Writing Blog

Requests are open - I do not write fem reader

[dannyboy-writes]

Masterlist

Agent Carter

Agents of SHIELD

Alice in Borderland

ATLA + TLOK

Doctor Who

Euphoria

Fear Street

Game of Thrones

Greys Anatomy

Harry Potter

Legacies

Lucifer

Marvel

Merlin

Movies

Peaky Blinders

Star Wars

Stranger Things

Supergirl

Teen Wolf

The 100

The Flash

Titans

Yellowjackets

Updated 01/02/2026

List of shows I’ve seen

[yasministration]

natasha's mentee

pairing: trainee!peter parker x trainee!reader summary: peter's spidey tingles fail to work during training, purely because you're in the room, but what's even worse is that you have questions to ask about it. wc: 1.1k+

The loud crunch of a nose breaking in the training room has you swinging around to find the victim, in turn giving Natasha the perfect target on your face to throw a petty punch at the fact that you've let your guard down. You stumble back with a pained noise, glaring at your mentor before looking back towards the sound of cartilage breaking. On the opposite side of the mat, Peter stands clutching his nose, blood already dripping behind his hand and onto his shirt. In front of him, Tony stands with his hands on his hips, face unimpressed.

“You’re next if you keep staring.” Natasha warns, and you huff, lifting your hands in front of your face again. “I just thought he got like… spidey tingles.” Natasha smirks behind her fists, throwing another punch at you. You block your face from her throw, adding “Like how can he save the city from supervillains but not stop a punch from Mr. Stark?”

Natasha rolls her eyes at your words, increasing the pace of her punches. You know it’s her way of trying to tell you to focus, but you have more questions to ask her. You send a kick her way, gaining the time in which she stumbles back to ask “And how does he get- Ouch!” Natasha laughs loudly as you double over, clutching your stomach. “Not cool, I have questions!”

“I thought your superpowers came with a spidey tingle too?” She mumbles, and you immediately retort with “That’s never been a part of my powers!”

“Okay calm down and go fix Parker’s nose. Don’t want to waste the medical team’s time with another broken nose.” You blink quickly as Natasha immediately walks away, searching around the training room to find where Peter is sitting on a bench, wiping blood on his shorts, and then where Natasha is joining Mr. Stark to inevitably make fun of their recruits. 'Their recruits' obviously being you and Peter.

You walk up to Peter despite only having spoken to him a handful of times about how Natasha might kill you before making you a hero. Peter looks up when your feet enter his ray of vision, and you smile pitifully at the way his nose lays crooked on his face. “It’s pretty bad, right?” He asks, the dried blood on his face cracking on his skin when he smiles at you. You nod, sitting next to Peter on the bench. “Natasha wants me to fix up your nose.”

Peter’s eyes go wide and his mouth gapes open as he points to his broken nose. “Um, my -” You nod, finishing his sentence for him. “Nose. Changing room?” Peter sighs, standing up and shrugging his shoulders. He could definitely pop his nose back in on his own, but he follows you to the changing room anyway, trying not to let his eyes linger on your legs for too long. He touches the area around his nose, wincing slightly. It’ll heal fast after you pop it back in, so he’s not really worried about that. What he’s more concerned about is the way you carefully dab a damp towel across his skin to clean the blood off, and more importantly, how hard his heart is beating after.

The pain is nothing compared to the care you display, and he’s surprised that you’re Natasha’s super tough recruit with the strong reputation. His lips quirk up into a smile when you stuff the towel under the running water again, squeezing the blood out before bringing it back up to his face. “Stop smiling.” You order, but your own lips tighten as you smile. He laughs, his entire upper body moving with the sound, and you take the towel away from his face while he goes still for you.

You wipe away the last of the dried blood on his face before tossing the towel into the sink. You gently take Peter’s wrists in your hands, looking at the blood that has settles into the lines on his palms, and you guide them towards the sink, turning the tap on again. He holds his hands out for you to pump hand soap into them, even though he’s not exactly sure why he does. You stand next to him as he washes his hands, catching his eye through the mirror. He’s trying to think of a conversation starter, but struggles to. After all, as the only two recruits for the team, you must have so much in common, so why isn’t he able to speak to you?

“My spidey tingle usually helps.” Peter says, and your head snaps towards him, eyes widening in surprise. “But not too much when I’m distracted.” You giggle at his words, tilting your head to the side as Peter turns away from you to dry his hands. “Aren’t you supposed to be most focused during sparring?” You question, and Peter ducks his head down, trying to hide his smile from you as he breathes out a short laugh.

“Yeah, I guess. But I find your presence… enticing.” Your eyebrows lift up at the unexpected words, and you search in Peter’s eyes for anything to reveal his emotions. “Come on, don’t just leave me hanging like that. You have to finish your thought.”

Peter rolls his shoulders back, tossing his head back as he groans. “I don’t know, you intrigue me.” He says, and you grin widely, asking “You find me enticing and intriguing, it sounds like I have you in the palm of my hand.” Peter’s face flushes darkly and he shyly turns his eyes away from you, unable to meet the confidence you display. “It’s okay, I find you intriguing too. I keep finding myself trying to discover more about you.” Peter swallows thickly, slowly bringing his eyes up to observe your posture. You lean your hip against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other, your arms laying by your sides. You’re not hiding anything from him through your body language, one hand carefully laid on the wet counter as you look up at him, a playful smile on your lips.

“Okay, please don’t start making out against the wall.” Both your heads snap towards Tony, who has just walked into the room. Peter rolls his eyes at his mentor, though his face flushes all the same, but you just cross your arms and turn towards Mr. Stark, watching as he walks towards a locker. You keep his eyes on him the entire time he’s in the changing room, and he glances back towards you a couple of times with a smirk. He raises his hands up in surrender and rushes out of the room with his things in hand, and it’s only when the door swings shut that you turn back towards Peter. “Maybe we can start with getting to know each other a little better.”

Peter nods, adding quietly “Yeah, it’d be nice to get close to the only other person the same age.”

“Then we can work our way up to making out against the wall.”

taglist: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @bxuzi, @rory-cakes, @dlljdhsh, , @fandomhoe101, @sharkers00, @paankhaleyaaar, @tea-biscuits-books, @bearymuchso, @princesstiti14, @challengers4ev, @doiki3, @daisylove3, @laufeysvalentine, @veveaq, @nothinlikeuuu, @kneelforloki

[purplespiritimagines]

a sun with nowhere to go

request i'd love a little fic about a gn reader who's powers are the result of forced experiments and as they struggle to control them? sort of like bob from the thunderbolts movie

content platonic batfamily & bob!inspired reader, gn!reader, forced human experimentation, medical abuse, torture, captivity/prolonged confinement, dehumanisation, loss of bodily autonomy, coercive conditioning and command phrases, graphic descriptions of invasive medical procedures, restraint, electrocution, severe pain, blood, dissociation, panic attacks, trauma responses, ptsd symptoms, sensory overload, emotional manipulation, memory intrusion, hallucinations, body horror(?), loss of control, implied child experimentation, references to death/murder, canon-typical violence, claustrophobia, buried-alive imagery, grief, recovery from abuse, hurt/comfort.

word count 9.5k

masterlist

The first thing you remembered was the white. White walls. White floors. White lights bright enough to turn the veins beneath your skin into blue-green rivers. White coats bending over you with their faces hidden behind masks, reducing themselves to pairs of detached eyes and voices that spoke about your body as if you had already left it.

Increase the voltage. Record the cellular response. Subject remains viable.

The word viable had followed you through years you could not properly count. Time did not exist inside the laboratory in mornings or birthdays or changing seasons. It existed in procedures. In the hours between injections. In the number of meals pushed through a slot before the next test. In how long you were permitted to sleep before an alarm dragged you back beneath the lights.

You learned to measure your life in pain because pain was the one thing they never allowed you to forget.

The second thing you remembered was gold. It began beneath your fingernails as a faint glow, delicate enough that you mistook it for a trick of exhaustion. Then it crawled into your palms. It filled the lines of your hands like molten metal poured into the shape of you, spreading up your wrists until every vein shone through your skin.

The scientists celebrated. You screamed.

They increased the voltage. The gold became brighter.

Years later—or perhaps only months; the laboratory had made those words meaningless—the entire facility was burning when Batman found you.

Not burning with flame. Flame would have been ordinary. Flame obeyed rules. This was light without heat, pouring through cracks in the reinforced walls and making the concrete groan like an animal beneath too much weight. The air trembled. Glass hovered in glittering clouds above the shattered observation rooms. Metal doors had folded inward without being touched, crushed by invisible hands until they resembled discarded foil.

You floated in the centre of the containment chamber with your knees drawn toward your chest. The restraints had melted from your wrists. The medical gown hung from your body in scorched strips, though your skin beneath it remained unmarked. Your hair drifted around your face as if you were submerged underwater. Gold blazed beneath your skin, too bright for anyone to look at directly.

Every alarm in the building wailed. You heard nothing but the command.

“Remain still until collection,” you whispered.

The words scraped from a throat ruined by screaming.

“Remain still until collection. Remain still until collection.”

Batman stood on the other side of the ruined glass.

You knew him immediately. The scientists had shown you footage during the behavioural evaluations. Batman crossing rooftops. Batman breaking through windows. Batman standing beside gods and aliens and people who could stop trains with their hands. They had monitored your physical reactions while you watched, searching for fear, admiration, aggression.

Potential threat, one scientist had said. Potential target, another had corrected.

Batman had been an image on a screen then. A black shape designed to make your heart race. In the laboratory, surrounded by the ruins of your cage, he was smaller than you expected. Human. The pointed ears of his cowl nearly brushed a bent support beam as he stepped through the broken wall. He moved slowly, boots crunching over fragments of glass that rose again once his weight left them.

You watched the cape spread behind him.

Your power stirred. The air darkened around the edges.

Batman stopped. His gloved hand rose toward his face.

Every lesson they had forced into you screamed that he was reaching for a weapon. Your body reacted before your mind could. The floor fractured beneath him. A wave of pressure struck the walls. Batman’s cape snapped violently behind him, though he did not move.

His hand continued upward. He removed the cowl.

The face beneath it was pale, bruised and unhidden. Dark hair fell over his forehead. His eyes were blue. Not detached. Not shielded behind glass. There were lines around them that suggested exhaustion rather than cruelty, though you had learned that cruel people could look tired too.

“My name is Bruce,” he said.

You stared at him. No one in the laboratory had names. They had titles, identification cards and levels of authorisation. You had memorised the differences between them because it was useful to know who might hit you and who preferred electricity.

Bruce placed the cowl on the ground. “I’m not here to collect you.”

Your knees drew tighter against your chest. “Remain still until collection.”

“No one is collecting you.”

The gold flickered.

A figure moved behind him, smaller and dressed in red and black. Another mask. Another threat.

Bruce lifted one hand without looking away from you. The figure stopped.

“Can you tell me your name?” he asked.

A number came to your tongue first. You swallowed it. Numbers were useful for organising test subjects. Numbers were printed on doors and wristbands and bags of blood. The scientists had used yours so often that sometimes it had drowned out the softer collection of sounds that belonged to you before them.

Bruce waited.

The building groaned around you. Dust hovered in the air, each particle caught in the distorted gravity of the room.

You told him your name.

Something shifted across his face. Not triumph. Not the bright satisfaction the scientists wore when you completed an exercise correctly.

Recognition.

“All right,” he said, repeating it carefully. “I’m going to get you out of here.”

The laboratory had told you that people made promises when they wanted obedience.

You knew better than to believe him. Still, when Bruce held out his hand, you lowered yourself slowly until your bare feet touched the ground.

You did not take it. He did not make you.

The world outside the facility was dark. You had forgotten that darkness could exist without becoming dangerous.

Night stretched above the forest, blue-black and vast, broken by more stars than you knew how to count. The sight of them made something inside you ache. You had seen images of the sky, but images were flat things displayed on screens. They had never explained how enormous it was. They had never told you that looking upward could feel like falling.

You stopped at the threshold of the building.

Bruce noticed immediately. The others waited several paces away. A young man in red and black stood with a staff held loosely at his side. A woman dressed in purple watched you with undisguised concern. A taller man wearing a red helmet had removed one of his gloves, though you did not understand why.

Beyond them, the laboratory’s outer structures smouldered beneath the moon.

“You don’t have to hurry,” Bruce said.

You stared at the sky. “There is no ceiling.”

The young man in red and black made a small sound, almost a laugh, until the woman elbowed him.

Bruce’s expression tightened. “No.”

“What keeps it up?”

No one answered immediately.

The man in the red helmet tilted his head toward the stars. “Nothing. That’s kind of the point.”

You looked at him. His voice was rough, but there was no mockery in it.

Bruce guided you toward the aircraft waiting beyond the trees. Guided was perhaps the wrong word. He walked several feet ahead so that you could follow without feeling pursued. The others formed a loose shape around you, never close enough to touch.

You made it halfway before the sound of the engine reached you.

The laboratory vanished. The forest became white walls. The aircraft became an examination table. The vibration entered through your feet and travelled into your bones, matching the hum of the machine they used to open your cells and fill them with something that had not belonged there.

Your power exploded outward. Trees bent away from you. The aircraft lifted from the ground, its landing gear tearing furrows through the earth. Everyone shouted at once.

You rose into the air. Gold bled into black. It began at your fingertips, darkness swallowing the light beneath your skin. Your shadow spread across the clearing despite the moon hanging behind you. The shape twisted, stretching too long, rising over your shoulders like another body attempting to unfold from within your own.

The man in the red helmet moved first. He stepped toward you.

“Jason,” Bruce warned.

“Yeah, I see it.”

Jason removed the helmet and placed it on the ground. A white streak divided his dark hair. A scar cut through one eyebrow. His face was younger than his voice, his jaw clenched hard enough to show the muscle beneath his skin.

He lifted both empty hands.

