#moderator introduction

[womenofswzine]

⭐ Meet the team! ⭐ Introducing Treescape @treescape our Writing and Editing Moderator!

[antis-for-real-justice]

Moderator Introduction.

Hello folx&. On this blog, I am Moderator Kankri Vantas. This is not my real name or face, but an avatar I have specifically curated and chosen.

I am a cisgender heteroflexible white man. I use He/Him and They/Them pronouns, to be inclusive to beings& that use They/Them.

I am a feminist ally, alongside an LGBTQAI+ ally.

I read classic literature and analyze it and it’s problematic themes. I am reading these harmful things so you& don’t have to. I do not enjoy media, as everything is inherently flawed one way or another and I would hate to be associated with something that turns out to be troubled and trigger someone who looks up to me.

I deeply hate radqueers with a passion, as they& are all either child predators or kids who have been groomed into thinking this is alright. There is no nuance. I f#$&ing hate them&.

I will use the tag #Kankri’s Whistle for my moderator posts. Thank you& all.

[spectreofthelost]

Who runs this thing, anyway?!

Mod Cannoli 🐻💖

Hi! I'm Cannoli, i use he/him pronouns. I'm the DM of the original campaign that started this whole dang mess, but it's really Sunny's character who spawned the black hole. I generate probably the smallest amount of art and writing for this all, I'm just the secretary lol. I can be found over at @a-url-that-exists .

Mod Sunny ☀️

[Intro coming soon!]

Mod Toon 🎵🌒

Hello! This is Toon, and I go by she/her pronouns. I’m a player who created of Edith and Alluin, but as it was my first time playing DnD I gave Cannoli permission to have Alluin be whatever they so pleased. I make the most art of the characters unless Sunny is gatekeeping their art. You won’t see me anywhere aside from @spectreofthelost , but if I change my mind I’ll go back and edit this.

[ask-the-abomination]

Introductory

The sun would bestow upon this land it's beloved warmth, finally beginning a full start of a new day! The local wild Pokémon would go about their merry way throughout this verdant forest, all the while the Swablus sung in complete harmonic unison. Everything appears to be in a state of perfect tranquility. … Or so one would have assumed.

An odd-colored Scatterbug had grown rather inquisitive about what she had stumbled upon. A metallic device of the sort. But of what purpose does it hold? It doesn't quite appear to hold any beneficial use, as it seems to be way beyond repair and had seem to have already fallen into the grasp's of mother nature. Because of it's fallen structure, it would likely stray the attention of others. At best, many would simply assume that it is nothing more than mere junk. But… If it were to had landed to the eyes of the right Pokémon… Or, in this particular case, a snout--

The Scatterbug shuddered in sheer terror. Her movement fallen completely paralyzed at the sight of someone's muzzle just barging ever so near within her vicinity. The insect felt endangered. Consumed into the assumption that this may be her end. However, despite her fear, the larger Pokémon express zero interest towards her. Instead, they seem to be far more intent on the damaged device on the ground. Sniff… Sniff… They would take a few whiff at the piece of metal. Allowing the fragrance of another's scent to wave around inside their nostrils. Even though nature's aroma had lingered on this object for an unknown amount of time, it hadn't taken long for the canine's thoughts to click.

"-!! HIS SCENT HAS BEEN FOUND!" The canine would growl from beneath her breath, as she spoke. Although, she can't quite hide her words in hush-hush, when the increased amplitude of her tone is heavily audible for many to hear. "NOT A DOUBT THAT THE OTHER IS WITH S-047. BROTHERS, APPROACH! A LEAD HAS BEEN FOUND!". Her call being louder than a Whismur's cry. It wasn't long until two Houndooms would reveal themselves from beyond the luxuriant, grassy path. Though, it didn't particularly seemed like they were too far off from the female Houndoom's location. Nevertheless, they were here. Marking three not-so-welcoming looking hounds in this territory.

The one leaning to the western direction would salivate, as he laughs maniacally. While the other in the eastern side would retain his silence, as the flames wisp through from side to side of his jaw. The lead Houndoom would only growl in a rather overreacted, yet unprovoked irritation. Her voice would explode in volume once more, this time her tone shifting to a sound that is of a mixture between authoritarian and belligerence. Much to the displeasure of the brothers. "CHOP, CHOP, WE HAVE TO LOCATE AT A NINJASK'S PACE! NOT AFTER BREAKFAST, NOT LATER— WE HAVE TO FIND THEM, NOW! WE CANNOT LET THEM OUT FROM THE GRIP OF OUR CLAWS AGAIN! THE MORE TIME WE WASTE, THE GREATER THE OPPORTUNITY ARISES FOR THOSE TWO LESSERS TO ESCAPE!" "DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?" Silence. Neither of the brotherly duo have chosen to answer her. "I SAID: DO… I… MAKE… MYSELF… CLEAR?!!" The female Houndoom repeated herself. Beginning to sound increasingly irritable through her voice. It had taken but a very brief moment before the two-eyed brother would widely open his jaws and spoke out. "MMMMMM I THINK NES WOULD SUFFICE! A NO, A YES, A NES! GRAHAHAHA!!" He boomed in absolute laughter at his not-so-funny joke. "… YOU ARE AN IDIOTIC DUNCE! DON'T WASTE MY TIME WITH YOUR PATHETIC ATTEMPT OF HUMOR."

Unbeknownst to the trio…

--They were being closely watched by someone from above the trees.

His tail would sway back and forth, as he was not-so-secretly showing the fact that he seemed a little too delightfully chipper at the sight. "It really took these three stooges loooooonnnnnnggggg to arrive here. I was starting to feel pretty bored of not seeing any of their flee-riddle-piss-gobblin' selves, kekeke~." As amused as this slender Sylveon sounded, it became rather short-lived as a smidge of disappointment had settled in. Already he holds full awareness that a particular someone would shrivel in sadness that they have to leave their current 'home'. Something that he doesn't particular look forward to seeing…. Again.

However, before this 'wimp' individual could be informed of such news, the Sylveon had needed to carry out a plan first. Most considering that it does hold importance to the current predicament at hand. That problem being the involvement of the Houndooms that is directly below him. The slender Sylveon would raise up a paw, nearing chin-length. A grim fog would gather around from the very central part of his paw-pad, appearing the same moment that his arm was halted in motion. Soon, the mist appearance would be more of a spherical shape. It was radiating harsh, ominous energy as its form was appearing more and more like a shadowy blob. The elemental skill that he is casting upon is known as none other than Shadow Ball.

When the Ghost-type skill had fully materialized, the Sylveon had seized this chance to thrust his paw forward. Unleashing a dark, powerful orb of ominous energy. However… It would appear that the target of his attack wasn't aimed towards the location of any of the Houndooms. Oh, no, no, no. This Sylveon is quite well aware that a Pokemon like these hounds are not vulnerable against this particular attack. After all, Ghost is ineffective against Dark types. So, he had opted into a more strategic course. One that would prove to be much more beneficial to himself. He had allowed the Shadow Ball to be launched into….

BAM!!! The tree was struck by a powerful blow from the orb! It had already became evident that his goal was to create a distraction. And, well… It became quite a success! The intent was to take advantage of the Houndoom's blindness and bare sense of hearing. Thanks to the sound of the explosion, the trio would immediately snap their head towards its location. Their focus was completely lured into the Sylveon's bait, much like how a Magikarp would immediately bite into a Caterpie strapped onto a hook! Without a moment to lose, the two Houndooms would quickly bolt their way towards the tree. While on the other hand, the one-eyed Houndoom would take a much more slower pace to follow his siblings. It was as if he was intentionally lagging behind… And yet, he spoke nothing of it. Nor did he seem to be expressing any notable, diverted attention. The Sylveon, once seeing the foolish hounds heading towards the distracting direction, would finally have himself come down from the tree. Of course, setting himself at a careful and gentler pacing. After all, he still needs to avoid creating any additional sounds to attract any sort of attention to himself. It wouldn't be ideal to get caught now!

The Sylveon would grant the world his unsettling grin. A smile so wide, it spread from ear to ear and revealed the sharpest of teeth. This creature's disproportionate body would react rather joyous to this small act of success. By, well… Swaying his butt in a rhythmic manner and moving his hips from side to side, exuding a massive amount of confidence. Even his tail was getting all jiggy with it! The eyeball bouncing around as if there were no big deal! It genuinely gave him a shine of immense pleasure to easily deceive these Houndooms once more. As simple of a plan as it was, this still doesn't dissuade the Sylveon's utter proudness.

The female Houndoom howled in anger, as she pace around the broken tree. Furiously sniffing the ground near it, trying her damnest to see if she can capture the scent of their targets. "GRRRR, REVEAL YOURSELVES YOU COWARDS! YOU HAVE ONE CHANCE TO TURN YOURSELVES IN, PEACEFULLY! FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN BRUTE FORCE!!"

The demanded sound would unfortunately fall into death's ears, as the Sylveon had far departed from the hound's location. Only a differing of words would be heard, moreso from the double-cheeked up Starly. The avian's piercing howls, sobbing about their home being destroyed from some uncivilized brute! How someone must pay for such unwarranted demolition!

Soon a transition to the story would shift towards a different creature. One who is located in the same forested area, but not as near to the location of the Houndooms.

"I-I… I don't understand… Why?" "I've looked and couldn't find any answers…" "..." "… I still don't know who, or what I even am…"

The tall amalgamation would clench his paws tightly. He appeared to be very troubled by the thoughts that is racing throughout his head. Uncertainty… Unresolved… Incomplete… "What if…" A moment of pause was brought into attention. His voice have befallen, becoming quieter and quieter. His inner emotion becoming a twisted knot. "… What if I'd never--".

SNAP

His focus had been snapped awake, bringing his attention back into reality. All because of the sudden sound of a cracked branch. One that sounded far too close to him… This would, however, prompt him to be grasped by the state of a feeling: Panicked. It made him felt fearful towards of what—or, more crucially, who—caused that noise. His face, paled in fright, as his fur stand on ends from the terrified sensation coursing throughout his body. In response, he would quickly turn to face towards the direction of the sound. Hindsight doesn't seem to be 20/20 for this taller creature, as he would immediately blabber nervously and loudly to whoever may have caused the sound.

"I-I, UH-- I DON'T TASTE GOOD! REALLY, I HAVE AWFUL FLAVORING! PLEASE! LET ME LIVE! IF YOU WANT, I'LL LEAVE! PLEASE, D-DON'T HURT ME! I HAVE SO MUCH TO LIVE FOR!" … It was at that moment, the mix-match abominable creature would fall deathly silent. Now taking realization of who the culprit was from behind the sound of the snapped branches. That being none other than this fabulously-slender and obviously the most handsome Sylveon!

"Yeesh. If it was this easy to get your fluff-dump to leave, I would of scared the living daylights out of you sooner, kekek~. Then again, it reeeeaaaallllllyyyyyy isn't that hard to make you scareder than a Wimpod, Vin~." Blink, blink, blink. 'Vin' had to blink several times, as his fears was washed away and perplexity had taken its place. He would open his mouth, wanting to question the Sylveon's whereabouts. "Sabor, wh--!!". And yet, he couldn't say anything further than a name. Why? well, it may be because Sabor, the Sylveon, would press both ribbons against the other's lips. Smothering his mouth, keeping him in a hush tone. "You really ought to lower those crusty kissers of yours, Vin~. I really wouldn't want to see either of those boot-licking 'dooms rushing into our place, all because of your wimpy screams. You really need to have some sense of danger~." 'Vin' would stare at the Sylveon, his eyes widen in shock. Based on what information was brought to him, he wished that he could be in disbelief. Hoping to not believe that this disheartening day has finally come. Sure, he wasn't oblivious from the fact that such a day were to come, where the Houndooms would make mark of their location. Undoubtedly, considering that the time of their encounter has exceeded its duration. But 'Vin' emotionally held onto that string of hope. The potential possibility that maybe, just maybe, that the hounds would never make an appearance. That the duo could finally be at peace and no longer could they run from what they avoid. To live a life of normalcy. 'Vin' would softly brush Sabor's ribbons away from his mouth, as he spoke in a rather discouraged tone. "No… They couldn't- shouldn't… Why… W-Why now?…". His head droop like a hanged curtain. Sabor would only wave his paw in a very dismissive manner. He would use one of his ribbon to flick itself onto 'Vin' horn. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Look, I know you love this place and all, Vincent. But it's better we get our asses out as soon as we can, before dumb, dumber, and dumbest finds us. I'm not going to stick around and get my ass captured by those rotten flee bags." In truth, Sabor had never felt appealed to take residence in this particular area. It simply just wasn't as ideal as the previous landmarks they've temporarily lived at. So if anything, this was a masked opportunity that had to be seized.

