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back2thebasics · 9 months ago

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Carlisle Cullen X Fem Reader - Night Shift

Summary: You were hired as his secretary and you have not been able to keep your eyes off him since. One night when you stay late to finish some work he approaches you and you realize the two of you are finally alone.

Content: 18+ MDNI, P in V penetration, Oral sex (Male receiving), Age gap( He is a vampire lol), Boss/employee relationship,

Also this is set in an AU where he is not with Esme.

Carlisle Cullen X Fem Reader - Night Shift

The fluorescent lights of the clinic buzz incessantly above you, casting the empty waiting room in a sterile glow. You sit at the reception office desk, flipping through patient files, but your mind is not on your tasks, it's instead focused on him—Dr. Carlisle Cullen—the head of the clinic and your boss for the past few months.

From the moment you first stepped into the clinic, nerves buzzing in your chest, his calm, commanding presence was undeniable. You hadn’t expected someone so strikingly handsome to head the small-town clinic. And yet, there he was, his golden eyes warm and inviting, his smile kind. You felt the pull instantly, though you brushed it off as a simple crush, one that would fade with time.

But it hadn’t.

Every day since has been a challenge. You sometimes lingered in the break room longer than necessary, stealing glances whenever he passed by. It feels like he's doing the same sometimes—his gaze held on you just a little too long, his voice getting slightly softer when he speaks your name. But it could all be in your head.

It’s after hours now, the last patient is long gone, and the clinic is unusually quiet. Your shift is almost over, and you prepare to shut down your computer when you hear footsteps behind you.

“Y/N?”

Carlisle’s deep voice pulls you out of your thoughts. You turn around, startled to see him standing in the doorway of his office, his white coat still on, sleeves slightly rolled up, exposing his forearms. You can’t help but notice the way his muscles flex slightly as he leans against the doorframe, his eyes locked on you with a soft intensity.

“Dr. Cullen,” you manage to say, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips, though your pulse quickens. “I didn’t think anyone else was still here.”

“I was finishing up some paperwork,” he says, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to flicker with something deeper. “But I noticed the lights were still on out here. Are you staying late?”

You shake your head, trying to focus. “Just wrapping up a few things. I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

He steps into the room, his presence filling the space, making the air feel charged. He walks toward the desk, stopping just a few feet away, close enough that you can smell his familiar scent—clean, crisp, with a hint of something more enticing.

“You don’t have to rush,” he says softly, his voice laced with something you can’t quite place. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Talk to me?”

Carlisle nods, and for a moment, the silence between you is heavy, palpable. His gaze holds yours, and you feel like he’s seeing straight through you, reading every thought, every feeling you’ve tried so hard to hide.

“You’ve been doing an incredible job here, Y/N. More than just competent… you’ve brought a warmth to this place that we didn’t even know we needed,” he says, his voice deep and sincere. “And, if I’m being honest, it hasn’t gone unnoticed.”

His words make your heart race, your breath hitching as you process what he’s saying. There’s something in his tone that suggests more than just professional praise.

“I—thank you,” you stammer, feeling a warmth creep up your neck, your pulse racing. “That means a lot coming from you.”

Carlisle steps closer, rounding the desk until he’s standing just a few inches away from you. Suddenly, the air between you feels charged, electric. His eyes, golden and piercing, hold yours in a way that makes it impossible to look away.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he says, his voice lower now, more intimate.

“Yes?” You reply just a little too quickly and you can't help but cringe internally.

“ If I were to ask you on a date would you say yes?” He asked

“You want to as me on a date ?” The question came out a little self-deprecating.

You’ve spent months wondering if the tension between you was one-sided if those fleeting glances and the soft brushes of his hand were just coincidences. He steps even closer now, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is soft, but it sends a jolt through your entire body, making your skin tingle where his fingers linger. His hand had felt cold when he had gently brushed your ear but the contrast of it against your flushed skin felt amazing.

“I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s getting harder every day. You make it impossible, Y/N.”

Your heart pounds in your chest as his words sink in. There’s no mistaking it now—the attraction, the chemistry that’s been simmering between you for months is real. And he feels it too.

“I know,” he says softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know this is complicated. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you.” He stares down at you towering above you looking like a god.

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, time seems to stand still. The only sound in the room is the soft hum of the overhead lights, and the only thing you can focus on is Carlisle—his piercing gaze, the way his lips part slightly as if he’s holding back everything he wants to say.

“ Carlisle I don't care about any of that I just thought you were way out of my league, to be honest.” You couldn't help the honesty. Not that you didn't have self-confidence but Carlisle was way beyond any man you had ever seen look wise. His perfect features and natural charm made for a deadly combination.

“Come here Y/N.” The command was firm yet gentle. You stood up and he still towered over you. He is so close to you, within arms reach. Then as if he can read your wishes his cold hand returns to your face to gently grasp your jaw and cheek. He seems to examine your face thoroughly and then he scans down your body taking his time. His look of pure approval and lust has your heart beating out of your chest and your stomach doing flips.

“Absolutely beautiful. I don't understand how you cannot see that.” Carlisle’s voice feels like velvet on your skin.

And then, without warning, he closes the distance between you, pulling you closer to him suddenly with one arm around your waist his lips crashing against yours in a heated kiss.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands instinctively reaching for his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt. His kiss is intense, demanding, yet somehow gentle, like he’s been waiting for this moment just as long as you have.

Carlisle’s hands find your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that surprises you. You’ve imagined this moment so many times, but nothing could have prepared you for the way it feels—the way your body melts into his, the way his hands seem to know exactly where to touch you to make your pulse race.

He pulls back slightly, his breath hot against your lips as he whispers, “Are you sure about this?”

Your heart pounds in your chest as you look up at him, your mind racing. But there’s no doubt, no hesitation in your voice when you say, “Yes.”

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

Carlisle’s lips find yours again, more insistent this time, as he backs you up against the desk. You feel the edge of it press against your hips, but all you can focus on is him—his hands roaming over your body, the way he’s kissing you like he’s starving like he’s been holding back for far too long.

Before you know it, he’s lifting you onto the desk, his hands sliding beneath your shirt, fingers grazing over your skin. The coolness of his touch sends shivers down your spine, and you can’t help but arch into him, craving more.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your neck, his lips brushing against your skin, sending sparks of electricity through your body.

“I want this,” you breathe, your voice shaky with anticipation.

Carlisle’s hands move with purpose now, slipping your shirt over your head, his eyes dark with desire as they take in the sight of you. He leans down, capturing your lips in another searing kiss, his hands exploring every inch of your skin, igniting a fire within you that you can’t control. Your hands grab at his clothes, his jacket slides off him and then you start helping him with the buttons of his crisp white button up underneath. He helps you and suddenly you are staring at a muscular broad chest. He is more defined than you expected and you can't help but let your eyes trail down to where his abs are and then his faint happy trail of light blonde hair. Your mouth water at the sight of the bulge that tented his black slacks. You bring your hand to his chest and trail it down slowly to start undoing his belt. You notice he doesn't look like he is breathing but then as your eyes meet he catches his breath. He looks at you with hungry eyes that make you melt inside. Once his pants are undone you pull out his long hard cock and stroke it gently. It is surprisingly cold and the sight of it is magnificent, long with a few visible veins and the pink tip makes you want to place your lips around it.

“Y/N I am going to try my best to be gentle with you my darling but if I hurt you please tell me and I will stop immediately.” He whispered into your ear, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

“You won't hurt me, Carlisle. I know it.” You whispered back knowing he wouldn't but somewhere deep down inside you, hoped he would. You liked it a little rough and you wanted to see him fully unleashed. Not his usual calm, collected, controlled self. You pushed your hand gently against his chest and he stepped back allowing you to slide down from the desk and onto your knees in front of him. You decide to unhook your bra quickly and his eyes are glued to your movements, like a predator watching carefully. It turned you on, encouraging you to continue. You look up at Carlisle and he is the most still you have ever seen him be. He waits for you, letting you have full control. You reach up and stroke his length then you rise up on your knees and lick the pale pink tip. He groans his head falling back, You take him in your mouth slowly and start sucking gently. Part of you wants to tease him until he loses control and takes exactly what he wants for you. Your hand continues to stroke him as you take more and more of him in your mouth, your tongue tracing the bottom of his shaft with each motion. From under your lashes, you look up at him and notice the look of pure pleasure on his face. It made a low moan escape from your throat and then you felt his hand entwine into your hair. You moaned once more at the contact, his icy fingers against your burning hot scalp. He gently griped and then followed his hand as your head bobbed up and down getting closer and closer to taking him fully. You know he will hit the back of your throat and you want to try. You don't usually like giving men head but this is Carlisle and he is worth it. You push yourself further on your toes and take him to the hilt, you gag slightly and your eyes water, his grip on your hair around the base of your neck tightens. Your hands grip his hips where slacks have slightly slid down exposing sharp hip bones. Your nails press little half-moons into his velvety skin. He pulls you back, gentle but firm and you look up at him, drool on your lips, watery eyes. You know your mascara might be running slightly. He makes a low growly sound from the back of his throat, admiring you and looking down at you with such intensity.

“You are exquisite, my love.” He murmured and your heart skipped a beat.

In a fluid motion, he somehow picks you up from the floor your legs wrapping around his waist. Your arms around his neck, your arch up to kiss him. He kisses you with a passion that leaves you dizzy. You feel the desk under you once more as he continues the kiss. He slides your skirt down and then pushes your panties to the side and you break the kiss to release a breathy moan. He smirks at you, his cold fingers brushing against your slick core.

“So wet for me, my beautiful girl.” He purred

“Carlisle please I need you to fuck me.” The request was more of a demand and you knew it sounded needy.

“I was going to return the favor but maybe we can save that for another time.” His smile revealed a breathtaking white smile that could have blinded someone.

He didn't waste time positioning himself at your entrance. Carlisle’s strong arms bracketed your hips and caged you into his intoxicating scent. You leaned back onto the desk, sending things flying to the floor. He pushed all the way in and you let out a moan your head falling back at the feeling of him fully seated inside you. He filled you in the best way just on the verge of being too much, but just right. His pace was slow at first as if he was savouring the feeling of you around him.

“You feel amazing darling.” He leaned in to whisper those words into your neck. Then he was kissing in, trailing down to your collarbone and then your breasts, all the while still slowly pumping in and out. You gripped his forearms, needing to stabilize yourself, you moaned when he finally picked up the pace slightly. He looked into your eyes and then as if he knew exactly what you wanted he gently grasped your throat with one hand, holding it in a firm but gentle grip. He sped up once more, his hips slapping against your hips making the desk rock shake and rock slightly. He leans in to kiss you, still holding your neck in a firm grip, then his other arm snakes under your waist pulling you into him while he fucks you at a steady pace. He pulls you up into him until you are no longer touching the desk as he holds you to him by the waist with little to no effort. Your arms wrapped around his neck but with the way he holds you, you don't even need to hold on. He breaks the frenzied kiss looking deep into your eyes, the intensity of his thrusts force quick pants out of you with each time he pounds into you. He uses you exactly how you want like he is crazed with desire.

Your moans got louder as you felt the familiar feeling of a rising orgasm. Your nails dug into the back of Carlisle's neck, your back arching into him further your nipples pressing against his chest. He ground into you and then he released your neck to reach down and rub your pulsing clit. It tipped you over the edge and sent you hurdling towards your climax.

“Carlisle, I'm gonna cum.” You moaned out trying to form the words in your lusty haze.

“Yes cum for me beautiful.” He rasped rubbing circles on your clit as you reached orgasm. Your toes curled and you saw stars as you came hard.

He let out a low groan as he came. You both rode out your orgasms together, breathing hard, pressed against each other. His skin still felt cold somehow and you were grateful as it helped to cool you down from the hot flush from your orgasm. He slowly pulled out of you and then rested you back down on the desk as he reached over to a box of tissues on the office desk and then used it to clean you both up. He helped you dress in a comfortable silence, as he looked at you with a warm gaze.

“I still have intentions of taking you out for dinner, my love. This is usually not how I got about things.” He chuckled low, giving me one of his amazing smiles. Your breath hitched mesmerized by the way his golden eyes sparkled as he looked into yours.

“I am looking forward to it Dr.” You smiled up at him teasing him by using his title.

His smile turned lustful as he leaned down to kiss you.

#carlisle cullen #carlisle #carlisle cullen x reader #carlisle x reader #carlisle imagine #twilight #twilight x reader #fanfiction #twilight fanfiction #carlisle cullen smut #smut #carlisle cullen x you

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thylacines-toybox · 2 years ago

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Hey, I found a beanie boo that I liked the design of but I can't stand those giant uguu eyes. Do you think it would be possible to replace them with smaller safety eyes akin to the old beanie babies? If yes, do you have any advice?

I was gonna answer this in a normal way, but then I got curious about trying it for myself and thought I might as well demonstrate!

So, I went and picked up a guy from the supermarket. The selection there was pretty barren today but I found a decent test subject:

Eye replacement procedure below!

(First of all, to my friend who loves beanie boos, I am so sorry for this lmao)

So! First I opened up the closing seam on his back. However, I found an extra mesh barrier inside! Clearly this is to prevent bean escape since this is the most likely seam to accidentally pop open through play. This would be a bit annoying to work around so I just sewed it back up and went in the back of the head instead…

Opened and unstuffed the head…

…And turning it inside out to get to the backs of the eyes. Whoa, these plastic washers are the biggest I’ve ever seen!! Cutting through them will take some work!

Please be very careful of your fingers cutting through these!! Be careful not to cut the fabric around the eye too, but mostly be careful of yourself!

Anyway grrrrrrr attack attack slice slice grrrr

They’re out! With a little glue I think the washers would be able to hold on perfectly well again. I’ll keep these eyes to reuse on something where they’ll be a bit more proportional!

The washers on these eyes are particularly cup shaped, fitting around the back of the eye and holding the fabric tightly against them. Now that the eyes are removed, this has left imprints on the fur!

Plenty of brushing and rumfling will help to fix the creased and flattened areas of fur, and wetting the fur or gently steaming over a hot cup of water should help too. It might take a little time!

(Also, I did make a little cut in the cheek while removing a washer, oops! No worries, that can be stitched up.)

Now we can try on a few new eye styles! Restuff the head for now so you can see how they’ll look.

I have a few sizes of solid black, from teeny dots to absolute tbh creature…

These blue eyes were a little scary… no thanks!

I even have some glittery ones like the original, but smaller! Pretty nice actually!

And even some googly eyes hehehe!

But my favourite eyes were some basic 9mm black ones! They are placed a little funny here, but the position will change a little bit…

The holes left by the original eyes were very big, so a couple of stitches are needed on each one to tighten them up to fit the new eyes. I stitched the top outer corners, to move the holes down and inwards a bit. If you wanted, you could even sew them closed completely and make new eye holes elsewhere!

Unstuff again and pop those new eyes in!

Restuff! You might actually need to add a little extra stuffing, as the fabric not being so pulled around the eyes any more will mean it is a little ‘baggier’.

Then sew the head closed again and that’s about it! The fur is still a little creased around mine, but I’ll keep working at it and it should become less visible.

To add a tiny bit more shape to the big round head, I also did a touch of threadsculpting. I ran a thread from the corner of each eye to below the chin and back, just pulling the eyes in a tad more. You might decide you don’t need this!

And there we go! Hope you’ll try it yourself!

#thyl-ask-ine #toys #plushie #modded toy #plushie modification #plushie advice #beanie babies #beanie boo

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illbegottenfaith · 2 months ago

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BAD REVIEWS (a Bad Reviews by Sabrina Carpenter inspired fic)

you've heard more than your fair share of bad reviews about theo nott. that doesn't stop you from becoming the newest addition (theo nott x reader) [best viewed in dark mode]

a/n - i did NOT realise this fic was turning out this long which I think speaks to how much fun I was having writing it, planning it out carefully and setting the slow burn justtt right ahh I truly think this is one of my best pieces of writing ever? at least I rlly like it hahah so enjoy :))

tropes/warnings - tw toxic r/ship descriptions, lovebombing, unhealthy possessiveness, angst

word count - 6k! whoo!

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

Little Miss Formerly Delusional ★★★★☆ He’s charming. Too charming. He will reel you in just so he can ruin your life. I gave him my time, my life, my youth, and where do I end up? Crying in his shower - NEVER. AGAIN. He's so good at making you feel special. Scratch that - he's so good at getting what he wants.

It started at a picnic.

The kind that got cobbled together last minute with leftover snacks and a secondhand deck of cards, bodies strewn across the grass in lazy clusters, all chatter and sunshine and no plans beyond the hour.

You hadn’t planned to stay long. You almost left twice. But then someone pulled out a pack of cards, and everyone had gotten paired up for a game - you with Theo Nott, of all people - so you stayed.

You were seated opposite each other, cross-legged on some thin picnic blanket, knees knocking every so often every time one of you leaned over the card deck between you. Some slap-happy mess of a game that had rules no one followed properly but left everyone’s hands red and stinging from all the shouting and reflexes gone wrong.

Theodore Nott - teasing, long-limbed, annoyingly pretty - watched you with his sleeves rolled at the elbow, tie loosened. His eyes locked on yours with a lazy kind of intent. You'd seen him around plenty, and heard about him even more, but this was the first time you'd actually talked to him. Up close, he was worse. His vacant grin too self-assured with a rich, arrogant voice that promised all sorts of unscrupulous things.

Theo flirted, of course, in the way boys like him always did - bold, rehearsed, shameless. Fixing you with unabashed, unrelenting eye contact. Leaning over to you closer than what was strictly necessary. Playing the role of injured loverboy for every round he lost.

You rolled your eyes through most of it.

You'd heard the stories. Everyone knew the way he moved from girl to girl, leaving miserable shells in his wake like it was nothing. That boy didn’t even have a heart to break.

Three rounds in, he spoke up when you won. Again.

“You’ve got quick hands.”

You shrugged, sweeping up the cards.

“You’ve got a slow reaction time.”

His grin widened. “So modest.”

You finally deigned to return his gaze, your face as impassive as ever. “I don’t usually play nice.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I like girls who make me work for it.”

You suppressed the urge to roll your eyes. Was that supposed to flatter you? Impress you?

"Do you?" you mumbled instead, dealing the cards out once again. When Theo didn't move to pick up his, still intent on watching you, you gave him a look and sighed.

“Look. You don’t even know me.”

“I’m trying.”

You looked bored.

“And why is that?”

“Because you look like you’ve already decided I'm not worth your time.” He rested his chin on his hand, unbothered. “Now I need to know if you’re right.”

You hesitated. That was...unexpected.

But you recovered almost immediately.

“Well,” you said, eyes flicking to the deck, speaking quickly, “I'll have to warn you. I’m not the kind of girl who gets affected easily.”

“‘Affected,’” he echoed, amused. “That's adorable.”

It wasn’t what you actually wanted to say. What you meant was: I’ve heard what you do to girls. I’ve seen the aftermath. And I’m not anywhere near stupid enough to be next.

But you didn’t say any of that. You just kept her expression level and glanced at the cards, seeing what Theo had missed. You slapped your hands on his.

“4 - 2,” you said, with a thinly veiled smugness.

Theo looked at your hands, then up at you, and smiled slow.

“You like this, don't you?"

“I like winning.”

He didn’t let you win the next round. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.

Later, when everybody was cooling off with some iced butterbeer, peeling grass off their sleeves, Theo glanced your way with a look that gave you a bad feeling in your gut.

He raked a hand through his hair with a careful air of nonchalance that was fooling no one, and said offhandedly, "You know, I let her win one of the early rounds, by the way.”

For a moment, you gaped at him and his slimy audacity. Then you sat up, affronted, nearly upsetting your butterbeer. “You what?”

He gave you a lazy blink. On another day, you might have considered him somewhat endearing. Today, he was getting on your last nerves.

“Thought it might soften you up.”

“You did not let me win," you said hotly, a strand of hair stuck to your uncomfortably sticky cheek. "You just couldn’t keep up.”

“Didn’t say you weren’t good. Just not as good as me.”

Oh, you could punch him. “The score was six to three - ”

“Yeah, and that third one? That was a gift.”

You turned to the others, scandalised. “He’s l - liar. Liar. He’s lying, I sw-.”

Theo just sipped his drink effortlessly. “I thought you didn’t get affected easily?”

That shut you up immediately. You turned away, face hot with something dangerously close to flustered. You'd walked into that one. Hard.

They'd only formally met a couple of hours ago and he somehow managed to already get under your skin. Just a little.

And he knew it.

When he leaned in a little closer to murmur something to someone beside him, you swore he was still smirking.

You weren't supposed to be caught off guard. Not by him. You knew boys like Theo Nott. Knew their tricks and charms and the revolving door of names on their lips.

Unfortunately, knowing didn’t make you any less curious.

Little Miss Territorial by Proxy ★★★☆☆ He’ll be possessive. And you'll like it. It feels flattering at first. I mean, why wouldn't it? Who doesn't luvvv being loved? It's always nice to feel wanted.

That's not what this is, though. Theodore Nott, erm, 'wants' in the way a hunter 'wants' a deer head stuffed and mounted on the wall.

The courtyard had that lazy kind of energy that lingered on warm afternoons - bodies stretched out, butterbeer bottles dusty and half-empty, faint music straining through the thick, heavy afternoon air from someone’s wireless. It was easy. Drowsy. Like no one wanted to be anywhere else.

Theo was already there when you arrived.

