#Multi Chapter

[bringbackantonia]

This is so cute and wholesome

Whispered in Russian

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha teaches you how to speak some Russian during your time together on a mission.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. Not sure if it was what you expected but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, cursing, Russian translations from google (because I unfortunately do not know the language)

Words: 3250

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.”

Natasha’s Russian accent flows effortlessly, her voice smooth and confident as she speaks to the front desk receptionist. Her tone carries the ease of someone completely at home in the language. 

It’s a voice you’ve grown intimately familiar with—not just as her teammate for years but also as her partner.

Which also makes it easier to pick up and piece together some of the words, though you’re still far from being fluent. 

Reservation for Natalia Romanova, you translate silently.

The receptionist offers a polite smile, tapping away at her computer until she finds the reservation. With a nod, she retrieves a key card and slides it across the counter to Natasha.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.”

You listen intently, trying to match the sounds to meaning, but the words come faster than you can process. Your grasp falters after the first few phrases. 

Welcome…Romanova…key

You almost have it, but the rest slips through your mental filter, lost in the quick flow of syllables. Before you can catch up, the receptionist continues in a kind but rapid tone.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.”

At that, Natasha’s lips quirk up in a small, amused smirk. The expression is subtle but unmistakable, and it draws your curiosity. 

You glance at her, silently asking what amused her, but she offers no explanation, only thanking the receptionist with a graceful nod as she takes the key card. 

“Spasibo,” Natasha says, her voice as composed as ever.

Thank you. 

That part you recognize immediately, the basic phrase standing out like a familiar face in a crowd.

Natasha’s hand finds your waist as she guides you away from the desk, her touch grounding and affectionate. 

Still, your mind lingers curiously on the exchange. 

Once inside the room, you dive into setting up your equipment for the mission, carefully pulling out the listening gear from your bag. 

Meanwhile, Natasha checks the room methodically, her eyes scanning for anything amiss. She ends her sweep at the window, drawing back the shutters slightly to observe the building across the street—the one where the targets work at.

“What did the receptionist say to you at the end?” you ask, your curiosity finally spilling over as you adjust the calibration on the gear. 

Natasha glances over her shoulder at you, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She takes her time responding, watching as you work with meticulous focus.

“She said if we needed anything, we could call the front desk,” Natasha replies casually, her tone almost too neutral.

You pause, narrowing your eyes as you turn to face her. 

“That’s it?” you ask, skepticism lacing your voice. “Then why did you react like that?”

The smirk you’d noticed earlier reappears, tugging at the corners of her lips. Natasha steps closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist and leaning in.

“Zhena,” she repeats slowly, enunciating the word with deliberate care. Her breath is warm against your skin as she presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek. “It means ‘wife.’ She called you my wife.”

“Oh,” you reply, your heart fluttering at the thought. 

You fall silent for a moment, processing, before quietly repeating the word under your breath. 

“Zhena,” you murmur, practicing the pronunciation like a secret you want to keep safe. You say it again, slightly louder, trying to mimic Natasha’s intonation.

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches your reaction, her smirk giving way to a small, genuine smile.

Once satisfied with your attempt, you nod firmly, confidence growing. 

Your gaze shifts to the small table in the corner of the room, and something catches your eye. You gesture toward it, brow raised.

“Well,” you say, “that explains the bottle of champagne.”

Natasha follows your gaze, her chuckle warm and rich as she spots the chilled, unopened bottle perched beside two crystal glasses. 

“Hill said this was the only room available,” she replies, her fingers tracing soft patterns at your sides. Her voice drops slightly, the edge of a smirk returning to her lips. “Guess that means we’re playing newlyweds.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, leaning against her as you ponder the situation. 

“Alright,” you nod thoughtfully, “and it won’t look suspicious if we don’t leave our room much since, technically, we’re on our honeymoon.” 

Natasha’s smirk deepens, her eyes glinting with mischief. She tilts her head closer, her lips brushing lightly against yours. 

“Oh, that sounds fun,” she murmurs, her tone dropping into a suggestive lilt.

You roll your eyes, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrays your amusement. 

“I meant it’s a good cover for our mission,” you say pointedly, pulling back just enough to regain your composure. You gesture toward the gear on the table before raising a brow at her. “Or did you already forget the reason why we’re here in the first place?”

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, her smirk shifts into something a little more daring as she tightens her hold on your waist before pulling you flush against her. Her lips ghost over yours again as she leans in, just close enough for her voice to drop to a whisper.

“I’m multitasking,” she teases, the husky tone sending a shiver down your spine before she closes the small distance between you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Some time later, after you two manage to refocus on the mission, you settle in to monitor the listening equipment. 

The two of you wait patiently, earpieces in place, scanning for the key information you need.

But after a few hours of static-filled recordings, indistinct conversations, and absolutely nothing useful, Natasha notices your shoulders beginning to tense with exhaustion. 

She rests a hand on your arm. 

“Take a break,” she offers softly. “I’ll keep watch for now.”

You hesitate, but the encouraging smile on her lips convinces you. 

“Alright,” you relent, stretching out your stiff shoulders before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once inside, the hot water works wonders, the steam easing the tension in your muscles. 

You feel the stress of the mission starts to melt away, but as you finish, you realize you’ve made a small mistake. 

You forgot to grab your change of clothes for the night. 

With a sigh, you wrap the towel around yourself, water still clinging to your skin, and step out of the bathroom.

The cool air sends a shiver through you as you pad quietly toward your bag.

Natasha’s back is to you as she speaks on the hotel phone. 

Her voice flows smoothly in Russian, soft but clear, and you catch a few familiar words—borscht, pelmeni, blini—dishes you’ve heard her name before.

As you rummage through your belongings, it hits you: she’s ordering dinner. You smile to yourself, amused by the domesticity of the moment, even in the middle of a mission. 

Not wanting to take any longer, you quickly grab what you need, tossing your bag back in its original position as you hear Natasha finish up.

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…”

The abrupt edge in Natasha’s voice pulls your attention, her sudden exclamation making you look up in curiosity.

Her words have stopped mid-sentence, her lips parted slightly as her eyes roam over you. Her gaze lingers on the droplets of water still glistening on your skin, the curve of your shoulders, and the towel that clings just a little too loosely to your body.

It takes her a moment to catch herself. Natasha clears her throat, her voice steadier as she quickly finishes her conversation. 

“Prostite,” she mutters into the phone. “Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.”

You pause where you stand as you attempt to piece together what she just said. Your limited Russian skills manage to translate fragments: leave…food…door. 

It’s enough to guess that she told them to leave your dinners outside the room so they won’t come in and see all your equipment set up.

But you also notice that there’s one word missing from the sentence—the one she exclaimed earlier.

It lingers in your mind, unaccounted for, and you try remembering how Natasha said it.

“Blyat…” you repeat, testing the word carefully, sounding it out until you nod in satisfaction, confident you’ve got it.

A low groan comes from Natasha, prompting you to look back at her. Her eyes are noticeably darker now.

“Bozhe moy…” Natasha mutters under her breath, shaking her head lightly in exasperation.

Your brow quirks in amusement at her tone, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a curse word—just something someone would say when they’re surprised or frustrated,” Natasha says stiffly, her voice a little strained, though she manages to seem mostly composed.

Her eyes eventually betray her, though, drifting back to the droplets of water sliding down your skin. 

“So what’s the translation?” you press, crossing your arms at her vague response. The motion inadvertently shifts the towel, loosening it further.

Natasha’s jaw tightens. Her gaze flickers to the towel, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her control clearly fraying. 

Even though she looks like she’s about to close the distance between you, it’s clear she won’t answer your question, which makes your expression fall lightly into a mock disappointed pout.

“You said you’d help me improve my Russian during this mission,” you remind her, your tone innocently light as you step closer to stand in front of her. 

The memory of her promise lingers in your mind—how she’d caught you practicing in secret and insisted you ask her for help whenever you needed it.

Her lips twist in hesitation, probably also remembering her promise, and for a moment, it seems like she might resist.

But then she relents with a sigh. 

“It’s basically like saying ‘fuck,’” Natasha explains, her voice low and even. She fixes you with a pointed look, her gaze burning as she adds, “As in, you surprised me, standing half-naked in the middle of the room like this.” 

A laugh escapes you, though your cheeks warm at the intensity of her gaze. You move to hover a hand above her chest, tracing a finger lightly against the edge of her tank top.

“Were you surprised…or frustrated?” you ask, your tone full of mischief. 

Natasha shoots you a warning look, one that says you already know the answer.

“I don’t think learning Russian curse words was part of your original goal here,” she counters, her voice tight.

“Who says I haven’t learned some phrases already?” you reply with a playful shrug.

Her eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Like what?”

You shake your head, refusing to elaborate. “I’m still practicing my pronunciation.”

Natasha smirks, leaning closer. “I can help.”

The listening equipment chooses that moment to beep suddenly, interrupting your conversation, as it signals incoming noises.

“Too bad we’re still on the clock,” you quip with a teasing smile.

Natasha’s attention flickers reluctantly to the gear, her expression briefly clouded with disappointment.

You take the opportunity to head back to the bathroom and finish up.

As you go, a smirk tugs at your lips, the Russian phrase you’ve been practicing simmering in your mind.

Just as you step through the doorway, you hum thoughtfully, your voice low and deliberate as you mutter under your breath—just loud enough for Natasha to hear.

“How did it go again...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…”

You don’t need to turn around to know the effect your words have. Natasha’s sharp intake of breath is unmistakable, and your smirk widens in satisfaction. 

Behind you, Natasha freezes, her lips parting slightly, her entire body going still as she processes what you just said. The weight of your casual tone and the boldness of your phrasing leave her momentarily stunned.

By the time she regains her composure, you’ve already disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click.

A low, disbelieving chuckle escapes her after a moment, followed by a quiet grumble as she mutters to herself, “Of all the times to be on a mission…” 

Natasha shakes her head and exhales, grabbing the earpiece with a resigned sigh.

Sliding it back on, she tries to focus on the task at hand, her eyes scanning the equipment as if sheer willpower could drown out her thoughts.

But her gaze betrays her, drifting back toward the bathroom door.

It lingers there, her resolve wavering as the temptation to follow you creeps in, tugging at her self-control.

Her mind conjures an image of you inside—water still clinging to your skin and your voice low and teasing as you repeat the Russian phrase for “fuck me” over and over again. 

The imagination is enough to make her swallow hard, her grip tightening on the table’s edge.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Natasha forces her attention back to the mission, her eyes narrowing as if determination alone could block the distractions. 

And she does succeed in regaining her composure eventually, though, every now and again, your voice echoes in her mind—soft, playful, and full of mischief.

Each syllable you murmured is as clear as if you were still standing there, taunting her with that dangerous smirk.

The corners of her lips twitch despite herself. 

You’ve always told her how much you love hearing her speak in Russian—how the sound of it stirs something in you. 

Natasha had always found your words amusing, but hearing you just now, with your hesitant yet deliberate tone, she’s beginning to understand exactly what you meant.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After dinner, Natasha takes it upon herself to continue monitoring the listening gear, insisting that you rest up first after the long trip here and the exhausting setup.

Her tone left little room for argument, so you relented, knowing how stubborn she could be about these things and the fact that she is more than capable of staying concentrated on the task for longer than you can.

Hours pass, the rhythmic static and indistinct chatter from the equipment blending into the quiet of the room.

Natasha barely notices how late it’s gotten until she feels your arms wrap gently around her shoulders from behind.

You lean in close, your warm breath brushing against the side of her head as you carefully remove her earpieces. 

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” you whisper softly.

Natasha’s lips curve into a small, pleased smile at your perfect pronunciation. Turning to face you, she raises a brow, her expression amused.

“Did you learn that specifically for moments like this?” she teases.

You smirk back at her. 

“With how often you lose yourself in work, I figured learning how to call you to bed should be one of the first things I perfect.” 

Natasha shakes her head fondly, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. 

“Of course you would,” she murmurs, but there’s no mistaking the affection in her voice.

Obliging you, she removes the rest of the gear and allows you to pull her gently from the chair toward the large bed.

As she moves, her gaze flickers to the nightstand, catching sight of your tablet screen. The familiar display of the language-learning app you’ve been using to practice Russian glows faintly in the dim light.

Settling in beside her, you lie back against the pillows while Natasha props herself up on one elbow, her head resting on her hand. Her green eyes glimmer with a soft light as she looks at you, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’m sure I can teach you Russian better than that app.” 

Her comment makes you laugh lightly. 

“I know, but our free time doesn’t always line up for me to get a lesson from Ms. Romanoff,” you tease, smirking.

“It’s Mrs.,” Natasha corrects, her playful smirk matching yours. “Don’t forget, we’re technically married right now.”

You smile, your gaze softening as you look at her. 

“Right. How could I forget that you’re my ‘zhena?’”

The word slips out in a playful, teasing tone, but it has an unexpected effect.

Natasha’s heart flutters so much at hearing you call her your wife in Russian that she has to look away for a moment to regain her composure. 

Her expression is tender when she looks back at you, her other arm moving around your midsection and pulling you closer. 

“I have time now,” she offers, her voice low. “Anything you want to learn?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your chin as you consider. 

“Alright, how do you say…‘you look beautiful?’”

Natasha’s smile widens slightly. 

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” she replies smoothly.

You repeat the phrase under your breath, scrunching your face slightly in concentration as you practice. Once you’re confident enough, you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“Ty vy-glya-dish’ prekrasno,” you say, your pronunciation close but not perfect.

Natasha chuckles softly in amusement when she realizes you just wanted to say the phrase back to her. 

“Are you trying to make me fall for you even more by complimenting me in Russian?”  

You smirk playfully. “Depends. Is it working?”

Huffing lightly, Natasha rolls her eyes, though there’s a clear fondness in her exasperation. She looks away briefly, but you catch her cheek gently, turning her gaze back to yours.

“How do you say…‘I love you?’” you ask softly, your voice tinged with both curiosity and affection.

Natasha’s expression softens further, her features open and vulnerable as she answers. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she says, enunciating each syllable carefully for you. 

“Ya tebya lyu…blyu,” you repeat slowly, trying to mimic how her lips move, but the last syllable doesn’t quite land how it should.

Natasha chuckles lightly, her hand moving to cup your chin. 

“When you say ‘lyublyu,’” she explains gently, “you have to purse your lips more.”

You try again, adjusting your pronunciation, and then glance at her for confirmation. 

“Like that?” you ask innocently, unaware that you had said it perfectly, making Natasha’s heart beat a little faster at the sound of your voice saying those words to her in her native language. 

“Say it again,” Natasha murmurs, her voice soft. 

Focusing intently, you follow her previous instructions.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Just as you say the last sound, Natasha leans in suddenly, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

Your smile grows against her mouth as realization dawns that she made you repeat it for her benefit. 

“Mmm, you’re teasing me when you're supposed to be teaching me,” you murmur lightly in reprimand.

Natasha pulls back slightly, her green eyes glinting with playful mischief. 

“Maybe I just love the way you say it,” she counters, her tone low and warm. 

You huff lightly, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation before scooting closer.

Natasha relaxes fully into the bed, letting you rest your head on her shoulder and tuck your face into the curve of her neck. Her arms wrap around you, holding you in a soft embrace.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Natasha’s voice breaks through, gentle and curious. 

“What made you decide to learn Russian?”

There’s a brief pause as you consider her question, and then you tilt your head to look up at her, your eyes filled with affection. 

“Russian is a part of who you are, Natasha,” you say earnestly. “Where you came from. To learn another way to connect with you…” You trail off, your soft smile widening. “Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

Natasha’s heart swells at your words, and for a moment, all she can do is hold you closer, her fingers brushing lightly over your back.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but still filled with the depth of her feelings for you.

You settle back against her, smiling into her shoulder, your voice gentle as you reply.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, too.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 2

a/n: got distracted by a cute request and made another little fluff fic. thank you for reading! Now I'll get back to working on my series. 😅

Also here are the translations below:

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.” - Reservation for Natalia Romanova.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.” - Welcome, Mrs. Romanova. Here are your room keys.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.” - If you or your wife need assistance, please call the front desk and we will be happy to assist you.

“Spasibo,” - Thank you

“Zhena,” - Wife

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…” - Yes, just leave it—fuck...

“Prostite, Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.” - Sorry, leave the food at the door. Thank you.

“Blyat” - fuck

“Bozhe moy…” - My god...

“...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…” - ..fuck...me...fuck me...

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” - Come to bed with me

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” - You look beautiful

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” - I love you

[apinchofm]

Accidentally in Love by @dreamstone28737

Sophie goes with Kate to a party to keep Kate from killing Anthony Bridgerton. Unfortunately, Sophie meets Benedict and is distracted while Kate and Anthony end up making out in the bushes.

T, Modern Masquerade, Parallel Love Stories

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG SERIES MASTERLIST

Main Masterlist || On AO3 || On Wattpad

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn’t looking for a mate. Not only does he think he doesn’t deserve one, but the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain’t real. He still has free will, and saving you from monsters is just another part of the job.

The demons in your life, though? They’re closer than he realises, more personal, and his inner alpha won’t let him leave you behind with them. But can Dean embrace everything that comes with claiming someone? 18+ only MDNI

Tags: omegaverse, soulmate AU, pregnancy, strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, SMUT, breeding, claiming, knotting, nesting, angst, fluff, endgame is Dad!Dean (and the parenting skills we all know he has), Protective!Dean, (dual POV), somewhat of a fix-it

WARNING: This story implies/references some potentially triggering topics including domestic abuse, sexual assault, a past miscarriage (chemical pregnancy), and follows the journey of how the characters deal with it. Please consider these carefully before reading. I can’t stress this enough!

A/N: This all started out as a one shot idea of Dean playing with kids and nerf guns. That one shot hasn’t been written yet because my brain wanted to know where the kids came from, but Dean will get his hands on a nerf gun in this fic.

uploading weekly on Fridays 🇦🇺🕕

Chapter 1 - Yearning

Chapter 2 - Harbouring

Chapter 3 - Confronting

Chapter 4 - Familiarising

Chapter 5 - Languishing

Chapter 6 - Domesticating

Chapter 7 - Honeydaying

Chapter 8 - Disconcerting

Chapter 9 - Ruminating

Chapter 10 - Saddling

Chapter 11 - Containment

Chapter 12 - Sentiment

Chapter 13 - Derisionment

Chapter 14 - Announcement

Chapter 15 - Disappointment

Chapter 16 - Ligament

Chapter 17 - Retirement (working title)

Chapter 18 -

Chapter 19 -

Chapter 20 -

TIMESTAMPS TBA

EXTRAS/RELATED

Writing Game Snippet

100 Followers Celebration Sneak Peak

WIP WEDNESDAY (20/02) Chapter 16

Please Remember folks, abuse isn’t always physical. It’s also not easy to admit when you’re going through it, or sometimes even realise. Look after yourselves, and keep an eye out for signs from those you love. ❤️

If you'd like to be tagged in this series or any of my other works, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

I’ll be tagging all the lovely people signed up for my DEAN TAGLIST too, of course 🥰

[alive-gh0st]

❝Hearts Don’t Miss❞

Omni!Mark Grayson x Cupid!Reader➶

•♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡˚₊‧ ꒰ა 💗 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚♡🤍♡🤍♡🤍♡•

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

❤︎ summary: after defying a divine directive and choosing mercy over order, you—a cupid built not to feel—fall from the realm and crash into a world you don’t belong to. wingless and exiled, you land on a planet bruised by war, grief, and something worse: apathy. but one figure watches your descent. he’s not a hero. not a god. just a man turned monster, carrying the weight of a planet he helped destroy. you were made to spark love. he was made to conquer. so why can’t he walk away?

❤︎ contains: sfw. celestial mythology. lonely immortals. slow-burn dynamics. post-war emotional fallout. deconstruction of love as a weapon/tool. and a wingless cupid with a cracked heart and a crooked smile.

❤︎ warnings: emotional manipulation (brief). themes of exile and identity loss. canon-typical violence references (omni-mark’s past). light blood/injury mentions. quiet existential grief. soft heartbreak. and the inconvenient ache of wanting to be wanted.

‪❤︎ wc: 4455

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i wanted to write something aching. something soft and sharp and too pink in all the wrong places. this is my love letter to the ones who were built to help others but never expected to be helped. to the hopeless romantics. to the heartsworn. if you’ve ever looked for your own thread and found nothing but empty space—i see you. let’s fall together.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Before time had a name, there was love.

And before love had rules, there were those who enforced them.

You were one of them.

Cupids were never born in the way humans or any other beings are.

There was no crying, no clutching warmth, no heartbeat against heartbeat. You weren’t given to anyone—because in your world, nothing is ever truly given. It’s assigned.

And you were assigned to love.

Long before your first breath—or what could even be counted as a breath—your existence was stitched together with rose-gold thread and spun into something soft.

Something radiant. Something shaped to serve.

The Realm of Threads didn’t believe in accidents. It believed in connection.

Harmony. Devotion.

These were your first lessons—woven not from stories, but from structure. From a place built not to feel love, but to uphold it.

Cupids, as humans might call them, are not gods. They are not angels. They are not the chubby, winged caricatures drawn on glossy cards each February.

They are constructs.

Beings built from emotion itself, shaped by the pulse of the universe and tasked with one divine, inescapable truth—make them fall in love.

All of them.

Every soul in every world is marked by a thread—red, golden, soft, or shining. Invisible to most. Tangible only to your kind. And where those threads exist, your kind follows.

Weaving. Binding. Mending.

You never asked why. You were taught never to ask why.

｡ﾟ•┈୨��୧┈• ｡ﾟ

In your realm, the sky is made of lace.

Not literal lace—but that’s what it looks like, with its rippling tapestry of lights and longing.

You drifted through it as a child, surrounded by other Cupids—silent, graceful, unwavering. They didn’t speak unless they had to. Words wasted time. Emotion was observed, not expressed.

You were the odd one out almost immediately.

You giggled when you shouldn’t have. You sang with no rhythm. You watched humans too closely, too curiously. You wondered what it felt like to be kissed—not as a target, not as a mission—but as something wanted.

The Supervisors said your strings were too tight.

They meant your emotions.

You cared too much. Thought too hard. Dreamed in colors that didn’t belong to you.

But you were a prodigy, so they didn’t clip your wings. Not then. They praised your precision, your instincts. You’d never missed a target. Not once.

But love, you would learn, is only beautiful when it behaves.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You were trained before you ever knew what training meant.

In the Realm of Threads, there is no childhood. Not in the way humans define it. There are no lullabies, no scraped knees, no tumbling laughter in the grass. There is structure. There is schooling.

There is silence.

You were given a pod—not a room, not a bed. A pod. Sterile and softly lit, humming faintly with emotional frequency.

It pulsed with the echoes of distant connections: engagements, kisses, heartbreak, soulmates colliding on foreign soil.

It was meant to teach you. Not to feel—but to understand what feeling looks like.

Your first lessons weren’t in numbers or words. They were in observation.

Screens stretched across your wall like windows into other realms. Every second of every day, you watched humans love each other. Fumble and flourish. Make mistakes. Fix them. You learned the cadence of confession, the stillness before a first kiss, the ache of waiting by a phone that wouldn’t ring.

You took notes.

You practiced on simulations. Shadow versions of real people, constructed for training. They were emotion puppets—coded to respond, to mimic the human condition, but never feel it.

You pulled their strings like a composer, conducting the perfect crescendo of a meet-cute or a second chance.

And you were so good at it.

Even the elder Cupids, old as planetary rotations, took notice.

They called you “Silken.”

They called you “True-Handed.”

They said your instincts were woven with clarity few possessed.

But even then—you knew something was wrong.

Because love wasn’t clean. It wasn’t predictable. It wasn’t math.

You saw it in the gaps between the simulations—in the real footage, in the stolen glances and unsent letters.

Love was messy.

And you weren’t allowed to say that.

So instead, you smiled. You bowed your head. You aced your assignments. And when it was finally time to receive your bow—the instrument that would mark you as a field Cupid, ready to enter the human realm—you let them place it in your hands like a crown.

Ceremonial. Divine. Cold.

Your wings fluttered for the first time that day. Not from pride. From something else.

Restlessness.

Because you weren’t sure you wanted to be part of this system.

But you’d been shaped for it. And in the Realm of Threads, shape is everything.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

They say Cupids don’t feel the way humans do. But if that were true—why did it ache?

You never had a red string.

That was the first thing you noticed.

You saw them everywhere—thread-thin, glowing like veins of fire across the fabric of reality. Around wrists, through hearts, tied in impossible loops from continent to continent, galaxy to galaxy.

Red. Gold. Silver.

Some pulsed softly. Some burned bright. Some frayed at the ends—doomed to break.

But you?

You had none.

You looked. Every year. Every cycle. Every mirror.

And there was never one waiting for you.

The instructors said it was proof of your purpose.

You were meant to love, not to be loved.

Cupids didn’t need soulmates. You were the threads—not what they tied together.

But still, when you were alone in your pod—your crown-glass screen humming with soft simulations—you sometimes wrapped a ribbon around your own finger and pretended.

Just for a moment. Just to feel what it might be like to belong to someone.

To be chosen.

To be someone’s reason.

You told no one.

Cupids weren’t supposed to pretend.

Not about that.

You always grinned too brightly. Talked too much. Got too close to the humans you helped.

You asked too many questions.

Why this couple? Why that connection? Why did heartbreak sometimes look so much like love?

You weren’t supposed to wonder. You were supposed to execute. Deliver arrows. Create outcomes. Adjust the threads.

But you liked watching after the mission was done.

You stayed longer than you should have. Saw the way people clung to one another. Fought. Forgave. Grieved. Moved on. Sometimes, even when the threads said they wouldn’t.

And worse—you started to feel happy for them.

Genuinely.

Not in the approved, detached sense of “mission accomplished,” but like… something warm bloomed in your chest just watching two people choose each other.

One day you told another Cupid—casually, as if it was no big thing—that it must feel nice to be loved like that.

She looked at you like you were malfunctioning.

Reported you. Quietly.

You were summoned for evaluation.

They used soft words. Nothing cruel—just… firm.

“Attachment undermines your clarity.”

“You’ve been too immersed in lower realms.”

“Emotional mimicry is a known side effect. You’ll adjust.”

You didn’t adjust.

You just learned how to lie better.

You laughed louder. You perfected your posture. You earned the nickname Heartsworn, and everyone said it with admiration.

But you felt empty most days.

Like a thread that had never been tied.

And it gnawed at you, that emptiness—because you were built to help others find connection.

So why did it feel like you’d never have your own?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It happened on a world not so different from Earth.

Small. Blue. Quiet in the way only dying stars can make a planet feel.

The threads there were thin. Brittle. Nearly broken.

It needed love desperately. That’s why they sent you.

Because you never missed. Because your aim was perfect. Because you were the shining example—the “Heartsworn,” the favorite, the infallible.

And at first, it was routine.

Two beings. Two threads. One frayed at the end, knotted tight around grief. The other hesitant, flickering. Their paths crossed in a way that felt almost poetic—a shared umbrella. An open bookstore. A laugh like recognition.

You hovered above them, bow pulsing in your palm. A clean shot. Two arrows. One for each.

But then something shifted.

The woman—your target—she looked up at the man, eyes tired but tender. And the way he looked back… like he was remembering how to breathe.

And you saw it.

She had already loved him.

It hadn’t been forced. It hadn’t been orchestrated. No divine architecture. No thread pulling them forward.

Just… choice.

Human, messy, miraculous choice.

You hesitated.

And that’s all it took.

Your bow trembled in your hands. Not from error—but from resistance.

Because for the first time—you didn’t want to interfere. You didn’t want to force it.

You wanted to let them be.

You lowered your weapon.

And then—because you were soft, and reckless, and maybe stupid in the eyes of the Supervisors—you spoke to her.

She didn’t see you. Not clearly. Just a shimmer in the corner of her eye. But you whispered anyway.