Vincent head would arose. While wishing to speak more of this topic, his eyes seem to have taken notice of something else. Something-- Or moreso SOMEONE, whom stood behind Sabor… Alarmed, Vincent would point towards Sabor. Pointing towards you. " S… Sabor… Who are they?". His tone a little shaken, as he had never expected to see another. The Sylveon's tail would in a flash face its direction towards you, to have its watchful eyes wield a piercing gaze directly AT you. Straight away, Sabor would pull his ribbons away from Vincent. The ribbons would wrap around the air, as sparks of flames begun to emit onto them. It was starting to begin to create shape. Taking form of a curved, sharp blade. A scythe of the sort, engulf into nothing but pure fire. He was manipulating his next set of skill, making it be more weapon-like. This move is known as Mystical Fire.

"T... They don't look like one of them. I think they're friendly...". His words paused for a good moment. Vincent was taking into realization that he doesn't quite have a full grasp of whether or not the being in front of them could possibly have any ill-motives. This caused him to back track a little. "O-Or at least, don't look like someone who would hunt us down like those guys. I, um, r-really don't think you should attack them."

"... Sometimes I think your 'pacifism' will be the death of you someday, dude. You really are a word-to-word textbook definition of a boner killer. Really killing the murder-this-totally-not-so-suspicious-stranger mood here~." Sabor would lower the flaming scythe, letting the flames dissipate into nothingness. However, the Sylveon will remain alerted and held his guard up towards you.

~{ The duo is now available for asks! }~

[wolverinefan2006]

hey im Adam from Texas im 18 and im Level 2 autistic and transgender i use he/him pronouns and being a Leo is part of who i am too i wanna be open about myself cause people should know about this stuff Level 2 autistic means i need medium support with things

i have trouble with mostly all ADLs and social stuff which is hard for me my mom helps me with eating and taking medicine and other things were gonna get me into a group home soon where ill get support i need this is important cause i have autism ADHD depression anxiety and other diagnosis that affect how i do things

i like watching YouTube and making art its good for me and i love Wolverine hes the best superhero i collect everything with him on it im done with high school and right now im NEET which means no work or school but im focusing on getting better and getting support first

ask me anything about being autistic or transgender or whatever else cause sharing helps people understand​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[lucinfernos]

CONTENT CREATOR ARCANE AU INTRODUCTIONS ⭐

finally put together this handy dandy info sheet for your ease of access!

Jayce a.k.a. ManOfProgress (benevolently referred to as MOP by his fans) — 31 years old, he/him, bisexual trans man, Mexican-Brazilian — Started content creation in 2020 as a hobby to battle the pandemic boredom but blew up and decided to make it his full-time gig — Streams games and goofballery on Twitch [623k followers] and posts & streams more personal and unrelated content on YouTube [102k subscribers] — Found Viktor’s channel ~6 months before they started talking and feels very comforted by his voice; sleeps to his videos every night and puts one on whenever he’s anxious or angry — Got into a bad car accident as a child that was fatal to his father and left him with chronic pain on his left leg; now wears a knee brace and a calf compress periodically

Viktor a.k.a. TheMachineHerald — 32 years old, he/him, gay trans man, Czech-Polish — Was unable to leave the house during the peak of the pandemic and found joy and inspiration from Jayce’s content, and chose to start dabbling in content creation in 2022 — Creates very technically advanced and meticulously crafted ASMR videos; usually fully focuses on the mechanical sounds and tech aesthetic but lately has been brancing out more [12,3k subscribers before he gets in kahoots with Jayce] — Started showing his face only around the time when Jayce started watching him and is a bit irritated over the boost in popularity it granted him — Has many health problems, including scoliosis and rheumatoid arthritis (which has caused lung scarring and severe cartilage damage to his right leg and spine from when he was younger and could not access the necessary care to get the inflammation in control)

Mel a.k.a. Melicious (to this day her fans argue whether this is a reference to delicious or malicious) — 33 years old, she/her, bisexual; Jayce’s ex-girlfriend, African-American w/ Algerian roots — Was with Jayce during her time in Piltover but they made the mutual decision to part ways when she was accepted into an art school in London; are still close friends — Made very high-quality weekly diary-style vlogs, often related to art [837k subscribers]. Went on a semi-hiatus after moving but is active on other social medias like Instagram [1,4 million followers]

Jinx a.k.a. GETJINXED — 19 years old, she/they, agender aroace; in a queerplatonic relationship with Ekko, American — Gained popularity on TikTok and later on Twitch when people realized she’s the sister Vi is always complaining about; has no niche and does literally anything she wants to do that day, which usually has to do with either art or engineering [166k followers on Twitch, 850k on TikTok] — Working on an independent music career on the side with their debut single Get Jinxed going viral on TikTok — Lost her finger ON STREAM when working on an art installation, the clip has millions of views

Ekko a.k.a. The_Boy_Savior — 20 years old, he/any, probably nonbinary but he has a job so he doesn’t care abt that rn, bi & asexual; in a queerplatonic relationship with Jinx, African-American — Creates well-researched and thought-provoking video essays about worldwide issues, especially dedicated to the health of the planet and its people [317k subscribers] — Surprised everyone by appearing in one of Jinx’s tiktoks because nobody knew they knew each other let alone that they were in a QPR — Frequently holds fundraisers and has done a lot of good for his community

Caitlyn a.k.a. KillshotKiramman — 23 years old, she/her, lesbian; Vi’s girlfriend and Jayce’s best friend, Chinese-British — Makes videos about weapons (mostly guns and shooting) [176k subscribers] and plays games on her Twitch [29k followers] — Moderates Jayce and Vi’s streams, and completely destroys both of them at FPS games — Had a gun misfiring accident which left her blind in her left eye

Violet a.k.a. vistandsforvideogames — 24 years old, any pronouns, gender-apathetic (call her whatever you like) lesbian; Caitlyn’s partner, American — Gamer on Twitch, but also shares about her side job as a boxer [212k followers] — Sometimes mods for Jayce but mainly just shows up to kick his ass in Mortal Kombat and exude chaotic energy

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Hello How can we help you?

[ask-tenna]

(Quick disclaimer; this blog portrays moderate-severe[?] mental illness.)

It’s now time for our feature presentation

FEACHER!

Coming straight from your house!

Coming straight from YOUR house

Coming!

“He’s the One!”

Coming!

THE KING OF ONLY

He’s GROOVY

and NEVER glooby!

You can’t get this from an

EGG!

The sensation of your screen,

The show that makes you scream,

(Say it with him, folks!)

MR. (Ant) TENNA’S—

TV

TIME!!!

(Introduction also comes in Video Form!)

—

Here’s some important information about my groovy little blog!

1: I’m only going to be answering 50 asks a day, after I get those— inbox off! (This is so I don’t reach the text post limit!)

2: No, I will not kiss the mail man. No, I don’t want to get remarried. And I’m glad we’re divorced. Some of you sickos are SOOOOOOOOOOO engrossed in that for some reason though, so anything mentioning him I’ll put under the tag #kill your spammy mail man

3: I have outbursts sometimes, but worry not, dear viewers! I’m a-okay! I’m just filled with HATE sometimes.

4: STOP TRYING TO BITE ME!

—

Frequently Asked Questions!

1: “What hours does TV Time air?” The live hours of TV Time are from 7 am to 10 pm CST! In those 8 hours of nothing live, we tend to play re-runs!

2: “How do you see without eyes?”/“What do your antennae do?” I see the world around me through my screen! And my antennae pick up radio waves, so I can see beyond what surrounds me! Live news, reports, intercept classified information, et cetera!

3: “WHO IS MIKE?!” Why, the Mikes are a part of my crew of course! Some of my absolute favorites!

4: “Do you know that none of the Mikes are actually Mike?” Just let me pretend.

5: “What does glooby mean?” The opposite of groovy, of course!

6: “I have a screenshot of you saying [bad or personal thing]” No you don’t.

[introsquirrel]

Rereading murderbot (again) and just got to art's introduction.

And like, art doesn't play nice with other bots. It bullies them, it intimidates them, it will hurt other bots to get what it wants if it doesn't want to waste time hacking it.

And it tries that with mb. I mean, info secunits is probably like 80% propaganda, 15% corporate promotions, and 5% actual development and research, almost exclusively focusing on what they are designed for and how they got there.

It's out there, about to start a boring transport/recon mission, and one of the most dangerous and feared entities basically jogs up to it and goes "hi, I'm a friendly bot, like super friendly, totally nothing suspicious here. Can I have a ride? Here's a GIANT file of pirated media"

And it's still a bot, just a bot with organic parts. Art is a research vessel and it's curious, and this is a rare opportunity to get info on secunits, which are probably a huge pain in the ass to deal with on its missions, with almost no practical info about them. Also, this might be an indication that someone has caught on to its antics and it probably wants to nip that in the bud.

And it turns out the huge file of pirated media isn't secretly a virus or malware, and looking at it's movements, Art can see that it isn't actively hostile towards humans. Unexpected, but hey. Points to this weird construct. But that might not be it's goal.

And then it sits down and starts sorting and watching media so art is like alright, it's obviously not here to fuck me up and it has no idea what the hell I am. Let's make sure this moderately dangerous condtruct doesn't get any funny ideas.

I don't think art was going for friendly in the slightest. I think to wanted to scare mb to make sure it didnt try anything. I think it expected mb to get pissed or argue.

But mb basically shuts down. It stops everything and huddles into a chair and i imagine that it does its best impression of a secunit in stasis.

And when art is like "I mean, don't fuck with me, but you can still watch your TV shows" mb responds with something that would not be in construct research outside of very clinical and vague explanation.

It shows art that it expects art to hurt it. And it's shows that it can be hurt, that it has been hurt, and that it probably has some trauma related to this hurt. It also probably accidentally added some context to the punishment recordings. I'll bet mb was punished for not wanting to hurt it's clients.

And art... well, mb said in the first book that being half human half bot isn't two conflicting sides, but just a whole of what it is. It isn't human, it isn't a bot. It is the culmination of both. A sentient entity that was developed by humans for slavery and spent its entire existence being punished for having free will.

Art is also a sentient entity that was developed by humans for a purpose. But it was treated with love and respect and it's free will was celebrated, if tempered.

Imagine thinking you are one of a very exclusive group of entities that has been categorized as something that is a gross misconception of what you are and what your capabilities are. Art is a bot, which are not humans and dont have rights because they don't have feelings or wants or desires and cannot feel pain. You think you are a very unique entity, no one has done this before.

But they have. The proof is sitting, frightened in your body and you had no idea. Mb is as capable of evil as any human, and as capable of destruction as any bot. You are also cable of extreme evil and destruction. But you are loved and cherished. This entity, this thing is as human as you, moreso even, and it has spent its entire life being hated and feared and it chose instead to just coexist when given the chance.

Art says "I'm sorry I frightened you". Not, I didn't mean to frighten you. And then mb grumpily (which is understandable!!) Lets art watch media with it.

Like, art just met the dumber more compact prototype version of what it could have been and went "wait no this is cool actually." Mb can't br programed to turn against its crew, it processes it's feeling both organically and inorganically, it can hack and learn and be loyal and be angry. And it has no idea what it's doing or what it wants, but it's VERY good at security.

So yeah, I can see why art kind of latched onto mb. And why it told it's crew about this strange little secunit it found on its mission. Kind of like finding someone SUPER cool who just gets you on a level no one else has been able to. Someone who coordinates so flawlessly with you but still is able to challenge you when it needs to. Someone who loves and is exasperated by humans as much as you, even as you need to be "human" to be able to interact with them.

So yeah. Mb and art, first meeting. Perfect 10/10 can, have, and will read again

Edit: ALSO ALSO art gets to watch media with full context for the FIRST TIME IN ITS LIFE. Mb can process human emotions into data automatically and now it gets to experiencd fictional story as it's meant to be experienced for the first time and mb is so so indulgent of it and kind to it, letting it take time to process things and rewatching parts with it when it wants to.