You noticed him from across the throng, lounging in one of the stone archways, a little separate from everyone else. He met your gaze. You looked away. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Eventually, someone pulled out a deck of cards again. Out of the few of you who could tolerate the smacking and getting smacked on such a hot day, you partnered up with a Ravenclaw named Liam - broad-shouldered, painfully chatty, cursed with the unfortunate affliction of not being as funny as he thought he was.

When you beat him - again - he let out an exaggerated groan and slumped back dramatically.

“Alright, alright. Clearly I’m no match,” he said., as he poorly reshuffled the cards. Over the deck, he shot you a smarmy look that left you feeling icky all over. “Maybe you could teach me sometime.”

The line was lame. And obvious. You picked up the cards he dealt, not bothering to look up.

“Sorry. I don’t usually train the hopeless.”

Liam winced. “That’s cold.”

You shrugged. “It's true.”

Laughter buzzed through the few who were listlessly paying attention. Theo didn’t laugh. Didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Only stared.

His eyes had sharpened the moment Liam started talking. He hadn’t said anything yet, but you could feel the heat of it - the weight of his stare digging between her ribs.

You shifted slightly. You took a sip of your butterbeer to cool off and calm down. The saccharine drink had begun to sour in the relentless heat.

Liam nudged your foot with his own - light, playful. Theo straightened and sat up.

“Careful, mate,” he said, voice steady and too smooth. “You’re one bad joke away from a nosebleed.”

A few chuckles sputtered. Nervous ones. It didn’t sound like a joke. No one knew whether to laugh or move on.

Liam blinked, uncomfortable now.

“Relax, yeah? Just playing.”

Theo tipping his bottle at him languidly. “Just warning.”

Before it could stretch into something uglier, he abruptly shifted focus.

“I’m in,” he said suddenly, "the mood to play now.”

There was a shuffle as the group moved up a little to make room for Theo where they were all scattered across the floor.

You didn’t hesitate. You switched your partner to Theo before anyone else could move. Your knees bumped. His smirk twitched higher.

The game began. Slaps. Feints. Barely restrained grins. She won the first round. He won the next. By the third, she was half a beat faster. Or maybe he was just a beat slower.

He let her win. Or maybe she let him.

When he looked at you afterwards, head tilted, lashes low, he gave you a look of some quiet approval. Like you’d passed a test you hadn't even known you were taking.

You looked away first. Unexpectedly, you felt a flicker of pride. From there sparked an obsession with this most cursed type of validation, one that you had never known to be greedy for.

You took another sip of you drink, relishing the way your face warmed in the heat of the day under the intensity of his stare. Still, you should have known what you knew now - those days in the sun would only last so long. Not even a week later, the fights began.

Little Miss Made Excuses For His Anger Issues ★★☆☆☆ He plays dirty, so it's only fair you do too. When the fights begin - god, they'll never stop. He'll never listen to you, you'll go blue in the face trying to get him to change, he'll whine about you never getting off his back, you'll snap at him for breathing too loud, it's nuts.

Okay, fine, the last one wasn't exactly provoked. He was just in too good of a mood that day and it was pissing me off. But honestly? I was so valid for that. He needed to learn to shut the fuck up once in a while.

It wasn’t even about the cigarettes.

At least, not just about them.

You were poring over your books in the deserted Slytherin common room, trying not to think about Ivy had been telling you about a girl Theo had been getting pretty close to - some Romilda Vane. He lit one the second he walked in - like it was a reflex, like he was doing it on purpose. You could feel the now-familiar irritation bloom in your chest the moment the smoke hit the air, bitter and acrid and reeking of bad memories.

“Really?” you muttered, not bothering to look up from your notes. “In here?”

Theo exhaled slowly, deliberately.

“I'll open a window.”

“That’s not the point.”

He leaned against the window frame, posture relaxed, jaw tight.

“Then what is?”

You huffed irritatedly and slammed your book shut.

“The point is, you said you’d stop. Five days ago. In the hallway. After that disaster of a duel. Or did you forget that too?”

He had the audacity to sigh like you were being difficult for even bringing that up.

“For fuck's sake, Y/N, it’s one cigarette.”

“It’s your third.”

Now he looked at you properly, something dry and tired in his gaze.

“You're keeping count now? Are you keeping tabs on me?”

Maybe I should, the angry thought flashed in your mind. Who the hell was Romilda Vane anyway? You gritted your teeth. “I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t go through them like water.”

“It’s not a crime,” he muttered, but he stubbed it out anyway - carelessly, more like a challenge than a concession. “There. Better?”

“Sure. Until the next one.”

He laughed humorlessly.

“Sorry, Mother.”

That did it.

You stood suddenly, the legs of your chair scraping piercingly across the floor.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Turn me into some controlling shrew just because I care about your health - ”

"Oh, so now I'm supposed to thank you for breathing down my neck all the time?"

You seethed. “Is that supposed to be funny? Because it isn't. It's not. It's really not.”

“I’m not the one making a scene over a cigarette.”

“Forget the bloody cigarettes. That's not the point.”

“No,” he said, standing now, tone flat. “I think I get the point just fine. You’ve had a shit week, and I’m the easiest thing to pick on.”

The corners of your mouth tightened.

“You think I like picking fights?”

“Sure seems like it.”

You could hardly hear or think coherently over the sound of blood roaring in your ears. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re relentless,” he shot back. “It’s always something with you. First it’s me leaving my notes in the common room, then it’s how I ‘don’t take things seriously,’ and now it’s - ”

“Oh, I’m sorry - am I not supposed to care when you act like nothing is worth your attention?”

He scoffed and looked away, as if dismissing you, as if you weren't worth any more of his Wednesday night. You gathered up your books with more aggression than was strictly necessary, feeling embarrassingly close to tears with how crazy Theo drove you.

"I don't know why I bother with a degenerate like you. You always do this. I bring something up, and you turn it against me, or you twist it into me being dramatic, or overbearing - ”

He exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“Well, if the shoe fits...” he muttered.

“God, fuck you.”

He never seemed more unattractive you than he did in that moment - caustically insensitive, sarcastic and selfish. You spun on your heel, grabbing your bag off the floor before storming out of the room without so much as a backward glance.

Theo didn’t follow. He just stood there for a beat, unmoving in the silence of the night. Then he leaned against the windowsill and lit another cigarette.

Little Miss "He Knows I Can Take It" ★☆☆☆☆ He'll Make You Feel Special Enough To Tune Everyone Else Out The man's arrogant enough to act like he's God's gift on Earth and he's shameless enough to act like the yelling and the screaming and the shit he gives you is a blessing. But after a while, if you're not careful, you'll go right on believing him. Twisting his abuse into some fucked up declaration of love because man does he sell the pipe dream of being his favourite punching bag well.

And the thing is - you're not his favourite. You never will be. That won't stop you from making an arse out of yourself trying anyway. The things I did? Ugh, embarrassinggg. Skipping parties, for what? Giving him all my time, for what? Cutting out the friends he didn't like, for what? A guy who needed a training broom till he was ten?? Be soooo fucking for real right now.

You didn't notice the glance Ivy and Melissa exchanged when you walked into your dorm. Your bag slid off your shoulder with a dull thump onto the floor, your shoulders aching.

“Hey.” Melissa said from her spot near the desk. “You missed lunch.”

You distractedly tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. “I was revising,” you muttered, toeing off your shoes. “Didn’t realise the time.”

Ivy wrinkled her nose from where she was sprawled on her bed. “Merlin, you’re one of those. Don’t go all Ravenclaw on us now.”

You gave a faint smile. You hadn't realised how little you had seen of your friends over the past week. You missed them. “Too late.”

There was a pause. Melissa twirled a strand of hair between her fingers. You stilled, recognising that nervous tic of hers.

“Were you with him?” she asked casually. “Theo?”

You hesitated. So what if you were? “Yeah. So?”

“Right,” Ivy said, not unkindly. “He wouldn't have anything to do with you disappearing every other day now, would he?”

You were at a loss of words.

“...I’ve just been busy.”

They didn’t say anything.

You glanced up, feeling the air shift into something more worried, anxious.

“I don’t want to do this right now,” you muttered.

“We’re just talking,” Melissa said gently.

You shot her a look. You weren't dumb. Ivy sat up a little straighter. You could feel the both of them closing in on you.

“Look,” she said carefully, “I know you don’t want to talk about him. But Melissa and I think we should. You’ve changed. And it's...not good.”

“I’m fine,” you said tightly.

“You say that a lot lately,” Melissa said sadly. You scoffed. “It’s getting harder to believe.”

You exhaled sharply, massaging your temples.

“Can we not do this now?”

“You never let us do this,” Ivy said, brows drawing together.

Your stomach twisted.

“Because it’s none of your business,” you snapped. Your friends looked taken aback.

“I just - ” Ivy blinked. “We're not trying to - ”

“I know what you meant,” you cut in, voice rising. “You don’t like him. You think he’s bad for me. You think I’m stupid for being with him.”

“No one said that,” Melissa said slowly, frowning. “No one's saying that. We’ve just never seen you like this. We're not the enemy, Y/N.”

It sure felt like it. Melissa reached out, and in that moment of blind rage, you couldn't tell if it was to hug you or hurt you. You flinched out of her reach. You didn't miss the brief flicker of hurt that passed over her face. Even Ivy looked mystified.

“Y/N," Ivy said, getting up now. "Enough of this. We’re worried about you. He’s getting to your head, and you're so wrapped up in him that you can't even see it.”

You crossed your arms.

“I'm not a child, for Merlin's sake. I know he’s complicated. I’m not blind.”

“Then why are you defending him like he’s perfect?”

“Because you’re making it sound like he’s evil,” you snapped. “Like I’m too dumb to realise I’m being treated badly.”

You opened your mouth to continue, but no words came. Just heat. Frustration. Guilt twisting into something bitter.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” Ivy said quietly. “Not over anyone.”

Looking at your friends, their hostile postures and mutinous faces, you felt terribly alone. “Well,” you said, “maybe I’ve changed.”

Melissa stared at you, looking angrier than you had ever seen her. “Yeah. You have.”

You sighed.

“I don’t need a lecture right now.”

“And we’re not trying to give you one,” Ivy said. “But you’re making it really hard to not say something when you’re hurting yourself like this.”

“I’m not - ” you started, but stopped short.

Because you were hurting. You knew it. You’d known it for a while now. But hearing it sfrom someone else's lips made it feel like an accusation.

“We’re just trying to help you,” Ivy said, quieter now.

“I don’t need help," you said, chest tight. "I need you to back off.”

A listless kind of quiet descended in the room. Melissa’s jaw tensed. Ivy uselessly smoothed down her sheets.

“Well,” Ivy said, voice flat now, “I guess that's we’ll do then.”

Melissa wasn't as forgiving. “Whatever. It's your life to ruin, L/N.”

She drew her hair up into a ponytail. "Dinner, Ivy?"

The silence they left behind was deafening. You refused to dwell on the fight. You refused to acknowledge how damning their condemnations felt.

And still - when the dust settled, like a woman possessed, your thoughts drifted back to Theo. To that lopsided grin. That lazy smirk. Pulling you in, and in, and in, and in.

Little Miss Fool Me Twice, Shame on Me ★★★★★ He always knows when he's about to lose you And that's when he's the sweetest. He'd have to be - it's his last ditch attempt to distract you. He'll have you wondering how you could ever think of him as selfish or mean-spirited or anything other than the world's most-loving, most-devoted boyfriend. Boyfriend? HA!

It started the way most things with Theo did - loud, dramatic, and entirely unnecessary.

You stepped out of the Transfiguration exam room, clutching your wand, still mentally arguing with yourself over you shaky answer to question seven, when someone near the doors let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh.

“What the hell - ?”

Students were crowding toward the entrance of the castle, whispering, staring. You followed the noise, shielding her eyes from the sudden sunlight. And then you saw it.

A car. A bright red, shiny Muggle convertible, parked just off the stone steps, looking entirely out of place in front of Hogwart's gothic architecture. And leaning against it like he'd walked straight off the poster of some pretentiously obscure, too-slick indie film was Theodore Nott - sunglasses perched cockily in his curls, sleeves rougishly pushed up, charm turned on.

“Oh, my god,” you muttered under your breath, walking faster now, heat creeping up the back of her neck.

He caught sight of you and grinned. Not a smirk, not his usual self-satisfied half-smile. A grin.

Like he hadn't been a complete dick to you just two nights ago.

“What's all this?” you asked as you stepped up to him.

Theo straightened with a practiced laziness. “It’s a getaway car.”

You blinked at him.

“Weekend trip,” he clarified. “We need a break. You need a break.”

“I have two exams left.”

He shrugged. “Two is practically nothing.”

“Theo.”

Before you could continue your protests, he took your hand and kissed your knuckles in full view of half of your year, completely unbothered.

“Your stuff’s in the boot. Packed it this morning.”

Your mouth dropped open. How did he manage to get into the girls' dormitories?

“You what—?”

“There’s snacks,” he continued, unrepentant. “I even charmed the glove compartment to keep your disgusting fizzy drinks cold." Traces of the Theo you knew started resurfacing. He sounded pretty damn proud of himself. "You’re welcome.”

“You’re mental.”

“And you’re exhausted.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Come on, Y/N. You can revise in bed with me and a view of the sea. There’s a fireplace. I booked the biggest suite they had.”

He pressed a chaste kiss to your palm. Your face burned.

"Please? For me?"

You should’ve walked away. You meant to walk away.

But he had that look again - the one he used to reel you in after every fight. The one you couldn't bear to tell off. That soft-eyed, unwittingly innocent look like he wasn't even capable of doing anything wrong, let alone on purpose. Behind him, the sunlight hit the car just right, glinting off the chrome like some surreal, too-good-to-be-true movie scene.

It was stupid. And ridiculous. And maybe that was the point.

So you went.

On the drive down, Theo's hand casually resting on your thigh, wind whipping through your hair, you told yourself you weren't impressed.

But then you saw the room - two floors, a balcony, a charmed bath bigger than her dorm - and you maybe slightly let it go to your head.

He ordered room service like you were royalty, feeding you chocolate-covered strawberries by the tray, worshipfully kissing the tips of your fingers like he’d never once raised his voice or made you feel small.

He lit candles. Bought you a new jumper at one of the quaint, homey shops by the pier when you'd offhandedly mentioned feeling a little chilly. Got up to make you tea in the mornings and made it right - not the way he liked it, but the way you always complained about no one ever remembering it.

He let you pick the station on the wireless. Spoilt you relentlessly. Had the nerve to call you pretty in the midst of you lounging in the utter bliss of what was turning into the most indulgent heaven.

Maybe it was the wine. Or the way the fire flickered inches from you where you laid tangled up on the rug, breathing slow and even and in sync, like the world where you were constantly at each other's throats never existed.

Or maybe it was just the way he was looking at you again. Like you mattered. Like you were special. Like he was choosing to be good. Like he was choosing to be good for you.

You caught yourself smiling at nothing. You let him pull you into his lap. Let him press kisses down your neck, murmuring all the right things.

On the last night, your head was resting on his chest, his fingers tracing slow, thoughtless circles into your back. You should've been long asleep, but you couldn’t stop thinking about how different he felt like this. Like this version of him had always existed, but you were only just now being allowed to see it.

“I don’t get you,” you said, barely above a whisper.

Theo glanced down at you.

“What’s there to get?”

You propped yourself up on your elbow, looking down on what little you could see of his face not obscured by the dark or his soft curls. You tilted your head, considering.

“You’re just…different, sometimes.”

His hand paused.

Then he shifted, rolling you both over gently, lips brushing against your jaw, collarbone, shoulder.

“Maybe you just make me better,” he murmured.

You almost laughed.

Because it was such a good line. But that's exactly what it was - a line.

You drew Theo closer to you almost anxiously. He obliged, hands wandering to your hips. Distantly, you wondered if you carved open his heart, would you find anything remotely genuine inside?

It was late. You were tired. It made your head hurt to think of such depressing things.

So your eyes fluttered shut, and you let yourself succumb to Theo's ministrations. Let yourself believe it.

For one more night.

Little Miss Egg on My Face ★★☆☆☆ It Never Lasts It's almost a slap in the face, really - he could do it all for you, and more. He just doesn't want to. He doesn't care enough to even be halfway decent, especially once the glow wears off. So a week later, he goes back to his old ways, drinking and philandering, and you - well, you stayed, didn't you? Now who's the idiot?

For a few days, it almost felt like things truly had changed.

Theo had stayed soft, sweet, attentive. He sat with you during meals without you asking. Laced your fingers together under the table in study hall. Let you sleep in his bed, no questions asked, when you showed up exhausted after a double-length Potions exam. He even gave you his last chocolate frog during a study break and shrugged, saying you needed it more than he did.

And you started to believe it. That maybe the trip really had saved their relationship from ruin. Maybe this time, he meant every kiss, every touch.

But, like all good things, it didn’t last.

By midweek, you started noticing it again, despite your best efforts.

The way he brushed you off in the corridors with a distracted nod, not even slowing his pace. The way he left your group hangouts without saying goodbye. The way he started treating you like an accessory he wanted only sometimes.

It was subtle. Like he was slipping out of a persona.

One night, you watched him lean towards another girl a few tables over, heavily wrapped up in whatever riveting conversation they were sharing, all low laughs and half-lidded glances, his mouth tugged up at one side. The same smirk he’d used on you—only now it felt recycled. Contaminated. Revolting.

He didn’t even glance your way as you left the Hall.

You waited until you were alone. You found him near the back stairwell, the one they used to use to sneak up to the Astronomy Tower. He was lighting a cigarette. Of course. Something about this was beginning to feel destructively futile.

Your voice was quiet at first.

“Hey.”

Theo glanced over, eyes unreadable in the gloom of the night. “Hey.”

You hesitated.

“Can we talk?”

He exhaled a thin stream of smoke, then shrugged. “Sure. Talk.”

There was a beat of silence. Then she said, softly, almost apologetically, “You’ve been different. Since we got back.”

Theo looked away.

“Have I?”

You could feel him beginning to shut you out. You panicked. “I’m not trying to start anything," you said, hurriedly. "I just…noticed.”

“You always do,” he muttered, flicking ash onto the stone floor.

You frowned. “I’m not accusing you.”

“Not yet, you're not.”

Something about the way he said it - flat, unaffected - made you feel ridiculous. A laughingstock. Overly emotional. Wholly irrational.

Still, you pushed on. “You were great this weekend, Theo. Really. Till now, I didn’t want to say anything because I liked that. I liked you. And now - ” You swallowed. “Now I don't."

He raised a brow.

“Because I sat at a different table?”

“It’s not just that.”

“Then what is it?”

You worried your bottom lip.

“You’re pulling away again.”

Theo laughed condescendingly.

“Well, forgive me if I don’t feel like being your emotional support boyfriend every minute of every day.”

You stared at him.

“Is that what you think I want?”

“Sure seems like it.”

You stepped back, your frustration mounting.

“God, you’re unbelievable. I’m trying to talk to you, and you’re acting like I’m some clingy, nagging -”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Your mouth dropped open. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious that this, is getting old,” he said, not even bothering to look at her now. “The whining. The melodrama.”

You hated the way your voice was beginning to shake.

“You always do this, Theo. Every time we get close, you run the other way. You pretend none of it ever happened.”

He turned to you now, finally meeting your eyes with that cold, dead gaze of his.

"We had a nice weekend. We had one nice weekend. Newsflash, princess - it's not that deep."

Your chest tightened, your breath catching in your throat.

He didn’t stop there. “You act like I’m supposed to worship you like some lovesick puppy all day every day. Don't you get exhausted by how much you want all the time? Do you really need to be wanted that badly?”

There was a long pause.

Then you exhaled, sharp and cold.

“Fuck you.”

He didn’t blink. “That’s more like it.”

All this while he'd been trying to buy your infatuation. Meanwhile, you couldn't pay him to offer you a shred of respect.

You shoved past him, your nails digging crescent moons into her palms as you walked far, far away from him. The echo of your footsteps hit the walls too loud, too fast, like you couldn’t get away from him quickly enough.

He didn’t follow. Not that you expected him to. But the worst part was that it hurt exactly the way she knew it would that afternoon you first laid eyes on him. Because he didn't care - not really. Not enough for it to actually mean anything.

Still, some sick part of your heart pulsed with the worry that you'd go back. That you weren't strong enough to truly stay away from him. That you'd go crawling back to him on some cold, miserable night.

When your hands stopped shaking. When your voice stopped cracking. When you convinced yourself again that maybe he half-meant it that one time. That maybe he could change. That maybe he already had.

But for now, all that you could do was walk, and walk, and walk, until the halls swallowed you whole. Until he was little more than smoke curling in the wind.

The only thing heavier than your silence was the weight of still wanting him.

It’s always worse at night.

When the castle halls are quiet. When your bed’s too big. When there’s no fight left in you to battle the waves of want.

It was late—so late that even the stars seemed like a distant memory, hanging somewhere far beyond reach. It was a stupid hour, one where you should have been asleep, or at least pretending to be. But you weren't. You never could sleep the same without him anymore. Not when he’d been the one to fill the void inside you, even if it was with something corrosive. You hated it. And yet, there was no escaping it.

You missed him. How could you not? Despite everything, despite his flaws, his temper, his habits you loathed, you missed him. Even when he was the last person you wanted to think about, your mind wandered back to the way his lips felt against your neck, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren't looking.