“You don’t need help. You already chose him.”

The words weren’t authorized. Your presence was meant to be undetectable. You were not allowed to alter the script.

But you did.

And for a moment—nothing happened.

Then the red thread between them sparked.

Bright. Violent. Uncontrolled.

It burned itself into existence. Without your arrow. Without divine sanction.

And they kissed.

Not because you told them to.

Because they wanted to.

Your lips curled into a soft smile.

You didn’t regret it.

But the moment you returned to the Realm of Threads, you knew something was wrong.

The lights were dimmed. The supervisors were waiting. No lectures. No trials.

Just one sentence.

“You interfered.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself—but the guards were already reaching for your wings.

You’d heard what it sounded like.

The sound of ripping. The way it cuts deeper than bone.

But you’d never imagined it would hurt like this.

Your knees hit the lace-floor. Your mouth stayed silent.

You didn’t scream.

Not because it didn’t hurt—but because they wanted you to.

And maybe, just maybe, you wanted to take that from them.

Dignity, you told yourself.

Dignity is all I have left.

You were told you would not be recycled. You were too “contaminated.” Too unstable. A bad example.

So instead—they exiled you.

You didn’t get to ask where.

Just a flash of cold light—

And then the sound of wind.

Falling.

Alone.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

You hit the ground hard.

Not like a leaf drifting. Not with grace. Not with poise. Not like the Cupids in the stories.

Like a comet.

A streak of light through an unfamiliar sky, dragging heat and ache in your wake.

You didn’t black out right away—but you almost wished you had.

Because the first thing you felt wasn’t the crash. Wasn’t the way your ribs seized or the way your shoulder twisted beneath your fall.

It was the space between your wings.

The hollow.

The absence.

You gasped.

Air—not laced with threadlight, not humming with frequency, just air—rushed into your lungs like punishment.

You curled onto your side, dirt grinding into the soft parts of you. Wet grass clung to your skin. The sky above was wrong—blue, yes, but so still. No shimmering frequencies. No glowing red filaments. Just clouds, soft and slow.

You were somewhere real.

Somewhere unmarked.

Somewhere alone.

It wasn’t the pain that made you want to cry.

It was the quiet.

Because back home—even when you were alone in your pod, even when no one looked at you—there was always something.

The buzz of love blooming. The echo of longing. The soft, constant pull of other people’s threads, humming just outside your senses.

But now?

Nothing.

It was gone.

You sat up slowly.

And then immediately flopped back down with a tiny, theatrical groan.

“Ouchie,” you mumbled to no one, voice breathy and soft and definitely not pained—because no, you were totally fine. Just a bit… stunned. And mildly bleeding. And definitely wingless.

But you were smiling. Kind of. Maybe.

Okay, so it trembled a little at the edges.

“I’ve had worse landings,” you said aloud—which was a lie. You’d never landed before. You’d always floated.

You tried again, slowly, every nerve screaming. Your knees trembled. Your arms buckled. You caught yourself on the soft slope of a hill, hands sinking into wildflowers and moss.

You blinked down at them.

Yellow, pink, violet. Stubbornly bright.

They looked like something out of a simulation.

They weren’t.

They were real.

Your mouth twisted.

Of course you landed in a field of flowers. Of course.

You laughed.

It came out cracked and hoarse. Almost a sob.

Because everything hurt, and everything was still spinning, and you had no idea where you were, and no one was coming for you, and—

No.

No, you weren’t going to cry. You weren’t.

Cupids didn’t cry.

Even clipped ones.

Even broken ones.

Even ones bleeding into someone else’s sky.

Still, you tried to push yourself up, wobbling on legs that hadn’t had to support you since your designation. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like gravity had teeth and it didn’t trust you. You teetered. Fell to your knees again.

And giggled.

Which also trembled a little.

“I meant to do that.”

You dusted imaginary dirt from your imaginary uniform and gave an exaggerated little curtsy to the empty air.

No one clapped. Rude.

You dragged yourself to your feet.

Shaky. Awkward. Wobbly in a way you hadn’t felt in cycles. The Realm of Threads taught you to float everywhere. Gliding was cleaner. More efficient. Less emotional.

You hadn’t really walked since childhood simulations.

The ground felt weird under your feet. Solid. Gritty.

Your bow was still intact. Miraculously. You hugged it close like a stuffed toy, curling in on yourself for a moment, letting the quiet press into your bones.

You could still feel it.

That place between your shoulders—where your wings had been. Like a ghost limb. Like something sacred had been carved out of you and left a silence behind.

You hated it.

But you kept moving.

Maybe—if you helped someone on this world—they would come back for you. Maybe if you just kept doing your job, proved you were still useful, still good, they’d rewind the exile.

Reattach what they’d taken.

Please.

You stumbled once. Then again. Then face-planted into a patch of daisies with a grunt so undignified you groaned into the soil.

“Get it together,” you mumbled into the grass.

You pushed yourself back up. Sat on your knees for a second. Took a breath.

You didn’t know how long you wandered after that.

Minutes? Hours? You lost time in the way only the heartbroken can.

It got dark fast.

The sky burned gold, then violet, then black. Stars blinked overhead—foreign constellations, wrong patterns.

You were still limping through the field when the noise came.

A whoosh.

Sharp. Cutting. Like something splitting the air in half.

You froze.

Turned slowly.

And then—saw him.

Not a blur. A shape. Coming toward you like a storm with legs.

You only had a second to register what was coming at you: tall, fast, red and white—a storm in the shape of a man. And a scowl, carved from thunderclouds.

Flying.

He was flying.

You squinted.

Not a Cupid. Definitely not a Cupid.

A human?

No.

No, he felt… too much.

You didn’t have your thread-sight anymore, but you could still feel.

Emotions. Echoes.

He felt like gravity.

Like something that had no business coming closer—and was doing it anyway.

He landed hard. Just a few feet away.

Harder than you had. The ground splintered beneath his feet, shockwaves rippling out in a perfect ring. Dust and wildflowers burst upward like a gasp. He stood there for a beat—motionless.

And you… just stared.

Red suit. White accents. Red cape. Black goggles like midnight slicing across his face. He didn’t glow. He didn’t shine. He loomed.

His presence felt like gravity doubled—like the world bowed to his weight and dared not rise again.

You blinked at him slowly. Then offered a tiny wave.

“Hi.”

Silence.

He didn’t move.

You glanced behind you like maybe he was staring at someone else, but no—those mirrored goggles were fixed on you.

“Hiii,” you tried again, voice cheerier. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

No reaction. His posture didn’t shift. You had a sudden, vivid mental image of being vaporized.

“I’m just passing through!” you rushed, hands up. “A… a tourist! On a very involuntary vacation!”

Still nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing—he was breathing.

Barley.

His voice, when it came, was sharp enough to slice open a planet.

“You’re not human.”

Your grin faltered for a second before rebounding, like a rubber band that’s been snapped too many times.

“Nope. Not even a little bit! But I’m very human adjacent in a lot of ways! I’ve watched a lot of rom-coms and I know how to do a proper hug—although full disclosure, I might fall over during it because of the whole… clipped wings situation.”

His jaw tightened. His eyes—hidden though they were—felt like twin drills boring into the softest parts of you.

“Why are you here?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then plastered on a sheepish smile.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you admitted, voice dipping softer now. “The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

Something flickered across his face. Brief. Gone before you could catch it.

“And now,” you continued, tone brightening again as you gestured to the wildflower field like a very proud but slightly concussed game show host, “I’m here! In… wherever here is. Honestly, it’s pretty. Good flowers. Ten out of ten. Bit of a rough welcome, but I’ve had worse.”

“You’re bleeding.”

Your hand drifted unconsciously to your back, fingertips brushing the jagged place where wings used to rise.

You shrugged. “It’s mostly cosmetic.”

He said nothing. Just stared.

You took a step forward—then immediately lost your balance and fell face-first into a patch of daisies.

There was a beat of silence. Then two. Then three.

And then—so faint you thought you imagined it—you heard the faintest exhale of breath from the man in red and white.

Not a laugh.

But maybe the ghost of one.

You rolled onto your back and grinned up at the stars.

“See?” you said, voice light. “I’m great at making first impressions.”

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

The second he saw you, he didn’t trust you.

Not because you looked dangerous. No—you didn’t. You were crumpled in a bed of wildflowers, wobbling like a broken marionette and smiling like someone had painted joy over grief and hoped no one would notice the cracks.

But that was exactly why he didn’t trust you.

People didn’t fall from the sky and grin. Not here. Not anywhere. Not anymore.

So he hovered, silent, watching you crawl upright like you didn’t know how to use your own legs. Like the planet was something foreign. Like gravity was something new.

That wasn’t normal.

Mark had seen a lot of things in a lot of universes—false gods, black holes, men split into fractions of themselves—but this? A girl with stardust on her skin and nothing in her hands but a bow? That was new.

He landed hard. On purpose. Let the ground feel him.

You flinched. Not at the sound—at the silence that followed it.

And then you looked up.

Big eyes. Bare feet. Mouth bleeding at the corner, but curved like you hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

And then—

“Hi.”

Like you hadn’t just fallen from orbit.

He didn’t speak.

“Hiii,” you tried again, softer. “Okay, so I know this looks weird. But I promise I’m not here to hurt anyone! Unless, um. You count your planet’s gravitational field. Which did kinda kick my butt—ow.”

Still he said nothing.

He didn’t move.

Mark watched.

Measured.

Assessed.

You were glowing at the edges—not visibly—but in some low, stubborn frequency. Like the kind of candle you couldn’t blow out even after you’d shattered the holder.

It irritated him.

He spoke without meaning to.

“You’re not human.”

You beamed, wounded and bright. “Nope! Not even a little bit!”

You kept talking. Rambling. Fumbling your way through some patchwork lie about tourism and rom-coms and wings—clipped, apparently.

He didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t need to.

He was looking for something. A tell. A crack.

“Why are you here?”

That stopped you.

Just a second. Barely.

But it was enough.

Your grin shrank. Eyes dipped. Voice turned soft.

“That’s kind of a long story. The short version is… I got kicked out of my hom—my realm. For caring too much.”

That flickered something inside him.

He crushed it before it could breathe.

Mark didn’t do soft. He didn’t do “caring.” That was the problem with the others. They hesitated. Thought. He didn’t. That’s why he survived.

So why was he still here?

Why wasn’t he flying away?

Why hadn’t he broken you in half the moment you lied?

You stepped forward. Tripped. Fell face-first into a clump of flowers like a deer learning how to walk for the first time.

He didn’t flinch, but he exhaled—just once. Quiet. Almost amused.

You rolled onto your back and smiled at the stars.

“See? I’m great at making first impressions.”

He hated how you said it.

Like it mattered.

Like someone out here was still capable of being good.

He walked toward you.

You didn’t run. You didn’t crawl away. You sat there, hands splayed out behind you, watching him like you weren’t sure if he was going to help you up or crush your skull.

Smart.

He stopped in front of you.

Tilted his head.

“I should kill you.”

Your eyes widened, but you didn’t move. “You could. You really could. But I’d prefer we didn’t start there?”

“Then give me one reason not to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked up at him like you were weighing the clouds.

“I don’t have one.”

Mark stared.

You continued.

“I mean—I don’t know if I’m important. I don’t have a secret code or an army or even a sandwich right now. But…”

You reached up, touching your back—where the blood had dried, sticky and shimmering.

“But I used to be someone. I used to help people fall in love. And maybe that doesn’t matter to you—but it mattered to them.”

There was a silence.

He wasn’t sure what he expected you to say.

But it wasn’t that.

He should leave.

He should fly away and chalk you up to another anomaly.

Instead, he said:

“Can you still do it?”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make people love.”

Your lips curled up. Slowly. Sadly. “I don’t know.”

Another pause.

You were watching him too closely now. Like you were trying to read a string that wasn’t there.

“You’re not really from here either,” you said softly. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

You already knew.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” you asked.

He looked at you, at the way your voice didn’t tremble, even though your body did.

And for once—he told the truth.

“I don’t know.”

You nodded.

“Fair.”

Then you reached up and offered your hand.

Not in fear. Not in desperation.

Just… like someone who was used to offering something and not getting it taken.

Mark didn’t take it.

But he didn’t crush it either.

He looked past you—at the dark hills, the useless stars, the broken silence.

After conquering this place and killing his father—he didn’t know what this planet was anymore.

Didn’t care.

But he had nowhere else to be. Not anymore.

He turned.

Walked.

And when he didn’t tell you to stay—

You followed.

Not too close.

Just… close enough.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

˗ˏˋ 𝓴𝓲𝓼𝓼 𝓶𝒆 ˎˊ˗

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Once, you were small. Once, you believed everything they told you.

Your first robe was the color of a peach blossom.

It shimmered when you turned, sleeves brushing the floor, too big for your arms and still perfect in every way. You’d never worn something so soft.

You twirled three times in front of the mirror, arms out like wings, giggling because everything felt light.

“You look very neat,” said one of the elder Cupids, gliding past with a clipboard. “Remember to keep your posture upright when you’re selected for observation.”

“I will!” you promised, standing taller.

The robe swished when you walked. You liked that. It made you feel important. Like you were finally what they said you would be—purposeful.

Part of something big.

You didn’t understand everything yet, but that didn’t matter.

You were going to be a Cupid.

And Cupids were good.

“Today,” said another instructor, voice warm and practiced, “you’ll learn about threads.”

You beamed. Sat up straighter. Listened with all your heart.

“Every being has a thread,” they explained, conjuring a floating hologram that flickered softly through the training chamber. “They wrap around us, tie us to our people. See?”

The threads shimmered—red, gold, silver, glowing like starlight.

You gasped. It was so pretty. It made your chest feel warm.

“You’ll help people find each other,” the instructor went on. “You’ll guide their steps. Fix what’s frayed. Strengthen what’s fragile.”

“I can do that!” you blurted.

A few other young Cupids turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your legs were swinging off the floating bench and your hands were already up.

“I wanna do the red ones,” you said proudly. “Those are the soulmate ones, right?”

The instructor smiled. So gently. Like they were talking to someone a little slow, but very sweet.

“Oh, darling,” they said. “You don’t get one.”

You blinked.

“Huh?”

“You won’t have a red thread,” they said again, same caring voice, same soft smile. ��Cupids don’t get them.”

You frowned. “But… we’re people too?”

“No,” they said kindly. “You’re not.”

Another Cupid, older, came to kneel beside you. Their hair was smooth. Their smile too perfect.

“You’re something better,” they told you. “You were made for love. You don’t need to be in it.”

“But—” you started.

“We give it,” the first instructor interrupted gently. “That’s your gift.”

You hesitated.

“But doesn’t anyone ever want us back?” you asked in a small voice.

The instructor’s smile didn’t change.

“No one has ever asked that before.”

You blinked. Sat very still.

They stood again.

“Alright, little hearts,” the elder said, clapping once. “Time for simulation prep. Let’s learn how to listen when a thread hums.”

Everyone got up.

You did too.

You smiled. Because they smiled. Because everyone around you looked so sure, so peaceful, so right.

You didn’t want to be the wrong one.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

ᯓ❤︎ requested by: @lycheee-jelly

taglist sign up: 𓊆ྀིhere𓊇ྀི

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[bringbackantonia]

God want this series continues like 80 years more

Crisis Management: Part Three🖤

Natasha Romanoff x PR Handler!Reader

Summary: Your assigned to make Natasha Romanoff more ‘relatable’. Somewhere along the way you forget your job was to fix her image, not fall in love with it.

A/N: i was supposed to upload this days ago but every time i re-read it, i was unhappy, i still am but here is the third instalment! there will be one more...

Natasha wasn’t looking for trouble.

She was just walking through the training wing, finishing a sparring session with one of the senior agents, wiping sweat from her neck with a towel, already mentally halfway through a black coffee and a five-minute nap.

Then she heard it.

It wasn’t loud but it was clear. Just voices echoing off the hall’s concrete, a few of the younger agents in the corner, tossing back jokes and smirks like they were in some locker room comedy special.

“—PR girl? Damn. I’d sit through a whole press seminar if she was the one giving it.”

“Right? She’s hot and smart. Those are the ones that ruin your life in the best way.”

“I bet she’s got that whole hidden freak vibe. Quiet ones always do.”

And then: “Wonder if she and Romanoff are actually hooking up.”

“I was on nights and they were sparring the other day. Like Natasha was just tossing her around like a rag doll.”

“…Could be a kink thing.”

“I mean, I’d be into it. Wonder if they need a referee…”

That was as far as they got.

Natasha’s boot hit the floor harder than necessary as she stepped into view. The smile she gave them wasn’t a smile. It was a barbed wire snarl wrapped in silk.

“Care to repeat that?” She asked, voice low and lethal.

The agents froze, one of them paling instantly. Another opened his mouth, probably to make a joke but nothing came out.

Natasha stalked forward, hands at her sides but ready. Her whole body spoke threat in that cold, perfect way only she could.

“I didn’t quite hear you.” She said again. “Say it louder.”

One of them actually stepped back.

“You think because she’s kind, she’s an object? Because she does her job with grace and patience, especially with all of you walking PR disasters, you get to talk about her like that?”

“No- I- We-“

“I- I- I-“ Natasha mocked, her voice razor-sharp. “What? You thought nobody would call you out? You thought you could sit there, make your little jokes and it wouldn’t get back to her?”

The group stood frozen, the tension crackling in the air like a storm just about to break.

“She’s twice the person any of you could hope to be.” Natasha continued, stepping forward now, voice steady, low and deadly calm. “And believe me when I say, if you ever speak about her like that again, you won’t just be explaining yourselves to me.”

She let the silence stretch, let them squirm under the weight of her gaze. 

Then, almost softly, but with unmistakable steel. “Apologise, now. Then get out of my sight.”

They didn’t hesitate. A chorus of stumbling apologies, averted eyes, and hasty steps followed, leaving Natasha alone with the stillness.

She exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Idiots.”

“Romanoff.” Came a sharp voice behind her. Maria Hill. “You wanna turn that PR into HR?”

“Please.” Natasha scoffed. “The new agents need a bit of humbling.”

“You’re not wrong.” Maria said carefully. “But not here. If you’re going to bully the recruits, do it out of the training room”

Natasha stood still, still vibrating with fury. Her knuckles were white where she clenched the towel.

Steve, who had appeared not long after Maria, clearly also having overheard the conflict, stepped forward. “Come on. Let’s walk it off.”

“I’m fine.” She snapped.

“You’re not.” Maria said, voice gentle but firm. “You’re cracking that water bottle… So let’s fix that.”

Before she could argue, the elevator chimed.

Pepper and Wanda, walking with a coffee in hand, brows already raised like they’d sensed the tension from three floors up.

Natasha crossed her arms. “Let me guess, you’re here to tell me to calm down too.”

“No.” Wanda said. “But I did sense your mood from upstairs. What happened?”

“Some idiot agents talking shit.”

“Oh.” Pepper blinked. “When has that ever bothered you?”

“It didn’t.” Maria cut in. “Until they started talking about her.”

“Oh. OH.”

Natasha didn’t answer.

“Let’s take a walk.” Not giving the redhead a choice, the two women whisked her away. “Do you want to know why you’re… hulking out?” Pepper didn’t wait for answer. “She gets under your skin because she’s not built like us. Not hardened by missions and violence and trauma. But she’s strong in a different way.”

“She’s just good and you’re not used to that.” Wanda added softly.

Pepper nodded. “She sees people. The real parts. Not the headlines. Not the failures. Just the things worth holding onto. And she makes you want to live up to that.”

That cracked something in Natasha’s chest.

Pepper stepped closer. “I’ve known her quite a while but she doesn’t talk much about herself, not really. But people talk and well… she’s been through things that would’ve broken most people.”

Natasha said nothing.

“And instead of closing off, she got better. Softer. She doesn’t let the past make her cruel.”

“She’s not naive.” Wanda added. “But she still chooses kindness. Not because she has to, because she believes it changes people.”

Natasha was quiet for a long time. Then: “She deserves someone better than me.”

Pepper gave her a long look. “She deserves someone who sees her. And protects her when she’s not looking. I think that might be you.”

Something twisted hard in Natasha’s chest.

Because she’d fought wars. Escaped empires. Dismantled entire networks of evil. But this?

This was terrifying.

Caring for someone who mattered. Caring for someone who could be hurt.

And maybe worst of all, being cared for back.

Natasha Romanoff, legendary spy, killer, child assassin was scared. But not of pain or even of love.

She was scared that someone like you might reach for her one day, with all that light and stubborn hope and she’d be too broken to hold it.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You knew something was wrong when the third person asked ‘Is she running late or just blowing this off?’.

The event had started almost an hour ago.

The press was already circling like bloodthirsty drones, influencers taking selfies in front of the charity’s golden banner while you stood off to the side in the dress you’d picked carefully, hoping and stupidly that tonight might finally feel like something real.

You kept checking your phone.

Nothing. Not a text. Not a call. Not even a ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’

You tried to hold your smile when reporters asked if Natasha was on her way. “She’s probably just… delayed.”

When someone whispered ‘Guess the soft launch wasn’t real’ loud enough for you to hear, your cheeks flamed hot.

You left before the main speech. Before dessert. Before you had to feel the weight of every turned head and half-sympathetic glance.

By the time the Tower elevator dinged open, you weren’t sad anymore.

You were furious.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The team was scattered around the couches, Tony and Sam mid-bicker, Clint tossing popcorn at Steve’s head, Wanda trying to read a book but failing miserably through the chaos.

And there she was.

Natasha.

Perfectly calm, sitting on the armrest, sipping a drink, scrolling through her phone like the night hadn’t just imploded around you.

You stormed in and the room went still.

“Where the hell were you?” You snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel. In the elevator ride, you planned your exact argument, down to the last word. But when you saw her there, nonchalantly on that damn phone that you’d spent the last hour calling and texting, it went out of the window.

Natasha didn’t look up. “I didn’t feel like going.”

You blinked. “You didn’t feel like it?”

She shrugged, indifferent. “Seemed like more of a PR thing than a me thing.”

“Oh my God.” You laughed, a sharp, disbelieving sound. “Are you kidding? You agreed to be there. You confirmed. We planned it, we rehearsed it. I stood there like an idiot while people asked if you were even real.”

She finally looked at you, still unreadable. “They’ll get over it.”

You took a step forward. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” She said. Too fast. Too flat. “It wasn’t personal.”

The team had all practically dissolved into the couch at this point, wincing at every word Natasha said and looking everywhere but at you. 

“Not personal?!” Your voice cracked, your composure fracturing along with it. “You made me believe I could trust you. That we were building something. You let me in, let me- care about you and then the second it matters, you bail. You don’t even bother to lie about it.”

She said nothing. No apology. No reaction.

You swallowed down the lump in your throat. “You know what? You’re exactly what people say you are. Cold. Closed off. A performance.”

That made her blink but still, she didn’t answer.

So you pressed harder. “Was any of it real? Or were you just bored and thought I’d be fun to play with?”

Her jaw tightened but she kept still and infuriatingly calm.

“I guess that’s my answer.” You whispered, stepping back like you’d been slapped. “I really thought you were different. You’re a coward, Agent Romanoff.”

It wasn’t until Wanda gently touched your arm that you remembered the rest of the team. She was standing beside you now, eyes soft, hand light on your wrist.

“Come on.” She said gently. “Let’s take a walk.”

You didn’t even nod. Just let her guide you toward the elevator, your chest still burning.

You didn’t look back.

If you had, you might’ve seen Natasha’s shoulders fold in on themselves the second the door closed.

But you didn’t.

And she didn’t stop you.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The night air was cool, heavy with city sounds and the quiet hum of traffic below. Wanda walked beside you, hands in her coat pockets, giving you silence without pressure.

When you finally spoke, it came out hoarse and bitter.

“I know she’s complicated. I know. I didn’t walk into this thinking she was going to knit me a sweater and write me poems.”

Wanda didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

You shook your head, blinking hard. “But I thought… I thought if I showed up, if I stayed patient, gave her space, gave her me- that maybe, eventually…”

“That she’d meet you there.” Wanda finished quietly.

You nodded, arms crossing tight over your chest. “And tonight wasn’t even about us. It was work. It was something she promised to do. But she just… didn’t.”

You paused. “I stood there like an idiot while people whispered that I was being used. That it was all fake. And she didn’t even bother to text.”

Wanda finally looked over at you, gentle but firm. “That’s not about you.”

You laughed bitterly. “Feels like it is.”

“She’s scared.”

“Of what? Me? I’m not the one who disappears. I’m not the one who shuts down the second someone gets too close.”

“No.” Wanda agreed. “You’re the one who shows up. Every time.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “It hurts. It’s not even about the event anymore. I trusted her. I defended her. I let her in. And she made me feel like I was nothing. Like it was all… one-sided.”

“It’s not.” Wanda assures you, almost desperate to tell you what happened but she knows it’s not her place to say.

You looked at her. “Then why does it feel like it is?”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The second the elevator doors closed behind you and Wanda, silence settled over the common room.

And then… “What the hell was that?” Tony said, no sarcasm for once.

Steve stepped forward, arms crossed. “You left her there, Romanoff.”

Natasha stood by the window, arms folded, expression unreadable but her silence said everything.

“You humiliated her, at her work. The reputation she’d spent so long building you, you nearly ruined it.” Clint added, quiet but firm. “That’s not like you.

“She’ll bounce back,” Natasha muttered, too low to be convincing.

“Bounce back?” Clint scoffed, wanting to throw the remote in his hand at the redhead’s stupidly frustrating head.

That’s not the point.” Sam said. “You’re not a rookie. You know what that kind of public embarrassment does to someone. especially someone whose whole job is to keep you from looking bad.”

Natasha didn’t move.

“She looked gutted.” Bucky said, tone unusually gentle. “I’ve seen you walk away from a hundred things. But her?”

He shook his head. “This wasn’t tactical. This was self-sabotage.”

“I don’t need a team of emotionally unavailable idiots to start playing Cupid with me and her. When did I ask?!”

“We were helping.”

“I didn’t ask!” Natasha almost growled, defensive and angry. “And you guys inserted yourself anyway and now what? You’re mad because you thought you were right. You believed in some fairytale-“

Pepper’s voice cut in, cool and cutting. “She believed in you. Fought for you.”

That one made Natasha flinch. just barely. But it was there.

“I never asked her to.”

“No.” Pepper agreed. “But you let her.”

Another long silence.

Natasha finally spoke. “I thought if I kept her at arm’s length, I wouldn’t… ruin it.”

Tony snorted. “Well, congrats. You managed to ruin it anyway.”

Steve’s voice softened. “You don’t get to do this halfway, Nat. Not with someone like her. If you want out, be honest. But if you’re scared? That’s fine. Just don’t use fear as an excuse to hurt her.”

No one said anything else.

They didn’t need to.

The weight of what she’d done filled the room and this time, Natasha felt it.

She turned back to the window, jaw tight, trying to pretend the sting behind her eyes was nothing.

But for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t sure how to fix what she’d broken. She couldn’t throw a grenade at it and watch it collapse. She couldn’t shoot someone in the name of justice or throw a pair of handcuffs on you and feel a little lighter that she just saved the world of another monster. This was something different, something new entirely and she had no idea.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You didn’t plan to go back to the Tower the next day.

You were tired. Still bruised from the embarrassment, still sore from the fight, worse than a physical one because the person who’d hurt you knew where to land the blows.

But your laptop had updates syncing through the Tower server and if you didn’t at least check in, the PR team would start sending passive-aggressive gifs.

So you walked through the front doors, bracing for awkward silences, maybe a few pity looks.

What you weren’t expecting was chaos.

The common room lights were dimmed, someone had shoved a ring light into a plant and the Smart TV was looping a series of shaky, self-recorded videos. Natasha’s face filled the screen. She was wearing a hoodie, actually your hoodie you realised and squinting into the camera like she was trying to disable it with her eyes alone.

