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houseofaegon · 1 month ago

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Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

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p1girlfriend · 25 days ago

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pre-race friction | LN4

CW: dry humping, semi-public setting, caught in the act, teasing, racing pre-game chaos, cheeky Lando energy

You really weren’t supposed to be in his driver room before the race.

Technically, you weren’t even credentialed to be there, which made sneaking past security a whole new level of thrill. But Lando looked so good in his race suit—half-zipped, messy curls, smirking like a menace—that you couldn’t resist crawling into his lap the second he locked the door behind you.

Now, you’re straddling him on the tiny couch, both of you breathing heavy, hips grinding in that rhythm that says we’ve done this before. Because, yeah, you have. But never this close to a literal Grand Prix.

“You’re killing me,” he groans, voice low and ragged, head thrown back just enough to expose the column of his neck. Your lips trail there immediately, licking a stripe just to feel him jolt under you. His hands grip your thighs through your skirt, thumbs pressing hard.

“You started it,” you mumble, moving against him again, feeling how desperate he is even through layers of clothing. “Coming out of the shower like that, all wet and smug... what did you expect?”

“Not this,” he huffs, bucking up into you. “Fuck—babe—I have a race in twenty minutes.”

“And I’m your warm-up.”

You’re laughing into his mouth when the door swings open.

“Lando, they’re waiting fo—bloody hell!” Max stares. Then blinks. Then slowly backs out, slamming the door shut behind him.

You freeze mid-thrust. Lando bursts into laughter under you, forehead falling to your chest. “Well. That’s gonna be fun to explain.”

You snort, still very much pressed against him. “Tell them I was testing your reflexes.”

He smirks up at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess, the zipper of his suit tangled in your fingers. “Pretty sure all of my systems are activated.”

You hop off with a wink, smoothing your skirt. “Good. Now go win something, driver boy.”

©p1girlfriend

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hearts4hughes · 28 days ago

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ೃ࿔:･ wallstreet!rafe fires the new employee who flirts with you

doug was a nice guy. hard worker. sharp with numbers, even sharper in meetings. rafe had liked him. that was until he looked at you.

the young boy was new, and when he laid his eyes on you, it was over for him. after all, how was he supposed to know you were off limits?

not officially, of course. there was no memo, no HR policy. just a quiet understanding that bounced through the halls like gospel. you were rafe’s. an implicit boundary no one dared test. well, except doug.

you never noticed. you smiled at everyone, laughed when people made jokes, didn’t catch the way conversations stalled when you walked by.

but the others noticed.

they saw how someone would lean in too close, ask if you wanted to grab lunch, maybe compliment your perfume. the next morning, their desk would be empty. cleared out. wiped clean. like they’d never existed. rafe never offered an explanation. and no one was stupid enough to ask for one.

you’re leaning against the front desk, coffee in one hand, laughing. rafe hears it before he sees it. the easy kind of laugh you save for moments when you’re not working, not thinking, just feeling.

it sounds too good. too familiar. and it isn’t meant for him.

doug’s standing close…too close. he says something with a grin, and you nudge his arm, playful and sweet, your lashes batting like you don’t know you’re the reason the entire room slows to a crawl.

you sip your coffee. you smile at him. and rafe sees red. he doesn’t show it, not really. just a tick of his jaw, a subtle shift in his stance. his eyes lock onto the scene like a sniper scope. you glance over and catch his gaze, but rafe doesn’t look away. not yet.

doug, oblivious and riding high on that smile of yours, goes about the rest of his day with a little more swagger. he thinks he made an impression.

he thinks he’s safe.

it’s dark by the time doug makes it to the parking garage. he’s halfway to his car when the sound of italian leather cuts through the silence.

“doug.”

he turns. rafe steps out of the shadows like the fucking reaper. his tie loosened, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled. that smug smirk? gone.

“mr. cameron- sir,” doug fumbles, standing straighter. “wasn’t expecting-”

“you weren’t expecting anything,” rafe cuts in, voice low, almost conversational. “that’s your problem.” he stops a few feet away, gaze pinned like a dagger. “you think I hired you for your charm? your banter?” a soft, humorless laugh. “i’ve seen your numbers. average at best.”

“sir, if this is about-”

“you touched what’s mine.” he growls, all mean and possessive. it takes all his control not to use the weapon tucked securely in his waistband.

doug blinks, face beet red. “i-i didn’t mean-”

“you flirted with my assistant like you had a fucking chance. like you didn’t walk past ten other desks cleared out before yours.” rafe steps closer, and doug visibly swallows. “i’ve buried better men for less. you’ll be gone by morning. pack your shit.”

he turns like the conversation bores him “and doug?” he adds, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. “if i see you near her again, you won’t need to worry about severance. you’ll need to worry for you goddamn life.”

the next morning, you walk into his office with coffee in hand and that same sweet smile. “doug didn’t last long, i see.”

rafe doesn’t look up from his desk.

“shame,” you add, just to push. “i thought he was nice.”

he finally looks at you. slow. deliberate. luke he was seconds away from breaking his composure. “he wasn’t.”

you sit, crossing your legs like you don’t feel his gaze tracing the curve of your thigh. you take a sip of your coffee. “shame,” you say again.

and smirk.

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thesvnandthemooon · 2 months ago

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𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: requested by a very dear reader on wattpad :)

summary: based on the song by justin timberlake; SHIELD agent!reader, iron man 2!nat because i rewatched it recently and goddamn 🤤

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), blood, descriptions of injuries

word count: 11.5k

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Practiced hands adjust seams and smooth over her arms. The fabric doesn't bunch, which is good — it wouldn't be practical during a fight. You tighten the straps around her thighs, making sure they're snug and secure, and then look up.

Natasha smiles at you and cups your jaw. Her thumb brushes along your bottom lip.

"Taking your time?"

"More like stalling."

It's dark in your lab. Machines whir, scanners beep occasionally. You're crouched in front of her, fitting and prepping her suit pre-mission. You've done this dozens of times. It's how everything started between you and her.

Back then, you couldn't believe your luck (you still can't), because who would've thought that being her weapons specialist would lead to what you have now? In hindsight, however, it makes sense.

It's intimate. It's quiet. It builds trust. You know her better than most people around here, which is a privilege. You know her favorite types of knives, how she likes her suit fitted, what exactly she needs to be able to perform at her best.

And then, afterwards, you go home. Other things matter, like her favorite candy (sour patch kids) or the show she's currently watching.

You adjust the suit around her waist, fingers skimming her hips. You secure a few holsters, attach some knives, and then straighten up. You feel her lips against yours before you can even look at her again.

Deep, firm, slow. Savoring it. You cup her face before slowly moving your hands into her hair. The curls are soft between your fingers.

She pulls away, but you can still taste her breath. Her lips curve into a sweet little smirk.

"Stalling, huh?", she mumbles, glancing at your lips. You lick them and taste the lip balm she loves so much.

"Yeah. They take a while. Missions, I mean."

"I'll be back before you know it."

Your hands trail down her sides again. You absently adjust her knives.

"Not soon enough", you say, pecking her lips. "Who's joining you this time?"

Natasha tilts her head. "I'm not telling you."

You frown. Truthfully, it might be for the better that you don't know. Depending on who it is, the answer might end up making you waltz up to said person and show her off just to make a point.

Mine. Seriously. Look, don't touch. Actually, don't even look.

She smiles and steps away. You quickly snake your arm around her waist and tug her back into you.

"I want an answer", you insist. Her hands splay out on your chest, toying with the zipper of your SHIELD vest. "For safety."

"Remember that lie detector test you took?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What's your point?"

She grasps your bottom lip. "No wonder you failed. You're miserable at it."

"Not necessarily a bad thing."

"Never said that's the case."

She steps away and gathers her stuff — her favorite gun, her backpack, her Widow's Bites that she puts on. You stand there, watching her, arms crossed and mind running in circles.

Hopefully, she's not going with Valerie. What they had was barely a relationship, but the entire organization knows that she's still pining for Natasha.

Or Ward. Nothing happened between them, to be fair, but you heard him call her 'eye candy' once.

Was he wrong? No. Did you mess with his suit anyway, just so it'd smell like something had rotted in it? Possibly.

"Be careful", you mutter, still slightly disgruntled.

"Always am." She shoulders her backpack. "Hands off Ward's stuff."

Your head snaps upward. "What? I didn't-"

"Lie detector test, honey."

You grunt, rubbing the back of your neck. Natasha puts her foot up on a chair to adjust the strap around her thigh. You catch yourself staring.

Behind you, something starts beeping rapidly. You quickly walk back to your and curse quietly. One of the new high tech gadgets you've been tinkering with has started sparking.

Natasha glances at you, trying not to smile. "New?"

"Of course", you mutter, trying to find what the issue is this time. You reach for the pliers and cut one of the wires. "Goddammit."

"Don't burn yourself."

You sigh and put the gadget aside. How unfortunate — you've been putting a lot of time and energy into this little project. It's a small gadget, merely the size of your palm, but its impact would've been huge. It's multifunctional, designed to help agents hack into databases, unlock different kinds of locks, even scan rooms for traps.

Of course, you mainly had Natasha in mind when designing it. She's complained about similar issues a couple times in the past, and the idea struck you when you were lying in bed together.

Whatever. Looks like you'll have to keep working. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you put ten weeks or ten months into it — as long as it'll end up making her life safer and easier.

"You're nerding out again", Natasha says, suddenly behind you, and presses a kiss to your exposed neck. Your cheeks flare up. "I'm leaving."

"A goodbye, maybe?", you say, turning to face her halfway. She pauses, then cups your jaw with one hand and puts the other on the small of your back.

She's not used to this yet. This having-someone-to-say-goodbye-to, tender thing. Having someone who wants that goodbye, and the obligatory kiss that follows. Someone who'll wait in the hangar when she returns. Someone who'll check up on her.

How couldn't you, though? The reason why you're doing it is standing right in front of you. You'd be an idiot not to care like this.

"Don't go all sentimental on me", she mumbles, finally kissing you.

It's softer this time, lingering even after she's already parted from you. You walk her to the jet, where the pilot is waiting already. Another kiss, a bit quicker, then she turns around. You watch her leave, red curls bouncing slightly as she climbs into the jet.

. . .

SHIELD's hallways are never quiet, never silent, never empty. There's always someone wandering about — whether it be security or agents getting from one place to another.

It's not different tonight. You're walking through hallways, boots thudding against concrete floors and your hands tucked into your vest. Comparing you to a dog would be stupid, but you're not too unlike Hachi in that moment.

You round a corner, greet a fellow agent and check the time. 2.40am, so Natasha should be arriving in about ten minutes. You run your hand through your hair and step into the hangar, where Fury is waiting already.

You give him a quick side eye. "Another one of those?"

"Immediate debriefing. Not much time, Y/L/N." He raises his eyebrows. "What're you up for this early?"

"Nat", you say evasively. "I always wait for her."

He nods. It's not that your private relationship isn't known around here. You've been seen kissing, sneaking into each other's workspaces, flirting over lunch and leaving together a bunch of times. But Fury always seems to assume that it just isn't that serious. That it can't be that serious.

You know what he bases that assumption on. It's not fair, or right, but you can't change the mind of a man who's as stubborn as a mule.

He'll always see Natasha as the person he was first introduced to. The girl from the Red Room, who wouldn't let anyone get too close to her. The one with the trauma, the one who built walls too high to climb and too thick to take down.

It's bullshit. You know it is because you've seen the proof. You've held it in your hands, you've seen it in a way no one else is allowed to. Which is exactly why you won't tell him about it, though. There are different ways in which you can protect someone.

You hear the spinning of engine blades, still muffled but slowly increasing in decibel level. As the jet nears the hangar, the sound gets less and less bearable. If it were only slightly louder, it'd cause you pain.

You walk down the stairs as soon as the jet has touched down. The moment Natasha steps out, though, your stomach turns.

Valerie, in all her glory. Straight black hair, a little nose piercing, her hand resting on your girlfriend's lower back and steadying her. She mumbles something and laughs before Natasha can even react properly.

In that moment, you're glad you left your taser in your office. Giving her a quick little shock probably wouldn't sit too well with Fury, and you're pretty sure Natasha wouldn't love it, either.

Thankfully, she spots you before you can say anything stupid. She's next to you in the blink of an eye, smiling softly, secretively, and squeezing your hand. She doesn't dare do much else, but that's fine. Just like that, Hachi is back home.

You wrap your arms around her and kiss the top of her head. Her head rests against your chest, if only briefly.

"How was it?", you mumble, ignoring the fact that the Director is trying to talk to the woman wrapped up in you. She tips her face up, letting your lips brush against her nose.

"Exhausting and painful", she replies, voice soft.

"No Ward?"

"Careful there."

"Can't blame me for asking." You glance in Valerie's direction pointedly. Natasha pinches your side. "What's she doing here?"

Natasha sighs and kisses your cheek. A rare moment of PDA meant to calm you down, but it ends up having the opposite effect. Valerie gives you a look that's entirely too long. You frown and turn back to Natasha again, your arms tightening around her.

Your little moment gets disrupted by none other than Fury. He pats your back with a little too much force, so you let out a long-suffering exhale and let go of her. Right, the debriefing. Another hour spent here, waiting.

You trail through the hallways, following Natasha like a guard dog. The debriefing room is familiar, with its black leather swivel chairs and long table. A fancy high tech screen hanging on the wall, a projector, the shutters closed so that not a single photon can escape.

You sit next to her. Obviously. She raises her eyebrows at you, but truthfully, she should be glad you didn't just say 'screw it' and pull you into her lap.

Fury stares at you like you just shapeshifted into an actual dog. You weren't part of the mission. All you did was prep her gear and fit her suit. You don't belong here. Yet you waltzed in like you do, and no one seems to be complaining.

Grinning faintly, you put your legs up on the table and cross your arms behind your head. You nod lazily.

"Feel free to start, Sir."

Another stare. A sigh, long and loud. He rubs his forehead and finally turns on the projector. A bunch of mission jargon, accompanied by a map and a few pictures, appear on the screen.

An hour turns into two. You leave the debrief room with your arm around her shoulders. You're tired, but she's drained. You know she'd never admit to it — you know she tends to push herself no matter what; even on the brink of death, she'd keep fighting — but you can see the signs.

The blinking, slightly more frequent. The redness in her eyes. The way her voice softens into a mumble.

She barely says anything on the way home. But as soon as you've entered her apartment, she pulls you into the bedroom with her. You're the one who fitted her suit, who made sure it's like a second layer of skin on her. You know every strap and zipper, and you undo them all blindly.

Your vest is shrugged off. It lands on the floor. Boots are toed off and kicked aside. Bodies fall onto the mattress together.

Right as you're kissing down her neck, hands wandering over her body, you feel something that shouldn't be there. A bandage, around her thigh, with dried blood on it.

First, you stare. Then, Natasha puts her fingers under your chin and tips your head up.

"You know what I think about you doing that."

You almost grimace. She hates it when people stare at her wounds and scars. It's not just a pet peeve — it's a deeply rooted insecurity. It's only a small part of what she tends to cover.

In that moment, though, you don't care. Because you know what Valerie was for on this mission. She was there to watch Natasha's back, to make sure she wouldn't get hurt.

"She failed", you say, sitting up. Natasha sighs and rests her upper body on her forearms. "She had one job-"

"And she made a mistake."

"One that could've killed you!"

"Do you really think I'm that easy to kill? Trust me, she's helpful, but she's not the reason the mission was successful."

You snort derisively. Not because of her, but because she thinks she has to remind you. Of course you know all of this. There's a reason as to why Natasha is so feared, why Fury values her so much. But you're looking for things that'll help you win this argument.

It's not really an argument. You're just pissed at her ex.

"I'm aware", you say, fingers brushing against the bandage again. "Still, you know...what's the point of her joining if you end up getting shot at, anyway?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, silently challenging you. Do you really want to hear this?

"Oh, come on."

"You're ridiculous."

"Okay, maybe I am", you concede. "You're still the one with a bullet wound, though."

She flops backwards onto the mattress. You sigh and crawl on top of her, hands braced next to her head, and kiss her.

She grasps the front of your top, lips pressing against yours firmly, essentially shutting you up.

Well, it shuts you up for exactly five hours. The second you're back at the headquarters in the morning, you drop Natasha off and then make your way to the gym. Boots thud, your steps heavy and determined.

You push open the door with such force that it slams against the wall, but Valerie doesn't bat an eye. She's on the treadmill, warming up, her hair in a sleek ponytail and her clothes tight. There's a band around her wrist that measures her vitals.

She barely glances at you. You stomp to her side and tug the earphones out of her ears. Another glance, slightly annoyed.

"What?”

"What do you mean, 'what'? You're the reason my girlfriend has to take antibiotics!"

She stops the treadmill and leans on one of the handrails. You'd love to wipe that look off her face — smug, unimpressed, almost daring. You used to be naive. You used to believe that no one could be that petty. Natasha's ex managed to prove you wrong.

"She's fine", she says, sounding like she's explaining the concept of love to a toddler. You clench your jaw. "She's not even in med bay. They sent her home."

"'Fine'? She got shot at! You were there to prevent it, and what did you do?"

"I tried", she replies curtly. She straightens back up and turns the treadmill on again, but you slam your fist on the stop-button. "What's with you and those anger issues?"

"You tried? You don't go there to try! You go there to do your fucking job!"

Valerie raises her eyebrows at you. You've never been nice to her, no, but you've never snapped at her like this. Truthfully, she thinks it's ridiculous. It makes her wonder why Natasha bothers being with you, but that's a thought she's not going to voice unless she has to.

"She's alive", she says, leaning back against the other handrail this time. Her arms cross in front of her chest.

"Oh, and that's enough? It's the bare minimum! I need to be able to trust you that you'll protect her!"

"No, you don't", she says. "Nat trusts me, and that's enough."

You almost flip the treadmill she's on, but that'd be overkill, so you lean over the handrail and grip it tightly.

"Not enough, apparently. Otherwise-"

"Agent Y/L/N."

You turn around, blinking. As soon as you see Fury's face, you almost roll your eyes. Of course. Who else would it be but the man who could fire you.

You put some space between you and Valerie to make it seem like you weren't about to chew her out.

"Yes, Director?", you ask, trying your best to seem normal.

"Romanoff's asking for you."

Maybe you should be embarrassed that those few words are enough to make you perk up, but honestly, you don't care. She's asking for you, not Valerie. When she needs to talk, she talks to you. You're jealous, and that's fine, but deep down you know there's no reason to be.

You shoot Valerie a pointed glance, then leave the gym.

. . .

"You're insane", she says, combing her fingers through your hair.

You're in the rec room, which is only empty because almost everyone is at lunch. Natasha, on the other hand, received a sweet little text that made her tug you away from the cafeteria.

She's straddling your lap, hands all over you. In the sweatpants and tank top she's wearing, you can barely focus. Too bad there are security cameras all over this place. The storage room falls flat as well. 'Too dirty', she said. 'So much dust.'

Though, if you hook up at work once, it might affect your performance for the rest of your career.

"She had it coming", you say stubbornly. Natasha raises her eyebrows. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what, exactly?"

You shift under her. She clicks her tongue and cups your face. "May as well tell me."