That stupid half-smile. The ominous smell of smoke clinging to his collar. The way his voice softened when he said your name like it was something precious meant only for him.

It was exhausting. This back and forth. The way he could make you feel like the most important thing in the world one minute, and a burden the next. Every time you thought you had him figured out, he flipped it. Changed the rules. Changed the game.

And still - still, you chose to love him.

You were too tired to care about what was “right” anymore. You'd been walking around in this fog of longing and resentment, trying to convince yourself that you deserved more, that you needed more. You needed to be more.

But you weren't. Not without him.

You'd told yourself you wouldn’t do this again. Had said it out loud, even. Had whispered it like a promise into your pillow the night you walked away. But the resolve didn't hold under the weight of your chest caving in from the loneliness.

You tried everything - busy days. Cold showers. Long walks. None of it worked. You couldn't help slipping.

And tonight, you're slipping fast.

Your bare feet carry you down the corridor before you can think. You don't react to the chill of the floor. Your head is vacant of any plans, any rational thought - just the sharp pulse of want, of need, of him.

You hesitate outside his dorm. But it's too little, too late. The time to turn back was months ago, when he was little more than a stranger on a picnic blanket you had enough sense to not get involved with.

The door creaks open.

He’s awake. He doesn’t say anything. You don't leave. He doesn’t ask you to.

He lifts the covers. Makes room for you without question.

You climb in.

His arms wrap around you like muscle memory. Like forgiveness he didn’t earn.

And you let him.

Because the thing about loving someone like Theodore Nott is, it’s never a fair fight. It's an affliction of the worst kind. It's a habit you can't quite quit. It’s knowing better. And choosing him anyway.

You closes your eyes and shift closer, pretending you don't know how this ends.

Little Miss Disillusioned ★★★☆☆ Would Not Recommend But Merlin...I always come back.

#theo nott #theodore nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott angst #theodore nott fluff

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kingdom-of-peace · 1 month ago

Text

Spotlight. pt.2| N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female! Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), cult mentions, language

Word Count: 6.5k+

A/N: Omg, thank you so much — I didn’t think this would be so well received! If you spot any grammar mistakes, feel free to let me know! FYI english isn't my first language.

You arrived at the university just before seven, coffee in hand, your scarf still dusted with the remnants of the city’s unpredictable weather, although in passing you had heard that the weekend would be sunny. The sandstone building loomed, as familiar and impersonal as always, but there was a certain comfort in its old bones—the worn edges of its stairwells and the quiet hum of thought that seemed to linger in its hallways. Maybe, had you gotten a more restful sleep the night before, you would have appreciated the stillness of the building. But instead, you'd spent hours at your dining table the pervious evening, preparing for today’s lecture, only to fall asleep in the unforgiving chair. You’d only been roused when the stabbing pain in your back sent sharp signals to your brain, warning you that if you didn’t move soon, you'd be crawling into work in the morning. You really hated that weekend lectures were a thing nowadays.

As you fumbled with your keys, trying to find the right one for your office lock, you heard footsteps rounding the corner, followed by Darcy's voice calling out to you with a grin. She jogged over, laptop tucked under one arm, her hair only slightly wind tousled.

“Professor Hot Take, fancy seeing you here in the flesh,” she said. “Good morning to you too. And what’s that supposed to mean?” you replied, sarcastically. Darcy rolled her eyes, her tone dripping with playful disbelief. “You can’t be serious. You haven’t seen?”. “Seen what? I’ve been going over my presentation for today all night.” you stated, still distracted by the lock. “Only a chronically offline person like you could miss it. You’re auditorium lecture from Thursday is all over the internet.” Darcy replied while leaning against the wall beside you, watching you finally fitting the correct key into the lock.

“The public’s calling it ‘the lecture of the century.” She continued, while you invited her in with a snort. “Ha, very funny. The auditorium was practically half-empty. And of the people who stayed, half were students sent there by Vision to write a graded essay on the topic, full-well knowing it would be recorded. He made it a requirement, just to support me for my first public lecture here. Looking at all those sleep-deprived faces made it painfully easy to assume no one cared to actually listen.”

“Well, I was there on Thursday, and like you know, I thought your talk was brilliant. Apparently, so does half the nation,” Darcy said as she began clearing a pile of books from the couch in your office, dropping them unceremoniously onto the floor before sitting down. You really needed to start organizing things, you thought, watching her struggle to carve out enough space to sit. At the moment, your office looked more like a battlefield than a workspace. But then again, after your abrupt appointment to a professorship last semester, you had barely found the time to adjust. You’d thought you knew the university inside and out but actually holding a secure teaching position was an entirely different story.

Darcy’s last remark yanked you out of your spiral. “Half the nation?” you deadpanned. She gave a nonchalant shrug, clearly far too pleased with herself. “Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating but it turns out one of the students actually paid attention. They put together a short video compilation of your lecture and uploaded it. From there, it sort of... spiralled. Nothing huge, but it was trending for a few hours yesterday.”. You blinked. “Trending?”. Darcy nodded, clearly enjoying your disbelief. “Yeah, people were talking about it—quotes, commentary, a few armchair essays. Sure, there were some superficial takes on your delivery or how ‘stern academia looks cool again,’ but overall? Some genuinely clever insights. Thoughtful discussion, even.”

She paused for effect, smirking. “Though I’m sure it didn’t hurt that you used The Hour’s host as a prime example. I swear, I don’t know a single person who doesn’t have the hots for Natasha Romanoff. And online? That gets dialled up to hundred.” You rolled your eyes, already regretting your rhetorical choices but also a slight worry settled in you that maybe it had not been a good idea to single out the news anchor like that.

You had used her because, quite frankly, everyone knew her. Billboards of her face and show were plastered across the city like a second skyline. She was the easiest, most visible example of everything you were critiquing. The redhead had practically presented herself on a silver platter to you. But of course, you were just an up-and-coming academic—a newly appointed professor, still carving out space in the university ecosystem. She probably didn’t even know about your lecture. And even if she did, she’d likely dismissed it without a second thought, laughing at your age and inexperience the way so many before her had.

“Well, I’m glad at least one student cared enough about the state of our modern media landscape,” you said with a tired smile. “It was probably just a one-time fluke. People will forget about it by next week. And, for the record—I don’t find her hot.” Darcy barked out a laugh, flopping back against the armrest, a few books threatening to fall over. “Liar. I’ve only known you for a little less than a year, but even I can tell—she’s totally your type. Athletic, mature, intelligent… I mean, come on. To this day, I’m surprised she’s still single. If you can believe what the gossip magazines are printing.”

You let her ramble, referring from making fun of her for reading those pretentious gossip articles. Once Darcy hyper-focused on a topic, she could go on for hours. You tuned her out gently—not unkindly—because the last thing she needed to know was that she was absolutely right. Natasha Romanoff was, regrettably, very much your type. But that wasn’t the point. To you, she represented everything wrong with the media landscape: curated personas, manipulated narratives, the illusion of authenticity projected through high-definition screens. You might find her attractive, sure, but that didn’t erase the fact that she stood for a system of influence you fundamentally distrusted.

“Anyway,” Darcy said, pulling you back to the present, “you know you’ve got that panel discussion tonight, right? I’ll probably come with you but no promises. I still have to finish grading those papers.”. “You’ve already had a deadline? It’s barely mid-October. Your students must hate you.”. “Oh, they do. But not me they hate Banner. It’s his class and essay, not mine. I’m just stuck with the grunt work since he’s supervising my PhD.” She groaned, standing and brushing off her jeans. “I look forward to the day you both have the same academic title, and he can’t boss you around anymore. He even tried pulling rank on me once—and he’s not even in the media department.” You smiled, watching her gather her things.

“Well, don’t tell anyone yet,” the brunette added as she reached the door, lowering her voice, “but I spoke with the dean. He’s agreed to let me begin drafting my PhD thesis this semester. So maybe putting Professor Banner in his place isn’t as far off as we thought.”. “Congrats! And don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. Message me if you want to go to the panel together tonight.” You replied to hopeful that Darcy could pull it off.

She gave you a playful salute before disappearing down the hallway toward her shared office in the far wing—one of the temporary spaces cobbled together after a burst water pipe had flooded the computer science building last winter. Until repairs were finished, a handful of displaced researchers had been housed in your department’s extra offices. In a way, the chaos had worked in your favour. You liked your colleagues well enough, but most of them were significantly older, talking more about retirement plans than publication deadlines. They had families, routines, lives you hadn’t quite stepped into yet.

Darcy was only a year older, working on her doctorate in computer science after returning from a few years abroad teaching children programming through a humanitarian education initiative after graduating from university with her master’s degree. You’d only met her thanks to that burst pipe—and honestly, you were glad for the accident. Though half the time, you had no idea what she was talking about, especially when it came to anything related to her field of study, but she made everything here feel a little less isolating.

While sitting at your desk, getting ready for your first seminar of the day, your mind kept drifting back to what Darcy had said. She was probably exaggerating “viral” she most likely just meant the lecture had sparked a thread or two on the university's public forum. Still, you were curious. Maybe there were some thoughtful comments, even a bit of useful criticism you could use to refine the talk if you ever revisited the topic in the future. You turned on your computer, already dreading the inevitable flood of emails that greeted you each morning. Lately, it felt like they multiplied overnight. And sure enough, the moment you logged in, your inbox pinged with new messages.

But what caught you off guard was the sheer volume. In bold red letters at the top of the screen: 1.356 new emails.

You blinked.

You didn’t think you’d ever received that many emails in a whole month, regardless a day—not even close. And as you began to scroll, it became clear these weren’t just from students or university staff. A few addresses stood out immediately—news outlets, academic professionals from other universities and just random people. Hesitating only slightly, you clicked on a few promising ones and began to read.

The first email you opened was from a student—one you vaguely remembered seeing in the middle row on Thursday:

Subject: Thank you for the lecture

Hi Professor,

I just wanted to say how much I appreciated your talk the other day. It was the first time someone actually articulated the dissonance I’ve always felt watching the news, especially when it comes to public image versus actual reporting. It helped me reframe how I approach media critique in my own research paper.

Kind regards,

Michelle Jones

You smiled. That alone might’ve been worth it.

The next email, however, took a sharp and unsettling turn. It came from a fringe news outlet you’d never heard of their logo a chaotic mix of all-caps slogans and shadowy graphics. The tone immediately set off alarm bells. Instead of engaging with the nuanced critique you had offered in your lecture, the message launched into a bizarre tirade against Natasha Romanoff. Not only did it ignore your actual arguments—it went so far as to accuse her of being part of a secret cult allegedly seeking immortality through occult rituals. You felt a tightness in your chest. This wasn’t criticism. It was delusion, cloaked in the language of dissent. And worse still, your words had apparently given them more ammunition—not to analyze media structures critically, but to reinforce their own conspiratorial fantasies.

A wave of guilt washed over you. That had never been your intention. You hadn’t meant to vilify Natasha Romanoff personally—only to question the media dynamics she, willingly or not, had come to symbolize. But judging by the next few emails, you weren’t the only one being taken out of context. Several congratulated you specifically for “finally taking her down,” painting her as emblematic of everything wrong with public media.

You sighed, leaning back in your chair. Perhaps you should’ve framed the critique differently—less anchored to a single figure. Maybe you should have cited several anchors, even ones you considered far more problematic. You hadn’t chosen the topic for your lecture to provoke anyone. Not really. The criticism had been sitting in the back of your head for years—accumulated slowly, not from outrage, but from exhaustion. Watching news programs blur into branded personalities, debates reduced to soundbites, tragedy wrapped in sleek graphics.

You remembered late nights during your master’s, sitting with a mug of cheap tea, watching segments not for content, but for structure. Timing. Tone. The way a camera angle could turn opinion into something that felt like fact. It wasn’t about one person. It was about all of it. And yet, now that it had a face—her face—you weren’t sure if the argument could remain purely structural.

Thankfully, the fourth email brought a welcome change of tone. It was from someone working with an NGO focused on media literacy in underserved communities. The person was interested in incorporating your analysis into a training module for younger audiences and new educators. You immediately drafted a short, polite reply, expressing interest and requesting more information. It wasn’t all noise. At least some people were listening with the right intentions. The final email before you quickly exited the mail tab read:

Subject: The one

Hi,

I don’t even go to your school, but someone posted the clip on online. Just wanted to say: hottest professor energy I’ve ever seen. Please tell me you’re single.

— Anonymous admirer 💌

You stared at that one for a couple of seconds, then immediately hit delete.

Still, you needed a moment to collect your thoughts. Apparently, it wasn’t just a couple of forum posts. Something had resonated, and that was a strange and humbling feeling. A quick search confirmed your suspicions—your name now appeared in multiple headlines, often in tandem with the ginger woman. Some articles offered praise, others criticism, their tone ranging from thoughtful engagement to blatant sensationalism. Maybe Darcy hadn’t been exaggerating after all. You could only hope that this unexpected attention wouldn’t carry unforeseen consequences.

---

On the other side of town the first light of morning filtered through the sheer curtains, slicing across the polished wooden floors of Natasha’s apartment. She was already awake. Sleep had not been a reliable companion for some time now—something she had long come to accept.

By 6:00 a.m., she had finished her run—five miles through the quiet of the city’s pre-dawn streets, the air sharp against her skin, her breath steady and measured. She liked the silence. It kept her focused. Running, gave her a clarity no editorial meeting or studio debrief ever could. Back in her apartment, she worked through a set of circuits—push-ups, planks, shadowboxing—barefoot on the mat in her sunlit living room. The rhythm of it all was familiar. A discipline she had taught herself long before television studios, prime time shows and the expectations of millions. The kind of discipline that didn’t depend on whether the headlines liked her or not.

Liho, stretched luxuriously by the window in the morning sunlight, tail flicking in irritation when Natasha exhaled a little too sharply during her last round of burpees. “You’re welcome to join,” she muttered, towelling sweat from her neck as the cat narrowed his eyes at her before resuming his nap.

After a quick shower, she moved into the kitchen, the scent of dark roast filling the space as the machine hummed to life. Waiting for the coffee to brew, Natasha crouched down by the kitchen counter reaching for the familiar tin of cat food. Behind her, Liho let out a sharp meow—half impatient, half theatrical. “I know, I know,” she murmured, glancing over her shoulder. “You act like I forget every morning.” Liho trotted closer, tail flicking, and let out another insistent noise. “Yes, your suffering is very real,” she added dryly, scooping the food into his dish. “I was five seconds late. Call the press.” He immediately dove into the bowl, purring with self-satisfaction. “At least one of us gets what they want without a fight,” Natasha muttered, standing back up just as the coffee machine let out a final hiss.

With one hand she sipped from her mug; with the other, she scrolled through her inbox. She had received far more emails than usual overnight. Most were flagged by her assistant, but a few had slipped through the filters—some congratulatory, others speculative, and a handful vaguely threatening in the way that people with too much time and an internet connection could be. It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. But there were also mentions of the university lecture, snapping Natasha back to the very thoughts that had consumed her the night before. It was enough to sour Natasha’s mood for the rest of the morning— not even her sacred PB&J sandwich could redeem it.

After breakfast she dressed in her usual subdued layers: tailored black pants, a crisp charcoal blouse, soft makeup, hair in a loose braid. She never dressed to impress. She dressed to control the room before she even stepped inside it. By the time she left her building around midday, Liho was curled up again in his favourite spot by the radiator, and Natasha had already planned three responses to three different questions that might come her way on today’s editorial meeting.

She didn’t believe in being caught off guard.

Luckily during the car ride, she had already forgotten about the social media dilemma involving you. Entering the network building on a weekend felt like stepping into a mausoleum—quiet, cavernous, and absent of its usual pulse. The lobby was nearly empty, save for Charlie, the elderly security guard who had already been something of a relic when Natasha was just starting out. She greeted him with a familiar nod, a rare warmth softening her expression. He had been one of the reliable figures those early, unforgiving intern days—offering quiet comfort after her first professional humiliation, when a superior had reduced her to silent tears. Charlie never said much, but he’d slipped her those strange old-fashioned sweets only grandparents seemed to know existed. It was a small gesture, but one that had kept her from walking away after week one. And for that, she never forgot him.

When Natasha reached the newsroom floor, it felt just as quiet and lifeless as the entry hall. She made a beeline for the meeting room, where Maria, Pepper, and a few other familiar faces were already gathered. People who kept the gears of the operation turning behind the scenes.

The weekend was reserved for planning the following week's segments, as her show aired during the weekdays. Natasha entered the room, a few tired "good mornings" greeting her as she took her seat. “So, who wants to start?” Maria took charge, her voice cutting through the room with authority. Immediately, Thor, a muscular man and one of the senior technicians, launched into a passionate discussion about new gadgets that could be useful for Wednesday's show. Natasha didn’t pay much attention, her focus instead on her laptop as she typed away, trying to catch up on the flood of emails she hadn’t had time to respond to at home. She drifted in and out of the conversation, nodding occasionally when she found herself agreeing with a point.

Finally, the conversation shifted to the actual content of the show, and Natasha straightened up in her seat, her attention fully snapping into focus. Now, it was time to weigh in. “I think we should consider, trying to get an interview with the person replacing Senator Rumlow, maybe on Tuesday?”. On it," Pepper replied, her attention already snapping back to her phone. Despite being Tony Stark’s personal assistant, she played a pivotal role in managing all the major programs. Natasha couldn’t help but think that Tony better be compensating her properly. Pepper Potts was indispensable. In her eyes, there wasn’t a person more reliable or capable in the network.

“And the segment for Wednesday needs to hit harder. We’ve been playing it safe lately, and honestly, the audience can tell. We need something fresh, something real. So why not send somebody over actually reporting on the ground about those protests in France.”. "I could ask Loki or Bucky," Maria suggested, jotting down some notes. "I already know Loki will say no," Thor replied with a sigh. "Our sister Hela just bought a new house downtown, and we promised her we'd help with the move next week." Natasha often wondered how the three of them were still on speaking terms. If you believed the office gossip, their family history, especially the sibling dynamics, were filled with intrigue and backstabbing. But, as the saying goes, blood is thicker than water. Natasha, however, had never put much stock in that notion. "Then it's Bucky," Maria decided, tapping her pen thoughtfully. "His French is better anyway. Anything else? Or can my team go over the final script for Monday?".

The room fell into silence. “Alright, that’s it for today. See you all on Monday. Natasha, I will send you the final draft by tomorrow morning.” Maria announced, dismissing the team and getting an approving nod by the news-anchor. As Natasha stood up to leave, she was called back by Pepper. “Natasha, wait... I hope you didn’t forget about tonight’s panel discussion at the old theatre.”

Natasha let out a frustrated huff, recalling the event she had noticed in her calendar during the drive to the studio the previous day. The last thing she wanted was to be stuck there this evening. She was long overdue for a quiet weekend with Liho, curled up on the couch with a few old Hollywood classics. But the panel host was a renowned publishing house, where Natasha had published her second book last year— a book that had held the number one spot for months and, as per her contract, she still had to promote it the following year.

“Tonight’s panel is the last event on your promotion schedule, you’ll only have to got to their annual Christmas Party after that.” Pepper said with a sympathetic smile. Natasha let out a quiet sigh. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. Any idea who else is on the panel?” Pepper pulled out her phone, looking at her notes. “Let’s see… Carol Danvers is on the list—she’s wrote something about media portrayals of the military. Then there’s Steven Strange, the famous internet doctor. He’s apparently talking about social media and its impact on medical diagnosis.” Natasha raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like a circus already.” Pepper laughed. “Wait, it gets better— our Wanda is on there too. She published some kind of modern guide to witchcraft. Although it also addresses the portrayal of witchcraft in the media. No idea where she comes up with this stuff, but it’s selling.” Natasha shook her head. “Of course it is.”

As one of the hosts of the network’s morning show, Wanda and Natasha often crossed paths in the early hours—just as Natasha was leaving and Wanda arriving. Despite the chaos of the network, and the constant shuffle of faces moving in and out of meetings, studios, and green rooms, Wanda had become something of a quiet constant in Natasha’s mornings. Their shifts occasionally overlapped just enough to form a rhythm of casual exchanges and unspoken camaraderie. It wasn’t unusual for Natasha to catch the scent of peppermint tea and hear Wanda humming some old folk tune just as she was packing up her things. There was comfort in it.

Wanda, in all her colourful scarves and slightly chaotic energy, always seemed to see right through the practiced edge Natasha wore like a second skin. They never talked long—ten minutes in the hallway, maybe fifteen in the makeup chair if timing allowed—but Natasha valued those moments more than she let on. Wanda never pushed, never pried, just offered easy conversation and a smile that made the end of a long night feel a little less heavy. She didn’t have many friends in the building. But she considered Wanda one of the few—or at least someone she could confide in, to some extent.

“There’s also someone new—they added another name last week. Some academic who just published their PhD through them. I haven’t looked them up yet, but I can if you’re curious,” Pepper offered waving her phone and pulling Natasha out of her trip down memory lane. “Don’t bother,” Natasha said, brushing it off. “Anything I need to prepare for?”. “Not really. Karen Page is moderating, and I’ll send Peter to film some clips for socials. Just try to look like you don’t want to escape five minutes in.”. “No promises,” Natasha muttered with a smirk. She grabbed her bag and headed for the door. “Alright, see you on Monday. And Pepper—try not to live here over the weekend.” Pepper waved her off. “My home is where my phone is.”