“Hi.“ She said. “I��m Natasha Romanoff. You may know me from such headlines as ‘Scary in Black’ and ‘Does She Ever Smile?“

You froze.

She took a beat, clearly reading from a barely hidden script.

“I’m here to tell you about-“ She glanced off-screen, “What was it? Oh. Lip gloss. From this… tube.” She held up a pale blue tube like it might detonate. “Apparently, this one’s vegan and has emotional undertones.”

Cut.

The next video appeared, a microphone placed strategically on a table with nothing else around. You almost burst out laughing as suddenly two hands appeared, armed with a knife and some kind of gadget, slowly sharpening it. 

You never thought you’d see the day Natasha did ASMR and with weapons no less, it was weirdly hot. Her voice echoed in the bathroom.

“Ok, now I kinda get the appeal. Let’s try guns…”

Cut.

Then she appeared again, this time with the rest of the team. You actually did start laughing now as the redhead lip synced along with the audio ‘…You can pack your things and leave. There’s the door.’

The rest of the team jumped out from various places behind her and pointed as they chorused ‘There’s the door bitch!’

Cut.

You stood there, stunned.

Then her voice came, not from the speakers but from behind you. “I don’t know how to say I’m sorry without it sounding… like strategy. So I figured I’d show you instead. I didn’t forget what you said, about what you like, what makes you laugh, what matters to you. I’m sorry I didn’t show up. But I was listening.”

You blinked fast and turned, there she was. Standing in the soft light, hands in her pockets, looking unsure in a way that was very un-Natasha.

You laughed through your nose, still watery. “You made content.”

She nodded. “I made so much content.”

“I’m being honest when I say I’m not good at this.” She muttered quietly. “But I really wanted you to know that I was paying attention. I just… panicked. I hurt you because I got scared and that’s not fair. It’s not what you deserve.”

You looked at her. “I don’t want perfect.” You shrugged. “I just want honest.”

She stepped closer. “Then I’m terrified. And trying. That’s honest.”

You swallowed hard. “Okay.”

She gestured toward the elevator. “Walk with me?”

You nodded.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You walked through the city, not speaking for a while. Just existing beside each other. Shoulder to shoulder. Not touching but closer than space really allowed.

Finally, Natasha broke the silence.

“I didn’t think someone like you could be real.”

You glanced at her. “Someone like me?”

“Soft. Not scared of me. Actually the opposite.”

“I’m terrified of you.” You said, dryly. “I’m pretty sure that day I walked in with a binder, you could have killed me with it at least 30 different ways.”

“You don’t act like it.” She huffed a laugh. “But that’s true.”

“That’s because somewhere under the assassin stare and the world’s worst text etiquette, you’ve got a good heart.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Not to me.”

She looked down at her hands for a second. “You really think I can be good?”

You slowed your pace. “I think you already are. You just don’t know what it looks like to share it with another person yet.”

Another long pause.

Then, quietly. “Will you show me?”

Your chest squeezed so tight you could barely breathe.

You nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

She didn’t reach for your hand but her fingers brushed yours.

Just enough that it said I’m here and I’m not going anywhere. 

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The walk back to the tower was easy, light and refreshing, which someone would never describe Natasha Romanoff as.

Unless they was you. 

You soaked in the quiet, city buzz, breathed in the soft, spring air, tried not to lose your train of thought when her sleeve brushing yours.

You weren’t holding hands but it was close. You smiled, still feeling the ghost of her voice in your chest. Will you show me?

You were just about to say something, something dumb and soft and probably embarrassing, when you heard it.

A click. Then another.

A chorus of camera shutters.

Then voices. “Wait—wait, is that her?”

“Is that Natasha Romanoff?!”

“Oh my God, it’s them! The one from that video and- GET A VIDEO!”

“Are they dating?!”

And just like that, it hit. A wall of people, phone up, shouting and pushing. Some were laughing, some trying to get selfies, others just yelling her name.

“Natasha! Look this way!”

“Smile for us!”

“ARE YOU TOGETHER?!” You stiffened instantly, shrinking back without thinking, trying to block the flashes from your face but it was too late.

A hand shoved too close. A phone nearly hit your cheek. Someone grabbed your arm, not hard but hard enough to make your pulse spike. You barely had time to register it before Natasha moved.

Fast. Fluid. Pure instinct.

She stepped in front of you like a shield, one hand gripping your wrist, the other out in a sharp, commanding gesture. “Back up NOW.”

Her voice cut through the crowd like a blade.

Her eyes were fire and her jaw was tightly locked. The same look she wore before a takedown.

“Move.” She snapped, already steering you through the crush.

You let her. You didn’t have a choice.

Every time someone got too close, she was there, guiding you behind her, using her body to wedge open space. A shoulder turned to block an arm. A hand on your back to keep you close. Her head down, scanning, protecting.

You heard someone yell. “You can’t touch me, I know my rights!”

And then a camera was shoved too close. Too close.

Natasha caught it mid-air and shoved it back, not hard enough to break it but hard enough to make the guy stumble. “Touch her again.” She said, flatly. “And we’ll find out exactly how much training I’m not using right now.”

The crowd didn’t fully disperse but they hesitated, just long enough for her to get you into the Tower’s entryway, where security finally swarmed.

The doors shut.

The noise dropped.

Your breath was ragged.

Natasha was still standing in front of you, chest rising and falling fast, like she was waiting for another threat.

Only when she turned around did you realise her hand was shaking.

You blinked. “Nat…”

Her jaw twitched. She didn’t look at you.

“I shouldn’t have let you walk with me. That was stupid. I wasn’t thinking. They aren’t usually like that, not that bad but I-“

“Hey.” You stepped forward, catching her wrist gently. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Her eyes flicked to yours, wild and guilt-ridden. Scared, in a way she never let herself be.

“I should’ve known,” she said, voice tight. “They watch everything. I should’ve-“

“You protected me.” Her breath hitched.

You took her hand, slowly. “You protected me. From them. From that. I’ve dealt with paparazzi before and that could have been intense but you-“

“Hey, look! My favourite couple! Did you get caught in that mess?” Tony appeared, all bright-eyed and almost hyped up on the chaos that waited outside. “Sorry about that! Some groupie just told everyone her two year old son is mine so it’s a little crazy. All in a day’s work, right?”

“What?” You breathed, you couldn’t take dealing with a scandal like this.

“Na, don’t worry about it. Happens at least once a month, right Nat?”

“Strangely, yes.”

“See you lovebirds later…” He winked, sliding on his glasses and flocking to the many that waited outside for a picture, a comment or even just a selfie.

“I- Is he always like that?”

“Pretty much.” 

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The gala was meant to be a celebration. An Avengers public appearance. A press-heavy fundraiser. Civil, polished, contained. Easy.

The whole team was there, dressed like they’d been told not to bring weapons, even though you knew better. Steve giving careful interviews, Tony charming bored billionaires, Wanda nodding along to some roundtable about ‘moral frameworks’. 

You were centre stage, scheduled to moderate the live Q&A. Natasha was seated beside you, perfectly composed, looking ten percent bored and ninety percent hyperaware.

You smiled as you tapped your mic. “Let’s open the floor for some-“

Then the floor shook.

An explosion, not close but loud enough to send panic through the crowd.

People screamed. A glass wall shattered.

Chaos.

You turned just as Tony’s voice came over the comms. “We’ve got incoming. Unknown hostiles. All hands now.” It wasn't unusual for this to happen to the Avengers, some idiot trying their luck with a bunch of groupies but never did you think you'd find yourself in the presence of it.

Natasha was on her feet instantly, pulling you behind the stage. “Stay here. Don’t move.” Her voice was steel.

“But-“

“Stay.”

Then she was gone, vanishing into motion like she was never in heels to begin with.

You peeked through the curtain. The rest of the Avengers were already dispersing, charging into the chaos breaking through the building’s west side.

That’s when it happened.

They came from the other side. Half a dozen of them, knock-off tactical gear but heavy firepower and zero hesitation. While the heroes went west, the real plan entered from the east.

The stage was suddenly theirs.

You didn’t get to run. They spotted you immediately, centre spotlight, mic still warm.

“Her!” One barked. “Take her!”

Several hands grabbed you, yanking you back. You fought. Kicked. Bit someone’s wrist hard enough to make them curse.

A gun cracked across your cheek and everything spun.

You hit the ground hard, blood in your mouth, ears ringing. You heard one of them laughing. “Guess she’s tougher than she looks. They must have taught her well.”

Another shoved you forward, dragging you to the middle of the stage.

And through it all, people were still filming. 

Phones up, flashes going. The whole world watching in terror and entertainment.

A voice barked orders. “They’re coming back. When they do, she’s our message.”

They forced you to your knees. One knelt beside you, gun pressed to your head.

You could barely think. Blood was dripping from your temple, running into your left eye, your vision was still a little blurry.

But then somewhere in your haze came a flicker of clarity.

They’re waiting. They want an audience. Buy time.

So you started talking. “You don’t want to do this.”

The man beside you laughed. “Don’t make me sick with some moral high ground bullshit.”

“You want headlines? I’m the headline.” You murmured. “But if you kill me now, they’ll turn you into dust before the article’s even out.”

He raised the gun. “You think I won’t?”

“I think you’re trying really hard to prove something.”

He grabbed your collar. “You’ve got a mouth.”

“Yeah.” You muttered, tasting blood. “So I’ve been told.”

“You won’t have for much longer if you don’t shut the-“

Before he could finish, there was a swooping side then a thud echoed throughout the arena.

He looked confused for exactly half a second.

And then Natasha dropped from above.

No warning.

No sound.

Just a black shape exploding from the ceiling and breaking the first guy’s neck before he even saw her.

Gunfire erupted.

Two more went down before anyone could scream. Blood sprayed, hot, sharp, and too close. You flinched as one of the shooters collapsed behind you, brain matter splattering your shoulder and neck.

Someone screamed, might’ve been you.

Natasha was all motion, all death.

Precision shots. Blades thrown. Hands breaking bones.

Within forty seconds, they were down. All of them.

And you were still on your knees, covered in blood that wasn’t yours, arms shaking as you stared blankly ahead like your brain hadn’t caught up to your body.

“Hey, hey.” Natasha’s voice was suddenly right there, breathless and full of panic she’d never admit.

You blinked.

She was crouched in front of you, hands hovering near your face like she wasn’t sure where she could touch you without hurting you more.

“Don’t. Don’t look at them.” She whispered, reaching out to gently tilt your face away from the bodies. “Look at me.”

Your bottom lip trembled.

She saw it and her heart suddenly shattered.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” She murmured, finally pulling you into her arms.

You didn’t even flinch. You just folded into her, arms limp, mind on delay, blood soaking both your clothes as the room lit up with more cameras.

Flashes everywhere.

Security charging in.

Media shouting questions.

But all Natasha could do was hold you tighter, her hand gently cradling the back of your head.

“Don’t look. Don’t move. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in her life, truly, completely, she didn’t care who was watching.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

They’d tried to get you to go to medical.

You had stubbornly refused. You let Natasha lead you into the Tower instead, silent, pale, still wearing the dress she’d watched you pick that morning, now stained in dried blood and soot.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t ask.

She just walked you to her room.

Straight to her private bathroom, wordless, efficient, careful. On auto pilot, she turned on the shower, tested the temperature and then turned back and started undoing the zipper on your dress like she was defusing a bomb.

You didn’t stop her.

And when she peeled it away when the fabric dropped to the floor and she saw the bruises already forming across your ribs, the cut on your cheek, the blood on your thighs that wasn’t yours, her hands trembled.

She didn’t speak, she didn’t cry.

She just pulled you gently under the stream and followed you in, fully clothed.

You stood in the water, both of you silent, her arms wrapped around you.

She held you as the blood washed away, as your shaking slowed, as the horror finally left your bones.

She didn’t say she was scared.

She didn’t say “I love you.”

But she didn’t have to.

You were alive because she’d come for you.

And now she wasn’t letting go.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

By the time Natasha guided you into the kitchen, it smelled like garlic, rosemary and the kind of comfort you didn’t realize you needed until it wrapped itself around your ribs.

Everyone was there.

Tony in pajama pants and a hoodie he definitely stole from Peter. Steve manning the stove like he wasn’t a genetically enhanced war relic. Clint perched on the counter like a raccoon with snack rights. Wanda and Sam were at the island, quietly chopping vegetables and tossing bread into a pan like it was just another night.

But the second you stepped in, blood gone, skin scrubbed pink, hair damp and clean, something in the air shifted.

No one stared. No one asked.

They just made space.

Natasha’s hand stayed in yours. Not gripping or demanding. Just there, a steady anchor wrapped around your fingers like she was terrified to let go.

She guided you toward a stool at the kitchen island. The seat was still warm.

“Sit.” She said softly.

You did.

A moment later, she placed a plate in front of you. You hadn’t even seen her build it, just that it was perfect. A little pasta. Some grilled chicken. Soft, roasted vegetables. A chunk of warm bread. Light enough that it wasn’t going to make the nauseous in your stomach come out. She set a glass of water down next, watched you until you took a sip.

Your throat felt raw. You didn’t know if it was from crying or not speaking for too long. Maybe both.

But the water helped, so did the food. But what helped more? The way she pulled up a chair beside you, close enough for her knee to brush yours helped more than you could say.

She didn’t push. Didn’t speak unless it was to quietly encourage.

“Eat a little more.”

“You’re doing good.”

“That’s enough for now, if you’re tired.”

She didn’t flinch when your hand trembled against your fork. She just gently covered it with hers and waited until you steadied.

And through it all, the team talked. Not to you. Not at you. Just around you.

Clint was retelling the story of the time he got locked out of a safe house in just a towel and combat boots. Steve was trying not to laugh. Tony kept throwing popcorn at Sam, who was definitely encouraging it.

The volume, the normalcy, it was intentional.

They weren’t pretending nothing had happened.

They were reminding you that you were still here. Still part of this messy, ridiculous family.

You ate enough to quiet the twist in your stomach and Natasha gently tapped your thigh once like permission to move.

You nodded so she led you to the couch, where the rest of the team were settling. 

The lights were low now, TV casting a soft glow across the room. Clint had crashed into an armchair. Wanda curled up with a book. The others slowly trickled out, giving you privacy without making a show of it.

Natasha sat first.

Then waited. Like she knew the choice had to be yours.

You didn’t hesitate. You curled into her like you were made to fit there, your knees tucked to the side, body half in her lap, arms circling her waist like she was the only thing holding your bones together.

And she was.

Her arms wrapped around you instantly, not too tight or too tentative. Her hand slid up and down your back, slow and steady, not even really a rhythm, just a presence. Her fingertips brushed over the cut on your side, the bruising forming beneath your ribs. She didn’t flinch. Just pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head then rested her cheek there.

You felt her breathing. The rise and fall of her chest. The soft thrum of her pulse where your face pressed against her.

You could still smell the shampoo from your shared shower, Still feel the echo of gunshots vibrating through your skull.

But here? There was only her. Her heartbeat. Her hands. Her warmth.

The world had turned to static but this was real.

Your fingers curled into the hem of her shirt. Her breath caught. You didn’t speak. You just let yourself go limp. Let yourself trust her to hold you. And she did.

For minutes. Maybe hours. You didn’t know. Time melted into warmth and pressure and breath.

You felt your body sink. Your limbs get heavy. The weight of everything you’d been holding finally released.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep. But you did.

Your face pressed into her neck. Your fingers curled in her shirt like an anchor. Your whole body slumped into her, safe for the first time since you’d stood on that stage and watched the gun swing your way.

And Natasha? She didn’t move. Not when Steve peeked round and saw the two of you. Not when Tony whispered ‘She’s out cold’ and backed out like a cartoon villain sneaking offstage. Not even when your breath hitched in your sleep and your fingers gripped tighter.

She just held you, rocked you a little when you shifted in your unconscious state, whispered something in Russian you didn’t understand but your bones did.

And when she finally rested her chin on your head and let her eyes close, it was the first time she’d slept without her gun within reach in years.

Because you were worth the risk.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You woke slowly, with warmth and with weight. With the soft, steady rhythm of someone else breathing beneath you.

It took a moment to realize where you were. Curled up in the Tower’s living room, a blanket you didn’t remember being tucked around you, your entire body molded into the side of one Natasha Romanoff.

Her arms were still wrapped around you.

One hand resting lightly on your hip. The other threaded through your hair. She was leaned back into the couch cushions, head tilted, cheek resting on yours.

And she was awake. Barely.

But awake. Her thumb brushed absently over the fabric of your shirt like she’d never stopped touching you all night.

You stirred gently, shifting just enough to look up at her. Her eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.” You whispered, voice raspy.

Her fingers tightened slightly. “Morning.” 

You could hear the relief in her tone, even though she’d been awake for who knows how long, holding you like you’d slip through her arms if she so much as blinked.

You smiled, a little shy, a little raw. “Thank you.”

Her brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For…” You hesitated then leaned your forehead against hers. “All of it. Coming for me. Holding me. Letting me lose it and not making me feel stupid for it.”

“You weren’t stupid.” She said, instantly.

Her voice was steel for a split second, instinctive and protective.

Then she softened again. “You were brave. And you scared the hell out of me.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “I scared myself.”

“You nearly died.”

You opened your eyes. Her face was so close now, too close to hide anything.

“Yeah.” You whispered. “But you made sure I didn’t.”

Her hand came up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “You don’t get to do that again.”

You blinked.

“Run in alone. Put yourself in the line of fire. Be brave like that. Not if I’m not right behind you.”

You nodded slowly. “Deal.”

“Good.” Her voice dropped, husky from too little sleep. “Because next time, I’m bodychecking you to the floor before you can even try it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You made it to the kitchen eventually.

You walked on your own, talked in full sentences, even made a very weak joke. But none of that mattered to Natasha, apparently, who sat right beside you, close enough to supervise your water intake like it was a security clearance.

The team was all around. Chatting, joking, pretending to ignore how Natasha gently nudged your glass toward you every ten minutes. 

“Drink.” She ordered.

“I just did.”

“Again.”

You sighed. “You know I’m okay now, right?”

“Mm.” She passed you a forkful of eggs from her plate, held out expectantly. “One more bite.”

You gave her a look.

“I’ll tase you.” She said sweetly.

Clint snorted into his coffee. “You guys gonna go full domestic before lunch or…”

You blushed. Natasha did not.

Instead, she calmly fed you another bite.

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Should we be leaving the room?”

“No.” Wanda said, sipping tea. “This is adorable. This is my show now.”

Natasha didn’t seem to care who was watching anymore. She just rubbed slow, absent circles against your back with one hand while eating toast with the other.

You sighed, leaning your weight against her. “I should probably… do something about the PR fallout. That whole gun to the head on stage thing probably has the internet in flames.”

Tony, from across the kitchen, muttered. “You think?”

But before you could reach for your phone, Clint raised a hand. “Handled.”

You blinked. “Handled what?”

He smirked and slid his phone across the table.

The screen showed a picture.

You.

Asleep.

Curled up impossibly tight against Natasha, half in her lap, cheek pressed to her chest, her arms wrapped around you like she was guarding the last piece of something sacred.

The blanket had slipped halfway down. Her hand was tangled in your hair. The photo wasn’t posed, it was intimate and safe.

He tapped the caption.

They’re both okay. Healing. Alive. Let them rest. ❤️ #PRSPYAGENDA #IDONTHAVEPERMISSIONTOPOSTTHIS #NATWILLKILLMEFORHER #FINDMYBODY 

Below it? Hundreds of thousands of likes and comments flooding in.

‘Not me crying at 8am…’

‘Can someone hug me like that???’

‘I will never be over this!’

‘When’s the wedding?’

‘We ride at dawn!’

You blinked hard.

Natasha leaned over your shoulder, reading. “Subtle.” She murmured but she couldn’t hide her smirk.

Clint raised his coffee. “I have range.”

You turned, giving Natasha a look. “So… we’re soft-launched again?”

She brushed her thumb along your cheekbone, looking right at you.  “No.” She laughed. “I think the kids call that a hard launch.”

You melted a little.

And when she pulled you back in to rest against her chest again, arms around your waist, lips against your hair, you didn’t fight it.

Wanda squealed from somewhere behind you. “They’re SO ENDGAME!”

[urinarythreatinfection]

Confusion In My Love

Sanji x Male Reader. Part one. 6077 words

Desc: Sanji struggles with his sexual relationship with you.

CW: Fluff, other characters, angst, top reader, smut, happy ending (obv)

TW: Internalized misogyny

So, you and Sanji are dating now. Nervewracking at first but it’s been good! There are problems still but he’s been getting better with them. He’s being more affectionate, being less ashamed of his better treatment of you than the average man, and he’s even been calling you pet names more often! ..Though he’ll still stop himself sometimes. As if afraid he’ll make you uncomfortable, which should be weirder considering he’s never had an issue with that with women; but things are different with a male lover. What’s worse is he can’t stop thinking about you two doing it. The positions. He thinks it’s obvious he’ll top, but then again he’d also figured it was obvious he was straight. Those thoughts end up distracting him over and over every time you two get close. Your hands on him, his hands on you too if you would like. It’s not like he knows anything about having sex with a man. The penis would go inside, that's about all his knowledge. Anything else is blank. So he ends up having questions. Like isn’t that unsanitary? Would it feel good? Wouldn’t it just hurt and feel uncomfortable? Dicks aren’t made to go in there, it’d be more surprising if it felt good. So whenever he finds himself fantasizing about you two making out the daydream gets fuzzy the moment it goes past that. Though the two of you haven’t actually made out like that yet… though you have been having your “intimacy practice” sessions.

‘Feels good.’ Sanji thinks to himself as you place small kisses on his lips, the both of you sitting next to each other on your bed. You’ve been practicing affection together when you both have the time. Holding hands, hugging, and now kissing. ‘Ahh…’ Having your lips against his, lovingly and romantically giving kiss after kiss makes his heart full; but it still feels like it isn’t enough. He starts to daydream again about your mouth devouring his until he’s gasping for breath. You notice him spacing out and pull away.

“Was I that bad?” You half joke, getting insecure that your boyfriend is focusing on something else while you two are kissing.

“No, of course not!” He clears his throat. “I was.. thinking about positions again.” His eyes avoid yours.

“Positions?” You ask, putting it together after a moment. “Ohhhhh. I meant it when I said I was okay with bottoming. I get it might be nerve wracking to bottom for your first time with a guy.” You’re trying to be understanding with him but he’s silent. “..It would be your first time with a guy, right?”

“Of course it would be!” He yells, startling you. He quickly takes a deep breath to calm himself down. “I was just thinking more about how it would work. The gist is that your- the penis would go inside the bottom, right?”

‘He’s so awkward about this.’ You think to yourself before explaining. “If you’re worrying about cleanliness you clean back there before doing anything, and you prep it before penetrating too. Fingers and stuff.” You’d actually picked up some supplies for sex back at the last island, just in case. Totally not because you want to be ready at any moment.

“Fingers..” He stores that in his mind. There’s another part for his daydreaming, it’ll be less blurry now.

“Yeah, there's a place in there that feels good when you press it.” You’re struggling to talk about this maturely without getting aroused or nervous. For your boyfriend you need to be the one to be mature and guide him. “You can hit it with fingers or the penis, and if it’s not enough you can touch the front too. Depending on the position the front is easy to access. You’re flexible so I could-” Ah, you started talking like you were topping. “I mean—as a possibility for me to...” You trail off, noticing Sanji’s red face. “Was I being too descriptive?” He’s cute like this but you don’t want to overwhelm him. He sighs, craving a cigarette as he rubs his face.

“You have to be descriptive.” He feels so immature, not being able to handle some sex talk even when he’s the one who asked. “I keep getting embarrassed when you’re trying to be helpful.” He’s a fully grown man, he needs to get his act together! Especially when it’s for you. The cook looks forward and clears his throat. “Anyway, condoms and lube. We need to wait to get some at-”

“Oh, I have them.” You interrupt and his eyes widen before he snaps his head to look at you.

“You do!?”

“It’s good to be prepared, right? I even stored them in my drawer. Though I didn't expect to be talking about sex so early.” While you’re explaining Sanji puts his head in his hands.

‘He’s already prepared! I can’t use that as an excuse to calm down anymore!’ He was planning to use the excuse of not being prepared to calm down his thoughts, but they’re only going to get stronger now that the possibility of having sex is higher. You see him looking stressed and lean in to kiss his cheek. He yelps, focusing back on you.

“Don’t worry about the sex stuff, I’ll wait for as long as you need.” You’d like to pin him down right now but you’re more than your lust, you can handle waiting.

“Great..!” Despite that being for Sanji he isn’t happy about it. He’s always had a problem holding his love and lust in but still bottling feelings up when it’s someone he loves. “Good, that’s, I can—that’s convenient.” He’s got a big forced smile on his face, hands gripping his knees. He was kind of hoping you would make the first move, but since you said you’d wait that means you definitely aren’t. Your hand reaches for his again, holding it firmly.

“It’s okay.” You don’t know what’s bothering him so much, but you know your lover is distressed. Your thumb gently strokes the back of his hand and Sanji’s smile lowers into a softer one. He’ll think more about this later, right now he wants to spend this time with you. His head softly rests on your shoulder and you rest yours on top.

‘I want to make out..’ He wonders if he can manage to ask for that soon.

______________________

‘I really really want to make out with him.’ Giving Sanji small kisses and smooches is nice, especially since he seems to enjoy it, but you really want to make out with him. Still, you need to wait till he asks for it. You aren’t doing anything without his explicit say so. You already took a huge risk to get a confession out of him, you don’t want to take another one and possibly rush him when he can’t handle it. Plus, even if that isn’t the case, you would still rather him initiate. If you two are going to be dating your boyfriend has to learn how to communicate one way or another. So no matter how much you have to suppress your urges to grab his ass or talk dirty you’ll wait. Though actually you did promise to bottom so maybe suppress asking him to bend you over. He’s just so much cuter than you expected since he’s so not used to everything. Maybe it’s a bit sadistic to enjoy it but you’ll relish his shy naivety while it lasts. Just until he starts understanding himself and the relationship.

“Yo.” Zoro greets you, holding a towel as you sit on the grassy deck.

“Hey, you gonna wash up?” You ask him, noticing how sweaty he is. He must’ve just gotten done with his training in the crow’s nest.

“Yeah, if I’m too dirty it starts getting distracting.” You raise a brow.

“Distracting because the built up sweat is uncomfortable or because we start distancing from you and pointing it out.” Even Luffy has his limits since Zoro’s constant working out and training means he stinks much quicker.

“Both.”

“Oo are you two getting in the bath?” Luffy slides down from the top deck. “I wanna come!”

‘Bath day for stink and stinkier.’ You think before responding. “Alright then you can come too. The bath is big enough, you just have to wash yourself off first.”

“Nnn, that’s such a hassle.” Luffy whines. He finds it fun washing off at first but when he has to be there making sure every little bit is actually clean it feels tedious. If he’s with someone it’s better, though.

“You have no patience.” Zoro scoffs at the captain and Luffy grabs his towel and runs towards the bath. “HEY GET YOUR OWN!”

___________________

You and Luffy scrub your body while Zoro makes sure his swords are in a safe spot. “You need help with your back, Luffy?” You ask him while Zoro sits down to wash up too.

“Nah, I got it.” He shows you the washcloth. “Look!” He stretches his arms all around his body like a spring, from his ankles coiling up to his shoulders. “Gum gum scrub!” He lets it go and the cloth whirls around, scrubbing his front and back body like a machine. By the time it’s back in place he’s covered in suds from his feet to his neck. You clap, impressed while he uses a bucket to wash the soap off. He’s visibly proud of himself.

“You still make stupid moves like that after 2 years.” Zoro huffs and Luffy laughs.

“They’re fun! Though I’ve had to focus more on serious ones now~” Luffy reminisces fondly while the swordsman frowns.