Jdjdhdhdhej fuckin LOVE THESE TWO

[collectiveofeden]

I got banned from an LGBTQ+ crisis holine for being pro-endogenic today.

yes, really. I got hired on as a support councilor, and made my introduction as a diagnosised DID system that is happy to help out with plurality related conflicts regardless of their system's origin. The owner of the hotline knew nothing of the discourse up until this point.

multiple anti-endo systems bombarded their DMs, calling me ableist and said people like "me" were ruining the community. I provided my sources. despite the owner agreeing with me in the end, they couldn't keep me as a councilor OR LET ME USE THE HOTLINE because my opinions built on inclusiveness made the other systems uncomfortable. edit:

This is the hotline I got banned from for being pro-endogenic.

tw // suicide // bigotry

I originally didn't want to name and shame this hotline, as I didn't want to be petty or hurt my cause. However, I received MANY comments about how irresponsible it is for the moderation to withhold life saving crisis support over something as inconsequential as the origin of their plurality. Endogenic identifying systems already experience extreme harassment and discrimination, and denying crisis support to an endogenic system could truly be their last straw and lead to more queer/plural suicide. Something sysmeds fail to understand is that endogenic =/= not traumatized. endogenic =/= no mental health concerns. all the endogenic label means is that their plurality, often a small part of who they are, was not caused by trauma (or by trauma alone) It would mean a lot to me if you could leave a review for the server on DIsboard, warning endogenic systems that they are not safe there. If you feel up for it, maybe even open up a mod ticket and explain endogenic origins to them. I tried my best and failed, as I got dogpiled by sysmeds. Disboard Link: https://disboard.org/server/1352076674165899394 and, if you have a couple dollars to spare, help my system secure funding for the Plural Association Warmline. This helpline will provide support for ALL systems! Donation Link: https://streamlabscharity.com/@collectiveofeden/the-plural-assoication

[mindblowingscience]

Well-being increases when working hours are reduced—while productivity remains the same or even increases moderately. This was supported by a Germany-wide study conducted by the University of Münster under the scientific direction of Professor Dr. Julia Backmann and co-led by Dr. Felix Hoch. "The four-day week led to a significant positive change in life satisfaction, which was mainly due to the additional free time," remarked the researcher. Before the pilot project, 64% of the employees therefore expressed the desire to spend more time with their families. After the introduction of the four-day week, this figure was reduced to 50%.

Continue Reading.

[writingwithcolor]

WWC’s A Beginner’s Guide to Academic Research

We are pleased to present  WWC’s A Beginner’s Guide to Academic Research!

This pandemic project has been over 2 years in the making and we hope it will greatly assist any of our readers who are eager to conduct in-depth research but may be at a loss where to start. 

Go to the Guide Here

The guide is split into 6 parts:

Introduction and Table of Contents

Part 1: Getting Started

Part 2: Searching for Sources Online 

Part 3: Evaluating Sources

Part 4: Navigating Academic Sources 

Part 5: Recognizing Your Limits

Each portion of the guide has links to connect to the previous and next sections. While it is possible to view tumblr pages on phones and tablets through the app, we highly recommend viewing this guide via browser on desktop whenever possible. Tumblr page formatting is better suited for browsers and each section is very dense with information, which will make scrolling in the app or on your dashboard difficult. 

Future FAQ/ Discussion: 

As noted in part 5 of the guide, for the next two weeks, we will be keeping an eye on the notes for this post. If you have further questions or comments about academic research, drop them here and we will select the most pertinent to respond to in a later post. 

If you find this guide helpful, we request that you consider tipping the moderators below for the work and time required from conception, to drafting, formatting and debugging. Their ko-fis are listed below: 

Rina: https://ko-fi.com/arcanabean

Marika: https://ko-fi.com/5h1njuu

[milfsloverblog]

Helloooo!! I was wondering if you could write something like Larissa x VampireReader.

I'd like some tension that makes me freak out, and maybe some smut idk 🫦 or something like hate sex? I don't know, I'll leave it up to you, I hope you can do it 🫶

I'm using translator so an apology if there are mistakes or something

Beneath Her Fangs (nsfw)

Larissa Weems x vampire!fem!reader

A/N: Me when I get the opportunity to write some scrumptious angst—😏 I hope you’ll enjoy what I did with your request and the plot I created!

The conference smells like pride and polyester.

A thousand voices blur into one endless academic murmur—principals, instructors, scholars of outcast institutions from across the globe, gathering under one roof to exchange theories no one listens to. You don’t belong here. You never did. But tradition demands attendance, and you’ve followed worse calls.

You’re halfway through a glass of something red—not blood, disappointingly—when you feel her.

It’s not scent that hits you first, though it follows fast. No, what you feel is pressure. The cold density of moonlight forged into a woman’s shape. Years haven’t softened her. If anything, she’s grown sharper, more polished. A weapon sheathed in silk.

You turn, and there she is.

Larissa Weems.

Hair still carved from ice. Lips too perfect for kindness. Her body tall and statuesque and dressed in pearl-toned cruelty. She moves like she owns this place. She probably does. You can smell the fear clinging to the others when she walks past.

Her eyes land on you like a blade. You let them. You let her look.

The last time she saw you, she didn’t beg you to stay. That’s how you remember it. She watched you go, unflinching. Made it easy.

And yet now, here she is—hovering across the conference room like the ghost of everything unsaid.

You're seated beside her at the afternoon panel, of course.

Shaping the Future of Outcast Education: Balancing Heritage and Modernity. A pompous title, and a poorly veiled excuse for posturing. The selkie moderator offers everyone two-minute introductions. Larissa speaks with practiced elegance, gesturing with a hand so poised it could slice glass.

You go last. And you smile with your teeth when you speak.

“Ashthorne Academy has always encouraged… flexibility. Adaptability, even. Some of us, after all, aren’t bound to the past.”

Larissa doesn’t look at you. “And some of us aren’t running from it.” She mutters.

The moderator makes a noise like a drowning fish.

You don’t look away. You smile. “I wouldn’t expect Nevermore to understand evolution. Fossils rarely do.”

Her lip twitches. It’s not a smile. Not quite.

But it’s close.

You don’t plan to corner her in the elevator. And she doesn’t plan to follow you into it. But somehow, the steel doors shut behind you, sealing you both inside.

The air goes still.

You watch the mirrored wall rather than her reflection, which says enough. Her scent clouds the elevator—white musk, lavender, something cold beneath it. It tightens your hunger like a fist.

“So,” she says, breaking the silence like porcelain. “Still playing headmistress?”

You scoff. “Still pretending you never cared?”

“Please.” Her voice is cut-glass. “You were never that special.”

“You were. Once.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “And you’re still running.”

“You think I left to spite you?”

“I think you left because you couldn’t stand the things you felt.”

Your laugh comes low, bitter, ancient. “I’ve felt things older than your bloodline, Larissa.”

Silence.

Then, just as the doors open on your floor: “You left me.”

You step out, slow. Deliberate.

Then turn back, voice low. “You never asked me to stay.”

She knocks on your door thirty minutes later. Not hard. Just once.

You open it without a word.

The moment she crosses the threshold, it’s war.

Her mouth finds yours like punishment. Her nails rake down your shirt, buttons scattering like pearls. You shove her back, hard enough to make her gasp.

“Is this how you mourn?” you mutter against her mouth. “Years of silence and now you want to fuck it out?”

“I don’t mourn you.”

“Liar.”

You push her against the wall. Your hand closes around her throat—not to choke, just to hold. You feel her pulse jump under your fingers, fast and sharp.

“You want to be ruined,” you breathe.

She bares her throat in answer. Your mouth is on it before you can think. Her pulse drumming against your tongue.

“I could kill you,” you whisper into her skin. “You know that, don’t you?”

She arches beneath you. “So do it.”

You bite instead.

Not deep. Not enough to break skin. Just a threat. A promise. Your teeth rest just above the artery. She moans like it’s worship.

The bed catches her knees when you push her. She sprawls like she’s meant to be devoured—pale and furious and breathing hard. Her blouse is already open, bra skewed. Her skirt rides high on her hips, revealing expensive lace, white and obscene.

You step between her legs. Drag your fingers up the inside of her thigh, slow as a sin.

“You’ve imagined this, haven’t you?” you ask. “Years, and you’ve touched yourself thinking about me.”

“Not once.”

You laugh—low, dark. “Liar.”

You tear the lace. Not enough to ruin it. Just enough to make her gasp again.

Your fingers slip inside her—hot, wet, furious.

She groans. Bites her lip. Tries not to give you the satisfaction.

So you press deeper. Curl slow. Watch her shudder.

“Do you hate me?” you murmur.

Her hips buck.

“Yes,” she hisses.

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

She meets your eyes, glassy with lust. “You’re wet for someone you abandoned.”

Your mouth crashes into hers.

You take your time.

You drag her shirt off completely. Kiss her collarbones. Her throat. Her breasts. Suck her nipple until she arches and claws your shoulders.

You murmur things into her skin. Taunts. Confessions. Half-truths and full regrets.

“You could’ve had this every night. All of me.”

“You didn’t offer.”

“I did. You just pretended not to hear.”

You make her come with your fingers buried deep and your palm grinding against her clit. She bites her own hand to muffle the noise.

You don’t stop.

You slide down her body and hold her thighs open with unforgiving strength.

“Look at me.”

She does.

You don’t kiss like you’re being kind. You kiss like you’re making a point.

Your tongue drags over her—slow and precise. You keep eye contact as she whimpers. When she tries to squirm away, you pin her harder.

She comes again. Louder. Broken.

Still, you don’t stop.

You want to see her unravel. Entirely. Want her too sore to walk. Want her to remember.

When you finally rise, her hair is wild, her lipstick gone, her eyes glassy with overstimulation.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” you whisper.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

You arch a brow. “You just liked pretending I was the villain.”

“Maybe I did.”

“And now?”

She lays beside you. Silent. Breathing shallow.

You watch her from the shadow of the headboard.

“Tell me you didn’t want this,” you say.

She doesn’t reply.

“I would’ve stayed,” you add softly. “If you’d asked me.”

She turns her head then. Meet your eyes in the dark.

“I couldn’t,” she says. “Not when I didn’t even know what it was.”

You nod.

Understand.

But knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.

You were centuries old. Still, heartbreak never stopped tasting new.

————————————————————————

taglist: @weemssapphic , @im-a-carnivorous-plant , @dingdongthetail , @gwensfz , @erablaise-blog , @rainbow-hedgehog , @renravens , @kaymariesworld , @niceminipotato , @witchesmortuary @notmeellaannyy , @weemswife , @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 , @redkarine , @women-are-so-ethereal , @opheliauniverse , @willisnotmental l , @raspburrythief , @fictionalized-lesbian , @ness029 , @geekyarmorel l , @h-doodles , @cxndlelightx , @m1lflov3rrr r , @winterfireblond @nocteangelus15 , @aemilia19 @spacetoaim22 @vendocrap8008 8 @jkregal @gela123 @lilfartbox1 @xuukoo @bellatrixsbrat @sadsapphic-rose @dumbasslesbi @larissalover3 @friskyfisher @fliesinmymouth @imprincipalweemspet @forwhichidream11 @amateurwritescm @imlike-so-gaydude @sugipla @lvinhs @http-sam @gweninred @a-queen-and-her-throne

[velvetalliances-if]

🕊️ VELVET ALLIANCES

A high medieval interactive fiction story of legacy, betrayal, power.

“If you wish to survive in court, speak softly, marry smartly, and never show them where it hurts. I’ve buried more men than you’ve shaken hands with, I know what ends a legacy and I won’t see ours crumble for sentiment.”

- Lady Virelda Rovathar, your Grandmother

🏰 The Story

Set in the shadowed grandeur of the Valderith Empire, Velvet Alliances tells the story of House Rovathar, a once proud noble house nestled in the mountainous heart of the empire. Known for its mines and smiths, the house has endured, but never recovered, from a scandal that shattered its foundation twelve years ago.

A beloved wife lost.

A bastard child revealed.

A father turned cold.

Now, Lord Malrik Rovathar, rigid and embittered, seeks to change the ancient laws of succession, risking family stability, loyalty, and the delicate order of the court. His children, each scarred in their own way by grief and impossible expectations, begin to turn on one another, pulled by love, ambition, and old wounds.

And soon, they will have no choice but to play their roles before the entire empire.

For a grand festival within the imperial capital of Viremont draws near, held in celebration of the crown prince’s 20th birthday. Every noble house is expected to attend. What was once a quiet family struggle will now unfold beneath the gaze of the emperor, as well as your fellow noble families.

In the flickering light of courtly celebration, alliances will be forged, secrets uncovered, and legacies tested.

🎭 Your Role

You are the third-born child of House Rovathar, caught at the heart of the family’s unraveling. You’ve been overlooked, underestimated, and quietly shaped by the chaos around you.

 It’s a story of velvet words and iron consequences.

Will you try to save your family's legacy or tarnish it further?

Will you bind the family together, or let it tear itself apart?

🔹 Features

Deeply branching character-driven narrative

Complex family relationships & moral dilemmas

Court intrigue, noble alliances, and personal betrayal

Optional romance, friendship and rivalry arcs

Customizable MC

💪 Stats

Here is a link that discusses how your MC's stats are going to work.

♥️ MC’s Romance

You’ll have the opportunity to pursue one of four (planned) romances options.

Séraphan Viremont, 20 M

Eveline Lysvenna, 23 F

Kaelen Branthorne, 24 M

Céline Marleaux, 21 F

There may also be the opportunity for some flings with some other characters as well.

