steve’s slit. It builds in size, in volume, an avalanche of sticky fluid, and he knows with a great, mounting horror that the second it drops, it’s going to wipe out an entire apartment building. 

One single drop of precum will devastate dozens of people, will wipe out entire households, and Steve doesn’t even seem to notice — let alone care.

This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. He has to do something -— and so he kicks off, the rockets at his feet carrying him up, up, up a full kilometer in the air. Even with all that upward thrust, he still barely manages to make it to Steve’s waist. 

One sharp jerk of Steve’s wrist sends a gust of air that throws him out of balance, sending him careening head over foot and slamming into a wall of flesh.

With his back against something sticky, he realizes in horror what he’s stuck to right as he sees the barreling momentum of Steve’s hand in his next jerk. He’s swallowed in an avalanche of skin, and lost on Steve’s body.

Steve did not even see him. Steve didn’t even notice the little speck lost in his lazy masturbation. He’s too busy staring down at the ground beneath him as another growth spurt ripples through him, carrying him outward, carrying him upward. He must be miles tall now, he can’t even imagine the math, he can’t even compare it.

What he does know is, all those little grid lines beneath him are city blocks, and his dick spans a dozen of them. He also knows, with a rippling jolt of pure arousal, that if he were to come… if he were to just jack off and finish, it would flood an entire city.

And god, that thought gets him harder than anything ever has in his entire life. His hand works harder, works faster, jacking his cock with a renewed frenzy that sends the population between his thighs into despair. They know what’s going to happen, and it’s all they can do to run — knowing that even if they move as fast as they physically can, even if they hop into cars and somehow escape the gridlock of traffic, even if they manage to put literal miles between themselves and the place Steve’s testicles crush their city, they won’t make it far enough in time.

And they’re right.

Another groan rumbles, and this time every single person in the state of New York can hear it. Windows shatter under the sound of it. Earthquakes shake tremors in the ground through voice alone, to say nothing of the untold devastation as Steve shifts on his haunches to dip forward and press the head of his dick into the ground, rutting through entire counties and leveling them in one aimless, heated hump.

As he rolls his hips, as his enormous glutes tighten in fervor, as he drags himself along irreverent to the thousands of crushed people beneath him, Steve Rogers wipes Queens off the map entirely with one earnest rut. 

It’s too much. He shifts again, one elbow planting on the ground, his knees and thighs comfortably stretched out beneath him, and he works himself hard, mounting, building, wide blue eyes forced open so he can watch it when it finally hits, when it finally happens.

His orgasm tears through him in a torrent of semen bigger than any tidal wave. His release washes through city streets, drowning everything, sticky and unstoppable. A flood, a thousand rivers, the best god damn thing he’s ever felt. Every person in its wake is consumed by it. And all he did was just let himself come.

[acapelladitty]

Riddler/Reader: Applied Physics

Summary - Restrained against the wall and unable to escape, you find yourself playing willful victim to the Riddler's latest machine.

This commission from the lovely @doctorvondooms, was deliciously fun to write and I'm thrilled to share it. Also available on A03

Pinned into place opposite his work desk, the restraints which wrapped around your thighs to keep them spread and pinned against the wall were surprisingly comfortable; the thick bands of padded metal allowing your weight to rest atop them effortlessly without digging into your skin too deeply.

Your wrists suspended overhead, his ropework is as inescapable as ever as your arms hang uselessly from a hook in the wall, bound into a tight, praying gesture. The nylon rope, a lurid green which had you biting your tongue from making a cheeky comment, wound around your arms in a pretty pattern to keep them together as you glance up at them with an appreciative hum.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Edward's smug voice catches you unaware and your eyes flick to his position as he moves to stand before you, filling the space between your prone frame and his work desk. "A perfectly crafted machine, designed to be a custom fit to reward and punish wanton little whores who insist on interrupting important work time."

Unapologetic as a nervous smile tugs at your lips, you can barely make out the metallic mechanism which sits beneath your spread legs due to the thick, dark silicone of the cock which is pointing directly at your throbbing cunt; the heft of it commanding your attention as your back arches off the wall.

"While you enjoy your little ride, I will be completing some very intricate mechanical designs which a man of my brilliant stature finds necessary to produce from time to time."

His body inches towards you, the soft crack of a lid alerting you to the bottle of lubricant which sits in his hands as he pours a little out and bends, presumably to coat his machine for an easier entry.

As he stands, you push forward from the wall - as far as the restraints would allow - to capture his lips in a filthy kiss. He tastes of coffee and, despite his clear surprise, he allows the kiss to continue for a long moment, his blunt teeth nipping at your lower lip until he pulls away.

"Whore." He accuses but there's no anger in his gaze and a very prominent bulge in his grease-stained slacks as he pushes his thinning hair back with the green goggles which are never too far from his head. "Regardless, everything appears to be in order."