If only it were that easy. You doubt she hasn't noticed how Valerie stares at her, how she still seeks her out, how she wants what's clearly taken. You don't have ownership over her — obviously not, god forbid — but you're selfish. You know you are. If you could keep her to yourself, you would.

"The point is-"

"The point is you're overthinking this", she cuts you off. "Val and I are on good terms..."

(The nickname makes you fume. You bite your tongue.)

"...and I don't need to end up in a spat with a coworker." She pushes her finger into your chest. "And neither do you."

No reply. You stare at her, tongue between your teeth, a million unsaid things on your tongue. You're not sure if she hasn't realized or if she simply doesn't care, but you do have your reasons. Valerie is annoying, and she's petty, and she hovers around Natasha like she has any right to do so.

You don't like this feeling, either — this all-consuming jealousy. It's not something you're used to. But something about that woman just drives you up the wall.

"Fine", you mutter. "Fine, I'll let it go."

"You better."

"I still don't like her."

"Fair. I guess."

Natasha pecks your lips and scoots off your lap. You watch her grab the coffee pot and pour a generous amount. Sugar, no milk. Back to work it is.

You pick her up once you're both done with your shifts. Arm wrapped around her shoulders, you make sure to walk past Valerie's desk on your way out. She doesn't look at you, but her typing on the keyboard speeds up.

"Ha", you mumble.

"What was that?"

You shake your head and kiss her ear. She squirms at the feeling.

"Doesn't matter. I'm happy now, angel."

. . .

"Whose idea was this?"

"Hill", Natasha says, reapplying lipstick. You're in the elevator that leads to the building's top floor, but you're not here for work. It's Fury's birthday, and apparently Maria Hill decided that the grumpy old man deserves a proper celebration.

You're leaning against the wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of your slacks, an absentminded look in your eyes. A gift is tucked under your arm, your shirt is open at the top, but it's not your reflection that's got you this distracted. It's Natasha, looking at herself in the mirror and gently blotting her lips. Hair freshly curled and dress hugging all her curves, she looks unfairly sinful for an office celebration.

"Doubt he even wants a party", you mumble, eyes trailing lower. You exhale quietly. "That dress is a blessing, you know."

"So dramatic", she says, smiling faintly. "I'm not complaining. I want to see him get drunk. Think that’ll change his grumpy attitude?"

You hum. The elevator dings and comes to a stop, so Natasha links her arm around yours. You step into the hallway, her heels clicking with every step. You can already hear the music and feel the bass thump.

“Nothing could change it”, you say, eyes on her. She tilts her head. “A real Fury the Grouch.”

“Sesame Street?”

“I babysat my niece while you were gone. Don’t ask.”

Natasha laughs, the sound soft and raspy and genuine. She tugs you into an empty corner, hands finding the collar of your shirt, and brings her lips up to yours.

“Good thing you’re not a grouch. And even better that I know exactly how to turn a grumpy you back into a happy you.”

“It’s quite easy”, you affirm. Your hands slide to the curve of her back, keeping her close. “It involves you and the disposal of a dress.”

“Charmer”, she whispers.

Cheeks reddened, you smile. You lean in, slowly, and steal that kiss you’ve been waiting for since you stepped out of your apartment.

She tastes like mint and something entirely hers. Her fingers grasp your collar tightly, her skin is warm under your palms. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, one hand finding the back of your neck.

“Romanoff, Y/L/N! You really have no shame, do you?”

You pull away with a quiet groan and shoot a glare at the offender. Of course it’s Ward, because who else would it be but SHIELD’s most annoying agent.

Natasha doesn't even glance at him. She just smiles at the sight of your mouth, smudged with her lipstick, and swipes her thumb across your lips.

"Not your color", she says thoughtfully.

"Agreed", Ward says, putting a tray of horsd'œuvres down next to you. “You guys hungry? Probably not, since you’re eating each other’s faces. The salmon’s good, though.”

“Can you creep someone else out?”, you mutter.

Natasha smiles at you, which is enough to soften your attitude a little. Ward rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, Fury gets uncomfortable when someone holds hands. But keep the girl-on-girl action going, I’m not complaining.”

“I’ll shoot you”, you say, gripping Natasha’s waist.

He lifts his hands. “You can try.”

“That’s enough”, your girlfriend mumbles, patting your side. “Stay here for a moment, hm? I’m getting us something to drink.”

You hum reluctantly, staying in your spot against the wall. With your hands losing the purpose of holding Natasha’s waist, you have no other choice but to tuck them into your pockets.

She’s already halfway to the bar, hips swaying and red curls moving with every step. You sigh quietly and turn your head. The way you scan the crowd isn’t deliberate, but it’s purposeful. It’s you making sure that nobody is staring too hard.

You’re fine with Natasha getting looked at. Somewhat fine, that is. You know she’s gorgeous, and that others can see that too. Humans can’t help it — if something’s beautiful, they stare at it.

Or avert their eyes. Which is what happened when you first met her. But knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere with that attitude, you’d forced yourself to get your shit together. Thankfully, you didn’t make an idiot out of yourself. It worked out.

You still remember it all. First dates, leaning against bars and sipping whiskey. Getting to know her. Sleeping with her. The tingling feeling in your stomach whenever your phone made a sound — a text? A call?

That hasn’t changed. You still hope it’s her behind every phone call, every text.

Natasha leans over the bar and mumbles her order to the bartender. He nods and turns around. Valerie slides closer. Just like that, the mood shifts. It’s like a storm rolled in.

You’re somewhere between making a beeline for the bar and staying right where you are. After what happened last week, you’re sure she wouldn’t appreciate an unwarranted interruption by her girlfriend right now.

They’re talking, that’s it. Just a brief chat. They’re co-workers, after all. Friends. Exes. It’d be selfish of you not to let her have this, right? Even if they’re connected by history.

But Valerie’s getting closer. If you were in Natasha’s spot, you’d probably feel her breath and smell the cigarette she smoked.

You subtly feel for the gun tucked into your belt. It’s always there. Not a moment of peace for you, but you’ve gotten used to it.

Natasha smiles. Valerie tilts her head, scoots closer. Your heart beats faster.

Natasha gets up and turns around. Valerie stares at her, blinking. You quickly push off the wall to meet her halfway.

She wraps her arm around yours neck and holds the glass to your lips, tipping it. Vodka burns in your throat, your eyes water, and you pull away enough to kiss her. She hums, sucking the remaining alcohol off your tongue.

“What was that for?”, you mumble, rubbing her side.

“Thought you needed it. Tried to stop you from breaking her nose.”

“Oh, you…” You huff. “Alright.”

“You’re everything but subtle”, she reveals, putting the empty shot glass aside. “And shooting her really isn’t necessary, baby.”

You roll your eyes. Natasha smirks and tilts her head, nose brushing against your jaw. Her hand cups the side of your face. Your cheek feels warm beneath the pad of her thumb.

“I don’t know why you’re this chill”, you mutter.

“Because I know that Val can be sad and desperate”, she whispers. Her hand moves to your shirt, and she undoes another button. Palm against your chest, she feels your steady heartbeat. “And it’s you who’s taking me home tonight.”

You put your hand on her wrist, holding her hand in place. Your eyes slowly trail back to the bar, to Valerie; and when your eyes meet, she knocks back another shot.

She's looked pissed off before, but never like this. Time to amp up the heat.

"Taking you home, huh?", you mumble, glancing at Natasha's lips. "You're optimistic."

Natasha raises her eyebrows at you. Her hand, still on your chest, slides back up and into your hair. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying..." You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I don’t want to wait. Let me touch you."

She exhales. Her head tilts, her eyes search yours. What you’re doing is painfully obvious, but she can’t deny the thrill your words send through her. The idea is risky, but appealing.

You, her. Hidden in a dark hallway. Dress hiked up, lipstick smudged, your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Would you keep her quiet? Or would you try and do the opposite?

Your hand moves down her body and to her backside. You give it a light squeeze, and she gives you another glance.

Her hand grabs yours. You sneak away from the party and into the hallway.

Before you even manage to push her up against the wall, she's already pulling you closer. Your lips crash into hers, desperate and needy, and she clutches your collar. Your hands fumble with her dress, bunching it up around her hips.

The party is still in hearing distance. A pop song is playing instead of whatever techno music was booming earlier. You hear voices, muffled and blending together. Natasha’s lips press against your shoulder, your own trail kisses down her neck.

“Don’t leave a mark”, she warns, breathless, when you suck on her collarbone.

“Why?” You pull away enough to see the hickey blooming on her skin. “Looks good.”

She moans quietly and tugs you back in. Your fingers slide between her thighs, to the lacy underwear she’s got on, and nudge the fabric aside.

Moonlight seeps in through the window. You taste alcohol and mint. Wet heat envelops your fingers, and her back arches. You thrust in deeper, all the way you your knuckles, and kiss her through it. She pulls away, panting into your open mouth.

"Fuck."

"Don't make a sound", you mumble, peppering her jaw with kisses. "You'll get us caught."

A whine. Your free hand grips her thigh, hikes it up. Having better access now, you add a finger. She almost falls apart, and her moans and whines echo in the empty hallway.

A door opens and shuts. You angle your body a little, still fingering her relentlessly.

Butterflies and tingles, legs trembling and breath uneven. You hear footsteps, quiet and muffled. Your hand is drenched, her underwear is sticking to her thighs.

Another whiny moan. You shush her, curling your fingers and pushing them deeper.

"Not a noise, love. Or I'll make you come again. Want to go back in there shaking?"

The footsteps are approaching you. Natasha writhes, and you wrap your arm around her thighs to keep her in place. When she comes, it's loud and barely restrained. You laugh against her neck, breathless, and let her ride out her orgasm.

She slumps against the wall. You pull out and lick the excess moisture off your fingers. She watches you, dazed and spent.

"Back to the party?", you ask, already adjusting her dress with one hand.

"A moment", she mumbles, closing her eyes. "Good luck explaining this to Fury."

"Huh?"

She nods at the ceiling. You look up and huff. Security cameras, of course. Everywhere. Filming and remembering every moment, every gasp, every movement of your hand beneath her dress. You curse quietly.

"Goddammit."

"This was your idea", she says, adjusting her dress and smoothing it out. "Have fun dealing with him."

You roll your eyes and kiss her flushed cheek. Natasha's managed to go from looking wrecked to almost normal. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair a tad more disheveled, her cheeks still got a hint of color in them, but nobody would suspect that it's from anything other than a makeout-session.

Well, except for whoever checks the security cameras. You bite your lip when you realize just how much they'll see.

It's an odd feeling. Yes, they'll see way too much — but they'll also see you with her.

Natasha fixes her lipstick, wipes the smudges off your mouth with a napkin, then you return to the party. Of course, almost nobody noticed. They're too caught up in chatter and alcohol. Fury looks like he's about two minutes away from exploding. You can't blame the poor guy; he's surrounded by a bunch of drunk agents trying to get him to dance the Cha Cha Slide.

Valerie's ignoring you, but in that one way that lets you know she's trying her hardest to do so. She knocks back another shot, her jaw set.

You smile to yourself and let Natasha lead you further into the room. Once you've reached the middle, she wraps her arms around your neck and presses a quick kiss to your swollen lips.

"Round two in my office later?"

"Don't you dare", she murmurs.

"Shame."

The look on her face is unimpressed, but her lips twitch. You hug her closer to your chest, still swaying in spot. You dip your head and kiss her shoulder.

"Let me show you off", you mumble, running your hands over her back. Natasha smiles now, her face buried against your neck.

"You are, dumbass."

You hum. You can't argue, you are showing her off. You pulled her into the center of the room, the center of the universe, and pulled her into a slow dance that probably would've had her running a few years ago.

Her head tilts slightly, resting against your shoulder. She stays silent for a while, lost in everything happening around her.

The party, now a bit more quiet. The music, having changed to a slower rhythm. You, holding her.

The contrast between the thing in the hallway and the dance here is drastic enough to give her whiplash. But she's content, happy, silently and quietly. She's unlike you in that regard — no need to make a big scene of it. Keep things as lowkey as possible. Not everyone needs to know.

(Two days later, you get called into Fury's office because the person checking the security camera footage complained about emotional damage. You get banned from the hallways. Natasha's belief to keep things private is reinforced. All you hear is that your office is still an option.)

. . .

You're on the floor, cross-legged, Natasha's suit on the ground. A lightweight Kevlar blend you designed, adjusting to every movement. You straighten out the fabric and check for damage.

"The side is singed", you comment. "An explosion?"

"You don't want to know."

You shake your head and get up. Natasha unzips her jacket and peels it off, the tight fabric revealing creamy skin you're definitely not supposed to be staring at.

Her pants follow, then her shirt. You crouch in front of her and help her step into the lower half. You tug the fabric over her legs, smoothing it out as you go.

It's been a while since you started doing this. You should be used to it. But your hands brush her calves, her thighs, and your ears burn.

"Cold hands", Natasha comments.

"Stop squirming."

"Can't blame me, your hands are very cold."

You look up, jaw set. "Just...don't move."

She smirks as she lets you help peel the fabric over her arms. You grab the zipper and pull it up, slowly straightening up as you go.

When you're face to face and you've got her all zipped up, you don't let go. Natasha hums, watching you. You hesitate one last time — the quicker you're done, the sooner she's leaving for her mission. Again.

"You're staring", she mumbles. You let go and turn around, leading her into the weapons storage room. Tight quarters, as you barely fit in there together. But you make it work.

"I should be used to this", you admit, scanning the shelves. Natasha reaches over you to grab a gun, her front brushing your back. "But I'm not."

"Neither am I."

You grab her Widow's Bites and a couple blades. You turn around and fit the bracelets with an automatic look. Then you kneel in front of her, slide her belt into place, adjust it accordingly. The thigh straps follow — lord have mercy — and you tuck her weapons in. You tap each of the concealed items: the blades along her ribs, the guns, the taser.

Natasha brushes her fingers through your hair and makes you look up. She crouches, breathing more heavily, her lips right in front of yours. You smell perfume and gunpowder, leather and shampoo, cleaning solvents. Her breath is hot against your lips when she speaks.

"Blades are lighter."

"Shaved an ounce off", you mumble, blinking. "Makes it easier."

"Always thinking about everything", she replies. Her lips meet yours halfway and she kisses you with her fingers tangled in your hair. You grab her waist and keep her close, knees still on the ground, head tipped back slightly. It's warm, slow, enough to make you wish you could cancel the damn mission.

She pulls away. You clear your throat.

"I'm keeping an eye on Valerie."

"Oh no, you're not."

"She doesn't have a clue what she's doing", you say, getting up. Natasha sighs. "You got shot!"

"Her responsibility is to support me as best as she can and focus on the mission. She's not my babysitter, Y/N."

She turns around and picks up a scope. You narrow your eyes, silently trying to both find an argument and figure out whether you designed the gadget she grabbed. It's not the matte black one you handed to her a couple months ago. It's more clunky, less practical, the magnification range is probably less optimal as well.

She turns, the scope in her hands, and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows.

"You're sure that's the one you want?"

Natasha tilts her head, idly toying with the scope she's holding. "What's wrong with this one?"

You frown, irritated, and gesture at it. "Well, first of all, the magnification range is not nearly as good. Its system is also outdated. The reticle doesn't auto-adjust, which means that if the light conditions are less than optimal, you'll suffer from it. The thermal and night vision are also pathetic. I tested it, and it's no good."

"Sounds fine to me", she drawls. You narrow your eyes.

"Babe", you say, already turning around to grab the scope you personally designed from the shelf, "I spent half a year tinkering with this. I burnt my fingertips off twice."

"Appreciate the dedication", she says. You swap the scope out yourself, not breaking eye contact. "And the confidence, too."

"I mean it. This one's better. Ergonomic, biometric lock, the casing is great, and the internal shock buffers? Even Fury was impressed."

"You sound in love."

You bite back an 'I am', because she knows you are. Not with the damn scope, though. The scope is the result of being in love, and she knows it. But that's no reason to make her even more cocky.

You nudge her out of the storage room and lock it behind you. Safety measure — no need for anyone to get into her private stash. Even Fury needs permission, but in a less official way.

Natasha leans against the wall and watches you clean up. You wipe the workbench with a towel, arms flexing in a way that makes her wonder why you aren't joining. You fit in, she knows that already.

Then again, it'd make her job even more terrifying. She'd spent every second worrying about you.

"Five minutes", she reminds you.

"Right", you mumble. "Be careful. Make sure Valerie's doing her job or I'm doing it for her next time."

She wants to argue that you have no idea what it's like on the field. How dangerous it is, how much it differs from what you do every day. But you have been on the field before, years ago, when you were just starting out. Your talent has always been weapons and everything high tech, but when you got injured, you had no choice but to switch to what you're doing now.

You're good at it. Better than at field work. But she knows you sometimes miss it. Specifically those few months you got to spend alongside her, right after you met and before everything turned more intimate.

You can't protect her by being there anymore. But you can design tools that will make her job safer.

"I have your scope", she says, voice softer. "I'll be fine."

You can't help but preen at her words. You've been praised for your inventions many times, but it's only her opinion that really counts. When she says something, she means it.

"Be careful", you say. "The scope's good, but..."

"But it all boils down to the person using it", she finishes, grabbing her duffel bag. "I'll be fine."

"I know."

"Good."

"We'll stay in touch?"

Natasha steps closer to kiss you. It's fleeting, brief, and you know why. Quick goodbyes leave dry eyes. She'll be back soon, but what she does is risky, and you're never not scared that any goodbye could be your last one.

She steps out. You've watch her leave.

. . .

This time, you don't have to wait that long to see her.

Something goes wrong during the mission. Not horribly wrong — there are no accidents, no injuries, which is a relief. But one of the prototypes, a crucial one, malfunctions in the field. It's so tailored that nobody else can fix it, and since you're the one who designed and understands it, you're flown out.

The helicopter touches down in a remote area of the Catskills. You adjust your suit before jumping out and landing on thick grass. The forest is cold, the area foggy. Leaves that were once green have started to turn red. You exhale quietly.

A winding pathway leads to a small cabin. The exterior is hardly impressive, but the inside hides an entire bunker and an underground facility. Clutching your duffel bag, you walk towards the front door.

You're welcomed by a man in his 30s. Hair already graying, jeans, a flannel shirt. He stares at you and you stare at him. You can smell his stupid cologne.

"Want to let me in?"

"Who the fuck-"

"It's Y/N", a familiar voice says. Natasha. You can hear her from somewhere in the cabin. "Let her in."

"Oh", he says, stepping aside. "Right. The girlfriend. They told us you'd come by."

You push past him, not saying another word, and make your way into the cabin. Natasha emerges from downstairs, her hand on the railing. Her hair is curly and tied back, and she's wearing one of your old band hoodies. The sight is enough to let you forget about Mr. Wannabe-Lumberjack.

You meet her halfway. She hesitates, then decides it's worth it and leans in. You reciprocate the kiss and cup her cheek. She tastes like black coffee. It's way too short, but you can't really complain — you feel like you're being watched, whether that's actually true or not.

"Who's the guy?", you ask, following her into the lab.

"Agent Mintz", she says. "Formerly a lieutenant in the US army. Did you bring your little toolbox?"

