#stark solidarity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

soulofapatrick · 4 months

Text

Protect You - Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader

Summary: You come into work injured and Hotch accidentally outs your relationship

Words: 1.8K

Warnings: None really

Notes: I honestly don't know where this one came from but enjoy hehe

Y/N’s POV

As I step into the familiar confines of the BAU bullpen, a sigh of relief escapes my lips upon noticing it’s only Spencer present as the others always arrive later. Hotch and Rossi must be holed up in their offices, shielding them from witnessing the bruised left side of my face and the split lip that I’m trying to conceal with my hair, keeping my head down. I would try make-up but they’re profilers, we’re profilers, there’s no point hiding any of it as they’ll work it out.

Every moment reminds me of the ache throbbing on my face, a constant reminder of the altercation that occurred early this morning. I try to mask the discomfort with a tight-lipped smile, but I know Spencer sees through it the moment his gaze flickers up from the file he’s absorbed in. His eyes widen in concern, and he’s on his feet so fast his chair clatters to the ground, abandoning his document to rush to my side.

I appreciate his silent understanding, his quick grasp of the situation without needing an explanation. It's moments like these that remind me why the BAU feels like family.

“Hey,” Spencer’s voice is gentle, his concern palpable as he takes in my appearance, eyes flickering over the bruises, assessing whether I need medical or not, “What happened to you?”

I offer a weak shrug, sliding onto my desk so Spencer can slide into my chair like we usually sit, waiting for Emily, JJ and Morgan to arrive, “Oh just a little accident.” I murmur, trying to downplay the severity of it, though the pain pulses with each word. Spencer raises his eyebrows, scoffing lightly, drawing a heavy sigh from me, I relent, knowing I can’t actually keep it from my best friend, “Jessica might have found me in Hotch’s bed this morning after he left to be here early,” I pause, letting that sink in first, the fact I was in our boss’ bed, “She… well, she punched me and I just left her… she’s still grieving and it’s been just over a year now…”

Spencer's hand finds mine, a silent gesture of solidarity amidst the chaos. And in that moment, I'm grateful for his unwavering support, his quiet strength anchoring me to reality when everything feels like it's spiralling out of control, “Are you going to tell Hotch?”

Before I can respond, the authoritative timbre of Hotch’s voice cuts through the air, drawing my gaze towards his office. Instinctively, I turn my head away, a futile attempt to shield him from the truth of what his ex-sister-in-law had down to me. But it’s too late. The damage is already written across my bruised face, a stark reminder of the violence that had erupted in the early hours of the morning.

Hotch strides into the bullpen, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling on me, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. "Tell me what?" His voice is clipped, demanding answers that I'm not ready to give. Spencer gets up from my chair and moves over to where the coffee station is, staying within hearing distance but giving us enough privacy.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of Hotch's gaze bearing down on me like a heavy burden. "It's nothing, Hotch," I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper as I keep my head bowed, unwilling to meet his gaze. But I can sense his skepticism, his unwavering determination to uncover the truth lurking beneath my hesitant words.

Before I can protest further, Hotch grips my chin with a gentle finger and thumb, forcing me to raise my face and meet his gaze. The shock that flashes across his features sends a shiver down my spine, his expression morphing from concern to horror, then to simmering anger barely contained beneath the surface.

His voice is low, a dangerous undercurrent lacing his words as he practically growls, “Who did this to you?”

I try to shake my head free from his grip but he won’t let me, cognac eyes full of anger as he searches my face. Every part of my wants to submit to him but I can’t ruin the last bit of Haley he has left by telling him and he finally sighs. He takes a risk and presses his forehead to mine, eyes closing and taking a deep breath before he’s letting me go and taking a step back just as the bullpen doors open. With one final lingering look he turns to the others and tells them to meet him in the meeting room in ten.

As Spencer intercepts Hotch on his way back to his office, a sense of foreboding settles over the bullpen, amplifying the tension already thick in the air. I watch, heart sinking, as Spencer murmurs something to Hotch, the words lost in the charged atmosphere. Hotch's head snaps up, his entire demeanour shifting in an instant. Even from behind, I can sense the fury radiating off him, a palpable force that sends a shiver down my spine. Whatever Spencer said has stirred a tempest within Hotch, one that threatens to consume everything in its path.

Before I can comprehend the gravity of the situation, Derek's voice breaks through the tense silence, his concern evident in the way he addresses me. "Oh shittt, what happened to you, baby girl?" he asks, his usually jovial tone replaced by genuine worry.

Spencer slumps back into my chair, his expression somber as Derek rounds the desk to his, drawing Emily and JJ's attention in the process. In moments like these, the boundaries between colleagues blur, replaced by the unspoken bonds of friendship and camaraderie that define us as a team. They crowd around me, their questions a chorus of concern as they inspect the bruises marring my skin. Despite their genuine care, I can feel the weight of their stares, the unspoken questions lingering in the air like a heavy fog.

Just as I'm about to ask them to drop it, a voice cuts through the chaos, echoing from Hotch's office with a force that silences the entire bullpen. "HOW DARE YOU LAY A HAND ON HER?!" Hotch's voice booms, despite his door and blinds being shut, reverberating off the walls with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt.

A stunned silence settles over the bullpen, the air thick with tension as Hotch's voice echoes through the confines of his office, despite the closed door and drawn blinds. His words hang in the air like a heavy pall, commanding attention and demanding justice. The sudden yelling draws Rossi out of his office, his expression a mix of concern and confusion as he surveys the scene unfolding before him. It's rare to witness Hotch lose his composure, and even rarer to hear him raise his voice with such raw intensity.

But, as the seconds tick by, the tension in the air becomes almost palpable, a tangible force that hangs heavy around us. We exchange uncertain glances, the weight of Hotch's anger casting a shadow over the once tranquil atmosphere of the bullpen. And then, just as quickly as it began, Hotch's voice rises again, the sound muffled by the closed door of his office. Despite the distance, his words carry with them a sense of finality, a declaration of his unwavering resolve, “I CAN DATE WHO I WANT, YOU DON’T GET TO DICTATE IF Y/N IS GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME.”

As Hotch's voice reverberates through the closed door of his office, his words cut through the heavy silence like a knife. The weight of his declaration hangs heavy in the air, leaving us all stunned into silence.

Derek's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, his mouth slightly agape as he processes the implications of Hotch's words. Emily's eyes widen, a mixture of shock and admiration reflecting in her gaze as she exchanges a quick glance with JJ. Spencer, ever the observer, remains stoic, his expression unreadable as he absorbs the gravity of Hotch's statement.

The realisation settles over us like a heavy blanket, each of us grappling with the implications of Hotch's unwavering resolve. In that moment, it's clear that he's not just defending my honour; he's asserting his autonomy, refusing to be swayed by the opinions or judgments of others. And as the echoes of his words fade into the background, we're left in a stunned silence, the weight of the moment pressing down upon us like a tangible force. For a brief moment, the chaos of the world outside fades away, replaced by the quiet intensity of the bullpen.

But our reverie is short-lived as Hotch reemerges from his office, his face flushed with anger and frustration. His gaze sweeps over us, a silent command to gather ourselves and move forward. Without a word, he gestures towards the conference room, his authoritative presence brooking no argument.

As the rest of the team practically rushes towards the conference room, driven by the urgency of the moment, I find myself lingering behind. The weight of everything that has transpired settles heavily upon my shoulders, anchoring me to the spot as I struggle to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. I remain perched on the edge of my desk, head bowed, my hands suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. The sound of familiar footsteps draws nearer, the rhythmic cadence echoing through the empty space of the bullpen. And then, like a beacon in the darkness, Hotch's shiny smart shoes appear in my line of sight, his presence casting a warm glow against the backdrop of uncertainty.

He says my name softly, a gentle reminder that I'm not alone in this moment of vulnerability. I lift my gaze to meet his, finding solace in the depths of his unwavering gaze. There's a tenderness in his eyes, a silent acknowledgment of the tumultuous journey we've embarked upon together.

In that moment, he looks at me like I've hung the stars, like I'm a goddess deserving of reverence and adoration. It's a gaze that speaks volumes, a silent confession of the depth of his feelings. And then, with a gentle touch, his hand reaches out to cup my unbruised cheek, his touch a balm against the ache of the morning's events. In the stillness of the bullpen, he draws me into a soft kiss, a silent promise of solidarity and unwavering support. In that fleeting moment, time stands still, the chaos of the world fading away as we find solace in each other's embrace. And as we pull away, the weight of the world feels a little lighter, buoyed by the strength of the bond that binds us together.

With a silent understanding, we rise from the tumult of the morning, ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead. And as we make our way towards the conference room, hand in hand, I know that no matter what the future holds, we'll face it together, united by the unbreakable ties of love and loyalty.

Criminal Minds Masterlist TAG LIST - updated 21st Dec 2023

@guacam011y @rosaliedepp @kajjaka

1K notes · View notes

heich0e · 5 months

Text

"you know that's not how it works, right?"

atsumu and osamu's heads both snap up from where they're stooping over a paper schematic laid out before them, sitting cross-legged amidst a debris field of cardboard, styrofoam, and various wooden parts.

the sun streams in through the open window on the other side of the room, and little motes of dust that have been stirred up through the afternoon's excitement are caught in the light as they twist and spin through the air, fluttering slowly towards the ground. the breeze that slips in through the window is cool but refreshing, the smell of spring carried in on the edge of every wisp of air. you take a deep breath to savour it.

"whaddya mean?" atsumu asks, his brows—so much darker than the peroxide blonde of his hair, and the contrast even more stark since he's seated right in the sunlight that makes his hair practically glow—pinching together in the centre and expressing his confusion. osamu doesn't say anything, but his own expression is equally perplexed as he sits beside his noisy brother.

you laugh, taking a sip from your glass of water as you lean against the doorway.