“It’s just an engine,” he said. “It’s loud. It’s annoying. It’s not that machine.”

You could not breathe.

The clearing stretched around you, but you could smell antiseptic. You could taste blood. Somewhere beyond sight, a scientist told you to remain still.

Jason’s eyes stayed on yours. “I know your body’s telling you different,” he continued. “Bodies are real dramatic like that. Think they know everything.”

The darkness behind you shuddered.

Your power reached for him. You felt the precise pressure required to break every bone in his body. The knowledge appeared inside you without permission, a calculation written into your nerves. You saw how easily you could lift him. How quickly he would stop breathing.

Jason did not step back.

He should have. You wanted him to.

“Tell it no,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Yeah, you can.”

The words were too close to the scientists. Your shadow surged.

Jason’s expression changed. Not fear. Understanding.

“Okay,” he said. “You can’t yet.”

The command inside your head faltered.

Jason lowered himself to sit on the damp ground, legs crossed as if he had chosen the clearing for an evening rest rather than being forced there by a person capable of turning him into ash.

“You don’t have to get in the plane,” he said. “Nobody’s strapping you down. Nobody’s putting you anywhere.”

The woman in purple sat several feet behind him. The young man with the staff followed. Bruce remained standing, but his hands lowered to his sides. One by one, the surrounding figures made themselves smaller.

The aircraft settled gradually back onto the ground.

You did not remember falling.

You woke beneath another white ceiling.

For a moment, there was only instinct.

The bed disintegrated beneath you. Wood, fabric and metal tore apart before you had fully opened your eyes. The pieces hovered in a violent orbit. The windows rattled. A lamp shot from the bedside table and shattered against the far wall.

You scrambled backwards, though there was nowhere to go.

The room was enormous compared to your cell, decorated in muted blue and dark wood. Heavy curtains framed tall windows. A fireplace sat cold and empty along one wall. Someone had placed books on a shelf and clothes in an open wardrobe.

There were no visible cameras. That frightened you more.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

You stared.

Another knock. Then a voice, measured and calm. “May I come in?”

You recognised Bruce.

The room remained suspended around you.

“No.” The answer left your mouth before you could consider whether refusal was permitted.

Bruce did not enter. “All right.”

You waited for punishment. None came.

Minutes passed. Perhaps longer.

The fragments of the bed lowered onto the carpet.

Bruce remained on the other side of the door.

“There’s food outside,” he said. “No one will come in unless you ask.”

His footsteps retreated.

You waited until you could no longer hear them before approaching the door.

A tray sat on the floor. Soup, bread, fruit and a glass of water. No utensils sharp enough to become a weapon. You wondered whether that had been deliberate.

Beside the tray was a piece of paper.

The room is yours. The bathroom door does not lock automatically. The windows can be opened. The house alarm will sound if you leave, but it will not stop you. No one will touch you without permission.

You read the sentences until the letters blurred.

Then you carried the tray into the room and sat on the floor because there was no longer a bed.

You stayed in the bedroom for six days. Bruce replaced the bed on the second day, though not personally. An elderly man named Alfred knocked, introduced himself and asked whether he could enter with two delivery workers.

You told him no. He replied that this was perfectly reasonable and left the mattress outside the door. You dragged it inside with your mind once the corridor was empty.

The mattress remained on the floor.

People visited without entering.

Dick spoke through the door while performing what sounded like increasingly ridiculous impressions of Bruce. You did not respond, but he returned the next day with a deck of cards and explained a game to you from the hallway.

Stephanie—whom you eventually identified as the woman in purple—left brightly coloured socks outside the room because she had decided the provided clothes were “giving ethically questionable spa retreat.”

Tim, the young man with the staff, did not visit. You occasionally heard his footsteps stop outside before continuing down the corridor.

Jason came at night.

He never knocked. He sat on the other side of the wall and read aloud. The first book was about a sailor hunting a whale, which seemed unnecessarily complicated and full of people making terrible decisions around the ocean. Jason offered sarcastic commentary whenever the narrator wandered away from the story to discuss knots or whale anatomy.

On the fourth night, you opened the door. Jason was sitting with his back against the opposite wall, a paperback held open in one hand. He wore a dark sweatshirt and loose trousers. No armour. No helmet. A faint scar curved around the side of his throat.

He glanced up.

You nearly closed the door.

Jason returned his gaze to the page.

“You’re right,” he said. “This guy needs an editor.”

You remained in the doorway. He continued reading.

After several minutes, you lowered yourself to sit inside the room.

The threshold remained between you. Jason did not cross it.

“Why do you come here?” you asked.

His eyes remained on the book. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No, it’s an answer. Just not the one you wanted.”

Your power stirred faintly beneath your skin, catching on irritation. The lamp above Jason flickered.

He noticed but did not look at it.

“Bruce asked you to watch me.”

“Bruce asks me to do a lot of things. Builds character when I ignore him.”

“You are watching me.”

“Reading.”

“You are positioned outside the only exit.”

Jason closed the book around one finger. “You want me to move?”

You hesitated. “Yes.”

He stood immediately. The movement was careful but not exaggerated. He crossed to the far end of the corridor and sat beneath a painting of a stern-looking man with an unfortunate moustache.

“Better?”

You examined the space between him and the stairs. “Yes.”

“Great. Chapter twelve.”

He reopened the book.

That was the first choice you made in Wayne Manor.

Not an important one. Not heroic.

A distance of several metres.

Still, no one tried to take it from you.

The house was full of people who moved like ghosts.

You began noticing them once you left the room.

Bruce vanished before dawn and returned after midnight, carrying bruises beneath expensive clothing. Dick could enter a room without making the floorboards creak, but often chose to announce himself by singing badly. Tim appeared wherever coffee existed, his hair disordered and his eyes permanently shadowed. Damian walked with the rigid precision of someone who believed the entire world might become a battlefield if he relaxed. Cassandra made almost no sound at all.

Duke was the easiest to see. Something about him seemed to catch light, even in dim rooms. He had a warmth that did not resemble the artificial blaze beneath your skin. His was morning sunlight across a kitchen table. Yours was the centre of a star held together by force.

The first time Duke looked at you, he winced.

You recoiled.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It’s not—you’re not hurting me.”

“You looked away.”

“Because you’re bright.”

You glanced at your hands. They appeared normal.

Duke seemed to realise the problem.

“I can see light differently,” he explained. “Metahuman thing. You’ve got…” He paused, searching for words that would not frighten you. “A lot going on.”

You waited for him to call Bruce. Instead, Duke tilted his head.

“There’s gold around most of you,” he said. “A little red by your chest. Blue at the back of your head. The dark stuff is mostly around your hands.”

Your fingers curled into your palms. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know yet.”

The honesty unsettled you. Scientists always had answers. Even when their answers were wrong, they delivered them with the confidence of people who knew uncertainty only happened to someone else.

“Is it dangerous?”

Duke looked directly at you. “Does it feel dangerous?”

You did not know.

That became the problem. Your body no longer belonged to ordinary sensation. Hunger could feel like heat behind your eyes. Exhaustion could make the furniture drift. Anger accumulated inside your jaw until your teeth glowed. Fear often arrived as nothing at all, an empty quiet that preceded catastrophic destruction.

The laboratory had demanded results, not understanding. 

The Batfamily attempted to teach you the difference. Their first attempt was disastrous.

Bruce constructed a training chamber beneath the house. The walls were reinforced with layers of steel, composite plating and materials he refused to name. Sensors tracked your pulse, temperature, neurological activity and energy output. He explained each device. He asked permission before attaching anything to your body.

You agreed because agreement was what people wanted when they phrased commands politely.

The session began with small objects.

A wooden block placed on a table.

“Lift it,” Bruce said. The block rose. “Rotate it.” You rotated it. “Set it down.” You set it down.

Bruce placed another block beside the first.

Then five. Then ten.

The instructions continued.

Lift. Turn. Hold. Release.

Your breathing grew shallow.

The chamber disappeared behind white light.

Bruce asked you to lift a metal sphere. You heard increase the voltage.

The sphere crumpled.

“Stop,” Bruce said. Your power interpreted the word as another command.

Every object in the chamber shot upward.

Bruce moved toward the control panel. A mechanical barrier began descending between you. It was a safety measure. You understood that somewhere beneath the panic.

Your body understood only containment.

The gold beneath your skin turned black. The chamber lights died. Something unfolded behind you.

It had no face, yet you felt it open its eyes.

Bruce activated the emergency barrier.

You tore it apart. The reinforced metal peeled away from the ceiling and slammed into the wall. Alarms erupted. Your power spread through the Cave, catching at every machine, every weapon, every vast piece of stone above you.

For one terrible moment, you felt the entire Manor. Its foundations. Its beams. The fragile human bodies moving within it. You could have lifted the house from the earth. You could have crushed everyone inside.

Then a hand struck the emergency release beside the chamber door.

Damian entered. He wore training clothes, a wooden sword strapped across his back. His expression was hard, focused.

“Control yourself,” he commanded.

The words hit you harder than any weapon.

You were back beneath the lights. A scientist stood over you as your body convulsed against the restraints.

Control yourself.

You cannot be useful in this condition.

Control yourself.

You screamed.

Darkness swallowed the chamber.

Damian disappeared inside it.

You saw his fear. Not as an expression. As a place. A child knelt in a stone room with blood on his hands while voices circled him, correcting his posture. A sword trembled between fingers too small to hold it. A woman watched from above, beautiful and distant. A man dressed as a bat turned away again and again.

You had no desire to see these things. Your power fed them to you.

Damian drew his sword. The blade passed through the darkness without touching you.

His movements slowed.

The child in the memory raised his own weapon. You felt Damian understand.

He lowered the sword.

The nightmares continued around him. His mother’s disappointment. His grandfather’s approval. Bruce’s silence. The graves of people Damian had not saved and the bodies of people he had once been taught to consider irrelevant.

Damian’s face had gone bloodless. Still, he placed the sword on the ground.

“I was wrong,” he said. Your scream fractured into breath. “I should not have ordered you.”

The darkness rippled.

Damian’s eyes lifted toward the shape towering behind you. “You are not required to master this for my comfort.”

The chamber returned in pieces. Bruce stood beyond the ruined barrier. Dick had arrived beside him. Jason was attempting to force his way past while Tim held one arm across his chest.

Damian remained inside.

“Would you like me to leave?” he asked.

No one had ever asked you that during an episode.

You nodded. Damian backed out of the chamber without turning away.

The darkness collapsed.

You hit the floor.

For three days afterwards, you refused to speak to anyone.

Bruce did not attempt another training session.

Damian left a folded piece of paper outside your bedroom. You stared at it for several hours before opening it.

My methods were drawn from experiences I should not have imposed upon you. Discipline kept me alive, but survival is not proof that a method was kind. I will not issue another command regarding your body. I apologise.

There was no request for forgiveness.

Beneath the note sat a sketchbook and a set of pencils.

You found Damian in the library that evening. He sat beneath a lamp with a book open in front of him. A large dog slept across his feet. A small grey cat occupied the back of his chair, tail curled beside his ear.

Both animals looked toward you.

The dog stood. You froze.

“Titus,” Damian said quietly.

The dog did not stop. He approached with his tail moving cautiously from side to side, then pressed his enormous head against your hip.

Your hands lifted, uncertain. “Why is he doing that?”

“He wants you to pet him.”

The concept seemed suspiciously simple.

You placed your palm against Titus’s head. The dog sighed.

Gold flickered beneath your skin.

Neither animal reacted.

The cat leapt from Damian’s chair onto the table, crossed the books and climbed onto your shoulder with complete disregard for personal boundaries.

You stared at Damian.

His mouth curved almost imperceptibly. “They possess excellent judgement.”

“Your cat is standing on me.”

“Yes.”

“Should you remove him?”

“No. He has made his decision.”

The cat began purring beside your ear.

You sat opposite Damian. The sketchbook remained between your hands.

“Do you draw?” you asked.

“I do.”

“What?”

“Whatever interests me.”

You looked down at the blank page.

Damian closed his book. “May I show you?”

You nodded.

He opened another sketchbook and turned it around. The pages contained studies of the Manor grounds, Gotham rooftops, Titus sleeping in impossible positions and the hands of various family members. Bruce’s were scarred and square. Dick’s were long-fingered, caught in motion. Jason’s held the spine of a book. Cassandra’s rested lightly against a ballet barre.

Damian turned another page. You recognised yourself.

The drawing showed you in the training chamber, though not as you had appeared in the recording Bruce later offered to destroy. Damian had drawn the dark shape rising behind you, vast and inhuman, but its body curved around your smaller figure. Protecting you.

You swallowed. “That is not what happened.”

“It is what I observed.”

“It tried to hurt you.”

“It perceived me as a threat.”

“It showed me things.”

Damian’s fingers tightened against the edge of the page. “Yes.”

“I did not choose to see them.”

“I know.”

You touched the graphite darkness surrounding the drawn version of your body. “Why did you make it look like that?”

“Because monsters do not shield their vulnerable parts.”

The answer sat inside you, warm and painful.

No one in the laboratory had considered the darkness a shield. They had called it a secondary state. A catastrophic response. An asset with unacceptable volatility.

Damian had looked at it once and seen something trying, however terribly, to keep you alive.

Recovery did not occur gracefully. You broke seventeen glasses in your first month at the Manor, most of them during breakfast. You woke suspended against the ceiling often enough that Alfred began leaving pillows across the floor. You accidentally threw Tim into a bookshelf when he approached from behind, though he insisted the greater crime was the destruction of a first-edition technical manual.

You apologised for three days. Tim accepted on the first and became increasingly distressed by the continued apologies. On the fourth, he placed a small bracelet on the kitchen table between you.

You stared at it.

“I made this,” he said, then immediately looked uncomfortable. “Not for restraint. It doesn’t inhibit anything.”

Your shoulders remained tense.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “It monitors environmental changes. Gravity, electromagnetic fields, temperature. It vibrates before your powers become visible.”