“Yeah because if you pull another ‘Gum Gum Windmill’ when fighting some actually strong enemy I’m leaving you in the ground this time.” Luffy puts a proud hand on his chest.

“I’m stronger now so I could pull myself out.”

“If you can't, I'll ask Chopper to emergency amputate your feet to free you.” You chime in and Luffy gets a nervous expression on his face.

“W-What!? I could pull myself out, I'd just need a little time!” He tries to argue but Zoro shakes his head.

“Sorry, no time. I’ll have to do it. Chopper wouldn’t be quick enough.” The swordsman states coldly.

“EH!?” Luffy yells in shock as you wring out your washcloth. You make sure it’s fully rinsed before soaping it up again.

“Since our captain is so capable and creative I’ll wash your back Zoro.” You state, standing and grabbing your stool.

“Yeah Zoro, why don’t you have a sword move to wash your own back.” Luffy mocks him with a stupid face.

“My swords aren’t FOR that!” He barks back and you place your stool behind him before sitting down.

“Maybe you could try using one to exfoliate, scrub the skin off or stick a sponge on it.” You suggest. That inspires Luffy and he grins mischievously. The captain ties a washcloth to his head to mimic Zoro’s bandana then grabs a soap bar like a sword.

“One sword style… back scrubber!” He’s even mimicking the way Zoro talks when saying his moves, making you laugh while Zoro groans. Right before the rubber boy goes back to finish off washing he perks up, looking behind him at the door. “Hm?”

“What’s up, Luffy?” You ask but Luffy just looks back at you.

“Hmmm.. nothin.” He then smiles brightly. “I’ll wash your back!” Those words terrify you. You go pale, silently saying goodbye to your back skin while Zoro grins. At least you’ll be squeaky clean.

(SANJI'S POV)

Sanji speedwalks back to the men’s quarters, going inside and sitting on his bed. He clenches his fists tightly. You were bathing with that damn mosshead. Sure you do it all the time but Sanji’s dating you now, and you were washing his back. Sudding up a washcloth and scrubbing his back so intimately, sitting so close you might as well be spooning him. ‘What was with that!? You.. you… that’s cheating! Alone with Zoro like that, naked with you behind him, your crotch near his butt.’ Luffy was also there but Sanji’s deluding himself right now. ‘The only butt that (Y/n)’s crotch should be near is mine!’ His nails dig into his palms, his teeth gritting. Here he is being shy about making out when you’re naked bathing with other men. “Gah!” He stands up with his hands on either side of his head, he has to do something! Even if it wasn’t romantic or sexual it just doesn’t sit right with him having you doing things with other people that you two haven’t done as a couple. A few hours later Sanji suddenly approaches you.

“(Y/n)!” He calls out and you turn to see a strangely desperate looking Sanji. “Let’s bathe together, tomorrow.” You pause for a moment.

“Really?” You’re a little nervous, if you get hard, hiding an erection isn’t gonna be easy when you’re basically naked.

“Yes.” He grips onto your shoulders with fire in his eyes.

“...Alright.” You aren’t sure what motivated him but you aren’t gonna pass up on this opportunity to see your new boyfriend naked. He may not be against bathing with the other crew but he usually bathes alone, though that is mostly because the rest of the men don’t bathe everyday. Plus, he cites that he needs to make sure he’s up to standard for ladies and distractions would hinder his routine. This is a nice chance even with the risks, which Sanji also knows; buuuttt if you’re careful not showing your crotch unless he’s facing away he won’t have to see a thing.

________________

Sanji underestimated how awkward he would be. His fire from yesterday faltered the moment the two of you were alone in the bath. He just stands there, watching you. “Sanji you actually have to undress to bathe.” You joke and he flinches. “It’s fine, I’ll go first.” Having him watch you is making you nervous but you manage to undress until you have nothing but a small towel around your hips. You can feel your boyfriend’s eyes staring at every inch of you and it’s forcing you to internally yell at your body to calm down. Coincidentally Sanji is also doing that. He turns for a second to wipe his nose with a handkerchief he brought just in case. He’s got this. He’s been attracted to women this whole time and been disgusted by men. He can handle a man being naked, even if it’s you. While he’s thinking you’ve already started taking the initiative and washing yourself off. The sooner you get in the bath the better the chance you won’t make things awkward with a hard-on. You just have to not think about his body and how great his legs are and how they make his waist look smaller and easier to grab.

“Hey.” Sanji speaks, standing behind you. He’s undressed, must’ve done it while you were lost in thought.

“Yeah?” You put on your best poker face to hide what you were just thinking, keeping your eyes on his face with all your willpower. The cook clears his throat.

“I’ll wash your back. Okay?” You flinch. It’s already been thoroughly washed by Luffy yesterday, it still feels a bit raw. “Is that a no..?” His face darkens insecurely from your body language.

“It’s not a no, it’s just that Luffy washed it yesterday.” You explain and his face turns into immediate understanding.

“I’ll just use my hands then, rub it a bit.” He explains, scooting the stool and sitting behind you.

“Alright…” You hear him rub soap between his hands before hesitant fingertips touch your back. You shiver. ‘I need to stay calm.’ They start to explore your skin, spreading the substance wherever they touch. His hands are softer than you thought, but still calloused from using them to cook and for balance when fighting. Parts of them you can feel are rougher than the others, but none of it is scratchy. He’s got a strong dedication to cooking, which translates to dedication taking care of his hands. They’re his pride and joy. Always careful not to knick them, not to let them dry out. So he tends to moisturize them often. You start to hear heavy breathing from behind you, his hands are shaking.

“Your back is so nice to touch.” You hear him mumble, he sounds out of it.

“Thanks but are you okay? You’re breathing kinda heavy.” There’s no answer for a second until Sanji takes a long breath in and out.

“I am. I’ll wash you off now.” He grabs the bucket of water and pours it over your back, using one of his hands to rub the soap fully off. “Now me. Hurry.” He sounds somewhat rushed and you turn to see his back already facing you. Convenient. Why is he in a rush? You gulp and sud up your washcloth, putting it on his back. When it touches him he lets out a small noise, covering his mouth. The back of his neck is flushed.

‘He’s getting a lot more affected than me.’ You think to yourself as your hands start to move. Still, you’re waiting until he makes the first move. Your leg bounces as you continue, your hand going down to his waist. You grip onto it with one hand to hold his posture. A shaky breath escapes him. You gulp. ‘I need to control myself. I need to control myself.’ You repeat that in your head until you finally wash the soap off, rubbing his back while the water does its job. Once you set the bucket down you notice.. Sanji’s trembling. He’s visibly aroused even if he’s facing away. So you wait there for a moment, hoping that he’ll turn and ask for you; but he doesn’t. It’s a shame. “I’ll be in the bath.” You tell him while standing.

“Okay.” That’s his response before you go to the water, settling in and hoping the warmth will relax all of you. You decide to watch Sanji. You note that he’s moved to be facing away from you even when you changed places, now washing his body. You also note that, once he’s gotten to his front lower half, he. He’s moving his hand like he’s washing but he hasn’t finished despite scrubbing at the same spot for 30 seconds now. ‘Is he..? No he wouldn’t. I know he’s a pervert but doing that so close to me would be crazy.’

“Hahh.. hahh… hahh…” You start to hear his panting and see his hips squirming the more time that passes.

‘He is!’ Even if he’s not trying to be obvious he 100% is. You look away from him, your own dick twitching and struggling. This still isn’t him asking you.

“Nn~” He lets out a small whine. Fuck it.

‘If he’s doing it I am too.’ You stand up to sit on the edge of the bath, pulling your towel down. Once it’s down you immediately grip your dick and start to fuck your fist. You need to get off. Now. Or you’ll end up going to Sanji and break your promise of control. You can see him getting more desperate, thrusting up into his hand as his noises get louder like he forgot where he is. You’re getting close, but he’s closer. A hand slaps over his mouth to quiet a moan as he cums. You imagine it’s your own hand muffling him to stay quiet. He’ll be turning around soon now that he’s done and you start to hurry. You were already close so all you need is a bit more. Right when you gasp and cum he’s turning around. He’ll see you!

“You better not be doing anything crazy in there! Everyone uses this bath!” Nami’s voice from the other side of the door distracts him and he turns away.

“N-Nami-swan! I didn’t—the bath is clean!”

“It better be.” It’s not like she likes to cockblock but everyone uses that bath, she doesn’t need you two fucking in it.

‘Somewhat of a save.’ You think to yourself as you come down from your high. You shot into your hand so the water is still clean. You stand up and wash it off before Sanji can notice, though he’s also washing his hand off. The rest of the bath is alright, you pretend that you didn’t notice what he was doing. Other than that, the two of you enjoy your time together and Sanji is no longer jealous. Once the two of you are out of the bath and dried up he goes to you.

“Tomorrow, let's try deeper kissing.” He says, looking guilty for what he did earlier but still determined.

“Okay..”

______________________

“Are you ready?” You ask and he nods. You take a deep breath and press your lips to his.

“Nn..” It’s different. Open mouthed, not pulling away at all.

“I’m gonna use my tongue.” You pull back slightly to mumble as a warning before sliding the muscle into your boyfriend’s mouth. Sanji shivers and clutches onto your shoulders. One of your hands goes to his back, rubbing circles into it before gently pulling him closer to you. After around a minute you both finally pull away for air, panting with your eyes closed. When yours open you see Sanji with his eyes still closed as he takes deep breaths. “How was that?”

“Do it again.” He says breathily, shocking you a bit. Before you can say anything though he leans in to start making out again, forcing you to kiss back again. You’re not gonna stop him if he’s this eager. Still, you’re a bit worried you’re being too dominant, but you just can’t help it. On the plus side it doesn’t seem like he minds. You gently suck on his tongue and he moans. He more than doesn’t mind.

‘Shit, I’m gonna get hard.’ You think to yourself, but you’re still unable to pull away. You can already feel it. Sanji stops to take a deep breath before suddenly climbing into your lap to straddle you, kissing again. You lightly panic if he can feel it or not. All he’d have to do is scooch up a little bit, and he does. Sanji feels it, you know he feels it, but he only scoots closer until his thighs are to the sides of your hips. The movement makes you instinctively buck upwards and he grinds back down onto your cock. You grunt, gripping onto his firm thighs. Suddenly the kiss is more than deep, it’s lustful, fervent. You grind up again and he meets your hips, the two of you letting out noises of pleasure and only pulling away for small moments when you need to breathe. You don’t know what triggered this change in Sanji, maybe he was pent up or the making out made him forget his insecurities, but you’re ecstatic. You pull away, gripping his thighs harder for leverage to thrust. He arches his back with a long moan. “Sanji..” You say his name and he shivers.

“(Y/n)..” One of your hands let go of his thigh and ghosts over his crotch. He immediately bucks up into it desperately, thrusting once you settle it over his clothed dick. He’s moving in your lap almost like he’s riding you and it’s making you so hard it’s painful. Your thumb slips under his waistband, running along the nicely trimmed hair there. He sucks in a breath through his teeth. You adjust him by his waist and press your erection directly where his entrance would be. “Ah!” You did say that you would wait, but this wouldn’t be going all the way. It’s just a suggestion. Your thumb moves further down, taking his pants and underwear with it.

“Can I?” He nods. “Words.”

“Yes, please.” He’s doing so good. You pull his bottoms down until his erection finally pops out, precrum already leaking from him. You gather what’s at the tip and spread it along the shaft with your hand. Sanji gasps and leans back to grip onto your knees. You try to start stroking him but he stops you. “You.. you too.” His voice is breathy, eyes lustful. His hands go to your waistband and shakily pull them down, slipping one underneath until he grabs your length and pulls your hard cock out. A feeling of relief washes over you at it not being trapped anymore. Sanji stares at it a bit. He thought he’d hate or feel weird about it but he loves it, loves the weight in his hand and the warmth of it against his skin. He runs his thumb along the vein on the bottom, enjoying your reaction and the pulse. He almost forgets about himself until you palm his tip. “Merde!”

“My bad!” You apologize and he shakes his head quickly.

“No.” Sanji grabs your wrist before you can pull away. He releases it quickly after, “Please, keep going.” desperate. You nod and start to stroke his dick, his hand stroking yours. He’s focusing on your shaft like he likes it, every so often moving up to stimulate the glans. Very quickly he��s starting to get whiny, wanting more. He scoots forward and your dicks touch, making the both of you shiver from pleasure.

“Fuck.” You groan and he looks into your eyes before sliding his hand around both your cocks, squeezing them together. It shoots pleasure from your dick straight up to your brain and you both moan. Your head falls forward onto his shoulder, turning to kiss the side of his neck. His hand starts to stroke while holding the both of them.

“I love you.” He says while his other hand holds onto your shoulder. “So so much.” He continues to move his hand up and down while panting from pleasure. He’s feeling it, maybe even more than you.

“I love you too.” You grip onto his hips and thrust up into his hand.

“Ah!” Your shaft rubs against his tip. He thrusts up too and your hand meets his grip. Soon you’re both fucking the hold the two of you made, alternating so the stimulation heightens.

“I’m close.” You warn him, but the moment you say that Sanji whines and cums first without any warning. It’s sudden but you take over the grip with your other hand now that he’s unable to, thrusting up to cum as he struggles from the overstimulation. Fucking against his softening dick until he’s whimpering. You finally shoot out your own cum, your fluids joining his on top of your hands and dicks. The both of you catch your breath and Sanji moves off of you to fall back onto the bed. “You okay?” You ask him and he doesn’t answer, your eyes widening as he pulls his pants and underwear off. “Woah, what..?”

“Hurry. I—I already got myself ready.” He says, looking shy about it.

“You got yourself ready? But we were only supposed to make out today.” Silence. “You were planning this from the start then..” He avoids eye contact. The fact that he had this intention from the start is getting you aroused again and you reach in your bedside drawer for lube. Once you pull it out you open the lid and start coating your fingers.

“I said I already got myself ready!” He whines when he notices you slicking your fingers up.

“I don’t doubt that part but for fingering you probably only got a single one in and figured that was enough.” You’re proven right with Sanji’s next words.

“It’s not?” You sigh with furrowed brows.

“Did I look as small as a finger?” You ask him and he shakes his head no with a sad frown. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sound mad. “ You lean over and kiss his forehead. “I wanna touch you. I don’t want your first time to be just me sticking it in.” He wants to be touched too, really bad, he just also wants to be fucked really bad. You gently rub your finger around his hole, then sink your middle finger inside.

“Kya~!” He kyas and then covers his mouth with both of his hands. ‘Dammit, not again!’ You stare at him, slightly shocked, then slip your finger deeper and watch as he struggles to muffle another kya.

“Don’t cover your mouth.” You tell him but he shakes his head. “Sanji.” You lean forward and kiss his hands. “Please? I wanna hear your pretty noises, all of them.” He looks into your eyes and hesitantly uncovers his mouth, gripping onto the bed sheets instead. When you look at him while saying such sweet words he can’t bring himself to refuse. With your other hand you unbutton his shirt and undress him fully, adding another finger.

“Just feels- ah~!” He’s interrupted when you curl your fingers into his prostate, massaging it with your fingertips. “Nnn!”

“Feels good, right? I wanna make sure you feel good.” You run your hands along his body, his stomach up to his chest before gripping one of his pecs softly with his nipple between two fingers. He bites his lip to hold in a high pitched moan. That won’t do. You lean forward and kiss him, prying his mouth open with your tongue to make sure he can’t bite his lip to keep his mouth shut. Your fingers pump faster and you make sure to focus them on that bundle of nerves every time they’re fully in. When you pull away for air he’s panting, flushed with wet eyes. “It’s okay.. it’s okay..” You scissor him open, spreading his hole so you can enter later. “I’ll start gentle for you. We’ll be making love, not just having sex.” Sanji’s pupils blow wide open and he spreads his legs further, panting as his cock fully hardens.

“Love..!” Romantic, lovey dovey, he loves that idea. You pull your fingers out and settle above him, kissing his chest right above his heart. He tenses and tries to hide himself.

“You’re so handsome, Sanji. Pretty, handsome, beautiful, everything. So don’t feel insecure, don’t hide yourself from me.” You coo to him, kissing his lips then cheek.

“I sound stupid.” He’s still feeling insecure. “I’m a guy, I’m not supposed to make noises like this. I’m not supposed to be like this.”

“You’re still a guy, 100%, you’re just a guy that happens to go kya sometimes and makes pretty noises for his boyfriend. Okay?” Your words seem to soothe him because he relaxes.

“Okay.” You nod and lube up your cock, making sure it’s completely slick before it’s placed at his entrance. Missionary is a little hard for anal without a pillow under his hips. To make it easier you grip his legs, pushing them wider and higher til his knees are almost touching the mattress. It’s a lot easier than you thought, there’s almost no resistance.

“Is this fine?” You ask to make sure and he nods.

“I’m not tense anymore, you can go inside.” He thinks you’re talking about being penetrated. Bending him is so easy he doesn’t even think of it as a possible problem.

‘Damn..’ That’s hot. Your tip slowly enters, then you sink in inch by inch, feeling his soft walls envelop you until your hips meet. The feeling makes him kick his legs a little, letting out little moans with his eyebrows furrowed. It feels better than he thought, maybe from the arousal but it’s like pleasure shoots through him with every movement. “You’re.. tight..” You grunt and start to move slowly. He’s tight around your cock but somehow also inviting everytime you thrust inside. You look up at Sanji’s face and notice he’s tearing up, making you pause immediately. “Are you alright!?”

“Ah, fuck.” He looks away, his hair covering his eyes. You let go of one of his legs to brush them away.

“What’s wrong..?” You ask carefully and he shakes his head lightly.

“I don’t know. It feels good. Just.. nerves.” It feels good but it feels bad at the same time, shameful; as if he’s not a man anymore by letting you do this to him. It’s stressing him out. You don’t want him like this, you love him. He deserves to be as whiny as he wants. You kiss him gently then lift him up. “(Y/n)?” You’re sitting down now, slightly leaned back with him on your lap.

“Take control then.” You tell him. “You’re not just a thing to be fucked, nor are you less of a man somehow by being fucked. You’re my boyfriend and I’m yours. This isn’t just for pleasure, this is for love.” He tears up more.

“How could you look at me like this and find me a man to be loved?” He doesn’t think he's beautiful at all being whiny like this. A fully grown man with hair on his legs, it’s disgusting. He must look disgusting whining and moaning.

“Because you’re Sanji, always a man. That’ll be true no matter what you do or how you are. If you want to stop here then we can stop, because you have that choice and that power. This isn’t making you powerless at all.” Sanji looks into your eyes, trying to find any hint that you think otherwise. That you’re secretly making fun of him in your mind and find him gross, just fucking him to get off.. but there’s nothing. You just look enamoured and turned on. It starts to bring heat pooling in his stomach and heart.

“(Y/n)..!” He calls your name and grips onto your shoulders before starting to move, his thighs to the sides of your hips as he goes up and down.

“You’re the most stunning man in the world. Beautiful, hot, I love you.” You praise him over and over as he rides you and he loves it, a moan with each compliment. “Gods you’re so hot.” You’ve been trying to let him take full control but you end up gripping onto his hips and thrusting up into him.

“Ah!♡” His back arches and he goes faster, strong legs easily bouncing on your cock. You take the chance to gently adjust his posture until you help him hit his own sweet spot, making him moan loudly and his back to arch more. His hands let go of your shoulders and he almost tips backwards until you grab his shoulder. You slide that hand down to his and hold it before intertwining your fingers lovingly. “(Y/n). (Y/n). My love. A-Amour!” He’s babbling various pet names while speeding up, so happy as you thrust up into him. You grip his hand tighter, enjoying the view of your boyfriend's body as he rides you. The way his dick bounces on his stomach leaking pre-cum and his flushed face with teary eyes from pleasure. “I’m cllosssee~!”

“M-Me too..!” You say, your voice is getting shaky. He’s good at this. Not faltering even for a second with his movements. A few more thrusts and he cries out, cumming strongly; yet he doesn’t stop moving. You’re almost shocked, but it feels too good for you to think hard about it; especially when he’s showing no signs of wanting you to pull out. His walls are pulsing and contracting around you with his orgasm. It's like he’s begging you to fill him up. The pleasure starts to well up in your groin, rising up and up before it explodes and you cum into him with a moan. That cum coats his insides as he rides you through your ejaculation… then after it. “Sanji!” You panic, feeling overstimulation creep in. That seems to snap him out of it and he comes to a stop.

“Sorry. It felt too good.” He says sheepishly, calming himself down. Even when he was getting overstimulated it was like his brain went empty and the only thought in his head was to make sure he kept moving his body.

“It’s great you think that but at least give me a little rest.” You half-joke before kissing him. He wraps his arms around you and kisses back, your tongue slipping into his mouth as you two start to make out. When you pull away he looks into your eyes.

“I love you.” His voice is soft, vulnerable.

“I love you too.” You answer quickly.

“I have to get dinner ready.”

“Oh.”

Happy pride month! I did it! I know it was supposed to be wednesday and then i said thursday and now it's friday afternoon i'm really sorry. It's just, idk, i kept not being happy with the characterization and stuff and it got more difficult than I thought especially since i procrastinated until monday but then got sick that day so i only had tuesday and then wednesday. By thursday night i had it done but then i passed out, proofread it for the second time, and then finally finished it. Yipee! 🎉🎉

[clairewritesfanfics]

Villain Creation System Chapter 2

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

CHAPTER 1: Don't Mix Red Bull with Coffee   Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

444 Alternate Universes Ago…

The instant you agreed to sell your soul, or rather, save it, you were teleported away from the site of your death and into a pure white space. 

[Scanning Host’s memories…]

[Re-calibrating for comfort…]

There was a ding and the whiteness shifted into a gorgeous lobby with expensive wallpaper and a wooden floor. The place was green with all sorts of hanging and standing plants. One wall was just a giant floor-to-ceiling window pane framed by sheer curtains in your ideal color, behind the glass were trees as far as the eyes can see. In the middle of the room was a singular sofa, the one you always wanted but could never afford in life. 

[To minimize damage to the Host’s mental health, the Main System instructed me to shape the Soulscape into your ideal space. I looked into your memories and recreated all the repeating trends you saved on your Pinterest board.] 

“... you read my mind?”

[You sound upset. Rest assured, after you agreed to become my Host, we are now intimately intertwined. I have access to the deepest recesses of your mind.]

You did not appreciate the way it said “intimately” and you certainly did not like how casually it treated breaching your privacy.

[If you are scared about my knowing the memories that your kind deems “shameful” or “embarrassing” then do not be afraid; we systems do not care about such unimportant things.]

“Just… stop.” You walked over to the window. You could see a mountain range from this point. It looked like you were in a mountain lodge.

[Ah, I might as well tell you, but we are in a pocket dimension that’s been limited to simulate your ideal space for working and thinking. If you were to leave this area, which you can’t, you will not find trees.]

“I get it.” You put your hand on the glass. “Outside of this room there’s only that white void.”

[Ding. Host is correct. You’re not as dumb as I thought.] 

You ignored its unintentional jab and took a seat on the sofa. If you were alive you might have fallen straight to sleep with its welcoming softness, but because you didn’t have a physical form you felt awake, vigorous. You’ve never felt this… lack of fatigue when you were alive.

“Let’s get this over with.” 

[You’re lucky, Host, compared to other systems the demands for our contract is easy.] 

A holographic display flashed before you to reveal a few animated clips of Invincible.  

You knew that the show was about a superhero named “Invincible” and his dad was a piece of crap who ran his face through a train full of civilians, and you did see a couple of short clips online, but that was it. Surface level stuff. The series skyrocketed into mainstream popularity during the pandemic but you didn’t get the chance to join the bandwagon before you died.

You had a lot of questions. Not just about the show or the system, but the whole “Is there a God?” and “Do our choices even matter?” package. But you were in no mood to be insulted again so you decided to keep such questions to yourself.

[For each mission world that you enter, you have but one simple task: break that universe’s Mark Grayson to the point of villainy.]

The screen paused and zoomed in on a bloodied Invincible, his right eye was swollen and his hero suit was torn.

The system then played a clapping noise. [Easy, no? Other systems usually have their contractors move into the body of pre-existing characters so those people need to maintain their character settings within 80% or risk getting too OOC and hurting the fabric of reality.]

“Wait a minute, what are the parameters for villainy?” You threw an accusing finger at the screen, not at Mark but at the system. “The task is too vague, how will I know that he is villainous enough for me to move on to the next world? Morality is relative.”

[Host is sharp. Are you perhaps afraid that we’re tricking you?]

Your eyebrow twitched.

The screen showed what appeared to be a health bar, but instead of red or green, it was black. Above it was the word “DARKENING.”

[This bar measures what we consider the corruption of one’s soul. No tricks or whatever.]

“How do I know what counts as corruption?”

[Unfortunately, detailing what constitutes as “corruption” itself is far beyond my capabilities, but luckily for you, you don’t need to know that. Just understand that as long as the bar reaches 100% the mission will be considered successful.]

“Fine,” you capitulated. “Do I get a cheat or a skill? A lot of isekai mangas and webnovels have that.”

[This is not fiction, Host.]

It paused.

[But yes, you do have access to cheat items.]

There was a ding and the screen showed you a digital store with a search bar and a shopping cart.

[You don’t have any currency at the moment, but a successful mission will give you reward points that you can spend.]

You browsed the products: “The Little Mermaid’s Voice in a Bottle. One sip and you can make any man, woman, or sea creature do your bidding!” for 25000 points.

“White Moonlight, Untainted. Look ethereal even as you wither away from a terminal illness and become a beautiful memory that haunts his dreams with this perfume!” for 22000 points.

“It’s Alive! Imbue sentience to anything, from a churro to a stuffed toy with this ray gun! (disclaimer: the system is not responsible for any vengeful, murderous object that you cursed with thought)” for 50000. 

Every product felt like one sick joke after another. 

“Is the amount of reward points constant for every mission?”

[No, your reward points will be proportional to your grade, which will be proportional to the difficulty of the mission world.]

You got it. Just because they were all Mark Grayson didn’t guarantee that they were the same. Not just them, the settings could be unlike your Earth but dystopian, the “stories” may not even take place on Earth.

“Does using system cheats affect my grade? How am I graded? And how many worlds before I can get my life back?”

[To answer the Host: no, using cheats is irrelevant so long as you do your job successfully.]

[As for the grading criteria, it all depends on the Host’s performance in each world. Please direct your attention to the screen.] The light monitor displayed the criteria. 

[The grades you can achieve by doing your mission are listed from lowest to highest: C, B, A and S. You must achieve a hundred S-graded missions in order to return to your original world, or the equivalent of a hundred S grades, like a thousand A’s.]

“But you just said I only have one task, to darken Mark Grayson, with zero other requirements, shouldn’t I be on a pass or fail grading system?”

[Spoken like a true nerd–]

You wondered if it was possible to physically choke this thing.

[Ahem.]

[According to the Main System, a pass or fail grading scheme is too harsh.]

“Then what is the breakdown for my grades? What is the percentage–”

[Geez. I was bred for helping lost souls but you are loquacious for someone who just died.]

“Sorry, am I annoying you?” You crossed your arms. “My life is on the line here.”

The system sighed, actually sighed. You didn’t think you would ever be on the receiving end of a sigh from a night-omniscient, maybe-divine, maybe-demonic artificial intelligence. 

[Don’t sweat the small stuff, Host.]

You swallowed the lump of irritation in your throat and inquired, “Do I get access to the plots of these worlds?”

[That’s a negative. Depending on the world, we may be able to provide a brief overview, but we can’t provide you minute details or predict the future.]