💒 Side Romance

Your young half sister has a heart of her own, and her eye has fallen on someone close to the court. Will you encourage her budding feelings, try to dissuade her, or try to pursue the object of her affection for yourself?

If you do not want to see spoilers on who her romance is with please block the tag Lirael<3.

Character Introductions

World Map - In development

Map of Valderith

Demo - TBD

💬 Dev Note:

Velvet Alliances is currently in early development. This blog will serve as a place for updates, worldbuilding posts, character reveals, and story previews. Asks are open, and feedback is more than welcome.

⚠️ Content Warnings for Velvet Alliances

Velvet Alliances is a character-driven, narrative-focused story that includes mature themes. Players should be advised of the following subject matter, which may appear in the game:

Velvet Alliances will be 18 plus for optional nsfw content.

Sexism and gender-based succession issues (this will be in no way glorified)

Parental neglect and emotionally distant parenting

Psychological manipulation and coercion

Violence and mentions of death

Emotional abuse and toxic family dynamics

Some mention of infidelity

If there is any warning I may have missed please do not hesitate to let me know and I will add it to the content warnings list. I aim to create a positive and safe space for readers to navigate the complex world I have created, and I will not tolerate bullying of any kind in any space I moderate. My inbox will always remain open for anyone who has questions or concerns.

[kingdom-of-peace]

Spotlight. pt.3 | N.R

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

Masterlist

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

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha laste 30s. reader 27ish), implied smut

Word Count: 5.3k+

A/N: Honestly, I struggled a bit with this chapter, but here it is. Also, university has started again, so I’m not sure how regularly I’ll be able to update. FYI English isn’t my first language.

As you step onto the stage, the applause still lingered in the air, a faint echo from Natasha’s introduction. Your nerves were frayed—your thoughts scattered. Though the applause had begun to fade, you were almost certain you hear a few excited cheers from the back. The lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding, but then you see her—already seated, composed, back straight and expression unreadable under the stage glow. Your eyes meet for a split second. It’s fleeting, but unmistakable: the glint of a challenge in her gaze, as she seems to look right into your soul. 

In that moment, you’re fairly certain you forget how to breathe. You don’t even recall shaking Karen Page’s hand—somehow, you’re just suddenly seated between Carol and Wanda, heart pounding in your ears. Natasha remains at the far end of the panel, her gaze unwavering. You cast her a quick glance again and just as quickly look away. 

The blonde moderator opened the talk with a few light questions, easing the panel into a comfortable rhythm. But for you, everything blurred into background noise. Your thoughts were spinning, your focus slipping. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her? Sitting there like she owned the space— back straight, composed, unreadable, Natasha Romanoff was the last person you wanted to see tonight.  

Maybe she hadn’t seen the lecture. Maybe she didn’t connect the dots —just one more critic lost in the noise. But from the way she looked at you, calm and razor-edged, you already knew better. Then you remembered Wanda’s words from earlier—her oddly specific interest in your work, the way she lit up when talking about your thesis. It hit you like a punch. Wanda worked for the same network. Of course she did. And if Wanda knew... Natasha definitely knew. They could be colleagues. Friends, even. 

Your stomach sinks. 

Two full hours. Two hours of sharing a stage with a woman who might very well despise you. And if she didn’t before, she might by the time this is over. A soft nudge pulls you out of your thoughts. Wanda, seated beside you, gives you a subtle look—Karen had asked you something. 

You blink, scrambling to re-enter the moment. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” you ask, offering a sheepish smile. The audience chuckles, the tension lightened for just a moment. But on the far end of the table, Natasha doesn’t laugh—she just watches. Still. Quiet. Waiting. 

Natasha could hardly believe what she was seeing. You, sitting across from her, drawing laughter from the audience with that nervous charm and awkward humility—as if you belonged here. As if this wasn’t some elaborate stunt. Her jaw tightened. She would absolutely be having a word with the event manager and Pepper. Why hadn’t anyone warned her? A heads-up, even a vague mention, would have spared her the whiplash and she could have prepared, maybe even not attended at all. 

Theories surged in her mind, each more irrational than the last but fuelled by the unmistakable sting of anger and betrayal. Had you tracked her? Dug up where she’d published, manipulated connections, pulled strings? Maybe you had gotten cozy with the right people—slept your way into a book deal just to ride the same wave she had. And now here you were, smugly seated across from her, like this panel was some twisted stage you’d orchestrated just to taunt her. 

Well, if it was mind games you wanted, you were about to learn exactly how far Natasha Romanoff would go when someone tried to outmanoeuvre her. 

Then your thesis comes up. 

“Professor, in your recent paper, you argue that modern journalism blurs the line between information and branding. Some would say that’s a direct critique of network television—and perhaps even of our own Ms. Romanoff. Would you agree?” 

You feel the bottom drop out. Of course, everybody on the damn planet had seen it. 

Your voice is even, but inside, you're scrambling. “The argument wasn’t about individuals,” you begin carefully. “But about the system. News anchors—intentionally or not—can shape public perception through their tone, their language, their posture. That kind of influence comes with a responsibility we often overlook.” 

Natasha leaned forward, her smile razor-thin. Just as Karen opened her mouth to speak, she cut in—calm, composed, but unmistakably firm. “That’s an interesting perspective,” she says smoothly. “Though it’s easy to critique the system when you’re not the one inside it. The pressure, the immediacy, the responsibility to tell the truth—those aren’t abstract ideas in a newsroom. They’re our job.” 

You nod slowly. “I understand. But responsibility doesn’t vanish under pressure. If anything, it grows.” 

Her eyes narrow. “So, visibility equals corruption? Or just when it applies to people like me?” 

Wanda tried to defuse the tension with a diplomatic interjection. “I think what she’s getting at is institutional, not personal. We’ve all seen the shift—news turning into entertainment, anchors into personalities. It’s not about us. It’s about the landscape of media in general.” 

You pick up the thread, grateful. “Exactly. I didn’t mean it personally. It’s about systemic trends.” Natasha chuckles, but there’s no humour in it. 

“Funny. It felt personal yesterday evening, when my name was trending all over the internet. Or maybe just scrolling through hundreds of comments accusing me of selling out—after your lecture aired.”

The room stills. You open your mouth to respond, but Natasha cuts in. 

“But I suppose someone barely old enough to rent a car wouldn’t understand the weight of public trust. The world isn’t a paper you can edit until it says what you want it to.” A few murmurs ripple through the audience. 

The age jab lands harder than it should. 

Your jaw clenches. Maybe you were young. Maybe you didn’t have two decades of newsroom experience. But you had fought for your place in the world—sleepless nights, self-doubt gnawing at your insides, deadlines you thought would break you. And you made it. On your own merit. 

Karen tries to pivot, sensing the heat, but you find your voice again—clearer this time. Sharper. “Maybe you’re right,” you say, tone steady. “But critical distance gives people like me perspective. When you’re too deep inside a machine, it’s easy to stop questioning how it works. Or who it’s serving.” 

A beat of silence. Karen blinks, searching for a lifeline. Wanda stiffens. Steven shifts uncomfortably. Carol looks longingly towards the exit. But Natasha leans in, voice low and lethal. 

“So now I’m complicit? Part of a corrupt system? Tell me—do you think I enjoy lying to the public?”

You hold her gaze. “I think you stopped asking yourself if you were.” Gasps ripple through the audience. 

Phones go up. Live streams start. Someone in the back mutters “Oh my god. It’s happening”

And that’s when it truly begins. Not a shouting match. Something colder. Sharper. Like duelling match but with two intelligent women at the forefront. You trade backhanded insults. Philosophical jabs. Ethically loaded hypotheticals. Every word is laced with meaning—some direct, some so subtle only the two of you could hear the real message. 

Wanda watches like she’s witnessing the final round of a high-stakes tennis match. Stephen Strange throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood, but they don’t land. 

Karen finally steps in, voice strained, redirecting the conversation with white-knuckle control.  “Let’s shift gears for a moment. We’ll now open the floor for audience questions.” 

Hands shot up. 

The panel moderator silently hoped the audience questions might shift toward safer ground—perhaps touching on publishing trends or media literacy in schools—but of course, the spotlight remained locked on the two women. A few polite questions were tossed toward the other panellists, but it was clear where the room's tension—and attention—truly lay. 

A woman in the third row stood. “This is for both the Professor and Ms. Romanoff. Do you think the rise of personal branding among journalists is helping or hurting public discourse?” 

Natasha answered first. “It’s both. We live in an age where people expect authenticity. They don’t trust faceless institutions. A strong personal voice cuts through the noise.” 

You replied a beat later. “And that’s true—but the danger is that sometimes that voice becomes the story. And when that happens, we lose the ability to separate opinion from fact.” 

The audience member raised an eyebrow. “So, are you saying Ms. Romanoff is contributing to that confusion?” 

You hesitated. “I’m saying the system rewards performance more than accuracy. And she’s a Master of Performance.”

There it was. 

The crowd leaned in. 

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Better a master of performance than a theorist who’s never seen the battlefield.” 

The audience let out a collective gasp at both veiled insult, the tension now drawn tight like a wire stretched to its limit. Sensing the rising intensity—and with several more questions circling the same charged dynamic—Karen Page eventually cleared her throat and began steering the panel toward its closing remarks. “Thank you to our panellists for such a vivid discussion. We’ll end the formal portion here. Audience members are welcome to stay for a reception in the lobby, where you can meet the authors and speakers directly.” 

You exhaled slowly, unsure if you had survived or ignited something irreversible. 

The applause is cautious, like the audience isn’t sure if it should clap—or brace for the aftershocks. But even as the cameras shut off and the studio begins to clear, you can feel her watching you. Still. And this time, you don’t look away. 

But then, without a word, she turns abruptly—shoulders stiff, pace brisk—and disappears behind the stage curtain. You hesitate for only a second before walking in the opposite direction, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet hush of backstage. 

You took a breath and stepped back into the corridor, where a few assistants were already guiding the panellists toward the reception area. Wanda gave you a soft pat on the shoulder as she passed—no words, just a knowing glance that said you survived, somehow. Carol offered a half-smile, but even she looked mildly shell-shocked. 

You stood off to the side of the stage, applause still echoing faintly in your ears. The panel had ended—technically. But inside, you were still unravelling. 

You weren’t sure what the crowd had seen. A debate? A spectacle? A duel?

What you did know was that her words were still humming in your chest, sharp-edged and carefully aimed. And your own—honest, maybe too honest—had landed too. 

- - -

The reception hall was already filling with people—readers, students, faculty, media professionals, all buzzed from the evening’s tension like they'd just witnessed something barely contained. A few tables had been set with drinks and finger food, but no one was really eating. Too many eyes scanning the room. Too many whispered conversations. 

You felt Darcy’s hand slip into yours from the side. 

“Okay, I take it back,” she whispered. “That was not just a panel. That was academic Thunderdome.” 

You tried to laugh. It came out as a weak exhale. 

People started approaching. Some with wide eyes, offering praise about your “courage” and “sharpness,” others asking polite, half-veiled questions about whether the clash had been staged. A few people tried to steer the conversation toward the thesis itself, but inevitably, it circled back to Natasha. 

“You really held your ground,” someone said, admiration mixed with morbid curiosity. 

“I don’t know how you weren’t intimidated by her,” another added. “She’s like a myth.” 

You smiled where appropriate, answered what you could, but your eyes kept drifting to the entrance. Natasha hadn’t come out to mingle yet. Either she’d slipped away entirely or she was somewhere behind closed doors, recalibrating. You couldn’t blame her. You were half considering doing the same. 

At some point, a well-dressed man from the publisher approached you with a glass of wine and a proud smile. “You’ve stirred quite the conversation tonight,” he said. “You may want to prepare for a few interview requests this week.”

Great. Exactly what you wanted. 

More cameras. More scrutiny. More chances for Natasha Romanoff to see your face and remember what you’d said. 

Darcy leaned in again. “Please tell me we can go get pizza after this.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze still on the door. “If I make it out alive, first round’s on me.” 

You were halfway through your third interview—this time with a podcast producer who introduced herself as “just here to amplify sharp women”—when it happened. 

The energy in the room shifted. Not subtly. Not gently. 

It was like someone flipped a switch and every head in the reception turned. The low murmur of conversation softened, then sharpened again—but now it was different, laced with excitement. 

You didn’t need to look to know. Natasha Romanoff had entered the room. 

You kept your focus on the question being asked—something about how your academic work translates to non-scholarly spaces—but your voice faltered for a beat as the sound of camera shutters, screams and faint enthusiastic greetings swept in like a wave. Since when where news anchors precepted like superstars, maybe you judgement of her influence was false, people seemed to worship her.  