Retaking his seated position at the desk, his fingers press on the small remote which sits off to the side of papers he plans to focus on.

Immediately a faint whirring comes from the machine beneath you and your breath hitches in anticipation; wetness pooling against your slit as you sit, fully exposed and revelling in the shame of the arousal which curls within your gut.

The tip of the silicone threatens your hole and you exhale deeply as your body relaxes to accept it. The material feels wonderfully cool against your heated skin as it pushes within you at a snail pace, allowing you to acclimatise to the punishing girth inch by teasing inch. Your teeth grit against the inhumane stretch as a mewl of discomfort breaks free of your lips.

Hearing the noise, Edward glances up from his papers, the small pencil in his hand pausing its frantic scribble.

"Ah, ah, ah." He tuts, disappointment colouring his tone as he wipes the graphite from his fingers to his off-white tanktop. "Surely your fragile little body isn't ready to give up already? We've barely even started."

Determined to not give an inch, you bite back the hiss which builds in your throat as the almost unbearable thickness stops its progression and begins to pull free, the friction against your walls sparking a deep pleasure which makes you clench your fingers together in their bound position.

The lube he has applied to the length did its job well as it allows the machine to set a steady pace which was in equal parts torturously slow and wickedly intense as it forces you to feel every movement. Your exposed tits jiggle slightly as your body shakes in place, a phantom ache in your nipples making you wish that Edward's fingers or teeth were in the fray, pinching them with his usual viciousness.

Edward gaze having returned to his work, you watch as his finger almost absent-mindedly trails along the desk to tap at the small button on the remote control.

The effect is instant as the silicon dildo picks up pace, now moving in a relentlessly smooth motion as it pistons in and out of your greedy hole. There's something deliciously shameful about your position, legs spread and unable to close in such as way that nothing is hidden from easy viewing, including your clit as it throbs with anticipation - awaiting a stimulation which wasn't on the cards.

Pleasure builds steadily as each stroke brushes your most sensitive spots with an almost cruel precision, the machine needing to take no pause for breath or to regain stamina. It's stunning in its ferocity, in the lack of human warmth or care which it affords you as you sit like a piece of meat, total victim to the whims of the man who is visibly pretending to keep his attention on his work while stealing glances every few moments to watch you writhe in place.

Another button press and something guttural snaps free of your lips as the machine picks up pace. It's brutal and unforgiving in a way that makes it difficult for your breath to regulate as freshly stimulated nerves alight across your punished cunt. Your fingers scramble against their restraints but it provides no relief as your first orgasm creeps up without mercy.

Riding the wave of pleasure, noises that exist in the space between moans and stuttered pleas for help fill the space around you as your head slams back against the wall, the onslaught of relentless overstimulation quickly growing unbearable.

Unseen due to your eyes being squeezed shut in desperation, Edward watches your torment with a predatory expression; his gaze sharp and his features twisted into open hunger. One hand taps away at the remote control which keeps his machine whirring away at a punishing pace while the other hand appears suspiciously absent but no less busy as it seems to have disappeared below his work desk.

The quiet of the room is long abandoned. Your broken grunts for mercy pairing sweetly with the soft huffs and growls of pleasure that slip free of Edward's lips as he watches you suffer at the hands of the machine that he so kindly deigned to provide for you. It was a casual symphony that would be ongoing for many, many minutes to come. To last until Edward was satisfied with his observations and the relentless pleasure-turned-torture had long since fried your mind into the foolish mush that he often claimed it to be.

[born-to-lose-writing]

No Road Romance – Chapter 14

Pairing: Roger Daltrey x reader

Summary: When you start going to The Who's shows, you regularly hook up with Roger, but after a while of being his groupie and a friend, you're beginning to think you like him more than that.

Tags: fluff, angst

Words: 1,366

A/N: I'm so sorry for the silence! Recently, I've been somewhat busy working on my own groupie turned crush situation myself 👀 Anyway, this gave me more inspiration to continue with this!

Tag list: @slit-skirts

Roger's career progressed and you couldn't be prouder. However, the success also brought more time away from him with it. As much as you would have liked to travel with him as you had been talking about, your schedule canceled that idea. You tried to console yourself with the saying ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’.

To make up for you not being able to join him on the US tour, he insisted on you accompanying him to the airport. Accordingly, you both woke up early in the morning to get ready and go over his luggage once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten to pack anything.

You let Roger get dressed before you while you stayed in his bed for a moment longer, thinking about last night and how much you would miss this over the next couple of months – how much you would miss him.

Before you had gone to bed, you had considered finally confessing to him but were distracted. Today after the alarm had rung and you both had turned around to face each other with sleepy smiles, you had considered it again, but he must have had too much on his mind already and you couldn't waste time you could need to prepare for his trip.