“But these universes aren’t even real, right? Surely–”

[Host, with each work of fiction, there will be fanfiction and fan arts made. For every piece of fan content that is created, a branch of the universe is created, and from each branch blooms a new world. Think of a copy of a copy of a copy, ad infinitum, some so close to each other that they’re almost impossible to tell apart, others so fantastically different from the original that you can tell immediately, but even those that differ from the original are bound to have produced branches of their own. Sorting these parallel dimensions would be too troublesome.]

You massaged your temples. “Okay, I think I understand.” Basically, knowing the future is useless because you wouldn’t know that it is the future, but a future. 

“But why do you want to turn these Mark Graysons into villains? Shouldn’t they be evil already?”

[A lot of these Marks were created simultaneously by fans, some with care, some without thought about how they became the way that they are. These Marks had to come from somewhere. But they were created by humans, who are finite creatures, so the laws established within these realities are often arbitrary. The World Consciousness, that is, the force that keeps each alternative universe from collapsing, will compensate for the missing puzzle pieces. But its work is not without flaws. It’s a machine working on a set of preprogrammed commands, so it is bound to have missed something or encounter a situation that was not included in its original instructions, resulting in imperfect solutions. Your world does not have this problem, because it was created by an infinite, all-knowing being.]

“That… sounds like a lot of work.”

[It is.]

“So why bother?”

The system replied cheerfully: [Because it is our job.]

You groaned inwardly. Guess this was your life now. 

“Okay.” You exhaled, patting your cheeks. “Okay, I can do this.”

[Does Host have any further questions?] 

“Shouldn’t I at least know the main timeline’s plot?”

[Ding. Request denied.]

“What?!”

[Host, I told you, a lot of the parallel universes are eerily similar to each other, and these universes are almost exact replicas of the main one. There is a reason why humans are not given the ability to see the future. If you could then the fear of making the wrong choice can cripple you to the point of uselessness.]

“So you want me to go in blind? In a world of supers and villains that cut through normies like they’re veggies?”

[It is the will of the Main System. But I did receive authorization to provide minor details should they help.]

“...”

[...]

“Fine.”

[Does Host have any further questions?] 

“None at the moment.”

[Ding. Then prepare for transmigration. Be not afraid for this system shall accompany you every step of the way.]

“Oh, goodie.”

[Communicating with World Consciousness…]

[Gestating…Creating Host’s backstory…]

[Synchronizing soul with puppet…]

[Initiating transfer ... 1%, 43% ... ]

You were lulled to unconsciousness. Your soul ebbed into the stream of time and space. For a while you felt… almost free. Weightless as you were carried by the Main System through various dimensions. 

[... 98%, 99% ... Transfer complete.]

[Ding. Invincible Alternative Universe No. 1 welcomes you. World Difficulty: Tutorial Level.]

[Happy darkening, Host!]

When you came to, the feeling of weightlessness was gone, replaced by the familiar ache in your back and shoulders and heaviness under your eyes. You observed the environment. You were in a university. Even without the system providing you details, the giant, imposing buildings and wandering undead young adults were a dead give away. 

You lifted your hands. They were exactly like the ones your old body–your real body–had. The fingernails cut too short, the calloused pads, the climbing veins too visible under the thin skin. 

You touched your face. Same nose. Same contours.

“I’m actually here,” you muttered, still processing. It wasn’t just because you were in a new reality, it was because of the unfamiliar memories–

While you were being transferred to this body, memories of your life here poured into your mind seamlessly. 

You were Mark Grayson’s next door neighbor and childhood friend, but when you turned twelve your family had to move countries. But now you were back in town and starting college.

It was scary how they fit so well into your head. 

[Don’t worry, Host, in a way, you have achieved enlightenment. You are aware of the so-called fourth wall. You don’t have to fear losing yourself to these false memories.]

You stared at your hand, opening and closing it. “Let’s hope so.”

You turned your attention to your surroundings. “What now?”

[For now, may I suggest you start walking to class? You don’t want to be late.]

***

The good news was that the you of this universe was also pre-med. Even better news was that you had a philosophy elective, which wasn’t an option when you were in college. 

Your professor was a stocky built middle-aged man who wore a tweed sweater and thick black spectacles. 

He stood behind a podium and spoke in that unique way only intellectuals seemed to speak. For a fictional character, he was an excellent lecturer. You didn’t take notes. You couldn’t, you were too busy debating with him.

“You’re saying that you would choose to sacrifice five people for one person?” He asked.

“No, I’m saying that the choice is not that easy–”

“Of course not, that’s the entire dilemma.” The whole class laughed.

You didn’t back down. “What I mean is that we’re so intent on choosing between the needs of the many and that of the few that are presently in front of us, that we forget that the trolley problem was created to demonstrate that a utilitarian view is not applicable to mortals.”

“Explain.”

“Well, we are given the options with so little information. We are forced to make life or death decisions under the assumption that we know everything. What if the one person we decided to sacrifice was a super genius who could cure cancer? What if the five people we decided to save were terrorists or robbers or murderers? The problem shows that we cannot make a decision based purely on the outcome because as humans, we are incapable of knowing everything.”

The professor was grinning. “Excellent point.”

The bell rang. 

He sighed. “Sadly, that’s it for today’s lectures. I hope the next class will have another enthusiastic debate, and not just with one person. I already uploaded the reading materials for the next session. Please do not neglect them.”

You packed your untouched notebook and unused pen.

“You still use actual paper for taking notes?”

That voice. No way–

[The target, Mark Grayson, is here.]

Your memories of him were foggy, as are most childhood memories.

He was taller than you remembered. His limbs were less lanky now, too. His shoulders were broad and his arms bulged against his quarter sleeves. 

Gone was the graceless boy who used to cry when he tripped playing tag. 

Standing before you now was a young man who exuded confidence.

[Ding. Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.]

[Ding. Affection: 5.1%. Darkening: 3%.]

You were so confused, until he chuckled and you realized that you’ve been staring, way more than what was socially acceptable. 

Willing your attention back to your things, you explained, “Writing makes it easier, but I digitize my notes at home.”

[Affection: 5.2%. Darkening: 3%.]

“That so…” He purred, reaching over to play with the hamburger keychain hanging from your bag. “I’ve never seen anyone talk that passionately with Professor Harper. Did you just start attending classes?”

“Um. No?” You started the semester at the same time as everyone else.

“That’s weird, cause there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed a pretty thing like you.”

“...are you hitting on me?”

His smile hardened, surprised, then he snorted. Then he laughed. “Wow, you’re cute.”

[Affection: 5.3%. Darkening: 3%.]

Hold on.

“Wait. You don’t remember me, do you?” 

This time his grin left his face completely. “Ah, crap. Did we already–”

“Mark, it’s me.”

“...”

Total blank. 

He tilted his head, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. “Amber’s party?”

Silence.

“No? Was it at the freshman orientation? Was it prom? Jesus, that was so long ago–I mean, uh…”

[Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.] 

You shouldn’t feel offended, after all, it’s not like he was your friend, and yet you could not stop the frustration that swarmed you. 

You pressed a finger to his chest and told him your name. 

For a second, you thought that jogged his memory, but no, he simply raised his palms in the air in surrender. “Sorry, I don’t usually remember a lot of my flings. Nothing personal, I swear.”

Your logic quickly overrode your petty feelings and you pulled back. “Right. Nevermind.”

[Affection: 4.9%. Darkening: 3%.] 

Jerk.

[Host, an orifice he may be, he is still your ticket to a happy life.]

“You don’t have to remind me,” you huffed.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” You grabbed the straps of your bag and breathed. You then glanced back at him and asked, “Wanna grab an early lunch?”

Mark fell quiet. So did the system. 

Through your mind, you directly communicated with the system, Did I do something wrong?

[You have the eyes of a dead fish.]

It stopped.

Then it added: [And you sounded like someone who crossed paths with an acquaintance and politely asked them how was their day even though you don’t care but you had to because they definitely saw you and it would be weird to just walk away.]

Well. Crap. 

As you scrambled for a backup plan, Mark laughed again. 

[Affection: 5.5%. Darkening: 3%.] 

“Sure, I could eat.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know a good burger place.” 

“Just so you know, I’m not paying.”

He chuckled. 

The restaurant was called Burger Mart, and he wasn’t joking when he said the place served good burgers–actually, that adjective undermines how amazing they are. 

The bun was soft and fluffy. There was no trace of the usual cheap American cheese that felt like plastic on your tongue but actual, melt-in-your mouth cheese. The lettuce was crispy and the tomato super tangy. And the meat patty? Thick and juicy and perfectly seasoned.

Mark watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as you chomped down your second ultra deluxe cheeseburger. He was barely done with his. He wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but the burger was comically huge. He didn’t expect you to finish half, let alone order another round. 

“You sure like burgers…”

You dipped a fry in your sundae and then put it in the burger. “I always celebrate finishing an exam with lots of carbs.”

“Exams?”

Oh. 

You cleared your throat. “I mean, a successful debate.” 

“You were really cool back there.”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I mean it though.”

You snuck a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. For the first time since you two interacted, he looked serious. 

“Eh.” It was a basic thing to discuss in a first year philosophy class, nothing worthy of compliments. That being said, you enjoyed when the professor praised you. Who doesn’t like praise?

“You still didn’t make it clear whether you would choose one person or five people, though.”

Your jaws worked overtime as you tried to argue.

He interrupted you, “Don’t tell me that ‘that’s not the point.’��

He then leaned on his elbows. “No omniscience, no extra information. If you were put in a scenario where you have to choose between one person’s life or five other lives, I wanna know which would you choose?”

You slowed your chewing and tilted your head.

You then answered, “I would choose the option that lets me save everyone.”

He snorted. “There is no third option.”

“Then I’ll make one.”

His eyes widened, then he grinned sardonically and reclined into the vinyl cushion. “That’s optimistic.” 

You wish. 

“Nah. It’s more like…” You didn’t want that blood on your hands and be blamed. “I’m a coward who hates confrontation.”

He glanced at the window, then his chin dipped with a chuckle. 

[Affection: 7%. Darkening: 3%.]

You didn’t know what happened. But you were eating a burger and no one has attacked you so you were going to consider this a win. 

After you finished the last of your fries, Mark offered to walk you to your dorm, which was sweet, you had to admit. However, his smart watch beeped. 

His face scrunched up with irritation. 

You saved him the trouble of coming up with a lie. “That looks important.” You then told him you’d be fine on your own and watched as he reluctantly left you alone in front of Burger Mart.

“Now that he’s gone, mind telling me what that affection meter is all about?”

[It’s exactly what you think it is. It measures the target’s affection for you, in this case, it’s specific to romantic affection.]

“You said there were no other requirements.”

[This is not a requirement, more like a … necessity, to ensure both your survival here and to improve your ability to increase his darkness.]

You stared at the two bars. One was pink, the other was black. 

[Throughout history and fiction, humans have become victims and instigators for the name of love. And Mark Grayson may be a superman who can fly and survive the vacuum of space and punch through cement, but he is just a man.]

You hate to say it, but you understand.

author's note: gee, i wonder which mark is this?

@weponxwrites

CHAPTER 3: When In Doubt, Do Your Research Series Masterlist

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

[vividly-vermillion]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ 𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐋'𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄: 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑱𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹

jester [noun] /ˈdʒes·tər/ • In the courts of kings and queens in medieval Europe, the jester was the person whose job was to do silly things in order to make people laugh.

Masterlist || Taglist || -> Chapter two

✶࿐ synopsis: Gojo crafted his mask to perfection; smile, tell a joke, be the fool. The court jester, their trained dog, the town idiot - or how the princess calls him; my beloved jester.

✶࿐ character: jester!Gojo

✶࿐ reader: female | AFAB

✶࿐ wc: 2155

✶࿐ cw: medieval au, jester x princess, prejudice & humiliation (it's a jester after all)

“Some more white here to hide the tiredness… Red for the lips - always smiling even when I'm not.” Gojo carefully applied the maroon tinted paste to his lips, drawing over the corners to make it appear as if there was a smile plastered to his face.

“And the eyes… gods, I hate this.” He leaned closer to the broken mirror in the poorly lit room, the familiar smell of greasepaint filled his senses and gave him a twisted sense of home and comfort.

With precision, Gojo traced the arch of his brow before taking the small brush to apply a thin line of midnight blue over his eyes, crafting his jester mask with great care.

“The mask of the fool - it demands perfection,” he mumbled to himself when he picked up his cap. The bells jingle softly as he inspects his face for a final touch up. Oh, how low he had fallen, the tips of his white hair chalked with a muddy shade of blue.

One last look in the mirror was all it took for him to make the jester come to life, a smile on his face and it felt like a switch had flipped once he left the small room that the king had so graciously provided for him. The room was far from comfortable, but it was enough to hold a bed and a small vanity table - that was a lot more than he had previously. He would take anything, would do anything so he wouldn't need to return to the harsh life on the streets.

When Gojo entered the beautifully decorated ballroom, all eyes were on him - he couldn't even blame them with the way the jingle of his bells followed his every step. He thrived in their attention and lived to be the spectacle. He was born to be the center of attention, after all. Yet, he wasn't a stranger to the thinly veiled disdain in the eyes of the nobles that watched him dance and entertain.

Gojo gave it his all with his dance, trying to entertain the rich folks by engaging them in dancing to the upbeat music of the orchestra, but he was met with ignorance - until someone threw an apple at his head. The fruit bounced off his hat with a soft thud while the musicians were getting ready for their next piece and suddenly all eyes were on him. Thunderous laughter erupted from where the king sat and soon filled the entire hall.

Graciously he picked up the apple from the floor and bowed low, sweeping an imaginary cloak behind him in a grand, foolish gesture.

“Of course,” he thought to himself as he bowed, “They only laugh when he does. They don't have a mind of their own.” The apple in his hand was bruised from the collision with his head. “It's easier to laugh at the fool than with him, right?” Gojo straightened up again and flicked the apple in his hand like a juggler ready to perform and gave them the smile that they came to like so much - wide, foolish, harmless.

For all his antics and performative smiles, there was one person in the great ballroom that he was never able to fool. She never laughed when the other nobles did, never found amusement in his bruised pride or little stunts. But once or twice he swore that he caught her stifling a laugh or hiding a silent smile behind a courteous hand in front of her mouth when he was the only one laughing in an otherwise silent room.

While Gojo entertained a few nobles with his skills, his eyes were unable to wander far from you and how you sat next to the throne where your father sat. Chuckling to himself, the jester jumped onto one of the tables as part of his next act and he couldn't help but notice how much the princess resembled an obedient little puppy next to the king.

Your head was held high with a friendly smile painted onto your sweet lips, a mask just like his own. He smiled to himself as his hands busied themselves juggling seven of the big knives from the table - one mistake and he would be the topic of the week for all the wrong reasons.

“May I ask for your hand in a dance, your highness?” The knives fell around Gojo and pierced the wooden table around his feet when he heard how one of the noblemen asked you for a dance.

Unsure, your eyes darted to your left, hoping that the king would grant you so much mercy and send the suitor away, but it seemed like you were short on luck tonight. However, a single nod from him was enough to make you rise, the mask threatened to crumble and to reveal utter hatred for this, but just one second later you gave the young man a beautiful smile that left him blushing.

“Gladly,” you reply with a honeyed voice and place your silken gloved hand into the stranger’s before letting him lead you to the dance floor.

People scurried out of your way, making sure that their precious princess had enough room to dance to her heart's content - and just like that, all eyes drifted from the motley clad jester to the perfect little princess on the dance floor.

As if this was his cue, Gojo climbed off the table without a single person even noticing his absence. Why would they spare him a crumb of their attention when the king's obedient puppy was showing off her tricks on the dance floor after all? Dancing around like Daddy’s perfect ballerina and he could feel the resentment towards your perfect golden world set in - never towards you, however.

Silently, the white haired jester slipped outside of one of the doors that led into the gardens, one of his favorite places to be during gatherings like these, next to being the center of attention, of course.

With a soft thud, Gojo sat down at the water fountain that was hidden by a small labyrinth of hedges that grew barely high enough to cover his ridiculous hat that jingled with each and every step. Silently, he laughed to himself, if he ever wanted to go missing in here, he had no chance with the jingling following him, but he paid his thoughts no mind, his reflection in the water made his chuckle go silent the moment his eyes landed on it. Despite his best efforts, his gaze unfocused from the reflection of a jester in front of him and time seemed to rush past him while he remained standing still.

“What is our beloved jester doing out here? Isn't there a crowd to entertain?” Your sweet, yet mocking voice seemed to have snapped him out of whatever trance he was captured in.

“You know, little princess... I could ask the same. Isn't there some prince to dance with? A father to make proud?” Gojo gave you a lopsided grin and you weren't quite sure if this was just another joke of his or if he was speaking boldly - either way, he could put it off as a joke and you would never know.

“Chapeau,” you muse and gently pat your dress before sitting on the opposite side of the stone bench that the jester rested on.

“I can only guess that you're here for the same reason as I am,” you continued and leaned back so you were resting on your hands, not caring if your white gloves might get dirty as you stared at the fountain in front of you.

“I hardly think so, your highness,” the jester mused, echoing your posture with slight exaggeration, leaning back on his hands as well in mock imitation. A princess wouldn't understand.

“What reason would a princess have to hide from her adoring crowd? His voice carried the usual playfulness, but a flicker of sincerity managed to shine through. You raise a brow upon catching the shift in his tone.

“Don't tell me that our beloved jester doesn't enjoy having the spotlight all to himself.” You replied and your voice was light but carried something silently beneath - disappointment, maybe.

He had implied you were feeling the same thing he was, but for you, the boredom wasn't from boredom. It was from expectations. From having to smile just right, stand just so, be what everyone wanted.

Gojo didn't answer right away, only giving you a small but unreadable smile before tilting his head to study you. You were sitting up now, watching him closely - not the way the court usually watched him, but with something gentler. Almost as if you truly saw him.

“Worry not, your highness, I will stay to entertain you and the court for as long as the king has me,” he reassured you halfheartedly before fixing his hat and standing up again, as if he was ready to head back inside, his peace disturbed and pride wounded.

“Stay for a while?” Your voice sounded almost hopeful when you asked him to stay, and who was he to deny you such a simple wish? Without another word, the jester settled back down onto the stone bench, his previous spot still slightly warm. This time, he faced you instead, his posture more composed and less playful.

“How may I entertain you, your highness?" But the tone of his voice has shifted. The glimmer in his eyes was dimmed, the spark of honesty was gone and the all too familiar mask of everyone's beloved jester was back on. And the jester's needs and dreams didn't matter.

You offered him a small smile, more thoughtful than amused and reached into his open hand to take one of the apples that he pulled from his pocket - a silent invitation to perform for you. But instead of watching him juggle, your eyes remained trained on his.

"Don't you ever get tired of this?” You asked softly, “Of smiling all day and night? Of being the fool?"

For a moment, Gojo faltered. He wasn't sure if you were only teasing him, testing his boundaries to see if that perfectly crafted facade of his could crumble - or if your question was as honest as it sounded.

“Speak freely, please,” you added upon watching his internal struggle. “Because I know that I'm tired of this court and my golden cage.” You offered sincerity to make his choice of words much easier. It startled him how you didn't shy away, as if you wanted the truth over some honeyed words.

“My cheeks do hurt most evenings,” Gojo admitted and could feel a wry smile tugging at his lips. And this one was real - soft, almost boyish and completely untouched by the stage. “But it's a pain well worth it,” he added with a light chuckle. Why you cared, he didn't know and he didn't want to ask either.

“You know, jester... This is the first real conversation I've had all week.” Your voice was quieter now, underlined with exhaustion. And if he looked close enough, past the makeup and the act you put on, he could see it in your eyes too - the weariness that he knew all too well himself. Maybe the two of you weren't so different after all. Two performers in different costumes, each playing their role that the court demands. Gojo tilted his head to take in your sight, not the one of the princess, but of the woman beneath.

“Well, your highness,” his voice was much more gentle now, “I do hope that this won't be the last. But for now…” He gave a small nod towards the castle, its lights illuminating the hedges and the small labyrinth they sat inside. Voices were already calling out your name, the worry growing with each echo. “I think you'd best return before they start sending the guards to carry you back inside.” He finished the conversation, although a sadness was audible in his words, laced with the smallest bits of hope.

You stood and brushed invisible dust from your dress with a kind of grace that only came with years of practice. But when you turned towards him again, he could see mischief in your eyes, a bold and playful smile adorning your face before you spoke.

“I’ll be inconsolable if I don't find you here after my first dance at the next gathering,” you said, words daring yet teasing. And just like that, you disappeared once again, leaving him behind to solve the riddle that was you.

Gojo sat on the bench for a little longer, the apple still resting in his palm, the cool night air haunting his skin and your words lingering longer than they have a right to. You had seen something in him tonight, and as the leaves rustled, he wondered if he too could see past your mask. Not tonight, but perhaps one day.

[psycho-pills]

A Second Life for Strays! ฅ (•˕ •マ.ᐟ sylus x reader fanfic // prev // next

౨ৎ⭑˚ RATING; 18+ (mdni)

౨ৎ⭑˚ PAIRING; sylus x afab!reader (not the mc)

౨ৎ⭑˚ SYNOPSIS; you are a soldier reincarnated into the world of love and deepspace, except you're not the mc. she still exists. despite looking exactly like her, you don’t act or sound the same. and to make things stranger, cats follow you everywhere.

౨ৎ⭑˚ GENRE/WARNING; angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, (mutual?) pining, eventual fluff, eventual romance, eventual smut, cursing, graphic descriptions of violence, blood, mental breakdowns, ptsd, death, isekai, reincarnation, cats/cat puns, mc is named serenophe to avoid confusion/reader is not mc

౨ৎ⭑˚ AUTHOR'S NOTE; a gentle reminder: this is written in third-person limited with she/her pronouns. only the prologue is written in second-person. i use the terms [name] [surname] instead of (y/n) (y/ln) because it's easier for me to write. also, i know this idea is kinda weird and outlandish, but i love cats and love and deepspace, so why not combine the two? ;v;

౨ৎ⭑˚ LINKS; ao3 // masterpost

ch. one — a cat-astrophic realization! ౨ৎ⭑˚ word count; 3.9k

Where… She thinks. Where am I?

Her eyes flutter open before immediately squinting from the fluorescent lights above. The constant beeping of the patient monitor spikes in sound as her heartbeat increases. Instinctively, her hand reaches to shield her eyes, only to stop short with a sharp tug. A flash of pain shoots up her arm, drawing her attention to the thin IV tube embedded in her skin. She grits her teeth and lowers her hand, squinting through the blinding lights.

Gradually, her vision adjusts. One eye peeks open, the other still closed in protest. She slowly sweeps over the room. As her surroundings come into focus, her heart rate steadies.

The hospital room is bathed in morning light that filters through the large windows. As [Name] glances toward the windows, long shadows cross the room. Outside, there's a breathtaking view of the bustling, futuristic city below. The overall view of the world is serene, completely unlike the storm of confusion in [Name]'s mind.

The room is comfortably sized. Modern yet contemporary furniture and pale grey walls accommodate the small space. Sleek medical equipment lines the side of the room, but there's a sense of luxury present. Crisp linen sheets, plush chairs, and a vase of fresh flowers on a side table. It's more like a boutique hotel than a hospital room. 

A soft beige blanket covers her body, and the scent of jasmine whiffs up her nose. An unoccupied recliner sits in the corner near the windows, perhaps meant for a visitor; however, the room is isolated. The medical equipment strap to her arm and chest drones on. The rhythmic beeping indicated the steady tracking of her vitals. A small monitor occasionally blinks, recording her heartbeat and oxygen levels.

As she begins to stir, her body drags her down. Everything feels heavy. Her limbs, her eyelids, even her thoughts. There's an overwhelming sense of disorientation like she's floating between worlds. Memories stir, hazy at first, but slowly they sharpen. One after the other, they trickle back—chaos, pain, death. 

Her death.

Her body feels sore, but her head feels worse. She remembers the battlefield. She remembers succumbing to her bullet wound. The sensation of death still lingers like a cold shadow. Yet now, with her eyes fully adjusted, she takes in the pristine hospital room, and it becomes apparent that something is wrong.

I'm alive. 

The thought feels impossible. Absurd, even. And yet here she is—breathing, heart pounding—fully conscious. It was like she finally woke up from a long, deep coma.

With more awareness, she takes in the room. Across from her bed is a small, flat-screen television, turned off, reflecting the room's dusky mood. Besides it, a small door leads to what she assumes is an adjoining bathroom. Everything about the room is carefully designed to be soothing, sterile, and impersonal. However, it's oddly welcoming in a way she can't quite grasp.

Her body protests as she fumbles to sit up, mindful of the tubes and wires attached to her arm and chest. As she adjusts herself, she catches a glimpse of her reflection on the dark, glassy screen of the television. With some effort, she leans forward to take in her appearance better.

Instantly, [Name]'s breath catches in her throat. She pauses. Her reflection stares back at her, but something is off. Her face is hers, but it's not. All of her features are the same. Hair, eyes, mouth, nose… However, everything is just sharper now. Clearer. Her skin smoother, and her hair fuller. If she didn't know any better, she'd swear she looks almost identical to the female lead of her favorite otome game. 

But that can't be right. Can it?

A chill runs down her spine, and her eyes dart downward to her chest. Panic flares in her gut as she remembers the battlefield, the bullet wound that should have taken her life. Slowly, as if afraid of what she'll find, she hooks a finger under the collar of her hospital gown and pulls it away from her body, expecting to see a scar, a wound, anything.

There's nothing. Her skin is smooth, unmarked. No bullet wound, no scar, no evidence that she has ever been injured at all. Her heart stutters in her chest, and the panic she's been trying to suppress starts to rise like a wave, threatening to swallow her whole.

"What the hell is going on?" She croaks.

Her throat feels dry and scratchy, like it hasn't been used in days. A rough cough forces its way up and makes her wince. She tries to settle her breathing, but it's no use. The confusion, the fear—it's smothering her.

Just as she's about to lose herself to the spiraling thoughts, the door to her room clicks open. She jerks her head toward the sound. A man steps in, tall and composed, his black hair framing his face in sharp, elegant lines. His demeanor's cool but professional. There is a slight air of authority that immediately draws her attention.

She blinks, and her stomach drops.

There's no way.

Her eyes widen in disbelief as she stares at him. It can't be. It can't be. But there's no mistaking the man standing before her, his confident stride, the careful way he carries himself. His gaze idles before settling back on his notes. She knows that face, that presence. She can practically hear her heart pound louder as the impossible claws at her.

She glances at the name tag pinned to his coat, just to be sure. Zayne. It's there, clear as day. The doctor with a cold exterior and a reputation for being emotionally untouchable. Yet beneath it all, there's a hidden tenderness. He was one of them: a character she had admired, the one whose storyline was as complex and fascinating as the others.

Her mind reels. Oh, my Gods. This can't be real. 

She blinks several times, expecting his face to change into something else, but nothing happens. He's still there, as composed and meticulous as ever. The exact character she once admired behind a screen now stands right before her.

The disbelief overtakes her. It's suffocating and all-encompassing. How can this be happening? She died—she remembers dying—and yet, she woke up here. Her body tenses. Her muscles tighten as the pieces of her situation fall into place, and realization sinks its teeth into her.

She can't breathe. It's impossible. All of this, everything around her, feels like a nightmare. A twisted dream she can't wake up from. There's no way, there's no way she's been reincarnated. And not just anywhere. In the world of Love and Deepspace, the very game she escaped into for fun is her new reality now.

"You're awake," Zayne says calmly, but verging on something more unreadable. Confusion? Suspicion? He takes a step closer, his gaze lingering on her face longer than a doctor's should. [Name] can tell he's trying to remain composed. However, his eyes hold hesitance, like he's looking at something he can't believe.

Slowly, as if worried she might vanish if he speaks too quickly, he continues, "I'm Dr. Zayne, and you will be under my care for the foreseeable future." His voice is smooth, but his words are cautious.

"And you must be Miss…" He pauses and glances down at the file. His eyes squint as if the name doesn't match what he was expecting. "…[Name] [Surname]."