“You made a device to monitor me.”

The words emerged colder than intended. Tim went still.

Around you, the kitchen seemed to hold its breath.

“I made it to help you recognise the early signs,” he said. “But you’re right.”

He took the bracelet from the table.

That evening, you found a folder outside your room.

Inside were hundreds of pages. Medical records. Diagrams. Reconstructed notes from the laboratory. Photographs taken while you were unconscious. Security footage transcriptions. Calculations written in Tim’s cramped handwriting.

He knew what they had done to you. Perhaps not all of it, but more than you knew yourself.

Your body began to glow.

You found him in the Cave. Tim sat before the largest computer, deleting files. Lines of data vanished from the screens one by one.

“What are you doing?”

He turned. His face looked exhausted. “Destroying my copies.”

“You watched the recordings.”

“Yes.”

“You saw them—”

“Yes.”

The darkness gathered at your feet.

Tim did not approach.

“I thought I was helping,” he said. “The organisation still has people out there. I wanted names, procedures, weaknesses in their system. I wanted enough information to make sure they could never do it again.”

“You looked at me the way they did.”

“I know.” The agreement stole your anger’s momentum. Tim’s voice broke slightly. “I didn’t mean to. That doesn’t make it better.”

One screen remained active. It displayed an image from a procedure you could not remember. Your body lay restrained beneath white light, chest opened by an incision that had already begun healing around surgical instruments.

Tim reached toward the keyboard.

“Wait.”

His hand stopped.

You stared at the image. The person on the table looked dead. No. Worse than dead. Objects could not be dead. They could only be broken, repaired or discarded.

“Was I awake?” you asked.

Tim’s silence answered.

You pressed one hand against your sternum.

There was no scar. Your body had erased the evidence.

“Do you want me to delete it?” Tim asked.

You wanted the image gone. You wanted every record burned. Every piece of proof reduced to ash so that no one could ever look at your suffering again.

You also wanted to know. The desires tore at each other.

“Give me the files,” you said. Tim nodded. “All of them.”

“Yes.”

“And do not keep copies.”

“I won’t.”

“If I decide to destroy them, you do not stop me.”

“I won’t.”

The darkness retreated by an inch.

Tim copied the remaining files onto an isolated drive. He placed it in your palm.

The device was tiny. Your whole captivity fit inside something smaller than your hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

You closed your fingers around it. “I know.”

Trust did not repair itself in that moment.

It returned by fragments. Tim began asking questions instead of presenting answers. Would you like to know what he had discovered about your regeneration? Did you want the laboratory maps? Could he examine the bracelet again if you remained present?

You said no often. Every refusal made the next yes easier.

Eventually, you allowed him to finish the bracelet.

The first time it vibrated, you were in the sitting room with Dick. He had decided you needed to understand card games, though his rules appeared to change whenever he started losing. You held three cards in your hand and suspected at least two were useless.

The bracelet pulsed once against your wrist.

You froze. 

Dick’s smile disappeared. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay.”

The lights brightened. Your cards lifted from your fingers.

Dick set his own hand facedown. “Can you feel anything?”

You searched your body. At first, there was only confusion. Then pressure behind your eyes.

“My head.”

“Pain?”

“No. Full.”

“Full of what?”

You looked toward the window. Rain struck the glass in hard silver lines. Thunder rolled beyond the grounds.

The pressure increased. “Sound.”

Dick nodded. “Too much sound?”

You listened. Rain. Wind. The ticking clock. A television in another room. Alfred moving dishes in the kitchen. Tim typing below the house. Damian turning a page in the library. Bruce’s heartbeat in his study. All of it entered you at once.

“I can hear everything.”

Dick rose, slowly enough not to startle you. “Balcony or somewhere quiet?”

The question was simple. Not stop or continue. Not control yourself.

A choice.

“Quiet.”

Dick led you to a small storage room in the centre of the house, windowless and lined with thick walls. He turned off the overhead light and sat against the door.

You lowered yourself onto the floor. The sounds remained.

Dick began speaking. Not instructions. A story. He told you about the time Jason had replaced every photograph in the Manor with badly edited pictures of Bruce smiling. He described Alfred discovering the prank and pretending not to notice for six weeks because Bruce was too stubborn to mention it first.

Your breathing slowed. The house became quieter.

When you emerged, the storm had passed.

Dick beamed as if you had achieved something miraculous.

You had done nothing except notice. It felt miraculous anyway.

Jason taught you that control did not always mean gentleness.

There were days when anger entered you like a blade. You would wake furious without understanding why. The fabric against your skin felt unbearable. Every voice scraped against your nerves. The gold inside you churned, seeking a direction.

Bruce suggested meditation. You shattered a chair.

Jason found you standing over the pieces. “Feel better?”

“No.”

“Yeah, chairs are weak. Barely counts.”

You looked at him suspiciously. He tossed you a jacket.

An hour later, you stood inside an abandoned warehouse beyond Gotham’s industrial district. The building had been cleared for demolition. Broken windows lined the walls. Concrete pillars rose into darkness, coated in decades of dust.

Jason gestured broadly. “Go nuts.”

You stared at him. “That is not safe.”

“Neither is bottling it up until you accidentally launch the Manor into orbit.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever you want.”

No one had ever given you destruction without assigning a target.

You lifted one hand. 

A concrete wall exploded. Dust flooded the warehouse.

Jason coughed into his sleeve. “Okay. Great start. Maybe warn me next time.”

You destroyed everything.

Not the city. Not a person. Not yourself.

Walls. Steel beams. Abandoned machinery. You tore the roof away and sent it spinning into the empty yard. You crushed concrete into powder, then compressed the powder into gleaming black stone.

Jason watched from a safe distance.

When the fury finally burned itself out, you sank onto the cracked floor. Your skin had begun healing around fissures of gold. Regeneration pulled painfully beneath the surface, cells knitting themselves too quickly.

Jason approached with a bag over one shoulder. He handed you a bottle of water and something wrapped in foil.

“What is it?”

“Sandwich.”

“Why?”

“Because you just levelled a building.”

You ate.

Jason sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost touched.

“My body hurts,” you admitted.

“I figured.”

“It heals.”

“Doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

The scientists had said pain was irrelevant when no permanent damage remained.

Jason seemed to hear the thought in your silence. He opened the bag again and produced a thick sweatshirt.

“Arms up.” You stiffened. Jason paused. “Or you can put it on yourself.”

You took the sweatshirt. The fabric was warm.

“Your power isn’t bad because it wants somewhere to go,” he said. “You just need places that aren’t people.”

“What if I cannot choose?”

“Then we keep practising before it gets that far.”

“And if it does?”

Jason looked across the wrecked warehouse. “Then we come get you.”

The statement was delivered with such certainty that you almost believed him.

Cassandra was the only one who knew when you had left yourself.

You could speak, walk and complete tasks while your mind floated somewhere distant. The laboratory had rewarded this ability. Dissociation made you cooperative. A body could obey more easily when the person inside it had gone silent.

The family often missed it. Cass never did.

She found you one morning standing in the kitchen with a mug held between both hands.

Coffee spilled across the floor. The mug was empty. You continued tilting it.

Cass stepped into your line of sight. You looked through her.

She lifted one hand, palm visible. No threat. Your body recognised the gesture before you did.

Cass breathed in. She breathed out. You mirrored her.

Her movements remained slow, not because she feared startling an animal but because she understood that every sudden motion could become a command.

Cass pointed to herself. “Cass.”

She pointed to you.

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came.

She repeated your name.

Not urgently. An offering.

Your fingers loosened. The mug fell.

Cass caught it before it hit the ground.

You returned to yourself with a gasp. The kitchen was too bright. The spilled coffee smelled bitter. Cass stood in front of you, holding the mug.

“What happened?”

“Gone,” she said.

“Where?”

Cass touched two fingers lightly to her own temple.

You understood. “I did not know.”

“I know.”

“Did I hurt anyone?”

“No.”

The answer made your knees weak.

Cass lowered herself with you when you sat on the floor.

“Human?” you asked.

It was not the question you intended. Cass considered it anyway.

Then she placed your hand against the centre of her chest. Her heartbeat tapped steadily beneath your palm.

“Choice,” she said.

Your own heart began matching its rhythm.

Duke helped you name the colours. Gold meant power, but not emotion. Red appeared when your body felt threatened. Blue collected around the back of your skull when you were overwhelmed. Silver flickered through your hands when you were curious. Black was not anger, as Bruce had assumed. Black was absence.

“It shows up when you stop feeling,” Duke explained.

You sat together on the roof of Wayne Manor as dawn softened the sky. He wore a heavy coat. You had discovered that cold no longer affected you in the same way, though you still liked the weight of fabric around your shoulders.

“So the darkness comes when I feel nothing.”

“Not exactly.” Duke watched the first edge of sun appear beyond the trees. “I think it comes when you’re feeling too much to stay present.”

You looked at your hands. A faint gold shimmered beneath them.

“Can you see it now?”

“Gold. Some blue.”

“What does blue mean?”

“We’re figuring it out.”

The phrase had become familiar.

Not a failure of knowledge. A promise that you were permitted to be unfinished.

Steph taught you that terror could coexist with ridiculousness. She refused to call the dark manifestation by the laboratory’s designation, which appeared in the records as VOID RESPONSE PHENOMENON.

“That sounds like a rejected prog-rock album,” she announced during a family meeting.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “It is the terminology used by the organisation.”

“The organisation also thought vivisecting people was a reasonable Tuesday activity. Their branding privileges are revoked.”

Steph began suggesting alternatives.

The Gloom Goblin. Traumazilla. The Goth Upgrade. Bruce vetoed that one on principle.

You eventually chose Eclipse. The name frightened you less. An eclipse was not the destruction of the sun. It was only a shadow passing in front of it.

The family learned.

Bruce removed the locked protocols from your room. Tim gave you access to every system monitoring your energy. Damian asked before beginning training. Dick stopped trying to make sadness disappear. Jason redirected anger without feeding it. Duke told you what he saw but allowed you to decide whether you needed help. Cass taught everyone the signs of dissociation. Steph interrupted every conversation that started treating you like a weapon instead of a participant.

It was not perfect.

Bruce still watched too closely. Tim sometimes forgot questions could feel like examinations. Damian’s concern hardened into criticism when he was frightened. Dick joked at the wrong moments. Jason disappeared when his own memories became too heavy. Duke exhausted himself trying to catch every change in your light. Cass struggled to express fear before it turned into action. Steph occasionally made choices for you while defending your right to choose.

They were a family. Families, you learned, were people repeatedly hurting one another in smaller ways than the world had hurt them, then trying to become better before the wounds became permanent.

You began to belong to them so gradually that you did not notice until the organisation returned.

It happened during dinner. Alfred had prepared enough food for twice the number of people seated around the table, which Jason insisted was because half the family behaved like starving wolves. Bruce was reading a message beneath the table. Damian was pretending not to feed Titus. Stephanie had stolen food from Tim’s plate three times without him noticing.

You sat between Duke and Cass.

The television in the adjacent sitting room turned on. No one had touched it.

Static filled the screen. Every light in the Manor flickered.

Bruce stood.

The television displayed a white room.

Your fork fell from your hand.

A masked figure appeared on the screen. The mask was featureless except for a narrow black lens across the eyes. You knew that mask. Director Olsen had worn it during high-risk procedures.

He was supposed to be dead.

Bruce had shown you the records. Olsen had vanished after the laboratory collapse, presumed killed beneath several tonnes of reinforced concrete.

The figure tilted his head.

“Subject,” he said.

The word entered your body like a key.

Jason overturned his chair. Tim lunged toward the control system.

The screen multiplied. Every computer, phone and security display in the Manor showed the same white room.

Director Olsen spoke a sequence of numbers. Your number.

You clamped both hands over your ears. The sound did not come from outside. It was already inside you.

“Remain still until collection.”

The gold vanished. Black spread beneath your skin.

Cass reached you first, stopping just beyond arm’s length. Her palms were open.

You could not see her. The dining room became the laboratory. Your family became silhouettes behind reinforced glass.

Olsen continued speaking. “Threat response authorised.”

Your body rose from the floor. The table split down the centre.

Bruce shouted an evacuation order. The word order struck the conditioning buried in your nervous system.

Eclipse unfolded.

Darkness erupted through Wayne Manor. It did not merely extinguish light. It consumed dimension. Walls stretched into impossible distances. The ceiling disappeared. Black tendrils poured from your shadow and climbed through the house, wrapping around every person they touched.

The family vanished into their worst memories. Bruce stood in Crime Alley. Pearls bounced across wet pavement. He was eight years old again, too small to hold his mother’s hand and his father’s body at the same time. The gunshot repeated. Every time he turned, another alley opened, another child knelt beside another pair of bodies.

Dick fell forever. The circus lights spun above him. His parents’ hands slipped from the trapeze. He reached for them but his arms remained too short, his fingers closing around empty air as their bodies struck the ground again and again.

Jason woke inside a coffin. Earth pressed against his mouth. His fingernails tore away as he clawed upward. Laughter filtered through the soil, bright and terrible. A crowbar struck somewhere in the dark.

Tim sat alone before the Batcomputer while every screen displayed a different death he had failed to prevent. Bruce. Kon. Steph. His father. Himself. Calculations covered the walls, each ending with the same conclusion. Too late.

Damian held a sword over a kneeling child. His grandfather commanded him to strike. His mother watched. Bruce stood behind them, silent. Every refusal made the child’s face change into someone Damian loved.

Duke stood beneath a blackened sun while Gotham disappeared street by street. His light poured from his hands and died before reaching anyone.

Stephanie watched doors close. Bruce telling her she was not ready. Tim choosing someone else. Her father laughing. Every room in the Manor emptying when she entered.

Cass stood in a room filled with bodies. Words surrounded her, incomprehensible and accusing. She moved through every death she had caused, every death she had failed to prevent, her hands stained no matter how often she washed them.