"i said that's not how it works."

osamu's grey eyes flicker back down to the instruction manual in front of him, his lips pursing thoughtfully as he mulls over your comment.

you sigh, a little smile tugging at your lips. "samu, i'm not talking about the crib."

both brothers look up at you once more, now thoroughly confused by your interruption and wearing nearly identical expressions which convey that sentiment. you set your cup of cool water down on the chest of drawers just inside the doorway: an old wooden hand-me-down from their mother, who insisted you take it for the nursery and give it a second life in a new miya household. you pad into the room, approaching them both slowly as you carefully avoid the various pieces of disassembled crib that litter the floor, and crouch down to sit between them.

atsumu sees the way you struggle on your descent, still not quite used to the bump that has swollen at your waist and grows with every passing day, and he quickly reaches up to help you settle in between the two of them. you murmur quiet thanks, squeezing the blonde's hand with your own before you pull away.

once you've finally made yourself comfortable on the nursery floor, you huff. "what i meant was that's not how twins work."

you'd caught the tail end of the brothers' conversation as you passed by the doorway to the nursery—a casual but enthusiastic debate on whether or not you should be expecting one baby or two.

"yer gonna explain twins to us?" tsumu guffaws in the wake of your words, looking to his brother for solidarity in his indignation. samu's eyes instead flicker down to the bump of your stomach where your hand is resting.

"we're kinda the experts in the room y'know," osamu teases you, his gaze flickering up to meet yours. you roll your eyes.

"experts?" you parrot back incredulously. "says the guy who barely passed biology, and the one who's forgotten everything about high school other than volleyball scores and school lunch menus."

you point to atsumu and osamu respectively as you make your remarks.

"hey!" atsumu whines.

"i remember other stuff too," samu laughs a bit as he reaches up and ruffles the dark hair at the nape of his neck. you cock a brow as you lean in towards him.

"oh, yeah?" you challenge his assertion. "like what?"

"cute girls," osamu says as he turns his attention back to the assembly instructions on the floor before him, a cheeky smile tugging at his lips. you resist the urge to swat at the back of his head.

behind you, since you've turned your body to face his brother, atsumu pitches forward and hooks his chin over your shoulder.

"so, what was that about anyway? the twin thing?" he asks, muttering in a way that tells you he's got a pout on his lips even if you can't see it.

you lean back into atsumu slightly, watching as osamu picks up a piece of crib and turns it over in his hands to survey it, comparing it to the complicated illustration in the instruction manual.

"even though you two look so much alike, you're fraternal," you say, tilting your head to peek up at him through your lashes. "and your mom's mom was a fraternal twin too."

atsumu hums. you've not told him anything he doesn't already know. "s'genetic!"

"it is," you agree, running a hand over your stomach absentmindedly. "but the gene that makes you more likely to have twins has to do with ovulation. which means it has to affect the mother—and i have no twins in my family."

atsumu sucks in a sharp little breath that you can't help but think sounds a bit disappointed. osamu pauses in his instruction surveillance.

"besides," you remark, peeling yourself up from against atsumu's chest, "we already heard the baby's heartbeat, and there was definitely only one in there."

osamu looks over at you, pointing the mystery piece of crib in your direction. "our ma said the same thing, and still ended up with the two of us. careful whatcha say."

"she says i hid my heartbeat 'til the second trimester!" atsumu agrees with his brother, supporting his argument in a distinctly proud way—a wide grin stretching across his face.

"troublesome from the very beginning, huh?" you tease him, and he reaches up to pinch your cheek playfully in response.

"what about identical twins then?" osamu asks. "they genetic too?"

"no," you shake your head, atsumu's fingers still lightly holding the fat of your cheek and making your words come out a little funny. "they'a fweeks o'naytchor."

atsumu laughs, letting his grip on your face go. "freaks of nature?"

you rub at your stinging cheek with your fingers, glaring at him resentfully. "there's no real reason why identical twins happen. they shouldn't happen, by all accounts. but for one reason or another the fertilized egg decides it's going to split and basically clone itself even though it's not supposed to. that's weird."

"so, who has identical twins?" osamu asks, reaching up and running his thumb over the red mark his brother left on your poor cheek.

you purse your lips as you consider his question. "well... anyone could, i guess. in theory. there's no real rhyme or reason to it."

atsumu and osamu's eyes lock over your shoulder, and you can't help but noticed the look they share between them. the one that makes you want to groan aloud.

the one that clearly reads of hope.

#LOL sorry u guys can figure out who the father is bc the poll was split right down the middle #btw true confessions this is actually how i feel about identical twins..... that's just not right #atsumu x reader #osamu x reader #hq drabble #hq writing #writing #tw pregnancy #tw parenthood

828 notes · View notes

laneywrld · 21 days

Text

still a champion | Lewis Hamilton

request: hiiii i saw you said we can submit request do i was wondering if you could write something abt abu dhabi 21 where you and lewis have a daughter maybe like 2 years old and after the race lewis just is wrecked and he just wants to be comforted by his little family and everyone in the paddock is watching him and how he interacts with you and your daughter 😕 and he’s just trying not to show how upset he is and trying to be strong in front of you and your daughter but she can just tell so shes like "whats wrong daddy" and his heart just shatters 💔🥲 can you make it really sad but also really fluffy?i was watching that episode of dts the other day and it just made me wonder what it would be like if lewis had a little girl 🥹 sorry if this made no sense lol i tried my best to explain 😂

word count: 2.2k

warnings: none

As Lewis steps out of his car after the Abu Dhabi 2021 Grand Prix, a heavy weight settles over him, dragging at his shoulders and sapping the energy from his limbs. The taste of defeat is bitter on his tongue, a stark contrast to the sweet victory he had hoped to savor.

His heart, heavy with disappointment and frustration, is a testament to the fierce battle he waged. His mind, a whirlwind of emotions, is a reflection of the relentless determination he poured into each race. He fought tooth and nail for the championship, pouring every ounce of energy and determination into each race, only to come up short at the final hurdle.

The realization that victory had slipped through his fingers at the last moment gnaws at him like a relentless beast, tormenting him with thoughts of what could have been. He replays every moment of the race in his mind, searching for answers, for any sign of where it all went wrong.

But try as he might, he can't shake the feeling of profound loss that grips him, a sense of emptiness that echoes through his soul. He had poured his heart and soul into this season, sacrificed so much in pursuit of his dreams, only to fall agonizingly short in the end. He was cheated.

You hold onto your two-year-old daughter tightly; her excitement is palpable as she eagerly awaits her father's return from the race. Her innocent joy is, in a way, crushing, filling the air with a sense of anticipation.

As Lewis exits his car, you can see the disappointment etched on his face, a stark contrast to your daughter's radiant smile. She reaches out for him eagerly, her tiny hand outstretched, expecting to celebrate his victory with him.

You rock her on your hip as you watch the other drivers approach Lewis first. You decide to stand back and take the time to calm your daughter. "Hi, Mommy's girl," you hum at her; she looks up at you, her giant orbs mimicking her father's with that same radiant smile.

"Gonna see daddy," she states.

You coo, pressing your nose against hers, "Yeah, baby going to see daddy, we have to be very very calm okay no squealing like a piggy." You tease tickling her tummy, and she lets out her signature squeal. "Gotta give daddy a hug and a kiss, okay? Make him feel better. We gotta be extra extra nice to daddy."

Like all two-year-olds, she begins to ramble on and on, and you take a moment to observe your husband from across the garage.

As you watch Lewis accept condolences for his stolen race, you notice the subtle telltale signs of his inner turmoil. His knuckles are tight against his skin as he clenches them tightly, a desperate attempt to hide the emotions bubbling just beneath the surface.

You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slump ever so slightly under the weight of disappointment. And as he murmurs his thanks, his voice is strained, betraying the effort it takes to keep his emotions in check.

Despite his best efforts to hide his pain, you can see the raw vulnerability in his eyes, the silent plea for understanding and empathy. And as you offer him a supportive nod, a silent gesture of solidarity, you can only hope that he knows he's not alone in his struggle.

Lewis stares into you, his eyes almost pleading for a sense of comfort and your hand instinctively clutches onto your daughter tightly as if you're preparing to comfort her as well as Lewis approaches.

His demeanor is somber and distant, and your heart sinks with a heavy weight of disappointment. You can see the turmoil in his eyes, the crushing weight of defeat bearing down on him like a suffocating blanket.

You try to shield your daughter from the harsh reality of the moment, plastering on a smile and gently guiding her toward her father. But deep down, you know that she's too young to understand the complexities of the race, too innocent to comprehend the depth of her father's distress.

As Lewis scoops her up into his arms, you can't help but feel a pang of sadness for him. Despite his best efforts to hide his disappointment, you know that he's hurting inside. And as you watch them embrace, you silently vow to be there for him in any way you can.

Lewis brings her to his chest, holding her to him like a teddy bear, his arms hold his daughter against him like she too could be stolen. Unlike other races , Lewis isn't happy and cheerful; he isn't smiling at his daughter or tossing her up into the air gleefully.

She may be young, but your daughter was wise beyond her age. "Daddy?" Her voice is a mere whisper and you watch Lewis face as he pulls frees her head from his neck.

"Yes, baby?" He asks, and his voice, too, is low and broken.

"What's wrong, Daddy?"

Lewis feels his resolve crumble as she speaks, her teary eyes resulting in his own. "Why are you sad?"

As Lewis looks to you for guidance, his eyes filled with uncertainty and sadness, you step in to save the day. Joining in on the embrace, you wrap your arms around both him and your two-year-old daughter, creating a cocoon of love and support.

In a gentle tone, you explain to your daughter as simply as you can, "Sweetheart, sometimes things don't go the way we want them to. Daddy's feeling a little sad because he lost the race unfairly." You hold her close, feeling her small body pressed against yours as you try to convey the complexity of the situation in a way that she can understand.