She swallows, almost choosing silence, but her raspy voice escapes anyway.

"Yes?"

The word barely sounds confident. She's frozen under his gaze, trapped in disbelief. Zayne's sharp eyes roam her face, drifting down to her upper body. It's not the casual assessment of a doctor checking on a patient. No, this look—it's familiar. It's the same gaze she used to see when playing the game, the moments when his character's cold exterior would briefly soften during some of his bonds and memoria. Her stomach churns with anxiety.

What. The. Fuck.

Zayne pushes his glasses up, and his professional mask slips back on. He steps closer to the bed, his expression shifting, but she can sense the tension beneath it. 

"I'm just checking for any signs of concussion or physical injuries," he says. However, it sounds more like he's reassuring himself than her. 

He leans in, and his eyes dart over her face. He scans her features for any signs of bruises or swelling. "Given your condition when you were brought in, we need to monitor for potential head trauma."

[Name] stays silent as he gently lifts the edge of her gown at her shoulder. His fingers brush her skin as he places the cold metal of the stethoscope against her chest. His touch is light and purely professional, but she can't help but feel a rising discomfort. 

Zayne may act like this is routine, but she can see the tension in his posture and how his gaze keeps finding her face. He's trying to hide it, but she can tell—he's scrutinizing her for more than physical injuries. It's like he's trying to fit together puzzle pieces from different boxes.

The metal is cold and harsh. She inhales deeply without him even asking. Then she exhales, and the stethoscope leaves her chest not a moment sooner. He scribbles something down in his notes. Almost hesitantly. 

"Everything seems to be in order. There doesn't appear to be any visible scarring or physical trauma," Zayne mutters. A bit too neutral. As he steps back, his eyes idle on her a beat longer than necessary. "Regardless, we'll run a few more tests to be sure."

She gives a slow nod, observing how his jaw tenses as he adjusts the equipment by her bedside. He's trying to play it cool, but the cracks are there. Something is bothering him, and she knows exactly what it is.

He recognizes her face.

She looks too much like the heroine of the game, the one who's the center of this world's story. [Name] isn't supposed to be here. She isn't the main character of the game. She's something else—an anomaly.

Zayne frowns when he catches her staring at him. He quickly returns to his task, clearing his throat like it can shake off his weariness. "If you're feeling any discomfort, let me know. We'll have the results of your tests soon." He says calmly, but his eyes still carry that hint of confusion.

As he jots more notes on her chart, her mind spirals. This is far more than she expected, far more surreal, terrifying, and overwhelming. She never anticipated finding herself in this situation, least of all being reincarnated into her favorite otome game. But here she is, alive in a world she once thought was fiction. 

Zayne looks at her again, his lips parting like he's about to speak. His face is composed; however, there's a shadow of skepticism beneath. Yet before he can get a word out, the buzz of his pager cuts through the moment. Instantly, the room's atmosphere shifts and his posture straightens.

The hospital's overhead speaker crackles to life, the receptionist's voice urgent: "Code Blue. Code Blue. Paging all medical personnel to surgical room two, please."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he hesitates. Zayne gives her one last look, like he's trying to commit her to memory. When the voice over the intercom repeats the emergency, he finally breaks away. His eyes tear from her face with visible reluctance. 

"Please excuse me," he says with urgency as he prepares to leave. "If you need anything, Nurse Yvonne is down the hall." 

Without waiting for her response, he sharply turns and exits the room. His footsteps fade down the hall, leaving her alone with her racing thoughts. In his absence, the room feels eerily still, like the air is holding its breath. Then, the silence starts to eat away at her. The impossible truth digs into her, and something inside snaps.

In one swift motion, she throws the sheets away from her lower body. [Name] swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands—albeit too quickly. Her legs, frail from disuse, buckle beneath her. She stumbles, catching herself on the IV pole.

The cold metal anchors her as she settles down. Her muscles are weak, but determination propels her forward. [Name] drags the IV stand along as she shuffles toward the attached bathroom. Her steps awkward and sluggish.

Reaching the door, she kicks it open with the bare heel of her foot, too focused on her next task to bother with formalities. She lumbers inside, not even closing the door behind her. The thirst clawing at her throat is unbearable, a raw itch that she can no longer ignore. Like a starved animal, she ducks under the sink. She twists the faucet open and lets the crisp, refreshing water pour into her mouth. The liquid soothes her parched throat, the cool sensation spreading through her body as she gulps down as much as possible.

When finally sated, [Name] wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns off the faucet. However, just as she's about to leave the bathroom, her eyes catch something in the corner of the mirror—her own reflection. She freezes, seeing her face a lot clearer in the bathroom mirror than with the television's blackened screen. 

Slowly, she leans closer, her hospital gown brushing against the wet edge of the sink. Her breath catches in her throat as she studies herself. "It’s me," she whispers. "But… Different."

Her fingers rise to touch her face, to trace the contours of her facial features. [Name] turns her face left, then right, her brow furrowing. Despite the striking resemblance to the game's protagonist, there's something off—something that makes it evident that she's different. Something subtle but undeniable. She's not the protagonist, but she's dangerously close. It's like she's staring at a near-perfect replica with slight imperfections that make it clear she's an outsider.

A thought jolts her back to the present. Actually, she thinks, why did Zayne call me by my real name? If I look this much like the protagonist, shouldn't he have called me—

Her mind goes blank. She tries to recall the heroine's name, the one who should be at the center of this world, but… nothing. She can't remember. Her forehead creases as she struggles to dig the name out of her memory. Yet the name remains out of reach, like a forgotten word on the tip of her tongue. [Name]'s mind is foggy; that part of her knowledge yet to recover from her reincarnation. 

The blankness gnaws at her, but she pushes it aside. She can't focus on that right now. Her mind races to piece together what little information she has. Considering Zayne's reaction, he knew she wasn't her despite how closely she resembled the protagonist. That may be why he called [Name] by her real name instead. Yet this realization only poses more questions. How does he know her name? And, more importantly, who had brought her to the hospital? Zayne's words implied that someone dumped her here, but why?

Her thoughts swirl as she steps out of the bathroom, a little steadier now. [Name] is exhausted, mentally and physically, and all she wants is to make sense of this unfathomable situation. She heads back to bed, ready to collapse. But just as she's about to sit down, she stops dead in her tracks.

A plump tuxedo cat is lounging on the sheets. Its round face stares at her with a manner that borders on playful mischief. Its green eyes gleam with amusement at her shock. The sight is so unexpected that she blinks several times in a row.

"Um," she stammers, gesturing the cat away from the bed. "Can you move?"

The absurdity of talking to a cat doesn't even faze her anymore. After everything she's been through, who will judge her? She's all alone in this strange, new reality.

"Sure," the cat replies. High-pitched and child-like.

Her heart skips a beat. The cat just spoke. 

Like everything's normal, the plump creature hops off the bed and waddles to the counter. [Name] stills. Her mind struggles to catch up with the sheer insanity in front of her. She can only watch as the cat leaps onto the counter and grabs a clear plastic bag hidden in the sink with his mouth. The cat drags the bag out, dropping it unceremoniously with a dull thud. The contents of the bag spill out in front of her—her military uniform, stiff with dried blood around the breast pocket. The sight of the uniform jolts her, the memories of the battlefield flooding back too quickly for comfort.

"Change," the cat orders, his tone matter-of-fact. "We're leaving."

Her mind stalls. She doesn't move. She doesn't breathe. All she can do is stare in utter disbelief. It takes a moment before her body reacts at all. When it finally does, she starts laughing. It's loud and hysterical, almost tipping on sobs. She's dreaming. She has to be. It's the only logical explanation for everything. 

"I've officially lost it," she gasps between fits of maddened laughter, clutching her sides as tears sting her eyes. Suddenly, the room feels uncanny, like she's trapped in some B-rated horror movie. She crawls onto the bed with shaky hands, diving under the sheets and wrapping herself in darkness.

She shuts her eyes tightly, curling into herself and willing everything to disappear. A soft chant escapes her lips. Fragile. Desperate. "Wake up. Wake up. Wake up."

The silence that follows is almost palpable. Heavy. The only sound is the soft patter of paws on the tiled floor, growing louder as they approach. Suddenly, she feels the bed dip next to her head. The cat's weight presses into the pillow. Before she can react, the tuxedo cat tugs at the edge of the blanket, pulling it back just enough to reveal her face.

"Stop playing around, Human," the cat says impatiently. "We gotta scram before they find you."

Her eyes snap open, her heart hammering in her chest. The weight of reality—or whatever this is—crashes down on her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless. 

"Who?" [Name] croaks out, barely above a whisper. "Who's coming to get me?"

The cat lets out a huff, a sound that might have been a purr if it wasn't laced with annoyance. "Do you really want to find out?" His tone is sarcastic like the answer should be obvious.

[Name] shakes her head slowly, her body unable to process the fear and confusion fast enough. She barely understands what’s happening, but something deep inside warns her that whoever—or whatever—is coming for her won’t be friendly. Sensing her resignation, the cat sits back on his haunches, his green eyes glinting with satisfaction.

"Good," the cat says with a slight nod. "The name's Spots, by the way. Not that you bothered to ask."

Another silence settles between them, until [Name] realizes Spots is waiting for her to get up. She stills for a moment, weighing her options. 

She could stay here, close her eyes, and hope this dream fades into nothingness. Maybe everything is just a product of her exhausted mind. A hallucination caused by trauma and stress. Maybe, if she holds on long enough, she’ll wake up in the real world, back to the life she knows. However, something tells her this doesn’t end with a simple waking.

The next best solution is that she could believe what’s happening. As impossible and terrifying as it seems, she could trust the cat—or at least trust that he knows more than she does. [Name] could just ignore the absurdity of a talking cat and follow him, because the alternative is facing whoever is coming for her alone. Zayne might return, but even that possibility feels unsettling. There’s too much confusion between them, and she doesn’t know if she could handle his reaction if he discovers what she’s beginning to accept: that she doesn’t belong here.

But Spots knows. He knows something about her situation. He knows what’s coming. And right now, that makes him the only source of guidance she has.

A frustrated heave escapes her as she finalizes her decision.

"Fuck it," she mutters.

Against her better judgment, [Name] slides out of bed, her legs no longer shaky as she drags the IV pole with her. She crouches down to pick up her clothes and combat boots. She glances back at Spots. He's swinging his tail lazily, eyes closed, a Cheshire grin permanent on his fluffy face.

Like ripping off a bandage, [Name] grits her teeth as she yanks the IV tube from her arm. The sharp sting makes her wince, but she pushes through the pain. She's quick to regain her composure. Without hesitation, she slips out of her hospital gown and into her military uniform. The fabric is stiff with dried blood, a cruel memento of her death.

But as she dresses, a disturbing thought begins to nag at her. If this is a dream, then… will she wake up back on the battlefield? Back in the grassy outskirts, far from the perishing city, fighting some meaningless war? Did she really want to go back to that? Can she even go back to that?

Her hand instinctively drifts to her heart, to the spot where the bullet pierced her. Her fingers brush over the dried blood. The hole in her uniform is the only proof of her last moments. She sighs and shakes her head, trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts. No. The mere thought of waking up back there—back in the war—terrifies her more than this new reality ever could.

Moving to the sink, she grabs a paper towel and runs it under cold water. Carefully, she dabs at the bloodstain, trying to clean it, but the water only spreads the mess. A frown tugs at her lips as she realizes her mistake. Spots hop down from the bed, noticing her frustration, and he is far too impatient to wait. He strolls over to her and stretches his paws against her leg, nudging her to pick him up.

Taking the hint, [Name] heaves and scoops the plump tuxedo cat into her arms, holding him close to her chest. Conveniently, Spots’ round body covers the bloodstain on her uniform.

"Ready?" Spots ask.

He gestures toward the closed door with his head, his green eyes narrowing to urge her forward.

Reluctantly, she nods and moves toward the exit of her hospital room. Her hand wraps around the cold doorknob, but then she hesitates. Frozen with uncertainty. Afraid of the unknown guaranteed outside this small, contained room. Her fingers still on the knob as she takes a shallow breath.

"Human," Spots purrs. It's a soothing rumble against her heart. "It's okay. Whatever happens, you have me now. You're not alone in this."

[Name] presses her lips into a tight line, reassured by the cat’s comforting words. Something about his presence, about his gentle confidence, calms her. It doesn’t make sense, but she doesn’t care to question it. Right now, she craves stability, no matter how strange the source. 

Without another word, she pulls the door open and peeks her head out. She scans the hallway. The sterile, quiet corridor stretches out in both directions. Unbeknownst to her, that first step beyond the door will set a chain reaction of events into motion, incidents and experiences that will shift the story she once knew, casting her into a role she never imagined playing.

"Here goes nothing," she whispers, stepping into the unknown.

ao3 // masterpost // prev // next

[bringbackantonia]

Боже мой, как же мне это нравится!

Whispered in Russian Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Whispered in Russian. Natasha takes you to meet her family for the first time.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, Russian translations from google

Words: 4990

You fidget with the ribbon on the container nestled in your lap, your fingers adjusting and retightening the bow for what has to be the fifth time since the car ride began. The satin already lies perfectly in place, but your nerves won’t settle unless your hands stay busy.

From the driver’s seat, Natasha casts a quick glance your way, catching the subtle tremble in your fingers.

“Rasslab’sya, detka,” she murmurs, her voice calm and low as her hand reaches over to still yours. Her touch is warm and grounding.

You exhale slowly, relaxing like she tells you to, trying to ease the anxiety fluttering in your chest. You turn your hand beneath hers, intertwining your fingers with hers, but the tension doesn’t quite fade.

After a moment, you groan and let your head fall back dramatically against the seat. You twist to look at her with exasperation, eyes wide.

“Oh, this is bad. Not even your Russian is helping me calm down right now.”

A small, knowing smirk plays on Natasha’s lips. Without taking her eyes off the road, she lifts your joined hands and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles.

“I thought you said my Russian does the opposite,” she says with a teasing lilt. Then, without warning, her voice dips into something darker, silkier—something meant only for you.

“Tebe uzhe stanovitsya zharko?”

Are you getting hot yet?

You gasp, jerking your hand back before she gets any more ideas, warmth blooming fast across your cheeks.

“Natasha!” you hiss. “We’re about to have dinner with your family. This is not the time to rile me up.”

Her grin only widens.

“You know I’m great at multitasking,” she replies breezily, her hand casually returning to rest on your thigh. But then it moves, slowly tracing delicate circles that make your breath hitch.

You clamp your hand over hers before it can travel any higher. 

“Focus,” you warn, your voice a mix of stern and pleading. “I’m already a wreck as it is. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

Natasha eases up, her touch softening but not quite withdrawing, thumb brushing along the hem of your skirt. She knows this matters to you.

It’s your first time meeting her family—the one she didn’t grow up with but still calls hers. Melina. Alexei. Yelena. All ex-assassins and one genetically enhanced super soldier. You’re not exactly bringing cookies to your average suburban dinner.

The nerves creep back in at the thought. You glance down at the container again, doubt flickering in your eyes.

“Maybe I should’ve brought something else,” you murmur. “Cookies feel…underwhelming.”

Natasha chuckles softly. 

“Well, if they don’t want them,” she says, squeezing your thigh gently, “I’ll eat them all myself.”

You gape at her. “So they’re not enough?”

She huffs a laugh through her nose, clearly entertained, as she mutters under her breath.

“Bozhe, kakoy ty milyy…”

God, you’re cute…

Your face warms immediately. You scoff, turning away so she won’t see the rising blush.

“You know I can still understand you even when you whisper,” you grumble. Then, quieter.

“Ty ne tonkiy.”

You’re not subtle.

She laughs under her breath, clearly delighted by your flustered state. You squeeze her hand lightly, a gentle reprimand.

“Your Russian’s gotten better,” she remarks, glancing sideways at you with a smirk.

“Of course it did,” you reply proudly. “I had a great teacher. Very strict. Very sexy.”

That earns a genuine laugh from Natasha. 

“Really now? Should I be worried?”

You grin, fiddling with her fingers as you lean in just slightly.

“Mmm, maybe. Our night sessions are my favorite.”

Natasha raises an amused brow but says nothing, letting you press the advantage while she drives.

“Oh?” she prompts coolly. “And why’s that?”

You lift her hand to your lips, delicately kissing her fingertip. Your voice drops to a whisper.

“Because I never want her to stop.”

The only response is the soft hum in Natasha’s throat—and the way her grip on the steering wheel subtly tightens.

You trail another kiss along her knuckle.

“So I tell her…”

You pause, eyes gleaming as you kiss a second finger, your voice sultry now.

“Yeshchyo…”

More…

Then, a third kiss, slower this time, into the center of her palm.

“Pozhaluysta, day yeshchyo…Natalia.”

Please, give me more…Natalia.

The car suddenly veers with precision into a parking lot, tires crunching against the gravel. The motion is smooth but decisive, too smooth to be spontaneous.

Before you can react, Natasha shifts the gear into park and turns to you. Her free hand reaches for your chin, firm but gentle, tilting your face toward hers.

Her eyes—deep, dark, and undeniably burning—flick to your lips, then back to your gaze.

“You really want to test me before dinner?” she asks, her voice a whisper against your mouth as she leans in just enough to brush her lips over yours.

You shiver at the contact, your heart racing.

“Now, who’s riling up who?” she murmurs before pressing her lips more firmly into yours, the teasing gone now—replaced with something deeper, more indulgent. 

Her hand curls at the back of your neck, anchoring you gently in place as she kisses you like she has all the time in the world.

And for a moment, you melt into it completely, a quiet hum escaping your throat—soft, pleased, and entirely content.

Your hand rests lightly on her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her shirt. Her lips are warm and familiar, coaxing you to stay a little longer in this bubble she’s wrapped around the two of you.

But just over her shoulder, a gleam of amber light catches your eye.

You blink, breathless, and squint through the driver-side window at the storefront across the street.

Vinoteka Zvezda

Wine Star 

A small, charming little wine shop, the kind that screams “curated” and “family-owned.” An idea sparks in your brain, chasing away the last haze of Natasha’s kiss.

“That’s it!” you gasp, pulling back with sudden clarity.

Natasha remains frozen in place, her lips still slightly parted in protest, eyes fluttering open as she chases the space you just left. Her hand on your neck lingers, as does the ghost of the kiss on your lips.

She tries to lean back in, muttering against your mouth, “Chto—what’s it?”

You flash her a grin and press a quick, consoling peck to her lips.

“A bottle of wine,” you explain brightly, already reaching for your seatbelt. “It’s the perfect thing to bring.”

Unbuckling yourself, you shift in your seat and pop the door open before Natasha can reel you back in.

“Wait here,” you say, already halfway out. “I’ll be right back!”

The car door shuts behind you, leaving Natasha staring at the empty seat beside her.

She exhales through her nose in exasperation, slumping back into the leather of her seat as she watches you skip across the street, determination lighting up your features. She tracks how you enter the wine shop and immediately start talking animatedly to the shopkeeper, your hands gesturing in passionate, sweeping arcs as you describe the kind of bottle you’re searching for.

Natasha tilts her head, her lips curling into something soft and helpless.

“Kak milo…”

So cute…, she murmurs under her breath, shaking her head slightly at how easily you fluster and focus in the same breath.

She rests her elbow on the window ledge, her chin in her hand now, eyes never leaving you through the windshield. Even with the nerves, planning, and chaos, you still light up any room you walk into. And despite the teasing earlier, this…this is the part that gets her the most.

The part where you care so much.

Where you want to get it right.

And you don’t even realize how much you’ve already impressed her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha watches you out of the corner of her eye as you readjust everything in your arms—a wine bottle in one hand, the container of cookies balanced carefully in the other, and a bouquet of flowers tucked into the crook of your elbow. 

You’d made her stop at a roadside cart twenty minutes ago, determined to make the best possible impression. 

She’d offered—twice—to hold something, but you waved her off with that same stubborn confidence she’s grown increasingly fond of.

You shift your weight, square your shoulders, and glance at the front door with the kind of intensity you’d usually reserve for mission briefings.

“Okay,” you say, exhaling once. “I’m ready.”

Natasha gives you a once-over, lips twitching upward.

“You’re sure?”

You bump her with your shoulder. 

“Just knock already, Romanoff.”

She huffs but obeys, rapping her knuckles against the heavy door.

You barely have a second to mentally run through the Russian greetings you practiced before the door swings open—and any preparation you had dissolves on sight.

A tall, broad-shouldered man fills the doorway, eyes narrowed slightly, arms folded across his chest. His imposing figure, tangled beard, and the sheer weight of his stare make your spine straighten instinctively.

And you forget how to speak.

The man squints at you. Then, his gaze shifts to Natasha.

In an instant, his whole demeanor changes, and his eyes light up. 

“Ahh! My daughter has come home!” he booms, voice reverberating through the hallway before he steps forward and engulfs Natasha in a bear hug.

“Oof,” Natasha grunts as he pulls her in, her arms pinned awkwardly at her sides. “Alexei,” she mutters in protest, clearly used to this. “That’s enough.”

She peels herself out of his grip with practiced effort and steps back, brushing off her jacket. Then she gestures toward you with a small, subtle smile.

“This is my girlfriend.”

The word lands with a deliberate weight, and your heart skips at hearing her say it so directly.

Alexei blinks, then his head tilts slightly toward you. His brow furrows again, but this time in contemplation rather than challenge. His eyes dart to your full hands. 

“Girlfriend, da,” he echoes, nodding slowly. “A strong one, from the looks of it.”

You offer him a nervous smile. 

He opens his arms for a hug, but Natasha swiftly plants a palm on his chest.

“No.”

Alexei pauses, sighs theatrically, and switches tactics by offering his hand instead—before realizing you can’t take it. His gaze drops to the bottle.

You quickly shift and lift the wine toward him. 

“A gift. I thought it might go well with dinner.”

He takes it from you with a hum of approval, turning the label to inspect the vintage. 

“Ahh...1986. Hah! That year, I was invited to drink with high officials for my work as the Red Guardian. They only brought out the good stuff when I was in the room.” He winks at you before waving you both inside. “Come, come. We will drink this after dinner and toast to our victories!”

You follow Natasha in, carefully stepping around a pair of discarded combat boots and a black and red shield by the entryway. The smell of stewing herbs wafts in from the kitchen.

As you near the threshold, Alexei continues regaling you with some half-fantastical tale involving a Siberian embassy, three political defectors, and a wine-fueled arm-wrestling match.

“Alexei,” comes a sharp voice from the kitchen, cutting him off mid-story, “this is not the time. Go watch the pot before it boils over.”

You glance in and spot an older woman, her hair tied back, her sleeves rolled up, and a wooden spoon in hand. She doesn’t even look up at him to see if he’ll follow her words.

“Alright, Melina,” Alexei grumbles under his breath and trudges off.

After handing him the spoon, Melina approaches Natasha before placing her hands on either side of her daughter’s face and tilting it side to side with a critical eye.

“You’re looking healthy,” she remarks thoughtfully, then squints at her lips. “Though your lipstick is smeared. You may want to fix that before dinner.”

You immediately cough, embarrassed, breath catching in your throat at the reason it’s smeared. Natasha throws you a sidelong look and smirks, not even pretending to hide her amusement.

Melina turns to you next, her expression unreadable for a beat—then softens slightly.

“And you must be the one I’ve heard about.”

You offer her a respectful nod and a warm smile. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Vostokoff. These are for you.” You gently extend the bouquet.

Melina blinks in mild surprise as she accepts the flowers. 

“Oh...these are quite lovely,” she says, turning the stems in her fingers with practiced interest. Then she adds casually, “You know, with the right compound mixture, the petals of these can be distilled into a knockout gas that masks itself with floral pheromones.”

You blink once. Twice.

“I…didn’t know that.”

She hums.

“Thank you for these. I’ll be sure to use them effectively.” 

“Right…,” you swallow your nerves before continuing. “I also made these.” You offer her the container of cookies. “Thought it might be a nice dessert.”

Melina accepts them with a nod. 

“You baked them yourself?”

Before you can answer, a blonde-haired figure sweeps into the room.

“I can take that,” she announces, reaching for the container.

Melina immediately smacks her hand away. 

“Not now, Yelena, dinner first,” she says sharply. “Or else you’ll ruin your appetite.”

Yelena pouts, rubbing the back of her hand as she grumbles under her breath.

Melina takes the flowers and cookies into the kitchen without another glance.

Now left in the entryway with you and Natasha, Yelena crosses her arms and eyes you like she’s trying to gauge your combat level.

“So,” she starts, “you’re the one my sister wants to ma—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. Natasha’s foot connects with her shin, and Yelena yelps.

“Ow! That hurt!”

Natasha shrugs unapologetically. 

“My foot slipped.”

Yelena narrows her eyes as if looking for an opening to retaliate against her sister before Melina’s voice calls out from the kitchen again.

“Yelena! Come set the table.”

With a dramatic sigh and a half-glare thrown over her shoulder, Yelena mutters, “This isn’t over,” before disappearing into the kitchen.

The hallway finally settles into a quiet hum.

You glance at Natasha, but she’s already looking at you. Her brow lifts slightly.

“You okay?”

To her surprise, you let out a soft, breathy laugh and shift your weight, taking her hand in yours.

“They’re…different,” you say thoughtfully, “but somehow they’re also…normal. Like a family. A real one.”

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches you, her thumb gently brushing the inside of your wrist where your pulse flutters beneath her touch. Then she lifts her other hand, brushing a stray curl away from your face, her gaze warm and steady.

“You’re not scared off?” she asks, quieter now like she almost doesn’t want to break the moment.

You meet her eyes and give a small, sincere smile.

“No. Honestly?” You shrug lightly. “I think I like them.”

A short laugh escapes from her—one part fondness, one part disbelief, because of course you would. Her eyes crinkle slightly at the corners as she leans in, her hand rising to cradle your face.

She’s just about to kiss you.

“Natasha,” Melina’s voice cuts through from around the corner, sharp and efficient.

You instinctively pull back, straightening like you’ve been caught in the act. 

Natasha groans softly in frustration, her lips parted in a half-formed complaint as her hand reluctantly drops back to her side.

You offer her an apologetic smile, squeezing her fingers in consolation just as Melina steps into view.

“Alexei and Yelena can handle the finishing touches on dinner,” Melina says, glancing briefly at you before continuing with a subtle weight in her tone. “The item you requested? It arrived yesterday. If you want to come see it.”

Natasha immediately perks up, something close to anticipation flickering behind her eyes.

“I do,” she says, already moving. Then she pauses when she notices you falling in step beside her.

She turns, steps into your path, and gently touches your arm.

“Why don’t you wait in the kitchen?” she suggests lightly, nodding toward the other end of the house. “We won’t be long.”

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching.

“Abandoning me to the wolves already?”

Natasha leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, the soft brush of her lips barely enough to make up for the one Melina interrupted.

“You’ll survive,” she says, her voice low, amused, and just the tiniest bit smug.

You huff out a playful breath. 

“We’ll see,” you mutter as you turn, giving her one last look before making your way toward the kitchen.

The closer you get, the more you slow your pace as the nerves settle back in. You can hear Alexei’s deep voice rumbling through the space, followed by Yelena’s sharper reply, the familiar cadence of Russian drifting toward you.

“Gde tvoya mat’?”

“Where’s your mother?” Alexei asks, casual, distracted, and likely chopping something from the sound of the knife.

“Navernoye, otdat’ Natasha kol’tso, kotoroye prishlo,”

“Probably giving Natasha the ring that arrived,” Yelena replies without hesitation.

There’s a beat of silence.

“Аh…chtoby sdelat' predlozheniye.”

Ah…so she can propose.

Your stomach flips as your eyes widen slightly. You come to a complete stop at the entryway, hidden from sight as they continue.

Alexei hums in contemplation. 

“Yeyo devushka khoroshaya. Mne ona nravitsya.”