—

You glanced at the time again and exhaled sharply. Still a few hours left until the panel. Part of you wished you could simply email in a cancellation—make up something vague about a personal emergency or a scheduling conflict. You’d never done anything like that before, but the idea wasn’t as unthinkable as it should’ve been.

You hadn’t expected anyone to care about your PhD thesis—it was never meant to ignite anything more than a few nods from graduate students and, if you were lucky, a polite citation in someone else’s paper. And yet, here you were, suddenly part of a public conversation about media, far outside the safe confines of academia.

Your gaze drifted to the file folder still sitting at the corner of your desk—the printout of your thesis proposal marked up by your supervisor, the final version that supported your Thursday lecture, the research that had consumed most of your adult life. You had always believed in the value of distance. Of analysis without personal entanglement. But maybe that wasn’t an option anymore in today’s world.

You didn’t even know who else would be on the panel. You hadn’t looked. That had been a deliberate choice—or an act of denial, depending on how generous you were willing to be with yourself. Still, you told yourself, it would be fine. Two hours. A handful of questions. An audience of people who would forget your name by next week. With a sigh, you gathered your belongings, preparing for your second seminar of the day.

A few hours later a sharp knock rattled your office door. You looked up from your screen, blinking in surprise. The person outside didn’t bother waiting for an answer—pushing open the door with the urgency of someone used to dragging academics away from their desks.

“Seriously?” she said, hands on hips. “We were supposed to meet fifteen minutes ago. I waited. Like an idiot. In heels.” You squinted at the clock in the corner of your screen. Shit. You hadn’t even noticed how much time had passed. “I lost track of time,” you muttered, standing up and hurriedly grabbing your coat from the back of your chair.

“Obviously. Come on, we’re late and not fashionably.” As you followed her down the hallway, your thoughts were already spiralling. You didn’t want to be doing this. A panel discussion on a weekend evening? These kinds of public-facing events were supposed to be for pop-scientists, TED talk types, the ones who made flashy graphs and dramatic pauses. Not people like you, who spent nights buried in literature reviews and fought imposter syndrome on a rotating basis. You didn’t know how to perform. You knew how to write. And there was a difference. The thought of sitting on that stage, surrounded by people who breathed publicity like air made your chest tighten. What if you said the wrong thing? What if someone asked a question you couldn’t answer? What if they laughed not out of amusement but condescension?

“I still don’t get why your publisher made you do this,” Darcy said, holding the door open for you as the two of you stepped out into the brisk evening air. “Like, since when is academic critique mainstream?”. You shrugged. “I guess it is, when it intersects with media. Everyone has an opinion on media, even if they’ve never read a single study about it.” Darcy gave you a sidelong glance. “Still. I hope they’re paying you. Or at least giving you some expensive alcohol.”

You didn’t reply. You were too busy calculating how long the panel would run, and whether anyone from the faculty would be there to judge your every sentence. And somewhere, beneath all that, you were still hoping—irrationally—that it would all go by fast. That you could say your piece, disappear quietly, and maybe even catch up on sleep after. But you understood how these events operated, once the discussion ended, it was customary, almost expected, to mingle with the audience and engage in polite small talk. You still hadn’t looked up the other panellists in your office—doing so would’ve only added to your anxiety in the final hours. But maybe if you had, you wouldn’t have ended up late, which somehow felt even worse.

To make up for lost time, you and Darcy made a valiant attempt spiriting toward the nearest underground station. Proving to be significantly harder for your companion, her heels transformed her stride into something resembling a deer taking its first steps. Breathless and slightly dishevelled, you managed to squeeze into a train just before the doors closed. Thankfully, it wasn’t too crowded for a Saturday evening. You caught sight of your reflection in the window and immediately tried to make yourself look remotely presentable—adjusting your hair, fixing your collar—the little things you had meant to do in the staff restroom, had time been on your side. As you mournfully remembered the change of clothes left behind, tucked away beneath your office desk.

During the short ride, the two of you exchanged updates about your day. Darcy, as usual, launched into a semi-dramatic retelling of her ongoing war with Professor Benner’s unreasonable workload. Halfway through, she leaned in and whispered, “Don’t tell anyone, but I may have told him I finished grading everything… I skipped a few just to be here for you tonight.” Her grin was sheepish, but sincere. In that moment, your irritation about running late softened. You really were lucky to have her.

Soon enough, you arrived at your stop: The Old Theatre. True to its name, the building had once stood at the very peak of the city’s cultural life nearly a century ago. You remembered coming across references to it in some research papers—how it had later served as the city’s first television studio, one of the early strongholds of a big national broadcasting network. If your memory served correctly, Howard Stark one of the city’s most well-known historical figures had been the visionary behind it. He bought the building when it faced foreclosure and later gifted it to the city, which to this day uses it as a kind of civic venue available for rent.

You and Darcy approached the side entrance at a brisk pace, having noticed the unusually long line forming at the main doors from a distance. Ticketing had already begun, and the crowd seemed larger than anticipated for an event so rooted in academic and media theory. The popularity of the discussion appeared to have outgrown its niche origins, you thought. Missing the crowd at the main entry doors, primarily consisting of younger and middle-aged women, many of them holding merchandise and printed photographs of a striking redhead, suggesting that the panel’s appeal extended far beyond academic interest and had drawn in a dedicated fanbase cantered around a particular media personality.

Inside, you were met by a woman whose name slipped from your memory almost as soon as she introduced herself. Her tone was curt, her posture rigid with barely concealed disapproval as she gave you a sharp look—first for your lateness, then for your choice of clothing, which her eyes seemed to assess like an item in need of return. She informed you, in a clipped voice, that the organizers had attempted to reach you multiple times. You offered an apology, explaining that your phone had been on silent—a habit born more of disinterest than oversight, as you rarely used it, even in your personal life.

Without much pause, she added that there would be no opportunity to meet the panel moderator or introduce yourself to the other speakers. Time was short. You still needed to pass through hair and makeup before the event began in half an hour.

---

Natasha was seated in the guest lounge, the scent of setting spray still faint in the air. She had just finished with hair and makeup and was, for once, pleasantly surprised—the stylist had known exactly how to work with her features, accentuating rather than masking them, a rare positive occurrence.

Across from her sat Carol Danvers, a fellow network colleague she occasionally worked out with at the private gym in their building—Carol lived just a few floors below her. While their shared discipline fostered a kind of mutual respect, their conversations rarely extended beyond reps, sparring and workplace discussions. Carol’s interest didn’t exactly align with Natasha’s, adding to that both women seemed to be in different stages in life, Carol had just recently welcomed her first daughter with her wife, Maria Rambeau—a renowned photographer in the city.

Next to Carol was Dr. Stephen Strange, unmistakable even out of his clinical setting. Natasha had interviewed him once for a special segment on digital misinformation in medicine. Though they hadn’t spoken much since, she had followed his occasional op-eds and lectures from a professional distance, intrigued more by his shifting media persona than his actual subject matter. Wanda Maximoff joined them a few minutes later, her energy softer and more eclectic than the others.

“I thought I was the last one out of make-up,” Wanda said, settling into one of the lounge armchairs and glancing around. “But I only see four of us—shouldn’t there be five?” Strange, still sipping on a coffee that had long gone cold, gave a nod. “I heard the last panellist is running late.”. “Oh, I hope they made it,” Wanda said, her tone genuinely concerned. “I think I saw someone rush past a few minutes ago,” Carol chimed in, glancing up from her phone. “Could’ve been her. Don’t really know what she looks like”. “Oh good,” Wanda said with a soft smile. “I’m really curious about their take. The publisher sent me a draft of her thesis before the release. I would like to put a face to the name.”. Strange gave a quiet hum of agreement. “I only skimmed the opening chapters, but it’s definitely got something. She’s tackling some uncomfortable truths.” Carol replied, munching on a few cashews.

Natasha, leaning back on the couch, recalled a few weeks ago when a heavy box had shown up at her apartment—one of those promotion deliveries from her publisher, stacked with new releases and promotional materials. She hadn’t paid much attention at the time, just scanned the covers, noting that one book stood out for its stark, minimalist design. The presenter vaguely remembered finding it odd to have an academic paper included in a promotional package. She’d set the box down in her office and forgotten about it, buried beneath a growing pile of scripts and scheduling notes. She tried to recall the author’s name but came up blank. Just as she was about to ask Wanda for confirmation about the title of the book and author’s name, a crew member entered the lounge, brisk and all business. “They’re ready for you on stage. Walkout in five.”. The four panellists stood, smoothing jackets and crew checking microphones, conversation cut short as they filed toward the wings.

—

You barely had time to catch your breath as you were ushered down a narrow hallway and toward the right wing of the stage. A production assistant guided you with a practiced urgency, headset crackling with cues from the control booth. You were late, underprepared, and not even sure why you had agreed to this in the first place—except, of course, for the obligation to promote your work, as the publisher had insisted. You silently hoped Darcy had managed to get a good seat as she had been quickly pushed towards the audience seating upon your arrival, a swift "break a leg" slipping from her lips as she was escorted away.

The stage lights spilled into the side corridor, casting long, warm beams across the narrow passage just as Karen Page’s voice rang out clearly from centre stage, conversing with another female voice. As you reached the curtain’s edge, you found a woman already standing there. She turned at the sound of your hurried steps, her warm expression tinged with curiosity. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, recognition dawning. “Wait… I’ve seen you before,” she said, her voice low enough not to carry. “You’re the one from that lecture about media and public perception. The one that’s been all over social media.” You gave a small, breathless nod, not sure how to respond. Recognizing Wanda from brief glimpses of a morning show you’d seen in passing, though you couldn’t quite recall which network it belonged to.

Wanda smiled, a little wider now. “I hadn’t connected the dots. I read your thesis when the publisher sent it over—but didn’t have a face to match to the fire behind those words.” Natasha had to know about your lecture, Wanda thought. Nothing ever slipped past her. But the real question lingered: did she know you were going to be here tonight? She tilted her head slightly, her voice thoughtful. “This is going to be interesting.”

You furrowed your brows, unsure if that was meant as encouragement or a warning. Wanda glanced subtly across the stage toward the opposite wing, where Dr. Strange and another figure waited in the shadows—someone tall, poised, arms crossed. The studio lights obscured the face, but the silhouette felt familiar, almost instinctively recognizable. You hadn’t looked up the other panellists. You hadn’t had time. “She’s not known for pulling punches,” Wanda added, casually. “Especially when she feels attacked. Just… be prepared to hold your ground.”

Before you could ask who, she meant, the stage manager signalled. Wanda gave you a quick, reassuring glance, then disappeared behind the curtain. A few minutes later, Steven Strange was called onto the stage. You remembered attending a few of his guest lectures back during your undergraduate years at university. Your cue was only moments away when the name of the familiar-appearing person was announced. At first, you weren’t sure if you’d heard it correctly—the audience had grown noticeably louder, a subtle shift in energy rippling through the theatre. But as Karen Page began to read the brief introduction, the words confirmed what your instincts already suspected. There was only one person that description could belong to Natasha Romanoff. The face of The Hour. A few seconds later, Natasha would be experiencing the same rush of recognition and disbelief upon hearing the name of the professor who had occupied her thoughts since the night before.

A/N: Revelations. Revelations. Things are about to get heated next time around. Thanks for reading, and Happy Easter to everyone who’s celebrating! :)

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @caramelcat123 @doddledoo @jassgunner

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romonova #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #the avengers #black widow #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #nat x reader #natalia romanova #natalia romanoff

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gravid-transluna · 10 months ago

Text

In the Name of Science

words: 7627

content: birth denial, clothing birth, mutual birth, fpreg

Co-written with the wonderful and endlessly imaginative @shhhsecretsideblog

First entry into the Spell-verse, a series of stories revolving around a town blanketed by a rapid pregnancy and birth spell.

The news already had coined a name for it. Go figure, Char thought, shaking her head at the display of pure pseudoscience on the screen before her.

“Yes, that’s right,” a reporter spoke. “Emergency services have taken a census and The Spell seems to have affected every person able to bear children in the town.”

“The Spell,” Char scoffed, shaking her head. “Call it a virus, a fluke of biology, whatever. Just don’t chalk it up to magic.”

Because if it was magic, that would mean her science would be ineffectual on the obvious life growing inside her belly, now looking full-term with a baby that she hadn’t been pregnant with this morning. It rippled, hanging low between the scientist’s thighs. She placed a palm on her stretched tummy. The evidence, she thought, speaks for itself.

“Shouting at the tele again Char?” Laura said as she waddled into their lab. Her long white coat hung open at her sides, her own newly formed bump making the coat too small to fit round her frame.

“Got you a coffee.” She passed the hot drink to her boss and went over to sit on the stool by her own workstation. It took a bit of navigating, still not used to this extra weight she now carried, but eventually she plumped herself on the high metal chair.

“I mean, they aren’t wrong calling it ‘The Spell.’ What’s happening here is unheard of. All these pregnancies are popping up very much like magic.” Laura rubbed the circumference of her large belly that now sat heavily atop her thighs. She could feel the baby moving inside, it was so strange. Pregnancy and birth was never something she thought she’d experience. She understood it, she knew all about the process, but it was something else entirely actually experiencing it. And going through it all within the space of a day was a bit of a rollercoaster.

They’d done scans and knew they were carrying human babies, it wasn’t anything supernatural or alien, but it was just the speed, it was unprecedented. The baby in her womb shifted and kicked her in the ribs “Oof!” She huffed. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.” Laura commented to her boss.

Char nodded, smothering the instinct to cup her own belly as devoted her attention back to her work.

“Hopefully, you won’t have to. We’ll find a way to reverse the process without delivery and things will—“ she paused, startled by a twinge in her stomach muscles and the subsequent squirming of the baby inside her. She cleared her throat. “Things will return to normal and we can take the time to research this phenomenon thoroughly.”

Secretly, Char’s urgency stemmed from another reason—already she’d struggled to adapt to the feeling of her body so unrecognizably changed, the idea of a passenger inside her, her body growing and stretching to accommodate it without any of her say in it. Even the tiniest signs of motherhood she steadfastly resisted, trying not to waddle or hold her heavy mound, wearing her usual lab wear instead of anything more comfortable. Yet—

She knew this was nothing compared to birth. She also knew that they were on a strict time limit. Shaking her head, she dispelled these thoughts. ‘We don’t have to worry about that. All we have to worry about is finding a cure,’ she thought.

“You really think we can find a cure before these babies are born?” Laura asked hesitantly. She knew how her boss was handling this sudden change in their bodies, and it wasn’t very well. Not that she’d admit it. She disappeared quickly into the work when it first started happening to people and completely ignored the signs this morning that it was happening to them both as well.

“I’ve heard that some people are already starting to give birth… we might not have the time. Not before these ones are born anyway.” Laura patted her bump affectionately. She wasn’t fighting this as much as her boss. Yes it was a shock, but Laura was leaning into the experience, it was fascinating.

She noticed her belly start to twinge, felt similar to period pains. Laura shifted in her chair, trying to ease the uncomfortable feeling, her legs widening on the stool to fit her rounded stomach in between. “Have you had any twinges or cramps or anything?” Laura asked.

Char glanced at Laura, absorbing the gravity of her condition, the way her midsection protruded from her open lab coat and her discomfort that so mirrored Char’s own. “Nope,” she lied easily, convincing herself that it was the weight she was now carrying, that the pressure in her hips and the aching of her back was all because of the new load in her belly.

“Well, I’m not exactly hasty to get these babies out the old-fashioned way,” Char said.

A part of her shared sentiments with Laura, though. Call it a scientific curiosity, but the process of birth was quite a marvel. Another cramp seized her belly and she stiffened slightly, bearing it without note. Her own belly hung low, having dropped without her realizing, but Laura’s taut, overhanging swell was immediately apparent to her.

How about you?” She asked while peering into a microscope.

“I’m not sure… I’m feeling something… oof—” Laura took a sharp breath as the ache peaked before easing off again. “It’s probably just my body adjusting to the quick pregnancy. I’m not in a hurry to give birth myself.”

She didn’t want to say it but the rate at which their stomachs had swelled, Laura didn’t think they would have long before the pangs of labor hit. It was difficult to ascertain how “far along” they were, given the speed in the growth, but judging by the bumps alone Laura guessed her and Char were developing at the same rate.

“We better work fast then, before either of us goes into labor.” Or both of us, Laura thought to herself.

Char pressed her lips together at the reminder, and without knowing she palmed the underside of her swollen stomach, attempting to soothe the tightened muscles.

“Yes, right. Could you come over here and we can analyze these lab reports together. Bring the files from the corner bench, please.”

Her back ached, yet she was too restless to sit and besides, she always worked while standing. She’d be damned if she let this baby inside of her intrude on her routine.

“Sure thing.” Laura said to Char’s instruction. Holding her taut stomach, Laura slipped off the stool onto her feet and waddled over to the corner bench to pick up the files.

Standing seemed to have jolted her baby, feeling the weight sink lower into her hips as it kicked. A sudden sharp tightening slashed across her belly causing her to gasp and grab on to the table. “Mnngh!” She groaned as the muscles pulled and squeezed, its intensity surprising.

“Char… hooo… I think I might be having a con-contraction…” Laura panted through the pain, hips instinctively swaying beneath the white lab coat.

Char snapped her head up from the microscope to see Laura doubled over, clutching the table. With her back flat, her weighty belly seemed to strain toward the ground, dragged downward by gravity. Char watched as Laura swayed her hips in an almost hypnotic pattern, as though instinct had taken over. Her panting, even, seemed instinctual, the sounds of an imminent mother.

“Laura? Hey—“ Char struggled to walk without a waddle, across the room to Laura. She was stopped by a squeezing in her tummy that took her breath away, the entire surface hardening painfully. She dismissed it before it even ended. ‘Braxton Hicks,’ she thought. ‘No big deal. I have time…. Laura, I’m not so sure.’

She placed a palm on Laura’s lower back and she breathed and swayed. “You’re okay,” she said, her usual brisk tone softening. “Just breathe.”

“Hoooo-hoooo…..” Laura forced herself to take measured breaths, in and out, breathing through the sudden pain. Her head dipped and her eyes scrunched, the weight and pressure suddenly peaking before gradually fading away. Slowly the assistant straightened back up and faced her friend (?) and boss.

“Jeeze, that was… intense.” She breathed, rubbing the underside of her belly. “I wasn’t expecting that to come on so fast. Guess I’m in labor. I’ll start running a log of all my symptoms so we can add to our research.” She picked up the earlier requested files and handed them to her boss, noticing a slight glistening of sweat on Char’s forehead. “You still doing okay?”

Char nodded, appearing uncharacteristically distracted. She made an effort to straighten her back, feeling the clamping around her womb subside for now.

“Fine,” she said. Then, appreciative of Laura’s dedication to their studies, “Good work, Laura. If it gets to be too much for you, let me know. Until then, we’ll work around the clock and develop a cure before you progress too far.”

And, before I do as well, Char added to herself.

Noting Laura’s significantly widened stance and the way she stroked and circled her dropped belly, Char felt a twinge of apprehensiveness.

As they worked, fighting the clock, Char listened to Laura’s pained breaths become sharper. Eventually she began to vocalize, softly at first, closing her eyes and rocking her body back and forth, making slight grunts and moaning under her breath.

Char wasn’t in a much better state. Her contractions had grown into strong, regular surges and every time her belly seized up she could only focus on it and the baby inside it preparing to be born. Born, she thought. Not if I can help it. Her familiarity with the process and inevitability of birth did nothing to halt this line of thinking. Yet with each contraction she felt like nothing else existed but her swollen, contracting belly. She released a breath after a particularly brutal one. There was so much pressure. She felt it deep in her hips, wanting so badly to open herself up all the way.

Laura let out a pained groan herself, and Char glanced up.

“H-how are you, mm, holding up?” She asked the other laboring woman.

“As w-well as can be expected… hoooo…” Laura held her heavy belly with one hand, the other leant on her workstation as she swayed through the pain. “They are really picking up now Char, oof, the pressure is a lot.”

The lab assistant had abandoned her chair a while ago, finding the most comfortable position was to stand at her desk as it allowed her to follow her body’s rhythm and its instinct to move. Plus the baby was sinking way too low to be sitting down on that ridiculous high stool. She had spent entire days on that chair working before The Spell, but that idea seemed downright ludicrous to Laura now.

Their research seemed to be slow moving, and it wasn’t entirely down to the fact she was in labor, the science just wasn’t providing them with answers, still proving to be a mystery. She’d been keeping track of her contractions, which were getting dangerously closer together and time was running out.

Whilst the waves of pain coursing through her body every five minutes were consuming, Laura wasn’t oblivious to the fact her boss was also struggling. Perhaps it was because of her own labor she could recognise the signs; the way Char kept moving around the lab and never stayed still, her heavy breathing and occasional moan, and the way her hips would shift and bounce when she thought Laura wasn’t looking. Yup, her boss was almost certainly in labor too. But Laura knew better than to ask her outright.

“Are you feeling okay Char? You’ve been on your feet for quite a w-while now..”

Char tried to imagine sitting and found she couldn’t, with the baby dropped so low, the head pressing heavily on her cervix. She knew from the strain in Laura’s voice and her repeated movements around the room that she was feeling the same pressure and slowly increasing urgency. She wanted to moan, openly sway and rotate her hips against the excruciating pressure, to release instinctual grunts with her contractions like Laura. But, not yet. She couldn’t be in active labor.