"But you know what?" you continue, your voice soft and reassuring.

"Daddy did his best, and that's what matters most. We're proud of him no matter what." You press a kiss to her forehead, feeling her tiny arms wrap around you in a comforting hug.

As you hold your family close, you know that while the disappointment of the race may linger, the love and support you share will always be there to carry you through even the toughest of times.

As Lewis watches you explain the situation to your daughter with such grace and compassion, he feels his heart swell with love and appreciation. In that moment, he's overwhelmed by a profound sense of gratitude for having you by his side, supporting him through the highs and lows of life.

Seeing the tenderness and care with which you handle the situation fills him with a deep sense of warmth and reassurance. He's reminded once again of the incredible bond that the three of you share, a bond that transcends any disappointment or setback.

In your embrace, Lewis finds solace and comfort, knowing that no matter what challenges may come their way, they'll face them together as a family. And as he looks at you with admiration and affection, he's reminded of just how lucky he is to have you by his side, guiding him with your unwavering love and support.

"But you know what always makes Daddy feel better, beautiful girl?"

She perks up, her eyes igniting in a sparkle.

"What is it, mamas?" You inquire with a dramatic, inquisitive look on your face.

"A kiss?" she guesses, and you lean forward, pressing your lips to her tiny nose.

"You're so smart baby, a kiss. They always make Daddy feel better," You turn to Lewis, a loving look on your face, "Isn't that right baby, you want some kisses?"

Lewis can't help the smile that graces his lips as you peer up at him. "Kisses would make me feel a whole lot better right now." He admits.

He lowers his head, allowing your daughter to reach his cheek and you lift onto your tip toes, pressing your own against his forehead. You speak life into him as you pull away and linger in his embrace.

As you gaze into Lewis's eyes, filled with a mixture of sadness and uncertainty, you feel an overwhelming surge of love and admiration for him. Gathering him close, you speak from the depths of your heart, "Lewis, I am so proud of you. You are a winner in every sense of the word, even if the score won't reflect that."

You hold Lewis close, your arms wrapped tightly around him, as you speak softly into his ear. "I'm so proud of you," you say, your voice filled with love and sincerity. "You're a winner, no matter what the scoreboard says. I love you more than words can express."

You gently stroke his back, feeling the tension slowly melt away under your touch. "You're so resilient," you continue, your voice steady and reassuring. "No matter the challenge, you always rise above it. I believe in you, Lewis. And I'll always be here to support you, no matter what."

In the hushed silence of the garage, all eyes are fixed on the tender moment unfolding between your family. The atmosphere is charged with a palpable sense of adoration and respect as the team members observe the heartfelt exchange.

There's a softness in their gazes as they witness the love and support shared between you, Lewis, and your daughter. It's a reminder of the human connections that transcend the fast-paced world of racing, a testament to the strength of family bonds in the face of adversity.

At that moment, the sound of engines and clattering tools fades into the background, replaced by the quiet reverence of those gathered around you. It's a scene that speaks volumes without a single word, a powerful reminder of the importance of love, resilience, and unity in the face of life's challenges.

And as the moment lingers, bathed in the soft glow of camaraderie and understanding, it's clear that your family's bond is a beacon of hope and inspiration for all who witness it.

As he stands on the podium, forced to watch his rival celebrate triumphally, a wave of raw emotion washes over him. He fights to keep the tears at bay, to maintain his composure in the face of defeat, but it's a losing battle.

The weight of disappointment hangs heavy on his shoulders as he watches the celebrations unfold around him. His heart is heavy with the knowledge that he came so close yet fell agonizingly short. As he reflects on the season that was, he knows that the pain of this loss will stay with him for a long time to come.

With a determined stride, Lewis hurries to escape the podium, his heart yearning for the comfort and solace of your embrace. As he navigates through the crowd, his only thought is of finding his place in your arms again, where he can seek refuge from the tumultuous night he's endured.

When he finally reaches you, he pulls you and your daughter close, enveloping you both in a tight embrace. The warmth of your bodies pressed together soothes his frayed nerves, easing the weight of the disappointment he carries.

With a sigh of relief, Lewis sinks into the comfort of your embrace, feeling the tension slowly melt away with each passing moment. He closes his eyes, reveling in the simple pleasure of being surrounded by the ones he loves most in the world.

In that moment, nothing else matters except the love and warmth shared between your family. And as you hold each other close, you find solace in the knowledge that together, you can weather any storm that comes your way.

"What'd you have to tell Daddy, baby?"

"You are still a cham-"

You giggle at your daughter, reaching up to pinch at her cheeks as Lewis holds her up in one arm, "champion." you whisper.

And she nods with squinted eyes, turning to face her daddy again. "You are still a champion."

Lewis coos, pressing a kiss to her cheek and squeezing you tighter into his side.

"My victor." You hum, "Let's get back to the hotel? Have a relaxing bath and some dinner?"

Lewis nods, his heart thumping no longer from disappointment but from love.

As Lewis basks in the warmth of your embrace, surrounded by the love of his family, he feels a profound sense of contentment wash over him. The burden of the lost title fades into the background, overshadowed by the overwhelming love he feels for you and your daughter.

He marvels at the way you effortlessly know how to be there for him, how you always seem to say all the right things to comfort and uplift him. And as he watches you pass on that same love and wisdom to your daughter, his heart swells with pride and gratitude.

In this moment, nestled together in the comfort of your bed, with your daughter snuggled between you, snores filling the room with a symphony of peaceful sounds, Lewis feels genuinely at peace. He gazes into your eyes, filled with tender love and appreciation, knowing that no matter what challenges may come their way, as long as he has you and your daughter by his side, he has everything he needs to find happiness and fulfillment.

short and cute request!

My requests are still open. You can leave it in my asks, and I'll get to writing it as soon as I can. 🫶🏽

#lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton imagine #black reader friendly #sir lewis hamilton #formula 1 #laneywrldrequests #laneywrld

229 notes · View notes

iceunhie · 4 months

Text

love’s a whole new meaning with you.

summary: valentine’s day has got them thinking that maybe love has different forms; but it always leads them back to falling deeper and deeper for you.

featuring. zhongli, dan heng, albedo.

notes: danheng favoritism rlly showing here 😭, this is for @ecrin-de-litterature's kiss (don't tell) ! event; to @thexianzhoujade. happy hearts day !!

zhongli is a man who values tradition and the simplest actions—but he values you above all. when you tell him about the holiday called ‘valentine’s day,’ a day that's meant to inform the solidarity of of one's romantic relationship, he treats you akin to a treasure, as iridescent as fragile glass. you'd want for nothing with this man, seriously.

like the gentleman he is, zhongli can and will take you out on a classic yet wonderful dinner date catered entirely to your tastes (nevermind his penchant for forgetting price tags), the security of your relationship a stark imprint upon your mind forevermore. there is no greater desire he harbors than to be yours, always. he leaves you ever lovesick as before with his consideration, the way he's already gifting you bouquets of silkflowers, complete with a glaze lily to symbolize the lasting unity of your bond.

his valentine's gift is that of matching jade pendants symbolizing yin and yang. a liyue tradition deems that a gift of this design recognizes that the individual you've gifted it is the other half of your soul, your equal. and that is because you are. to zhongli, loving you is as natural as the earth beneath his feet, and with the passing of time, he silently makes a vow; a vow to be yours and you his till the end.

albedo grasps the concept of gifting one’s significant other to be both an arduous and thoughtful affair—when he hears talk of valentine’s day atop the lofty snow-studded peaks of dragonspine, his first instinct is to question himself. it's a bit of an oh moment, considering his personal belief that relationships, be it platonic or romantic, were rather taxing. is it elation, he wonders, at the fact that you and him have fostered such a fragile and precious bond to this extent that it is deemed celebratory? maybe it is. no, instead, you were the one that taught him otherwise.

he is not inherently romantic, even if you say he is. but he leads you with him to a vantage point during nightfall, when the city of freedom below rejoices in hearts day. there, watching the mesmerizing hue of the aurora borealis above you, he gifts you a portrait of, well, you.

it's rather simple, he thinks, but this was the most appropriate gift he deemed fit to give—even if he thinks that nothing could ever capture your entirety fully—because he simply wishes to convey the aspects of you he loves for you to see. to albedo, the strokes of his brush upon this canvas can only capture but a fragment of your splendor, your warmth that's like a fire on a cold winter day.

when you smile up at him with the reflection of starlight in your eyes, words of gratitude spilling from your lips, he thinks it's undoubtedly worth it.

to dan heng, valentine’s day reminds him of his past, as unrelated as these two concepts may seem. he's made his choice; to blaze a path of his own, with you by his side supporting him unabashedly. but for all his security in his relationship with you, does he really deserve this? when sins he once harbored lingers upon his life like a haunting shadow?

(“don't be silly, heng’er.” you'd chided him when he expressed his concerns about this once before, holding him as though you were everlasting—like you would never let go of him, no matter what. eyes tender, meeting his. “of course you deserve it. because it's you.”)

in any case, dan heng spares no time to waste, asking permission from himeko and welt for a stop-over in the luofu; he'd been quite flustered when she'd given him an encouraging pep talk, and welt musing about ‘young love’ and all… (the embarrassment of being outed as whipped for you was quite severe) but he takes you to the places you've always wanted to visit, and there's a sense of fulfillment in his heart whenever he trails after you hand-in-hand as you two spend the day together on a leisure date for valentine's day, eating dragon’s beard candy all the while.

young love, welt said. love that was fleeting, sweet. dan heng believes otherwise. this affection is all-consuming, and he thinks that him loving you will persist till even the last bit of stardust in the universe is no more. when he feels your lips brush across his cheek, that thought is solidified, a forever in the making.