So you simply said good morning and asked if he wanted to use the bathroom first. Despite his flat being slightly larger than yours, the bathroom still didn't allow for two people in a hurry to get ready at the same time without going mad.

You were torn whether or not you should say anything at all. Would it be best to speak now or forever hold your peace? There seemed to be no in between, you either had to tell the truth now or never.

You picked up a daisy from the flower crown you had made yesterday and started ripping out the petals in true schoolgirl-with-a-crush fashion. You dropped the last one at ‘do it’. With a sigh and a racing heart, you took a small piece of paper and wrote on it, “Have fun in America! I'm in love with you”. Then you folded it once and slipped it into the back pocket of the pair of jeans he had laid on the bed to wear.

Returning from the bathroom, he climbed into the trousers and put on one of your shirts – this time one from the collection he had accumulated over the years instead of one he pulled out of your wardrobe, which didn't change the fact that it was yours, but he didn't steal even more from what was left of your clothes. However, that shouldn't matter as he had given you a spare key, so you could technically come and collect your things anytime. You didn't want to, though.

“I still wish you could come with me,” Roger said, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“I am coming with you,” you teased, a melancholic smirk on your face as you got up to head towards the bathroom.

“But only to the airport. I mean on tour, you’d like it there, I think.”

“One day,” you murmured, lightly smacking his butt before you closed the door behind you.

Standing in front of the mirror as you brushed your teeth, you reconsidered whether you should tell him personally instead of with a scribbled note. Maybe he wouldn't even find it and it would dissolve in the washing machine. Then again, you had already proven that you weren't great with verbal face-to-face confessions when you had asked him to come over after your little misunderstanding. In addition to that, you feared rejection and it might be easier to just let him read the note and pretend it never happened rather than sit in uncomfortable silence, or worse, end it with an argument.

You were so lost in thought that a brief look at the clock nearly made you choke, realizing you were going to be late if you didn't hurry up. Before you stepped out of the room, you forced a smile as if your feelings weren't eating you up from the inside.

“Ready to go?” Roger asked, ticking off the last item on the packing list and closing his suitcase. Nodding, you put on your shoes and grabbed the car keys.

Every second of the way to the airport was filled with the two of you talking. After all, you wouldn't get the chance for the next two months. In hindsight, you wished you had begged your boss for at least a week off. Although you would have had to apply for a visa as well. You were going to miss Roger a lot, more than usual, and you hoped you would manage to go to a few of his shows abroad soon.

The more time you spent together, the more your assumption that you were in love was confirmed. During his stay in England, you barely went four days without seeing each other. Maybe you were being delusional, but you had the feeling the air had shifted between you both. You wouldn't exactly call it romantic, but by Roger's standards you felt like it could be. Still, you weren't sure if your feelings were required or if this was simply how he acted once he was comfortable around somebody.

Of course, as soon as you had come to the conclusion that you really did love him, he had to leave again to let you ponder and tiptoe on the verge of frustration once more. At this point, you wanted to get it over with and tell him how you truly felt. However, you were waiting for the right moment which never seemed to come. And when you thought it was the right moment, you quickly chickened out.

Before you got out of the car upon arriving in the car park, Roger turned to look into your eyes, taking a breath and placing a hand on your thigh. Your heart started racing. Was he going to say what you were too afraid to say? Then he exhaled and hesitantly pulled his hand away, averting his gaze to look through the front window. “Let’s go.”

There wasn't a bitter atmosphere between you, though you couldn't help feeling disappointed. He opened the car door for you and you walked towards the airport arm in arm. Your heart fluttered at the casual proximity that didn't feel so casual to you anymore, as well as at the prospect of him discovering the note you had hidden. Now you hoped even more he would. Perhaps that would encourage him to speak up if he felt the same way.

At the terminal, his bandmates were waiting and you all started chatting a little, Roger not leaving your side. As his hand dived into his pocket to grab his lighter, you subconsciously clung tighter to his arm, but then you saw he only reached into the right pocket, which you had left empty. He flashed you a smile, probably thinking you wanted to catch his attention, and kissed your cheek before putting a cigarette between his lips.

When the time for final goodbyes came, you suddenly got insecure. Saying something as important as this with a note you had scrawled on a whim was a bad idea and so was saying it in a moment when he already had enough on his plate and couldn't need a – possibly unrequited – love confession for which he had to come up with a suitable response while having a whole tour ahead of him until he would be able to properly talk about it with you.

Roger pulled you in for a tight hug and you took the chance to slip your hand into his back pocket and take the note out, crunching it up in your hand. Facing each other again, he cupped your chin and pressed a soft kiss to your lips, followed by another more passionate one.

“I'll miss you, but I'll bring you some kind of souvenir, I promise,” he smiled, squeezing your hand before eventually letting go as he walked away, turning around to wave every now and then until he disappeared by the gate.