Eclipse fed. You were trapped at its centre. The laboratory held you beneath white light.

Director Olsen stood beside the table.

“You see?” he asked. “Attachment creates instability.”

You could hear the family screaming beyond the walls. “Stop.”

“You were designed to expose weakness.”

“Stop.”

“Threat response authorised.”

Your power tightened around them.

You felt eight human hearts. Bruce’s slowing beneath the weight of grief. Dick’s racing with the endless fall. Jason’s stuttering in the coffin. Tim’s skipping as panic overtook calculation. Damian’s hard and furious. Duke’s burning itself empty. Steph’s breaking beneath abandonment. Cass’ steady despite the bodies.

You could crush them. Olsen wanted you to. A weapon obeyed.

Outside the Eclipse, Batman opened his eyes. Bruce remained kneeling in the alley, but he understood that it was not real. The knowledge did not make the grief less sharp. His mother’s pearls still rolled past his hand. His father’s blood still warmed the pavement. 

He had built contingencies for this. A sonic pulse calibrated to your altered nervous system. A compound designed to disrupt the cellular reaction. Satellite weapons capable of striking the Manor with enough force to incapacitate even you.

The controls waited inside his gauntlet.

Bruce looked at the child kneeling beside the bodies. Then he removed the gauntlet.

The alley trembled.

“You are frightened,” he said.

The child looked up. The face was yours.

“You are not cruel.”

The vision shattered.

Bruce stood in the dining room, though the darkness remained thick around him. He could barely see your silhouette.

He stepped forward.

Eclipse struck him with another memory. Jason’s broken body in Ethiopia.

Bruce staggered.

He continued.

Dick understood next. He stopped reaching for his parents. The fall continued around him, but he closed his eyes and remembered the first time you had laughed during flight training. You had hovered stiffly above the Cave while Dick swung in reckless circles around you, calling instructions that became progressively less useful.

At some point, you had tried to imitate him.

You spun upside down. Your startled laughter had lifted every tool from the workbenches.

Dick held onto that sound. The circus dissolved.

He found Bruce moving through the dark.

“Not alone,” Dick said, though he did not know whether you could hear.

Jason remained inside the coffin.

He knew this nightmare. He knew the smell of blood and damp wood. He knew the agony in his hands. He knew the certainty that no one was coming.

The earth pressed tighter. Jason stopped digging.

“Fine,” he rasped into the dark. “Then I’ll stay.”

The coffin lid shifted. Not upward.

Inward.

He saw you curled beside him, knees against your chest, repeating a command beneath your breath.

Remain still until collection.

Jason turned onto his side despite the impossible lack of space.

“Bad news,” he said. “I’m incredibly stubborn.”

Your eyes opened.

The coffin broke apart.

Jason emerged in the dining room on his knees, blood beneath nails that were not actually damaged.

Tim attempted to solve the nightmare. He traced the code through the screens. Identified the transmission source. Calculated the frequency disrupting your brain. Every answer multiplied into ten more failures.

The screens showed the family dying. Too late.

Tim closed his eyes. He remembered the bracelet. The first vibration. The pressure behind your eyes. The relief on your face when you realised the sensation had a name.

The solution had not been the device. It had been recognition.

Tim began speaking.

“You hate pears,” he said. The screens flickered. “You pretend you don’t, because Alfred keeps buying them.” The calculations vanished one line at a time. “You sleep on the floor when you’re upset, even though there’s a bed. You like the blue mug with the crack in the handle. You read the endings of books first and somehow think that isn’t a crime.”

A doorway appeared.

Tim stepped through it.

Damian lowered the sword. The child kneeling before him looked up with your face. His grandfather repeated the command.

Strike.

Damian dropped the weapon. “No.”

The walls shook. “You will obey.”

“No.”

The child’s face became Bruce’s. Dick’s. Jason’s. Yours.

Damian knelt.

“I was taught that control required obedience,” he said. “I was wrong.”

The sword disappeared. Titus appeared beside him, tail wagging.

Damian placed one hand on the dog’s head. The nightmare opened.

Duke stood beneath the black sun until he understood that the darkness was not consuming his light. It was hiding from it.

He stopped trying to burn through. Instead, he reduced his power to the smallest glow he could create. A single point of warmth.

“Here,” he said.

The dark shifted toward him.

Steph kicked open a door. Another closed. She kicked that one open too.

The empty rooms repeated. Everyone left. Everyone always left.

Steph stopped chasing them.

“Yeah, okay,” she said to the void. “Abandonment issues. Very original. You know what’s actually scarier?”

The darkness paused.

“Bruce’s taste in furniture.”

A laugh echoed somewhere beyond the rooms. Small. Broken.

Yours.

Steph followed it.

Cass moved through bodies. She did not deny them. She touched each face. Acknowledged each wound.

Then she found you lying among them, dark power pouring from your mouth and eyes.

You looked at her.

“Monster,” you said.

Cass shook her head.

You lifted blood-covered hands. Cass placed her own palms against them.

“Choice,” she said.

The bodies vanished.

One by one, the Batfamily entered the centre of the Eclipse.

Olsen stood beside your restraint table. His mask turned toward them.

“Threats identified,” he said.

Your power rose.

Bruce stopped several feet away. No one wore a mask now.

Dick stood at his shoulder. Jason remained slightly ahead of Tim. Damian’s hands were empty. Duke carried a small glow in his palm. Steph’s face was pale with fear she did not attempt to hide. Cass breathed slowly.

“You need to leave,” you said. Your voice came from everywhere.

Jason shook his head. “Nope.”

“I will hurt you.”

“You might,” Bruce said.

The honesty pierced deeper than reassurance.

Olsen reached for the controls. “Attachment creates instability.”

Tim looked toward the masked figure. “He isn’t real.”

“He is.”

“The memory is real,” Tim corrected. “The command is real. He isn’t here.”

Outside the Manor, far beneath Gotham, the actual Director Olsen watched through a network of stolen cameras.

Tim could not see him. Still, the distinction mattered. The figure beside you was not the man. It was everything he had placed inside your head.

Olsen pressed a button. Pain tore through your body.

Eclipse screamed.

The darkness surged toward the family.

Bruce did not activate a contingency. Dick did not run. Jason stepped in front of Tim. Damian braced himself beside Cass. Duke’s light went out. Steph cried out.

You felt the power closing around their throats.

“No,” you gasped.

Olsen’s voice sharpened. “Threat response authorised.”

Your body obeyed. Your mind did not.

“No.”

The darkness hesitated.

Every face in front of you was afraid. Not of a hypothetical disaster. Of you.

Steph met your eyes. “I’m scared,” she said. Eclipse shuddered. “But I’m still here.”

Dick stepped closer. “So am I.”

“We all are,” Duke said.

Olsen increased the signal.

You screamed as your cells ignited.

The restraint table became real beneath you. Metal closed around your wrists. White coats filled the room.

Jason climbed onto the platform. The scientists passed through him like smoke.

He reached toward you, then stopped before touching.

“Hand?” he asked.

You stared. The restraints tightened.

“Hand?” Jason repeated.

A choice.

You opened your fingers.

Jason took them. His palm was scarred and warm.

The laboratory flickered.

Cass approached your other side.

She held out her hand. You took it.

Damian sat on the floor where you could see him. Duke rekindled the small light. Tim continued listing ordinary things.

“You steal Dick’s cereal.”

“Everyone steals my cereal,” Dick protested.

“You sit with Alfred while he makes bread,” Tim continued. “You know every hidden passage in the east wing. You like thunderstorms now as long as the windows are open.”

“You broke my favourite mug,” Steph added.

“It was already cracked.”

“That crack had character.”

The restraints loosened.

Olsen shouted the command again. Bruce walked through him.

The memory distorted around Bruce’s body.

He stood beside the table and looked down at you.

Not the subject. Not the weapon.

You.

“What do you want?” he asked.

No one had asked that when your power was at its worst.

The answer seemed impossible.

You wanted the pain to stop. You wanted the family safe. You wanted Olsen dead. You wanted the laboratory erased so completely that history itself forgot it had existed. 

You wanted breakfast in the kitchen. Jason reading badly written novels in the corridor. Damian pretending his cat did not choose you over him. Dick cheating at cards. Tim explaining devices you did not understand. Duke naming colours. Steph making the darkness ridiculous. Cass’ heartbeat beneath your hand. Bruce knocking and waiting outside the door.

“I want to stay,” you whispered.

Olsen activated the command.

You turned toward him. The masked figure stood at the centre of the white room, one hand raised as if your body still belonged to him.

Power gathered inside you. Enough to erase him. Enough to tear through memory and distance, follow the signal to its source and reduce the real Director Olsen to particles too small to bury.

The path opened in your mind.

You saw him beneath Gotham. You saw the machinery around him. You saw his heartbeat.

Eclipse wanted to strike. For once, you understood what it was trying to do.

It was not evil. It was terrified. It had been born beneath white lights, shaped from every moment you could not escape. It had learned that protection meant destruction because no one had ever shown it another way.

You released Jason’s hand. His fingers tightened instinctively, then opened when you pulled away.

You rose from the table. The restraints fell through your body.

Olsen stepped backwards. “You were created to obey.”

“No,” you said. Gold appeared beneath the darkness. Thin veins of light spread across Eclipse’s vast form. The shadow towering behind you curved inward, no longer a creature unfolding to attack but wings folding around something precious. “I was created because you hurt me.” The white room cracked. “That is not the same thing.”

Olsen’s mask split down the centre.

You reached into the signal connecting you to him. You could feel every command pathway, every piece of conditioning reinforced through pain. The structures had been built into your nervous system like chains.

You did not break them. Breaking was what they had taught you.

Instead, you let them go.

The commands passed through you.

Remain still. Threat response authorised. Return for collection.

They became only words.

Olsen’s image dissolved. The Eclipse collapsed. Darkness rushed inward, pouring through your skin. The Manor returned around you in flashes of broken furniture, cracked walls and shattered windows.

The family stood in the ruins of the dining room.

You hovered above them. Gold blazed through every vein.

For one second, fear flickered across Bruce’s face. Then you lowered yourself to the floor.

Your knees buckled.

Eight people moved at once.

You threw up both hands.

They stopped. Even now. Even after surviving the inside of your mind, they stopped because you asked.

You looked at Jason. “Hand?”

He crossed the distance and placed his hand in yours. Cass joined him.

The others approached slowly. No one embraced you. Not until you leaned first.

Then the family closed around you.

Not a restraint. Not containment.

A shape with space to leave.

Bruce’s hand settled lightly against the back of your head. Dick’s arm crossed your shoulders. Steph pressed her forehead against your sleeve. Duke’s warmth steadied one side of you. Damian knelt close enough that Titus pushed between you both. Tim sat on the ruined floor, still breathing too quickly. Jason’s fingers remained locked with yours. Cass’ pulse beat against your wrist.

You did not know how long you stayed there.

The Manor creaked around you. Somewhere, water poured from a broken pipe. Alfred entered the dining room, surveyed the devastation and sighed with the profound exhaustion of a man whose family had once again weaponised the architecture.

“I assume,” he said, “that no one will object to sandwiches.”

A laugh escaped you. It hurt.

You laughed again.

Months later, the laboratory beneath Gotham became a garden.

It had not been your idea. Duke suggested light would reach the lower chambers if enough of the concrete was removed. Damian researched plants capable of growing in damaged soil. Tim designed a filtration system to strip the remaining chemicals from the groundwater. Stephanie painted over the white walls in colours so bright Bruce briefly appeared offended on behalf of architecture. Dick suspended strings of lights across the exposed beams. Jason demolished the containment cells personally.

Cass planted the first seed.

Bruce transferred ownership of the site to a charitable trust supporting metahumans affected by experimentation. There were lawyers, government hearings and arguments about security. There were still people who believed you should be contained.

The family handled the arguments. You handled the garden.

On the first warm day of spring, you stood where the examination chamber had once been.

Sunlight poured through the open roof. Real sunlight. It touched your face without burning. Plants climbed the remaining walls. Flowers grew between cracks in the floor. The old restraint table had been melted down and reshaped into benches.

Children ran between them. Some had visible powers. A little girl with crystal growing across her arms crouched beside the flowers. A boy whose feet did not touch the ground attempted to climb a tree despite already floating above its lowest branch.

None of them wore numbers.

Bruce stood near the entrance, speaking to one of the foundation workers. Dick chased the floating boy before he could reach the roof. Jason sat on a bench reading aloud to three children who were not listening. Tim adjusted a sensor in the irrigation system. Damian showed the crystal-skinned girl how to support the stem of a damaged flower. Duke stood in the sunlight, radiant in ways only you could see. Stephanie had started a paint fight. Cass sat quietly beside a child overwhelmed by the noise.

You watched them.

The gold beneath your skin warmed.

Duke glanced across the garden.

“What colour?” you called.

He studied you. “Gold,” he said. “Blue. A little silver.”

“No black?”

“Some.”

Your chest tightened.

Duke smiled. “It’s not bad.”

The darkness no longer frightened him.

It still frightened you sometimes. There were nights when Eclipse stirred beneath your dreams. Days when a mechanical hum could send you back to the table. Moments when anger arrived too quickly and power answered before thought.

Recovery had not transformed you into someone untouched. It had made you someone capable of returning.

You looked down at your hands. Gold shone along your palms. A shadow moved beneath it, soft as cloud cover. An eclipse was not the end of the sun. Only proof that even light could be obscured without disappearing.

Behind you, Jason shouted as Steph threw paint across the back of his jacket. Dick nearly dropped the floating child because he was laughing. Damian objected to the use of gardening equipment as ammunition. Tim began calculating the cost of the cleanup until Cass smeared yellow paint across his cheek.

Bruce looked toward you.

He did not ask whether you were stable. He did not examine the light beneath your skin. He only lifted one hand, a quiet invitation to join them.