"Little", you mutter, lifting the toolbox to test its weight. "This thing weighs 30 pounds. Lieutenant, you said?"

She flicks on a light and leads you to a workbench. You haul the toolbox up onto the top and open it. Natasha slides the prototype, a combat neural link, in front of you. You jack a tether into the side port and hook it up to a tablet to diagnose the problem.

"Tried to guess my body fat percentage", she says casually, right as you're running a scan. You pause. "He was off by one percent.”

You exhale, your fingers drumming against the surface of the workbench. "Of course."

"Very observant."

"Mhm", you mutter, looking at the data on the tablet. The prototype is desynced — her muscle memory has been outpacing the link's adaption rate. "Sounds like a great dude."

"He designs tech as well", she says, leaning on the workbench next to you. Her head is turned toward you, her voice softer and more sultry. "You know the GhostSuit?"

You bite your tongue and straighten up to brush Natasha's hair aside. "Hoodie off."

She hums and strips so you can access the link housing. You rearrange the central circuit array with tweezers and a soldering pen. You curse when your hand accidentally jerks.

"Burned your fingers again?"

"Crap", you hiss, shaking your hand. "What's this Mintz dude's issue, anyway?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, your body fat percentage? Is he kidding?"

"Pretty sure he wasn't."

Footsteps, on the staircase behind you. You whip around and glare. You should've expected it to be him — there's nobody else around — but his presence is still an unpleasant reminder that you aren't alone.

Arms crossed and tattoos showing, he leans against the railing and nods at Natasha. "Combat neural link?"

"Very much so."

"I designed it", you mutter, starting to re-upload the stored neural combat data. "Specifically tailored for her."

"Of course", he says, grinning. "Only the best for Ms. Romanoff."

You roll your eyes and plug in a thumb drive. Your hands brush over her shoulders.

"There", you say, ignoring Mintz's presence. "Want to test it a little? Just some quick movements."

Natasha nods, the neural link facing you. It's nothing huge, just a few kicks and balance shifts, but the prototype's lights glow smoothly again.

Agent Mintz raises his eyebrows. He steps closer, inspecting the little device, and almost runs his fingers over it.

You stare at the floor. You're not going to do anything — Natasha will break the guy's wrist if he crosses a line, and you stepping in would be unnecessary. You turn around and start to put your stuff back into the toolbox.

"Impressive", he says. "Doesn't take away from your beauty, either."

An explosion makes them both flinch. You give Natasha an innocent look and gesture at the test grenade that 'accidentally' rolled off the workbench, now on the floor and releasing smoke.

"Oops."

Natasha purses her lips to stop herself from smiling. Mintz just clenches his jaw, clears his throat, and steps aside.

"Alright", he says. "I'll see you later."

He leaves, but you don't turn around. You keep cleaning up, hands moving swiftly, until you feel her mouth right next to your ear.

"What was that?"

"Nothing", you say, closing the toolbox. Natasha's hands sneak under your zip-up hoodie, fingers digging into your abs. "Happy accident or whatever."

"You're not slick."

Your mouth opens and then promptly shuts again. Her lips are against your jaw, the kisses wet and warm. It's only been a couple days, but god, you missed this. Your bed's too empty when she's not around.

Instead of arguing, you let yourself melt. Even if just for a minute, you do. Her body's pressed up against yours, her touch familiar. She smells like your perfume, which confirms your suspicions that she's the one who grabbed it from the shelf in your bathroom.

The tech, the clothes, the perfume — all yours. You wonder if there's a part of her she hasn't claimed as yours yet.

She turns you to face her, her hands staying under your hoodie. Only then does she wrap her arms around your neck and pull you closer to kiss you. You hold her to you, nodding your head to deepen the kiss. Her heart beats faster, and so does yours, but you have a significant advantage — you're not attached to a link with stress-response sensors.

The tablet lights up. You glance at it, briefly pulling away from the kiss, and bite back a smirk. The device logged her rapidly accelerating heartbeat, her changing vitals.

"You know it records this stuff, right?", you mumble. "Heart rate, adrenaline spikes. Practically broadcasting your- ouch."

"Don't."

"You didn't have to twist my ear like that, you know."

Natasha laughs quietly, her lips brushing against yours. She doesn't feel sorry. Not at all. "That's what you get for embarrassing me."

"I'm not the one embarrassing you", you murmur, smiling, and kiss the corner of her mouth. She hums. "The device is."

"And who designed that device?"

You shake your head, but she cups your face and pulls you into another kiss. When the neural link sends another signal, she reaches behind her neck and tugs it off. It gives you enough time to grab her and spin around to set her down on the workbench.

Her thighs wrap around your waist. You mouth at her neck, hands slowly bunching up her hoodie around her torso. Slender fingers tangle in your hair, tug at the strands, and you move your lips back up to hers. She moans into your mouth.

"You do that one purpose", you mumble whenever you take a short break from kissing her stupid. Natasha hums against your lips. "To get a rise out of me."

"It works", she says, using her calves to pull you closer and closer. Your pelvis creates friction between her legs. "I wish I could put one of those neural links in you. See what your body does."

"Cruel", you mutter, pecking her lips. Your hand pushes past the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing gets heavier. "You already know what it'd say."

Your fingers find their target. You kiss down her neck, biting and nipping, and slowly thrust into her. Right as her hips buck against your hand, you hear someone hurry down the stairs.

You don't even flinch. You just sigh into her neck, hand still buried in her sweatpants. You're not stopping this unless someone's dying.

"What now?"

Mintz stares at you, frozen in place. He's uncomfortable, so much so that he keeps making himself even more uncomfortable by staring. Natasha bites her lips and grabs your wrist, guiding you out of her pants again.

"There's, uh, movement. We got ten minutes. Suit up."

You sigh and pull away. Natasha slides off the workbench and grabs the neural link again so you can attach it. You work fast, brushing hair aside and attaching it to the link housing again. She turns and reaches for her suit, and you pack your things.

She looks at you and hesitates. The injury, the accident, is still fresh in her mind. It may have been years since that happened, but she can't forget it that easily.

Blood on pavement, in your mouth. Coughs that sounded way too scary. Your hand shaking in hers, your entire body trembling.

You tilt your head. She's thinking, probably so much so that she's lost in whatever train of thought she's following. Natasha shakes her head when she realizes that she's gone quiet.

"It's fine."

You nod and look at Mintz. "Keep an eye on her and the neural link. She shouldn't go out with it untested in live combat, but it's a little late for that."

He shrugs, rubbing his jaw and starting to look for his gear. "Then go with her."

Natasha immediately looks at him. "What?"

"Yeah. Hell, no one knows how to fix that thing. Only she does. If shit goes sideways..."

"It won't", she interrupts him. "She knows what she's doing. The link is fine."

"Nat", you say, making her look at you. She blinks and averts her eyes again. "Hey. I'll be careful. Besides, it might be safer if I join."

"I don't want you out there."

"Well, too late." You walk up to the storage space with the suits and dig through heaps of old clothes. "Better be safe than sorry."

"Trust us", Agent Mintz says. He straps a knife to his thigh and adjusts his suit. Natasha shoots him a glare, her own suit zipped up halfway. "I've got overwatch. But if something happens with the link-"

"Nothing's going to happen", Natasha insists.

You reach for a vest and slip into it. "Don't be stubborn, baby. Doesn't even look good on you."

"This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was." You step closer to zip up her suit. She briefly closes her eyes. "Let me help you suit up. It's basically tradition."

She doesn't say anything as you step away again to swap your shoes for some combat boots. You reach out your hand, the set to her jaw cracks for a split second, and you lead her up the stairs and outside.

. . .

Natasha notices the neural link misfire when she gets out of the van.

Minutes ago, you were adjusting it. You brushed her hair aside, checked the prototype, made sure it's up to date and connected to your tablet. You seemed certain. You were, probably, otherwise you never would've let her out of the vehicle. The mission may be important, but she knows you'd never test her luck like that.

She jumps out of the van and approaches the building. SHIELD's abandoned black site, sitting in the middle of the forest. Not something they thought would be targeted, but ex-HYDRA agents found out about some data drive that was apparently forgotten her, and now they're trying to steal it.

As soon as she sneaks into a corridor, walking close to the wall, she notices an issue. She doesn't tell you anything, but she feels it. She feels it misfire in motion, feels the little glitch. It's not supposed to happen, and she knows it.

Too late now. There's not enough time to be running back to the van and get it fixed.

"You inside?", you ask via comms.

"Corridor on the east side of the building, approaching a staircase. Any news?"

"Copy. Sir Lieutenant is in position. Do they train them in the army for this kind of stuff?"

"No", he suddenly speaks. "We usually just die."

"Oh really? And you're still here?"

"Y/N, I am begging you", Natasha hisses. You shut your mouth. "Focus. Both of you."

"Sorry, babe.”

Your mumbled response would've been enough to make her smile in just about any other situation, but right now, she's too on edge to react. The neural link glitching, the shuffling noises, the fact that you're outside, in a van and basically alone.

She keeps her back pressed against the wall. Mintz mumbles instructions into her ear — go left, down the hallway, go right, down the stairs — and you're checking the neural link's feedback via your tablet.

Someone pops out from behind a staircase. Natasha, not having to think twice, ducks right as he shoots. It's combat, and she knows what shes doing. She's been trained for this. The neural link usually helps, too.

This time, it doesn't. What it does is worse than it not helping.

Right as she's about to kick him and twist the gun out of his hands, her shoulder locks. The neural link misfires, again, lasting only a split second but still long enough to almost get her shot. She curses quietly.

You stare at the tablet, unable to believe your eyes for a moment. You're not sure what happened, but very briefly, everything glitched and you lost signal. Now that it's back, though, Natasha's vitals have spiked.

Which doesn't have to mean the worst, obviously. The vitals spiking is normal, especially during missions. But the glitch? The signal going poof? Bad signs.

"Natasha", you say, already desperately tapping on the screen to see if you can do anything, "what happened?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it. I found the vault."

"Okay", you say, packing your stuff and hopping out of the van. Into the corridor, go left, down the hallway, etc. Thank god you listened to Mintz as he gave her the instructions. "Be careful."

"I said don't worry."

"You said don't worry about it", you mutter. A gun in one hand and your most important tools in the other, you're easy meat. "What do you see?"

"Desks", she says, eyes scanning her surroundings. "Computers. Deposit boxes."

The signal is lost for another short moment, making her voice sound chopped. The feedback displays another glitch. Your heart beats faster and you hurry up.

"Right. Column five, row ten", Mintz adds. "Iris scan, ten digit password and a keycard. You got everything?"

No sound comes through. Then, a grunt. Something breaks, possibly a chair or a table. Whatever it is — it has you speeding up, running, searching for the stupid vault. But you reach it and the door is locked.

You glance at the screen. Bleeding located.

"Nat?", you say, rummaging through your tools. Maybe you have something that'll help you unlock it. "Any updates?"

Again, nothing. You curse and grab a hairpin, but this is SHIELD's abandoned black site. The doors are designed to keep trespassers out.

You end up grabbing the little grenade you packed. It's tiny, usually only enough to take out one person, but it'll have to do. You attach it to the door, active it, and quickly move backwards.

It blinks three times. It explodes, the door bursting open, and you exhale and run into the vault.

Blood, and a lot of it. It's soaked the right side of her shoulder. Right as you move to help her, someone wraps their arm around your neck and squeezes. You gasp, choking, and start clawing at their forearm.

Natasha barely manages to move enough to point her gun and shoot. The pressure on your airways disappears and you fall to the floor, wheezing and gasping for breath. You crawl to her side and put both hands on the bullet wound in her shoulder. Thick blood seeps between your fingers, and you take off your vest to ball it up and use it to stop the bleeding.

"You're okay", you say, voice shaky. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shakes her head. "Get the data drive."

"No", you say, keeping the vest pressed to her shoulder. You speak into the comms. "Mintz, you there?"

"What happened?"

You swallow, fingers digging into the fabric of the vest. "The neural link, it- it glitched. Misfired. Natasha got shot."

"On my way."

You nod, still putting your entire weight on the wound, still watching her every breath. She seems stable enough, but speaking from experience, it's not a good idea to rely on the hope of something happening.

There are two things you're thinking about.

One: she could die. Right here, right now.

Two: you designed the neural link. You 'fixed' it. If anything happens to her, it's your fault.

Earning her trust seemed to be the biggest honor once. None of your achievements seemed as valuable as getting someone like Natasha to trust you, getting to watch her open up and show you sides nobody else had ever seen. In that moment, however, you curse it. If she'd never trusted you, she wouldn't have worn the neural link. She wouldn't have gotten hurt.

. . .

It's quiet in medbay. Natasha's better now — the wound has been treated, the bleeding has been stopped, she's stable. But the heavy feeling in your gut remains.

She's asleep right now. Her cheeks are rosy instead of pale, her curls have flattened a little. You reach out and brush your fingers against her jaw, then you get up.

The neural link has been in your pocket ever since you got her to medbay. It's sitting there like a mass that's pulling you down, defying the laws of weight.

You reach into your pocket and pull it out. The surface shimmers in the dimmed lights of the room, your initials carved into the side. You ball your hand into a fist, clutching it, then leave the room. Natasha barely stirs.

Your steps are quick and filled with silent anger. Boots thud against vinyl flooring, your throat bobs with every despaired swallow. You push open the door to your lab and slam it shut behind you.

You reach for the hammer before you can think twice. The neural link shatters into tiny pieces, bursting to the sides and falling to the floor. Breathing heavily, you put the hammer aside. Then, the tears come.

They're silent, unthreatening. Rolling down your face in drops, staining your hoodie. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and pause, hand still against your face, when your phone buzzes.

It's the nurse, telling you she woke up and asked for you. You hesitate — do you want to go back there? Does she, despite asking for you, actually want you back there?

It was a mistake. It could've happened to anyone. But when Valerie made a mistake that got her shot, you lost your mind. But who's going to do that to you? Who's going to chew you out?

Nobody. Not even Natasha. You'll get away with it.

Sighing, you make your way out of the lab and back to medbay. It smells clinical, like disinfectant and cleansing chemicals. Metallic, too. You feel nauseous.

When you approach Natasha's room, you see a figure enter and close the door behind themselves. Heart starting to beat faster, you hurry up. You push open the door only to find Valerie standing next to her bed. That's when you lose it.

"Get the fuck out."

She barely even looks at you. "I'm just checking in on her. Making sure she's okay. Heard what happened."

"I said get out."

"Valerie, leave."

Both your and Valerie's heads whip around. Your first instinct is to be petty and make sure she knows it, but Natasha is injured, and you truthfully have other things to worry about.

She exhales sharply, then turns around and leaves. The door shuts loudly.

Natasha looks at you, not saying anything. She's studying you — you can tell that much. It's what she's always done. You shift, then hesitantly sit down on the edge of her bed.

She tilts her head. A soft breath leaves her lips. "Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You broke the neural link."

You blink a few times. Oh, so that's how observant she truly is. Or maybe she just knows you really well.

"Well, I...", you trail off. "It's useless anyway."

"No", she says, voice quiet. "You spent months working on it. It worked."

"It didn't. It's the reason you almost..." You rub your face. "You could've died, Nat. Because of me."

"That's not true."

"But it is."

"That thing helped me", she insists. "I wore it because I trust you. Because I love you. And you just broke it?"

You stare at the floor, jaw set. There's no way to explain what's going on in your head. All these years, you tried to be the one who protects the one person who claims she doesn't need protection. The one who protects everyone around herself — you, too.

When you got injured all those years ago, it was Natasha who got you out of the battlefield safely. She carried you to the field medics, she went to medbay with you. She stayed until you were better.

You would've kissed her. Neither of you were ready, though. But she was worth the wait.

"I fixed it", you say, glancing at her. She softens. "I tried to fix it. I swear. I don't know what went wrong."

"Accidents happen."

"Not like this", you reply, raking your fingers over your thigh. The denim feels overstimulating against your fingernails. "Not to me. Not when it comes to you. Valerie makes mistakes, and Mintz, and Ward, but-"

"And you're flawless? Perfect?"

You shut your mouth. No, you're neither of those things.

"If I were, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Natasha scoffs. You refuse to look at her, so she shifts in bed despite knowing she shouldn't. It's a plan, though — a plan that works. You quickly lift your head.

"Don't even try", you say, already trying to gently nudge her back into bed. She smiles and you know what she's done. "Oh, fuck me."

"Not while I'm injured."

You roll your eyes, but what she's doing seems to work. You smile, one hand still on her waist and thumb rubbing circles into her side. She flops into the pillows again, a tad more dramatic than others would expect her to do it.

"It was supposed to help", you say softly. "I wanted it to be safer for you. Easier. It almost got you killed instead."

Natasha hums. "You're right", she says. "It did. But how many times did it save me?"

"That's not important."

"Oh, but it is. And I'm not just talking about the neural link. You've invented a dozen of these nifty little things, and how many times were those faulty?"

You shift, refusing to answer. You could say it — never. They were never faulty, never malfunctioned so badly. Sure, there were some issues and minor problems every now and then, but Natasha was always able to keep going despite those. This was a one time thing. An unlucky coincidence.

You feel her fingertips trail down your back. You sigh and then smile tentatively. "Alright. Fine. You got me."

She stays silent for a moment, her fingers glued to your back for no specific reason. She's touching you, and that's enough.

"You didn't invent your way into my life, you know."

You look at her, frowning. Those are words you didn't expect. "No?"

"No." Her fingers drum against your spine. "The gadgets are great. Truly. But they're not the main appeal here, and they never were."

"It's just..." You swallow. "You saved me. It's like, I don't know."

"A debt?"

"Maybe."

Natasha doesn't say anything. She just moves her hand, reaching for yours. When you give it to her, she tugs you into her side.

You know she's being serious. She doesn't need the gadgets. You'll keep inventing them, anyway.

. . .

There's a bandage around her shoulder and a tiny bandaid above her eyebrow, but she's still attracting attention from everyone in the room. You know she is. She always does. You pull her into your side and lead her through the hallway.

"They're staring", you mutter, gently squeezing her upper arm.

"I wonder why."

"You're beaten up and they're still staring." You enter your lab and walk right towards the little couch in the corner. Natasha sits down without arguing, which is a miracle. Getting her to do just about anything that'd be beneficial for her injuries is like fighting a very stubborn bear.

She shifts until she's comfortable, her injured arm resting on a pillow you tuck against her side. "So?"

"Nothing", you say evasively, closing the door now. You're pretty sure no one's going to come by anyway, but you're not keen on taking that risk right now. "Need anything? Water, a granola bar?"

"I'm good." She tilts her head. "You gonna keep me locked in here until they stop staring?"

Hand around a water bottle, you pause. You're crouched in front of the mini fridge.

"Well..."

"Oh god."

"I'm kidding."

She laughs and, despite saying no earlier, accepts the water bottle you hand her. "Hey, at least feel sorry Valerie quit."

"Feel sorry?" You snort and step up to your workbench. You grab the new neural link you've been working on and the stack of data necessary to program it so you can get to work. "I don't do that."

"No, of course." She leans back and watches you work. You adjust wires, program the link using your tablet, test it a few times.