Her girlfriend seems good. I like her, Alexei says with a note of approval.

Yelena makes a faint sound of agreement, then adds, “I pechen’ye vkusnoye.”

And the cookies are delicious.

You blink, trying to process the whiplash of implications in their conversation. Ring? Proposal? Is that why Natasha wanted you to meet her family?

Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, you clear your throat softly and step into the kitchen with your best attempt at casual nonchalance.

“Hey,” you say. “Need any help in here?”

Both Alexei and Yelena freeze at your presence. Alexei’s hand hovers awkwardly over a bowl while Yelena stands motionless with a half-eaten cookie in hand.

You raise a brow, hiding your amusement at their synchronized panic.

Yelena is the first to recover. She gestures toward the side counter. 

“Sure,” she says smoothly. “Can you help with setting the plates? We’re almost done with the food.”

You nod and walk over to the stack of dishes she points to, quietly beginning to lay them out on the table in the dining room.

Behind you, you catch the low whisper of Alexei’s voice again.

“Kak vy dumayete, ona chto-nibud’ slyshala?”

Do you think she heard anything?

Yelena responds under her breath, “Steny zdes' ne sovsem zvukonepronitsayemyye, Alexei. No, k schast’yu, ona ne govorit po-russki.”

These walls aren’t exactly soundproof, Alexei. But luckily she doesn’t speak Russian.

You suppress a smile as you gently place down the last plate, all while perfectly understanding every word.

The moment is interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps, and Melina’s voice returns with crisp authority as she steps into the kitchen.

“Looks like everything’s ready. Let’s start dinner.”

Natasha enters just behind her, eyes sweeping the room. Her gaze finds you almost immediately, her lips quirking up in something soft and private, like she knows you’ve handled her family better than she ever could’ve predicted.

You meet her eyes and smile back, warmth blooming in your chest at the revelation of what she wants for your future.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Dinner is warm in more ways than one. The scent of roasted herbs and buttery vegetables fills the room, clinking utensils and soft conversation creating a domestic hum around the table.

Natasha rests her chin against her palm, elbow propped lazily on the table as she watches you. Her gaze trails the subtle movement of your lips as you speak, the easy rhythm of your laughter, the way your hand flicks slightly when telling a story. 

She isn’t even pretending to eat. Her fork idles in her other hand, forgotten.

“You’re staring,” Melina remarks coolly, not even looking up from her plate. “As charming as it is to be hopelessly enamored, Natasha, you should eat before the food gets cold.”

You turn toward her just in time to catch the faintest flush of color on Natasha’s cheeks.

“Can’t really blame her,” you tease, casting Natasha a sly smile, your nerves completely vanishing in the warm, lively energy of her family. “I am objectively captivating.”

Natasha huffs through her nose but says nothing to tease you back. Instead, she nudges her chair just a little closer to yours. Barely noticeable to anyone else.

You glance at her curiously, but don’t press, returning your attention to Alexei across the table as he picks up where he’d left off.

“So you stopped the entire team of enemy operatives alone?” you ask, half in disbelief, half wanting to see how far this story goes.

Alexei puffs up with delight, always eager to relive his Red Guardian glory days for someone who hasn’t heard every exaggerated detail before.

“Alone? Pffft. Of course, alone. You think they could hold me with chains? Bah! They tried. I flexed. One shoulder pop and snap—bindings gone! Like thread around a bear.”

As he gestures grandly—mimicking his escape with dramatic flair—you nod along, engaged, even as Natasha slowly moves her food around her plate, her fork barely tapping the surface.

And then…you feel it.

A warm, deliberate hand slides beneath the edge of the table and lands lightly on your thigh—right at the hem of your skirt. Your back straightens in an instant. Your shoulders square. You glance sharply at her from the side, jaw tight in warning.

But Natasha? She’s chewing quietly, face entirely innocent. Her eyes don’t leave her plate.

You try to focus as Alexei mimics the sounds of panicked guards, but then her fingers give a little squeeze.

You twitch slightly, feet shifting under the table. 

Her hand slides upward, just a little, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh.

Your breath hitches.

Just as her fingers begin to dip higher—exploring—you act fast, clamping your thighs together and catching her hand right in place.

Her fingers wriggle playfully, trapped now, but not at all deterred. In fact, from the subtle upturn of her lips, she looks positively smug.

Across the table, Melina suddenly turns to Natasha, shifting the attention just enough.

“Are you keeping yourself safe during missions?” she asks, tone sharp but not unkind. “I saw that latest intel packet. That explosion was too close.”

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“Define ‘safe,’” she mutters. “People keep shooting at me.”

“That’s why she has me,” you chime in, clearing your throat and adjusting slightly in your seat as you discreetly reach under the table to grab her hand, intertwining them together and firmly placing them between the two of you. “To pull her out of those things. Preferably before the explosions happen.”

Alexei laughs heartily at that, reaching for his glass.

“I like her,” he says to Melina. “Ona ostraya.”

She’s sharp.

Melina tuts. “It’s rude to speak about her like that right in front of her, Alexei.”

Natasha, without missing a beat, smirks.

“She understands Russian.”

Alexei chokes on his drink. Melina blinks once, then tilts her head, intrigued.

“You do?” she asks you. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

You shrug with a slight grin.

“I’m still learning.”

Melina hums, impressed. 

“Well. In that case, come sit with me. Let’s see how much you do know. Bring the wine.”

She rises and gestures for you to follow her into the living space.

You stand, giving Natasha a squeeze of her fingers in playful chastising for her earlier teasing before letting go.

Natasha watches you and Melina disappear from the kitchen, her eyes trailing after you fondly until she notices the quiet shift in the atmosphere.

She glances back at the table.

Yelena and Alexei are both frozen.

Yelena’s hand hovers just over the container of cookies, and Alexei’s head is bent low, scratching at the back of his neck with obvious guilt.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

“This is suspicious,” she says flatly, rising from her seat and stalking over to her sister.

Yelena stiffens. 

“Suspicious, how?” she mutters casually, reaching for a cookie.

Natasha closes the lid of the container and snatches it away before Yelena can grab it. 

“What did you two do?”

Alexei mumbles something into his hand, but Natasha’s already locked on to Yelena, who winces.

“Your girlfriend may have…possibly overheard us talking.”

“About what?” Natasha presses.

“Your ring that you got her,” Yelena admits, bracing for impact, before adding. “And Alexei mentioned you wanting to propose.”

Natasha groans and rubs a hand down her face.

“You two,” she mutters. “I swear to god…”

“Hey, how were we supposed to know she understood Russian?” Yelena defends.

“Da, you should’ve told us, Natasha,” Alexei agrees, crossing his arms.

Natasha just rolls her eyes before glancing toward the living room and sees you laughing softly with Melina as you both talk animatedly in Russian. Instantly, her irritation melts into something softer.

Because you heard. And the information didn’t seem to scare you off.

Placing the container back on the table, Natasha moves to join you. When she enters the living room, the soft clink of glass meeting wood draws her gaze immediately to where you’re seated with Melina. 

You’re curled comfortably into the armchair, cheeks tinged with warmth that isn’t entirely from the room’s temperature. Melina sits in the other armchair beside you, calmly refilling your glass with a steady pour and a faint, impressed smile on her lips.

You don’t even hesitate, raising the glass with a small toast and murmuring thanks in Russian. But your pronunciation is just slightly off. The syllables slur at the edges, your usual clarity muddled.

Natasha narrows her eyes.

She mentally counts—two glasses during dinner, one more after you stepped out with Melina… and now a fourth. Her eyes flick to the bottle on the side table, noting the high alcohol content. 

With a quiet sigh, Natasha strides over. You’re just lifting the glass to your lips again when she gently intercepts it, slipping it from your grasp before you can take another sip.

“Hey…” you whine softly, blinking up at her with a pout.

“Detka,” Natasha sighs, “my family has an elevated alcohol tolerance. You have a normal one.”

Melina lets out a quiet chuckle, unbothered. 

“I’m sorry,” she says with an amused twinkle in her eye. “You were such good company, I may have lost track.”

“It was really nice talking with you,” you say, voice lilting sweetly. “Even if your flower stories scare me a little.”

Melina gives you an affectionate pat on the arm before excusing herself. 

“I’ll leave you alone now. I need to check on the other two before they get into some trouble.”

“Too late,” Natasha mutters.

Once she’s gone, Natasha slides onto the armrest beside your chair, perched just above your shoulder. She’s watching you with the kind of expression that’s both exasperated and deeply fond.

“So,” she says, brow arched. “How are we feeling?”

You beam up at her with the kind of drunken smile that melts her on the spot. 

“S’good,” you say cheerfully, tapping her thigh like you’re letting her in on a secret. “I asked your mom to teach me something.”

Natasha’s brow furrows, intrigued.

“Oh yeah? What’d she teach you?”

You straighten slightly, gathering all your focus like it’s a mission. You take her hand in yours, lifting it gently between you.

You blink once, twice, then look her dead in the eye with as much serious gravity as you can summon in your wine-softened state.

“Natalia Alianovna Romanoff,” you say, slow and deliberate.

Natasha huffs in surprise, a low chuckle escaping her throat, at her full name that you probably got from her mother.

You take a breath, your accent slightly clumsy but the intent is crystal clear as you look up at her and say in Russian.

“Ty vyy-desh' za men-ya za…muzh?”

Will you marry me?

The room stills.

Your voice is slightly off, but the meaning—the emotion—lands with devastating clarity.

Natasha’s heart skips. Her fingers twitch slightly in yours.

“What do you think?” you ask, eyes wide. “Was it close?”

Natasha lets out a slow, shaky laugh and leans in closer, brushing a knuckle under your chin. 

“It was close,” she murmurs, then repeats it back to you, softer and steadier, in her perfect Russian accent.

“Ty vyydesh' za menya zamuzh?”

Will you marry me?

Your breath catches, a quiet smile blooming across your face. And you whisper back. 

“S udovol’stviyem.”

I’d love to.

Natasha leans in and kisses you, slow and gentle, her hand cradling your cheek with a tenderness that quiets everything else. When she pulls back, her lips hover close to yours.

“That’s nice to hear,” she says. “But…even if my family did ruin the surprise, you’re still going to have to wait for the proposal I planned before you get the ring.”

You blink up at her, your smile turning into a small pout that Natasha promptly kisses away.

“Preferably,” she adds, “when you don’t have four glasses of wine in you.”

You giggle softly. 

“So that means I’ll need to visit your family more. That way, your mom can help me practice my vows.”

Natasha gasps in mock hurt, shaking her head as she laughs. 

“Are you replacing me with my mom as your Russian tutor?”

You hum, resting your head briefly against her leg, tracing delicate patterns with your finger.

“You’ll always have the night sessions.”

Natasha’s breath catches at that. She lifts your chin gently, and her lips brush against yours in a lingering kiss. When she pulls away, her voice drops to a whisper.

“Obeshchayesh’?” 

Promise?

You smile, gaze soft as you press your forehead up against hers and whisper back, your voice trembling just slightly from the weight of it.

“Segodnya. Etoy noch’yu. I kazhdyy den’ dal’she. YA s toboy, Natasha.”

Today. This night. And every day after that. I’m with you, Natasha.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

[tickled-p1nk]

What the Heart Wants ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

CHAPTER 1 | RESPONSIBILITY AND REFUGE

⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆˙⟡ ✦

⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆˙⟡ ✦

: ̗̀➛ a/n: yes sir this is a multi-chapter fic, did it start out that way? nope. did it end that way? yes. : ̗̀➛ cw: none really, royal!dan heng x fem!servant!reader, reader is awkward and shy, meet cute, emperor!dan heng, royal!au, reader comes from a poor family, 2nd person pov, fluffy fluff to come, Dan Heng lies, secret identity trope, sfw : ̗̀➛ tags: @kimura-uzuri, @blushho

⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆˙⟡ ✦

Dan Heng had only come to the throne a short while ago and already had to deal with a war he hadn't started. There wasn't a moment of peace, being constantly bombarded with decisions that affected nations, the future, and living up to his father's legacy. None of this should have been his responsibility, especially since he hasn't even come to terms with his past and living up to his potential as Imbibator Lunae of his nation. But there was one thing… a refuge from all the chaos and pressure. A life without the expectations of status and leadership, somewhere he was safe, he could love and be loved.

You.

It started when you were working around the palace as a servant. Your family was poor, and you were sold to work at the imperial palace so they could pay off their debts. This was common practice for those in need, and it did have its benefits, a few at least.

Working at the palace, you never thought you would ever actually meet the emperor, the young leader of your warring nation. Though you did hear things, he was quite handsome and very skilled with the spear which was an odd choice for someone of his status. The women in the palace giggled about him but of course, none of you would ever have a chance with someone of his status. Or so you thought.

You ran into each other while you were cleaning the long hall. You were alone and quietly humming a song your mother used to sing to you. You missed your family If you were to be honest, you didn't know people here, though they were kind enough. They looked at you with sympathetic eyes, or envious ones, depending on where they came from. 

Suddenly, behind you, you heard footsteps, slowly came a young man. You eyed him cautiously, he seemed sleepy with heavy bags under his eyes, stress lines across his face despite his youthful appearance. He was fairly handsome if he were to fix his appearance a bit, short black hair and a lean but muscular build, you could tell due to his thin linen garb. He seemed like he was of high status due to the quality of his clothes, but nothing else signified status. You determined he was probably one of the more favored servants, though there was something about him that seemed eerily familiar.

He noticed your suspicious glances and became confused, does she not recognize me? He felt half offended and half amused. Well this is interesting.

Most people would have bowed their heads to him by now, it was the law, after all to bow in the presence of their emperor. He never really cared for it but it was strange to see someone not adhering to it.

“Can I help you with something?” You spoke, interrupting the staring contest.

“Oh no, sorry. Can I… help you…perhaps? Is there anything you require assistance with?” He wasn't used to making conversation where he was treated like an actual human being and not the answer to everyone's problems.

“Oh…hm…,” This handsome man was talking to you and asking if you needed anything, as someone who is starved for nurturing and love this was basically a marriage proposal, “could you help me reach the top of that shelf it's a bit too high for me to clean and I can't find a ladder.”

You expected him to go get a ladder or a stool if he knew where, not take the duster from your hand and do it himself.

“Oh! Uh….thank you.” You were a bit flustered, not only did you feel bad for having him dust the high shelves but when he was handing it back to you he was very close and very tall. You hoped he didn't notice how red your ears were getting at the moment “I didn't mean to make you do all that, my sincerest apologies.”

“Nonsense, I could reach it, and you needed help.” Dan Heng stated in a matter-of-fact tone, his teal eyes staring directly into your soul.

“What is your name, by the way? I didn’t seem to catch it,” you asked, despite the lump in your throat and the need to run away from this mysterious, handsome man.

He stared at you, stunned, I don’t want her to treat me differently, he paused before saying, “Dannie, and you?”

“Just Dannie?” you asked. It was strange to introduce yourself with what seemed like a first name.

“Yes.” He felt terrible for lying to an innocent person for no reason other than his selfish desires, but he wanted to indulge himself, just this once

“Hm, okay, Dannie, nice to meet you.”

You gave him your name, and you both stared at each other a bit, awkward silence taking over. You weren’t sure what to do or say after this point, not having much normal human interaction for the past year would do that.

Dan Heng, or “Dannie,” was the first to break the silence: “May I join you for the rest of your shift?”

You were surprised and perhaps slightly embarrassed but agreed nonetheless. It’s only to get to know the people I rule, of course, of course, yes, there was no other motivation whatsoever.

⋆✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊⋆˙⟡ ✦

: ̗̀➛ a/n pt 2: hello once more dear readers, and my darling dearest @all-skedaddle-and-no-bop

banner credit goes to: @kat_allioth on pinterest but idk who the actual artist is

stay tuned for the upcoming chapters!

masterlist next

[bettystonewell]

TO YOU I BELONG: CHAPTER 7

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Reader

Summary: Dean isn't looking for a mate, and the last place he expects to meet his soulmate is while on a case. Fate ain't real. He still has free will, and saving you is just another part of the job. Except, monsters aren't the only things you need saving from... 18+ only MDNI

Chapter Word Count: 6.7k words

Chapter Warnings: SMUT including knotting, claiming, and marking; language, references to past sexual abuse, fluff, Dean being an overprotective alpha, soulmate bonding

A/N: *Holdsbreathandhitspost*

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

Sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over, arms leaning on his thighs, Dean twisted the small pill bottle in his hands, listening as each tablet fell to the bottom. There weren’t many, six at most, and they rattled around in there, waiting for him to open the lid and take one out. 

Or man up and throw them in the trash like he’d planned.

The problem was, he knew how his body would react to not taking the daily suppressant. He’d experienced it before. And if his inner alpha was overprotective of you now, it was about to turn into a possessive dick the second the drug’s effects wore off in T minus twenty-four hours, if he…

No. 

Not if. 

He was doing this. He was gonna claim you and make you his.

Which is why even though the trashcan was only three feet in front of him, he still sat there unmoving from the memory-foam cushioning his ass…

Fuck. Why was this so hard? 

He put the pills down on his bedside table and leant back into the mattress, fishing his phone out from his jean pocket. The denim hugging his hips was too tight, and he had to lift himself up a few inches to yank the device free, unlocking it with a couple of taps and a swipe up.

His fingers continued to work the touch screen, locating contacts, flicking down to the letter J, and hitting the green call button. At least there was one thing he wasn’t hesitating over.

He heard the click and a familiar voice fondly speak his name before he’d even brought it up to his ear. 

“Dean Winchester.”

“Hey, Jody. How’s it going?” Dean stood up off the bed and moved to the closet. 

“Good. Although I’m a little surprised to hear you ask me that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The door creaked in protest, as did his back, though it cracked more than creaked when he arched over to reach his green duffle he’d thrown on the floor after the hunt in Iowa. The couple of weapons he hadn’t bothered to put away hit against each other as the bag swayed and gravity played with their weight.

“Just that you don’t call me unless you need something or someone’s dead. Oh god. Is Sam okay? What have you boys gotten into now?”

“Alright, first off, that’s insulting.” He emptied the contents onto the bed, pulling out a shirt that had wound its way around his shotgun. “And second.” He brought the fabric up to his nose for a sniff test. It needed washing, or burning with added salt. The remnants of nameless monster guts clung to the collar, and he didn’t hesitate to throw it out. Those pills though... “Everything’s fine. Sammy’s alive last time I checked.

“I wanted to know how you were. What’s wrong with that?” He caught the phone between his neck and shoulder, freeing his hands up to open the chamber of his prized weapon. The racking was rather loud when he closed it back again, and he grimaced. Jody was going to notice that.

“Nothing,” she said. “But that’s not why you’re calling.”

Why did he attract people who could see right through him? “Well, ah, to be honest, I need a favour.” He took a long breath in, preparing himself to deliver his news. “I met my soulmate and—”

“What?” Her high-pitched squeal had him dropping his shoulder and her. “Are you sure?”

Seriously! It’s like she was trying to cut him deep. “What do you mean, am I sure? I know my own damn initials,” he shouted down at his phone. Luckily, it had only landed on the bed. He did not have the patience or time to get a new one.

He ditched the shotgun and picked up Jody, bringing her back to his ear. 

“So you’re no longer running solo, huh? Finally claimed someone! What are they? An omega, a beta? Or another alpha like you?” She chuckled. “I’d love to see that.”

‘Bitch.’

‘Dude. This is Jody.’

‘She’s insulting our mate.’

‘No, she’s insulting you, you dick.’

“Ah, an omega, and I haven’t claimed her yet,” Dean said, cringing when his inner alpha interrupted him again. His eyes searched for the pill bottle and gave it a once over. No, no. This was gonna be hell, but he’d grin and bear it. “That’s why I was calling—”

It was mid-afternoon when he pulled up in the expansive car park the next day. Dean had chosen a space at the back of the lot, leaving at least two free ones in between the Impala, and nowhere near the return bays. The last thing he needed was some asshole being careless with their cart and scratching Baby’s sleek paint job.

He shifted the stick into P, shut her engine off, and released a loud, drawn-out sigh, before turning to you and your smiling face. It was the only thing making the inevitable onslaught of other people and his first ever venture into Walmart worthwhile. 

If he had his way, you’d be sitting out front of a secluded Gas n Sip. There was nothing wrong with gas station snacks and take out. At least that’s the argument he’d used against you. Needless to say, he’d failed. You had the doe-eyed look down pat and gave even Sammy a run for his money.

The leather squeaked beneath him as he reached over you and opened the glove box. He dug through the fake IDs and old maps that had no hope of leaving the small compartment anytime soon and retrieved his 1911, tucking it into the waistband of his pants like usual. When he sat back up, he found you staring at him in disbelief. “What?” he asked.

“You’re taking that?”

His jaw tightened. “I always carry it with me. You know that.”

“Yeah, but…we’re getting groceries. What are you expecting to happen in a grocery store?”

“Nothing.” Try everything. “But you can never be too careful.” Wolves like Garth had to buy their raw steaks from somewhere. Not that the ordinary bullets he’d pre-loaded into the gun would kill anything other than a human. They’d slow the rest down, though. That was enough for him, and he’d keep telling himself that.

“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, searching for the door handle.

Before he could squeeze his fingers against the cool metal, however, you had reached for his right and tugged at his arm. “You can wait here if you don’t want to go inside. I’m happy to—”

“Nope.” He gave one very forceful shake of his head. “Absolutely not.” There was no way he was letting you out of his sight with your impending heat. Screw his rut. 

Your pheromones had been changing by the hour, making you smell the sweetest and most enticing you’d ever been. His inner alpha was driving him crazy, and had done the entire drive, chanting, ‘Mine,’ ‘My omega,’ and now it told him to ‘Bring the machete.’ 

If only he could. 

‘I can’t hide a blade that big under my clothes,’ he reasoned. Although the demon knife wouldn’t hurt. It was a shame opening the trunk, with the devil’s trap on display in a place like this was bound to raise a few eyebrows. He did not want to draw any more attention to you.

Fuck. This was gonna be worse than hell. The rearview mirror was full of bodies and cars coming and going, and that was just the outside of the gigantic building. 

Who knew how many more people were still inside? Plenty by the stench of it.

It was too late to change his mind, though. He looked at you, holding your purse all ready to go on your lap. Frowning when it finally dawned on him that of all the things you had to wear today, you’d chosen a dress that accentuated your curves. 

He’d appreciated the view at lunch, but that was at a small town diner, somewhere off of route eighty-one. Now it was a different story, but you were clearly excited and while he didn’t for the life of him know why, he couldn’t just demand you waited here instead. That was as bad as you going in alone.

“C’mon,” he said, and climbed out of the car, shutting the door behind him with the usual creak and groan.

Dean would rather chow down on burgers than run for ‘fun’ like Sam. He wasn’t afraid to admit it. But on that day, in the middle of the Sioux Falls Walmart’s parking lot, he jogged even though he wasn’t being chased for the first time in his adult life, scooting across the gravel to intercept you before you crossed the safety of the meaningless lines.

Your eyes traced over him, studying him with a wry smile, your scent spiking along with it, as did his interest.

He could hear your heartbeat if he listened carefully. It thrummed in his ears as quick as his was, but unlike him, you seemed to contain it well. 

“Just think of it this way.” You patted his chest. “The more we buy, the longer we won’t have to leave Jody’s cabin.”

Now that was something he could get on board with, and though he thought it impossible in a place like this, his own mouth grew wide, drawing his blood back up and away from the conspicuous semi he was sporting.

The change didn’t last long.

“Woah.” He gripped your hand tighter and yanked it, making you stop. That fucking douche in the station wagon had come way too close to the curb for his liking. “Watch where you’re going, jackass!” he spat. His head following the rear bumper, oblivious to the other “dangers” the car park held.

‘She was almost hit.’

‘She’s fine.’ 

Your thumb moved to stroke the tops of his knuckles. “It was nowhere near us, Alpha.”

He turned to you with a furrowed brow at first, only picking up on your discomfort from his death grip when your other fingers started squirming under his. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said.

Your arm retreated with a shake of your wrist and he went for your lower back instead, guiding you with a gentle nudge and an extra look left for any more assholes who didn’t know how to drive.

The automatic doors opened as you both stepped onto the oversized mats and Dean beelined for the shopping carts grouped together on the side. Naturally, he needed to push yours. He’d be a purse-bitch if he had to, too. Anything to stop himself from acting rash and ripping your arm off again.

He let go of you, and yanked one out, swinging the steel trolley around with ease as if he were figure skating with it and reached for your waist when he had the thing facing in the direction of a second set of automated doors. The place was like airport security. 

“Are they gonna let us leave when we’re done?” he whispered to you.

“Not if you break something with that.” Your hand came up to his shoulder and tugged on his flannel, veering to the right while pointing to a large sign that said fresh produce. “Come on. I wanna go here first”

Great. Vegetables. Not to mention the abundance of people wandering around there and the just as many aisles and fruit he’d never seen before.

How many apples did you need?

Because you passed by red and green ones, mountains of them, and even then, they were apparently all different. Grandmas. Mount Fuji’s. What the hell did golden delicious mean and would it go into a pie?

You stepped away from him to look at a display that was labelled Pink.

They weren’t like any ladies he’d ever seen. The colour didn’t come close to anyone’s, including yours.

In each subsequent aisle after, Dean was both awestruck and dumbstruck at the amount of variety the place had. 

You led him past an entire rack of peanut butter, through a row of refrigerators that had him breathing out cold air from his nose, and he was still in doubt over what was in those cans that claimed to have a whole chicken in them. He was thankful you hadn’t stopped there to find out.  

Soon enough though, your cart filled up to the point he found himself playing Tetris with its contents after discovering Walmart also sold booze. 

Even if he didn’t drink it all on account of his rut, the case of his favourite beer he’d selected was coming with you and he was determined to make it work, with only a single banana being harmed in the process as he rearranged it all for a third time. He ditched the fruit on a shelf displaying margarita mixes and the two of you headed for the cashiers, his arm still wrapped around your waist.

He’d become a pro at steering the metal cage, though honestly, he could drive anything, and he was proud to say, you could leave the store as he’d had no accidents and no alpha had been harmed for looking at you.

Yet.

“Are you sure we need all this stuff?” he asked as you passed another couple with only half the things you had.

“This coming from the guy who had two slices of pie on top of his burger at lunch?” 

Point taken, he supposed, but you’d eaten just as much. You’d had more than him, come to think of it. Lunch, breakfast, the night before. So when you patted his stomach, and he looked down at you grinning at him, he couldn’t help but return a knowing smile.

“You’ll thank me later,” you said.

He knew he would. In more ways than one. 

Still on your way to the front, you passed the nesting department located opposite the cash registers. Of course, it was just another convenient ploy to gain some extra impulse buys from naïve omegas who hadn’t realised they needed that new blanket or another stuffy until they saw the giant pile of fluff.

To Dean’s distaste, you were also won over by the gimmick and he was pulled along for the ride. 

Yes, he was annoyed. He wanted to get you home, maybe taste your pink lady before things really started, and definitely not add more crap to your cart. But he couldn’t help but smirk as he watched your hands glide over every piece of fabric that piqued your fancy. 

Your fingers preened the threads. They stroked the tassels and the weird little fuzzy balls that stuck out like skin tags on an old person. Everything was falling into place, and he pushed all his grumbles aside.

Soon. Tomorrow at the latest, you would be his officially.

But while your inner omega delved into the world of fuzz and all things fluffy and he stood back contented with watching you, an elderly alpha whose back would snap if the wind blew at him too hard was also eyeing you as you picked up a certain colourful blanket that looked very familiar to Dean. 

The fucking perv was hanging around, preying on omegas such as you. He had to be. And he had the nerve to walk up to you and ask your opinions on the thing, as if he was interested in buying one. 

You humoured him, but Dean? He saw right through him.