You crossed the garden.

No ceiling above you. Nothing keeping the sky in place. Nothing keeping you there except choice.

For the first time in your life, that was enough.

[dannyboy-writes]

Hiya! Please could I ask for a fic where reader is Nat’s younger brother and just how their bond changes over the show?

Hello! What Nat are you asking about?

[thewitchandtheassassin]

When in Vegas (Lena Luthor x Reader)

Summary: What happens in Vegas...

Words: 601

Warnings: Mentions reader and Lena being naked, uh... getting drunk on Irish beer??? No smut

A/N: Trying to get back in the habit of writing. I'm starting to feel better. It's a work in progress.

-X-

It had started a joke. Or… you think it did? The exacts were a little hazy.

You’d gone with Lena to a tech conference in Las Vegas. It was supposed to be simple. Quick. Two days of you exploring the strip while Lena networked, meeting up with your girlfriend for meals after her meetings ended and making sure you didn’t miss her “TED talks”.

What you hadn’t anticipated was you and Lena getting a little too drunk on authentic Irish beer in a bar four doors down from a wedding chapel headed by Elvis—or an impersonator?

Or maybe his name was Elvis and he dressed like the rockstar?

Fuck, what was in that beer?

Lena was giggling, pressed against your side. “Can you imagine it? Getting officiated by that? God, do you think it smells like peanut butter sandwiches? If they’re going for authentic, of course.”

Arm looped around her shoulders, you swayed slightly on your stool, her laughter infectious. “That sounds actually horrific. Trying to explain to your parents you got married by Elvis while it just reeks of peanuts and sweat?”

Staggering up out of her seat, Lena was the most disheveled you’d ever seen her outside of the bedroom and honestly? It was attractive as hell.

“We should—we should go check it out. So we can report back to Kara and Alex. Tell them how ridiculous it all is,” she suggested, offering you a hand.

In the back of your mind, you knew this was a terrible idea. Utterly, significantly terrible and yet… you still took her hand, following her out of the bar and four doors down.

-X-

When you woke up the next morning, comforter around your hips and your arm tossed around your very naked partner, you didn’t think much about it. Clearly you’d tied one on—

Until you lifted your hand to wipe the sleep from your eyes.

…why is there something on my finger?

Pulling your hand back slowly, it took one… two… three blinks to register what you were staring at. A ring. A gold ring.

A very nice, gold, shiny ring you’d never seen or worn before a day in your life.

“Oh no…” you muttered, lifting your hand higher to catch in the morning light, tilting your head like it was the most alien thing you’d ever come across (and you knew literal aliens).

Lena let out a pained groan beside you, the hangover slamming hard into her as she came back into consciousness and you jumped, momentarily having forgotten everything except the ring on your finger.

“Turn off the sun,” she mumbled against her pillow, trying to drag the blankets over her head.

Despite everything, you chuckled. “Uh… I don’t think that’s how this works, baby. But I… well… you may want to wake up.”

One bleary emerald eye peered over the edge of the fabric, studying your face. “Why?” she drawled out the single word warily.

“…look at your hand.” You lifted your own pointedly, not even attempting to hide the jewelry resting evidently on your finger.

There was a moment of stunned silence as that one eye—that one, gorgeous eye you could get lost in—stayed locked on your hand before she ripped the comforter down and threw her hands up to look at them.

“Oh. Oh.”

There, wrapped around her skin, was an identical ring.

“…do you remember if the chapel smelled like peanut butter?” you asked curiously after a moment of contemplated silence, yelping when Lena slapped a pillow across your chest, knocking you off the bed and onto the carpeted floor.

[supergirlimaginesfic-blog]

Lena Luthor x reader (I think I was made to love you; tell me it’s true)

Request: “ you touch her , I kill you ” and “ you act like you’re the bad boy , but you’re not ” with lena

a/n: y’know what this apparently calls for?? PINEY CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS TIME. BECAUSE I’M IN THE MOOD FOR LIKE, the smallest amount of angst and I just wanted to suffer through it. Because like, imagine Lena interacting with someone who has just as much of a guilt complex as she does… HOPELESS.

I was definitely in some sorta mood… really couldn’t tell you why. I shall take this prompt and run with it! It’s a little cute and dumb. I was like, probably at the half-way mark of this before I looked at it all and went wtf are you even talking about? LOL, but I’ve finished it, so I’m definitely happy about it. I figured there’s not enough campy, YA-esque romance stories starring you as the useless protagonist, so I just HAD to do this… there was no other way lol. This one’s a bit of a monster. Hope y’all like it, and I hope the wait was worth it!! Thank you so much for reading :D

- - - - -

Throughout most of your formative years, you were always underestimated. Your teachers would first look at you on the first day of school every year and even at your young age, you could tell they were eyeing you with some level of wariness and suspicion.

You’d always taken great pleasure in proving them wrong, proving to be not the troubled delinquent they thought with unfailing frequency you would surely be, nor no more than the above-average student either.

You simply just were, and for so often in your life you merely drifted through and participated when it was really demanded of you.

As such, your parents and whoever else decided to give a damn whenever they so happened to remember you would comment on your penchant for underachieving, would state their desire for you to do more, to do better, and this was a surefire way to antagonize you more than you’d care to show.

It was the principle of the thing, really - to think they’d know you well at all to make such valuations like that, as if they had any real sway in shaping you into the person you are now; that annoyed you to no end.

The only thing you could say with confidence that any significant person in your life contributed to your personality was your disgruntled irritation at most figures of authority.

You attributed your affinity for letting most things simply wash over you to them as well - you’ve spent a good portion of your life letting half-baked words of love and affection fall on deaf ears, the pressure and expectation of achievement and this sole importance it held with your parents, and their legacy, and the shame that you weren’t as invested in doing good for the family as they wanted you to be was just begging for you to deflect with cynicism.

You wouldn’t say it made you apathetic, you would rather say it made you jaded and pragmatic. If you could achieve things in a way that was the total opposite of your current disposition and act out of the sheer force of spite rather than deflate with self-sabotaging indifference as is your natural reaction, you would certainly have chosen that instead.

All things considered, this surely lent itself to the ever-evolving mystery that was your entire relationship with Lena Luthor, and you always wondered just how it was you landed yourself into a role in her life; even more so, you wondered just how it was you even got to call yourself anything of hers at all.

Keep reading

[hugegaynerddd]

Don't Hesitate

Summary: Your first mission as an avenger, a changed hydra soldier. Too gentle for your own good. Nat comforts you after the mission didn't go as planned.

Pairing(s): natasha romanoff x exhydra!reader

Warnings: hurt/comfort, kinda fluff ig, not proofread (pls have mercy)

Word Count: ~1.2k

a/n: relationship with nat isn't really specified, but i like to think they're friends on the journey to finding out they both want more.

---

Your first mission as an avenger. Officially. You sit patiently in the corner of the jet, Maria maneuvering the aircraft. Being back in Soviet Russia brings back a few unwanted memories, but you’re tough enough to handle it. Or that's what you keep telling yourself over and over. 

Steve and Natasha are going over the mission plan again, but you can’t seem to focus on them. The engine hums too loud in your ears, turbulence shaking the jet, making you knock your head against the wall repeatedly.

“Hey, you listening?” you hear Nat asking. She’s turning to you, a hard look on her face, but laced with bits of concern. She was never too serious during missions, but this one was important. Taking down hydra’s main headquarters was going to be laborious.

“Yes, boss. The plan is still the same as the last hundred times you’ve talked about it,” you joke. Your relationship with Natasha was always like that. Soft, meaningless banter and maybe something more.

“Just making sure,” she starts. Her eyes were on you, but her hands were rolling up the blueprints of the headquarters. “It’s your first time after all, since… y’know” she continues. 

Since you’ve gotten all your memories back. Since you’ve no longer been a Hydra soldier, but an avenger. Since you’ve been able to make your own decisions instead of following orders due to fear.

“I’ll be fine. Lived in this place my whole life, so—” you say, but you can’t finish your sentence, unsure of what else to say. Before Natasha can say anything else, Maria’s voice interrupts.

“The base is a thousand feet down. Parachutes to your left,” she says. You never figured out how to read Maria. Her instructions were always clear, but her face never faltered from her cold gaze. Sometimes you wonder if she were even human, you still find that thought humorous at times. 

You’re the first one off the jet. “See you on the ground,” you half-shouted, but the rest of the team could still barely hear you due to the aerodynamic drag from around the plane. It’s cliché, but when you’ve had your whole life stolen from you, you have to find comfort in the little things, like movie quotes and dad jokes. 

The wind tears the breath from your lungs the second you jump. For a moment, there is nothing but air. No past. No future. No Hydra. No Avengers. Just falling.

Your body knows what to do before you do. Your hands steady, your legs angle, your fingers twitch toward the cord and you pull. The parachute snaps open above you, jerking you back into yourself. The ground rushes up slower now. The compound sits below like a scar carved into the earth. Gray. Familiar.

Your stomach turns. Home.

You land cleanly, knees bending with practiced ease. You unclip, gather, move. Always move. Steve lands beside you, then Natasha. She glances at you immediately, not checking the perimeter, but checking you.

You give her a nod. You’re okay, you think. The team moves quickly, clean and efficient—just like always. Hydra never expected you to come back. Not like this. Not wearing different colors.

The halls haven’t changed. Same concrete. Same fluorescent lights. Same smell—bleach, metal and ghosts. Your chest tightens. You know this hallway. You know every hallway in this goddamned place. You remember being dragged through them, screaming in them.

“Clear,” Steve whispers.

You nod while moving up ahead. You don’t hesitate. The door at the end of the corridor opens and he steps out. Older. Grayer, but the same.

Vasily Karpov. Your handler. Your torturer. His eyes widen, then he smile, that same awful smile. “Well,” he says calmly. “If it isn’t my greatest disappointment.”

Your body freezes. Your gun is already in your hand, already aimed straight at his head, but you can’t pull the trigger. You can’t breathe. Memories slam into you.

The chair. The straps. The screaming. Your screaming.

“You were always too soft,” he continues, voice almost fond. “Hesitating. Just as always.” Your finger trembles on the trigger.

Shoot him. You can’t.

“How predictable.”

The words hit harder than any fist ever did. He steps closer, but you don’t move. You can’t move, because some part of you is still that soldier. Still waiting for orders. Still afraid.

“Do it,” he says quietly, leaning into the barrel of your gun. “Or are you still my obedient little weapon?” Your vision blurs and your hands start to shake. You hate him. So why can’t you kill him?

“Agent!” Natasha’s voice, sharp and urgent.

He sees it. Sees the weakness and he laughs.

“You see?” he says, looking at Natasha. “Defective.” The word breaks something in you. You lower the gun slightly, but it’s enough.

Steve moves past you. One clean motion and you hear Karpov hit the ground. Unconscious, but still alive.

Your hands fall to your sides. Useless. Weak. Too soft, just like he said. The rest of the mission passes in a blur. You fight. You complete the objective, but you don’t remember any of it. Not really. All you remember is that you couldn’t do it. Couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t be what they needed, what you were made to be.

—

You don’t say a word on the jet ride back. You sit in the same corner. The engine hum fills the space where your thoughts should be. No one pushes you. Not Steve. Not Maria. Not even Natasha. But you can feel her looking at you. You keep your eyes on the floor. You don’t deserve her concern. You don’t deserve to be here. You failed.

The jet lands. Everyone files out. You don’t move. Footsteps approach, then stop. She kneels in front of you—Natasha. Her hands are gentle when they take yours. You hate how much they’re shaking.

“Hey,” she says softly. You shake your head.

“I couldn’t do it,” you whisper. Your voice breaks. You hate that too. “I couldn’t kill him.” The words taste like failure. She doesn’t respond right away. She just holds your hands tighter, grounding you.

“You didn’t have to,” she says. You laugh. Bitter, empty.

“That’s the job.”

“No,” she says firmly. Your eyes lift to hers. “It isn’t.” Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. “You showed restraint.”

“I showed weakness.”

“You showed humanity.” The word hits harder than anything Karpov said. You swallow.

“He said I was defective.” Her jaw tightens, eyes darkening.

“He’s wrong.”

You shake your head.

“I couldn’t do it, Nat.” Your voice cracks. “I froze.” She moves closer, forehead resting against yours.

“I like that you’re gentle,” she whispers. Your breath catches. “You don’t have to kill to be a good Avenger.” Her fingers lace with yours. “Your empathy is what makes you good.” You don’t believe her—not fully—but you want to. God, you want to.

“I was supposed to be a weapon,” you say.

She pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You’re not a weapon.” Her hand moves to your face. She feels warm. “You’re a person.” You break. The tears come fast and quiet. You hate crying. Hydra taught you to hate crying. But Natasha doesn’t. She pulls you into her arms, holds you together while you fall apart. Her hand rubs slow circles into your back. “I’ve got you,” she murmurs. Over and over. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time since stepping back into that place—you believe it. You’re not theirs anymore. You’re hers. You’re yours.

[dannyboy-writes]

Just kiss me III

Hello!! part 3 of just kiss me! as requested.. dont know how to finish this series so I might just flip a coin on it... requests are open

There was a sting in your side, burning your insides, tearing your tissue apart with each step you took.

Your boots left bloodied prints along the street tiles as you tried to escape questioning looks from the people on the road.

You ducked your head farther down. You didn't want to add your beat up face to the wobbly limp you were carrying down town.

The burning in your stomach exaggerated with every shoulder bump from mindless strangers and sweat dripping from your forehead. 

Your view was fuzzy but you swore you had seen Natasha around this block. 

You just had to remember where.

Walking with confidence gets you almost anyplace, so you strutted into the apartment building you thought was Natasha's. 

Your knees trembled whilst picking the lock and your hands had double the fingers from the dizziness, but you got inside.

You fumbled over the table and knocked over something, heading towards her kitchen to gather some supplies. Alcohol, a needle. A fucking medical kit. Anything.