[९] 2024 © iceunhie :: do not copy or use my works.

#꒰ ✉ ꒱ 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓'𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒌𝒔 •°. *࿐#— kiss (don’t tell) !#genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #zhongli x reader #zhongli x you #zhongli genshin impact #albedo x reader #albedo x you #albedo fanfic #albedo fluff #zhongli fanfic #zhongli fluff #dan heng x reader #dan heng #dan heng x you #𝑪𝑨𝑻𝑨𝑳𝑶𝑮𝑼𝑬 ★ GENSHIN . . .

263 notes · View notes

seravphs · 11 months

Text

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — IDOL! GOJO x ROCKSTAR! FEM READER

Gojo loves the untouchable. You’re an off limits rockstar who thinks he’s an idiot. The only thing he can do is take that as a challenge, right?

wc — 6.8k

tags — non detailed mention of idol industry EDs, pride and prejudice type energy tbh, reader is a little superior about being in a rock band and not “selling out”, Gojo has an annoying habit of pointing out their hypocrisy, sneaking around because you’re public figures, nsfw jokes, minor nongraphic blood

Gojo’s not your usual type. He’s too pretty for that, with those long lashes like a doll’s. They’re stark against his pale skin when he flirts with you, peering alluringly at you through half closed eyes like the cheap tricks that get his fangirls to scream will work on you.

He’s too easy to break for your taste, but from what you hear on Twitter, that’s why people like him. There’s something charming about the gap in his image that draws people in. People are dying for a taste of vulnerability because he's so cocky, but it's easy to make him beg.

There’s a million clips all over the internet of the moments he’s caught off guard, carefully hoarded instances in his career where a genuine embarrassed flush comes over his cheekbones, made into gifs and Tik Toks and YouTube videos.

That’s not your thing.

You like people with tough hearts and tougher reputations. People who could take the beating of public opinion without a flinch, not some soft spoken idol who needs his management to hold his hand through an apology. You like your fans, but they know their limit with you.

It’s not love, not like with an idol. It would never be, you made sure of it. You’d quit before you ever issued an apology for dating someone.

You hate to be a stereotype almost as much as you hate the idea of becoming a pushover, but you’ve dated a string of bad boy exes who were all exactly what you would expect for the lead singer of a rock band. A little rough around the edges, dark and smoldering. Men who would wear your red lipstick marks like a badge of honor. People who had never even heard of something like an idol image.

Maybe that’s why no one saw it coming. You were safe, established. Gojo was out of your usual pitch.

It’s too bad for the fans that you’ve always been a bit of a daredevil. Trying new things has never scared you. You’ve always been willing to test your limits to find the gold in the muck. That’s how you grow.

That’s how you ended up here, sitting thigh to thigh with the boy wonder of the idol industry.

“Aren’t you playing a dangerous game here?” You ask as he nudges even closer to you, far beyond what you’re sure his fans will permit. You’ve heard horror stories about the lengths people will go to if they see their idols even look at someone of the opposite gender.

“Why, you scared?”

“You wish. You’re the idol here. It’s your reputation on the line.”

He smiles at you, saccharine sweet. “I don’t like letting other people control me.”

That earns your begrudging respect, even if his bony knee is knocking into yours. He’s so lanky it makes you a touch concerned. Shoko’s girlfriend is an idol, and she’s constantly sneaking her food under her manager’s notice.

That’s another reason why you could never be an idol. Letting someone else dictate your life like that sounds like hell. It was hard enough to convince you to be here in the first place.

Your band doesn’t do promotion, least of all you. It’s all homegrown talent and homegrown fans, but you’re in stasis. Your growth has plateaued. Like all artists, you’re beholden to bills to pay to keep the music going. You’re big enough to know when you have to make sacrifices.

It’s nothing personal. That’s just the industry, from pop stars to idols to bands like you. If nothing else, you all share the solidarity of giving anything for the music. You just think you have a harder limit for anything than idols do.

The host kicks off the segment before you have time to do further analysis.

“Welcome back to Hot or Not, the variety show where we pit your favorite internet heartthrobs against each other! Please welcome today’s guests - they may not be the duo you expect!”

The camera pans to you and Gojo. His smile is instant, soft and natural, as real as if he were genuinely overjoyed to be here. You have to give him props for that, at least. He’s good at his job.

As soon as the camera pans to you, his expression flickers and returns to bored disinterest. He yawns, his teeth pearly white. Veneers, maybe. His tongue flicks around the sharp tip of one canine, his smirk nearly fanged. There’s the feature he’s so famous for, the one that has him edited into cat reaction memes all across the internet. Kitty Gojo and his kitten fangs.

He’s a grown man. You think you’d jump off a building before you let your teenage girl fans put cat ears on you and coo at you.

To each their own, you guess. Gojo didn’t seem that perturbed by it. To be fair, he didn’t seem perturbed by anything.

“Let’s start with Gojo! Remember, if you don’t feel like answering a question, we’ll put you in a surprise challenge with your partner.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “I’m an open book.”

“Let’s start easy. What’s your favorite song off your new album, Blue Spring?”

Gojo makes a face. “Pass.”

“Sorry, maybe you didn’t understand the question-“

“No, I got it. That’s boring,” he says. “Give me the challenge.”

You’re amused despite yourself, and fighting not to let it show. There’s the troublesome personality you’ve heard so much about. He wouldn’t be half so popular if he wasn’t so pretty, but that attitude and that face made for a dangerous combination.

The host is trying to salvage the situation with an easygoing laugh. Backstage, you hear someone mutter, “Gojo is gojo-ing again.”

It’s all so funny until you realize he’s dragging you into his mess as they set up the challenge.

Your host explains the rules too quickly for you to catch in their entirety, but it’s something along the lines of a staring contest. You’re supposed to do everything in your power to make the other lose a straight face, with words or actions.

“Are you allowed to do this?” You joke as they start strapping the electrodes on you to measure your heart rate.

“What do you mean?” Gojo’s mussing his hair up so he looks more artistically roguish.

“You know, just being an idol and all. I figured you wouldn’t be able to do things like this without your fangirls jumping on you.”

“Ah,” he says, scooting his chair closer to you. You’re knee to knee as they finish the last details of fiddling with machine. “You’re one of those types?”

“And that means?”

“You think I’m an idiot because I’m an idol.”

“I didn’t say that,” you protest, watching the monitor to make sure your heart rate isn’t jumping with your words. It’s just a game, but you’re competitive.

“No, but you’re thinking it. What else? Maybe you think idols are also soulless grifters?”

You wince. It’s not that you think so terribly of idols, per se, you just understand and recognize their need to please their company. They’re products before they’re people.

“I got it right, huh?” He’s pleased with himself.

“Am I wrong?” You retort. “You’re really going to tell me you love singing your overproduced pop music for the tween girls who will buy anything you put out as long as you’re pretty enough?”

“Aren’t you here too? Lot of talk for someone who’s sitting right next to the sellout. You know what they say about birds of a feather…”

It’s all in a whisper, so no one else hears - or sees your startled reaction to find out the pampered show dog has a little bite in him. You could retaliate, but if you’re being honest?

This makes you respect him more.

He’s right, anyway. You did sell out by being on this show.

The machine beeps. He smiles, slow and sweet - or at least it would be if you didn’t already know there was an edge to it. “I win.”

“Wow!” You’ve never found the host more annoying. “That got heated at the end, didn’t it, folks? Do you mind sharing what Gojo said?”

You smile at the camera in a way that feels more like you’re beating your teeth. “It’s a secret.”

You’re not mad at him. If anything, you’re impressed. The person you’re really disappointed with is yourself.

So he’s not what he thought you were. So he challenged your biased preconceptions on idols. So what?

It doesn’t mean anything, but you can’t get him out of your head.

The rest of the show is an easy and welcome distraction from your inner turmoil over the possibility of maybe potentially tolerating an idol. Throwing out witty answers and being neck to neck with Gojo in winning mini games is much preferable to having to experience emotions. It’s only when it’s over that the problems start.

You watch as he gets up, biting your lip and debating to yourself. It’s only when he’s halfway out the door that you make your decision. You’ve always been a do or die kind of girl.

“Hey. Want to get dinner?”

You just want to make sure he’s eating. No other reason.

His manager frowns behind him.

“We’re in a weird spot,” he says. “The only thing around are convenience stores.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “We can get instant ramen.”

“I’ve never had instant noodles,” Gojo says.

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously,” he scoffs. “Just what kind of lives do you think we lead?”

“Deprived ones,” you toss over your shoulder as you lead him towards your monster of a customized car.

“Oh, no,” his manager is beginning, but Gojo is already sliding comfortably into the passenger seat. His poor manager looks nervously at you as you turn the keys. “Are you sure that thing is safe?”

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “If this thing crashes, I’m in here too.”

You don’t think that reassures him, but your own manager will handle it. You pull out of the parking space and head for the road.

Gojo’s impatient. He tries the handle almost before you’re done parking. You’re like that too - always ready to move. This time, you’re one step ahead. You lock the door before he can leave. He gives you a startled look and glances outside again, clearly weighing his options.

“Relax,” you say. “I’m not a crazed fan. Put these on before we attract an actual stalker of yours.”

You toss him a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. You’ve started keeping them in your car ever since you’ve been hanging out with Shoko and her girlfriend, who was famous enough to get recognized in the street for her autograph. He wrinkles his nose but obediently puts them on.

It doesn’t do much to hide his overall air of Gojo-ness. He steps into the store like he owns it, which he very well could.

The steam rises from your bowls and coats Gojo’s sunglasses. You’re surprised he can see inside, but he has no trouble navigating. He tells you he has 20/20 vision.

One thing leads to another and suddenly he’s bragging about his perfect grades when he attended school. He’s a natural genius, which isn’t really a surprise.