“Just frustrated,” Char growled. “We’ve barely made progress and this current batch of tests has yielded no results whatsoever…. mmgh!” She winced, closing her mouth so as not to cry out as a contraction clamped her midsection.

“Also,” she added. “I might—urgh, be experiencing some Braxton Hicks.”

“Oh… braxton hicks… okay.” Laura acknowledged calmly, knowing full well there was nothing false about the pains plaguing Char. “Just try and b-breathe through them. They’ll soon pass. You can move around you know, follow your body’s instincts if you need to, I’m sure it would help with the, errr—false labor pains.”

They continued working in relative silence, except from the unusual noises Laura found herself making through the pains. She thought she heard her boss whimper, and asked “Is there anything I can do to h-help?”

Not that she was capable of doing much, the pains were so strong now she could barely do anything other than catch her breath between waves. Laura stayed close to her work bench, not daring to move too far for fear she’d crumble to the floor. Her bump hung heavy and low off her hips, her baby was pressing hard against her cervix clearly marking its exit. A particularly forceful contract had Laura folded over against the bench, forearms on the white surface, hips jutting back, and her head buried in the crook of her elbow. Her groans had turned more primal, the pressure building to the point she almost mooed like a cow. Something was slipping down, she could feel it. With a grunt Laura felt something give and the immediate dampness that followed trailing down her leg.

“Ummm… Char? Hoooo… I think my water broke.” Laura whimpered into her arm, not daring to move.

Char turned when she heard Laura’s animalistic groans and grunts, undeniably the noises of a woman deep in labor. She saw Laura standing wide-legged, a wet patch forming on her lab trousers and puddling the floor beneath her. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion, and Char knew she was feeling the same pressure against her widening cervix as herself, increasingly overcome with the sensation of the head moving into position, the instinctive need to open herself up for the baby getting ready to come out of her.

“Laura—! Hooo um, okay,” Char faltered, taking large waddling steps to Laura and cursing the weight in her pelvis and the unwieldiness of her belly. .Normally in control of the situation, she felt lost at the sight of Laura’s waters puddled on the floor. This was an uncontrollable variable. No matter how much they wanted to keep their babies in, once their bodies decided it was time there was little they could do. But Char wasn’t ready to give in yet.

“I’ll, mmgh, find you some towels,” she promised Laura.

In the hallway she suffered another contraction, and found herself vocalizing freely without Laura around, lowing insistently and arching her back. Without knowing, her knees bent slightly, beginning to sink into a squat. She realized what she was doing and tried to hold herself upright against the hallway wall, but by then the contraction was upon her and she felt a sudden burst of fluid from between her legs.

“Oh…. shit,” she murmured, panting hard.

When she returned with the towels, she met Laura’s gaze and knew that they were both feeling the urgency of birth. They were almost out of time.

The contraction had waned when Char left the room and Laura slowly righted herself and breathed quietly, taking stock of the situation, letting her body adjust and working with the new sensations. The baby was definitely on its way, there was no doubt about that. The breaking of her waters had helped ease the excruciating pressure which had been building, but Laura became more keenly aware of the shape of the baby in her womb without its cushioning.

Taking deep and steady breaths, Laura tried to calm her mind and body. It was during this almost meditative state that she heard the unmissable sound of a woman in deep labor from the corridor. She knew exactly who it was.

Char was a very methodical woman, set in her ways, but she was strong and determined which was a necessity in this field of work. Laura respected her immensely. But it was no surprise to the assistant that her boss was fighting this and seemingly was fighting it to the very end. At some point Char would admit she was in labor, she would have to if she was going to birth her baby. Laura just hoped she would be able to help Char through it when the time comes, and not be consumed by her own birth.

When Char came back she was flushed and sweaty, but gritted a smile as she passed Laura a towel. Laura noticed her boss kept one for herself… strange.

Laura threw the towel on the floor and used her foot to wipe the liquid that was now puddled at her feet. Her trousers were wet but she didn’t want to take them off, she might have known Char for years but wasn’t quite ready to be walking around half naked in front of her boss.

“This baby is definitely coming, I can feel its head right down in my pelvis.” Laura announced, cupping the underside of her large swell almost trying to hold it up. “How are you holding up Char through your… practice contractions?”

Even without her announcing it, Char could tell how close Laura was to birthing her baby, her stance and dropped belly unmistakable as signs of her imminent birth. Laura, she knew, was dependable, and though Char would rarely admit it, she relied on Laura and her stability and her easier personality tended to balance Char’s own stubbornness. Her patience was beginning to wear Char down, and she almost admitted then. The head was huge against her dilated cervix, and she could feel it oriented, ready to descend. Everything was moving painfully downwards. She could no longer even pinch her knees together, so wide was her gait. It felt as if the baby would drop out of her if she spread too wide.

“I-I think I’m, I’m in—“ Char was cut off by another contraction, doubling over with an urgent grunt, so unlike her normally composed and cool attitude. “Ohhhh,” she moaned, closing her eyes. She gritted her teeth, eyes squeezed shut as the contraction began to peak and she clutched blindly at her rigid, taut belly.

“Oh Char…” Laura said, waddling over to her boss, keeping one hand on a bench for support. “I think you’re in labor, hun.”

Char was completely doubled over, clutching her large and heavy belly, and grunting wildly. There was no way she could keep denying her situation now surely. Laura put a hand on Char’s back and rubbed up and down her spine in support. “It’s okay, just breathe through the contraction. Slowly, don’t panic, in and o-outttt…”

Laura was cut off by a contraction of her own, and without her waters it was aggressive and forceful. She immediately spun around, grabbing the nearest bench, and groaned deeply as she fell into a slight squat. The baby was slamming against her cervix, squeezing its way into her birth canal, and Laura had no choice but to push with the force of the contraction.

She tried not to panic, to stay calm, but the head filling her canal was almost making her nauseous. She wanted to tell Char but couldn’t speak, not that her boss could do anything as she was dealing with a contraction of her own right now. The only option left was to ride the wave, and follow her instincts.

Over the din of her own uncontrollable noises Char could hear Laura’s straining groans as she bore down fiercely, primal with the urgency of a birthing mother. Char tried to change her posture but the feeling of the baby descending, pressing down forcefully against her cervix was too much for her to bear standing, and she clasped her hands on her thighs as she squatted, desperate for relief. The contraction peaked, and though she tried to control her breathing, sucking in air at first, by the ends of her breaths she found herself grunting slightly. She gave a gasp, realizing that she was pushing. No! No, no! She thought desperately. You’re a scientist. This is your lab, and you have control. Try as she might, it was impossible to assert control over her laboring body. Her baby was coming, and she was pushing. Still, she tried to resist the urge to push, panting and blowing as the pressure grew and her back flared with pain.

Laura’s contraction seemed to subside a little before Char’s, and Char saw her belly visibly heave as her uterine muscles relaxed. She let out a grunt as the contraction released her. They made eye contact as Char’s contraction began to fade as well. Char shifted her gaze.

“We…. w-we,” she panted, trying to regain her breath. “We have to find this cure. Right now.”

“Char…. Even if we do find a c-cure… what do you t-think is going to happen?” Laura said sternly as she heaved herself back to standing. “These babies,” she patted her bump and also Char’s for effect, “are coming and no cure is going to make them disappear.”

Laura had seen the way Char literally squatted to the ground and pushed, and her clothes were also damp on her bottom half. “I’m saying this as both your friend and colleague, you are in labor just as much as I, and we should prepare for their arrival.”

Laura waddled awkwardly, bowlegged, back to her desk and grabbed a drink of water. Still panting after the latest contraction, she picked up a pen and carried on making notes. “I’ll help you as much as I can, noting everything down about this rapid pregnancy, tracking my symptoms and experience, but we’re going to be giving birth soon. Both of us.”

Char glared weakly as Laura patted her belly. She’d known Laura to be one of her only lab partners to actually stand up to her or challenge her, but even then she was firmly gentle. This was no different except of course so steeped in labor herself Laura had a bit more edge to her, biting just a little. She knew how Laura was feeling. Their babies were so low, pushing heavily into their canals and forcing their bodies to deliver, and she wanted nothing more to stop what she was doing right now, squat down, and let it come. Magic or science, Char and Laura were experiencing their most natural, primal instincts.

But—she couldn’t. She wouldn’t. No, this was HER body. An intruding passenger wouldn’t change that, even as it inched its way through her birth canal and demanded she work hard and concentrate on nothing but pushing it out. Char made a laborious effort to straighten somewhat, though her stance wasn’t much narrower than Laura’s own bowlegged waddle.

“Not, urgh, yet,” Char said. “I’m not having this baby. Mmm…. hoo, I’m grateful to you, Laura, for holding it together for this long. But you n-need to deliver. Please, don’t burden yourself. I’ll finish this cure on my—hmnh, hm. My own.”

She painstakingly toddled to her research table, lifting the hefty weight of her belly as though it would keep the baby from dropping any further.

“Okay, do whatever you wanna do Char.” Laura resigned herself to losing this argument. Her boss was determined but this was next level, bordering on complete denial. Well if Char was feeling even half the sensations Laura was, she’d succumb to this birth soon enough.

Laura needed to prepare for the imminent birth, her recent pushing was a sure sign the baby was close. Slowly, and whilst always holding on to something, the assistant rummaged through the drawers and cupboards in the lab. “Do we have anything we could use for clamps to cut the cord?” She asked aloud, not really expecting an answer from her disgruntled colleague. “Ah, this could work.”

She collected the equipment she’d need to clamp and cut the chord on her desk, and moved the towel on the floor with her feet again mopping up the new liquid that she’d trailed across the floor, not realizing she was still leaking. “I’m gonna go get some more towels.” Laura again spoke aloud but knew her boss had disappeared into her own world.

Laura barely made it to the doorway when another contraction struck, and damn they were close together. Her fingers gripped the wooden frame as her body sank downwards again, the pressure building and building between her legs. “Mnnnghhhhhhhh!!!” Laura grunted, muscles contracting and squeezing the large head further through the birth canal, to the point she could feel herself start to open slightly. “Nghhhhhhh the head…. I can feel it…” Laura mewled as she squatted.

Char listened to Laura’s preparations in the background, doing her best to tune out both Laura’s words and the feeling of a massive head lodged in her birth canal, stretching her from within. Her legs trembled, nearly buckled even without a contraction. She resented herself for pushing but knew from her last contraction that she wouldn’t be able to help from bearing down again. The urge to push, the pressure, it was blurring her vision, and her head pounded dizzyingly. A mantra repeated in her head: ‘Hold it in. Just hold it in a little longer.’ Her stomach felt like a hard stone weighing on her middle even without a contraction. She tried to focus, pulling herself into a chemical analysis of her own birthing fluids she’d swabbed from the towel.

Suddenly, she heard Laura’s loud grunting and her attention was drawn to the doorway to see her assistant bent and squatted, pushing hard into her trousers. She felt a tug of concern.

“Laura? Hun, you okay—?”

The head, she thought. Oh god, she’s still wearing her work trousers.

Before she could even take a single step towards Laura, she felt another contraction grip her. “Oooof,” she grunted deeply. Her knees began to give out and she was forced into a squat even as she tried to remain standing. Gripping the table for dear life, she groaned and growled. Don’t push, she thought. Don’t—

“Ohhhh.” The head shifted down. Her powerful internal muscles shoved it through. “OH—I’m—I-I’m pushinggggg, mmmmgh!”

Laura was consumed by the sensations thrumming through her entire body, it was as if something primal was happening to her - new and unfamiliar, completely out of her control, and yet her body seemed to know what to do. Her knees widened and she sunk deeper into the squat, opening her hips as much as she could. Leaning into the contraction, using it, Laura pushed the heavy weight down. It felt… productive. She knew it was what she should be doing.

The location wasn’t ideal, and she hoped she still had time to collect more towels and set up a more comfortable birthing area. But whilst the contraction raged, Laura submitted to it, letting it work her baby down, slipping further and further towards its exit.

Somewhere in the distance she heard her name being called. After a long push Laura gulped a breath and turned her head to see Char squatting at her desk and crying out that she was pushing. She would laugh if her body hadn’t forced her into another push.

They needed to get set up and quick, Char looked like she was suffering just as much as Laura was. When the contraction waned just a bit, Laura stopped pushing and somehow managed to haul her body back to standing. Char looked okay, well as she could given the situation, riding out a contraction and holding on to the sturdy frame of her workbench.

“I’m getting more towels, hang on Char!” Laura shouted, hoping her boss would hear over the groans Char was making.

Waddling ever so slowly, the head sitting right behind her lips, Laura went off to the cupboard to find more towels. They’d soon need them.

Another contraction struck mere minutes after the last while Laura was in the cupboard but she was not as successful this time in staying on her feet. The force of the contracting muscles and slashing pain splitting her open brought her to her knees. She clung on to the shelf in front of her, her heavy belly squished between widened thighs, and she pushed hard wailing with the effort. The head was peaking through, pushing apart her folds in her underwear. But her body was driving this journey, Laura was just the passenger. After a solid minute the contraction let up and when she released the push with a gasp, the baby slipped back into the birth canal. With a trembling hand she felt the fabric between her legs, she was definitely bulging, but the head wasn’t crowning just yet. She breathed deeply, gathering her strength before getting back on her feet. She needed to get back with the extra towels, not just so she could birth her baby there but so she could help Char. She’d need a friend and the support right now, and so could Laura.

As Laura submitted, pushing freely and loudly as though nothing else mattered in the world except getting her baby out and getting it out now, Char resisted her baby’s inevitable birth. Panicked, she gulped in a breath, trying to ease up on her furious pushing as she felt the head filling her opening thoroughly. It was beginning to bulge her, though her lips remained shut. The pressure and incredible sensation of the head sitting low at her opening, almost ready to exit, was almost too much to bear. She mooed deeply, from the back of her throat. Her belly tightened even harder than before, squeezing her like a vice and she couldn’t help but push again. The baby strained against her opening, and she could feel her most delicate area distending obscenely.

“Oh god!” She cried, throwing her head back as her thighs spread and she pushed again and again uncontrollably. The urge was undeniable. She was subject to her body and right now, it was telling her to birth her baby. Here, now, into her trousers. She felt helpless. Out of control.

“It’s coming,” she moaned. “Ohhh, it’s coming!” She knew this deeply, intuitively, with an age-old maternal instinct. She was ready to birth her baby. But she felt alone and vulnerable.

“Laura,” she gasped, couldn’t say much more than that. “Laura, oh god, it’s coming and I’m pushing! I need to hold it in! Just a little longer!”

She could hear Char’s wailing from the corridor, becoming fast apparent the lead technician was losing her fight against the inevitable. With one arm carrying a load of towels, the other hand pressed against the wall as she waddled heavily back to the office. On walking into the room she saw her friend and colleague in a deep squat, white-knuckling the work bench, chin to chest and pushing. Loudly.

“Oh Char, it’s okay hun.” Laura shut the door behind her and dropped the towels beside her friend. “You have to breathe as well as push darling.” She said as she staggered to her own workbench and grabbed the medical supplies she’d collected. With the baby playing peek-a-boo into her underwear, Laura knew their time was almost up.

Cumbersomely, Laura got down to her knees beside her boss, putting the clamps and scissors on the pile of towels. “Shhhhh it’s okay Char, don’t fight it. Use that contraction and push with the pain.” Laura rubbed a hand up and down Char’s back, trying her best to support and encourage through this.

Unfortunately with their labors progressing in tandem, Laura’s role as carer was snatched away when the next contraction tore its way across her midsection. Instinctively, without intending to, her body was pushing with the pain and she could feel the baby start to leak through again and stretch apart her lips. She went to all fours and rocked, sinking backwards towards her heels whenever she had to bear down.

“Mnnnnghhhhhhh! Come on baby….” She groaned before gasping another breath and pushing hard again. She didn’t care that she was still in her work clothes, or that she was on the floor of a laboratory that was covered with two lots of amniotic fluid, she was simply following her instincts and soon the baby stopped slipping back in and stayed, keeping her lips in a perfect oval shape.

“Ohhhh god… I think it’s starting to c-crownnnn….” The assistant managed to huff when the contraction eventually dulled.

Char’s belly refused to fully relax at this point, now constantly flexing with forceful surging contractions, but there were brief moments of respite where she could pause in her pushing and some awareness returned to her. Laura, she realized, was beginning to tent her pants with pushing, on all fours with her back arched and her hips shoved forward, trying to make as much room for the large crowning head as possible. She was pushing the head into her clothes, Char realized, bulging them ridiculously, and between her spread thighs more fluids dripped and leaked. At the same time she processed this she realized that her own clothes had never been discarded, but she made no effort to remove them in her precious few moments before her body would force her baby further out of her. Instead she clung onto the naive hope that she’d miraculously stumble upon a cure while crowning into her pants, feeling the head beginning to press up against her underwear and part her lips slightly. Laura, she could tell, had offered less resistance to her body and had made more progress in her pushing, the head sitting permanently, she calculated from the bulge in Laura’s pants, at around a half-crown or more.

“Hey,” she croaked hoarsely, barely able to manage anything but grunts with her clenching belly. “You—you need to get your pants down, hun. Head’s coming out.”

Painstakingly, she began to squat down, moaning as the head was pressed back slightly into her sensitive lips by the tension of her underwear. It felt so low, so full, she needed to open up, she needed to push, relieve the immense pressure, yet her friend, yes friend, not just assistant, needed her. As she squatted low, she hooked her fingers around Laura’s waistline.

“I need, urgh, I need you to get your legs together. Mmmm, we gotta get your pants off, ‘kay?”

She was surprised to see Char moving in her peripheral vision, but Laura could pay no mind, for this baby wanted out and it wanted out now.

“Grhhhhh!!! It’s coming out… mnghh!” Laura cried into the next push, bearing down and feeling the head stretch her wider and wider. Her hips were so full, her pelvis felt like it could snap, the pressure of this baby’s head - this large and heavy mass - *needed* to come out.

Char’s attempt to remove her trousers was fruitless, though the black fabric was stretchy and comfortable with the expanding of her stomach, it was not elasticated enough to be pulled over the wide angle of her legs. The baby sat so low, right at her entrance, stretching her entrance wide with the emerging crown. There was no way in hell she would be able to put her legs closer together.

Instead, she widened them further. “Hmngh! Can’t… baby… coming…I have to pushhhh-mnghhhh!” Laura’s face sunk towards the floor, dropping to her elbows and opening up her hips to the skies. It was coming out, she could feel it sliding slowly out of her into her stretchy clothing. All she could do was push…. Pant and push again.

Char watched in utter fascination as Laura pushed with total abandonment, entirely consumed with the baby coming out of her, every last thought focused on the overwhelming, intense, undeniable urge to push. The bulge in Laura’s pants grew, stretched her thinly and Char could scarcely believe that such a huge head could come from her, pass through such a narrow opening with so much force. She removed her fingers from Laura’s waistline, realizing the impossibility of such a task at this stage in Laura’s labor. She was pushing it out into her pants, and there was nothing Char could do about that except cup the growing bulge as it emerged from Laura’s opening into the straining fabric.

It was terrifying, watching Laura push without regard for anything else. As she felt a powerful contraction wrack her own reddened, exhausted belly, she knew there was no stopping this. She was giving birth and was about to push a baby out into her pants exactly as Laura was doing now. She growled fiercely, deep in her squat—the perfect position. Her knees jackknifed and she opened her hips as wide as they could go. Against her opening the fabric of her underwear arched with the coming head as she bore down immensely. Her face turned bright red with her hardest push yet.

“Oh GODDDD!” She bellowed. “It’s COMING, I’m pushing it OOUUUTTTT!”

Her lips parted, wider and wider, trembling and convulsing around the head as it burned and stretched her. She jerked, trying to escape the ring of fire and yet she couldn’t stop pushing for a minute. She was in the final stages now, and the only way the burn would stop was when she had pushed her baby into the world. Instinct took over completely. This was what her body needed her to do. This was what SHE needed to do.

Even though they were consumed with their own births, Laura found comfort that at least they were together through this. Each laboring woman was not alone.

But the strength required to birth these babies, who didn’t even exist 24 hours ago, would be down to the mother. Gasping for air Laura pushed again with everything she had, through the pressure and pain and the burning ring of fire that had her mouth open in a silent scream. The baby’s head had to be almost out by now, surely!?

Despite being beside each other Char’s bellowing voice seemed so far away to Laura. Nothing else registered beside the baby being born into her pants. She growled with another push and suddenly yelped when the head slipped fully out.

“Oh my god oh my god…” Laura muttered over and over and pushed herself back up on her knees. She scrambled at the waistband of her elasticated trousers and pulled them down to her knees along with her underwear. Her baby, she had to get to her baby, the maternal instinct cried in her head. With a trembling hand she felt the newly born baby’s head that was now wedged between her thighs. “Hi…. baby… oh my gosh you’ve got hair!” Laura was in shock, but also in awe of what her body had just done.

It was only after the head was born that Laura properly heard the cries of her friend. “Char…” she muttered and saw the other woman squatting and huffing, red-faced, chin to chest, with an obscene bulge protruding from her clothes between her wide legs.

“Oh my god Char! Your baby is coming out!”