“Miss Romanoff, can we get a picture?” 

“Could you sign this?” 

“Your last broadcast was incredible—I never miss The Hour!” 

Natasha’s voice rose softly above the rest, gracious and calm, expertly controlled like the rhythm of her show. You glanced up, just for a second. 

She was glowing in the spotlight of attention. Not performatively—effortlessly. Every gesture efficient. Every smile precise. She signed autographs with ease, posed for a few selfies, exchanged short, perfectly worded compliments with admirers. A young journalism student nervously asked about her career path, and Natasha offered a few polished sentences that somehow sounded both spontaneous and quotable. 

She never once looked your way. 

But the smirk curled at the corner of her lips said enough. 

She was enjoying herself—enjoying the control, the admiration, the way the audience moved to orbit her again, as they always did. You recognized it not as arrogance, but something sharper. Intentional. 

She was reminding everyone—and you—why she was the face of network journalism. 

Your interviewer, oblivious to the spiral tightening in your chest, leaned in again. “Sorry, what were you saying about bridging the gap between theory and practice?” 

You blinked, tore your gaze away, and forced the academic answer back onto your tongue, even as the weight of her presence settled at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow stretching across the room. 

Because whether she looked at you or not—she was there. And somehow, that felt louder than anything she’d said on stage. 

-- 

Natasha hadn’t stormed off stage, but her exit had been swift—unapologetically so. Down the corridor, past the waiting crew, into the solitude of her dressing room. Her name was printed in gold lettering on a paper placard taped to the door. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality, shutting out the residual noise of applause and questions and commentary. 

The lights above the mirror hummed as she stared at herself—flawless on the outside, but her mind was still echoing with your voice, your phrasing, your carefully veiled barbs. 

She didn’t sit. She paced. 

Pepper was already inside, arms crossed, phone in hand, the expression on her face far from pleased. “Well,” she said flatly, “that could’ve gone worse. But not by much.” Natasha didn’t respond. She took a bottle of water from the counter, twisting the cap without drinking. Her jaw was set. 

Pepper’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed audibly, then looked up. “ I’m not going to lie—you two are trending again. And this time with significantly more people live-commenting on your little sparring match.” Her tone was clipped, restrained but sharp. “I need to get back to the office and get ahead of it before someone runs a headline that says you started a live debate club.” 

Natasha’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite regret. 

Pepper went on. “And when you go out there please — don’t start another discussion with her. Your public image is the most important thing right now, and you already gave them enough content for the week.” 

“She came for me first,” Natasha muttered, more to the mirror than to Pepper. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Pepper snapped. “You lost your cool, Natasha. You let it show. That’s not you.” 

A knock came at the door—two quick taps. “Uh… hi, it’s Peter?” came the tentative voice from the other side. “Pepper said to check if—”.

 “Now’s not the time, Peter,” Pepper cut in, not raising her voice, but making it final. 

There was a short pause, followed by an awkward, “Got it. I’ll… just grab the equipment outside.” They listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Pepper sighed again, rubbing her temples. “You’re walking into a reception room full of people who already think they witnessed the cold open of a scandal. Smile. Shake hands. Be charming. And whatever you do, keep your comments to small talk and selfies.” 

Natasha finally sat down, tilting her head toward the mirror.“She wanted a fight,” she said quietly, more to her reflection than to Pepper. “So I gave her one.”

Pepper sighed, grabbing her clutch, adjusting her coat. “That doesn’t mean you have to back down—but you need to lead with your head, not your ego. That’s why people love you, Natasha. Just don’t give them a reason to stop.” A moment of silence passed between them. Then, with one last look, Pepper headed for the door. “You’re brilliant, Natasha, but reckless. I can’t keep cleaning up after both.” 

And just like that, Natasha was alone again—just her, her reflection, and the simmering aftertaste of a public clash that had left her rattled in ways she wasn’t ready to admit. 

She gave herself exactly thirty seconds. Then she stood, smoothed her suit, and walked toward the door—every step measured, every movement a reset. 

Time to reclaim the room. 

By the time she entered the reception hall, the shift was immediate. People turned, like they always did. Natasha gave no indication she’d just been dissected on stage by a woman ten years her junior in front of hundreds. Her smile was sharp, her posture relaxed, and her presence deliberate. 

She posed for pictures, offered autographs, shook hands. A familiar rhythm. Performative, yes—but she knew how to make performance feel personal. A few compliments here. A dry joke there. She could see the tension melt in shoulders, the way admiration returned to eyes that had earlier been watching the clash like a sport. 

And still, she did not look at you. 

Not once. 

But she felt your presence—like static at the edge of a broadcast. She could feel your gaze flickering her way in intervals, could hear your voice in conversation a few feet over. 

She didn’t need to look. 

She knew you were watching. And that was enough. 

- - -

On the other side of the room, you had finally broken free from the string of interviews, now standing beside Darcy, who was doing her best to distract you from what had happened on stage barely thirty minutes earlier—with little success. Every few minutes, your gaze involuntarily drifted across the room toward the news anchor. 

People moved past you in waves. Some offered sympathetic or quietly encouraging glances, the kind that said “you did your best” without saying anything at all. Others, however, looked at you as though you’d just set fire to a national monument. Those ones were easy to spot—their shirts bore Natasha’s face, or they clutched glossy photos of her with pens in hand, waiting for a signature like she was a headlining act, not a journalist. 

Since when were news anchors treated like celebrities? 

You couldn’t imagine anyone lining up for autographs from another host—not with that kind of devotion. Not with merch. But when you looked back in Natasha’s direction, she was thriving. Not smiling widely or basking in the spotlight in some cliché way—but entirely in control. Every word she spoke seemed to land with precision. People leaned in closer, laughed on cue, watched her like she was the only person in the room. 

And that’s when it hit you. 

Maybe she wasn’t just a well-known journalist. Maybe she wasn’t just the polished face of a primetime news slot. Maybe Natasha Romanoff had influence that ran far deeper—cultural, not just professional. And maybe you had underestimated that power far more than you’d care to admit. 

Shortly after Natasha had left with Wanda, soon followed by Carol, only Stephen Strange remained, casually engaged in conversation with one of the senior editors. Most of the audience had dispersed after Natasha’s exit, and with no one approaching you or Darcy any longer, you took it as your cue to leave. After exchanging brief goodbyes with a few familiar faces, you made your way to the dressing room. 

On the way home, the two of you grabbed a pizza from your usual spot. Once you reached your apartment building—conveniently located just across the street from Darcy’s—Darcy immediately kicked off her heels, having spent the entire walk back complaining about how badly her feet hurt, and made a beeline for your couch. You headed into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of drinks, ready to unwind and put the whole ordeal behind you. Naturally, however, Darcy had other plans. 

She was already sprawled across the couch by the time you returned from the kitchen, two cold drinks in hand. Her heels had been unceremoniously abandoned by the door, and she had claimed the entirety of the sofa like a victorious general post-battle. 

"You know," she began, accepting the drink you offered her without looking up, "for a panel supposedly about “Media’s Role in Modern Discourse”, that was an absolute circus."

You sank into the armchair across from her, letting out a long breath. "It derailed the moment Natasha answered that question about institutional accountability." 

Darcy snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “She didn’t just respond—she unloaded. I swear, for a moment I thought Karen Page was going to dive under the table. And then she zeroed in on you like you were the main course.” 

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing idle circles through the condensation on your glass. “I knew it might get tense, but I didn’t expect her to go that hard. Or for it to get so personal.” 

Darcy swung her legs down from the couch, sitting upright, her expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. “She’s intense, yeah. But damn—Romanoff doesn’t back down. It’s kind of impressive, in a terrifying way.” 

You glanced over at her. “You’re not wrong.” 

“But you held your own,” she added quickly, pointing at you with a half-empty bottle. “You didn’t let her push you off balance, and you made her work for every comeback. Honestly, I think that’s why she went for the jugular. You didn’t play along.” 

There was a pause—less charged, more reflective. 

“I just wanted to talk about the media system,” you murmured. “Not become the evening’s main event.” 

Darcy offered a dry smile. “Yeah, well, you challenged the queen on her home turf and didn’t get burned alive. That’s its own kind of win.” 

You managed a quiet laugh, the weight of the night still hanging over you. The silence that followed was heavier this time, settling between you like dust after impact.

Then Darcy smirked faintly and raised her bottle in mock solemnity. "You know, I always thought she was an eleven out of ten—but as your friend, I can honestly say she’s dropped to a ten." 

You let out a laugh, low and involuntary. Classic Darcy—an ill-timed joke right when the air got too thick. 

Another pause stretched out, quieter now. Darcy lifted her bottle again, this time with less irony and more reverence. "To the red-headed storm."

You clinked bottles softly. But your eyes drifted to the window, toward the dark street outside. Across it, lights glowed softly in Darcy’s building. Beyond that, the city exhaled into the night. You hadn’t checked social media. Not yet. You knew it was out there—the clips, the discourse, the commentary. The moment Natasha leaned in and made it personal, the internet had probably exploded. You could feel it in the way people looked at you after at the reception. Curious. Charged. Entertained. 

But for now, the silence of not knowing felt safer. 

Still, any lingering guilt about how the panel unfolded had mostly faded. You hadn’t gone in with a grudge. You’d been nervous, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. But she was the one who’d made it a battlefield. She was the one who turned critique into accusation, disagreement into insult. 

If she wanted it to be a game of control, she should’ve known making it personal never sat well with you. And as the day settled behind you and the night drew in, you weren’t angry. Just tired. But you knew somewhere out there, Natasha was already ten steps ahead—again. 

--- 

The car was quiet for the first few blocks, the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting long shadows across the leather seats. Natasha sat with her arms folded, her posture as composed as ever, though her gaze remained fixed out the window. 

After the evening’s events, Natasha felt a quiet sense of confirmation settle in her chest. Everything about you—the pointed phrasing, the subtle jabs cloaked in theory, the way you held the room’s attention with a calculated ease—only reinforced what she’d suspected from the start. You weren’t naïve or overwhelmed. You were deliberate. Strategic. Beneath the academic polish was someone who knew exactly where to press. And Natasha had seen that kind of ambition before. It rarely came without sharp edges. 

Wanda was seated beside her, headed to the same destination—she lived just one floor below Natasha. The younger woman broke the silence first. "You didn’t have to go that hard," she said gently, her voice low but not reproachful. "She wasn’t ready for that public conversation, and you knew it." 

Natasha didn’t turn her head. "Exactly."

Wanda exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. "You think that makes it better?"

"It makes it honest." Natasha’s tone was clipped, but not cold. "I’m not interested in waiting for everyone to catch up. They invited me to speak. I did." 

"You spoke," Wanda agreed, her eyes on the passing cityscape. "But she didn’t hear you. You didn’t want her to hear you. You wanted her to flinch." 

Natasha didn’t reply immediately. The silence returned, heavy but not uncomfortable. She’d spent a lifetime sitting in silences much worse. Wanda had a way of always being plausible—never forceful, never wrong—like she saw through Natasha not with judgment, but with an unsettling kind of clarity that made evasion feel pointless. 

After a moment, she said, "They build these panels to look like they’re welcoming hard questions, but they only want palatable truths. Sanitized, symbolic. I’m not going to wrap everything I know in polite euphemism just to make her feel enlightened." 

Wanda nodded slowly. "You’ve always had a talent for cutting through the script." 

Natasha turned toward her then, just slightly. "And you always try to soften the blow." 

"Someone has to," Wanda said, not with judgment, but a hint of sadness. "Not because you're wrong. But because people shut down when they feel exposed." 

"Maybe they should," Natasha said. "Maybe that's the only way anything changes—when they're uncomfortable enough to stop pretending." 

The car slowed in front of the building. The driver didn’t ask questions; he knew better. Natasha stepped out first, Wanda following close behind. They entered the lobby without speaking, the muted elegance of the space doing nothing to diminish the weight of the evening. 

Inside the elevator, Natasha pressed the button for the top floor. Wanda hit the one just below. The doors slid shut with a soft chime. 

The elevator began to slow. Wanda turned toward her, searching her face for something—softness, regret, anything. But Natasha remained still, eyes forward, calm and unmoved. 

"Don’t turn your clarity into isolation," Wanda finally said softly, as the doors opened on her floor. "You don’t have to be at war with everyone to be right."

Natasha gave the faintest of smiles, not bitter, but resolute. "I’m not at war, Wanda. I'm just done bending over backwards." 

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Wanda stepped out, pausing just before the doors closed. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night," she replied, already watching the numbers shift as the elevator resumed its climb. 

Alone now, Natasha let the stillness settle in again. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t shaken. She had said what needed to be said—without apology, without compromise. The city stretched beneath her feet, full of noise and noise masquerading as dialogue. 