“I thought you were supposed to be a bad boy,” you tease. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You reach out to push them back up before anyone notices. His eyes are rather remarkable, after all. Anyone would be able to tell who he was at a glance.

“Me?” He gives a choked laugh. It sounds nice. You’ve haven’t heard it before, not during the show. He was more polished then. The ways in which he rebels against being an idol show up unexpectedly. “Nah. That’s all Getou. He’s the one with a hidden face. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like when the cameras are off.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” you joke.

“I’m serious,” he whines. “I’m pretty sheltered. Grew up rich, you know?”

Who doesn’t know? The Gojo name is pretty famous. One of the biggest conglomerates in the entire world, it broke major news outlets when the heir chose to be an idol instead of the next president.

He’s always been in the public eye, but kept separate like art at a museum. You have a nasty tendency of wanting to ruin things that you’ve been purposefully warned away from. It’s sort of a thing of yours, a bad habit you haven’t put too much effort into breaking. The more impermissible something is, the more likely you are to try, like a cat knocking a glass of water off a table.

Corruptible isn’t the exact right word, but it’s what comes to mind. You want to mess him up a little. Put your grubby rockstar hands on him and leave smears behind so his fangirls see his tainted reputation. You don’t, of course. It’s just a passing thought that you wouldn’t risk actually jeopardizing his career for.

It would just be nice to see him live a little more freely.

The temptation clears with the last of your noodles disappearing into your mouth. There are things that are off limits for both of you. Those are just the sacrifices you’ve made for your dreams. That’s all there is to it.

It’s so good you sigh at the loss of it, mourning your empty bowl. Gojo’s almost done himself. The minute he finished his noodles, he lets out a breath to mirror yours, then laughs once he catches himself.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you home.”

You think that’s the end of it. There’s no reason to go any further. You met an idol and he obliterated your previously held prejudices. You’ll never meet again.

That’s not quite how it works out.

When your manager offers you another chance to see Gojo, it’s nonchalant. “Remember that idol you were partnered with on that variety show? I know you don’t like those types, but you seemed to tolerate him well enough. There’s another-“

A yes flies out of your mouth so quickly it’s embarrassing.

Your manager pauses. His eyes narrow. “Didn’t expect you to be so eager, but okay.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. This isn’t like you at all. Even with your exes, you had been cool and level headed. Always the prize, never the one to give chase.

He’s interesting, you try to rationalize it to yourself. You like interesting. Life was mind numbing without a kick, and he was the latest thrill. It didn’t mean anything more.

It’s another variety show. Apparently the two of you had been so popular as a pair that they wanted more.

Gojo’s in the makeup chair when you arrive. The artist is scolding him for blinking while she applies his mascara. He’s whining about his dry eyes.

“Don’t be a baby,” you say, dropping into the chair next to him.

“But that’s what I’m best at!”

“You’re so weird,” you laugh.

The makeup artist groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Only Gojo would take that as encouragement. He rolls his eyes and receives a light swat across the shoulder for his troubles. You play around on your phone while you wait for her to be free, but soon grow bored. Instead, you watch her swipe powder across Gojo’s face and dab cream onto the apples of his cheeks.

“Stop staring,” he says.

“How do you know I’m staring? Your eyes are closed.”

“I can feel it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” he says, and you know he’s just messing around at this point because you’re an incredible liar. It’s your best quality.

Falling into banter with Gojo is as easy as breathing. It’s no trouble at all to replicate it on the show. From the shadow, your manager gives you a double thumbs up. Dork.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re doing this to drum up popularity for your tour. You’re not the only one having trouble. Gojo pulls you aside after filming wraps up to give you his personal number on the phone he’s not supposed to have.

At night, you get an alert that you’ve received something from Gojo. It’s not a message. It’s a notification that you can save three tickets to your digital wallet.

A speech bubble pops up.

Come to my concert, he says. I got you VIP seats.

Gojo’s impressed you, but you still don’t know about the rest of his band. You’re not sure you want to watch pretty men lip sync and grind on the stage for two hours, but when you tell Shoko, she offers to bring Utahime. That’s conveniently three, so you might as well.

VIP seats don’t include backstage, so you’re surprised when security comes to retrieve you. There’s no backstage pass for this concert, actually, confusing you all the more.

Shoko flaps her hand dismissively at you, encouraging you on. By her side, Utahime is trying to feed her snacks. Satisfied that they’re comfortable, you follow the guard to Gojo’s dressing room. He leaves you there without a word.

After five minutes of waiting for something to happen, you knock. Instantly, Gojo’s voice invites you in.

He’s sitting in front of the dresser, fiddling with his earrings. You’ve noticed seven piercings in total - three on his right lobe, two on his left, and one conch on either side. Before you knew him, you would’ve been surprised an idol would be allowed to get so many. Now you know he bends the rules whenever he’s able.

“Pass me that?” You hand him the disinfectant. “Thanks. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Then why’d you send me tickets?”

“Thought my roguish good looks and natural charm would win you over,” he says with a smile that says he’s only half joking.

“You’re insufferable,” you say as you bat his hands away from his ear. “Let me do that.”

His hair is soft as cygnet down as you brush it behind his ear. There’s something innocent about his expression like this, watching him from above. His eyes are closed, breaths soft and even as he waits for you.

The silver pools in your hand as you thread it through his ear, a waterfall released when it hooks on. He wears a lot of silver, you’ve noticed. His stylists favor colors that should wash him out but only make him look more angelic. Pale blue silk trims his form, encrusted with embellishments to make him look prince-like. There are sparkles in the inner corner of his eye, soft blush on his cheekbones to make him look sweet.

He’s anything but when his eyelids flutter open and he notices you watching. A smile almost cruel tugs at his lips. His hand reaches for you as if-

There’s a knock on his door for the last curtain call.

“That’s me.” He stands up, brushing his lap off without a trace of anything other than professionalism. He’ll leave you wondering what he was going to do. It’s terrible how good he is at this, though you suppose it’s his job to leave people wanting more. “Keep an eye out for me on stage, will you?”

It’s hard not to. Your eyes are polarized to him. Even when something else catches your attention, like fireworks or confetti, he pulls it back. Greedy, that one.

You’re not the only one. The crowd lives for him. There’s something electric about him on stage. He naturally draws attention with that height and attitude and face, but what happens when he’s performing is inexplicable. You’d call it a religious experience if you believed in a god.

Fate has never factored into your life, but now you’re starting to consider worship. Gojo performs like he was born to be an idol.

Keep an eye out for me, he says, as if you’d have any trouble. You’ll dream about him tonight. The way his mouth fits so sensuously over the words of a love song snags your thoughts like a fishhook. Sick desires run through your blood, each more depraved than the last.

You want to watch him shed his beautiful silk skin for you, become nothing more than man again. You must retract your prior confession. There’s no longing for the altar in you, only a love of sacrilege.

Gojo asks for coffee easily, as if you’re two normal people and not celebrities with a lot to lose if you were caught together. You can’t let him outdo you, so you agree. These are the reasons why your manager curses your recklessness. Shoko calls it bravery, when she’s feeling sweet on you.

The second message comes a second later.

Gojo Satoru 11:25 I only said it to see if you’d agree Here’s my address lol can’t believe you said yes Attachment

You think he gives his address out too freely for a man worth 30 million. The feeling only intensifies as you get out of your car and thank your driver. His gates are pearly instead of the standard matte black, a stark declaration of wealth. He’s practically asking for an incident to happen.

Security buzzes you in. Someone in a white dress - an honest to god maid - leads you to a mini kitchen where Gojo’s waiting. His hair is wet and dripping down his back where his powder blue shirt is darkened to a navy. You thought you had gotten used to overblown displays of money after your first three years in the music industry. Clearly, you were mistaken.

He looks up as you enter, reading a trashy tabloid as he stirs whipped cream into a tall glass of something that looks more like a sugary heart attack than coffee.

You’ve never seen his bare face, you realize. Even that moment when you had walked in on him and the makeup artist, he had been nearly done. He looks practically the same without makeup. People with genetic good looks like him only need to enhance their appearance the tiniest amount.

What really strikes you is how earnest he looks, soft and open-hearted, though that might be because you’ve caught him in his home. This is what you wanted - him without his skin on, naked and without pretense. He’s wearing cotton pajamas and white slippers.

“I thought you’d come later,” he says. “Sorry I got started without you. I was feeling something sweet.”

“I’m early, though?”

“I’m always late,” he says with a one shouldered shrug. “Thought you might be too. Guess you’re not my perfect girl after all, huh?”

You shove his arm off the armrest of his chair to perch on it, ignoring the perfectly good chair across from him. This is better, anyway, easier to talk to him. “Don’t be absurd. I’m everyone’s dream girl.”

Gojo chuckles. “I like confident women.”

There’s been a question on your mind for a while. You knew his group was popular, but all this? Maybe you should’ve become an idol after all.

“Where’s the rest of your band? I thought idols shared rooms.”

“Some do,” he says. “Not so much when you make it big. But this is my family home, so none of that applies.”

Gojo Satoru of the Gojo conglomerate. How had you forgotten? It shouldn’t be so easy to ignore something like that.

Gojo shifts the conversation easily, but you notice. So he doesn’t like the connection, then. “How was the concert?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you say, stealing a sip of his drink before it reaches his mouth. It’s too sweet for anyone’s standards. You spit it back into the cup. He takes it from you, eyes it consideringly, and takes a sip anyways.

Your mouth drops. “You’re so gross.”

“Only for you, baby,” he moans, humor like a teenage boy. “Call me names again.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“It’s fine, it’s just saliva. Now tell me the truth. You couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you?”

They’d probably sooner pop out of your head and roll away than leave the sight of him, but you can’t tell him that after all you’ve said about idols. Instead, you push off your seat to go rummage through his cabinets. He has a fully stocked coffee cart in this room and the very latest espresso machine, all to choose his diabetic monstrosity instead.