Searched for some bandages in the bathroom and collapsed onto the bath to stitch yourself up.

-

Natasha came home to a disheveled apartment. 

She had her gun in her hand since seeing the bloodstains on the doorknob, but the mess she found inside worried her some.

The kitchen turned around, clothes everywhere and her furniture tripped over.

She followed the bloody trail to her bathroom and opened the door swiftly pointing the gun inside.

At you.

You were passed out in the bathtub, some alcohol and bandages you had gathered laid on the floor. Your wound still untreated and leaking blood.

A lot of blood, she noticed from your pale lips.

She put the gun away and scurried to treat you.

The bathtub made sewing your stomach rather difficult but she contorted into it, cleaning the wound in your leg next and patting you with a cold towel. 

You had new scars, she noticed.

One over your shoulder, all healed up. A bullet, she imagined.

Various bruises in different shades of green and purple, the newest one over your left cheekbone. 

Grazes in your legs and knees, and small cuts in your knuckles and forearms. Likely from glass, she thought.

What worried her most was your sickenly pale face.

She let you rest whilst pacing back and forth in her apartment, tidying up the mess you'd made in order to keep her mind off of your unresponsive face.

-

The bathroom lights were brighter than you remembered and you no longer laid in a pool of your own blood. As you reached towards your stomach you found your right hand cuffed to the sink. 

You twisted to take a look at the stitches you assumed Natasha had done.

"Not bad, right?" She asked from the doorframe.

"I've had worst surgeons…" You snickered. "The cuffs are a personal touch, though."

"Not everyday you find an international threat on the brink of death in your bathtub."

"It's nice to see you too, Nat."

She filled a glass with water from the sink, "Here, drink."

"What happened to you?" She asked as you chugged the water down.

"Meh, missions don't always go smoothly," you shrugged.

"How did you know where to find me?"

You groaned, moving around. "I care about you, I keep tabs."

She scoffed. "You care about me?"

"Of course I do," you defended.

"You left me."

"I know… It's not that simple, and you know it Nat. SHIELD will never stop chasing me, and you will never leave SHIELD behind." 

"You don't know that," she muttered.

"Like hell I don't. Besides, even if you left, Hill or Barton would come find you."

"They worry."

"They should."

She raised an eyebrow, "Not in the most lively position to make threats, are we?"

"It's not a threat." You mumbled. "Thank you for sewing me up." You switched topics.

She loosened her shoulders and sat by your side, tugging her knees close to her chest. Picking her nails for your dried blood.

"Did you only come here for me to bandage you up and leave?"

She searched your face intensely, almost begging.

"I don't know." You admitted. "It felt natural, coming to find you. But it changes nothing, truly." She looked down. "You either have to turn me in or you let me go."

"I know."

You grazed her fingers with your left hand, holding hers slowly. Rubbing small circles with your thumb.

Natasha softened the frown in her forehead, sighing with her eyes closed. "You are impossible to understand. You do know that, right?"

Her tone was low, defeated. Fighting a battle she had already conceded long ago. Sad eyes searching your face for something special.

You said nothing.

The only acknowledgement of her words was a little cease in the grazes of your thumb, that you continued almost immediately.

"I do wish things were different," you told her. Your eyes searching hers intently.

"But they aren't," she sighed, getting up. "Don't be a stranger." She said, dropping the handcuff's key to the floor beside you and walking out.

"See you around, love."

[mashup-writing]

What in the seven hells was that about? (Nora Darhk)

“I would knock but…. This is a tent flap so, hi.” Y/N pokes their head in the tent and gives it a once over before making eye contact with the witch the Legends sought after.

Nora has her senses on alert as something about this stranger screamed “DON’T TRUST ME” and she was right. As soon as the stranger stepped inside, the Time Bureau logo was visibly stitched onto their Bomber Jacket.

The Time Bureau agent sensed the other person’s discomfort and raised their hands up in the air. “Whoa wait, I didn’t come here to detain you for making soup-” they gesture to the steaming pot. Nora didn’t have the heart to tell the agent that the ‘Soup’ was a failed attempt at a potion.

“I came here looking for you because we- I mean the Legends, need your help. I can brief you on the way, but please, don’t have much time.”

The witch took a moment to think. This place surely didn’t believe that she had magic, going back to a life of crime was a big no-no, the legends need her help and she’s shit-outta-luck anyway so this may just turn that situation upside down, and plus, she’s trying to live an honest life now. As honest a life a witch can live anyway.

“Alright, let me grab my bag I came here with and let’s get going- and you can put your hands down now.” Y/N sighed in relief and they didn’t even notice their hands were still up in the air.

A few moments later the two exited the tent and made their way to a secluded spot so Y/N can teleport them to the Waverider. “So I heard the dude say something about a Lusty Witch? What in the Seven Hells was that about?”

[procrastinatorimagines]

Good Morning

Fandom: Legends of Tomorrow

Series: One shot

Pairing/s: Nora Darhk x Reader

Characters: Nora Darhk, Y/N, Gideon

Word Count: super short

Warnings: none

Request:  Prompt 34 Soft moments in bed with Nora Darhk please?

Summary: what better way to wake up than next to someone you love?

“Morning,” you mumbled sleepily, rolling over and rubbing your eyes. The brunette next to you smiled softly, eyes still closed. Her hair was sprawled out across the pillow and you almost wished you hadn’t disturbed her, she looked so peaceful when she slept.

One eye peaked open after a second, noticing you watching her. She leaned forward and planted a light kiss on your lips. The memories of the night came into full focus with that kiss, you’d talked, laughed, ended up sat a little too close on the couch… You’d had feelings for Nora for quite some time now but had always been too afraid to make the first move, but after last night you wished you hadn’t waited so long.

“What time is it?” She asked, blinking in the dim light of the room.

“Only 8,” you checked, “but it feels later given what time we went to sleep,” you reminded her and she laughed, locking eyes with yours.

“No regrets though right?” She made it sound like a joke but you could almost hear a genuine question behind the words, so you laced your fingers with hers.

“Not a single one.” You replied seriously, and she snuggled closer to you. You wrapped your arm around her and stroked her hair.

“Could we just stay like this all day?” She asked hopefully, drawing the covers closer to you both. It was like you were the only people in the world lying here in this bed, everything else just fell away…

“I’d like that, I’d like that a lot.” She positioned herself so she was back looking at you, her face hovering inches from yours, and you stared into her eyes like she really was the only other person in the world. “As long as we don’t get any mission alerts I doubt anyone will even notice we’re not around.” Nora laughed and rolled her eyes, flopping back onto the bed next to you. “What?” You asked, unsure of what you said wrong.

“You’ve jinxed it now, you know that right?” She shook her head and you gave her a little shove.

“Oh come on, are you telling me that the powerful sorceress Nora Darhk herself believes in that sort of thing? I have not jinxed anything,” you argued.

“Actually-” Gideons voice appeared over the intercom and you groaned, “-Captain Lance is requesting everyone on the bridge immediately.”

“See.” Nora said pointedly, stretching and reluctantly pulling herself up from under the covers to grab her clothes.

“That was not my-” you tried but thought better of it, removing yourself from the warmth of your bed, “okay fine, I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you I promise.” 

She gave you a quick kiss. “I’ll hold you to that.” She said in a suggestive tone that made you feel your cheeks go red. 

Yeah, definitely should have done this a long time ago.

[thebisexualdogdad]

Number 71 with Nora Darhk if that’s ok?

71  "Help me find my shirt I can't walk out of here half naked."

You and Nora had begun secretly dating a few months ago and while neither one of you wanted to hide your relationship, your team didn't exactly trust Nora yet so the last thing you needed was them scolding you for being involved with a Darhk while Damien was still on the loose. 

The night prior you had snuck her on the ship and she used a spell to soundproof your bedroom so no one could hear the late night activities you were about to get up to. 

After her multiple orgasms she ended up sleeping in later than she had intended to from exhaustion and was now hurrying to get dressed and off the waveriders before the rest of the Legends woke up. 

"Nora come back to bed," you said not wanting to say goodbye yet. 

"You know I can't stay," she sighed, pulling her pants on but unable to locate her shirt,  "now help me find my shirt I can't walk out of here half naked."

"I'd like that," you chuckled finally getting out of bed in just your boxers. 

"I know you would," she laughed. 

You spotted the shirt under your desk and handed it over to her, "found it, looks like you were a little too eager last night and ripped one of the buttons." 

"If I remember correctly you were the one who couldn't wait to get me into bed," she teased putting it on.

She tried to go towards the door but you pulled her back in for a kiss. 

"Y/N," she smiled between kisses, "I really have to go." 

"I know, I know, just trying to get in all the kissing I can before I see you again," you told her. 

She kissed you one last time and successfully made her way to the door. 

When it opened Sara and Nate were standing in the hall waiting for Mick to get out of the bathroom. 

"Really Y/N? Nora Darhk?" Sara glared at you. 

"Um Nora, you're missing a button," Nate said trying not to laugh at how much trouble you were in. 

[imagine-lcorp]

Trades With The Devil (One Shot)

A/N: Well hellooooooo, my dears! Gues who isn’t dead! Yes, that’s mee! so I’m back from these crazy times. As you well know I was down for a while due to covid but thankfully I’m recovered, I’ve been writing for a bit more on Patreon, so if you wanna see what I’m up to these days go to my page, promise I have some good stuff there, but most importantly dont think I’ve forgotten about you. You know how much I love you and I’m gonna try to be more active and of course finish the still long pending list of request I have. But in the meantime, please enjoy this little piece for out Halloween/Day of the Dead Celebration, which as you know, it’s tradition here in my blog. Pls enjoy and let me know what you think!! Love y’all!!

Lena Luthor x Demon!R//Word Count: 674 ——————————————————-

How do you convince someone to sell their soul to the devil? 

It is easy, most of the time. Whatever thing you can offer, people will take it. Fame, fortune, power. Have it all with no questions asked. They don’t care about what they could lose because they believe they have already lost. They only have one life so, what’s wrong with wanting to enjoy it without a worry in the world?

It is hard too, sometimes. Some people don’t want whatever it is you can offer at first try. They are thoughtful about their desires. Fame, fortune, power. They already have it, or they can get enough of that in their own terms. No need to pawn their soul for something so simple.

Keep reading

[ncsdlr]

Hello, would you write for Natasha being an absolute bottom? Kinda like Come on Baby(Regina). Dont be shy to put all your interested kinks. Also could r be Gip please.

You Won't Survive

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Smut - gripping

Natasha Romanoff does not get cornered.

She’s survived gods, monsters, men who thought they owned the world—and yet here she is, back pressed lightly to the kitchen counter in the Avengers Tower, arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes sharp but wavering. And the reason?

You.

“You’re hovering,” she says coolly, but there’s no bite behind it. Not really.

You lean in anyway, unbothered. Smiling like you already won. “I’m persuading.”

Her eyebrow twitches. That’s it. The tell. The microscopic crack in the armor.

“Persuasion usually involves facts,” Natasha replies.

“Oh, I’ve got facts.” You tick them off on your fingers, stepping closer with every word. “Fact one: you haven’t walked away yet. Fact two: you keep looking at my mouth like you’re deciding something. Fact three—”

“I am not—”

“Nat,” you cut in, soft but heated, eyes locked on hers, “you’re a world-class assassin and you’re scared of one date?”

Silence.

God, she hates that you see her.

Her shoulders loosen just a fraction, like she’s exhaling without meaning to. “I don’t date,” she says. “I don’t do… whatever this is.”

You tilt your head. “You mean feeling wanted? Because you’re doing a terrible job avoiding that.”

That gets her.

Her lips part like she’s about to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead, her gaze drops. Just for a second. And when it comes back up, it’s darker. Warmer. Less certain.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” she murmurs.

You step into her space fully now—still not touching, but close enough that she can feel you there, like gravity. “I’m asking you to let me take you to dinner. Then maybe, afterward, you can be my dinner.”

Her mouth twitches. Almost lets out a whimper. Almost.

“And if I say no?” she asks quietly.

You shrug, easy, confident. “Then I’ll survive. But you won’t. You'll keep thinking about how you let someone stand this close and didn’t push them away.”

Natasha swallows.

For someone who controls rooms with a glance, she looks dangerously undone right now. Trapped not by you—but by how much she wants to say yes.

“You’re relentless,” she says.

You grin. “I promise, you'll like it, red.”

“I’m not interested,” she tells you, arms folded, expression locked down like a vault. “Drop it.”

You hold her gaze for half a second longer than necessary, searching for the crack that is there reminder or not. Then you smile—easy, unbothered, almost sweet.

“Suit yourself.”

And you walk away.

Natasha tells herself that’s that.

She is wrong.

--

The next day, the Avengers common area is loud—Tony running his mouth, Steve pretending not to judge, Bruce half-laughing into his coffee. Natasha is at the counter, focused, safe, invisible in plain sight.

Until you slide in.

Not next to her. Never next to her. Across. Leaning back. Casual.

“So,” you say, loud enough for everyone, eyes only on her, “does anyone here know if Romanoff likes her coffee black, or is she secretly a cream-and-sugar person?”

Tony snorts. “Ooo, personal.”

Natasha doesn’t look at you. “Drink your coffee,” she says coolly.

You hum. “Didn’t answer the question.”

Steve glances between you. “Do you two—”

“No,” Natasha says immediately.

You grin. “Not yet.”

Her jaw tightens. She finally looks at you, and there it is—that look. The don’t you dare look. You raise your brows like: what?

Later—hallway. Empty. Or so she thinks.

She turns a corner and nearly collides with you. You don’t touch her. You just… stop her momentum by existing.

She exhales sharply. “You said ‘suit yourself.’”

“I did.” You lean back against the wall, blocking nothing, giving her space she absolutely does not need. “And I am.”

Her eyes flick to your mouth. Damn it.