It took two days for you to get up and get started on another neural link. You've barely been sleeping, and Natasha knows that's the case, but you're relentless. Having experience with this prototype, creating an updated, better one hasn't been hard. That doesn't make the process less painful, though. You've burnt your fingertips again already.

"I'm relieved, you know", you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Valerie really was incompetent."

The cap of the water bottle hits you in the back. But she's smiling, trying not to laugh, and you turn around.

"I mean it."

"She's not even here anymore", she says. "Dial down the jealousy."

"It's not jealousy, it's me disliking her."

"And why do you dislike her? Because you're jealous."

You walk up to the couch and sit down. Hands cup her face, fingertips burnt and wrapped into little bandaids so they'd hurt less, and your breath fans against her lips. You lean in and kiss her, but briefly enough to leave you both wanting more.

She sighs, eyes lazily trailing across your face. "That's not an answer."

"I'm not in the mood to argue. I need to work on your new neural link."

"Better not make any mistakes this time."

You give her an unimpressed look like, Really? You know how much that destroyed me. But she just smiles and tugs you closer.

"I told you I trust you", she says. You roll your eyes. "Don't give me that look, or I'll start using someone else's scope."

"Oh, don't even-"

"Kidding", she cuts you off. "Again."

You narrow your eyes at her. But with the bandaid over her eyebrow, and her bandaged shoulder, you can't be too mad. You sigh and press a kiss to her mouth, your hand on her cheek. She smiles against your lips, hand resting on yours, fingers tangling with yours.

"You're beautiful, you know", you mumble, placing another kiss on her mouth. "No wonder they're all staring. Can't blame them."

"Mhm? Beautiful, you say?"

"So so beautiful." You run your hand down her arm and lightly squeeze her wrist. "It's not fair. You're all beaten up and you still look like you escaped some frame in a museum."

Natasha huffs a laugh. Her forehead rests against yours, her thumb brushes against the side of your hand. You scoot closer and the cushion dips slightly beneath you. She rests one leg over your lap.

"Not jealous anymore?"

"Oh, fucking mental", you say, nodding. "But Valerie's gone, so that helps."

"Terrible."

"Honest."

She scoots and ends up fully in your lap, her weight welcome and familiar. You wouldn't be able to guess her body fat percentage (that detail still leaves you stunned whenever you think about it), but you don't need to see or hear her to recognize her.

Your hand trails down her side and slips under her hoodie. She's warm, her body nestled against yours.

She smiles and nods at the workbench. The neural link lays abandoned, at least for the time being.

"You're stalling again."

"No", you mumble, kissing her shoulder. "Just taking my time."

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel #lesbian #wlw #fanfic #x reader #wlw smut #fluff #moon’s fics

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thinkinonsense · 9 months ago

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DESIRE ୨୧

logan howlett x mutant!reader

cw: flirty, slightly nsfw

a/n: this was heavily inspired by that scene in the first suicide squad movie where they introduce harley quinn.

"we should all split up before someone finds us." storm tells her team mates as the break into the building.

inside were mutants of all kinds, being hidden and tested on. it was charles plan for the team to get as many as possible and bring them back to the mansion before they can cause any damage.

on the surface, it seemed simple enough. they have done this mission a million times. little did they know that an unspeakable danger awaited them in the basement of the old building.

everyone split up, storm went to the west wing while scott and jean went to the east. logan found his way downstairs, assuming that maybe he could find whoever was running the show here.

beyond the high security metal doors, he can hear the faint sound of an old record playing. the closer he got, the clearer it sounded. nancy sinatra? maybe? logan wasn't quite sure but he figured it was a trap so, he prepared himself for whatever was on the other side.

Way down along the stream

How sweet it will seem

Once more just to dream

In the moonlight

My honey, I know (I know) with the dawn

That you will be gone

But tonight

You belong to me

revealed on the other side is a large metal cage fit for a wild animal. inside was a girl swinging upside down from a line of tied material with her body in an obscene position.

"i've told you before, david..." your voice was angelic to logan's ears. light as a feather. "i don't like to be disturbed after 7."

"i'm not david, princess." logan said, stepping out of the shadows right as your eyes open.

logan's eyes scan over your scandalous appearance. tiny dirty white shorts and matching tight tank top, apparently whoever runs this prison doesn't allow bras either. you twirl down from near the top of the cage until your face to face with the man on the other side.

"who are you, then?" you ask, looking up at him as you hold onto the bars.

"i'm here to get you out of this cage." he says, unleashing his claws, ready to cut through the bars.

"hold it, baby." you purr, reaching out to touch his sharp claws. "don't you wanna play with me?"

"no, we need to leave."

"why should i leave with you? how do i know that you won't put me in another cage?"

even with a slightly dirty face, rings of lavender circles under your eyes, and dried blood on the corner of your bottom lip, logan still thought you were gorgeous. slightly intimidated by your fearlessness to reach out and touch his claws. he imagines that you had seen worse than this.

"tryin' to save you" he grunts.

"i wouldn't picture you as the prince charming type." you giggle, running your fingers up his hairy, veiny, strong arm over the black latex suit.

"i'm not."

logan glares down at you in a way that makes you want to jump his bones. what? it gets lonely being trapped in a cage all by yourself. plus it's not everyday that a handsome stranger wants to help you escape.

suddenly, you grab logan's palm, circling it as your eyes roll back to a dark green shade.

"tell me what you want to do with me." you demand.

this was the moment logan understood why you were held in a cage down in the basement. suddenly, logan's mind feels as if it's being bended and twisting, forcing every ounce of truth out of him.

"we are here to take the mutants to charles xavier's school for gifted youngsters." his voice sounded robotic under your spell.

"charles xavier?"

in a rush of excitement, you release logan from your threshold. he wants to bark at you for invading his mind but seeing you smile made him reconsider.

"so, you've heard of him?" logan raises a brow at you, watching as you hold his hand sweetly.

"of course i have." you answer tracing shapes on the back of his palm. "i've seen him in my visions. been waitin' on him."

visions? what kind of mutant are you? logan asked himself as you spoke.

"too bad i didn't see you in them, though." you sigh, batting your long lashes at him. "wish i had. could've bought us some time to... well, you know."

the teasing flirty tone made logan's cock stir under the tight latex. he felt this overwhelming desire for you fill his head.

"hm... we should focus on getting you out of here first, huh, princess?" he tilts his head to the side, amused by you. "step back."

you obey, walking backwards near your rope. in the blink of an eye, logan cuts through the bars and bends them out enough for him to help you get out. loud flashing sirens go off, slightly startling the two of you.

"guards." you warn him. "they're coming."

logan turns around, claws bare to anyone coming towards the two of you. he steps in front of you, ready to protect like a guard dog. it was quite cute of him, you think. the moment the guards burst in, logan starts attacking, stabbing them ruthlessly.

you allow him to take out a few one by one but as more poured in, you stepped in. your eyes roll back into the same shade of green as a hand raises, some of them fall to their hand and knees, shifting into dogs others were being strangled until they looked blue in the face.

logan couldn't believe it. the only mutant that he thought could rivaled your powers was jean. the room fell quiet except for the record echoing as it replayed.

"it's my favorite song, you know?" you grin as if nothing happened.

"old soul, huh?" logan asked with an eyebrow raised.

"witches are timeless, sugar." you wink, extending your hand for him to take.

logan hesitates but knows he has to get the two of you out of here alive. one look into your starry eyes and he's a goner. logan takes your hand and leads you to the jet, knowing he will never hear the end of it from his teammates.

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Racing Hearts

Lando Norris x cardiopulmonary technician!Reader

Summary: you’ve had a way of making Lando’s heart race since the moment he met you

You glance down at your clipboard as your next patient walks into the exercise physiology lab. “Lando Norris?” You ask, looking up with a smile.

The young British man grins back at you. “That’s me!”

“Excellent! I’m Y/N, I’ll be your technician today. We’re just going to do a simple cardiopulmonary exercise test to get some baseline numbers before the start of the season.”

Lando nods, looking around the lab curiously. “No problem, happy to be poked and prodded in the name of science and fast cars.”

You laugh as you gesture for him to take a seat. “Don’t worry, I promise to be gentle,” you joke. “I’m just going to put some electrodes on your chest to monitor your heart rate, then we’ll get you on the treadmill for the test.”

“Sounds good,” Lando says, settling onto the exam table.

You start placing the sticky electrode pads across his chest and ribs, trying not to blush at his shirtless state. Formula 1 drivers really are fit underneath those racing suits.

“So how’s preseason training going?” You ask conversationally as you work. “Think McLaren has a chance this year?”

Lando grins. “I’m feeling good! Me and the team have been putting in a lot of hard work over the winter. I’m definitely aiming higher than 6th in the championship.”

You smile as you finish placing the electrodes and motion for him to stand. “That’s the spirit. Alright, hop up on the treadmill and we’ll get you moving.”

Lando steps up onto the machine and you start it up slowly, increasing the speed in measured increments. “I’ll take you up to a brisk jog, then we’ll keep you there for about 10 minutes while I monitor your heart rate, breathing, and oxygen levels,” you explain.

“Sounds gucci,” Lando replies with a thumbs up, his breath starting to quicken as the treadmill pace increases.

You make sure the electrode leads are secure, then step back to observe the incoming data on the computer screen. Lando’s lean legs stride smoothly along the treadmill belt as you keep a close watch on his vitals, making notes on your clipboard. After a few minutes, you frown slightly at the heart rate readout. It seems unusually elevated for an elite athlete like Lando, even at this moderate jogging pace.

“How are you feeling Lando?” You call out. “Everything okay?”

“All … good,” he huffs out, face flushed from the exertion.

You hesitate, glancing between him and the concerning heart rate values on the screen. “It’s just that your heart rate is a bit higher than I would expect,” you say slowly. “Are you feeling any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando shakes his head. “No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine!” He insists breathlessly.

You bite your lip, still frowning. “Your heart rate is quite high though, over 85% of estimated max. For an experienced athlete I would expect values closer to 70-80% at this pace.”

“Oh … yeah, maybe it’s a bit high,” Lando acknowledges, starting to breathe harder. “But don’t worry about me, I’m fit as a fiddle!”

You reach over to slow the treadmill slightly. “Let’s bring the pace down a bit. I’m concerned about these heart rate readings. We should really have you checked out by a cardiologist before the season starts.”

Lando grabs the front handrails, shaking his head stubbornly. “No, no that’s not necessary, really! I’m fine, just maybe didn’t warm up enough.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Lando, as your technician I have to advise getting this looked at. Your heart rate is elevated beyond normal parameters.”

Lando chews his lip, glancing away evasively. “Um, well … maybe there’s a reason for that.”

You raise your eyebrows at him. “What do you mean? Like a medical condition you haven’t told me about?”

“No, no nothing like that!” Lando says quickly. He mumbles something under his breath you can’t quite make out over the whir of the treadmill.

“Sorry, what was that?” You ask, leaning closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Oh, uh … it was nothing,” Lando mutters, face reddening further.

You stop the treadmill completely so you can hear him better, folding your arms over your clipboard. “Lando, if there’s something I should know that’s affecting your test results, you need to tell me. As your technician, I really think we should get your heart looked at just to be safe.”

Lando locks eyes with you for a moment, hesitation written across his features. He mumbles again under his breath, so quietly you can’t discern the words.

You hold his gaze firmly. “One more time, please. It’s really important that I understand what’s going on so I can interpret these results accurately.”

Lando breaks eye contact, looking down at his feet. He kicks lightly at the motionless treadmill belt, before finally whispering. “It’s you, alright?”

You blink in surprise. “Me? What do you mean?”

Lando glances up at you briefly, his face now tomato-red. “You’re … the reason my heart rate is high,” he mumbles.

You stare at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Lando groans, covering his face with his hands. “Because … I really fancy you, okay?” He admits, the words muffled into his palms. “You’re just … totally gorgeous and sweet and it makes me nervous and … my heart rate goes mad around pretty girls I like.”

Your eyes widen in understanding, feeling your own cheeks flush bright pink. “Oh! Oh ...”

Lando peeks out at you between splayed fingers. “Yeah, so that’s why it’s high. Not because I have some underlying heart condition.” He gives you a sheepish smile. “Just because my technician is really fit.”

You let out an awkward laugh, suddenly feeling shy. “Wow, uh … I’m flattered, Lando. I didn’t realize ...”

Lando drops his hands from his face, looking at you earnestly. “Sorry, is that weird? I know we just met and you’re doing your job.” He fidgets with the electrode wires across his chest. “Don’t want to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

You smile warmly back at him, feeling butterflies in your own stomach. “Don’t be silly. It’s not weird at all. Honestly, I, uh … also think you’re really cute,” you admit with bashful grin.

Lando’s eyes light up. “Yeah?” A wide, delighted smile spreads across his face.

You nod, laughing softly. “Yeah, I may have been trying not to blush myself with you shirtless here in my lab.”

“Well I’m certainly not complaining about the view either,” Lando says cheekily.

You smack his arm playfully. “I’m being professional here!”

“And doing a great job,” Lando says, smile softening. “But maybe once we’re done with all this boring medical stuff … we could get dinner? If you want?” He looks at you hopefully.

Your heart flutters with excitement. “I’d really like that.” You smile at each other giddily for a moment before you clear your throat. “But first, we really should finish your assessment properly.”

Lando laughs, nodding. “Of course, you’re the boss!”

You roll your eyes affectionately. “Alright, hop back on the treadmill. And this time just focus on your breathing and try not to make eyes at the pretty technician,” you tease.

“No promises there,” Lando quips with a grin as he steps back onto the belt.

You just smile and shake your head as you start up the machine once more, unable to keep your own heart rate from quickening in anticipation of what promises to be a very special dinner date after the test is complete.

***

Several Months Later

You glance down nervously at your paddock pass as you make your way through the crowded paddock. As an unofficial member of Lando’s training team now, you have full access to the exclusive behind-the-scenes world of Formula 1. But despite months of dating the British driver, the glamorous circus still feels surreal.

Dodging golf carts and important looking people with headsets, you head for the McLaren garage. Lando had told you to meet him there before the start of the race. Your heart flutters, as it always does at the thought of seeing him again.

“Y/N!” Lando greets you brightly as you enter the garage. Engine roars echo around you as mechanics make final tweaks to the cars before wheeling them to the grid.

“Good luck today!” You tell Lando, leaning up on your toes to kiss him sweetly.

“With you here, how can I lose?” He grins down at you. His energy is infectious.

You chat together as the cars are lined up on the starting grid, Lando bouncing excitedly in his race suit. You squeeze his gloved hand. “Be safe out there.”

“Always am, love.” He winks before pulling on his helmet and climbing into the cockpit.

You make your way back to the McLaren hospitality suite to watch the start of the race. Your heart pounds as the lights go out and the F1 cars launch forward in a roar of engines. Lando makes a clean getaway, slotting into P5 heading into the first turn.

The race unfolds smoothly, Lando maintaining his position in the top five. You watch tensely on the monitors, hands clenched.

But on lap 38, disaster strikes. Heading into a fast sweeper, the Red Bull of Sergio Perez attempts a risky overtake maneuver on Lando’s inside. They collide in a shower of carbon fiber and a plume of smoke.

You gasp sharply as Lando’s car spins off into the gravel trap, coming to rest against the barrier at an abrupt stop. The McLaren crew monitor the radio channels anxiously.

“Lando, are you okay mate?” His engineer asks urgently.

“Yeh … I’m okay ...” Lando’s labored voice comes back. “Bit winded but I’m alright.”

You breathe a deep sigh of relief along with the crew. The medical car is quickly dispatched to the scene. Lando climbs unsteadily from the battered car, sitting down in the gravel trap as he awaits assistance.

Your adrenaline surging, you take off from the garage the moment you see Lando is out of the car safely. Jogging through the paddock, you make your way swiftly to the medical center.

As you rush in, Lando is just being helped onto an examination table by two medics. He’s dusty and sweaty, his hair sticking up at all angles from where he pulled off his helmet. But otherwise he seems intact.

“Lando!” You hurry over, emotions welling up at seeing him battered but in one piece.

“Y/N, hey ...” Lando greets you with a weary but reassuring smile. He reaches for your hand which you clutch tightly.

One medic cuts away the top of Lando’s racing suit, placing electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart rhythm. You hover anxiously as they check him over.

“Heart rate is quite elevated,” the doctor frowns as he reads the monitor. He glances between you and Lando with concern. “Any chest pain or tightness?”

Lando huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. He looks up at you, his green eyes glinting. “Nah, doc. She’s the reason for the fast heartbeat.”

You feel your cheeks flush as Lando grins. The medic looks confused.

“See, ever since Y/N came into my life, she’s made my heart race a mile a minute,” Lando explains cheekily.

You smack his arm but can’t help laughing too. Trust Lando to still be flirting from a hospital bed.

“Ah, young love,” the doctor chuckles. “Well, your heart may beat for her, but let’s still do a full check to be safe.”

Lando nods agreeably, though his gaze stays fixed on you. He winces slightly as they palpate his ribs and abdomen, checking for injuries.

You cling to his hand, emotionally drained from the scare but overwhelmed with relief that he seems okay. Lando keeps stealing glances at you through the examination.

Finally the doctor steps back. “All done. Amazingly, you’ve escaped with just some bruising. No breaks or internal injuries. You were lucky today.”

The medic packs up his equipment. “Get some rest and ice those sore spots. But overall good news. No reason you can’t race in two weeks’ time.”

“Phew, that’s a relief!” Lando says. He thanks the doctors as you help him down from the table.

Arm wrapped supportively around him, you make your slow way out of the medical center towards the McLaren motorhome.

“Thank you for being here,” Lando murmurs, leaning his head on your shoulder as you walk.

You kiss his dusty hair. “I’m just glad you’re okay. You scared me to death out there!”

“I know, sorry about that, love. It happened so fast.” He lifts his head to look at you sincerely. “But I’m alright. Just grateful to have you by my side.”

You stop, turning to face him fully. Reaching up, you caress his cheek gently. “I’ll always be right here by your side.”

Lando’s eyes shine. “Is it cheesy to say you make my heart race in the best way?”

Laughing softly, you pull him into a tender kiss. For this brief moment, nothing else matters but the two of you.

Lando sighs contentedly when you eventually pull back. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

You squeeze his hand, smiling up at him. “The feeling’s mutual. Now let’s get you rested up. I want my favorite driver back to full fitness ASAP.”

With his arm wrapped warmly around your shoulders, you’re reminded that no matter what challenges life brings, your hearts will keep racing together as one.

***

It’s a quiet night and you and Lando are cuddling in bed together after a long day. Lando’s arms are wrapped securely around you, your head resting comfortably on his chest. His fingers idly trace delicate patterns along your back as you lay pressed close, breathing in sync.

Though it’s late, you can tell Lando’s mind is still wide awake, trailing far from the coziness of your shared bed. His pensive silence prompts you to prop yourself up on one elbow, looking down at him with a curious smile.

“Penny for your thoughts, love?”

Lando blinks up at you before giving a small, distracted smile. “Oh, it’s nothing really ...”

You raise a knowing eyebrow. “Lando, I can always tell when something’s on your mind.” You brush a lock of hair back from his forehead tenderly. “Talk to me?”