“You don’t need to respond,” he says cheerfully. “Your silence tells me everything I need to know.”

“Do you think you know me that well?” You shoot back. His fridge is so big you think you could fit into it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve registered that he’s moved from his seat as well, and now stands just behind you.

“Of course I know you,” he says. “I understood you the moment we met.”

“You’re very confident,” you note.

You have a weakness for confident men.

“So you liked my concert. Can I come to yours?”

You imagine Gojo in a mosh pit for a second. It sends you into a laughing fit while he stands there, bemused. You can’t shake the incongruous picture of him, with his face like a carefully crafted porcelain doll, getting rowdy and wild with your fans. Ridiculous. Never in a million years.

“We don’t have VIP seats,” you warn him.

“So?”

“So it can get dangerous.”

“Aw, you do care about me.”

“I care about the fat lawsuit your company’s going to send me when their moneymaker breaks his leg at my concert. It’s not happening.”

“You scared?”

“No, but maybe you should be.”

“Come on,” he says. When had he gotten so close? It’s distracting. “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Gojo had invited you to his concert. It’s only right to return the favor. An idea starts forming in your head, though you’re not sure it’s a good one. You tell him anyway.

Usually when soundcheck is over, you have a little bit of downtime to relax backstage. You’re expecting someone tonight, however.

A rough knock on the door announces Satoru Gojo, spoken in your security guard’s rough voice. Well, he really introduces him as pretty boy idol, but you can guess who it is.

He looks discomfited, a rare occurrence, as he closes the door behind him.

“What’s with you?”

“You’ve got groupies,” he says, looking rattled.

You fight a smile.

“Don’t laugh,” he pouts. “They’re insane. One of them tried to chase me here.”

You can’t help yourself. A giggle bursts out of you. When he tries to leave, you pin his hand to the handle and coo reassurances at him so he won’t.

When you head out the door, he surprises you by grabbing your hand. It’s as nonchalant as anything he does, so you rise to the challenge he sets by refusing to react to it. You only separate once you reach the stairs; him to the spot you’ve made for him behind the barricade, you to the stage.

This is one of your favorite venues, moody and atmospheric. The lights are dimmed to your preferred setting, but your eyes adjust quickly. Your crowd is restless tonight, shifting on their feet as whispers follow raucous laughter through the crowd. Noise on noise, the way you like it.

The wood of the floor is a little sticky beneath your boots as you walk. That’s history gumming the soles of your shoes, generations of artists before you. You’re starting to feel it now, the electric thrum of pure joy in your blood.

Shoko is strumming light tunes on her guitar to warm up, her eyes closed. You hope she doesn’t take it too hard that Utahime couldn’t make it tonight, though you know if she’s upset, she’ll channel into her music.

The crowd settles as the hour draws closer. Shoko’s fingers are liquid now, running through chords effortlessly. You wrap the cord of the microphone around your hands, letting the tension build mindlessly. A stage is like home to you. The crowd plays in the palm of your hand, energy ebbing and flowing as you will it.

It starts with a guitar solo from Shoko. By then, the crowd is already burning with excitement. The first burst of sound from the speakers has them roaring, cheering even though there’s no lyrics to it. The smallest smile touches her lips as she plays to the crowd, showing off exactly why she’s lead guitar for the greatest band in the world right now.

You step in on her heels, your voice rising over the music. Back before you knew how this felt, you almost quit singing, annoyed by the sound you were forced into. This is more your tempo. The almost guttural curl to the ends of your words, the rasp of your hoarse voice - this is beautiful to you.

The crowd is yours. Anything that goes on is within your jurisdiction, higher than any judge or god. You notice everything in your realm.

People are starting to move now, their bodies falling victim to the music. Their mouthes form the vowels and consonants of the lyrics as their bodies shudder and jerk, chained to the rhythm. Bodies ricochet off each other, love taps of respect for your aggressive voice, soaring above it all.

In the corner, there’s a violent eye of a storm. You think it’s a particularly enthusiastic dancer - perhaps a circle is about to form - before you realize what’s actually going on.

A fight is breaking out. You catch a glimpse of snow white hair, realize it’s near the barricade, and your stomach drops.

It’s Gojo and another man, ignoring the security guard trying to separate them. You try to stay professional and play through it, but then you see red.

Gojo’s hand flies to his face, his nose dripping with crimson. He doesn’t look any more injured than that, but you’re angry enough to step in now. Shoko stops as soon as you hold your hand out, the music veering into a screeching crash.

“You, in the black tee!” You realize you should’ve been more specific when what looks like the entire crowd looks down at their equally black shirts. “No, the one that just punched Gojo Satoru. Yeah, you, asshole! No fighting at my gigs! Especially not my guests!”

He had the audacity to yell back. “I was just showing him a warm welcome!”

You climb off the stage. Gojo didn’t show any fear while he got hit, but there’s concern in his eyes now as you drop to the ground by him.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, wait. I don’t think you should-“

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him behind you until his back hits the stage. “Let me handle this.”

You get in the man’s face. His eyes are bloodshot - drunk, probably. “Who do you think you are, starting shit at my shows?”

“You’ve sold out,” he slurs. Definitely drunk. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“You don’t get to tell me who can or can’t come to my goddamn show,” you snarl, vicious and low. “Get out.”

“You can’t-“

“Get out before I make them drag you out.”

When he doesn’t move, you motion security over. “Does anyone else have any complaints?”

The crowd is eerily silent for something that was moving like a beast with one mouth before, singing in unison. You clamber back on stage, turning around to grab Gojo’s hand.

“What?” He says.

“Up. Now.” Your tone brooks no argument. You haul him up with you. He stands awkwardly as you drag him towards your mic stand, your arm slung around his shoulder. There’s still blood on his face.

“Gojo Satoru is a very dear friend of mine,” you announce into the mic. You see the confused looks in the crowd. Even Shoko seems wary. This wasn’t on the schedule. “If you're a real rock fan, you'd know that music is more than genre. I get it! I didn’t think idols were anything more than corporate shills either-“

“Harsh,” he whispers under his breath, unable to control himself even now.

“But he proved me wrong. He’s a real performer, just like I am, and I expect the same respect for him that you give to me.”

This is your crowd. They listen. Someone whistles.

You sit Gojo down, right by your feet. He gives you a bemused smile as the concert starts again, you moving around him like one of your props. He spends most of the concert lounging back, watching you through half lidded eyes.

It might’ve been enough excitement for one night, but you’ve always been the type to push your boundaries. When the idea springs into your head, you act on impulse, not giving yourself too much time to think about it as you pull Gojo to his feet.

You’re really manhandling him tonight, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s only a little startled as you pull the mic away from your face to get into his space.

You misjudged the distance. Your forehead knocks into his, just enough to sting, but not really hurt. “Do you want to try something?” Your voice is a whisper to not get picked up by the mic.

“Give it to me,” he says, and his smile is a bloody thing.

When you angle the mic towards him, you’re careful about not hitting him this time.

His voice works surprisingly well for rock. You weren’t sure he could pull off such a sound change, but he surprises you every time, matching you best for beat.

When he pulls back, your hand snakes into his hair and yanks him towards you and the mic again. He sings wholly at your command, being jerked around by your desires. It’s an inferno on stage, sweat pouring down both your faces. Behind you, the crowd is screaming so loudly it nearly deafens you.

Not a bad encore, you think as you towel off in your dressing room. Shoko left for a cool down with a bottle of ice water right before you, her post concert ritual, but the look she shot you says that you need to talk. You’ll deal with the consequences later.

For now, it’s enough to have Gojo shaking with leftover adrenaline against you as you sit him down in your chair. You press a bottle of ice against his face, watching him shiver. He’s still pretty with all the blood. Prettier, somehow, like some teenage wet dream of a vampire from a young adult novel.

You want to lick the sweat out of the hollow of his collar bones. Instead, you talk to him to rid yourself of your insane thoughts. It’s always a little crazy in your head after a good stage.

“Well?” You demand. “How was it?”

He tilts his head, considering. It makes you nervous. Now that you know how good of a performer he is, it almost feels like a test to receive his judgment.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, slowly.

“That good, huh?” You smile, trying to ignore the aching pressure behind your ribcage. You shouldn’t care so much what he thinks. Why does it matter?

“Yeah,” he says. “When are you free? I gotta plan our date.”

“Huh?”

“That was so sexy,” he says. “I was thinking about taking it slow, but I’m not going to last if I wait. I want to date you. I want to marry you.”

He’s starting to worry you. “Did you have a heat stroke or something? That’s really fast. Really, really fast, Gojo.”

“I’ve never been more clearheaded in my life,” he says. You only believe him when the medic clears him of any injuries, even the nose.

“We can talk about marriage later,” you say. “Why don’t you tell me about the date for now?”

Two weeks later, you’re Gojo’s plus one to his first movie premiere. It’s his debut as an actor, and it couldn’t be a better one. He escaped most of the negative pushback that usually comes with transitioning between those two industries, being naturally good at everything. Still, he had worked hard, and you’re proud of him.

It feels like you’re the only one, because the man himself doesn’t even care about his accomplishment. He’s too busy being delighted about hiding in plain sight. The cameras flash at you as you walk across the red carpet, arm in arm with Gojo. Your stylist had coordinated with his. It could almost pass for a couple’s outfits.

“You know,” he says conspiratorially. “When you defended me at the concert, I got hard.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“It was really hot.”

“You know there are people who can read lips, right?”

“I wish they would figure out what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Let’s get inside.”

Dating Gojo is nothing like what you’d expected and everything like you’d expected. He keeps surprising you, doing wild things to get your attention that you never thought an idol would be willing to get their hands dirty with. He might be even more of a daredevil than you are, constantly pushing the boundaries of what you both can get away with before you’re found out.