“You’re being inappropriate,” she says.

“Inappropriate would be whispering,” you reply lightly. Then you soften, just a bit. “This is just flirting.”

“This is cornering.”

You tilt your head. “If I were cornering you, red, you’d know.”

Silence stretches. Charged. Heated. Not sexual—worse. Intent.

She steps closer despite herself. “Why are you doing this?”

Your voice drops, not soft—honest. “Because you said no like you wanted me to stop wanting you. And that’s not how this works.”

Her breath stutters. Just once.

Another day. Another chance encounter. Training room this time. You toss her a towel like it’s nothing.

“Careful,” you say. “If you keep glaring at me like that, people are gonna get ideas.”

She wipes her hands slowly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Mm. A little.” You meet her eyes, fearless. “But mostly I’m enjoying you pretending this doesn’t get to you.”

She steps in close—too close—and lowers her voice. “One day you’re going to push too far.”

You don’t back up. You just smile, warm and dangerous. “And on that same day,” you say, “you'll beg me to keep going.”

Natasha huffs and stands there—cornered again—not by your body, but by the fact that she hasn’t told you to leave.

--

The training room smells like rubber mats and sweat and focus.

Natasha’s alone—of course she is—moving through drills with ruthless precision. Punch. Pivot. Kick. Reset. She doesn’t hear you come in, not until the rhythm stutters.

She straightens slowly, towel over her shoulder, eyes already sharp. “If this is another—”

You don’t smile. You don’t tease. You don’t move closer.

You just say it.

“One dinner, Red.”

That’s it.

The room goes quiet in a way that means something.

Natasha blinks. Once. Like she’s recalibrating. “I said no.”

“I know.” Your voice is calm, steady, not chasing her anymore. “This isn’t chasing. This is an offer.”

She studies you now, really looks—like she’s trying to find the angle, the trick, the pressure point. There isn’t one. You’re standing easy, hands loose at your sides, already halfway prepared to walk out.

“And if I say no again?” she asks.

You shrug. “Then tomorrow it’ll still just be an offer.”

That does it.

Her shoulders drop the tiniest bit. The fight leaks out of her stance like air from a blade cut. She turns away, wipes her hands, buys herself time she doesn’t need.

“You don’t negotiate like anyone I know,” she says quietly.

You tilt your head. “That a complaint?”

She turns back. Her eyes are warm now. Dangerous. Soft in a way she never lets people see.

“…No,” she admits.

A beat.

“One dinner,” she says at last, voice low. “Public place.”

You grin—slow, satisfied, but gentle. “Of course.”

She exhales, something like a laugh trapped in her chest. “You’re insufferable.”

You take a step back toward the door, already letting her breathe again. “Yeah,” you say. “But you said yes.”

--

Dinner is supposed to be neutral ground.

That’s what Natasha tells herself as she sits across from you in a low-lit restaurant she definitely scoped three exits for. Candle between you. Wine she hasn’t touched. Posture perfect. Guard up.

You, on the other hand, look devastatingly relaxed.

“You clean up well, Red,” you say, eyes dragging over her just long enough to be rude.

She lifts her glass, buys herself a second. “So do you.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives you. And still—her ears are already pink.

You lean forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping just a touch. “I like this version of you.”

Her brow furrows. “This version?”

“The one who showed up,” you say simply. “Didn’t run.”

She opens her mouth to snap back, then stops. Closes it. Looks away.

Strike one.

Dinner comes. Conversation flows easier than she planned. You listen—actually listen—chin propped on your hand, eyes never leaving her face. When she talks with her hands, you track the movement like it’s choreography.

At some point, your knee brushes hers under the table.

Accidental. Totally deniable.

She freezes.

You don’t move it away.

Her breath hitches—barely—but you feel it more than see it. She shifts, like she’s deciding whether to retreat or press back.

She presses back.

You smile like you won the lottery.

“Comfortable?” you murmur.

She glares at you over her fork. “Behave.”

You do not behave.

When she makes a dry comment, you laugh and reach out—just fingertips—to brush a crumb from the corner of her mouth. It’s brief. Intimate. Public enough to be insane.

Natasha stills completely.

“You had something—” you say innocently.

Her eyes darken. “You could’ve told me.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to touch you,” you reply, voice warm, unashamed.

She swallows. Hard.

“God,” she mutters, “you’re—”

“Persistent?” you offer.

Her lips part. Close. “Distracting.”

Strike two.

Later, you walk her out. City noise hums around you, but the moment feels sealed off. She stops short of the car, turns to face you.

“This was one dinner,” she reminds you, trying—failing—to sound firm.

You step closer. Not crowding. Never crowding. Just close enough that your hand brushes her wrist.

“I know,” you say softly. “I’m not asking for more.”

Your thumb circles once. Slow. Deliberate.

Her pulse jumps under your touch.

“But?” she asks, voice thinner now.

You tilt your head, eyes flicking to her lips and back. “But you’re allowed to want it.”

She exhales shakily, like the idea alone knocks the air out of her.

“I don’t—” she starts, then stops. Her composure fractures, just for a second. “You make this difficult.”

You grin, affectionate and lethal. “Funny. I was thinking the same thing about you.”

Then you kiss her.

Not gentle. Not testing.

It’s deep and heated and deliberate, like you’ve been building toward this moment for days and finally decided you were done being polite about it. Her surprise lasts half a second before she melts into it, hands fisting in your jacket like she needs something to hold onto.

She makes a quiet sound—frustrated, wrecked—and you feel it straight through you.

Your other hand slides up her back, pulls her closer. No hesitation. No mercy. She presses back without thinking, body betraying her composure completely.

When you break the kiss just enough to breathe, your forehead rests against hers.

“Still think this was a bad idea?” you whisper.

Her eyes flutter open. Glassy. Flustered in a way she never is.

“You—” she exhales, fingers tightening at your sides, “you don’t play fair.”

You grin against her jaw, brushing another kiss there—slower now, possessive. “You came anyway.”

She laughs softly, breathless, then groans when your hand slides down to her hip, squeezing just enough to make your point.

“God,” she mutters, clearly overwhelmed, “I said one dinner.”

You pull back just enough to look at her—really look at her—pressed against your car, lips swollen, eyes lit up like you just cracked something open she keeps locked down.

“And you survived,” you say gently. “Barely.”

She shakes her head, trying and failing to regain control. You lean in again, stopping just short of her mouth.

And you let her close the distance and kiss you back.

--

The back of your car is too small and somehow still not close enough.

Natasha is half-sprawled against the seat, jacket discarded, hair a mess, eyes blown wide like she can’t believe she let it get this far—and can’t believe she wants more. Her hands are everywhere, gripping at you like you’re the only solid thing left in the world.

“Jesus,” she breathes, forehead dropping to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “You— you’re not fair.”

You smile against her jaw, low and dangerous. “You already said that.”

She lets out a sound that’s more frustration than words when you pull her back in, mouths crashing together again, all heat and hunger and zero patience left. Every touch lands heavier now—intentional. Claiming. She reacts to everything, like her body decided it’s done pretending.

Your hand settles at her waist, steady, grounding—and she melts into it immediately, like she’s been waiting for permission to fall apart. But you don't stop there. Your fingers trail lower, slipping under the hem of her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. She's already soaked through her panties, her pussy slick and swollen, begging for contact without her saying a word.

You push the fabric aside and slide two fingers inside her, slow at first, feeling her walls clench around you like she's trying to pull you deeper. Natasha gasps into your mouth, her hips bucking up instinctively, chasing the intrusion. Her breath hitches, ragged and desperate, as you curl your fingers just right, stroking that spot inside her that makes her entire body jolt.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs, breath shaking, knuckles white where she’s clutching you. “Don’t stop. Please—”

That word hits harder than anything else tonight. You pump your fingers faster, your thumb circling her clit in firm, relentless circles. She's dripping now, her arousal coating your hand, the wet sounds of your fingers thrusting in and out filling the cramped space. Natasha's thighs tremble, squeezing around your wrist as she rides your hand, her head falling back against the seat with a soft thud.

Her first orgasm crashes over her without warning—her pussy fluttering wildly around your fingers, gushing hot and slick as she cries out, a broken moan that echoes off the car windows. Her nails dig into your shoulders, her body arching off the seat, every muscle taut and quivering. You don't let up, though; you keep fucking her through it, drawing out the waves until she's whimpering, oversensitive and gasping.

But she's not done. Not even close. You add a third finger, stretching her wider, and she sobs your name, her hips grinding down harder, like she can't get enough. The second climax builds fast, her clit throbbing under your thumb as you rub it faster, your fingers plunging deep and twisting. Sweat beads on her skin, her shirt clinging to her heaving chest, nipples hard and visible through the fabric.

“Fuck—yes, right there,” she pants, her voice raw, eyes squeezed shut as pleasure rips through her again. This time, she squirts, her release soaking your hand and pooling in the seat beneath her, her whole body convulsing in your grip. She's melting completely now, boneless and shuddering, but you keep going, slowing just enough to let her catch her breath before picking up the pace once more.

Her third orgasm hits like a storm, her pussy clamping down so tight it almost pushes your fingers out, but you're determined to keep them in, fucking her through the spasms. Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, mixing with the flush on her cheeks, and she buries her face in your neck, biting down on your skin to muffle her screams. Every pulse of her release feels like a surrender, her body yielding to you completely, emotionally and physically wrecked.

You stay close. You keep her there. Let her ride the feeling, let it crest and break and pull her under again, until she’s gasping your name like it’s the only thing anchoring her. Your free hand strokes her back, holding her steady as she trembles in your arms, aftershocks rippling through her with every gentle thrust of your fingers.

When she finally slumps against you, breathless and stunned, she laughs softly—disbelieving.

“…I hate you,” she says weakly.

You brush your thumb along her cheek, gentle now, intimate in a way that feels almost worse, while your other hand eases out of her, slick with her cum. You bring your fingers to your lips, tasting her on your tongue—salty and sweet—before wiping them on your jeans.

“No,” you murmur. “You really don’t.”

She doesn’t argue. She just leans into you like she already knows this was inevitable. Her hand drifts down, fumbling with your belt, eyes locking onto yours with a mix of exhaustion and fresh hunger. “Your turn,” she whispers, voice hoarse but determined, as she frees your cock from your pants. It's rock-hard, throbbing in her grip, pre-cum beading at the tip.

She strokes you slowly at first, her touch tentative from the afterglow, but it builds quickly—her fist tightening, twisting just under your tip the way that makes your breath catch. The car feels even smaller now, the air thick with the scent of sex, her body pressed flush against yours. You groan, thrusting into her hand, watching her face as she works you over, that vulnerable spark in her eyes turning wicked.

But she wants more. She shifts, straddling your lap despite the awkward space, her soaked pussy hovering over your length. “Need you inside me,” she breathes, sinking down inch by inch, her walls still fluttering from her orgasms, gripping you like a vice. The stretch makes her whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes you fully, bottoming out with a shuddering gasp.

“Oh fuck,” Natasha moans, her voice breaking as she settles there, your cock buried deep inside her. She's trembling already, her inner muscles clenching involuntarily around your thickness, like her body's overwhelmed by the fullness. She tries to move, to lift her hips and ride you, but she only manages a shallow rock before she freezes, a dazed look crossing her face. “I... I can't,” she pants, her hands pressing flat against your chest, nails digging in. “You're too much. Feels so good, I—please, just... fuck me. Fuck me, fuck me. Please, I need it.”

Her plea sends a jolt through you, and you grip her hips tighter, holding her in place as you buck up sharply, slamming into her from below. She cries out, her head tipping back, pussy squeezing you in response. “Yes! Like that—harder,” she begs, her words slurring with the haze of pleasure, completely lost to the sensation of you stretching and filling her. You set a punishing rhythm, driving your cock up into her slick heat over and over, the angle hitting deep, brushing that sensitive spot inside her with every thrust.

Natasha's breath comes in ragged bursts, her breasts heaving as she clings to you, unable to do more than grind down weakly to meet your movements. “God, you feel so good,” she gasps, her voice raw and needy. “Don't stop—I'm so close. Keep going, please...” The wet sounds of your cock pounding into her echo in the confined space, her arousal dripping down your shaft, soaking your balls. She's cock-drunk now, eyes glassy, lips parted as she murmurs incoherently, every upward snap of your hips drawing a fresh whine from her throat.

You feel her tightening first, her walls fluttering wildly around you as her climax builds. “So close—fuck, you're gonna make me cum again,” she sobs, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling desperately. You thrust harder, faster, one hand sliding up to pinch her nipple through her shirt, rolling it between your fingers. She shatters with a keening moan, her pussy convulsing around your cock, gushing hot and tight as waves of release crash through her. “Yes—oh god, yes!”

The vice-like grip of her orgasm pulls you under too. You growl against her neck, hips snapping up one last time, burying yourself to the hilt as you cum, thick ropes of your load flooding her pretty pussy, pulsing hot inside her. Natasha trembles violently, riding out the aftershocks with whimpers, her body milking every drop from you.

As the high fades, she collapses against your chest, still impaled on your softening cock, neither of you moving to separate. “Stay,” she murmurs breathlessly, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, face nuzzling into your collarbone. “Please... don't pull out yet. I want to feel you."

You nod, your hands stroking soothing circles on her back, keeping her close in the humid warmth of the car. The windows are completely fogged now, sealing you in your own little world. “I'm not going anywhere,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to her temple. “You okay?”

She lets out a soft, shaky laugh, lifting her head to meet your eyes, her cheeks still flushed. “Okay? That was... a lot. I've never felt anything like that.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on your neck, a tender contrast to the raw passion from moments ago.

“Yeah?” you smirk, your voice is gruff. “Your pussy feels so good, red. The way you begged... fucking hell.”

She blushes, biting her lip, but doesn't look away. “Shut up.” She shifts slightly, a small gasp escaping as your cock twitches inside her, still half-hard.