Lando chews his lip, eyes darting away evasively. Finally he lets out a long breath, arms tightening around your waist. “I guess … I’ve just been thinking about when I picked you up earlier today.”

You think back to the afternoon when Lando swung by your lab after work like usual. “What about it?”

“Well, when I pulled up out front, I saw one of your patients leaving the exercise center,” Lando explains. His brow furrows slightly. “Some tall, muscular bloke in running shorts.”

“Oh, that was probably Brandon — he’s a sprinter I had in for VO2 max testing,” you reply casually before pausing. “Wait … you’re not jealous, are you?”

“No! No, of course not,” Lando says quickly. But the way his eyes shift away makes you think otherwise.

You frown slightly, snuggling closer against his chest. “Lando, you know you have absolutely no reason to be jealous. I only have eyes for you,” you murmur reassuringly.

Lando sighs, arms tightening around your back. “I know, I know. It’s stupid ...” He trails off, looking conflicted.

You lay a comforting hand along his jaw. “Talk to me, love. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Lando meets your earnest gaze, emotions swirling in his eyes. “I just … I wonder sometimes why you picked me, you know? You meet guys like that every day. And I’m just ...” he shrugs self-consciously.

Your heart squeezes at the vulnerable admission. You tenderly stroke Lando’s cheek. “Hey … you listen to me. You’re the only one I want. All those other athletes are just patients to me. But you ...” You smile down at him adoringly. “You’re the one who makes my heart race with just a look. The one I want to spend all my time with. The one I love with my entire heart.”

The corner of Lando’s mouth lifts in a faint, tentative smile at your words. “Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” you whisper fervently. Leaning down, you capture his lips in a sweet, loving kiss. “You’re my once in a lifetime, Lando. My soulmate. Meeting you was destiny.”

Lando’s arms wrap tightly around you again, the last of the tension fading from his frame. “I’m sorry I got all insecure like that. I know I’m being silly.” He presses an apologetic kiss to your hair. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

You nuzzle your face lovingly against his neck. “You were just yourself — that funny, charming, incredible guy I fell for the moment we met.” You lift your head to meet his eyes again. “I never stood a chance. My heart was yours from the start.”

A smile breaks across Lando’s face at last. “I really am the luckiest bloke in the world, aren’t I?”

“Damn right you are,” you say teasingly, making him laugh. Your expression softens. “But truly, you have absolutely nothing to worry about. My heart only races for you. It always will.”

Lando’s eyes gleam with renewed confidence and adoration as he rolls you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Well in that case, what do you say we get your heart racing again?” He murmurs playfully, brushing his nose against yours.

You grin up at him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “I’d say you’re on.”

Lando’s smile widens as he dips his head to meet your lips in a passionate kiss. Your pulse immediately quickens at his touch, heart thrumming as you arch up into him.

When Lando finally pulls back for air, his eyes are dancing. “Yep, definitely racing,” he laughs breathlessly, lifting your hand to his lips to kiss your pulse point.

You shake your head in amusement, heart overflowing with love for this man. “You’re the only one for me. Today, tomorrow, and always.”

Lando’s smile softens to something tender and reverent. “And you’re my once in a lifetime, Y/N.” He brushes his thumb along your cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whisper. And as his lips find yours again, you let yourself get lost in his kiss, your racing hearts beating as one.

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fungifaggot · 2 months ago

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Alternative!Mark Grayson x Cat!Hybrid Gn!Reader

Content: fluff?maybeidontknow- like in a toxic, abusive way. Also sexual undertones if you squint.

A/n: I wrote this with Mohawk Mark in mind, but it's not specified at all in the fic.

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You were a test experiment.

Born in a secret base run by rogue scientists, your existence was part of an illegal project looking to engineer animal-human hybrids. They tested everything- bears for strength, dolphins for underwater efficiency, and then there was you: a cat hybrid.

You were gifted with heightened senses such as enhanced smell and hearing, night vision, retractable claws, and improved agility- you were the ideal build for stealth missions. You were a natural infiltrator. A thief. And an assassin. They trained you to move in the shadows, to slip through security, and retrieve things that no one else could.

You didn’t question your orders. You didn’t dream of the outside world. You didn’t even wonder why you existed. You just did what you were told. And in return, they gave you food, a place to sleep, and a purpose.

That was until one particular mission.

Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, just sneak into an enemy base, eliminate the targets, and get out without raising any alarms.

You moved silently and efficiently through the base. You had already picked off nearly a quarter of their team, hiding the bodies before anyone noticed.

“This’ll be easy,” you thought to yourself right before a blur of yellow came crashing through the wall beside you.

The impact sent you flying. You would’ve landed on your feet if it weren’t for the solid wall of muscle that tackled you mid-air and pinned you to the ground.

He punched you. Once. Twice. And on the third hit, he stopped.

His fist hung above your face, trembling slightly. You were frozen beneath him, dazed, breathing hard. You’d faced enemies before, but none like this. This guy was stronger. This guy could kill you. And for the first time, you felt real fear.

Maybe it was the look in your eyes. Or the way your fur raised in terror. Perhaps it was because he read the collar around your neck- the one that said “Property of (idkicantthinkofsomething) Inc.”

You had just killed a dozen men without a second thought. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to hurt you.

The last thing you remember was the sharp snap of him tearing off your collar.

Then everything went black.

When you woke up, you were in a cold, unfamiliar cell.

Your ankle was chained to a stone wall. A new collar around your neck. The chain was just long enough to let you pace a few feet. But that was it.

You stayed in this prison for about two months- at least, that’s what you guessed. The only way you kept track was by scratching tally marks into the wall with your claws.

Life in prison wasnt particularly different from your life before. You weren't treated well, and there wasn't much to do, but you were already used to being the property of someone else.

You spent most of your free time working out, grooming your fur, or trimming your nails on the rough stone wall.

Which is exactly what you were doing when the prison alarms started blaring. You heard loud crashes echo through the building, followed by the deep tremor of walls shaking and falling apart. Explosions rang out in the distance, and flames lit up the darkened hallways.

You were afraid. You didn't know what was going on; all you could hear were the loud sounds of the building falling apart and people screaming. You would have taken this moment to try and escape if it weren't for the shackles keeping you in your cell.

The best you could do was sit on your bed curled in a ball, covering your head in hopes of protecting yourself from flying debris.

"What do we have here~?"

Your ears perked up, facing toward the unfamiliar voice.

He looked familiar; his suit resembled that of the hero who had sent you to this prison. ‘Invincible’ was his name, you now knew. However, this guy didn't smell the same- you could tell he wasn't from around here.

You took a defensive position, extending your claws and baring your teeth with a loud hiss.

"Now now kitty, there's no need to be disobedient," He said as he approached you menacingly.

His voice was dripping with amusement. His words were riddled with laughter, even though it was out of place.

"Does this kitty cat like to bite?" he teased, extending a hand out to your face.

As he expected, you did. You clamped your jaw around his hand the moment he was within reach.

He retracted his hand, unphased by the pain.

"Tsk tsk tsk, bad kitty," he said with an exaggerated pout.

He lunged forward, grabbing you by the scruff, and lifted you up as far as the shackles would let him.

"Bad kitties deserved to be punished."

He pulled on your scruff even harder; it felt almost like he was going to rip the skin right off of your body. You knew he could if he wanted to.

And yet you were being held in the air at his mercy- he undressed you with his eyes. Taking in the entirety of your body, soaking in your beauty.

“We don't have anything like you where I’m from-” he mused, flicking at your sensitive ears, enjoying how you grit your teeth in pain.

“How cute…”

He stops talking for a moment, as if lost in thought, before a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Y’know what? I think I want to keep ya! You’re awfully pretty…”

He pulled your limp body closer to his, your limbs still dangling like a ragdoll.

“What do you think about that?” he asks, his smile growing impossibly wider.

It was a rhetorical question; you obviously didn’t have a choice.

You still hadn't spoken. You were worried that if you did, your voice would tremble.

He gently set you back down on the prison bed, releasing your scruff. His hand slid from your neck to your chin, tilting your head upward until you were forced to meet his gaze.

You tensed, unsure of what he would do next.

To your surprise, he started to move his hand gently, scratching under your jaw.

“What is he doing?” you thought to yourself

It was an odd sensation- getting pet, that is. It was something you’ve never felt before. Your creators never treated you to such affection. This was the first time that you have ever felt the gentle touch of another.

It was rather pleasurable.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned into his touch, instinctively pressing your cheek against his hand. His touch made your jaw feel warm, and the way he scratched you hit an itch you never knew you had.

“This kitty likes attention, don't they?” he cooed in a singsong voice, scratching deeper.

Amongst all the screaming and commotion happening in the background he almost missed it- the soft rumble of you purring.

You didn’t mean to purr; it just kind of happened.

The suited man jutted out his bottom lip in a fake pout.

“Awwww, I think this kitty likes me!” he teased.

With a swift motion, he grabbed your shackles and tore them from the wall.

“You’re going to make a perfect pet,” he said with a smirk.

“I think it’s time to take you home with me.”

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A/n: sorry this is short, I ran outta gas towards the end of this one.

#male reader #male reader insert #x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #gn reader #invincible #invincible x male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x gn reader #yandere x reader #male yandere

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tanadrin · 6 months ago

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Can you explain in what what you think eugenics doesn't work? Does this basically boil down to skepticism about the accuracy of GWAS studies? My understanding is that academic consensus is "G probably exists, disentangling direct genetic inheritance vs genetic cultural inheritance is complicated but possible, we can identify a number of alleles which we're reasonably confident are directly causally involved in having a higher G factor"

when it comes to intelligence, its heritability, and its variation at the population level, my understanding of the science is:

highly adaptive traits don't, in fact, vary much at the genetic level between populations of a species because they are strongly selected for. in an environment where a trait is being strongly selected for, a population that failed to express that trait strongly will be rapidly outcompeted.

intelligence is probably the quintessential such trait for humans. we have sacrificed a great deal of other kinds of specialization in favor of our big brains. we spend an enormous amount of calories supporting those brains. tool use, the ability to plan for the future, the ability to navigate complex social situations and hierarchies in order to secure status, the ability to model the minds of others for the purposes of cooperation and deception means that we should expect intelligence to be strongly selected for for as long as our lineage has been social and tool-using, which is at least the last three million years or so.

so, at least as a matter of a priori assumptions, we should expect human populations not to vary greatly in their genetic predisposition to intelligence. it may nonetheless, but we'd need pretty strong evidence. i think i read this argument on PZ Myers' blog a million years ago, so credit where that's due.

complicating the picture is that we just don't have good evidence for how IQ does vary across populations, even before we get into the question of "how much of this variation is genetic and how much of it is not." the cross-national data on which a lot of IQ arguments have been based is really bad. and that would be assuming IQ tests are in fact good at capturing a notion of IQ that is independent of cultural context, which historically they're pretty bad at

this screed by nassim nicholas taleb (not a diss; AFAICT the guy only writes in screeds) makes a number of arguments, but one argument I find persuasive is that IQ is really only predictive of achievement in the sense that it does usefully discriminate between people with obvious intellectual disabilities and those without--but you do not actually need an IQ test for that sort of thing, any more than you need to use a height chart to figure out who is missing both their legs. in that sense, sure, IQ is predictive of a lot of things. but once you remove this group, the much-vaunted correlations between IQ and stuff like wealth just straight-up vanishes

heritability studies are a useful tool, but a tool which must be wielded carefully; they were developed for studying traits which were relatively easy to isolate in very specific populations, like a crop under study at an agricultural research site, and are more precarious when applied to, e.g., human populations

my understanding based on jonathan kaplan articles like this one is that twin studies are not actually that good at distinguishing heritable factors from environmental ones--they have serious limitations compared to heritability studies where you actually can rigorously control for environmental effects, like you can with plants or livestock.

as this post also points out, heritability studies also only examine heritability within groups, and are not really suited to examining large-scale population differences, *especially* in the realm of intelligence where there is a huge raft of confounding factors, and a lack of a really robust measurement tool.

(if we are worried about intelligence at the population level, it seems to me there are interventions we know are going to be effective and do not rely on deeply dubious scientific speculation, e.g., around nutrition and healthcare and serious wealth inequality and ofc education; and if what people actually want is to raise the average intelligence of the population rather than justify discrimination against minorities, then they might focus on those much more empirically grounded interventions. even if population differences in IQ are real and significant and point to big differences in intelligence, we know those things are worth a fair few IQ points. but most people who are or historically have been the biggest advocates for eugenics are, in my estimation, mostly interested in justifying discrimination.)

i think the claims/application of eugenics extend well beyond just intelligence, ftr. eugenics as an ideology is complex and historically pretty interesting, and many eugenicists have made much broader claims than just "population-level differences in intelligence exist due to genetic factors, and we should try to influence them with policy," but that is a useful point for them to fall back onto when pressed on those other claims. but i don't think even that claim is at all well-supported.

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enhaflixer · 3 months ago

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nightwing!Riki x catwoman!reader - purrrreee porn lol

cw: this is probably too filthy for a few ppl, there is ass splay, not penetration but quite a bit, a lot of spit, a lot of leather. so proceed with caution but this is quite good wank material im ngl tried and tested lol

Gotham City pulsed beneath you like a living, breathing beast. Neon lights flickered against rain-slick rooftops, the streets below teeming with life despite the late hour. But up here, on the rooftops, it was just you—sleek, silent, and untouchable.

Your catsuit was painted onto your curves, the black leather stretching taut over every dip and arch of your body. The fabric gleamed under the pale moonlight, hugging you like a second skin, molded to perfection. A high collar framed your throat, the zipper teasingly half-drawn down your chest, exposing just enough to keep wandering eyes entertained. Your mask fit seamlessly over your face, leaving your lips painted in a deep, sultry red—the only burst of color against the shadow you had become.

And then, of course, there was the tail.

A sleek black whip, curled around your waist when idle, attached to the small of your back, swinging ever so slightly as you moved. The perfect little touch of feline grace, a mockery of the hero who constantly tried—and failed—to catch you.

Tonight’s prize was nestled securely between your fingers: a rare, deep crimson diamond, one that shimmered even in the dark. Priceless. Enchanting. And, most importantly, stolen.

“That’s a pretty little trinket you’ve got there, Cat.”

His voice cut through the night like a blade, smooth and sharp. Nightwing.

You didn’t have to turn around to know he was there—perched somewhere just out of sight, watching, waiting, always one step behind. You smirked, holding the diamond up to the sky, letting the city’s dim glow refract off its flawless surface.

“I know, right? Thought it’d match my claws,” you purred, admiring it for a moment longer before tucking it safely into the hidden pocket at your hip. “You’d look good in red too, you know. Maybe you should try it sometime, Birdie.”

A gust of wind whispered across the rooftop, and in a blink, he moved.

He was fast—faster than you’d given him credit for. The air shifted as he flipped from the adjacent rooftop, the sound of his boots landing cleanly against the concrete just behind you. Your body reacted on instinct, spinning into a defensive stance, legs slightly spread, one hand reaching for the whip curled at your waist. His silhouette towered over you, clad in obsidian armor, muscles taut beneath the signature ‘V’ etched across his chest.

“Now, now,” you teased, flicking the whip loose with a practiced snap, the tail of it curling dangerously at your feet. “Didn’t your mentor teach you not to sneak up on a lady?”

Nightwing chuckled, but it was low, dark, something unreadable simmering beneath the surface. “And didn’t anyone ever teach you not to steal?”

You grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

And then, like the striking of a match, the fight began.

He lunged, and you countered. A dance of shadows and speed.

Your whip cracked through the air, but he dodged, twisting mid-air with that infuriating acrobatic grace he always seemed to have. His escrima sticks flashed under the moonlight, one swinging toward your midsection. You twisted, barely avoiding the hit, the leather of your suit creaking as you arched your back like a feline in motion.

He was precise. Focused. Calculated.

But so were you.

A well-aimed kick sent him stumbling back, his boots scuffing against the ledge. You grinned, licking your lips. “Getting slow, Birdie?”

He responded with a smirk that sent a chill straight down your spine.

“Just luring you in, kitten.”

Before you could blink, he struck.

A feint—a damn good one. Your wrist was caught mid-swing, his grip tightening just enough to pin your arm behind your back. In one smooth motion, he spun you, pressing your front against the cold brick wall of the rooftop.

You gasped, but not from pain. No, this was something else entirely. Something hot and heavy that curled deep in your belly.

“You never learn,” he muttered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. His body was flush against yours, the hard lines of his armor pressing into the soft curves of your suit.

You let out a breathy chuckle, shifting slightly, just enough to make your ass brush against the front of his thighs. “Oh, but if I did… you wouldn’t be having this much fun, would you?”

His grip on your wrist tightened.

And just like that, the real game began.

The air was thick with Gotham’s night chill, but none of it reached you—not with him pressed so firmly against your back, not with his fingers digging into your hips, forcing you to feel every hard, unyielding inch of his body through the taut leather of your suit.

“You’re quiet,” Nightwing mused, his breath ghosting against the shell of your ear. His voice was pure sin—low, smug, amused. “Not like you at all. Don’t tell me I finally caught the little kitty with her tongue tied?”

You let out a slow, deliberate exhale, pushing back just slightly against the solid heat of his chest. His grip tightened instantly—his fingers curling possessively around your waist, dragging you flush against him, pinning you to the rooftop’s ledge.

“You’re gonna have to do more than this to shut me up,” you purred, voice laced with mock boredom, even as heat coiled low in your stomach.

The chuckle he let out sent a shiver down your spine. “Oh, I plan to.”

His hands moved lower, slow and deliberate, until his fingers cupped the heat between your thighs. Leather on leather. A frustrating barrier.

“Oh?” His tone dripped amusement, but there was an edge beneath it, something dark, something mean. “What’s this, kitten? Squirming already?”

You rolled your hips forward slightly, teasing, taunting. “Not squirming. Just wondering if the big, bad hero has the guts to do more than talk.”

A sharp slap landed right between your legs, the sound obscene against the leather. You gasped, your body jolting from the impact, a delicious sting blooming between your thighs.

“Oh, trust me,” he murmured, dragging his fingers slowly over the spot where he’d just struck. “I don’t just talk.”

Another smack—sharper this time, more deliberate. Then another.

Each one sent sparks of pleasure and pain twisting up your spine, but it wasn’t enough. Not enough to truly hurt, not enough to satisfy. Just enough to tease.

“You can’t even feel me properly, can you?” he mused, his voice filled with faux sympathy. His fingers traced slow, taunting circles over the leather, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs clench. “Bet that’s killing you, huh? Knowing I’m right here, knowing I could ruin you, but all you’re getting is friction.”

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, the sound humiliatingly needy. Your hips rolled forward instinctively, searching for more, but he held you still, pressing you even harder against the ledge.

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue, full of mockery. “Gotham’s biggest slut, and look at you. Desperate.”

You huffed, gripping the concrete edge in front of you. “And yet I’m still the one in control,” you shot back, twisting your head slightly to glance at him. “All this effort, and I’m still laughing.”

A dangerous smirk curled his lips. “Yeah?”

His gloved fingers curled around your throat, wrenching you back against his chest. “You sure about that?”