In a way, it’s almost like you’re asking for it. You’re both straining at the bit to claim each other. It doesn’t come as a surprise when it does happen, then.

“Huh,” Gojo says over ramen. “We got papped.”

Utahime, understandably, freaks. “What? That’s not funny.”

“Oh yeah?” You say. “Are the pictures good at least?”

“You know we always look good. Could’ve gotten a better angle, but whatever.”

Utahime’s working herself into a minor tizzy in the corner. “Guys, I need you to be more serious about this. This is bad! This is so bad!”

Shoko looks up from her phone and chips on the couch, lying flat on her stomach. “Hate to agree, but she’s right. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “What’s the point? There’s nothing we can do about it. They have the evidence.”

It had been a good run. Two blissful months of peace and quiet. Sneaking around had been fun, giving you that thrill you loved every time someone failed to recognize you and Gojo behind your stupid sunglasses. Still, it was bound to fail at some point. You’re honestly surprised it lasted for as long as it had. You can’t be mad. Two months is more than you could’ve asked for.

“Well,” Gojo says. “Wee-llll.”

“Spit it out,” Utahime gripes at him.

You take another bite of ramen, content to let them argue without you.

“There is something we could do,” Gojo hedges.

“You’re so annoying,” Shoko says.

“No one thinks you’re funny,” Utahime chimes in.

“Hey! She thinks I’m funny!” Gojo frowns. “Tell them you think I’m funny.”

“Sorry, babe. I never lie to my girls.”

“Whatever,” Gojo sighs. “Guess you don’t want to hear my genius idea then.”

“Don’t be a brat,” you tease, knuckling his head. He loves it when you roughhouse with him.

“What if…” The hesitation is real this time. You can tell the difference between when he’s faking it or not. He’s a good showman, but you know him. You place an encouraging hand on his knee.

“What if we went public first?” He says it all in one breath.

You take a moment, turning the idea over in your head. It would wrest back control of the narrative to your team. Even if you might get backlash, it wouldn’t be at someone else’s hands, beholden to their mercy. You like it.

“Sure,” you say.

Gojo gapes at you. ‘That easy?’ His thoughts are written all over his face.

“Why not?” You offer him one of your easy smiles. “I’ve always wanted to say you were mine, anyway.”

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader

726 notes · View notes

ageofevermore · 1 year

Text

NEW YORK CITY STREETS

REQUEST — enemies to lovers with either wanda or natasha with new avenger reader, where wanda/natasha for whatever reason just doesn’t trust reader and is wary of her? maybe they think reader isn’t who she says she is while the rest of the avengers just happily accept r, so wanda/natasha try to catch reader in a lie or something?

WARNINGS — mentions of homelessness, anxiety, vomiting, nat being a bit too guarded and convincing herself dreykovs found her, somewhat of a rocky ending because i wrote this in one session

AUTHORS NOTE — i got so carried away with this and tried to reel it back in toward the end but, i like to think after this event wanda and natasha basically become readers parents lol

You were given the hundredth floor when Tony Stark had personally recruited you after clashing on the battlefield dressed in a sheer ski mask and fraying black zip-up hoodie. Your personal disguise hadn’t been much of a disguise with its many holes and thin fabric, but nobody really paid enough attention to your vigilante persona to figure you out. That was before you’d met Natasha Romanoff and her shadow of a girlfriend, Wanda Maximoff. The pair was as equally enthralled with you as they were unamused, and it seemed at every corner one or both of them was working out a way to deconstruct everything you built.

Avengers tower was always warm, even with the windows open welcoming the breeze of winter and the air conditioner dialed down to sixty-five on the second setting from highest. You supposed it was your subconscious way of making luxury feel cheap, connecting you to the streets that you’d grown up on. If nobody had walked in your shoes, they wouldn’t be able to comprehend how you ached for the uncomfortable sidewalks beneath your head at night or the scent of trash lingering around you, particularly pungent toward the end of the week before trash collection when discarded ingredients had marinated in themselves for days. You’d traded homelessness for lavish living in minutes, but still you felt empty, like you didn’t belong here nor there. Wanda and Natasha saw your feelings for what they weren’t. They noticed your every weakness and somehow decided that instead of being homesick to a place that wasn’t really your own anyway, you were working them. That you were the enemy. Not a teenage girl who’d crossed paths with the wrong people at the wrong time and it had left you a mutant with healing powers and the ability to absorb the strength from people around you rather than an orphan with pale skin and no family. You could be both of those things at the same time, and for three years you had been, but to them, in their eyes, you had to pick a path. Your identity couldn’t be one or the other.

Pepper had pulled you away from the solidarity of your floor for a team meeting. It had been weeks since Tony had recruited you, and for the most part, you stuck to yourself. The team had seen you on various occasions, but for nothing longer than a few minutes before the judgemental stares became too invalidating and you surrendered to your quarters for quiet. Quiet that you despised. Quiet that let you sit in all of the wrongdoings that had been imparted on you without your consent. You supposed, that in a way, Avengers tower was just like the streets of New York City. You were judged and outcast all the same, with high-quality satin sheets and water pressure that could melt your skin off with enough time beneath the shower head, or with just the night sky above your head as a ceiling. The people weren’t different, the places were.

“It’s mandatory.” Pepper had told you when you’d first declined her offer at joining the team in the common area for a relaxed evening. You’d heard through the grapevine that every so often the Avengers gathered together for dinner and conversation, admittedly a way to reground them. Remind them that although they’re earth's mightiest heroes, they’re still human.

“I’m not a part of the team.” You’d responded, not meeting Pepper’s eye. You couldn’t handle the way she looked at you. Not when her eyes were full of so much empathy and pity that it made you feel like glass. She could look right through everything you built and find a scared teenage girl at your center without knowing you at all. That scared you. She scared you more than Natasha and Wanda ever could, because while she saw a real person, they saw a treat. An enemy. And you would rather be taken for the worst then seen for what you always tried not to be. Real. If you were real it meant that your parents really did choose to abandon you. If you were real it meant that everything that had happened to you in seventeen years was unfortunate and equally undeserved. It was better to just exist as a vigilante in the night then as Y/N.

“You’ve been a part of this team since you stopped a bomb before it could detonate at Tony’s feet. Don’t let Natasha and Wanda rattle you, they were in your shoes not that long ago.”

Stunned, you hadn’t been able to find the words to respond. How had she known? And if she was aware that Natasha and Wanda were bothering you, did they know too? Were they annoyed? Would they hurt you for stirring chaos and problems where it didn’t need to be. This was their home. They’d been through hell enough times over to make your pathetic life look like a dream.

“Why did he pick me.” You choked out, before Pepper could leave your doorway and enter the elevator to leave you alone.

Pepper smiled a smile that was so maternal it made your insides feel queasy. You didn’t deserve this. You’d just been in the wrong place at the right time. “You jumped into an active warzone without a weapon. You are the only reason that Clint’s not seriously injured. You’re reckless, Y/N. But you’re reckless because you have a good heart. That’s the only thing that makes any of them an Avenger, with or without powers and serums.” Y/N. Pepper was the only one who called you that. Kid seemed to float around your head for anyone to grab at. You weren’t sure if hearing your name was grounding or a new reason for you to spiral with a deep-seeded feeling of weightlessness.

Pepper and Tony were the only ones you’d really had a conversation with since the latter had offered you residence and training at the Tower. Steve had tried a handful of times, but you were elusive out of habit to let him in, and settling into this life wasn’t easy despite that it should have been. You should be jumping for joy to have a roof over your head, and a shower to bathe in, and food to eat that’s not spoiled or out of a garbage bag. There are a lot of things that you should be feeling, but all you can place in the pit of your stomach is a sense of displacement and a very sickening amount of nerves.

“I’ll be up in ten.” You promised, shutting your eyes tightly. You could do this. You patrolled the streets of New York city in leggings and a hoodie for gods sake (it crossed your mind to start saying thors sake, for obvious mildly funny reasons, but you squandered that joke the second it crossed your mind), you could survive a few hours with the Avengers. Besides, it was the least you could do to show Tony that although feeling misplaced and unwelcome, you did appreciate his faith in you, even if you didn’t understand it. He’d been the only one in your life to ever have any positive feelings about you. Losing it now would feel worse than this.

Pepper snickered, eyes light with an emotion she saved for Tony. “You’ll be up in five. I wouldn’t keep Nat waiting any longer if I were you.”

With wide eyes you nodded. This could only go a handful of ways and every outcome you could imagine ended with you feeling worse inside, but you wouldn’t let her and Tony down.

There was a buzz in the air that felt familiar to the streets of New York City. It wasn’t as loud, wasn’t as energetic, wasn’t rooted in happiness that same way it would’ve been if you’d been on the streets watching tourists and college students turn the night young like them, but it felt similar enough to put you at the slightest bit of ease. Maybe tonight wouldn’t go as horribly as you anticipated. Maybe you’d come to an understanding with your new mentors.

Dread still filled your belly, but you pushed it down as best as you could manage. Coming tonight wasn’t an option, Pepper had made that clear without saying as much, so with or without your negative feelings you’d have to show your face instead of hiding around a corner.

“We can see your feet, kid.” A new voice called, and although it was light and filled entirely with amusement and not anger, it made you tense. Three deep breaths in were all you had time for before Tony was coming to pull you away from your hiding spot and dragging you over toward the multiple couches and setting arrangements that were almost entirely full with heroes dressed in casual wear. This image of them was so vulnerable. They weren’t assassins and spies here, they were just people, human just like you.