Had Char any piece of mind she might have answered with her customary sarcasm: oh really? I wouldn’t have guessed. Instead, the only sound that emerged from her mouth was a long lowing wail that only deepened and became more guttural as the head filled her bottom so thoroughly, and it felt as though her pelvis was creaking open to allow the massive head through. She opened slowly, barely pausing to take a breath as she bore down without repose. Dimly, she was aware of Laura’s own baby dangling between her thighs, having pushed the huge head out, and with renewed efforts Char grunted the head further and further out. Her lips tautened and thinned, red with the stretch. The head reached a full crown and for a moment Char pushed and it didn’t move, solid mass wedged tightly in her opening. She gasped, scared for a moment that it was too big, that there was no way she could push something of this size out of her body.

Then she heard Laura cooing to the head between her legs, and something stirred within her. She realized that the dread she’d been facing was being replaced with something like motherhood, her body responding naturally, automatically, to Laura’s awe and wonder. Char realized that she wanted to meet this thing she had carried inside her for a mere twenty-four hours.

“C’mon BABYYYYY!” She shouted, bearing down furiously. Her lips slipped around the head, and then—with a splash of fluids and a grunt of relief, Char freed the head into her pants.

Laura watched in fascination as Char grunted the head further and further into her clothing, it was huge. Char had been fighting this throughout the entire pregnancy and in that moment Laura understood why some women balked so much away from birth. It was hard work. But then she saw a change in her friend, the way her eyebrows furrowed with determination, the slight readjustment of her hips as she took a breath; she was no longer fighting against her body and was readying herself to meet her child.

“You can do it Char, push!” Laura called as Char bore down. She wished she could move to support her friend physically but she was still mid-way through her own rapid birth to risk moving.

Tears begun to well in her eyes at the thought of their babies, the exhaustion of labor and the stress of the last 24 hours hammering her emotions.

By the time Char had birthed the head of her baby into her pants Laura was already feeling the pangs of the next contraction and the baby’s head turned slightly in the palm of her hand. “Oohhhhh… mhhh okay okay… you ready little one?” She panted, pulling in air through her nose, widening her legs apart to steady her balance and preparing herself to push again. Both hands were between her legs when the contraction really got going and all too soon she was pushing once more and felt the shoulders stretch apart her already sore lips.

With trembling fingers, Char reached down between her legs, feeling the hard slick roundness of the head she’d just pushed out between her legs. She gasped. The aftershocks of her contraction clutched at her belly.

“Oh… oh, my—that’s a baby. I just gave birth.”

The evidence was conclusive. But she could scarcely believe that she’d pushed an entire baby through her birth canal and out into her pants. The experience she’d just been through, the effort, the haze of contractions and the hard pushes as she focused on nothing but expelling her baby, and the intense sensations throughout her body. It was all unbelievable. Inching down the waistband of her trousers, Char struggled them to her shins and sank to her knees. She panted in disbelief, feeling instinctually that this was *right,* that this was what she was meant to be doing. Her identity had irreconcilably changed to that of a mother and as she caressed the head between her legs, she felt a rush of contentment. Char was a scientist, an expert in her field, but now it all paled in comparison.

She glanced up at Laura, seeing her shock and awe mirrored in her eyes as she lifted her baby from between her legs and rested it against her chest. Laura smiled exhaustedly at her.

Char began to pant as another contraction took hold.

“Ooh—“ she exclaimed. “You’re ready…. c’mon, you’re ready to be—UGH! BORN!”

Her baby slipped between her lips with a spray of fluids and immediately she sank to the floor, sighing in immense relief.

Laura fell silent with her final pushes, holding her breath as she bore down, the head filling her palm as the shoulders squeezed their way through. She gasped another breath and pushed with everything she had, this was it, she could feel it. Come on baby…

Once the shoulders were freed Laura wasn’t expecting the speed of which the baby slipped out and the hush of fluid that came with it. Catching the slippery newborn Laura gasped, relieved and shocked, and immediately brought the babe to her chest.

“Hey…. Oh my- hey baby.” She cooed, eyes welling with tears as she looked upon this little miracle that had grown in the last 24 hours. When the baby started to cry she instinctively rocked and hushed the infant “it’s okay… you’re okay.” She said, wiping the blood and fluid off the newborn's face.

Laura had barely caught her breath back when Char started pulling down her trousers and panted heavily, a baby’s head hanging between her open legs. A second later Char was mirroring Laura’s actions and pulling her own baby to her chest and sobbing with relief.

“You did it.” Laura said softly to her friend. “We did it. I can’t believe they’re real, we just had babies.”

The Spell might currently be a scientific mystery, but as the two women sat exhausted on the floor cradling their newborns, the research could wait. For now, the scientists were in awe of the new lives they’d just birthed.

#fpreg #clothing birth #birth denial #labor kink #birth kink #pregnant kink #inconvenient birth #birth fic #birth rp #rp with my forever writer on this site my one and only

1K notes · View notes

the-hexzone · 2 months ago

Text

Happy WIP Wednesday!

In honor of this special occasion and to show my appreciation for the many talented authors in our fandom, I’ve created a list of my favorite ongoing Arcane Jayvik fics as of April 2, 2025.

(Edit by @arcanegifs)

Post-Canon Stories

The Line is Covered in Jellyfish by Staroverlord (@yunuen)

Rated M | 6/10 Chapters | 65k+ words

Summary:

Jayce and Viktor survive the Hexcore, a blizzard, their own bodies, sharing a bed and all the things they’re too afraid to say. Slowly, they put themselves back together— piece by stubborn piece.

When Viktor finally asks why Jayce stayed behind inside the Anomaly with him, Jayce stares at him as though he’s supremely disappointed by the question— as if Viktor has betrayed his own brilliance by asking something so irredeemably stupid. “How could I not? We’re partners.”

Partners, Jayce calls them. Not for the first time, Viktor wonders: Partners in what?

Notes:

As much as I love the “Jayvik lands in a field of flowers” trope, I experienced a delightful level of schadenfreude when the arcane spat them out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere during a blizzard instead. Fighting to survive puts what transpired between them in the astral plane on hold, and everything left unsaid makes space for old insecurities and regrets that loom like the world’s biggest elephant in their one room dilapidated cabin. The resulting slowburn, wrought by avoidance warring with codependency and forced proximity, is exquisite torture for everyone involved—the readers especially. It’s also one of the funniest fics I’ve ever read.

***

motion on a circle by runesick (@runesick)

Rated M | 2/3 Chapters | 22k+ Words

Summary:

jayce and viktor make a vow to finish their work, together. the arcane has other plans.

(some exploration of whatever 'forever holding each other in the infinite embrace of the arcane' actually means)

Ekko’s face twists, looking around. From his expression, Viktor feels more confident that he didn’t somehow drop off while in transit. “Did we end up on a round-trip?”

“I… No, we would have noticed it coming to a stop,” Viktor says, his tone betraying his frustration too much to justify. He’s meant to be responsible here, responsible for himself and his student, regardless of their distance from campus. “Come, we have to try once more.”

“What happens if it doesn’t work?”

Viktor grimaces. “It will work.” He looks up at the ticket booth, cast-iron Piltie script molten into incomprehensible mud. “I’ll pay, c’mon.”

He hands his coins over and they smear with blood. Viktor checks his hands but there’s no cuts, no bleeding there. The cashier’s face twists, gold and ivory with no mouth to say ‘safe descent’ .

Notes:

I don’t think I’ve ever come across a piece of writing that perfectly captures the uncanny experience of dreams and nightmares in the way this fic does. The subtle terror of not-quite-right that grows, and grows, and GROWS as the narrative progresses is immensely compelling. I’m utterly thrilled by this darker interpretation of the infinite embrace of the arcane.

***

Dinner at Jericho’s by Avelera (@avelera)

Rated T | 4/6 Chapters | 14k+ Words

Summary:

It's been six years since the events of "Arcane", and Jayce and Viktor have spent those years traveling between dimensions on the Arcane's behalf, preventing the rise of Hextech. Now, they've finally been granted a break from their work and a chance to return to their home dimension to catch up with family and old friends. In which Jayce, Viktor, Caitlyn, and Vi go on a long-overdue double-date, and Viktor sees for the first time what happens when disaster duo Jayce & Vi are in the same room together.

“Oh no, I was afraid of this,” Caitlyn muttered.

Viktor frowned and glanced at her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know what it is, but whenever these two are together, their brains leak out their ears,” Caitlyn whispered. “I’ve found the best solution is just to clear a blast radius.”

Viktor stared. “Jayce? But… he’s a scientist, a man of reason!”

Caitlyn gave him a look. “Believe me, I know. But for some reason, none of that matters when these two are in a room together.”

Notes:

Our beloved characters are treated to a much needed night of light-hearted revelry after the events of Arcane put them through the ringer. Humorous fluff featuring bookstreet and their exasperated partners. Everyone is so happy and in love. This fic always puts a smile on my face.

***

Pygmalion by thats_a_secret (@twenty-qs)

Rated E | 7/? Chapters | 38k+ Words

Summary:

Jayce, in the Crucible. Viktor, in the Garden. And the Herald, in the worlds between.

They land in a field of flowers.

There is a version of the Herald who knows this place. Who has walked a thousand iterations of this field, in a thousand worlds and a thousand lifetimes. The same Herald who had carved that pattern into the blue crystal, knowing what it meant, knowing it would lead the keeper of his heart back to this place.

This Herald, the Herald of the right-here-and-now, knows only that he has found an unexpectedly soft landing.

Notes:

Beautifully written, dark, and bittersweet. The prose might as well be poetry. Each chapter is rich with detail in a way that every line feels like striking gold. It makes me want to grab a shovel and delve deeper. The narrative takes a shape not dissimilar from the wild rune—a web woven of poignant vignettes that offer kaleidoscopic views of the past, present, future, and spaces in between. I find somethig new with each re-read.

***

Capgras by wifidelis (@wi-fidelis)

Rated M | 10/? Chapters | 54k+ Words

Summary:

Jayce and Viktor are hurled out of the anomaly and dropped into the field where it all began. While it seems like the opportunity for a fresh start, Jayce's health rapidly begins to decline. In a desperate bid to save his partner, Viktor makes a series of shocking discoveries about Jayce's body and mental state... leading Viktor to believe that *his* Jayce is not what emerged from the Arcane with him.

Jayce, struggling with the effects of the Arcane on his mental state, also begins to wonder if he is himself anymore.

Through the haze, he finds Viktor, the sky folding to darkness and rippling into a multitude of stars behind him. Jayce begins to tremble in earnest, tears bending Viktor’s portrait amongst the cosmos.

“I didn’t fail you?” Jayce rasps.

“No,” Viktor breathes. “You succeeded.”

Notes:

A fic with all the painful, angsty details of what it means for Jayce and Viktor to survive the finale and return to physical forms. The ultimate sickfic. There is so much whump! Neither of them are okay, but Viktor is nonetheless foisted into the role of caretaker for a feverish, arcane-infected Jayce when they go on the run. I enjoy a lot of fics that heavily feature Viktor whump, but it’s really refreshing for Jayce to get a turn!

***

Canon!Universe AUs & What-Ifs

Progress Day by Avelera (@avelera)

Rated E | 2/4 Chapters | 11k+ Words

Summary:

It’s Progress Day, two years after Jayce and Viktor became partners, and the inaugural launch of the Hexgates is this year’s main attraction. Jayce and Viktor are the toast of the town and celebrating the best night of their lives when Viktor decides he’s ready to take the next step forward in their partnership.

Or: how to have the boy, how to lose him, and what happened after.

Viktor raised his glass towards the only person in the room who mattered. “There is, in truth, only one man to whom this night is owed. A man who… whose dream changed the course of my life forever. Jayce, if I had the chance to choose the path my life would take a thousand times over, I would always make the same choices that would have led me here, standing in this room with you tonight to make your dream a reality.”

Notes:

A canon compliant possibility of what Jayce and Viktor’s partnership entailed in the missing years between Act One and Act Two of the first season. The dramatic irony of impending heartbreak makes the present promise of intimacy all the more impactful.

***

Lies We Tell Ourselves by tenderwatches (@tenderwatches)

Rated E | 28/50 Chapters | 128k+

Summary:

In a city divided by power and wealth, Viktor returns to Piltover after years of exile—lungs failing and pride wounded—only to discover Jayce has rebuilt the very invention that drove them apart. As they reluctantly collaborate on synthetic Hextech crystals that promise revolutionary change, they uncover a dangerous connection between magic, ambition, and the toxic Gray choking Zaun's streets.

While rekindling their fractured partnership amidst scientific breakthroughs and political machinations, they confront the truths they've hidden from themselves and each other: desires long buried, sacrifices made in desperation, and the possibility that progress might come at too high a cost.

Some lies protect us, others destroy us—but the hardest lies to overcome are the ones we've been telling ourselves.

Four to nine months.

“Don’t let me run,” Viktor murmurs into the minuscule distance separating them, words barely audible once more. Jayce has to lean in to hear him, and he reinforces his gentle plea. “I… know myself. This will be difficult, and I will… try to retreat.”

Jayce kisses him again, softly, slowly, like he’s memorising the feeling. “I won’t,” he promises before he savours another kiss, letting their bodies come together again. Viktor fits against him as if he’s made for this space, somewhere between shaping the future and dreaming of possibility. When they part, he rests his forehead against Viktor’s, eyes closed. “Let me take you home.”

Notes:

A League of Legends/Arcane fusion. The Jayvik Divorce happens during the timeskip before they stabilize the crystals into gemstones. From there, dominoes topple one after the other, creating a world that is familiar yet also full of compelling story opportunities that went unexplored in canon. This is the reconciliation/slowburn fic to me.

***

Dress me in midnight, feast upon my bones by hexhomos (@hexhomos)

Rated E | 3/? Chapters | 34k+

Summary:

The rocket strikes through the heart. Reality collapses in less than five seconds.

Jayce rebuilds Viktor, little by little, piece by piece.

And if his partner comes back from the dead a little different, well... what's not to love? Jayce is a quick study. He can adjust himself into a suitable form. He pledged himself to this task a dozen years ago; he's in it for the long haul.

To put it bluntly: this is the one where Dr. Frankenstein runs away with his bride.

(Jayce follows Viktor down to the depths of Zaun, and amid the riots and war-banners, everything changes.)

He really thought they’d have more time. Jayce had assumed, no, believed, that all the accumulated years of sweat and labor would deliver him a reward of some kind. That the gods from realms above would smile kindly upon their accomplishments; that a miracle would happen. Viktor deserved as much. They were owed as much. (And in his heart of hearts, Jayce thought – I’d be buried in snow if it wasn’t for a miracle. I’ve seen it happen once. I’ve been saved once. It could happen again. I could repay my standing debt and make it happen one more time, just for him.)

Notes:

The gothic romance of it all is immaculate. This fic encapsulates the monstrous devotion of their partnership after Jayce revived Viktor with the Hexcore. They are both so unwell about each other. I’m eager to find out what happens next and dreading the consequences.

***

into perihelion by jasspurr (@jasspurr)

Rated E | 8/? Chapters | 48k+ Words

In which Viktor discovers that there is one thing worse than impulsively sleeping with your lab partner: doing it again.

And again. And again. And again.

Viktor knows that he needs to stop this. That he has exactly one chance left to stomp out the kindling before it takes flame and swallows him whole.

It should be so, so easy. All he has to do is walk away from the ledge.

But he can't. He can’t.

Notes:

This the second installment of basophobia, also known as Jayvik and Their Messy Situationship: The Series. The amount of pining and denial is off the charts! One might assume that sleeping together would remedy that—it doesn’t. It makes them worse. Exquisite emotional slow burn.

***

your teeth in my neck by b_o_i

Rated E | 22/23 Chapters | 201k+ Words

Summary:

In which Viktor is a sex worker, Jayce is one of his best clients, and they still manage to create hextech together. The rest is a little more complicated.

Councilor Jayce Talis is something of a running joke around here—the fact that he’s been coming here for years, since before he was anyone at all. A lot of the workers and regulars alike remember the stuttering academy student who stumbled his way in six years ago; the idea of that little asshole being a full-fledged councilor now is kind of hilarious. It’s also kind of infuriating, if you think about it too long.

Notes:

Over 200k+ words of plotty porn. This author is exceptional at writing emotional and physical intimacy. I always love when fics explore how certain changes to Viktor’s background might impact his political consciousness and core beliefs, and this story does exactly that. The evolution of Jayce and Viktor’s relationship from something transactional to partners of equal standing is a complicated, messy journey rife with political machinations and the growing social class disparities in Piltover and Zaun.

***

Alternate Timelines & Time Travel Fix-Its

In This New Skin by stillwatersounds

Rated M | 1/3 Chapters | 14k+ Words

Summary:

After the end of the world, Viktor and Jayce wake up back in the lab. Like none of it ever happened.

“We’re back,” Jayce is still saying, dulled behind the ringing in Viktor’s ears. “Before it all went wrong. Vik, this is incredible. Do you get what this means?”

It hits him slowly, bile rising in his stomach, what exactly it is Jayce is referring to. What it means for Viktor to be breathing. Inside his palms, he can still feel the stars ache.

Notes:

I’m obsessed with how this fic depicts Viktor struggling with his return to humanity and the difficult reality of second chances. This puts him at odds with Jayce’s ceaseless determination to fix things, and the resulting angst is marvelous.

***

Good Luck, Babe by Kosmos_Relic

Rated E | 23/? Chapters | 156k+ Words

Summary:

Post-Canon Fix it Timeline- Where Jayce can't let go how badly he messed up, Viktor needs a few reasons to break his cycle of withdrawing from others, and they both pretend they aren't the dumbest men in all of Piltover and Zaun combined.

He stares longingly at Viktor, the soft curve of hair around his ear, the twitch of his brow as he works through his confusion of Jayce knowing his name. But of course Jayce does. Knows his name. Knows how long he can sit before he's too stiff to walk. Knows his entire list of dreams to stop suffering of others- all of it blindsided because Jayce’s obsession with the arcane came and ruined everything good in him.

“How do you-”

“I’m sorry.” Jayce isn’t ashamed that his voice breaks, his body shaking with all the hurt of a different timeline, “I never meant- I only wanted to save you.”

Notes:

I love how the fandom took the idea of multiple timelines and ran with it! We have a feast of cakes, and this one is delectable. Post-canon Jayce winds up in a different timeline just as this world’s Viktor is about to seize his research and have him detained. Much to Viktor’s dismay, Jayce immediately abandons Hextech despite its clear potential. Jayce insists that they can help people and change the world through other means. This changes their partnership significantly, and a pre-timeskip passionate romance ensues. The two things I really enjoy about this fic are 1) the deviations between this timeline and Jayce’s native timeline that exist both in the periphery and main story and 2) a creative exploration of the arcane’s impact on Jayce and how it manifests.

***

Shake the Shadow by enby_chaos (@enby-chaos), ResidentHesitant (@crimewizards)

Rated T | 5/? Chapters | 26k+ Words

Summary:

After promising the old mage that he wouldn’t fail, Jayce is sent back to Piltover - ten minutes before his lab explodes. Knowing what he knows now, he can use that chance to change things - to stop his lab from exploding, yes, but to stop the hexcore's corruption before it can even start, too. With relationships to rebuild, a career to restart, and constant nightmares of the hexcorized world he barely escaped, Jayce has his work cut out for him.

Meanwhile, Vi wonders just how it is this Piltie knew her name.

“Sorry,” the topsider said, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s, uh– it’s been a weird day.”

“Yeah? Tell me about it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Powder finish her juice and hop off her barstool with a wave, going over to bother the lad with all the books. The topsider watched her go, his eyes following her to the fellow’s table and going wide when he saw the other student. He immediately busied himself with his drink. Vander laughed. “You know him?”

The topsider took a too-large gulp of his ale, gaze fixed on the counter.

“I, uh. I haven’t met him, yet.”

Notes:

My favorite part of this fic is its use of Outsider POV. As one might expect, fixing the world with time travel makes you act really fucking weird. Jayce is an anxiety-ridden mess. Viktor is intrigued.

***

No red roses on our graves by moondust88

Rated T | 13/35 Chapters | 54k+ Words

Summary:

The destruction of Hextech reverberates across every universe, but in this one, its collapse is absolute. Every fragment of its power detonates in a catastrophic chain reaction, and those caught too close to it pay the ultimate price. The Arcane stirs. Reality bends, fractures yawning open where once there was order. And through those cracks, two broken souls are torn from the wreckage of their own world and thrust into another.

Viktor and Jinx wake up in a city that already grieves them. Viktor learns that in the aftermath of the explosions Jayce was sentenced to lifetime in prison. Desperate to get his soulmate out against Piltover's verdict, he turns to the only person who could grant it: Silco.

Jinx survives against her will—again. She’s tired. Tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of being dragged back from the edge. But she believes she owes it to Silco (on account of the murdering and all) to make his dream of Independent Zaun come true.

Her mind lurched, trying to put together an explanation, any explanation, but the pieces didn’t fit. They weren’t even part of the same puzzle.

She had died. He had transcended. She had woken up here. And surprise, surprise, so had he.

Maybe she had finally lost it. Her grip on reality—shaky at the best of times—had finally, irreversibly, snapped. Maybe she had never left the wreckage. Maybe her body was still burning, buried in the ruins of her own making. Maybe she had never woken up at all.

Then—a breath. A tremor. A voice, hoarse, struggling through the weight of its own disbelief.

“This—” Viktor rasped, fingers trembling against the ground. “This can’t be.”