Your next breath hitched, and he felt it. The way your body tensed, the way your thighs instinctively pressed together. His grip didn’t squeeze—not yet. Just a warning. A silent threat.

His other hand, still between your thighs, moved in slow, lazy circles over the leather of your suit, barely pressing down, just enough to make you suffer.

“Tell me,” he murmured, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “How bad do you want me to take this off?”

You swallowed hard, your pulse thrumming beneath his fingers. “Who says I do?”

His chuckle was wicked. Dark. A promise.

“You think I don’t see it?” He squeezed your throat just enough to steal your next breath, just enough to make your lashes flutter. “The way your body fucking begs for it?”

You let out a breathy moan before you could stop yourself, and he rewarded you with another sharp slap between your legs—this one harsher, making your knees buckle. Still, not enough.

“You wanna be ruined, don’t you?” he taunted, his fingers pressing down harder, rubbing you through the suit, knowing damn well it wasn’t enough.

You hated him for it.

Hated how he made you crave it, hated how you were already soaking through the leather despite not having felt his bare fingers once. Hated how badly you needed him to break you.

You tilted your head slightly, smirking as best you could despite the wave of frustration coursing through you. “You talk a lot, Birdie. Maybe you’re the one who needs to prove something.”

Something in his demeanor shifted.

And then, he dropped to his knees.

A rush of air left your lungs, a shockwave of anticipation shooting through you. “Oh?” you purred, trying to sound smug, but your voice betrayed you—breathy, eager, too damn willing.

He spread your legs wider with a firm grip, his breath hot against the leather now slick with your own arousal. He could smell it.

“Look at you,” he murmured, so fucking condescending. “Dripping. And for what?”

You bit back a moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

He exhaled slowly before tilting his head, eyes locked onto yours as he did something so unspeakably filthy you nearly choked on air.

He licked you.

Right through the suit. Slow, deliberate, all tongue.

The heat of it bled through the material, and even though you couldn’t feel his mouth fully, the pressure, the friction—it sent a violent shudder up your spine.

“Oh,” you gasped, knuckles going white against the ledge.

He did it again, slower this time, tasting the leather, tasting the need trapped beneath it.

It was unbearable.

“I could make you cum just like this,” he mused, dragging his tongue along the seam where the suit clung to you the tightest.

You whimpered, head dropping forward, panting against the rooftop air.

And then, he laughed. Mocking. Dark. Knowing.

“I don’t even have to touch you to break you, do I?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, cursing under your breath.

He sat back on his heels slightly, tilting his head. “You wanna beg yet?”

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to keep your composure. Barely.

Instead, you gathered every ounce of pride left in your body, and with a smirk, you purred, “Make me.”

Something dark flashed behind his eyes. Something wicked. Something cruel.

His fingers dug into your hips, and you knew, in that moment, he was about to ruin you.

Nightwing’s fingers were still gripping your hips, his mouth hovering over your soaked leather, his breath hot and heavy against the unforgiving material. You were already a mess—panting, quivering, dripping despite him barely touching you.

And he knew it.

“Knew you were a filthy little thing,” he murmured, dragging his tongue over the seam of your suit again, this time slower, wetter, filthier. His spit smeared against the leather, mixing with the arousal he couldn’t even reach, his breath coming out low and taunting when he saw the way your thighs trembled.

“Oh?” he cooed mockingly, tilting his head as he licked you again, pressing harder this time, rubbing his face against the wetness. “Are you shaking, kitten? Thought you were the one in control.”

You barely heard him over the sound of your own ragged breathing. Your knuckles were white against the concrete ledge, nails digging into the surface as you clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing you beg.

But you needed more.

And you weren’t above taking it.

You reached back, gripping his hair roughly, forcing him closer. “If you’re going to make a mess,” you panted, grinding against his tongue, “then make it worth my time.”

His low, dark chuckle vibrated through you.

“Oh, you wanna be fucking used?” His voice was drenched in something dangerous, something cruel.

You didn’t even have time to answer before his hand came down hard between your legs—a wet, smacking slap.

Your moan came out broken, needy, filthy.

“Yeah,” he muttered, dragging his tongue along the slick surface again, making sure you heard every wet, messy stroke. “You do.”

His gloved fingers hooked into the tight fabric at your hips, tugging hard—not enough to tear, but enough to make the leather stretch. “Bet you taste just as fucking good as you look.”

He spit onto your cunt right through the suit.

The wetness seeped into the fabric, mixing with everything else, soaking you in a way that made you groan in frustration. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

You needed more.

You twisted your head to look at him, your lips curving into a smirk despite the desperation clawing through you. “Pathetic,” you teased breathlessly. “All that talk and you’re still scared to take what you want.”

His hand wrapped around your throat before you could even process it, yanking you backward into him.

The sudden force of it made your back arch, your ass pressing right against the hard length in his suit. His grip tightened, his chest heaving against your back as he let out a low, ragged exhale, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You have no fucking idea what you just started.”

You barely had a second to react before he spit into your mouth.

Hot, messy, degrading—his grip on your jaw keeping your lips open just wide enough to take it.

Your moan was instant. Your thighs clenched, your entire body lighting up from the sheer filth of it.

And he saw.

“Ohh,” he laughed, mocking, low, drenched in satisfaction. “You really are Gotham’s filthiest little slut.”

Before you could retort, his mouth was on you—

Sloppy, messy, spit-slicked kisses down your throat, his teeth grazing, his tongue licking up the mess he’d made.

He turned you around in one swift motion, forcing you back against the ledge, his hand gripping your jaw, prying your mouth open again.

“You wanna be fucking used?” he murmured against your lips, his own mouth wet, his breath fanning over your face.

Then—another spit.

Right onto your tongue.

“Swallow.”

Your legs nearly gave out.

You obeyed without thinking, without hesitation, without anything but the sheer need consuming your body.

And he lost it.

His mouth crashed against yours, the kiss wet, filthy, tongues tangling with no sense of control. His gloved fingers found your waist, yanking you flush against him, grinding the hard length between his legs against you.

“This fucking suit,” he growled against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip before pulling away. “Gonna fucking ruin you right through it.”

He dropped back to his knees again, this time not teasing, not taunting, just fucking devouring you.

Spitting. Licking. Sucking. Biting.

The leather was soaked.

You were a mess.

And he was just getting started.

His grip was relentless—fingers bruising your hips, his breath hot and ragged against your cheek, your suit slick with his spit. You were a mess, bent over the rooftop ledge, trembling, grinding against the frustration of leather against leather, caught in his cruel game.

And the worst part? He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Look at you,” he groaned, grinding his hips against yours in slow, agonizing rolls. Teasing. Mocking. Dragging it out.“So fucking needy. Gotham’s filthiest little slut, dripping all over my tongue, and I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”

Your teeth clenched. Again.

That fucking nickname. Again.

He’d been throwing it at you all night—taunting you, pushing you, like he knew it would break you eventually.

And oh, it did.

Your entire body tensed, your hands pushing back against his chest as you suddenly turned, facing him with a slow, sultry smirk that had danger written all over it.

“Gotham’s filthiest slut, huh?” you repeated, voice sickly sweet, dripping in menace.

Nightwing’s smirk barely faltered. “That’s what I said.”

Your fingers reached for the zipper at your chest.

“Then I guess it’s time I show you what that actually fucking means.”

His eyes darkened instantly.

You didn’t just unzip the suit. You ripped it open, shoving the leather down your arms, rolling your hips as you tugged it off completely, leaving yourself standing in the cold Gotham air—wearing nothing but a tiny black leather G-string.

The look on his face?

Priceless.

His breath hitched. His fingers twitched. His pupils blew wide as he took in every bare, glistening inch of you, illuminated only by the city lights.

And then, the cocky bastard smirked.

“Shit,” he murmured, licking his lips, his voice turning hoarse, greedy. “Guess you really are a whore.”

You laughed. Low. Dangerous.

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Birdie.”

Then, deliberately slow, you turned around.

You bent at the waist, spreading your cheeks with both hands, letting him see exactly where that tiny strip of leather disappeared between your folds—where it rubbed against your asshole, soaked with your arousal.

A low, guttural groan ripped from his throat. The sound of a man barely holding himself together.

You wiggled your hips just slightly, grinding against the empty air, arching your back just enough to give him the perfect view.

Then, without a word, you crawled away.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Letting your hips sway, knowing damn well he was watching every inch of your body move.

He let out a shaky exhale, his restraint hanging by a thread.

“You…” he swallowed hard, his voice wrecked. “You are so fucking evil.”

You only grinned, settling onto your back at the center of the rooftop.

Then, you spread your legs.

Your fingers traced along the thin strip of leather, teasing, barely touching yourself, making a mess just for him.

His entire body locked up.

You smirked, rolling your hips lazily, teasing, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his gloved fingers flexed at his sides like he was holding himself back from grabbing you.

Then, in the filthiest, most sinful voice you could muster, you pouted and cooed:

“What’s wrong, baby? Pussy got your tongue?”

His groan was guttural.

You weren’t done.

Tilting your head, you made a slow, come-hither motion with your finger, voice dropping into something dark, dripping in depravity.

“C’mere, Birdie. Wanna let this pussy teach you about the birds and the bees?”

His breath shuddered. His entire body twitched.

Then—he fucking snapped.

One second, he was standing there, panting like he’d lost his goddamn mind.

The next?

You were on your back, spread out on the rooftop, Nightwing between your legs, his hands everywhere, his mouth crashing into yours—hot, wet, filthy.

And for the first time all night, he was the one begging.

“Say it again,” he panted, grinding against you, licking into your mouth like he was starved for it. “Say it again, baby, I fucking dare you.”

You moaned into his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck, dragging him closer, arching up into him.

“What’s wrong, Birdie?” you panted, voice dripping in mock innocence. “Pussy got your—”

His hand clamped over your mouth, his palm pressing down hard.

“Ohh, no, no,” he chuckled darkly, his hips pressing down, making you feel every thick, hard inch of him through his suit. “You don’t get to fucking talk anymore.”

Then, with no hesitation—he spit right into your mouth.

Messy. Wet. Dominating.

“Swallow.”

Your body shuddered violently.

You swallowed without thinking. Without hesitation. Without anything but the overwhelming, suffocating need between your thighs.

And then? He fucking lost it.

His hands were everywhere—gripping your jaw, pressing your legs open wider, teasing, taunting, making a mess of you.

His mouth was on you, licking, sucking, biting, drowning in your filth, spitting between your legs just to watch it drip down your skin.

“You wanna talk about Gotham’s filthiest slut?” he groaned, dragging his tongue over the soaked fabric barely covering you.

He spit again.

This time, right onto your bare, swollen clit.

Then he licked it up, slow and obscene, making sure you heard every single filthy stroke of his tongue.

“Then let me fucking worship her properly.”

And with that, he dove in

You were sprawled out beneath him, your legs wide open, your body on full display, wearing nothing but that tiny strip of leather that was already soaked through.

And he was kneeling there, staring at you like you were something holy.

Like something he was about to worship.

His gloved fingers slid down, hooking under the thin string of your G-string, tugging it back just enough to

Snap.

The sting of the leather snapping against your clit sent a sharp jolt of pain-pleasure through your body.

And all you did. Was moan.

Loud, broken, filthy—a sound so obscene it made his breath catch.

His hands froze for a second, his lips parting slightly as he let out a low, wrecked chuckle. “Holy shit,” he muttered, his voice wrecked with something dark, something unhinged.

He did it again.

Snap.

And you moaned again.

His pupils blew wide. His fingers dug into your thighs as he let out a low, shaky groan, staring at you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he rasped.

But then, finally, he gave you what you needed.

His mouth.

His hot, wet, wicked fucking mouth.

He devoured you.

His tongue licked a long, leisurely stripe over the soaked fabric, pressing down, teasing. His lips wrapped around the thin strip of leather, sucking on it like he was tasting you through it.

It was good—too good.

But it wasn’t enough.

You let out a breathless whimper, rolling your hips up against his face, chasing more friction, more pressure, more fucking anything.

He chuckled against you, the vibration sending a fresh wave of arousal dripping into the fabric.

“What’s wrong, kitten?” His voice was mocking, his tongue darting out to flick against the fabric too lightly, too soft, too slow. “Not enough?”

You whined. Actually fucking whined.

“No,” you panted, voice raw, desperate, completely ruined. “More.”

He smirked against your inner thigh, his fingers trailing up to press just barely against your entrance, spreading your slick over the leather.

“More?” he repeated, his tone dangerously amused.

You glared down at him, panting, shaking, your hands fisting into the rooftop. “More.”

He hummed, dragging his tongue lower, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your thighs, avoiding where you needed him most.

His mouth was everywhere but there.

You groaned in frustration, rolling your hips up again, trying to make him touch you, do anything real.

But he just laughed, watching you suffer.

“Oh, poor thing,” he cooed, dragging his teeth lightly over your skin. “So desperate. So fucking greedy.”

Then, another flick of his tongue—light, too light—and your patience snapped.

“Riki,” you whined, your voice breaking, your entire body trembling. “I said more.”

His smirk disappeared.

He snapped.

His gloved fingers grabbed your wrist, yanking it down, forcing your hand between your legs.

“Then fucking touch yourself.”

Your breath caught.

Before you could react, before you could even process what he just said, he spit.

Right onto your fingers.

Hot, wet, filthy.

“Rub yourself,” he ordered, his voice dangerously low. “Since nothing I do is enough.”

Your entire body shuddered.

And you did it.

You slid your fingers over the soaked fabric, spreading his spit, spreading yourself, moaning at the sheer depravity of it.

His gaze darkened, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged breaths.

“Holy fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked. “You’re actually—”

Then he lost it.

His mouth was back on you, devouring you, licking into your fingers, sucking them into his mouth, tasting you off your own skin.

He yanked the soaked leather aside, spitting onto your bare skin this time.

His fingers were inside you.

Deep, rough, curling just right, fucking you open with no hesitation.

“Still not enough?” he panted, licking, sucking, spitting, fingering you all at once.

Your eyes rolled back.

Your moans shattered into nothing.

He was everywhere.

His spit was dripping down your skin, his mouth was wrecking you, his fingers were filling you, his voice was taunting you, breaking you, ruining you.

“Yeah?” he growled, fucking his fingers into you harder. “That enough for you now, kitten?”

You couldn’t even answer.

You could only moan, sob, beg, take it.

And he just kept going.

More. More. More.

Your body was wrecked, trembling, covered in spit and slick and sweat, your legs still spread wide open as you panted against the cold Gotham air.

Nightwing’s breath was heavy as he hovered over you, his gloved fingers still buried deep inside you, dripping with everything he had coaxed out of you. His other hand was wrapped tight around your wrist, keeping your fingers right where he wanted them—pressing into yourself, rubbing slow, messy circles soaked in his spit.

His voice was low, taunting.

“You think I’m done with you?” he murmured, dragging his fingers out, just to slap them back against your clit.

You whimpered, your body jerking from the impact.

“No,” he growled, watching the way you twitched, the way your body craved more. “You’re not done. Not even close.”

Then, with one hand still on your jaw, prying your mouth open, he reached down with his free hand—

And grabbed the stolen jewel.

Your breath hitched. Your body froze.

He lifted it slowly, rolling the smooth, perfectly rounded crimson diamond between his fingers. The same diamond you had risked everything to steal tonight.

And then—

His gloved fingers spread you apart, lower this time.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“W—wait,” you gasped, your voice trembling, your fingers clenching against his arm.

But Nightwing just smirked.

“Oh, what’s wrong?” he murmured, pressing the cool gemstone right against your tight, untouched asshole.

You squeaked.

“You were so cocky earlier,” he continued, voice dripping in mockery, rubbing the gemstone right there, pressing, teasing, making you gasp at the contrast of heat and cold. “What happened to all that attitude, kitten?”

Your thighs clenched, your whole body shaking as he pushed—

And the jewel disappeared inside you.

A wrecked, broken scream ripped from your throat.

Your back arched violently, your body convulsing, a sharp wave of pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt crashing into you.

“Ohhh,” Nightwing groaned, watching the way your asshole fluttered around the jewel, clenching, squeezing, trying to adjust to the perfect, filthy weight of it.

Your fingers clawed at the rooftop, your entire body trembling.

He was stunned.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed. “You like that?”

You whimpered, shaking, nodding so hard it made him laugh.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair, watching you lose your fucking mind. “Didn’t realize you were this much of a slut for it.”

Your only answer was a wrecked, gasping moan.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his gloved fingers tracing over the jewel, pressing it deeper, twisting it, watching you shudder.“Look at you, baby. Completely ruined just from having your ass filled.”

You were gone.

Shaking, dripping, lost in pleasure.

He wasn’t finished.

You barely had time to process it before he reached for his baton.

Your breath hitched violently.

He noticed. And he smirked.

“You’re looking at me like you’re scared,” he murmured, twirling it between his fingers with ease. “Thought you liked surprises, kitten.”

Your eyes widened as you shook your head, breathless, still adjusting to the fucking jewel sitting inside you.

“Riki,” you stammered.

But he just hushed you, dragging the smooth, cold length of the baton down your stomach, lower, right against your dripping folds.

Then—he turned it on.

A low vibration rumbled through your core, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine.

You screamed.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, grinding the vibrating baton against your clit, watching you convulse beneath him. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The double stimulation was unbearable—the jewel keeping you stretched, your walls clenching around it, while the steady, pulsing vibration of the baton pushed you closer and closer to insanity.

It was too much.

Too much.

Too fucking good.

Your body arched off the rooftop, your back bowing, hands gripping his arm like you were about to break.

“Ohh, I think she likes it,” he teased, his voice breathless, watching you come undone beneath him. “Look at you, taking it so well.”

You could barely fucking breathe.

“Tell me how it feels,” he panted, pressing the baton harder against you.

You whimpered, unable to form words, your head spinning, drowning.

But that wasn’t good enough for him.

He pressed the baton against your clit again—

And turned the vibration up.

Your scream cracked.

“That’s it, kitten,” he growled, his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you open, forcing you to take it. “Fucking lose it for me.”

And you did.

Completely. Utterly.

Your orgasm slammed through you, ripping you apart, drenching the rooftop beneath you, your thighs shaking violently as you sobbed through the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure.

You were gone.

Ruined.

And he was just getting started.

The night air clung to your sweat-slick skin, every nerve in your body alive, overstimulated, twitching from the filth Nightwing had already dragged you through.

Still. He wasn’t done.

Not until he’d ruined you completely.

His breath was hot against your ear as he lined himself up, dragging the thick, leaking tip of his cock through your soaked, messy folds.

“Look at you,” he groaned, his voice wrecked, dripping in filth. “Fucking dripping, baby. You that desperate for me?”

Your whimper was answer enough.

He smirked against your skin, his gloved fingers tracing your slit, feeling the way you clenched around nothing, soaking his cock before he even pushed in.

“So wet,” he muttered, dragging himself slowly over your entrance. So messy.

He pressed the jewel deeper.

Your entire body lurched forward, your mouth falling open in a silent scream as the cold, unyielding stone inside your ass shifted, stretching you further, pressing against something that sent shockwaves up your spine.

“Ohhh,” he groaned, watching your reaction, his cock twitching from just the way you shook.