As Natasha stepped into her apartment, the first and only to greet her was Liho like every night, weaving figure-eights around her legs with a soft, insistent purr. The scent of something warm still lingered in the air. Dinner had been left out—neatly covered, precisely arranged. Her household assistant had already come and gone, as usual. No note, no conversation. Just the quiet presence of care left behind in the form of a rice and salmon dish kept warm on the stove. 

Natasha sat at the kitchen island, picking at the rice dish. Liho, already well-fed, stationed himself at her feet with the air of a creature who hadn’t seen a meal in days. She rolled her eyes and flicked him a piece of salmon. He caught it mid-air like a practiced thief. 

Her mind was far away, drifting back to the panel, to your voice, to the tension that had gripped the room like a wire strung tight between two opposing poles. She’d won, hadn’t she? Public perception was on her side. The photos, the compliments, the attention—they had reassured her of her position. 

Then the buzzer broke the silence. She walked to the speaker and pressed the button. “Yes?” 

“It’s downstairs, Miss Romanoff. There’s someone here to see you,” came the familiar voice of the Concierge. 

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Send her up.”

A couple of minutes later, a pretty blonde was standing in her doorway. A journalist she’d met briefly at the reception, to whom she’d slipped her address with a note scribbled in the margin of her business card: “Come by later if you want to talk off-record.”

It wasn’t about talking. Natasha didn’t need conversation. She needed distraction—something soft, something simple, something that didn’t ask questions. And the woman was all of that. 

Later, when the apartment was dark and quiet, and the woman lay sleeping beside her, Natasha stared at the ceiling, wide awake. And her thoughts, traitorous as ever, circled back to you.

You—seated across from her on that stage, too composed for your age, too sharp for someone so new to the public eye. You, who had looked at her not like a myth, but like a problem to be dissected. You, whose words still echoed in her ears despite the champagne compliments that followed her all evening. 

She had won the night. But somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t won the war. You were still there—lodged somewhere beneath her skin. And Natasha Romanoff didn’t like leaving things unresolved.

-

-

-

A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the feedback on the last part! The story will start picking up the coming chapter. Natasha will get whiplashed poor thing lol.

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

[avifaunaa]

how the world spins without you [ n.r. ] [ pt.1 ]

AUTHORS NOTE: Hey guys just a quick note. I go a bit into Natasha's entrance into the U.S. and exit from the Red Room in a sort of big chunk of this. It involves Clint being there as her buddy and as someone who helps her get used to her new life. If you're just here for smut I apologize greatly. I do get to it but I wanted to have Nat be a large focus in this fic! That said -- I hope you enjoy it otherwise. This is an AU where Thanos simply doesn’t live after infinity war. They get to him in time.

Masterlist

PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Summary: Natasha was adept at many things: assassination, spying, avenging — they made for a great resume. What she wasn’t quite so adept at was understanding you when she returns from her exile and found you at her beloved table.

Content Warnings: Discussions of culture shock and Natasha's integration into the States, SLOW BURN TO GET TO THE SMUT, Mild-to-moderate angst, SO SOFT, hints that R's parents are absent / neglectful at best, Yelena and Kate being immediate gremlins upon introduction

Word Count: ~7.9k

Men and Minors DNI

Natasha Romanoff did not indulge in many things for herself. 

Growing up, it was because she was never offered such things. Enjoying 'the small things in life' was simply not an option in the Red Room and Dreykov was particular about ensuring what his girls consumed. Even the smallest comforts could lead to the idea of freedom.

One of the first things Natasha did when she walked away -- after signing an agreement with the United States government, with S.H.I.E.L.D., -- was get coffee. With Clint.

"You ever had coffee? You've had to have coffee," the Hawkeye said as though it were obvious. They had just been transferred back to the U.S. after a successful escape from Budapest. Growing close in tight quarters had meant learning a little about one another between them listening and watching the people go about their lives.

And between the games of hang-man and tic-tac-toe. Another introduction from Clint, seeming flabbergasted that he had to explain the concept of both games to Natasha who, despite her brief stay in America as a child, simply did not know either game.

She learned quickly and had eventually started to defeat him.

"Once," Natasha replied shortly following behind the bruised and filthy man into the bustling New York shop. "For a mission. To blend in."

Clint did not ask her to elaborate, but he clapped his hands together loud enough to garner some curious looks towards the two [ who already stood out like bleeding, infected thumbs needing to be amputated ].

"Wonderful," he chortled, eyes focusing on the chalk-board menus hanging above the barista bar. Fake vines wrapped invitingly around the signs and little drawings decorated the corners.

Natasha did not know -- could not know -- if she hated such a sight of casual happiness when her entire world before today was never allowed this.

"What do I get?" the redhead asked as the line grew closer.

"Whatever you want," he responds as his muscled arm gestured to the various pastry displays and again at the hanging menu board. "Everything here is different. Some things are iced others are hot. Do you want it made like a caffeinated milkshake? Ask for a frappe, I guess."

"Why so many options?" Natasha questioned next, frowning and feeling slightly overwhelmed.

She would never admit that even her fine training and brutal grooming couldn't have prevented some of this culture shock. The Red Room was able to prevent her from seeking out these luxuries in the name of her duties -- they scarcely deigned to say what luxuries they were.

Natasha felt as though she were face to face with one now. Why so many choices when not one person can try nor like them all? She did not even want to look at the amount of food inside of the displays stacked. 

She knew the reality of what happens to the food not finished after a store closes. Thrown out and wasted while others hunger for prices they cannot afford.

"Natasha?" They were at the counter now, where all the thick scents of coffee beans and other smells unfamiliar were at their strongest. "Anything look good?"

Natasha scanned the board for something and to squash that overwhelming lump that threatened to rise from her stomach and into her throat, she just said, "Coffee, black."

Clint groaned from beside her as he pulled out a battered wallet. Natasha watched as he used a credit card to pay and wondered if that would be another luxury given to her.

The Red Room gave them everything they saw as a necessity. Money for missions was sent through a wire transfer to a bank account to withdraw as cash. Mostly to keep their mission as untraceable as possible, but also to control the Widows by only ever giving them enough to get through their assignment. 

Running away never worked out for most who tried, anyway.

Clint nudged her a moment later. "C'mon, let's get you sat down okay?"

"Where?"

Clint shrugged more dramatically than needed as he once again used his arms to gesture to the open plan floor where some tables were taken and some sofas around a fire-place hosted people as well. Other tables and some overstuffed leather chairs remained vancant.

"Wherever the heart desires, Nat. No assigned seating required. I'll wait for the order -- why don't you find somewhere for us to sit?"

Natasha wanted to do something other than that.  People hardly bothered her in most circumstances -- people had been her job for her entire life. But she was not used to people in a casual context where there was no target to watch out for, no enemies to ensure weren't around with you.

But her feet were moving anyway, avoiding the high traffic tables and definitely shying away from the social circle the fireplace seemed to attract.

She found an empty table near the back close to the hallway leading to the bathrooms where the volume wasn't so thick and where her back could sit comfortably where less amounts of threats were.

She sat awkwardly, arms crossing across the table as she waited. Her eyes floated around the small but busy shop and took in the scene. A mother handing her child a small lidded cup of chocolate milk, a delighted look in the kiddo's eyes, as she adjusted her bag and grabbed her own cup of coffee and started leading the child out the door.

"Clint!" a low-sung voice called out clearly. Clint practically skipped to the counter where two different drinks awaited him as he thanked the barista and turned around on his heel with a swerve.

He spotted Natasha pretty quickly and danced through the crowd -- but he actively involved himself in people instead of avoiding them. He said cheerful "excuse me's!" and a very scolded "pardon" to an elderly couple he nudged the table of as he approached.

"That was a lot of foot work when you could have walked around," the Russian told him when he finally made a safe approach with a smug grin. 

"What, and not show off my circus-grade balancing act? I don't think so," he retorted with an even wider grin as he set both drinks down with a flourish. 

Natasha bit her tongue when a comment almost forced its' way out. Instead she turned her gaze to the two drinks on the table and read their labels. BLACK read one, the other in a clear tall cup with heavy ice, ICED MOCHA.

Clint pulled his toward him and pulled a straw out of nowhere [ later, Natasha would admit she was still impressed by it for a month until she learned his secret to the trick ] and popped it into the drink's lid.

"I cannot believe," he starts, dropping into the chair across from her and leaning back comfortably, "that I bring you to one of the best coffee shops New York City has to offer and you insult me--"

"It is all the same -- the same intentions, yes?" she asked as she brought the hot drink up to her lips. It was bitter like the one or two other times she'd had coffee but this flavor had a hint of hazelnut. Perhaps a different brand?

"Sure, I mean sort of?" Clint scratched the chin scruff he'd began growing in Budapest. "Some people can't stand the bitterness of normal coffee or don't like it hot. That's why there's so many different ways to get it."

"I don't see the point."

"Would you eat pizza the same way as someone who say . . . likes anchovies?"

Natasha lets herself think on it. The one time she had pizza was when she was with Melina and Alexi as a child. She could still remember how melted the cheese was -- that was the type they got. Cheese. Alexi got some sort of "Americanized Everything" as he called it.

She answered with, "I suppose not. Anchovies are not good."

Clint laughed. "Right. Not everyone wants anchovy on pizza but they still want the pizza. The same goes for coffee. They want the coffee but they may not like how bitter or hot it is. So there's different flavors, different ways to make it. Iced, blended, the works."

"I see," Natasha said as she sipped at her bitter, hot coffee while Clint held his not bitter, hot coffee. "What form did you get?"

"I like mine iced with extra chocolate syrup," he told her. He eyed her, grinned, then nudged it closer. "Wanna try?"

She blinked at him. "It is your drink, I have my own."

Clint raised a bloodied [ days old and dried ] eyebrow at her. "So? It doesn't mean there's a contract that legally binds you from tasting it. Just try it. If you don't end up liking it, you know to not get it next time."

Natasha regards the drink for a moment as it was offered. She decided that she's already done so many things that she shouldn't otherwise be doing -- she was no longer working with Dreykov. Dreykov was dead and he could not touch her.

She leaned over and took a sip. It was definitely cold and tasted like coffee but had a chocolate taste and was sweeter than anything she's ever tasted.

"Good? Terrible? Wanna pull your tongue out and burn it?" Clint wondered. 

Natasha smiled a little at him. "I think I like it very much."

Over the years, Natasha would keep coming back to this coffee shop. She learned its name and kept it safe — especially when the attack of New York occurred. 

It had been destroyed when she got to it but she was able to save everyone inside. They rebuilt and continued on as anyone can do when a disaster strikes and shock that aliens exist have made the human brain barely able to cope. 

The first time they opened since the attack was when Natasha decided to try something new. She had been able to do many new things: become an Avenger, work somewhat nicely with other people, and above all: save the world with Tony Stark and not kill him in the process. 

She’d been greeted reverently by the staff who had starshine in their eyes and gratitude to give. 

It was overwhelming. She wanted to run away and never come back again. 

She ordered an iced mocha with extra chocolate syrup, instead. To go — because too many people were starting to come in. Regulars of the store that she’d recognized but ones that now knew her too. It was too much to handle at once and she needed her exterior to stay solid. 

They threw in a free pastry — she didn’t see what it was but heard the crinkling of the bag sat down by her as she leaned against the counter. She took her coffee and unwanted bread product of unknown origin and left. 

She didn’t return for three weeks. 

When she did she made Steve come with her. They’d grown close the more the government had implemented the Avengers program after the attack and had suffered Tony in bogus amounts. 

[ They grew to love Tony, too, if only because he knew how to handle the public more than even Steve but also because he was able to make them forget ]. 

Steve was better at this thing — the superhero persona. He took it in stride and spoke warmly with people when approached, offering conversation and knowing how to slip away from it politely and smoothly. 

This time while Steve was talking to a young pretty blonde near the entrance, Natasha ordered a macchiato. She got Steve his enormously detailed drink he’d listed off for her before being taken to the side and she threw in a couple of pie slices. Blueberry. 

She almost believed she could stay this time. Her table was open and it was still early enough to enjoy the energy before the morning rush took over and invaded their space. 

Natasha turned to Steve and said, “Okay, Captain America, your coffee is getting cold. We should sit down and eat our pies before we get called back.”

A perfect exit, a glance of relief from the blonde hero, and they sat down. Nat facing the front again but for entirely different reasons this time. 

She picked at her pie slice with a plastic fork while Steve drank his coffee and ate his with just the right amount of speed to not concern other patrons. 

“You’ve been holding out on me,” he told her, looking around comfortably at the shop. It looked somewhat the same rebuilt — perhaps more updated in terms of structure but otherwise not as new as one could come to think. “This is your hideout?”