Notes:

Jayvik but also features a lot of Jinx and Silco, which I’m 100% here for. There is a bittersweet comfort that’s intrinsic to this premise, and reading it is like listening to sad songs just to feel something. Post-canon Jinx reuniting with this universe’s Silco, who is grieving the unexpected loss of his Jinx, broke my heart in two before stitching it back together. Then there is post-canon Viktor’s desperation to save a version of Jayce whose dreams have gone up in flames for a second time, taking this world’s Viktor along with them. I’m so, so excited for these parallel plots to intersect as Viktor turns against Piltover and aligns himself with Silco for Jayce’s sake.

***

Genre Swap AUs

Oathbreaker by queercatfam (@lesbianherald)

Rated E | 2/10 Chapters | 28k+

Summary:

When loyal Piltovian knight Jayce Talis gets severely injured in a fall, he's rushed to the infirmary and stripped of his duties. While recovering, he develops an infatuation with the Royal Apothecary in charge of his care, Viktor. He soon learns that Viktor has a dangerous secret, one that may test Jayce's loyalties to his friends, his family, and the very kingdom he's sworn to.

Jayce takes a few deep breaths. He focuses on Viktor’s eyes. Searches for something warm. Tangible. Human. That beautiful hand. He hopes and hopes and hopes Viktor will let him take it. Uses so much effort to reach out for it. He lets out a little sigh when Viktor does. He stares at Viktor’s hand in his own. He thinks of one of the first things he said to him.

“Do you…” his heart starts stuttering in this strange, unnatural rhythm. “Do you hold hands with - with all your patients or just your favorites?”

Notes:

Please, please, please read this masterpiece right now. The fantasy world building is incredible, and I’m absolutely loving the various ways canon elements have been adapted to this setting. The story’s conflict being rooted in magic and mages is such a lovely ode to the origin of Hextech.

***

Glory, Golden Boy by cazimiz (@cazimiz)

Rated E | 20/29 Chapters | 80k+ Words

Summary:

Zombie Apocalypse AU - Mostly everything starts the same and then everything goes to shit on Progress Day

And all that Jayce could hear was the sound of his own breathing and the roaring of blood in his ears.

He stood there, both hands on his hammer where one face of it was still stuck in the gore.

In the blue glow of Hextech, Jayce could almost tell himself that it wasn’t human.

Notes:

A terrifying, action-packed translation of canon into a zombie apocalypse story. The narrative is propelled by Jayce’s growing desperation to reunite with Viktor after the outbreak on Progress Day. I really enjoy that this fic brings zombies to Piltover and Zaun rather than placing the characters in an established zombie-ridden setting. The exploration of shifting politics and power struggles in Zaun and Piltover under these dire circumstances is fascinating. There is also plenty of badassery to go around among the ensemble cast.

***

Me [28M] with my roommate of 1 year [31M], I’m worried I might be homophobic towards him? by ivypool (@lesbianivypool)

Rated E | 12/13 Chapters | 85k+ Words

Summary:

The one where jayce can't figure out why he cares so much about the guys his new roommate brings home... and doesn't realize he's fallen in love until he's completely and totally fucked.

"So this whole roommate thing. I just wanted to ask, like… what are you looking for? Should I totally leave you alone?” (God, please say no.) “Should we just be, like, cordial coworkers?” (Please, please, please say no.) “Or do you want to be more like… friends?”

Viktor snorted. It was a sound Jayce was starting to crave. His heart squeezed.

“Yes, Jayce.” Viktor stood, leaning on his cane. “I think we should be friends."

Notes:

A fic where Jayce has a bisexual awakening without eating raw lizards at the bottom of a ravine and being tormented by hallucinations in the fire. This delightful Modern AU is based on that one viral Reddit post about that guy realizing he has gay feelings for his roommate. I can totally see Jayce authoring that post because he doesn’t realize he’s in love with Viktor. Also, special shout-out to Rio being a pet axolotl!

***

That’s all Folks!

#wip wednesday #jayvik #jayvik fanfic #jayvik fanfic rec #jayce talis #viktor arcane

108 notes · View notes

milliesfishes · 10 months ago

Note

Hi, lovie! I’ve been so obsessed with your blog and the way you write Coryo 🤌 I was wondering if I could request like an arranged marriage trope with Coryo and reader where their in an arranged marriage and Coryo is kind of stoic and hasn’t shown any particular interest in his wife but at a gala someone tries to flirt with her and gets touchy with her and Coryo is like “get your hands off my wife” and it ends with Coryo confessing that he’s actually fallen for his wife :3 you don’t have to write it if seems too much! But keep up your good work 💕❤️

thank you bb!! <3

𝜗𝜚𐙚coriolanus sees someone flirting with his wife𝜗𝜚 ࣪𐙚 fem reader x coriolanus snow

Every day Coriolanus laid his eyes upon you was another day you were forced to count yourself as lucky.

Though you wore his ring on your finger, he was your ghost, barely occupying the corners of your life. You felt like a shadow in the halls of his mansion, a fixture no better than the paintings on the walls.

It was lonely there, stuck like a jewel in his crown, arm decor only useful for appearances. The worst part was almost that nothing was truly wrong. You were fed and dressed well, your cage gilded. It wasn't a house of horrors; it was a house of honors. You were perched at the highest position in the land, the queen to his king, the flower to his thorn.

So it made you feel all the more guilty when you had even a single thought of complaint.

The truth was, even though you were practically sold into marriage, you had hoped for a better outcome. In your childhood you'd dreamt of a tall, handsome man to sweep you off your feet and kiss you senseless. Instead you got a man who, while tall and handsome, barely bid you goodnight as he shut the door to his separate bedroom.

More hurtful then all the rest of it was how much you'd wanted to know him. You could see there was a truth of him underneath the shell he hid himself in. For months now you'd attempted to engage him in conversation as you sat with him at dinner, or passed him in the hallway. On good days you'd receive a response and a smile. On bad days a simple, "Pardon me, darling. Busy day."

Now as you were sitting at your vanity, supposedly getting ready for a gala, all you could see in your reflection was disappointment. The gown you wore was beautiful, your hair perfect. All in all, you would say you looked pretty. But what was the use if he didn't care?

All your life you'd been prepared to cater to a husband but Coriolanus didn't allow himself to be catered to. He was stoic and unmoving, a rock in the sea of the Capitol.

Your heels clicked on the marble floor as you headed downstairs, only half smiling when he obligatorily told you how beautiful you were. Of course he was perfect, in a red suit that matched your dress to a T. It was infuriating how perfect you looked together.

Before you could turn and head to the car, he stopped you, taking your wrist. Of course. You'd forgotten. He pulled a white rose from nowhere, snapping the stem and tucking it into your hair. The one fastened to his suit jacket was the same hue. Infuriating.

Entering the gala, you plastered on a bright smile, greeting all those who approached you with sweet words. It was a part you played, and you did it well, clinging to your husband's arm and pressing a dutiful kiss to his cheek, trying not to seem so eager to touch him. He smiled at the gesture and for a brief moment you could have sworn there was a flicker of something real in his gaze.

Separating, the two of you made your rounds individually, playing ambassador to all you met. It was your position as First Lady to make him look good. A woman's touch did wonders in politics.

It had hurt you the first few times this happened, as you were dismayed that he wanted to spend more of the party without you than with. Even now after you should have been used to it, your heart gave a little pang as he separated from you.

Finishing speaking with the wife of a senator, you took in a breath, going to find champagne. It was that hour of the night when Coriolanus would expect you back at his side, and you needed a drink before donning the mask again.

Before you could take a flute off a nearby waiter's tray, however, a man's arm grasped your elbow. You turned your head to see the husband of the woman with whom you'd just been conversing, a prominent senator who happened to work closer with Coriolanus than most.

Giving him a polite smile, you greeted him. "Good evening."

"You look ravishing tonight," he said in an inappropriate tone, not shy about looking your body fully up and down.

"Thank...you..." you said hesitantly, unsure if that had really even happened. When your brain caught up, you stood up straighter. "Excuse me."

"Come on, can'tcha have a little fun?" he slurred, and you could smell the alcohol on his breath. "There's hardly anyone around."

It was true, the two of you were backed into a little corner and nobody seemed to be watching. You drew back form the senator, trying to pull your arm away. "I really must be going-"

"You bitch," he spat, wrenching you closer. "Askin' for it...in that tight dress...I could just..." his free hand reached around and he pinched your ass, making you gasp-

"Hands off my wife senator."

Both your heads turned to see Coriolanus standing there, arms folded, figure imposing. A wave of relief crashed over you, and you pulled yourself free, finally, heart racing. The moment played in your head over and over, and your chest heaved, your soul spiraling for comfort.

Without thinking, you ran to your husband, your only lifeline, arms coming around his middle, face buried into his shoulder. Expecting him to push you away, you were shocked when his arms slid around you, hand holding the back of your head. Your senses were muffled, and you felt a vibration in his chest as he spoke, numb to make out the words.

Before you knew it, you were swept away, coming to in the hallway outside the party. He held you to him until you started to draw back, but even then he kept his arms loosely twined around you.

In a low voice, he questioned, "Are you alright, darling?"

You breathed in softly, finally somewhat back to normal. "Yes."

"That...bastard," he bit, turning his head to look at the door. Sounds of the party slipped past the lightened crack and echoed in the hallway. "Who does he think he is, putting his hands on you like that?"

"I was scared," you murmured, instantly regretting it. You'd never shown even a modicum of emotion around him other than a picture of the contented wife.

Coriolanus surprised you once more, pulling you back into his arms and burying a kiss in your hair and your heart fluttered. "Of course you were, darling. I'm so sorry." He smoothed your hair, hand lingering there. "I'll keep a closer eye on you from now on. And he'll be taken care of, naturally."

You ignored the purposeful ambiguity of the last statement, instead focusing on the first. "You...care?"

He chuckled lightly, adjusting the rose in your hair. "Of course. You're my wife. Besides that, you're a sweetheart. I wouldn't have chosen you if I didn't care."

Now you were confused. "But..." you inhaled softly, the vulnerability of the situation seeming to open you up. "You never speak to me. Or acknowledge me except for..." you gestured vaguely to the party still roaring on inside.

Coriolanus' expression grew solemn. He nodded once. "I apologize for that."

You could only breathe a single word, chin tilted up to look at him. "Why?"

The two of you stared at each other for a moment. His icy blue eyes seemed to have melted into pools of ambiguity. You had nearly given up on understanding him, your expression growing somber, when something seemed to soften in him.

He inhaled and exhaled softly, seemingly studying your face. "I...the first time I met you. You remember, of course?"

Nodding, you waited for him to go on. Coriolanus thumbed your cheek softly. "You were...beautiful. And sweet. And charming and everything I had wanted in a partner. But..."

"But what?" you asked, unable to help the panic seeping into your voice.

There was a beat of silence. And then he breathed. "You were perfect. And I knew I wasn't."

The only sounds now were coming from the party. You could feel your heartbeat in your ears. President Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the country, was scared he wasn't good enough for you?"

Slightly shaking your head, you whispered, "That's why you've kept your distance?"

"You...captivated me. From our first meeting," he said quietly, and you felt out of sorts watching him confess. Caressing your cheek, he asked, "Why else would I give you my roses to wear?"

Automatically your hand reached up to touch the pale flower, realization dawning over you. He hadn't been trying to be cruel. Not at all.

"I've done things that nobody should ever do," he said firmly, a stark contrast to the gentle way he touched your cheek. "But you...you sway the complete opposite direction from all of it. I told myself I would not let it ruin you."

"Coriolanus," you sighed softly, leaning back into him. Your arms found their way around him again. "Oh..." Looking up at him still nestled in his arms, you whispered, "I don't care about what you've done. All I ever wanted was to fall in love with you."

It was almost like he didn't believe it was real. There was a beat and then he was holding you tightly to him, a fierce but gentle determination in his touch. Your heart warmed and your mind eased. You were getting a real husband after all.

"My sweetheart," he murmured, leaning in and nudging his nose to yours. "You can have whatever you want, you know that?"

You reached up to kiss him in response, and he returned the favor, lips moving like they were starving, like they'd been yearning for a taste of you since creation. His kiss was possessive, and you didn't mind one bit.

The rose in your hair began to slip and he caught it, smoothing the stem back into your hair as he slotted his lips over yours.

Finally, he had swept you off your feet.

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sometimesanalice · 9 months ago

Note

A prompt party, Alexa? How in the world did I miss that? I'd be over the moon if you could write a little something for Bradley + "i’m gonna marry you one day." 🪩 ✨

Rebecca! Now you know I’m always down to write a little something for a smitten Bradley! I hope you enjoy!

It was a surprisingly quiet night at the Hard Deck.

You could actually hear the music playing out of Penny's old juke box, rather than just the faint essence of notes for whatever oldie was queued up over the usual rowdy ruckus. And there were more empty chairs scattered about than there were taken ones.

It was one of the rare rainy days they got in San Diego. The gray skies and drizzle driving even the best of Uncle Sam's finest under blankets and curled up on couches.

Bradley always liked the moody weather. He liked the way the clouds seemed to cling to the coastline. He liked the rough rolling waves as they broke against the shore with more force than they usually did.

But he wasn't look out the bank of windows out towards the beach, in fact, he had his back turned to it.

Because he was looking at you.

Bradley had been trying to ask you out for the better part of two months now. And he was starting to think that you were giving him the runaround.

He'd learned that first evening that you were only filling in as a favor to Penny- she and your mom went way back as sorority sisters- for a few months as Jimmy recovered from his knee replacement surgery.

Under normal circumstances, he’d take the hint and move on. And even if his mom hadn’t raised him right- which she had- Rooster knew that just because someone was nice didn’t mean they were interested. Especially when it was their job.

But he couldn’t kick the feeling that there was something there.

All he needed was one date to prove it.

It was more than the way you always seemed to catch him looking, because you were looking right back. Or the way you’d slip him a free drink every now and then, saying it was on the house. Or the way you found a way to brush past him a little too close whenever you'd swing by with more peanuts for Bob or a fresh round of drinks for his friends.

You were so damn smart and funny as hell. He’d taken to spending less time on his ESPN app and more time on the NYT trying to find interesting topics to get to spend a extra few minutes with you. Nothing felt better than earning a smile from you.

But any time he got close to asking you out or asking for your number, you were pulled away by something or another. The sound of broken glass. A pointed throat clearing from a thirsty patron. An emergency trip to the storage closet.

Rain was good luck in some places, and Bradley needed all the luck he could get. It hadn’t been on his side in the past two month, but tonight was his night. He was sure of it.

Especially considering he was the only person seated at the bar.

You'd been popping out and checking on people, delivering refills personally to the few people who had braved the elements instead of having them come up to the bar.

Rooster was patient, he didn't mind waiting his turn. After all, he had a shiny new NYT subscription to keep him company.

He smiles to himself when you work your way back to the bar, grabbing the bowl of limes and a cutting board, and setting up right in front of him. He watches as you deftly slice and quarter the limes into wedges, their bright scent clinging in the air.

“Why does it feel like I’ve seen less of you tonight than I do when this place is packed?” Bradley asks, saving the article he was midway through before closing out of the app completely.

“I’m just a one woman show here tonight, I told Penny to stay home." You're tidy and efficient in the way you store the prepped wedges and work to clean up the already immaculate bar. "It's means a bit more running around for me. But I don't mind, I like to keep busy."

"So I've noticed."

You look up at him from under your lashes, as you wipe down the prep space. "Have you been keeping tabs on me, Rooster?"

"Now I know you're teasing me." He sets his phone down and levels a look at you. "Because we both know you catch me looking often enough to know the answer to that."

You press your lips together, but the corners curl up anyways.

"Oh, Bradley," you say with a soft sigh. "Bradley, Bradley, Bradley..."

And then your eyes drop purposefully down.

The two of you stare at his phone sitting on the shiny bar top.

"You wouldn't," he rasps.

"I think I'm legally obligated to. There's a very official wood sign and everything." You look the picture of innocence, but you don't fool him.

"Sweetheart, c'mon."

"Are you asking me to bend the rules for you? Just because Penny isn't here?" You tsk, with a self-satisfied smile. "And here I thought you were a Boy Scout."

Bradley just shakes his head amused as you sashay up to the bell and give it a loud, long ring. A couple whoops go up in response, but no one gets up. Yet.

You walk back towards him with an all too pleased smile.

"I think you enjoyed that."

You smile wider and don't deny it. "I can't lie, it is a fun perk of the job."

He sighs. "And here I thought we had something special."

"Stop that, you're too pretty to pout," you tease. "You gave me no choice. I don't make the rules, I just follow them. And as much as I love Penny, I have a healthy dose of-"

"-fear-"

You smirk. "I was going to say respect. But also you're not wrong."

"And what about me?" he asks, sitting up straighter on his stool. "What are your impressions of me?"

"Oh you?" You tilt your head to the side, letting your gaze linger on his face as you muse. "You look like trouble."

"Do I now?"

"Mmhm. I thought it from the moment I saw you strut through that door." You say it like you're letting him in on a secret. "And there’s something you should probably know about me."

He leans in closer. "And what's that?"

You mirror him, leaning in as well and resting your elbows on the counter. Your face is just inches from his. “I’m really good at getting into trouble.”

He grins. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

You tip your head back and laugh, it’s the best sound he thinks he’s ever heard.

“That’s a bold statement from the man who still has yet to ask me out on a date.”

He opens his mouth, to do just that, after months of failed attempts. And then another one of the patrons saddles up to the bar, waving you down for your attention.

Rooster groans.

"Alas, it appears I have another gentleman caller," you sing, reaching for the towel and waving it like a handkerchief in his direction. "Guess I'll be seeing you around, Bradley. Maybe at the end of an aisle, who knows, the night is young."

The smile you give him promises that this conversation isn't over yet.

You spin away from him and don’t give him a second glance as you head over towards the thirsty man whose beer is going on his tab, but there’s a sway in your hips that wasn’t there before.

And Bradley thinks to himself, this is going to be fun.

#it's a prompt party 🪩#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x you #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fanfiction #bradley rooster bradshaw x you #bradley rooster bradshaw x female reader #bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw imagine

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buckysouvenir · 4 months ago

Text

between the lines (chapter 1)

pairing: bucky barnes x reader. warnings: none. word count: 717 words. author’s note: hey guys! starting a new series. i'm so happy i found inspiration again! happy to go into this new story with you. i already have about 7 chapters that are already written, so i think i'll be posting one every day!

reblogs, likes and comments are always encouraged and highly appreciated! thank you ♡

bucky barnes masterlist⠀ |⠀ series masterlist⠀ |⠀ next chapter

The first time Y/N met Bucky Barnes, she was running late. In her defense, it wasn’t entirely her fault. The printer in the communications office had decided to throw a tantrum, spitting out page after page of half-printed mission briefs. She’d spent fifteen minutes wrestling with it, finally managing to salvage what she needed, but at the cost of being almost ten minutes behind schedule.

Clutching the papers to her chest, Y/N dashed down the hallways of the S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, sneakers squeaking against the polished floors. She rounded a corner sharply, narrowly dodging an agent holding a coffee cup, and headed straight for the debriefing room. Director Fury himself had asked for these files, and she wasn’t about to let a malfunctioning printer ruin her streak of reliability.

But in her haste, she didn’t notice the man stepping out of the adjacent corridor until it was too late.

She collided with what felt like a brick wall. The stack of papers flew from her hands, scattering across the floor in a chaotic mess. Stumbling back, Y/N caught herself against the wall and looked up—and up—to meet the startled blue eyes of none other than Bucky Barnes.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she blurted, immediately crouching down to gather the scattered papers. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stood there, stiff and uncertain, like someone who wasn’t used to being bumped into. His long hair was tucked behind his ears, and he wore a black hoodie and jeans that somehow made him look even taller and broader. His metal hand twitched at his side, the sunlight streaming through the windows catching on its polished surface.

“I… yeah, I’m fine,” he said finally, his voice low and slightly raspy. Then, as though realizing he should probably help, he crouched down to assist her with the papers. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Y/N said quickly, though her heart was racing. Partly from the collision, and partly because… well, she’d just run into Bucky Barnes. The Bucky Barnes. The man who’d once been the Winter Soldier and was now supposedly trying to rebuild his life. She’d heard whispers around the facility that he was there for rehabilitation, but she hadn’t expected to actually see him, let alone crash into him.

He handed her a few papers, his metal fingers surprisingly gentle as they brushed against hers. She tried not to stare, but it was hard not to when he was right there, all sharp angles and quiet intensity.

“Thanks,” she said, standing up and clutching the papers tightly to her chest. “And sorry again. I was in a hurry, and I… well, clearly, I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, his lips twitching into a small, almost shy smile. “I’ve had worse.”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at that, though she immediately felt bad. “Right. Of course. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” he said again, and this time, his smile was a little more genuine. There was a moment of silence, awkward but not entirely unpleasant, before he added, “You… work here?”

“I do,” she said, nodding. “Communications team. I manage how information flows within S.H.I.E.L.D. and sometimes outside of it.” She gestured to the papers in her arms. “Which I should probably get to Director Fury before he starts wondering if I got lost.”

He nodded, stepping aside to let her pass. “Right. Don’t let me keep you.”

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then offered him a small smile. “It was nice meeting you, Bucky.”

His expression flickered, as though he wasn’t quite used to hearing his name spoken so casually. But then he nodded, his blue eyes softening just a little. “You too…”

“Y/N,” she supplied.

“You too, Y/N.”