“Still cold, huh?” he teased, smirking against your ear. “Guess I’ll have to warm it up for you.”

Then, in one slow, filthy slide—he sank into you.

Your walls stretched around him, sucking him in, clenching down like your body didn’t want to let him go.

The sound was obscene.

Wet, sticky, a loud, filthy squelch echoing through the Gotham night.

Nightwing let out a choked laugh, his fingers gripping your hips, stilling deep inside you for a second.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “Did you hear that?”

Your face burned. You tried to say something, but all that came out was a helpless moan.

He just chuckled darkly.

“Ohhh,” he mocked, pulling back just a bit before sliding in again, deliberately slow, making sure you both heard the filthy sounds your pussy made.

Another loud, wet squelch.

He groaned, laughing. “Oh, baby—it’s talking dirty to me.”

Your eyes rolled back.

Another thrust—sharp, deep, pushing the jewel further inside you.

Another loud, disgustingly wet sound.

“Fuck,” he gasped, completely lost in it. “She’s filthy.”

Your breath hitched.

“Ohh, you like that, don’t you?” he murmured, nipping at your jaw, rolling his hips deeper, grinding against the cold pressure of the jewel.

Your entire body convulsed.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he rasped. “She likes it. She likes when I press it.”

That was when something shifted.

A slow grin curled at your lips.

Your fingers dug into his arms, your body rolling into his thrusts, meeting him, matching him, overtaking him.

“Yeah,” you gasped, moaning like a slut, rocking against him. “She likes it, Birdie. She fucking loves it.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

“Ohh,” you mocked, your voice thick, teasing, wrapping around his cock like a vice. “What’s wrong, baby? She too much for you?”

He let out a wrecked groan, his grip on your hips tightening.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, his pace stuttering for half a second before he lost it.

“Yeah?” he growled, thrusting into you harder, meaner, pressing the jewel deeper, his cock grinding against it from inside.

Your moans shattered.

“Ohhh, she loves that,” you panted, rolling your hips, smirking through the absolute filth.

“She’s greedy, baby,” you taunted, gripping his wrist, guiding his hand lower. “She wants it all—your cock, your fingers, your cum.”

His breath shuddered.

“Jesus fuck,” he gasped, grinding harder, chasing the wet, squelching sounds. “You’re actually a fucking menace.”

“Ohhh, is Birdie struggling?” you pouted, tilting your head mockingly. “Can’t handle how fucking dirty she is?”

His jaw clenched, his eyes wild, desperate.

“Say it again,” he gritted, grabbing your throat, holding you still while he wrecked you. “Say it again, kitten.”

Your smirk widened.

“She wants your cum,” you gasped, rolling your hips to meet his every snap. “She needs it, baby—fuck, she needs it so bad. She’s sucking you in, begging for it, stretching just to take all your fucking cock.”

His groan cracked. His body shook.

But then, you arched your back further, pushing your ass against him, forcing him deeper, forcing him to feel the way the jewel shifted inside you.

“Press it,” you whispered, your voice dripping with sin. “Play with it. Show everyone what you’re doing to me.”

His breath hitched.

“What?” he rasped, his cock twitching inside you.

You smirked, looking back over your shoulder, eyes dark and full of wicked intent. “You heard me. Make her put on a fucking show.”

His hands gripped your hips brutally hard, his fingers spreading you apart, exposing the way the jewel sat inside you.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groaned, his voice wrecked.

“Press it, Birdie,” you purred, wiggling your hips. “Show them how deep she can take it.”

His control snapped.

He slammed deep, forcing the jewel against your walls, twisting it, watching the way your body convulsed from the sheer filth of it.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, completely lost, completely obsessed.

And as your moans turned to helpless, desperate cries, you knew—

He was going to give you exactly what you begged for

Your body was wrecked.

Your face was pressed against the rooftop, your breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps as you shook, convulsing, drowning in the filth he had forced you into.

And the jewel?

Still inside you.

Still cold, still stretching you, still pressing against every nerve ending, keeping you wide open, making sure you never forgot who put it there.

Nightwing wasn’t any better.

His chest was heaving against your back, his grip still brutal on your hips, his cock twitching inside you as he pulsed, throbbing, leaking, completely fucking wrecked.

“Oh, baby,” you giggled breathlessly, rolling your hips against him, making him groan, shaking from overstimulation.“She’s still so full.”

His head dropped to your shoulder, his laugh wrecked, breathless, completely broken.

“You are fucking insane,” he muttered, dragging his lips over your neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark.

“And yet,” you panted, rocking back, making him feel every aftershock, every squeeze of your body still holding onto him, still milking him. “You loved every second of it.”

He exhaled shakily, his hands trailing over your body, gripping your ass, pressing on the jewel just enough to make you twitch.

“You’re keeping it in,” he murmured, voice laced with amusement, dragging his fingers over where the gem sat snug inside you.

“Maybe I like the way it feels,” you purred, tilting your head, lips brushing against his. “Maybe I want you to take me home and keep me plugged up all night.”

His groan was filthy.

“You are a fucking problem,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes.

He smirked.

“Fine,” he murmured, dragging his thumb over your swollen, wrecked clit, making you jolt. “But if that jewel stays in all night, I get to fuck you with it still inside.”

Your grin widened.

“Baby,” you purred, cupping his jaw, pulling him into a slow, messy kiss.

“You can do whatever the fuck you want.”

And as the night stretched before you, one thing was certain.

This wasn’t over.

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ari-ana-bel-la · 4 months ago

Note

Hello baby. Can you please write some George story where he is spending a nice day on see witb his daughter and Carmen. Could the daughter be a baby or a toddler, please?

A day on sea

The bright Greek sun shimmered over the sparkling turquoise sea as the small family arrived at the marina. The air was warm, carrying a light, salty breeze that promised a perfect day on the water. George stepped out of the car, stretching his long limbs before turning to help Carmen, who carefully lifted their two-year-old daughter, Yn, from her car seat.

"There it is," George said, nodding toward the sleek white yacht bobbing gently against the dock. His voice was warm with excitement as he slung a bag over his shoulder. "What do you think, love? Fancy a day on the sea?"

Carmen smiled, adjusting Yn in her arms as their daughter rested her head against her shoulder, still half-asleep from the drive. "I think you’ve outdone yourself this time. She’s going to love it."

George chuckled softly, stepping onto the yacht first. He tested his footing before reaching out a hand toward Carmen. "Come on, let me help you. Careful with our little mermaid."

With practiced ease, Carmen passed Yn to him for a moment before stepping on board herself. Once she was secure, George gently handed their daughter back to her, brushing a soft kiss across her temple. Yn stirred slightly but remained blissfully asleep in her mother’s arms.

"Still out," Carmen murmured, smoothing back a few strands of Yn’s dark curls.

George leaned in, kissing the top of her head. "Let her rest for now. We’ve got all day."

They moved inside to settle their things. George busied himself getting the yacht ready to pull out, while Carmen found a shady spot on the deck where she could sit comfortably with Yn nestled against her chest. The gentle hum of the engine soon filled the air as they drifted out into open waters.

For a while, the only sounds were the lapping of the waves and the occasional breeze rustling past. Carmen closed her eyes, cradling Yn as she slept peacefully, lulled by the soft rocking of the boat.

George finally slowed the yacht, satisfied they were far enough out. The water gleamed a deep blue beneath them, shimmering in the midday sun. With the engine off, the world seemed blissfully quiet. He turned back to his girls, his heart swelling at the sight of them.

"Alright," he whispered, stepping over to kneel beside Carmen. His fingers brushed gently over Yn’s cheek. "I think it’s time our little sea princess woke up and joined the fun."

Yn stirred under his touch, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. George leaned in, placing a series of soft kisses along her forehead and down to her chubby little hand.

"Sweetheart," he murmured, his voice as soft as the breeze. "Wake up, baby. Daddy’s here."

A tiny whimper escaped her lips before she shifted in Carmen’s arms, her eyes cracking open. For a moment, she seemed confused, her brows furrowing as she tried to process where she was.

"Hey, love," Carmen said softly, smiling down at her.

When Yn’s gaze finally landed on George, her whole face lit up. A delighted giggle burst from her lips as she reached for him with her small hands.

"There’s my girl," George laughed, scooping her up from Carmen’s arms and holding her close. "Did you have a nice nap? Guess what—you're on a boat!"

Yn wiggled excitedly, pressing her hands against his cheeks. "Boat!" she echoed, her voice high and sweet.

"That’s right!" Carmen laughed, stretching her arms above her head. "And guess what else? You get to swim with us today."

George stood, bouncing Yn lightly in his arms. "Let’s get you ready, love. Mummy’s going to find your swimsuit while I blow up your floatie. Sound good?"

Yn clapped her hands, her giggles bubbling over as George nuzzled her neck. "Swim!"

Carmen disappeared below deck to grab Yn’s pink bathing suit while George settled onto one of the cushioned benches, pulling out the small inflatable floatie. As he worked, he kept Yn entertained by blowing exaggerated puffs of air, making silly faces that had her bursting into fits of laughter.

"You think Daddy’s funny, huh?" he teased, tapping her nose.

Yn’s laughter only grew louder, and George beamed, utterly enchanted by her joy.

Carmen returned, holding up the tiny bathing suit. "Alright, sweet girl, let’s get you changed."

George carefully passed Yn back to her, pressing a kiss to Carmen’s cheek on the way. "I’ll finish this and jump in first. Make sure it’s all good."

It didn’t take long for him to blow up the floatie. With a playful salute, he slipped out of his shirt and dove into the crystal-clear water. When his head popped back up, his grin was wide. "Perfect temperature. Come on in when you’re ready!"

Carmen finished changing Yn and carried her to the edge of the yacht. "Daddy’s waiting for you, love," she cooed as George swam closer.

"Come here, baby girl," George said, his arms outstretched.

Carefully, Carmen lowered Yn into the water, and George immediately took hold of her, holding her securely against his chest. Yn’s legs kicked instinctively, her hands splashing excitedly at the water.

"She’s a natural," George said proudly, looking up at Carmen.

"Of course, she is," Carmen teased, carefully sliding into the water to join them. "She’s got your energy."

Yn squealed happily between them, her tiny hands splashing wildly.

"You’re having fun, aren’t you?" George laughed, keeping a firm hold on her while letting her explore. "Our little water baby."

They stayed close, never letting Yn drift too far. Whenever she grew tired, one of them would pull her against their chest, offering her a break before she eagerly pushed off to "swim" again.

After about twenty minutes, Yn’s energy began to wane. George glanced at Carmen, who nodded knowingly. "Let’s get her in the floatie," she said softly.

George pulled the inflatable closer, carefully settling Yn inside it. Her chubby legs dangled through the openings, and she immediately began to kick again, giggling with delight as she floated beside them.

"I could stay here all day," George murmured, watching their daughter splash happily.

Carmen smiled, her heart warm and full. "Me too."

When Yn’s splashes grew less enthusiastic, George decided it was time for a snack. "Why don’t I get her out while you fix us something to eat?"

"Deal." Carmen kissed his shoulder before climbing out of the water, leaving a trail of droplets behind as she disappeared below deck.

George lifted Yn out of her floatie, wrapping her in a soft towel before settling on the cushioned bench. He laid her on his chest, drying her gently as she babbled softly.

"Did you like swimming, love?" he asked, tilting his head back to meet her eyes.

Yn’s response was a bright, belly-deep laugh when George began making silly faces—sticking out his tongue, puffing his cheeks, and crossing his eyes. Her laughter was music to his ears, echoing across the open water.

"You’re the best audience, you know that?" he whispered, pressing a kiss to her damp curls.

By the time Carmen returned with a plate of fresh fruit and sandwiches, George was still entertaining their daughter, her laughter ringing out again and again.

"Alright, funny guy," Carmen called playfully. "Let’s feed our little fish before she falls asleep on you."

George smiled, standing carefully with Yn still cradled against him. "Anything for my girls."

And as they enjoyed their lunch under the warm Greek sun, with Yn nestled safely between them, George knew this was a day he would remember forever.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed this story. My requests are always open for you.

-💙🦋

#f1 drivers as fathers #formula 1 #formula one #f1 x daughter!reader #f1 x female reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #george russell x daughter!reader #george russell x reader #dad!george russell #russell!reader #💙🦋#carlos sainz x reader #charles leclerc x reader #lando norris x reader #max verstappen x reader #lewis hamilton x reader

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amaranthineghost · 1 year ago

Text

THE MIGHTY HAS FALLEN (BUT YOU'LL RISE AGAIN, LOVE) ( max verstappen. )

max verstappen x reader

after a tough race cut short, max pushes away any person around him, but not her. never her. she always picks up the pieces to put him back together.

authors note: I love max. I know he's not the self-deprecating typa guy, but in this, he is, OKAY. charles is after this <333

HE WAS A BOMB. the fuse getting shorter and shorter every minute that his patience was tested. everything around him seemed to irritate him more and more as he tried to keep himself from exploding, for pr's sake.

he just wanted to avoid the media all together, for obvious reasons, but he was contractually obligated to give his words to the journalists under the media tent. putting him under a microscope and asking questions that had an undertone of scrutiny in hopes of catching him break. he was close, but he wouldn’t.

it hadn’t even been a fault of his own, he rarely made those anymore. the car had caught fire, but not due to a mistake he had made, and even if it had been, he wouldn't have admitted it anyways. still he felt the guilt of his lack of performance, beating himself up after every question asked about his car and what had happened.

it was just stupid. the questions were stupid. the car was stupid. this whole race was stupid.

the pressure to perform, even in the best car on the grid, was high. despite his seat being secured for plenty of years to come, he still had expectations to meet and records to break.

it was obvious to everyone that max was hard on himself every time he didn't perform his best, his girlfriend especially noticing when she’d find him in his very luxurious driver's room sulking at even the slightest of a mistake made by him.

it didn't happen often, but when it did, she'd been there for him. he knew that.

he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and never be seen again because world champions don't make stupid mistakes.

even if this hadn't been a mistake he made, he should've known. even if there was no possible way he could’ve, he should've.

he was raised to believe that he was only deserving if he had been first, that he was destined to fail after every second place or worse finish.

so it wasn't surprising when he thought he didn't deserve her. in comparison, or more like his eyes, she was simply perfect.

and she understood him, which not many people could because he wouldn't let anyone pick apart his brain like she did.

he locked his thoughts and feelings in the dark that shrouded his mind from early childhood trauma. he promised he would never let anyone see.

but he was never great at keeping such promises because it hadn't taken much for her to pick the lock to his brain. even though he wasn't ready to spill every detail of his upbringing to her, he trusted her.

and he didn't get to do that all too often.

the media had been brutal—he knew they would be—and yet it still crushed his mentality and faith in himself.

with his race suit around his waist despite having time to change beforehand, he walked through the paddock in shame at the early retirement.

it wasn't like this determined the outcome of his career because the next race, he'd be back on top. he didn't feel so sure of it though because all his thoughts were on this failure. what if he failed the next race?

what if he failed the whole season? what if he fails her?

unlikely, the people know, but he had so much confidence which had so easily crumbled when it got a little too hot. he wasn't sure of himself anymore.

anyone could see the turmoil bubbling underneath his skin, harsh waves crashing in the ocean of his blue eyes as he pushed past anyone and everyone.

the walk through the paddock was short, considering the red bull motorhome was the first of ten. max hastily entered through the automatic doors, skipping steps as he was eager to hide out in his driver's room.

he felt the eyes of the staff follow him down the hall until he disappeared quickly around the corner. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

the door to his driver's room closed as fast as it was opened, but much louder. she heard the slam of the door echo down the hallway.

she didn't flinch, she just calmly greeted staff with smiles and left a bag of sweets on the table for them. she always brought something for the team, to celebrate every victory and despite this not being one, they still deserved it for working hard.

since she had gotten there not too long after him, she lingered around the lobby. she didn't want to be waiting around for him to show up and have him brush her off because he wasn't in the right headspace.

he would never mean to dismiss her, and she knew to give him at least a little time to himself to think and process things. she couldn't give him too much time though because she didn't want his self-deprecating thoughts to eat away at his confidence.

from what she analyzed from the staff and their demeanor, he'd probably caught them off guard when he slammed his door.

she wouldn't apologize for his behavior because she would make him do it when he cooled down.

so she hung around and made small talk with the sparse staff around to allow max a few minutes to himself before excusing herself down the hall.

she had a bomb to defuse after all.

the clack of her heels on the hard floors bounced off the walls, but she walked quietly enough so max didn't hear her coming. he knew she would though. he knew she would find him with his head in his hands, barely covered in sweat because he didn't race for more than three laps.

his face was still flush with disappointment though. he didn't want her to see him like this even though she was with him during his last disappointing race, but even though his singaporean grand prix finish wasn't great, at least he hadn't been out of the race.

max hadn't DNF’d in two years because he was simply just that good, and he still is. he just didn't feel like it.

his hands pressed so hard against his eyes, the blood vessels in them would have popped if he pushed any harder. he had taken off his red bull hat, he felt he didn't deserve the number one right now. it was thrown lazily onto the makeshift bed in his driver's room.

the room was practically silent, every so often interrupted by a deep sigh of disappointment that escaped his lips. he had sat there for a good couple or minutes, sulking.

when she reached his door, she held the bouquet of flowers she always got for him close to her body with one arm while she raised the other to knock. her hand only slightly hesitated before her fist made contact with the door and a few seconds later, she tried entering. it was locked, which was usual whenever he was brooding.

at first, when max heard the knock, he thought of all the people last on his list that he would want to see right now, but on the bottom of the list was the person he wanted to avoid the most right now.

his dad.

their relationship was rocky. he never supported max at any place unless it was on the very top of the podium, and even then max thought he looked unpleasant.

“go away,” was all max could mutter through his hands as his heart started to pick up the pace.

she sighed, shaking her head with a smile pulling at her lips, “max.” it was all she needed to say.

part of him didn't want to let her in, he didn't want her to see him like this, but he knew she was just as stubborn as him, if not more. he knew she would stand there all day if he didn't open the door to let her in.

and he would always let her in.

she heard the low creak of the sofa she could imagine him sitting on, but not his footsteps while he made his way to the door. she only knew he heard her when the lock clicked and the door slowly opened inwards to reveal the red-faced max verstappen.

she stood staring at him, her head tilted as she studied his face. he didn't move, he just watched her eyes dart around his appearance, and he felt himself getting hot under his fireproofs.

“are you going to let me in, verstappen?” she teased, a sly smile on her lips as she watched her boyfriend roll his eyes.

he scoffed, stepping aside, “don't call me that.”

“what?” she acted innocent, stepping into his driver's room with the fresh flowers, seeing the already prepped vase, “don't call you by your name?”

“you know what I mean.” though he tried to keep a straight face and act like he was still mad, he couldn't keep a smile from creeping onto his lips. she just had that effect.

she heard the door close and lock again as she took the wrapping off and placed the flowers in the vase. she shrugged at his words, her back still towards him, but she knew he had sat back down.