--

Morning comes in rude.

Sunlight slices through the car window, landing directly on Natasha Romanoff’s face like a personal attack. She groans, shifts—and immediately freezes.

Because something is very wrong.

The backseat is cramped. Her leg is draped over yours at an angle that defies physics. Your arm is still around her waist, lazy and heavy with sleep. She blinks once. Twice.

Then it all hits her at the same time.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice is hoarse, panicked, and barely above a whisper.

You hum, half-asleep, entirely too comfortable. “Mornin’, Red.”

She tries to move. Realizes she can’t. Realizes why. Goes completely still again.

“This—” she swallows, cheeks flushing hard, “this is not acceptable.”

You crack one eye open, grin already there like you planned this. “You say that like you didn’t fall asleep first.”

“I did not fall asleep,” she hisses. “I passed out.”

“On me,” you add helpfully.

She drops her face into her hands. “We’re still… like this.”

“Yeah,” you say, stretching just enough to make the situation worse for her sanity. “Turns out cars aren’t built for dignity.”

She peeks at you through her fingers. You look unfairly pleased. Relaxed. Smug.

“Don’t,” she warns.

You absolutely do.

“Well,” you murmur, voice warm and infuriatingly amused, “on the bright side—this might be the longest you’ve ever stayed.”

Her glare could cut glass. Unfortunately, it wobbles halfway through.

“This never happened,” she says.

You grin wider. “Nat, you drooled.”

Her eyes widen. “I did not.”

“Right here,” you say, tapping your shoulder. “Very vulnerable. Kinda cute.”

She groans again, but this time there’s a laugh tangled in it—quiet, betrayed, real.

“…We need to move,” she says, trying for authority and landing somewhere near flustered.

“In a sec,” you reply, entirely unhelpful. “I’m enjoying the view.”

She exhales, long and slow, then finally looks at you properly—hair a mess, lips soft, guard completely down in the early light.

“You’re unbearable,” she says.

You shrug. “And yet.”

She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t rush. Just rests her forehead against yours for one quiet moment before reality kicks back in.

“…Next time,” she mutters, “we’re getting a hotel.”

You smirk. “Next time?”

She closes her eyes.

Damn it.

---------------

aye

[randomgirlduh]

The Moment She Didn’t Pull Away - Natasha Romanoff

pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

summary: Natasha Romanoff doesn’t fall easily. She plans, deflects, keeps control. You were never part of the plan — just the one moment she didn’t pull away.

tags/warnings: emotional slow burn, teasing / banter, emotionally guarded natasha, falling in love, denial of feelings, angst (?) with a soft ending, emotional vulnerability, internalized trauma (natasha)

author's note: hi 🤍 this fic is about the exact moment when pretending stops working.

i really wanted to explore natasha’s fear of things that rise too fast — of connection, of comfort, of loving someone who stays. this isn’t about a dramatic confession, just about the quiet realization that she’s already in too deep.

this was written based on this request, and honestly, i don’t know if this is exactly what you were expecting, but i hope you like it as much as i enjoyed writing it. (and yes, this was written while listening to Labyrinth on repeat.)

thank you so much for reading. english isn’t my first language, so please be kind. i’d love to know what you think, feel free to leave a comment.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t like surprises.

She liked control. Predictability. Knowing where the exits were before she ever stepped into a room. So when she walked into the briefing room and found someone already sitting in her seat—relaxed, leaning back, like the space belonged to them—her first reaction was irritation.

“You’re in my seat.” she said flatly.

You looked up at her, unhurried, eyes sharp but curious. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

She studied you for a second longer than necessary. New. Confident. Too comfortable.

“It’s implied.” she replied.

You stood without protest, stepping aside easily. No apology. No edge. Just a small, amused smile that lingered a second too long.

“Try not to do it again,” she added coolly as she passed.

She paused just long enough to glance back. “Dollface.”

Not kind. Not playful. A nickname meant to put distance where interest threatened to form.

She expected you to bristle.

You didn’t.

That was the first crack.

You integrated into the team faster than she liked. You were competent, focused in training, sharp on missions, observant without being overeager. And still, somehow, you flirted with her like it wasn’t a risk. Like it was inevitable.

Natasha met you with dry sarcasm and deliberate indifference.

“You always smile like that...” she asked once during sparring, circling you slowly, “or am I getting a special performance?”

You didn’t break eye contact. “You’d hate it if I said yes.”

She smirked. “Correct.”

But she didn’t step away.

That became the rhythm. You flirted forward. She deflected sideways.

A raised brow here. A dry comment there. Standing just a little too close under the excuse of strategy or timing. She told herself it was harmless. That she could stop whenever she wanted.

It only hurts this much right now, was what she told herself the first time she noticed her attention tracking you across a room.

She breathed in. Breathed through. Breathed out.

You never pushed when she shut down. Never mocked her walls. You stayed late, quiet when she needed it, sharp when she didn’t. You didn’t treat her like something fragile. You didn’t expect her to be anything other than what she was.

That scared her more than your confidence ever could.

One night, during a late debrief, you leaned close and muttered something stupid under your breath. Natasha laughed before she could stop herself.

The sound surprised her.

Uh oh, I’m falling in love.

The thought hit her like turbulence—sudden, unwelcome, disorienting.

She pulled back after that. Sharper. Colder.

“Careful, Dollface,” she said one evening, voice flat. “You’re getting bold.”

You studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.”

She scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But her pulse betrayed her.

Weeks passed. Missions blurred together. And still, you were there. Consistent. Steady. You didn’t demand reassurance. You didn’t disappear when she went distant. You didn’t act like her silence was something to fix.

She hated that part the most.

She hated that everyone always expected her to bounce back. Just like that.

The night the compound finally emptied out, Natasha found herself alone in the kitchen, staring into her glass like it might offer answers. The quiet pressed in around her.

“You’re still up.” you said softly from the doorway.

She didn’t turn. “So are you.”

You joined her at the counter, close but careful. You’d learned how to stay without crowding her. It unsettled her more than persistence ever had.

“You joke when you’re nervous...” you said gently.

She exhaled through her nose. “You talk too much.”

“Yeah,” you replied. “But you keep listening.”

She turned to face you, ready with a sharp remark—and stopped.

You weren’t smiling. Not teasing. Just looking at her like she mattered in a way that had nothing to do with winning.

Her chest tightened.

Oh no, I’m falling in love again.

“Dollface...” she murmured, voice quieter than she meant it to be, “you should stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked.

She swallowed. “Like you’re not going anywhere.”

You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.

“I’m not...” you said simply.

Something in her broke open.

Natasha reached for you—not urgent, not sharp. Just sure. Her hand settled at your waist like muscle memory, grounding herself before she tipped over completely. She leaned in until your foreheads touched, breath uneven.

“This is… not smart,” she whispered.

You smiled, warm and soft and devastating. “Since when do you only do smart things?”

That did it.

She kissed you.

Slow. Lingering. Nothing like the sharp, decisive kisses she’d used to shut people up before. This one felt like surrender. Like relief. Her thumb brushed your cheek, tender in a way she didn’t let herself be.

She kissed you again, deeper this time, a little breathless, a little messy—like she was trying to memorize the feeling. Like she was afraid if she pulled away too fast, gravity would take over.

I thought the plane was going down— how’d you turn it right around?

When she finally pulled back, she didn’t go far. Your noses brushed. Her eyes stayed closed for a second longer than necessary.

“This,” she murmured, almost laughing at herself, “is really happening.”

You smiled, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “You okay?”

She opened her eyes. No sarcasm. No armor. Just her.

“Oh,” she breathed, a helpless smile breaking through. “I’m in so much trouble.”

Oh, I’m falling in love.

She leaned in again, softer this time—like a promise she hadn’t meant to make.

[natsgrave]

the labyrinth references is killing me 😭 i love this fic sm 🥹💗

[ornii]

She Likes to Flirt (A Lot)

Natasha Romanoff X Male Reader (Short & Sweet) (Yup, Like Nat)

You obviously have a thing for Nat, and Almost everyone sees it.

Being the Spirit of Vengeance you held within yourself the devils bounty hunter, making you one of the most powerful begins on earth and a potential Level 10 Threat. Obviously you were scouted by S.H.I.E.L.D and joined their marry band of heroes, the Avengers. And after the little stunt in New York, the rest was history. Mission after mission you slowly grew closer to Natasha. Seasoned Assassin and Spy, she was the first you met due to her doing recon for Nick Fury. Naturally you two grew to be good friends, perhaps, even more.

It was nearing Night, after another mission at Sokovia you headed back to Stark Tower to celebrate, the massive parking garage opens up and you park your chopper there. Following behind was Natasha as usuals, somehow the Jeep didn’t get demolished in the fight. You chucked as you walked to the elevator. Natasha follows, looking at the bike.

“Aren’t gonna take your keys?” She asked, “Trust me, that bike isn’t going anywhere without me.” You reassured her, tapping the upper floors you both stood there as it began to rise. She dusts herself off as you try to put the flames off on your coat.

“Good mission overall.” She said, “Yup, Bruce and Tony are in their nerd lab brooding or something. With them together I’m a bit worried.”

“Don’t be. We can handle them, well I can.” She said, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You respond and she keeps her eyes forward, smiling. She ignores your question.

“You stink.” She said.

“I Tore through hydra guards like butter with a hot knife, I’m gonna stink. I’m pretty proud of that.” You said, “You do have a lot of. Good assets.” Nat said.

“Well damn that’s a first. A compliment.” You said.

“Now you know Steve doesn’t like that kind of language.” She said jokingly, you bite your lip and look forward trying not to laugh.

“He’s never gonna live that down.” You said

“Ever.” Natasha comments.

“You know you stink too right? Gonna need to shower.”

“Obviously, we have a party tonight, plus I have to put my face on, or whatever normal women say.” Natasha looks at her reflection.

“You’re Normal Nat.” You said to cheer her up. She turns to you, smiling. “I’m an assassin and you’re a bounty hunter for the devil, we’re not normal.”

“Well obviously but, looks wise, you don’t need to put on your face, looks good as is.” You point out, poking her forehead. Before she can open her mouth for some cheeky response, the Elevator opens and you step out.

“See you tonight Red.” You give her a send off before heading to the one room you somewhat own in the Tower.

The Party Finally arrives and you’re mingling with Thor and Rhody, who’s giving an, interesting story.

“Well, you know, the suit can take the weight, right? So I take the tank, fly it right up to the General's palace, drop it at his feet, I'm like, "Boom! You looking for this?" He explains, (Y/n) and Thor exchange glances and then back to Rhody. "Boom! Are you looking..." Why do I even talk to you guys? Everywhere else that story kills.

“That's the whole story?” Thor asks.

“Yeah, it's a War Machine story.”

“Well, it's very good then. It's impressive.”

“Yeah the Tank Part was really cool.” You said, Rhody sighs. “Okay fine, what did you do that was cool?”

“Uh, recently? By myself? A meteor was gonna hit Sweden so, I flew into the air and used my chain to pull the meteor back and hurl it into the atmosphere.” You casually explain, Rhody looks flabbergasted. “It was a Tuesday, I think.” You said, Rhody walks off as Thor Pats you on the shoulder. “That’s, very impressive.” And walks off, maybe you were going a little too high, you finished your beer and looked to the bar for more, what caught your eye was the redhead in a perfectly fitting white dress, you mosey over and casually slide down on a seat. Your eyes and Nat’s lock, and she smiles.

“Come here often, handsome?” She was the first to lay the foundation for the chat and you went right along with it.

“No, first time, but I saw this beautiful bombshell working the Bar and I had to see her.” You reply, Nat couldn’t hide her smile.

“Now what kind of man would leave a woman like you all by your lonesome, must have a bad taste in them.” You added on.

“He's not so bad. Well, he has a temper. Deep down he's all fluff. Fact is, he's not like anybody I've ever known. All my friends are fighters. And here comes this guy, trying to actually do the right thing. Even if he screws if up sometimes.”

“He…Sounds amazing.”

“He's also a huge dork.” She adds in, (Y/n) looks blindsided, Nat shrugs, “Chicks dig that. So what do you think should I fight this, or run with it?”

“Well, the guy really likes you.. I say give a chance, see where it goes? Is that, wrong to ask?” He asks, so hopeful. Nat smiles and sits up from the bar.

“Not at all, but, I think she likes you too, it may not look like it now... But never say never.” Natasha walks away, and Steve approaches (Y/n,) who sat there really considering her words.

“It's nice.” Steve said.

“What?” You reply confused.

“You and Romanoff.”

“No, me and her aren’t uh.. you know.” You mutter, Steven shakes your resolve.

“It's okay. Nobody's breaking any by-laws. It's just, she's not the most... open person in the world. But with you she seems very relaxed.”

“Yeah, Nat she... she likes to flirt. So do I.” You admit, now daydreaming of her slowly taking that dress off. But Steve ruins your daydreaming.

“I've seen her flirt, up close. This ain't that. Look, as maybe the world's leading authority on "waiting too long;" don't. You both deserve a win.” Steve gives you some damn good advice, and went off to his lonesome. You really thought about what he said.

“You know Steve, you got a point.. we do deserve a happy ending and— Wait, what the hell do you mean, "up close"?!

[dannyboy-writes]

Grey's Anatomy Masterlist

Amelia Shepherd

Pretty Sight

[imaginemalereader]

Anonymous request

There was a lot you and Natasha could bond over. You were a late comer to the Avengers, SHIELD had found you after the whole situation in New York with Loki. But the two of you had a lot in common. Raised to be a certain way and trying to be something different.

It was after a tough mission that the two of you first really talked. You went to her room afterward, not really sure what you were looking for but knowing you needed someone to talk to. Hesitantly, you knocked on her door.

“Come in,” came her voice.

You opened the door and saw her sitting at a desk with papers spread out in front of her and a tablet open with even more information on it.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were working-” you began but she cut you off.

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