“Kid, you’ve met Wigglywoo, Capsicle, and Bl- uh, Natasha,” Tony had all intentions of calling Natasha some fabricated nickname he’d thought up after too many hours in the lab, but had thought twice about it upon seeing her unamused glare that dripped venom. Under different circumstances, you would’ve let a smile pull at your lips, but instead it just amplified the nerves you were barely handling. “This is Bucky, Legolas, Hawkeye Jr, Underoos, and Maria, she’s not as scary as she tries to be.” Tony’s words had an easy way about them, but it didn’t make you feel any better. Especially not with how closely Maria was sitting to Natasha, and how both of them seemed to be pulling you apart with their eyes. Wanda was no better, but Hawkeye Jr and Underoos (who you knew were really just Kate and Peter) seemed welcoming, bright smiles on their lips telling you as much. “Everyone, this is the kid.”

Pepper rolled her eyes, “Her names Y/N.”

You waved shyly, cheeks a brilliant shade of red. You could feel your heartbeat in your palms, but you pulled the slightest bit of strength from Tony and hoped it would be enough to get you through the night. Wanda seemed to be able to sense your use of powers, and her eyes flashed a threatening hue of scarlet that only you noticed. Pulling your arms tightly around your midsection, you shrunk into yourself and let Tony lead you farther into the room, where you found a space to sit on the far end of a white leather couch, as far away from Natasha and her girlfriend that you’d be able to get, and running distance from an emergency exit to your left. So far, things were not off to a great start.

“So kid,” You assumed it was Clint who spoke, dismantling the static that was filling your head, but your eyes were so unfocused and your belly was so tight, you could only pay so much attention to what was happening around you, and as a result, you weren’t really sure who was talking to you. “Why don’t you tell us about yourself? Ya know, something other than the fact that you wandered onto a battlefield and healed my ass.”

“Oh, um, there isn’t really much.” You said nervously, biting at the skin around your nails that was already raw and thin from how badly you’d been picking at it since moving in. Earth’s mightiest heroes weren’t exactly inviting, no matter what most kids your age believed. These people were heroes, inspirations for a wide variation of generations, but they were proving to be your undoing, even if Kate and Peter were trying to make you feel welcome with their open posture and warm smiles.

“There’s got to be something.” Kate prodded, leaning back on the couch with amusement dancing in her blue eyes. You could feel the heavy emotions around you, no thanks to your enhanced abilities, and the thick aroma of judgment was making you queasy. “Peter thinks you stole a cop scanner and that's how you found it.” She threw her friend under the bus, earning a few chuckles and a deep groan from the spider.

“Um, I was already patrolling the area.” You meekly announced, lowering your hand from your mouth when the taste of blood became too much. Heightened senses sucked sometimes. If you were being honest, they sucked most times.

“I thought you were from Queens. What were you doing in Manhattan?” Natasha quizzed. Even if you hadn’t seen her lips move, too distracted by how Wanda’s fingers were wiggling and the softest hue of scarlet was tangling between her extremities, you knew it was the assassin who had spoken. She was the only one who seemed interested in dismantling your every word. Her tone was biting, as cold as the streets of New York City in winter and you were without thermals or a coat. Another similarity, you’d note.

“I move around alot.” You offered simply, looking at her nervously, afraid that not making eye contact at all would convince her you’d been lying. She would think that either way.

“Aren’t you seventeen?” Steve questioned, though his tone was less inquisitive, more genuine. It didn’t help you to feel anymore at ease though, already anticipating how Wanda and Natasha could spin your response to fit the narrative they already had of you. “Aren’t you in school?” He followed up when you nodded, anxiety curdling in the back of your throat like sour milk. You felt like you were going to puke.

“Um, no?” The squeak in your voice only aided in your downfall, and you could see the gears turning in everyone's head as you announced that you weren’t enrolled in school. Even Kate and Peter attended school still, NYU and Midtown High were the best of the best, and even with Avenging they could fit it into their schedules.

“Why not?”

You were going to puke. You knew that as easily as you knew that Natasha was constructing a narrative of you that was entirely wrong. Sputtering for words, you stood from the couch abruptly, and as you did so, the assassin stood as well, challenging you to take a step forward. You were trapped. You were helpless. The buzz that had been filling the atmosphere evaporated as easily as it was formed, and it wasn’t hard to identify the edge in all of their postures, awaiting the next move and wondering who would strike first. It wouldn’t be you.

Bile was rising in your throat steadily, and the clench in your stomach was becoming worse, but you couldn’t move. Not with Natasha ready to pounce, not with Maria’s glare, not with scarlet filling Wanda’s eyes for everyone to notice. This was bad. This was so so bad and all you wanted was to undo ever stepping foot on that battlefield and helping them, helping Tony and Clint, helping anymore. Anytime you tried to help something worse happened. You were in over your head here. You weren’t a hero, you were just a homeless screw up with powers that even biological parents couldn’t love.

“Who do you work for.” Natasha demanded, and if the atmosphere was tense before, it was armed now. Even without weapons, you felt like with one wrong move you’d be shot dead.

“W-What.” You stuttered, your already pale complexion becoming green as sickness was getting closer and closer. You scrambled to find an exit, knowing the one to your left would be a horrible play as Clint inched closer to the end of his seat ready to stop you from fleeing if it came to it. In three minutes, a civil team meeting had turned into an interrogation that could end your life. You were stupid to accept Tony’s offer. You were stupid to leave your room. You were stupid to think that having powers and an advantage against ordinary criminals in New York City meant that you weren’t still worthless. You should’ve never helped that first night. You should've never continued to help after that. You were in over your head. You were just a kid. A kid that nobody wanted. A kid that nobody trusted.

“Who. Do. You. Work. For.” Natasha repeated.

You tried to warn them that you were about to be sick. That you couldn’t push it off any longer, that you needed a bathroom, or a sink, or even a bowl, but before the warning could pass your lips you were puking all over yourself and the floor, eyes welling with tears of humiliation and pure fear. You were terrified, and it wafted around you in heavy waves. You knew Peter could feel it, his spidey-sense similar to how your own powers worked, but you were too embarrassed to open your eyes and look at any of them. Too frozen to even wipe the vomit from your chin. The sinking feeling of embarrassment didn’t last for much longer, and your knees that had been locked for who knows how long gave out, and you were falling over and into a room of black emptiness, not conscious to notice the guilt that seemed to be creeping up Natasha’s neck as she really got a look at you. As she realized, maybe she’d let her past cloud her judgment. As for the first time ever, she looked at you and saw a kid who was just trying to help. A kid who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

When you came too, it wasn’t in the common area, and it wasn’t in your room. Panic spread through your body, and you shot upright to identify your surroundings. The bed was uncomfortable, two plastic guardrails on either side the first hint that you were in medical. Your eyes didn’t wander much farther then the bed before a voice was breaking apart the static in your head. It was a voice you’d heard before, but in a tone so soft it felt new.

“You’re in medical. You fainted.” Natasha was sitting off to your right, with Wanda at her side, both wearing expressions of sympathy and embarrassment. The former, had guilt shining in her watercolor eyes, hands clasped together in her lap to voice her resigned position in a way that words couldn’t. Leaving her hands together, gave her the lowerhand when it came to defending herself. In her own sick way, she was making you aware of the fact that she’d been wrong.

“I-I, I’m not, I don’t, I don’t work for a-anyone.” You spluttered to make that clear, to feel safe in your own skin again because so easily she’d made you feel like maybe you were the enemy.

“I know.” She said softly, “We know, Y/N.” The use of your name on her lips felt wrong, but you allowed her to continue. “Wanda and I, are ledgers are dripping with red. Our pasts are haunting, and… and the people we worked for aren’t known for just letting things go. We’re sorry- I’m sorry for letting that fear cloud my judgment. After you fainted, um, Tony gave me your file to read. He hadn’t shared it with us before. Before shield fell, they’d been keeping tabs on you, making a portfolio to see if you were deemed a threat. I’m sorry I didn’t let you form that image on your own.”

You knew apologies, especially ones as vulnerable and heartfelt as the one Natasha was currently giving you, wasn’t easy for her. You knew enough about her past to know that these moments of transparency were very few and far between, and you could recognize, that for this single moment, she was allowing herself to be as see through as glass. With only a few words you could shatter her, but you saw her genuinity. You saw how horribly she felt, even if she was capable of faking every emotion perfectly. For some reason, you trusted that this was real. That you weren’t dealing with the Black Widow now, or even Natasha Romanoff, this was real. For this single moment with you, she was letting herself be Natalia. She was showing you how vulnerable and traumatized she’d become after everything that had happened to her. For the first time, you could see yourself in her.

“It’s okay.”

Wanda shook her head, sokovian accent thicker than the walls you’d built from years on the streets of New York City cold and afraid, “It isn’t alright. The way we treated you, Pietro would be appalled.” Speaking of her brother wasn’t easy, but Wanda was kind enough to give you the same transparency Natasha was giving you. They were sorry, and they meant it with everything in them. “We hope that you can let us grow from this. Um, Nat and I were thinking, maybe you’d like to move onto our floor? After Ultron, being alone felt weird. I had always had Pietro. I had always had noise and cold cement cells and satin sheets and quiet, it made my head spin. Um, if you want, we really want to get to know you. Outside of your vigilante persona, outside of your file. We’d like to start over, if that’s okay with you.”

A smile, a genuine smile, pulled at your lips at the full transparency and responsibility they were showing you. And, for the first time, their watercolor eyes didn’t send a chill of fear down your bones. For the first time, you could see a future for yourself in Avengers tower. And maybe, you’d find friendships and teammates too.

#wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #wandanat #wanda maximoff angst #natasha romanoff angst #wandanat angst #wanda maximoff fluff #natasha romanoff fluff #wandanat fluff #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wanda maximoff x teen!reader #natasha romanoff x teen!reader #wandanat x teen!reader #wanda maximoff fic #natasha romanoff fic #wandanat fic

804 notes · View notes