“you didn't have to get those,” he mumbled, “didn't win.”

she sighed, crumbling the wrapping in her hand and throwing it away before walking to where he sat. she stood in front of him as he looked up at her.

even with heels, he was still much taller than her and even though he was sitting, he reached barely below her chin.

she spread her arms to offer a hug to him, which he gratefully took, his arms snaking around the low of her hips. pressed against her chest, her arms wrapped around his head, running her fingers through his hair.

she felt him sigh against her skin, his eyes closing as they stayed like that for minutes without speaking. she felt him caress the bare skin of her thigh with his thumb.

when they finally pulled apart, his hands still laid firmly on her hips, his hair disheveled from the hug. she ran her hands through it to fix it and he only watched as she did so.

when she finally finished after only ten seconds because guy hair is a lot less complicated than women’s hair, he finally spoke up, “why are you dressed so uncomfortably?”

she was slightly taken aback, seeing as he was just moping about his race not even ten minutes ago and now commenting on her appearance. he only assumed she was uncomfortable, but unfortunately his assumption was correct.

“what do you mean?” she looked down at her attire, which isn't so different from the other wags that she hung out with.

his hand snuck around the back of her thigh and pulled up her leg, “I thought I told you to stop wearing heels, you always complain about them.”

“i’m fine,” she said, about to cross her arms, but her balance said otherwise so she settled them on his shoulders for support.

he gave her an incredulous look because every time she wore heels, without fail, she would complain less than an hour into wherever they were that she wanted to sit.

“okay, i admit i can't wait to get these things off,” she let out a deep breath, putting a hand on her hip, “but I'm supposed to be taking care of you.”

she said in his response to take the heels off her feet for her, a simple gesture really, but this was about him.

“do you want to talk about it?” she massaged his shoulders as he threw her heels to the other side of the small sofa.

“nothing to talk about,” he shrugged, “maybe I don't deserve being first.”

she pushed his head to look up at her, shaking her head, “you just don't realize how much you deserve, max. you're a world champion, a three-time one,” she reassured him, “you've won countless races, and you still have the entire season ahead of you. I know you want to, but you can't let one bad race define your season.”

“I know, you're right.” he bit the inside of his cheek as he thought deeply, “but I have to prove myself.”

“you've already done that plenty of times,” she shook his shoulders in emphasis, “besides you'll still lead the championship, unless charles gets p1, but you'll get it right back if that's the case.”

she was right. she always was, he never doubted her. he would never doubt her because she would never lie to him. she always backed up her answers by building up his ego and confidence back up so he was ready to fight it out on the track next race.

whether it took a couple of minutes or hours to bring his mood back up, she'd take her time in making him feel like the champion he was again.

she would take his phone from him, he didn't need to see the articles being written or the missing phone calls from his dad.

all he needed was her and she would always be there.

—

taglist (found here): @slut4lrh @taylorslovesswifties13 @sbella13 @kaa212 @nhlfs

proofread by @foreveralbon <333

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noirscript · 24 days ago

Text

The Fourth

Note: I can't sleep. But I have work in few hours. Fuck. (Woke up at 1 am TuT) Anyway, enjoy! LMK what you think. Comment or something? Idk.

Apologies for the odd spacing. Wrote this ij note and only had the energy to remove the space for the early ones. I have to sleep.

Tags will be added later. READ THE WARNINGS!

There were three rules set by the Fami brothers—and they were not meant to be broken.

First: No other man was allowed within three seconds of you. They monitored this without fail, and the few who had tested that boundary quickly learned to keep their distance—some with broken bones, others with broken memories.

Second: One of them was always watching. Whether through the discreet tilt of a security camera, a mirror placed too perfectly in your room, or the flicker of presence just outside your door at night, there was never a moment you weren’t being observed. Studied. Protected. Possessed.

And the third: You were to become a mother. Not just to a child—but to theirs. Theirs alone. No outside blood. No uncertain paternity. You were chosen, and you were claimed.

They never used it on you. Not at first. Not when you were still wide-eyed, eager to please as their maid. You had been selected by their own hands—picked from dozens of seasoned staff for reasons that no one ever explained, except that you “fit.” At the time, you’d thought it was because you were quiet. Obedient. Trustworthy.

They had grown up with you under the same roof. The sons of the globally-renowned Fami pharmaceutical empire, Cav, Maxon, and Neuvi were born geniuses in chemical manipulation. By sixteen, they had already been granted unrestricted access to the family’s private research facilities. By eighteen, they had created Lotus, an aphrodisiac so refined it could bend both the body and the mind. It erased not only inhibition but memory. After Lotus, you wouldn’t just forget what happened—you wouldn’t even realize something had happened at all.

Now, you were starting to wonder.

You had spent years with them, tucked away in one of the family’s private mansions on the coast, where the sea never slept and the wind whispered through the halls like a warning. They were charming in public, terrifying in private. Sometimes gentle. Sometimes not. But always close.

That night at dinner, you knew things would change the moment you opened your mouth.

“I’ve decided,” you said, placing your utensils down with more courage than you felt. “Tonight will be my last night here.”

The silver clinked. The room stilled.

Cav’s spoon hit his plate with a sharp clang, his jaw tightening as he stared at you like he hadn’t heard correctly. Maxon didn’t flinch—he simply leaned back in his chair with that same polished smile he wore during charity galas and magazine shoots, fingers interlocked, eyes narrowed. Neuvi stood.

“Who gave you that permission?” he asked, voice raised and shaking. Not with weakness—but fury.

You straightened. “It’s not about permission, Neu. I’ve worked here for years. I’ve saved enough. I want to see the world like I always dreamed. You know that.”

He slammed his hand on the table, making the cutlery jump. “You don’t get to make that decision without us.”

“She’s not ours to keep, Neu,” Maxon said calmly, though his eyes betrayed something colder. “Not yet.”

Neuvi’s lip curled, and Cav rose without a word, circling behind you.

You stepped back, heart pounding. “I thought you’d be happy for me.”

Maxon rose too, smoothing his suit jacket. “Of course, we’re happy for you. We support your dreams.”

Then he looked at you and said it again. “Always.”

You tried to smile, but their glances, the way their bodies shifted subtly to block the door, told you something else. You should’ve run then. You should’ve screamed. But it was too late. You never saw the cruise coming.

---

They said it was a farewell gift. A vacation. A way to “celebrate your freedom.”

You boarded the family-owned yacht thinking it might be closure—one last memory with the boys who had, in their strange way, been your only family for years.

But once the ship left the shore, something changed.

Your room locked from the outside.

The meals started tasting faintly of something sweet, something… dizzying.

Then came the first night.

They didn’t wait. Not this time.

You were laid out on silk sheets in a room chilled just enough to keep your skin sensitive. The air smelled faintly of Lotus, but stronger now—more refined. You hadn’t even realized you’d inhaled it until your limbs stopped listening to you, until your vision blurred at the edges like a dream sinking underwater.

You felt them before you saw them.

Cav’s voice was first, low and dark near your ear. “We gave you every chance to stay willingly.”

His hand ran slowly along your thigh, pushing the robe you wore aside like it was never meant to be there.

“Don’t worry,” Maxon murmured from above, brushing hair away from your face. “You’ll be safe. You’ll forget this ever happened.”

Neuvi was already between your legs before you could process anything more. His mouth was hot, relentless, and you cried out before you knew why. The pleasure hit like a lightning strike—raw, involuntary. Shameful.

“You belong to us,” Neuvi growled, fingers gripping your hips. “You always have.”

They didn’t rush. They took turns. Then took you together.

Hands pinning your wrists. Teeth grazing your throat. Tongues tasting skin that had never been theirs to touch—but was now. Forever. They moved like parts of one machine—synchronized, ruthless, worshipful in their own corrupted way.

You sobbed. Moaned. Gasped. Everything blurred. Everything bled into heat and scent and the sound of your name on three different tongues.

You were filled. Ruined. Rewritten.

And in the morning, you woke up in fresh clothes, tucked beneath the same silk sheets, smiling vaguely at the soft knock on the door.

Breakfast was served. The sun shone. The sea was calm.

You didn’t remember a thing.

---

By the end of the cruise, your body told a different story.

Nausea. Fatigue. Hunger that came in strange waves. The doctor—one of theirs, of course—confirmed it quickly.

You were pregnant.

There was no question of who the fathers were. The test results showed a genetic anomaly—triparental fertilization.

Of course it wasn’t legal. Of course it wasn’t possible.

But nothing had ever been impossible for them.

You sat in the nursery days later, holding a plush rabbit in trembling hands as Maxon placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. Cav leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning. Neuvi knelt in front of you, pressing his forehead against your growing bump with a reverence that made your skin crawl.

“You’ll never be alone again,” he said, smiling. “We’ll take care of you. Forever.”

And somehow, in the thick silence that followed, you knew it was true.

#yandere x reader #yandere oc #yandere #yandere male #yandere imagines #male yandere #yandere fic #yandere x y/n #yandere male x reader #yandere billionaire #yandere heir #tw.drugging

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jenosbliss · 5 months ago

Text

pairing. agent!reader x agent!haechan | genre. enemies to lovers | wc. 2.2k | warnings. none except mentions of gunshots | requested. here

You always thought Haechan was more of a problem than a solution.

From the moment you were paired together as partners in the agency, you had clashed. Where you were precise and calculated, he was reckless and unpredictable. He had a smirk that could infuriate you within seconds and a habit of throwing out snide comments at the worst possible moments.

He was everything you despised in a partner. Every mission with him felt like a battle—except instead of fighting the enemy, you were fighting the urge to throttle him.

For three years, you’d been stuck with him—on every mission, in every briefing, and in every shared debriefing room. Every single time, he managed to both annoy and outperform you. And you hated it.

No, you hated him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

The truth was harder to face. Haechan wasn’t just annoying—he was good. Too good. He was brilliant under pressure, and no matter how much he mocked you or teased you, he always had your back when it counted. That might have been the most infuriating thing about him.

But liking him? Admitting that you admired him, even for a second? That would never happen. Not if you could help it.

He thrived on pushing your buttons, from his arrogant smirks to his snide remarks. It didn’t matter how high-stakes the mission was; Haechan always found a way to get under your skin. And yet, for some reason, your superiors kept pairing you together. You balance each other out, they’d said. Your focus and his resourcefulness make you an excellent team.

You didn’t see it that way. To you, Haechan was a liability. A walking, talking headache.

But tonight? Tonight was going to test every boundary you had.

The mission was supposed to be straightforward: infiltrate a secure facility, retrieve classified intel, and get out undetected. Simple. Clean. A mission you could’ve completed on your own if the agency didn’t insist on sending Haechan with you.

The two of you had argued in the car on the way there, as usual.“You’re not taking point,” you said firmly, checking your weapon.

“Why not?” Haechan leaned back in his seat, his legs spread lazily as if the mission was just another stroll through the park. “Because you’re reckless,” you snapped. “And you’re uptight,” he shot back, grinning. “We’re a perfect match.” Your jaw clenched. “You’ll follow my lead, or I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted, leaning closer. “Yell at me again? Go ahead. It’s kind of hot when you talk back.” You glared at him, your heart pounding for reasons you didn’t want to examine. “Inform Jaemin to be ready with the car at the end of the third alley.” You muttered getting out of the car and Haechan just smirked following your suit. “Already did Princess”

God! You absolutely hated him.

The facility’s interior was cold and sterile, the hum of machinery filling the silence as the two of you navigated the dimly lit hallways. Your footsteps were soft, your breaths measured as you scanned for signs of movement.

“The server room should be up ahead,” you whispered, glancing at the map on your wrist display.

Haechan nodded, his eyes darting around as he took in the surroundings. Despite his constant teasing, you couldn’t deny that he was good at what he did. His movements were fluid, his reflexes sharp, and his ability to stay calm under pressure was something you begrudgingly admired.

As you approached the server room, you stopped, holding up a hand to signal him to halt. A security camera was mounted on the wall, its lens sweeping back and forth.

“Wait for it,” you murmured, your heart pounding as you timed its movement. The moment the lens turned away, you darted forward, disabling the camera with a quick tap on your wrist display.

“Impressive,” Haechan said as he followed. “Almost like you know what you’re doing.” You ignored him, walking ahead.

“I don’t like this,” Haechan said, his gaze darting down the hallway. “You don’t like anything,” you shot back. “Yeah, well, something’s off,” he said, his voice tighter now.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, the sound of boots echoed in the distance. Haechan stiffened yanking you back. You stumbled into him, your back colliding with his chest.

“Get behind me,” he said, his voice low and commanding.

“What—”

“Get. Behind. Me.”

Something in his tone made you obey without question.

A group of guards appeared at the end of the hallway, their weapons raised. Before you could even process what was happening, Haechan stepped forward, his gun already aimed.

The next few seconds were a blur of gunfire and movement. Haechan was quick, his aim precise as he took down each guard with terrifying efficiency. You watched, frozen, as he moved with the kind of confidence and control you rarely saw in the field.

When the last guard fell, he turned to you, his breathing heavy. “Are you okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning you for injuries.

You nodded, your throat dry. “I’m fine.”He stepped closer, his gaze intense. “Don’t scare me like that again.” You blinked, taken aback by the raw emotion in his voice. “I—”

“Let’s go,” he said, cutting you off as he grabbed your hand again.

You thought you were safe when you reached the control room, but the moment you stepped inside, you knew something was wrong. It felt quite too easy to retrieve the intel. The server room was small and unassuming, its walls lined with blinking lights and rows of humming machinery. You worked quickly, plugging in your device to extract the intel.

Haechan stood by the door, his weapon drawn, his body tense as he kept watch. The playful smirk he usually wore was gone, replaced by a look of intense focus.

“How much longer?” he asked, his voice low. “Two minutes,” you replied, your eyes glued to the screen. “That’s two minutes too long,” he muttered.

You ignored him, your fingers flying over the keyboard. The progress bar crawled forward agonizingly slowly, each second feeling like an eternity. The moment there was green ‘completed’ pop up on the screen you smiled quickly removing your device as you whispered to Haechan “Done.” He nodded and carefully stepped out of the server room.

Then there was it…

The first shot rang out, shattering the silence and kicking your instincts into overdrive. Haechan moved like he was made for chaos, his body a blur of precision and control. He fired with deadly accuracy, each shot taking down another guard as you covered his back. But there were too many.

“Go left!” he shouted, shoving you toward an open corridor. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, his smirk returning despite the gunfire. “Just don’t slow me down.”

You didn’t have time to argue. You sprinted down the corridor, your heart hammering in your chest. But you didn’t get far.

A guard stepped out of the shadows, grabbing you from behind and slamming you against the wall. Your gun clattered to the ground as his grip tightened around your arm.

“Touch her, and you’re dead,” Haechan’s voice rang out, sharp and furious. The guard hesitated, and in that split second, Haechan took the shot. The man crumpled to the floor, his grip on you loosening as you stumbled forward.

“You okay?” Haechan asked, his hands steadying you. “I’m fine,” you said, your voice shaking. “You don’t look fine,” he said, his gaze scanning you for injuries.

“Can we save the commentary for later?” you snapped, stepping away from him.

His jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Stay close,” he said again, his tone leaving no room for argument. Haechan’s grip on your wrist was firm as he led you through the labyrinth of hallways, dodging guards and weaving between crates and machinery. Your heart was pounding so loudly you could barely hear the shouts behind you. Suddenly you saw more guards marching in your direction. Haechan shoved you behind a pillar, his body shielding yours as he fired back. The heat of him against you, the sheer intensity in his gaze as he protected you—it made your breath hitch in a way that had nothing to do with fear. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos.“No,” you said, your own weapon raised. “I can handle myself.”

“Damn it, Y/N!” he snapped, his eyes blazing. “Why can’t you just let me protect you for once?”

“Because I don’t need you to!” you shouted back. “Yell at me again,” he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “and I’ll give you a real reason to scream.”

The tension between you was palpable, even in the midst of the fight. But there was no time to dwell on it. As he took the guards down you both moved ahead finding a potential exit. The two of you burst through a set of double doors and onto the roof, the cool night air hitting you like a slap in the face. The city lights stretched out below, a dizzying reminder of how high up you were. “This was your plan?” you asked, your voice tinged with panic as you looked around. “There’s no way down from here!”

“Relax,” Haechan said, pulling a grappling device from his belt. “I’ve got it covered.”

“You’re kidding,” you said, eyeing the device warily. He smirked, his confidence infuriating as always. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” Before you could argue, the sound of footsteps echoed behind you. You spun around, your weapon raised, as more guards spilled onto the roof.

“We’re out of time,” Haechan said, tossing you the grappling hook. “What am I supposed to do with this?” you demanded, your voice rising. “Use it to get out of here,” he said, firing at the advancing guards. “And leave you behind?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he promised. You attached the hook to the edge of the roof, your heart pounding as you prepared to rappel down the side of the building. he drop was dizzying, the ground far below illuminated by the glow of streetlights.

The sounds of gunfire faded as you neared the ground, replaced by the rush of blood in your ears. When your feet finally touched solid ground, you looked up, your chest tightening as you saw Haechan still on the roof, firing at the remaining guards.

“Haechan!” you shouted, your voice breaking. Moments later, he secured his own grappling hook and leapt off the roof, the rope unspooling as he descended rapidly.

Your breath caught as he landed beside you, his chest heaving, his face streaked with sweat and dirt.

“Miss me?” he asked, flashing you a tired grin. “Shut Up” you said, your voice trembling with a mix of relief and anger.

The two of you didn’t stop running until you were several blocks away, getting inside the car Jaemin had already parked. Without wasting a second Haechan drove off, getting away from the chasing guards as soon as he could. The car ride was silent, as he drove to the secret headquarters of the security agency. You gave your superior the intel you both somehow managed to retrieve. “I can’t believe this,” you muttered, breaking the silence as you turned around the corner and into an empty hallway after exiting your superior’s office.

“Believe what?” he asked, leaning against a crate. “This,” you said, gesturing around the room. “Every mission with you turns into a disaster. Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to work with someone who doesn’t take anything seriously?”

He frowned, his playful demeanor fading. “You think I don’t take this seriously?”

“Obviously not,” you said, turning to face him. “All you ever do is joke around and make everything harder for everyone else.” His jaw tightened, his gaze darkening. “You think this is easy for me? Do you have any idea what it’s like to stand next to you every day, knowing you hate me?”

You froze, his words catching you off guard. “What are you talking about?” you asked, your voice softer now. He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “Forget it,” he said, turning away.

“No,” you said, stepping closer. “What do you mean?” He exhaled sharply, his shoulders tense. “Do you hate me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low.

The question hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You hesitated, your heart pounding. “I… I don’t know,” you admitted.

He turned to face you, his eyes searching yours. “All I’ve ever wanted,” he said quietly, “is for you to trust me. To look at me the way you look at anyone else. All I want is for you to see me.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, the vulnerability in his voice breaking through every wall you’d built between you.

“Haechan…”

Before you could finish, he stepped closer, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips crashed against yours. The kiss was fiery, desperate, filled with all the anger, frustration, and unspoken emotion that had been simmering between you for so long. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as you tangled your fingers in his hair, giving as good as you got.

When you finally pulled apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together.

“This changes everything,” you whispered. “Maybe,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “But at least now, we’re on the same side.”

The mission might have been a disaster, but for the first time, you didn’t mind.

masterlist. nct dream | nct 127 | wayv navigation.

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