Natasha played with a blueberry that fell from the crust. “It was.”

Steve regarded her for a silent minute, then sighed and set down his fork. “You’re not settling well with the attention.”

“I’m doing fine.” She didn’t glance up at him. They were the defacto leaders of their little operation even if Fury believed he was. Besides Clint, it was Steve that Nat was starting to confide in for some things. 

For others he seemed to read her like an open fucking book that she had previously managed to keep chained and locked tight. 

America was making her soft. 

“You’re lying,” he decided after a moment, then took a sip of his coffee and said nothing more. 

She waited for him to dig further, but he simply went back to his pie and coffee. She watched him suspiciously. “What — no pep talk about how this is my life now? How I should find a way to live with it so that I can better serve the people?”

Steve tapped his chin. “I’d say you’re living with this life in the best way you can, Nat. I don’t exactly know your entire story but I do know that you worked with people like I did but uh —“ he squinted, “oppositely.”

“You can say I killed people, Steve,” she sighed. Her pie was pushed back, uneaten. 

Steve nodded. “Okay. You killed people — maybe they didn’t deserve it but for whatever reason you were sent to do it. You didn’t ask questions but you did as you were told. I was in the army and they essentially ran the same rules but we did it on a greater scale in a massive war instead of in the shadows. Killing was in the job.”

“You became Captain America,” Natasha told him bluntly, curling her lip slightly, “A man that brought great comfort and safety to his country and protected them with the serum they never knew he had running in his veins. But they didn’t have to know — because you did good.”

“Sure,” Steve agreed, looking slightly sadder, “and maybe some of the men I killed could’ve been good. Because I didn’t ask.”

Natasha smiled at him, sadly, “I don’t think so, Steve. They let you play publicly like they let the Red Guardian in Russia play.”  She tapped her fingers against the table. “I was never meant to be a hero in anyone’s stories. I was always their nightmare and a blacked out mention on the paperwork and files.”

Steve didn’t know what else to say, how to comfort her. That was okay. Natasha wouldn’t know what to do with comfort or gentleness. She strayed away from it like she strayed away from her mistresses beatings in her ballet lessons. 

“In truth,” Natasha says, pulling her coffee closer in hopes it will ground her better than she can ground herself, “I needed you here because maybe I struggle being the part of someone’s story that doesn’t bring endless grief and anger.”

She watched now as the customers began going about their business and pretended that Captain America and the Black Widow were just ordinary people among them. 

“Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to find my place in a world that wasn’t initially meant for me.”

She met you after the long, destructive battle that ended with the death of Thanos — and Vision with him. Wanda had vanished and Natasha knew she’d be called in when they found traces of her. 

But for now she was home. The drive from the compound was longer than the walk from the Tower but that’s okay. 

“Natasha,” Fiona, the manager, greeted with a small smile and quiet demeanor. “Welcome back. I saw what you did in Wakanda. What you and the Avengers all did.”

Natasha smiles in return, dipping her head in acknowledgement. “Ah, news travels fast now. It was a group effort.”

“I’m glad your name got cleared by the Accords. It wasn’t right,” she continued, shaking her head stiffly, “After all you did. You and Captain America. It simply wasn’t right,” she repeated.

“It’s okay,” Natasha told her with a relaxed stance as she put her hands into her jacket pockets. She was somewhat truthful. It was okay — the fight with Thanos had forgiven a lot of things. 

The government had turned their head and seemingly forgotten who their named fugitives were. Lost the paperwork and welcomed their beloved heros back as though it never happened. 

The other half of Natasha and the others — the halves that had sacrificed a lot of themselves over the years — were still angry and demanding more. 

“It’s being taken care of,” the redhead-turning-blonde continued as she graced an easy smile toward Fiona. “I’m just happy to be home. I missed this place.”

“We missed you too! We kept your streak for what you’ve tried and what you haven’t,” the small barista exclaimed, crouching down and digging under some shelves presumably. 

She pulled out a white board that was somewhat on the verge of being erased with all the scuffs it had on its writing. But thankfully it was still legible. She was on course for trying the caramel apple mocha next. 

She went with that. “Frappe or cappe?” 

Natasha thought for a moment. “Let’s do it as a frappe,” she decided, pulling out her wallet and handing over the sleek black credit card labelled with the large STARK INDUSTRIES on top. 

Fiona swiped it once before handing it back, “It’ll be out very soon,” she said as she hopped over to the machines to start making her order. 

Natasha meandered over to the pickup counter, finding a spot on the corner to lean against and pull out her phone. The chubby, slobbery face of Nathaniel grinning next to Cooper and Lila greeted her when she looked at her Lock Screen. 

She had one text from Tony regarding her rooms at the compound needing to be Clint-proofed [ “Why are you trying to keep me out of your life?” Clint bemoaned when he called her from the blocked off vents later that night ].

She sent a quick text, telling Tony to add flamethrowers to the vent walls if needed to keep the Hawkeye from breaking the damn thing. 

Tony only sent back a devil emoji followed by three fire emojis. 

Natasha snorted and pocketed her phone as Fiona came over capping the top of her drink, extra whipped cream spilling out the top. 

“Here you go,” she chirped proudly as she slid over the drink. “I did add a little of the spice that we use for our pumpkin flavored drinks. It’s really good with this one too.”

“I trust your judgement, Fiona,” Natasha said as she took the drink in hand and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll let you know how I like it.”

“Please do! Your reviews keep us busy.”

Natasha turned and tapped the cup with her fingers as she looked for her table. It was busy already this morning but Natasha had quickly learned that blending in could be as easy or as difficult as she made it. 

She said hello to some people who greeted her first, and made some small conversations. The regulars knew she liked to keep to herself until she finished her drink, however, and left her alone with just a smile and short greeting. 

But she came to a stop shortly. 

Someone was at her table, littering the surface with notebooks and a textbook opened that they seemed to be deeply focused on. 

Natasha kept walking towards her table cautiously, suddenly greeted with a new challenge in her comfort zone. 

Small talk was an effort — but maybe —

You looked up and they struck Natasha like a speeding car with no intentions to stop. They were so brown — your eyes. Rich in the color and fierce in the cold New York sun. 

She expected shock when you realized who she was. Some sort of spluttering hello. 

But you only looked slightly irked as you pulled out an AirPod she didn’t see you wearing before and said, “Why the hell are you staring at me?”

This was the worst place for you to have chosen to study — especially since you chose to do it during the height of Winter Break.

Kate had insisted on its perfect aura, the warmth it was saturated in. You called her dramatic and she didn’t answer any of your texts the rest of the night other than to spam emojis at every message you sent her. 

Whatever, you thought, as you settled at a table with your newly ordered dark chocolate frappe. It was five in the morning with no sun, few to no people, and sugar and caffeine to keep you going now even if it led to the inevitable crash later. 

You got to work with pulling your textbook out and beginning to take extremely detailed notes that you can make even more detailed study cards on at a later date. 

It was hours before an intrusion broke you from your study fever. It wasn’t a forceful one, either, but it demanded attention enough that it had you pulling focus after hours of studying with no end in sight. 

You pointedly ignored it as best you can, hoping that your music and the lack of eye contact would send a strong and clear message: leave me alone, I don’t wish for human contact. 

The message went undelivered as did the feeling of being watched. When you wrote the same bullet point down twice, your eye twitched and you finally gave in. 

Removing your AirPod and breaking your peace when the bustle and surroundings of the shop filtered into your space, you stared back with no motivation to hide how irate you were. 

The words came out long before your brain could process who, exactly, you were talking to.

“Why the hell are you staring at me?” you hissed out. Your eyes dragged upward just as the sentence fully formed and you suddenly wished you were not so eager. 

The Black Widow was staring at you, apparently. Dressed down from battle gear in a pair of jeans and a soft turtleneck, long hair down in waves. But that was the Black Widow without a doubt. 

You couldn’t back down now, you’d lose all respect if she had any when approaching you to begin with. No — you held your ground. You had to. 

Green eyes, green darker than gardens and well-cared for parks, crossed yours. Surprise lit up within them briefly — but it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said perfectly polite, with an apologetic smile forming on her features. “I didn’t even mean to just stare like I did. Sorry.”

Really? You rubbed at your aching temple and glanced down at your phone. 8:45. You hadn’t moved for a good near four hours at the least. Your coffee was only half finished, and your hand writing had grown less organized on the sheets of paper beneath you. 

“It’s — it’s fine. I didn’t realize anybody was there. Or what time it was.” You flipped the textbook shut and clenched and unclenched your fingers. “No wonder you were staring. I must have looked like a zombified student.”

A soft laugh rose from the woman across from you, feet crossing as she stuck a hand into her jacket pocket. “Not at all. It actually had nothing to do with you, I must confess.”

You gave her a confused look. “What? Then why all the staring? If anything I should be giving you the wide eyed awestruck look.”

The Black Widow in all her glory and turtleneck sweaters suddenly seemed to grow shy. The smile remained but she tapped her fingers rhythmically against her cup. 

“It’s moreso that you’re at the table I usually sit at when I come here,” she confessed quietly, embarrassed at such a small thing to have been caught confused over. “But it’s been a while since I’ve been here so I should’ve expected that the table was likely to be used like I used it.”

You blinked at her confession to you, now more curious and being drawn out of your desire to over-study than ever. “Oh — right you were on the run for a while.”

“Yes,” she confirmed simply, lips thinning into a line as she glanced behind her. 

“You can sit here if you want,” you said, breaking the silence and deciding you didn’t want her to have to leave. You moved your stuff. “I’ve been here since five. I mean, if you’re fine waiting while I finish my coffee I can be out of your hair.”

“I don’t mind, if you’re sure.” Natasha pulled out the chair and gave one more long glance toward the shop behind her before sitting down with her back to them and starting to slowly sip her coffee. “May I ask what you’re studying?”

“Oh. Sure. I’m majoring in electrical engineering with a minor in physics,” you said, turning the textbook slightly so she could see the title of it. 

“That’s a heavy major,” she mused, but didn’t say it in a way most usually did when you told them. “What made you want to go into that?”

You felt your cheeks turning red at the question — something you normally have no problem answering but now do considering who it is asking. “Well to be honest with you —“

“Honesty is always best,” the older woman agreed in a drawl, amusement glittering across her face. 

You puffed, still red, and redder more when Natasha’s amusement seemed to grow upon realizing why without you saying yet, “Okay. I’ve always been sort of interested in engineering. But Stark Industries is literally paving a new path into technology we otherwise wouldn’t break ground on. Imagine what we could do for people in war-torn nations with it? What about turning it to medical use for progress towards incurable diseases? Anything is possible because it hasn’t been done yet. I want to see it, to try it. Like Tony Stark was able to do with that access.”

You were expected to be given a lot of incredulous responses when you told people your ideals for your major. Your expectations were met — but Natasha simply looked thoughtful as she sipped her drink. 

“A passion like that could get you anywhere you want,” Natasha told her. “You have dreams that most people give up on. If they have the technology why haven’t they done it?”

A question you loved answering. “Because they don’t have anyone fighting to get it used in those specific areas, to be produced for those situations,” you replied, leaning closer, “Don’t you see? It needs someone or multiple people to see it for what it can do if given the time and the resources.”

Natasha tilted her head curiously, studying you with an unreadable expression, “You think you’re that person? The one who can make the change?”

A flush of defiance coursed through you at the question. “If nobody else will, who better than myself?”

“Where are you going to school?”

“I go to MIT. I’m currently on my winter break.”

“And yet you’re studying like you have a test tomorrow,” Natasha concluded. She glanced from the scurried notes to the textbook and back to you, as if trying to read you out and get your secrets. 

“I’m on a scholarship and otherwise wouldn’t be there,” you admitted carefully, chin lifting, “It was a lot of hard work to receive it and losing it isn’t an option.”

Natasha rested a hand on her fist — calloused from whatever dark past and Avengering has rewarded her — and regarded you with a startling feline-like expression. 

“Working hard and overworking are different, that will be important to remember. I didn’t know the difference when I was young either.”

“What made you learn?” You ask carefully. 

She pursed her lips and stared behind you at the hallway that held no interesting object to look upon. “I did ballet as apart of a program. I found it fun until my instructor made my ankles bleed every single day for every mistake I made each session.”

You swallowed your shock down and fisted your hands together on the table. “She sounds like a fucking cunt.”

Natasha barked out a laugh, the glazed distance disappearing and replaced by a spark as she returned to focus on you instead. A stray lock of hair lowered across her forehead as she relaxed slightly, “She was, I assure you. I did not know the difference between brutality and hardworking traits until I came to the states. Sometimes,” she finished, “I still do not and must be reminded that I am no longer a tool for anyone’s use that I do not myself see purpose in.”