With that, she turned and hurried off down the hallway, her heart still racing for reasons that had nothing to do with being late. As she disappeared around the corner, Bucky stood there for a moment, staring after her. Then, with a quiet shake of his head and a faint smile, he continued on his way, feeling just a little less out of place than he had before.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #between the lines

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muffinsin · 1 year ago

Note

hiii,, could you possibly write something for how the G!P Dimi sisters would react to their female s/o wanting to cockwarm them while they sleep?

like how they’d initially react to the question then how they’d act while they sleep in that situation?

Hi hon! :) This feels vaguely familiar👀; I think I’ve done HCs like these at one point, but I can’t remember whether this is true or not!🙌

Masterlists

Bela

She is- for the lack of a better word- less of a horndog than her sisters

Less fuelled by sexual tension and arousal at nearly all times of the day, she actually isn’t the one to bring up cockwarming at night

She’s rather surprised when you bring up that term the first time, even

Never has she heard of such a thing, though she chuckles at the name

Quite fitting, indeed, as she thinks of your warm, wet walls wrapped around her

Keeping her warm, indeed

Due to her lack of knowledge as it comes to this, she probably wouldn’t have been able to ask for it, as she had no idea it was even a thing

When you approach her about it, she agrees

She sees no harm in it, though no gain, either

However, the first time the two of you try it out, she senses the appeal of it nearly instantly

And really? It turns out it’s less of a sexual thing between the two of you and rather a gesture of comfort and affection

Not that she doesn’t relish the sounds of your whimpers when made to cockwarm her while she works, of course~

A rare game the two of you indulge in when her work is not all that important and piling up

The first time the two of you indulge in cockwarming, is when you’re both on her bed, her body laid on top of yours, her chest rising slightly with every breath she takes

You were both spent, your bodies tired after countless orgasms

As she musters up the strength to move, she is ready to continue the small routine you’ve set up after sex

When she is about to slip out of you though, your legs lock around her. A single plea falls from your lips

“Don’t. Stay in”

She, of course, grants you this

How could she not, after all?

The warmth, the softness, the comfort, the love, how can she not indulge in this?

The warmth shared between the two of you is comforting, loving

The two of you find this immensely enjoyable, instantly

And these days, you often opt for cuddles while she is still buried in you, and neither of you would have it any other way

She only slips out when in a rush, otherwise often tries to stay in for as long as possible, until the two of you are satisfied or grow bored of laying about

Then, though, a new variant of this is brought up and tried by the two of you: cockwarming while being asleep

This time again, you are the one asking her about it

While initially being surprised when you ask her out of the blue, she accepts your proposal again

After all, she might end up liking it a lot. And she has nothing to lose at all. She enjoys experimenting with you

Like during cuddle sessions, you two like to cockwarm right after sex, when you exhaust yourself and are ready to cuddle up and sleep

Often, you have a round or two before bed

Sometimes just for the fun of it, other times to help her release tension after her long day

Whatever the reason, you both enjoy it immensely, and it helps both of you relieve some stress

And after, when you’re both sufficiently tired out, she merely doesn’t slip out

Instead she pushes herself back inside fully, a breathy sigh passing plump lips, moans and shivers serving as your reaction

She pulls the blanket covers over the two of you and wraps her arms around you

Together, you sleep safe and sound, warm from the inside and outside

You enjoy the feeling of her inside of you

In a way, it helps you feel her as close as she can be. No clothing separating you, either

You feel her fully inside, filling you to the brim

And it’s a wonderful feeling

Bela, on the other hand, feels incredibly comfortable

Warmth surrounding her, your soft pussy essentially cupping her pulsing, sensitive cock; is there anything better on this earth? She wouldn’t bet on it

In the morning, it’s not uncommon for at least one of you to be in the mood again due to her position inside of you

So really; your mornings start out just perfectly ;)

Cassandra

Cockwarming- Cassandra is certainly familiar with the subject and practice of it

Alas, she doesn’t understand the appeal of it most of the time

Sure, she will stay inside of you for a few extra minutes sometime, but she’s by far more interested in moving than staying still

When you bring up the idea of cockwarming her as she sleeps, she still doesn’t understand

Why do such a thing? Especially so when she’s asleep?

Despite her confusion, she grants you your request. Why not, after all?

So, the next time you’re intimate together, she opts for staying inside of you instead

Only that she doesn’t feel tired, as she realises moments after

Instead, she goes on about her hunt again, fuelled by the energy you gave to her

You don’t mind, though. The more she exhausts herself, the sooner she will be tired, you figure

And she is, so that you smile to yourself when your lover falls onto the bed, right next to you

With her face smudged against pillows, you barely make out her muffled groans and hums

You try not to let your mind wander, really

You try to make it less obvious how badly you want her, how badly you want to try this with her

Alas, you fail at both, and she snickers tiredly to herself, mumbling something about how wet you must be, and that you smell strongly of arousal

Your cheeks burn, and again, she giggles to herself

Then, however, it’s her turn to gasp and feel flustered, when your wandering hands find the hem of her dress and pull it up quickly

Her head lifts from the pillows when you tug down her underwear in one go

Now it’s you who smells her arousal and sees her clear as day

Your eyes immediately find the swell of her thick ass, the curves and roundness of her cheeks, the pale, surprisingly soft skin

Then, strong thighs, a mix of thickness and strength

And between them, laid upon the bed, her cock

You lick your lips. Yes, you never grow tired of this sight

She shrieks when you push her head back down on the covers. She knows the silent request, perhaps even a command, given to her

She is to sleep, safe and sound, to give you all control you want in this moment, to do as you wish

And she knows fully well what that is, too

You wait for a little, scratch her back and scalp lovingly as you notice her eyes get heavier, her posture relax and her body melt against the bed

She becomes more and more tired, until, at last, her eyes slip shut

After a few minutes, you get to work, and as you undress as well, you find your arousal and excitement growing

Cassandra, ever the heavy sleeper, doesn’t awaken when you move her, when you undress her fully and turn her on her back, even when you spread her legs

And, to your slight surprise, she doesn’t even wake up when your warm fingers wrap around her thick cock

She stirs, then moans, when you allow some of your spit to drool down to her tip

And, using spit and your own wetness, it’s easy to slip her inside of you

She doesn’t awaken all night, sleeps through it all, though both of you feel the effects of your activity

You get more and more desperate to get off, more and more eager to have her cock move in and out of you

Cassandra moans more and more in her sleep, too

And even when you eventually fall asleep, these effects persist

This way, you awaken to a nearly brutally paced pounding, her hard, aching dick shoved deep inside of you and hitting the back of your womb with every thrust

She’s desperate, horny, feral, more than you’ve ever seen her

And you don’t mind in the slightest

Instead, you allow yourself to bask in the pleasure she gives you with every little move, as well as the slight pain caused by the thickness of her cock

You smirk to yourself, hours after

You should do this more often

Daniela

Many believe Daniela is irresistible. A siren, a seductress, a beautiful devil

They’re not entirely wrong

After all, you feel pulled in by her in every moment. You feel, and want, her. She seduces you effortlessly

And when you do take her? Ah, what a sweet reward awaits you then

Her little whimpers, her moans, her gasps and groans when you toy with her cock

Daniela is tempting you, always. But, recently so, you’ve been especially curious about trying out a new- to the two of you- type of cockwarming

While she is certainly familiar with it, this version of it will be new for both of you

When you bring it up, she immediately whines pitifully. You smirk back at her

Yes, she remembers, good

She remembers the countless times cockwarming was used as a punishment for her brattiness, when she was granted only what you gave her, when she could not even thrust into you, but was made to stay still and feel you around her for hours at a time, often

You coo at the sight

Again, you ask her what she thinks of the idea

And while she speaks of punishments and how unfair this and that is, how badly she wants to thrust into you in such times, her body is revealing an entirely more telling story

You smirk. You no longer listen to her words, only watch as her dress bulges. The poor thing is unable to hide how much the thought excites her

Daniela gasps when you reach out and cup her through her clothing

With her face bright pink, you see that you’ve won

She accepts your request eagerly, the last bits of her patience and whining gone

You knew she’d agree, really, ever the experimentalist in bed. Still, her vocal agreement to this means a lot to you

You start immediately the night after

To toy with her all day long, make her cum over and over again, more often than your precious little brat can handle

But, it works well

You successfully tire her out until the evening, so that her heavy eyes slip close practically the moment she hits the comfortable mattress

You coo; both of you know you are far from done

She blushes sweetly as you undress her. First, her perky breasts and sensitive nipples are revealed to you. She gasps when you tug and twist them lightly, and you giggle to yourself when it causes her leaking cock to twitch against the panties restraining it

Of course, these must go, too

She squeaks in surprise when you turn her around, when you fondle her full ass. Cute dimples, hips dips, round cheeks and soft skin greet you

As you turn her and pull down her panties, Daniela moans tiredly

Her eyes can barely stay open

Then, you chuckle again. You feel her twitching, yet see she is about to pass out and fall into a deep slumber

The last thing she sees is your fingertip sliding across her tip and your hand cupping her balls

You smile eagerly just as her breath evens and she sleeps at last

She’s even more precious this way, you feel

It takes practically nothing to slip her inside of you, with her tip leaking and her cock covered in your wetness from your pussy

When you do, she moans and whimpers in her sleep again

She gasps and groans, moans and whines even as she’s fast asleep

In time, this all only increases

She moans louder the longer she’s in you, squirms even

You feel her leak, feel her throb and ache within you

When you begin teasing her breasts and sucking at her neck, the poor thing whimpers and moans softly, so much so you’re certain you can bring her to an orgasm while asleep

But, you don’t grant her this

You want her to cockwarm, want to feel her sore and sensitive cock in you, want to reward her for this in the morning

And so you do, when she wakes up begging, pleading, whimpering for sweet release

And really? You could almost pity her, when tears fall down her soft, deep pink cheeks as a result of her overwhelming orgasm, when her cheeks burn, when she is too shy to meet your eyes even because she cums within a few minutes of having you touch her

Of course, when she is in such a sensitive and needy state, you’re more than eager to drag more from her

You learn; cockwarming throughout the night really pumps up her sensitivity levels to a maximum

You smile as you memorise this

#cassandra dimitrescu #bela dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu

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sordidmusings · 7 months ago

Text

WIP Tuesday - Crochet Projects

And now instead of some writing WIPs, here’s some of the WIPS that have truly been Haunting Me - crochet projects for some moots that I just wanna get done but brain is like yOU'RE NOT READY TO MAKE IT PERFECT 💀💀💀

Little Bepo

We got us here a Bepo I’ve been designing myself because I did that AuDHD thing where you’re like “I have succeeded in this task Once so now I can do whatever I want” 🤡 first time he came out as a whole tube, which tbh is prime for huggin but he doesn’t look like I want cuz I want it based off of this image

Just look at him and his tube brother lol

He is still much too round for it but I think the third iteration I can actually have a proper pattern to post so people can make their own! Also peep his little badge

Now for Black Swan Cora!

This mf was going so fast cuz I was working off of a pattern but then I decided to ✨get creative✨ and making wings out of hearts is not being an easy breezy beautiful task 💀 so right now he’s a little blind and flightless lol at least he’s got a pretty little skirt 🤷🏼‍♀️ (he also has the inevitable dog hairs that I will def try to get out before sending but damn if they don’t just magically appear on everything - I blame Gandalf for being a snuggle bug and demanding that we must cuddle even when I’m crafting lol)

#WIP #my wips #fandom crochet #crochet #amigurumi #crocheting #plushies #bepo #donquixote corazon

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schrijverr · 1 year ago

Text

How to Survive Gotham as a Goon

Late one evening, a goon is there to witness his boss – Red Hood – shoot at Robin. Which means he goes through the five stages of grief as he imagines all the ways Batman will skin them, trying to get Red Hood to stop before it’s too late, which only leaves him with more questions.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: references to violence & gun shots

~~~~

Joseph does not want to die. He especially does not want to die at the hands of Batman. It might seem unlikely that that will ever happen, even if Joseph is a henchman, however watching his boss whip out a gun to shoot at Robin, he knows it might only be a matter of time.

It’s kind of the unspoken rule of the goon and henchpeople underworld to not hurt the kid in a way that’s permanent. While the big villains don’t keep to that rule, Joseph had hoped that Red Hood, with all his rules surrounding children, would be different.

However, all that hope is snuffed out when the two of them are taking a smoke break and Hood spots the kid on a warehouse across from their own.

Joseph is immediately on guard as he goes to scan around for the Batman, despite knowing it’s quite useless. But Hood stiffens in anger and screams: “You!” as points at Robin.

The giggle Robin lets out is heard easily as it echoes across the yard. It sends shivers down Joseph’s spine. He knows Robin is just a kid, but all goons and henchpeople have learned to fear the sound of that laugh and it isn’t any less intimidating when he can see the kid giving them a jaunty wave.

Hood’s street instincts must be broken, though, because he doesn’t do any of the things you’re supposed to, instead scrambling for his gun. Joseph is so in shock that he doesn’t even stop him when the first few shots ring out.

Across from them, Robin back flips away from where he was just sat, thankfully not getting hit by any of the bullets.

Robin starts to run and Hood follows him with a spray of bullets, yeering loudly: “Yeah, fucker, ya better run! Ya better fuckin’ run! If ya ever pull tha’ shit again, I’m killin’ you. Killin’ you! Ya hear me?”

Joseph gathers his senses and against the better instinct of keeping his boss on his side, jumps Hood, pushing his gun away as he exclaims: “Are you crazy!?” while Robin disappears over the rooftops.

Hood pushes him off and Joseph lets him, though he likely couldn’t have stopped Hood even if he wanted to, the man is built like a brick house. “What’re you onnabout?” Hood frowns, like he truly doesn’t realize who he just shot at.

“You shootin’ at Robin,” Joseph exclaims. “Do you have any idea the kind of carnage ya would’ve brought down on us if ya’d hit ‘im?”

“What?” Hood asks, sounding truly confused and a little taken aback.

“Do you really not know? By your accent I would’ve sworn ya were from ‘round these parts,” Joseph replies, more confused than normal by his enigma of a boss.

“Well, I’ve been outta the loop for a bit,” Hood grouches. “Explain.”

“I mean, most of the big fish don’t keep to it, but it’s common knowledge to not hurt Robin too bad unless ya want the big Bat to rock your shit,” Joseph explains. “I was already in the henchin’ business when the little guy first hit the street. Course we were all wary of ‘im but what ya gonna do? Fight a little kid?”

Hood lets out a bitter snort, commenting: “Yeah, who’d do that.”

Joseph isn’t sure where that comes from and hesitates for a second, then cautiously goes on: “But the kid was good, better than any of us thought. Fuckin’ embarrassing tha’ was. So we started fighin’ back a little, ya know. Actually punching the kid here and there. It was Jimmy who first truly hurt the kid.”

“Wait, Vegetable Jim?” Hood asks.

“Yeah, isn’t a vegetable anymore. Sonnabitch’s damn lucky that Wayne Enterprises offers compensation for those hurt while working, including hench work,” Joseph laughs a little bashful and awkward. “He clipped the kid with a baseball bat, broke his arm. God, I never heard a kid wail like that,” Joseph grimaces at the memory. “What’s worse is that the kid called for his dad. His dad.”

“Wait, tell me more,” Hood asks, sounding gleeful now, which weirds Joseph out a little. “Like was it super pathetic? Did he really just break his arm, nothing more?”

“No, nothin’ more, just the arm,” Joseph answers carefully. “And ya know how kids can get, it was piercin’ and whinin’. Why’d ya wanna know? Poor fella did nothin’ to ya. You’re to young for that.”

“Nah, I know that, just gonna bully the shit outta him when I see him,” Hood grins and now Joseph is fully confused, because from what he’s heard their first baby Robin is now Nightwing in Blüdhaven and they’re not planning to expand that way. However, before he can ask, Hood says: “Sorry, continue.”

“Well, uhm, Batman came immediately. It was carnage, like I said,” Joseph replied. “Jimmy became a vegetable for a year and a half. Bats usually tries to give us injuries that’ll only last a few weeks max, so we all knew we’d fucked up with that.”

Hood is quiet at that and Joseph explains: “Jimmy was the first and one of the worst, but all the goons tha’ ended up in the hospital for longer than three months hurt a Robin. I think the worst might be those tha’ helped, uhm, that villain kill the second Robin. His organization’s still recoverin’ from tha’ one. Think it’s the closest the Bat ever got to killin’ a man.”

Joseph knows that Hood has some deep seated grudge and hatred for Joker, despite taking his old moniker. So, he isn’t sure how well it will land.

He holds his breath as he watches how his boss will react, hoping he isn’t about to get a bullet in the leg. With Hood you’re less likely to get one in the head, but he’s absolutely not above taking out your femur or kneecap and that also sucks.

However, Hood surprises him. Joseph has always guessed that Hood is younger than he pretends to be, but he now sounds like a lost kid as he asks: “Really?”

“Yeah, boss, the Bat don’t play around when it comes to his Robin,” Joseph answers, suddenly feeling like he’s talking to his own son, instead of his crime lord boss. “New kid’s lucky. I mean, he made Batman nicer, god was he fucked when the second one died. But Stan over at Mr. Freeze’s operation cracked a few of his ribs by accident a coupla weeks after the Bat took ‘im in, I hear he still eatin’ out of a tube now. Bat’s gotten more vicious.”

Hood doesn’t say anything and to avoid feeling awkward Joseph just keeps talking: “Heard through the grapevine tha’ the kid got attacked pretty bad at that fancy Tower they’ve got out there, if the guy who did tha’s capable of thought, it’ll surprise me.”

At that Hood shifts slightly and Joseph is surprised to see a bit of guilt in his stance. It’s not something they see often from their boss. Like everything this smoke break, Joseph has no clue how to react to it.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to, because Hood speaks first. Softly he says: “Guess the kid’s lucky. Just hope the Bat’s nearby when he needs ‘im.”

“Yeah, suppose,” Joseph agrees. “Though he usually is. Never seem ‘im leave the kid alone, especially this one.”

“Good, I’d kill ‘im otherwise,” Hood grunts.

While it fits with Hood’s penchant for protecting kids, Joseph is still thrown off by it, since Hood was shooting at Robin earlier. So he gives him a look, before saying: “I mean, ‘s good tha’ he worries. Kid’s a sprout. Must be older than my boy with the way he talks, but by god is he skinny.” Joseph laughs. “It’s almost funny tha’ I worry for the kid.”

“Nah, worry’s good,” Hood surprisingly assures him. “Wouldn’t be the same if he weren’t jumpin’ ‘round, even if he’s a nuisance.”

“That why ya were shootin’ at ‘im?” Joseph can’t help but ask, even though he knows it’s stupid. It is just- he can’t help it. Not after this strange conversation.

“Kinda,” Hood shrugs. “Little shit needs to learn not to touch my shit. Fucker moved my furniture, I like where my furniture is.”

“He was in your home?” Joseph exclaims, because what the fuck? Why didn’t they hear about it. If the Bats are investigating them close enough to break into their boss’s home, they have a big problem. Very big.

“Yeah, fucked up my alarms too, even though he got a perfectly good key,” Hood mopes and Joseph’s brain screeches to a halt.

Almost as if he’s misheard he asks: “He got a key? Robin got a key? A key to your home?”

“Not voluntarily,” Hood sulks, seemingly not aware of how fucked up that is. “He’s a little stalker. Still. Stole it and copied it.”

“We need to change the locks,” Joseph says, getting up immediately to get going. “Who knows what they’re after. You- you need a protective detail. We need to up security.”

Next to him Hood startles, looking surprised. Then he laughs and waves him away: “Nah, nah, no worries, Joseph. No worries. The Bats ain’t after us.”

“They broke into your home,” Joseph feels the need to point out, because that’s a very important and very worrying detail.

“Just Robin. And just to move my shit and eat my leftovers, which is fuckin’ rude, he has his own chef at home, I have to cook all by myself and it isn’t like he chips in for the groceries,” Hood complains, while Joseph just stares at him, bug eyed.

After a beat, Joseph says: “Uhm, boss, I- uh, I hafta ask. How- how close are ya to the Bats, because that ain’t normal. No- uh no ‘fence.”

“Batman can go suck a dick and Robin needs to go back to school,” Hood scowls. “Kid shouldn’t be out here and I’m not talkin’ to the old man. But he’s a persistent little shit, I haven’t shaken him yet. Doesn’t look like I will.”

That answers absolutely nothing, but does tell Joseph that he doesn’t really want to know, because his brain is putting things together, but not things he wants to think about, because if he thinks about it, he might realize that his boss is a teen and he doesn’t think he can handle the mental weight of knowingly working for a teen.

So, Joseph follows another unspoken rule of the goon and henchpeople underworld and keeps his mouth shut when the boss is spewing nonsense.

He already has a kid to raise, he doesn’t want to think about raising his boss and by the sounds of it, the boss already got people looking after him. Even if they annoy him. Joseph is just going to be grateful about that and ignore the rest.

And pray each Sunday in the Church he doesn’t go to anymore that Hood is gonna keep missing the kid when he shoots. He hasn’t faced that sort of wrath from the Bat yet and he doesn’t plan on ever doing so.

Best to keep his head down and follow all the unspoken rules. Next time he’s smoking alone or with more people than just the boss. He has his blood pressure to think about.

#rr writing #dc #dc comics #detective comics #jason todd #tim drake #robin dc #robin #tim drake as robin #red hood #OCs #red hood goon #tw: violence #tw: gun use #batman #batfamily #batfam

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