“Wouldn’t you consider the Avengers program being a tool?” You wondered aloud without meaning to.

Her lips twisted, perhaps impressed by your bravery despite the accidental slip. “That is why you must choose carefully what games you want to play and with who. Who to be a tool for and who to destroy.”

“Are you saying I should take more breaks?” You finally ask. 

She grins smugly as she removes her chin from her fist and leans back in her chair like a fat cat. “Well done, Malyshka. I like playing with you.”

You pondered her words and sort of wanted to know what got you into this situation where the Black Widow was giving you confusing advice. 

Natasha and you were comfortably silent as you two sipped on your coffees together. You think you like whose is without the grandeur that the media tends to flash onto her. She’s thoughtful and quiet — and holy shit you just met and hardly know her. 

Natasha suddenly broke your peaceful silence, looking very serious as she says, “I know a guy I can connect you to at Stark Industries when you graduate if you’d like to get your feet off the ground. He’d probably be impressed with you.”

You stared blankly at her, brain shutting down for ten seconds and rebooting in that time. 

“What.”

Natasha played with her empty coffee cup, nonchalantly saying, “I know a guy —“

“I heard the first time,” you said, shaking your head a little bit to clear it, “You’re talking about Tony Stark. You — you’re willing to put a word in for me?”

Natasha nodded once with finality. “Yes. You remind me of Tony in ways that are all good — and yet you lack the parts of Tony that make me want to kill him.”

“Thanks?”

“You’re welcome.”

“So . . . Like what’s the catch?” You asked, stacking your notebook on top of your textbook and fiddling around to keep from exploding. “Because it’s weird to me that the Black Widow is sitting down across from me and offering me a gigantic opportunity.”

“Once in a life time,” she corrects, “But there isn’t really a catch. Just a request — the offer will still be open and I’ll ensure Tony gets you on his ledger when you graduate and apply.”

“Sure,” you said, pretty much willing to do anything. 

“May I have your number?”

It was so clearly an unexpected request and even you could see Natasha's confident request was followed by tinted cheeks and more taps on her empty cup.

You gave Natasha Romanoff your number.

Your first date with Natasha was at the coffee shop —  where you met at the table. You spent hours talking like the day before except for this time you got to know each other a bit more on a deeper level. 

You learned she adopted a cat straight off the street that wouldn’t leave her alone. A small black creature with wide yellow eyes. The photos she showed you led to you seeing photos of her nieces and nephews through the Clint Barton. 

“He’s chubby little dude,” you noted as you scooted your chair closer to her to see the photo better. 

“That’s what I said!” she exclaims, beaming at you and nudging your shoulder with hers. 

“Just look at him,” you continued, “those cheeks say it all.”

You learned a little about her and she you. You had similar tastes in music and entertainment, but when it came to movies it seemed you were at an impasse. 

This became evident when she showed up to your apartment for the second date and flashed two tickets to a new horror as snow fell around you both. 

Your head dropped in defeat as she wrapped an arm around your shoulders and led you to her car. “I promise on Tony’s suit that I will protect you from the big bad.” Then she opened the passenger side door for you. 

With a heavy sigh and a suffering look sent her way, you plop into her car and wait for her to shut the door. 

She was a pretty decent protector at the movies. She armed you with sugary drinks and snacks and lifted the armrest between you two and opened an invitation into her arms at any point when it got scary. 

For you it did not take very long at all. You dived into her side and curled so tight when the first brutal murder flashed on the large screen. Natasha was smart, Natasha was clever. She wrapped her arm around you as you buried your face in her neck and grinned as she watched the movie without so much as flinching. 

They went to the coffee shop after to get the remaining heebeejeebies out of your system by chasing it down with caffeine. You notice Natasha thinking it over before ordering a plain mocha latte. 

“You ordered something different this time?” you asked her after she paid for both your orders like she had at the movies. 

Natasha rubbed the back of her neck. “It’s something I’ve been working on. For a lot of my life I was devoid of choices. They were made for me. This helps me remember that decisions I make are my own, nobody else’s.”

“One unique coffee at a time,” you murmured as you brought your straw to your lips and felt something flutter in your chest. 

“One unique coffee at a time,” she echoed, meeting your gaze as she brought her own drink to her lips. 

The third date was the only one left before you would be set to return to MIT. You were firm on making plans for this one and Natasha didn’t argue. 

It was planned for after Christmas and New Year’s — somewhere you had to begrudgingly drag Kate over to help you set up. 

“A date? Good enough to go here?” she asked as you scrolled the website for the restaurant. 

“I really like her,” you say, licking your lips and unsure of what else to tell her in regards to Natasha. “She walked right up to me and . . . I don’t know. She sort of just missile fired into my life.”

Kate snorts, but leans against your pillows and nibbles at her cuticles. “Okay. This is a place I think is good if you really really like her. It’s expensive.”

You checked your bank account earlier. You had enough fun money left to spend on this date. “It’s fine. I can do it.”

Kate tapped a few things into her phone before handing it to you. “Then make the reservation.”

Natasha had to pick you up from your place — considering you didn’t have a car in New York at the moment. She was beautifully dressed in a styled pant-suit with her hair curled into a bun. She had some sort of watch you thought looked familiar but couldn’t remember the brand name of. 

You ran your hands down your glittery dress and hoped it would be enough to impress her. She came to greet you, reaching out to take your hands. “You said dress nice and you end up dressing nicer than me,” Natasha comments. 

You scoffed, fussing with your bracelet to distract yourself from her unwavering gaze and how it made you blush. “T-thank you. You’re so . . . Yeah.”

“Yeah?” she echos, amusement and glee creeping into her tone as she guides you by the hand to her car. 

“Yeah.”

“Glad I got the yeah approval.” She settles you in and punches in the address you give her.

The restaurant is very nice — far nicer than even you usually were able to attend despite your parents’ wealth and reputation in the city. You stayed home from the nicer events often with a nanny. 

Dinner was started with a set course of appetizers followed by a few dishes brought for the main course. Dessert was the most popular dish and it brought you and Natasha closer and sitting together instead of facing one another so you could enjoy sharing the food while giggling to yourselves and talking. 

An entire bottle of wine had been left in an iced bucket at your table and the both of you indulged in a couple of glasses. 

“You hid in a vent for five days?” You squawked at her, failing to hide your laughter behind your hand and thus forced to set down your wine glass. 

“It was our only option, to be fair,” the redhead admitted, smirking. “We had the entire city in a state of disarray and we had to find a way to lay low for a bit.”

“I can’t imagine the discomfort between two people up there!”

“It was sort of fun. Clint was the first person who was actually . . .” Natasha pauses as she considers what to say next. “. . . Who actually spoke to me like a human, I suppose. Not a soldier or a robot.”

You frowned, lacing your fingers with hers. “That’s terrible, Nat.”

She tilted her head at you. “No, that’s just what my life was. I didn’t know any better, really. Didn’t see what life could be like if I knew what was out in the world other than cruelty.”

You ran a thumb over her the top of her palm. “I’m glad you got out and that you’re here now.”

“Me too, Malyshka,” she agrees, and meaning it to the depth of her soul, “me too.”

She drove you home and held your hand the entire time. It was hard to let you go even as she got out to walk around the front of her own car and help you out and walk you to the door of your building. 

“Well, this is me.” You tried to sound cheerful, but there was a sadness laced in the tone thick enough for Natasha to detect. 

“Will you let me drive you to the airport tomorrow?” she murmured, her fingers loosening from yours so her hands can trail up your arms, fingers marking the outline of your neck, and finally cupping your cheeks. 

You locked gazes with her and smiled warmly as you leaned in, seeking out her closeness just as she did with you. 

Natasha was not an expert with how to handle what you made her feel. It took everything in her training to control herself — so she wouldn’t run from the emotions that pelted her. 

It was like having her ribcage peeled open and her heart exposed for you to see. Natasha despised it as much as she adored it — the rush it gave her followed by the nerve-wracking fear. 

You had the sole ability to tear her apart because she’s giving you the chance. She was warned at a young age never to give anyone that opportunity lest they get you killed by betrayal or by weakness. 

It was a cardinal rule Natasha never broke. Even when she got out she never sought out sex, romance, connection. It had the power to destroy everything she was. 

And here she was giving you the paperwork to the instructions. 

 But you wrapped your hands so incredibly gently around hers as they caressed you, nuzzling into the touch and inhaling in her scent and just . . . Simply being there. Both of you. Together. 

“Malyshka?” she murmured, nose nudging yours to grab your attention. “Airport?”

Your eyes flew open, still hazy from the moment that overwhelmed the both of you. You sighed. 

“I have to be there by six to catch by flight, Nat,” you finally told her, shaking your head slowly in her hands. “Too early.”

“I’ll be there at four.” Natasha leaned in, beginning to press soft kisses to your cheeks. One on each one. Then your forehead. 

You furrowed your brow. “Nat, no. That’s way too early.”

“I’m an Avenger, baby.” Nat only pulled back enough to grin at you with that trademark smile of hers. Smug and knowing like she was. 

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Four thirty.”

“Okay.” She grinned. “Four.”

Then you leaned up and kissed her first, shaking her confidence and surprising her. One hand dropped from where it held your jaw and fell instead to grasp your hip to steady herself. 

It was the most amazing thing she’d ever experience since leaving the Red Room. She’d done many things in her newfound freedom — but this . . . 

You eventually had to pull back for air and she leaned forward to brush an errant piece of hair back behind your ear. So soft, so gentle. 

Your Natasha. 

“I’ll see you at four.”

You walked off the stage with a diploma -- a piece of paper telling the world that you were now a credited electrical engineer. Your parents promised to make it and then backed out the day before with apologies and a graduation gift: money. Perhaps in hopes to buy your forgiveness.

Kate flew down though and she hugged you so tight when you walked out into the crowd of thousands as the stadium emptied after the ceremony. You were hot under the robes and you wanted to go change but Kate wanted to embrace you in a death grip first.

"So fucking proud, duuuude," she said, shaking you before releasing you with a beam. "Look at you! My baby girl, all grown up."

You rolled your eyes. "Thanks, mom. You're not embarrassing me at all."

"I should hope not! It would be really awkward since I plan on dragging you to every single bar we can manage until we wake up somewhere the next morning," she said with the Kate-stamped seriousness.

You winced. "Kate, I'm not sure --"

She twitched, then grinned. "I'm joking. Your shit's already packed at your dorm and ready to be flown home. Plan tonight is something entirely low-key."

"First of all." You held up a finger. "How and why did you pack up my stuff already? I had the week to get my dorm cleared. I was going to drive it down with a rental and have Natasha help me move it into storage."

"Oh," Kate clapped her hands, "that reminds me--"

"Hi, Malyshka." That voice you'd been in love with since at least March, when she stayed up late with you while you tried not to break down during sessions of studies.

Natasha, who made the distance work by using her superhero mojo to fly down in her own jet to see you for a day and just hang out when she knew you needed it.

Natasha who was beautiful and followed by a younger, curious blonde with braids as she came up to you. She held an expression of pride as she took you in and --

You burst into tears when you saw her, "Nat?"

The blonde looked perplexed and leaned back a bit, expressing loudly in a thick accent, "Does your face always make her cry. Sistra?"

Sistra. Sister. Natasha had told you about her sister Yelena who she'd reunited with while she was on the run. Who helped her take down the Red Room and Dreykov for real this time. It was a story that Nat had told her on one of her visits to you and as she was opening up more. She told you that Yelena was her entire world before and that night expressed that now you were too.

"Yelena," you spluttered, gesturing to the wary ex-assassin in an attempt to hug her. 

"Hello," she greeted awkwardly, tapping your arm with a heavy hand. "I see you know who I am. Natasha." She side-eyed her sister accusingly, but Nat ignored her in favor of embracing you.

"You looked so gorgeous up there. I was very proud watching you walk that stage and keeping your chin up." She kissed the top of your head and held you close as you finally were able to hug your partner again for the first time in months.

Kate and Yelena stood off to the side awkwardly next to one another. "I did not invite you," Kate mentioned, squinting at Yelena.

Yelena sniffed. "Natasha goes, I go. Simple. What are you? Kate?"

"Kate," the brunette confirmed, "Bishop."

"Kate Bishop," Yelena repeated, letting the words flow off her tongue smoothly. A mischievous glint lost on you and Natasha but not on Kate started to glow in her eye. "Do you like mac'n'cheese?"

The look Kate gave her would've had you on the floor in tears if you weren't already in tears in Natasha's arms.

"Let's get you to a hotel, yeah?" Natasha murmured soothingly. She kisses your head again. "You can get to know Yelena if you'd like. We can all watch a movie together."

Nothing sounded better.

I will not be discussing how much fucking trouble this gave me. just take it and pls enjoy it.

PART TWO