So did the dick in his head. It was sending messages to his pants and his fingers flexed over the plastic handle of your cart, pulling his knuckles in and out of focus under his taut skin.

“I’ve had this before, but I used it in the living room when I wasn’t nesting too,” you said. “I find it holds scents better—”

As the old guy’s arm reached over to touch the blanket you were holding, Dean stepped in. That was too close for his liking and his inner alpha snarled, “She’s mine,” leading to the more sane version of himself, regretting not bringing the cart closer so he could push him with it. The floor was waxed enough for the wheels to slip and be blamed for any accident.

“This is your alpha?” the Master Roshi wannabe asked, looking Dean up and down. “But you haven’t—”

“Your nose works just fine, asshole,” Dean said through his teeth. “We’re here to get supplies for it, so fuck off.”

Dean turned his back on him and focused on you. His blood was boiling and had he been anywhere else, and that dick been any younger, he would’ve clipped him one. 

As it was, he could feel the old guy still hanging behind him and he dared not turn around for fear of really doing something.

He took the blanket you were holding from your hands and inspected it before placing it on the edge of the pile. It wouldn’t do now that he’d put his mitts on it.

Your mouth opened, about to protest, but Dean flashed you a grin, picked up another that he pulled from the very centre. “It holds people’s scents, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Then this is the one. Only touched you and me,” he said.

He was about to place the bundle on your piled shopping cart when he saw you pout. His hesitation, giving you the chance to pluck it out of his hands and into your arms where it stayed as he paid and drove, taking you to your final destination. A little cabin about thirty minutes north of the small city.

The first thing Dean noticed when he opened the door to Jody’s cabin was the pungent smell. “Is that…lavender?” he asked. His arm balancing the precious case of beer he’d found at Walmart.

“I’m surprised you know what it is.” You chuckled.

So did he, but it wasn’t like he selected the shampoo Sam bought. He just used whatever was on the shower shelf at the time and now recognised the word along with the purple packaging that meant the same flavour old folks and museums liked to spray in their bathrooms was contained inside. 

This didn’t suit Jody, though. She was a badass, and sure she enjoyed chick flicks and bubble baths (he assumed, because who didn’t), but… “She’s too young for this crap,” he muttered as he ran his free hand over the wall, searching for the light switch. 

At first, nothing besides the place smelling like grandma seemed out of the ordinary, but as he readjusted his load and stretched his bow legs over the threshold, it wasn’t the moaning of the floorboards underneath him from the weight of the glass bottles and their contents that caught his attention. It was the spots of something on the floor further inside.

Blood is what his mind went to. What else would a hunter with his skills think? 

Jody had become rather renowned for her side profession and could’ve pissed off a few dicks. Plus, this far into the woods would be an ideal location for wolves or even a nest to squat, and this town had seen its fair share. 

Of course, that wouldn’t explain the stench, or the fact she’d left the key for him under the mat and would’ve noticed something was amiss already, so unless whatever potential threat who was presumably squatting liked pot-pourri and hoodoo, it was a far stretch. 

Then again, witches? Maybe. But also, fuck, not again. Especially when he was this close to going into rut.

Dean looked over his shoulder and, “Wait here,” he said, moving only when your head acknowledged the instruction. 

Those same bow legs carried him down the wide hallway, his free arm kept right next to his side, ready and waiting to draw his gun. If it came down to it, he’d risk the booze, but he soon realised he didn’t have to. Whatever was scattered on the floor cast shadows over the wood grain and smelt just as nasty as the lavender.

The light from the entry wasn’t enough to see clearly even with his keen eyesight, so he lunged the case onto the small dining table with a thump and a tinkling from the glass and searched for another light switch.

Click.

The exposed bulb overhead flickered on, and Dean’s eyes went straight to the ground to be met with… petals? Red ones? 

Huh.

“S’okay, sweetheart. You can come in now. It’s just a bunch of flowers.”

Your steps across the floorboards barely made a noise over the crinkle of plastic from the shopping bags you carried. 

Dean strode over to you, pried the handles from your fingers, and lifted them up beside the casing of beer.

“Flowers and wine,” you said, and Dean flicked his head in the direction you were now headed.

On a small coffee table in the centre of a brilliant brick fireplace and a couple of old couches, two bottles of the stuff and what looked like a card had been placed. 

You picked the piece of folded paper up and read it aloud. “Congratulations, and enjoy your time alone together, J.” You handed the note to him as he approached with a sly smile. “We should buy her a gift before we leave town as a thankyou.” 

“More shopping? We got all that stuff so we wouldn’t have to go anywhere.”

While he was snarking, he scoped out your home for the next week, maybe two, noting the floofy pillows that would suit your needs for a few scenarios. 

“Later. Not now,” you said, and his arm pulled you close, wrapping tightly around your waist.

“It’s a nice idea.” The other scooped between you and shucked up your dress. “Enough about Jody. How’re ya feeling?” he asked against your mating gland, inhaling your scent. Sweet apple, spicy cinnamon, and a touch of whisky nipped at the edge of his throat. “Any changes?” 

Dick’s marks had completely gone. As had any traces of what he’d done to you and Dean was met with options. The right side, or the left for his claim. Maybe even both.

You leaned back with a quirked brow as his fingers ran over your underwear. “Not yet.”

“But you’re wet.” He brought you closer. You weren’t the only one excited. He found the elastic of your panties and slipped inside, skimming through your folds and your warm channel.

“Shouldn’t we get the groceries,” you said, but there was a hitch in your voice at the end when he dipped his middle finger further again.

“Can wait.” He breathed into your ear, pulling you closer to the fireplace and his lap on the couch.

Soon one touch led to another, and despite the many things that still needed to be done around the place before you settled in for the night, they were long forgotten, along with the rest of your groceries in the Impala. It was cold enough out in the woods that an hour wouldn’t hurt, and he would deal with the sigils and logs for a fire later. 

Dean wasted no more time sinking into you, meeting each rock of your hips for a thrust on the worn sofa by the fireplace, clothes still on. 

Best. Decision. Ever.

Even though the wooden frame creaked under your weight and he felt the need to plant his boots firmly into the shaggy rug beneath them to keep the thing upright.

His hands snuck up your dress and cast aside the cups of your bra to knead your slick covered tits. Your panties, pulled to the side, created an extra layer of friction as the elastic caught on his growing knot. 

An ever better decision than he thought, and he sat back, enjoying the show and the little gasps of pleasure you gave him when your clit hit his pubic bone at the perfect angle and ground against it.

“Dean, fuck.” Your hips buckled with one forceful slam.

“Feel good, baby?” He knew you were close. Your muscles fluttering around him and the fresh wave of your juices coating his twitching balls kinda gave it away. “You gonna come on my cock? Let me knot you?”

You were too lost in the moment to answer him. He didn’t care. He revelled in your grinding, how you were growing desperate, and by the way your eyes sparkled when he spoke of his knot.

“Alpha. Need your—” But you didn’t finish your sentence because your body finished on him. 

The climax ripped through you, drawing tremors from your legs, tickling his thighs and lower stomach. 

His hands took yours and pulled them to his neck, soothing your taut arms from your wrists to shoulders, grounding himself in the process. 

His balls were heavy, his sack on fire. Your cunt had sucked his knot inside and the pulses and trickles of your release had his instincts screaming to plough into you. But he wouldn’t. Not yet.

When his fingers moved to your hips and raised them up so that only the tip penetrated your core, your forehead dropped to his. Sweat mixing with sweat. Panted breaths warming his cheeks and lips. 

“Think you can give me one more?” he rasped.

Your laugh was airy. It came out as a shudder. Your skull rocked against his as you shook your head with it, and your hair tangled into his short brown tufts.

“Yeah, you can.” His eyes stared into yours, bouncing emerald green off of the pearly white that surrounded your own vibrant irises. 

His hand moved to stroke your clit with the rough pad of his thumb. 

“Fuck,” you whimpered, and Dean’s chest swelled with pride. 

“Yeah?” he asked with an air of confidence and pressed harder over the sensitive nub.

Your walls clamped around him again, just as he’d hoped. “Alpha, please,” you cried.

As much as he loved the idea of you begging him for it, the pressure down below was reaching boiling point, and he knew a couple of thrusts would do it for him. 

He lifted his ass off the cushion, and sunk halfway into you, tipping the sofa by the weight of his shoulders alone. His fingers on your hip gripped tighter, bruising the flesh below, as he steadied himself and in one fluid motion slammed you and him back down into the seat.

The furniture groaned in protest. 

Your moan was more of a high-pitched cry, and when he raised you up and down again and again in a vicious pace, and his thumb continued to press into your overstimulated clit, it turned into the best version of his name he’d ever heard.

“Omega,” he grunted. 

Your pussy was an inferno. That heat, the friction from your panties and your folds rubbing against him, and the vice-like crush from your inner walls on his shaft soon had him seeing white behind the eyes, leaving his other senses to pick up the slack. He felt each drop of blood pump through his body, from his ears to his knot. 

When it popped and thick, creamy waves of his release flooded your insides, dousing the flames, he swooped in for a searing kiss. 

Your lips were tart and sweet. If he didn’t know better, he’d say you’d been sipping that wine already or chowing down on strawberries, but he’d sat across from you at every meal that day and watched you like a hawk at Walmart so he knew exactly what you’d done and eaten. “Tell me that’s your heat coming on,” he said when he slumped backwards to look at you. 

“Likewise.” Your fingers twisted through his hair. “You feel warm, Alpha.” 

Dean’s boyish chuckle was breathy. “Sweetheart. It’s a house fire down there and that ain’t on me. I already tried putting it out.” 

You didn’t let him down. Your snort was adorable, and he gave you his best cheesy grin in return. 

His inner alpha was not so light-hearted, however, and even after it had gotten its fix and his knot was still very much stuck inside of you, it continued to grumble in the far reaches of his mind, wanting more.

The chant that he should claim you was growing old. He fucking knew that, but while your heat was close, it just hadn’t set in yet, and chomping down on your mating gland now was gonna hurt you unnecessarily. No. Dean would wait, focusing on what you needed in the moment, like any good mate would.

His hands moved to your thighs, grazing his fingers over your sweat lined skin. It was heated, and you shivered at the new sensation, but he wasn’t surrounded by copious amounts of slick and you seemed to have no discomfort. That was part of it, right?

“How’re you feeling?” he said again, and your whole body tensed. Even your inner walls, that had relaxed some, squeezed him tight once more.

“You really wanna know all the nitty-gritty details?” Your eyes narrowed on him. Your frown only deepened the intense gaze you were pulling, and Dean swallowed.

“You’re my mate.” He flashed a grin. “Claim and paperwork pending.” And when you shook your head and sunk into his chest, his lips brushed over your hair, moving his arms to wrap around you and pull you in tighter. “Tell me.”

“Fevers coming,” you mumbled. “Probably smell different?”

He sniffed the air. The usual cinnamon, a touch of vanilla, plus the apple and whisky, sex, and something he couldn’t quite put his finger on infiltrated his nostrils. Your scent was still as intoxicating to him as it had been the very first day you met. “You smell good,” he said, realising how terrible that sounded only after it had spewed from his mouth.

“I should hope so.” You swatted at him, and he hummed in amusement.

“What else?”

“Back aches. My whole lower half, actually.”

On that, Dean moved his hands and began kneading your heated flesh where he could only guess the worst discomfort was. He may not not have claimed someone, but he’d helped the odd omega through their heat, and he knew a thing or two.

“Here?” he asked, but your purr and a contented sigh answered him, and he smiled with reverie.

You fell asleep on him after that, allowing the impending fever to take over your body. He’d have preferred you to have eaten something or even made a trip to the bathroom, but he reminded his inner alpha that you both knew what you were doing.

Not that it was listening.

As he dead locked the back door and drew the last of the salt lines at the base of the wooden frame, it whined, and had Dean looking down.

“You scratched the circle.”

Yes, he was standing on the devil’s trap he’d drawn earlier, but there was not a scratch in sight.

“It’s fine,” he said, not bothering with internal thoughts, though his ears did prick for any hint he’d disturbed you in your sleep. He turned himself around to peer at your form on the other side of the room, but you were still on the couch where he’d left you.

Even from here in the kitchen, he could see the sheen of sweat on your forehead and your cheeks, now a different hue. Your oncoming heat had indeed brought on a fever and he knew when you awoke it would be game time.

The groceries had been brought in, beers sat in the fridge, and he’d even moved the mattress from the master bedroom and set it down before the roaring fire he’d started in the fireplace.

His body and mind were prepped, too. He just wished things would hurry along because you and the flames weren’t the only things heating up the room.

The tip of his cock was a painful red. It was swollen and oozing pre-cum, and though he’d emptied himself into you a couple of hours earlier, as he opened the fridge door and leant down to retrieve a beer, a few drops left his slit and dribbled down his shaft to pool at the dip above his knot.

Fuck. He was overflowing now.

He’d almost come twice in his pants from your scent alone, and after the second occurrence, he ditched them, choosing to wear just his boxers and undershirt.

He reached down and wiped his hand over the soiled underwear, hissing from pleasure and pain as his palm swiped over the sensitive head. But when more leaked from his slit, he gave up and removed them instead, leaving them on the floor to clean up later with the spill.

He grabbed his drink and shut the door, turning back around to find you sitting up, staring at him, and time stopped.

You were awake…

And he was…

“Omega.”

The switch somewhere deep inside of him flicked, and he found himself falling into a familiar place in the backseat of his mind.

Dean was no longer in control of his body, but he still saw, heard and felt everything. His heartbeat, his feet padding across the floor, and the irises in your eyes as he drew closer, sparkling from the flicker of light in the fireplace.

And when your voice said, “Alpha”, just as his had been replaced by the low rumble he knew as well as the back of his hand, yours had changed to a softer, more melodic version of the one he recognised as yours.

You were on him the second he stepped up to you. Your fingers wrapped around his agitated cock, and Dean’s growl reverberated low in his chest as the sweet flavour of apple flooded his senses. “Omega. Mine,” his alpha rasped.

He could practically taste you on his tongue. He could certainly feel your heated skin on him as you worked his length, but the massaging did little to douse the flames in his pulsing sack, and his slit continued to weep.

“Alpha,” you purred, as his seed created a trail down onto your hands. 

‘Fuck.’

Dean licked his lips and grabbed at your dress, yanking at the fabric to get you free. He wanted to see you. To feast his eyes on your breasts and, more importantly, bury himself in your dripping cunt again and again. 

His hands pawed at your neckline, growing flustered when it didn’t budge, and red marks from the edging cutting into your skin from his tugs appeared.

“Let me.” You touched his cheek, nodding your head with assurance when his alpha glowered with his pride. 

The thought of needing assistance and less friction on his hardened flesh had his temper rising. “Fine,” he spat. “But hurry up.”

Your breasts pushed towards him as you reached behind yourself to undo the zip. Each click of the metal prongs being pulled apart met his ears, but it was far too slow for his alpha’s liking and soon Dean was pawing at the garment again. 

Once it was loose enough, he plucked it from your body and threw it along with your bra and panties over his head, corralling you where he saw fit.

He planted your chin, chest and calves into the mattress. He forced your rear into the air, presenting your glistening folds, much to his delight. The copious amounts of fluid Dean had imagined earlier engulfed your entrance and laced the inner creases of your thighs.

His nose honed into your centre, breathing in the tangy slick as he ran his lips through yours. The pad of his thumb found your clit, and it flicked against the small bud, eliciting moans, whimpers, and gasps, all stroking his ego. All urging him to continue.

When you shuddered, his mouth curved at the sides. His alpha taking everything it wanted from you, pulling more and more of your release from deep within your body. His dick throbbed at the sight.

If you were making a mess, he’d created an oil spill. Pre-cum continued to leak from his tip, and soon even he was begging the beast in control to do something about it. 

‘Claim her. Make her ours.’

He’d agonised over claiming you since you’d met and now that the opportunity presented itself, he didn’t wanna draw it out any longer. He needed you in more ways than one, and the alpha obliged. 

With a feral smirk, his fingers ran back over your folds, earning another whimper from your lungs and another wave of slick to surge from your body. The same hand came up and took hold of himself, pumping once, twice, three times, before lining up and ramming into you. 

Your hips buckled at the intrusion. Yet when he pulled out again so that only his head sat warm and snug inside, you inched back onto him, demanding his attention.

“There’s my beautiful omega.” He chuckled, as you continued to drag your pussy over him. “So perfect, and still hungry for more.” His fingers dug into your hips and he pushed into you again, giving you what you both wanted. “You need your alpha to knot you, baby girl?”

Your response was to moan, and the sound urged him on. “Yeah, you do,” he grunted. His thrusts, hard and fast. “You need your alpha to put out the fire.” 

Every piece of him enjoyed the view of you taking him in, from the tip to his swelling knot. Your walls kept squeezing and pulling him in deeper. “So fucking good ‘mega. Gonna fill you up and make you mine.”

He relaxed his grip on you and crawled up your spine, pushing your body down further into the mattress, and himself further into you. “Say it. Tell me you wanna be mine.” 

“I wanna be yours,” you said between pants, and Dean groaned against the edge of your hairline. He was so close to your mating gland, he could taste the sweet blood below the surface. 

He pulled your hair to the side and traced his tongue over the delicate skin of your neck, licking and sucking a path to his goal. He inhaled your scent when he found the pulse point and rubbed whiskey and leather and a hint of buttery pastry onto you before his teeth moved to scrape over the sensitive flesh. His body froze above you.

The canines broke the thin barrier first, and when his incisors sunk into you next, the metallic warmth of your lifeblood rushed into his mouth and trickled down his throat. 

As he swallowed, and continued to press his bite into you, a wave of electricity spread over him. Every nerve, every hair, every drop of sweat tingled and while his arms and legs grew heavy, his head lightened and memories long forgotten climbed to the surface and flashed before his eyes.

Amongst them, Bobby’s death, and his time in hell before it. The agony of losing Sammy to the cage when Dean knew what awaited him. The mark taking over his life and losing people because of it. Their screams. Their cries. The hatred as his own weapon carved into them. The Steins, Abbadon, Randy.

But then the voice of a female overtook them. One so familiar, yet one he couldn’t quite place. Her pleas cut him deep, churning his insides as if each organ were drowning in a sea of acid.

“No, no. Please don’t.”

“I swear, I’ve never seen him before.”

“He just helped me, that’s all.”

“Baby, please.”

The more he heard her words, the more his face cut into Dean’s memories, and “Ritchie, stop! Please!” stood out amongst all else.

That’s when he realised who the cries belonged to. The tears, the pain, the dread. They weren’t his, they were…

…yours.

Brilliant green eyes stared back at you as your alpha licked at the wound on your mating gland. He’d started thrusting again, and while the pressure deep in your gut begged for his knot and his essence, your mind was more focused on those eyes.

Their sparkle that you’d come to know was lost, faded, and full of pain. He was being tortured. Fire and chains reflected in them and on his freckled skin, marred by blood and scars so fresh, you couldn’t place them from what was before you now.

Dean was hurt. He was—

“Sammy!” he yelled.

“The mark isn’t gonna kill me,” he spat.

But when you tried to call out to him and soothe the ache you felt, he couldn’t hear you because your inner omega was in the driver’s seat. And while she cared for you as much as you did for her, for Dean, she was more concerned with the alpha’s thrusts. With mewling. With encouraging him. With drawing his knot in.

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

And there we are ✌️

I've been agonisingly waiting for this one, and I do hope you were surprised. I’m rather proud of the POV switch up. We will still get in Dean’s head, but we’ll also be in hers which is perfect for what’s about to come.

Remember how I keep mentioning not to get too comfortable, well, here we are. Do you think they'll pull through all this new information?

The next chapter will potentially be triggering for some readers. Mentions of pregnancy loss is included amongst what we've already seen and explored, but things are going to come out in more details including how extensive Dick’s abuse was.

Chapter 8: Disconcerting 11/04

You.

You weren’t supposed to be a part of that chapter in his life. He’d planned to keep you at a distance from all of it. He…

He.

He looked up so that he wouldn’t see your face through the kaleidoscope of colours that his wet eyes brought with them. “I—” All he could do was squeeze you tighter.

“Dean. It’s okay.”

He still didn’t have the words to continue his apology. Nothing could ever make up for what you’d seen, and his voice caught in the lump that had manifested in his throat. By the time it did reach the surface, it sounded more like that of a small child, then that of a grown man.

“No, it’s not.”

“It is.”

“S’not. This is what I was trying to keep ya from.” 

He was dangerous. He was a grunt. He was mud on the sole of his boot, and you? He’d brought you into this shitty life of his. “It’s bad enough you had to go through what Dick did to you. But he did it ‘cause of me. I’m poison, and if you hadn’t met me, you—”

@globetrotter28 @ambiguous-avery @arcannaa @jollyhunter @zepskies

@reluctanthalfwayoptimism @supernotnatural2005 @jackles010378 @kaz-2y5-spn @applelovesposts

@jaydensluv @foxyjwls007 @deans-spinster-witch @roseblue373 @waynes-multiverse

@kazchester-fanfiction @maddie0101 @ladykitana90 @luvr4miya @amyjam78

@stoneyggirl2 @winchesterwild78 @missywinchester15 @deansbbyx @kr804573

@lyarr24 @salemslostwitch @mostlymarvelgirl @ladysparkles78 @multiversefanfics

@31miw-inkpsycho @yoursrosie @Theantisoci-alone @roseamie13 @krazykelly

@my-stories-vault @amberlthomas @levine-23 @ultimatecin73 @district447

@hobby27 @aylacavebear @stellawritesstories

If you’d like to be tagged in anything, please let me know, or you can add yourself HERE

[alive-gh0st]

˗ˏˋ❝Afterglow❞ˎˊ˗

Mark Grayson x Med!Reader♡ྀི

…..ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨..ـ...

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⛨ summary: you’re not sure what’s worse—his fake injuries or the way he keeps looking at you like he means it. like every visit is a reason to linger. like he wants you to see past the bruises and the bad lies and into something soft he’s trying to hide. he keeps showing up. you keep letting him. and eventually… one of you might break.

⛨ contains: sfw. slow burn tension at an all-time high. hospital flirting™. jealous glances. workplace drama. late-night phone calls. hand-hovering intimacy. emotional constipation (again). patch-up scene of doom. reader being flustered over a waist. mark being a tease. romantic yearning disguised as sarcasm. supply closet violations (almost). contact name crimes.

⛨ warnings: mild language. blood & injury treatment. bruises. longing. accidental touching. slow descent into horniness. future boyfriend antics. emotional walls. one almost-kiss. reader going feral over abs. mark’s v-line. reader’s vices.

⛨ wc: 4808

prologue, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: i fear reader is down bad in ways that violate at least three hospital policies and one moral code. but like… have you seen mark’s waist? i wouldn’t have survived either. chapter four will be worse—stay safe out there.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’ve seen a lot of stupid injuries.

People impaling themselves with forks. A guy who tried to ’karate kick’ a vending machine. That one time someone walked into the ER because he thought his left eyebrow felt ’possessed.’

But this?

This is getting ridiculous.

Because standing in front of you—again, for the third time in two weeks—is him.

Mark Grayson.

Wrist wrapped in a pitiful excuse for an ice pack, wearing a hoodie that probably used to be gray but now lives in that existential space between ‘charcoal’ and ‘regret.’

And offering you the same crooked, annoyingly charming grin you’re starting to see in your sleep.

He lifts the ice pack with a wince. “I think I sprained it.”

You blink.

Then you blink again—slower this time.

You don’t even respond at first—you just grab the chart, grab the gloves, and hope no one notices the way your jaw clenches so tight it could crack.

“Room four,” you say.

He follows you.

Of course he follows you.

“Doesn’t really hurt that much,” he says casually once you’re in the room, like that’ll make it better.

“I mean, I can still move it a little. Mostly came in to make sure it’s not, y’know, falling off or something.”

You give him a look that should legally count as malpractice.

He shrugs, sheepish. “Okay. Bad joke.”

You ignore him. You’re professional. Clinical. Efficient. The exact opposite of how your heart is acting right now—beating like it just clocked into overtime.

The glove snaps around your wrist with more force than necessary.

“Left wrist?” you ask flatly.

He nods, holding it out like a peace offering. You take it—gently, despite everything—and start checking for swelling, bone displacement, range of motion.

You do not notice how warm his skin is under your fingers.

You do not notice how his eyes are watching you the whole time, like he’s waiting for you to laugh at his pain or say something sarcastic.

You do not notice how close he is.

How human he looks. How normal he acts, even though every part of your gut screams that he’s something else entirely.

Still. You say nothing.

Instead—

“How’d it happen?”

Mark pauses.

Too long.

“Uh… tripped. Over a… rug. At a friend’s house.”

A beat.

You raise an eyebrow. “A rug.”

“Yeah. Big one.”

Your stare is surgical. “Right.”

He clears his throat. “You probably had to be there.”

You don’t laugh. Not even a smile.

But your lips twitch.

You hate him.

The chart says ’minor sprain.’

Your notes say ’watch for re-injury.’

Your brain says, he’s lying through his teeth.

You hand him the discharge slip and turn to leave, already planning your lunch break that will now include exactly two Tylenol and one existential crisis.

But then—

“Thanks, by the way.”

You pause. Glance over your shoulder.

Mark’s still sitting on the exam bed, eyes soft. Voice softer. “For not yelling at me this time.”

You look at him. Really look at him.

His smile is lopsided. Wrist still slightly swollen. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows like he’s trying to look more pathetic.

You exhale. “Next time, make it believable.”

He grins. “That a promise?”

You’re already walking away.

You don’t see it—but Mark watches you leave like he wants you to look back. Like he’s hoping one of these visits will make you stay just a second longer.

Maybe next time.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It happens again.

And again.

And again.

At this point, your coworkers don’t even ask for his name. He walks in, waves a little, and someone—usually Nurse Carla, with a look that says you owe me lunch—just hands him a clipboard and sends him your way.

“Room nine,” she tells you one night, like it’s the weather forecast. “Your favorite repeat offender’s back.”

You don’t look up. “What is it this time? Terminal idiot disease?”

“He says shoulder strain. Won’t shut up about a ‘kitchen incident.’”

You sigh. Loudly. Aggressively.

And go.

“Let me guess,” you say before the door even finishes clicking shut behind you. “Rug attack again?”

Mark’s seated on the exam bed, hoodie sleeves rolled up, one hand gingerly rubbing at his shoulder. He perks up when he sees you.

“Oh, hey. Nah, kitchen accident this time.”

You squint at him. “Did the fridge try to fight back?”

“I slipped on a rogue piece of ice. Could’ve died.”

You stare.

He grins.

You want to throw a scalpel.

You don’t. Mostly because there’s paperwork involved. And prison.

Instead, you grab a pair of gloves and walk over like you’re not already halfway spiraling.

The diagnosis is, once again, technically valid. Nothing torn. Just overuse. Strain.

But the frequency is… suspicious.

Mark Grayson is either the most accident-prone civilian on the planet or—

No. You’re not going there.

You’re not paid enough to unravel the chaos behind that stupidly warm smile and suspiciously nice arms. You’re here to treat the shoulder and move on.

That’s it.

So you press a little harder on the muscle and maybe enjoy it a little when he winces.

“Sorry,” you say, not sounding sorry at all.

He hisses. “Revenge?”

You tilt your head. “For what?”

“For existing.”

You pause. “That’s not a denial.”

He smiles again. “If this is your version of flirting, it’s medically inadvisable.”

You blink.

And then you’re laughing—short, sharp, a little horrified.

He lights up like it’s the first time he’s ever made you laugh, and it’s Christmas morning.

That’s when it hits you.

He’s not coming back because he’s hurt.

He’s coming back because of you.

And that’s a problem.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Everyone knows.

It’s not subtle. It’s not secret. It’s not even slightly professional.

Mark Grayson has been in this hospital more times than the janitorial staff this month, and everyone has noticed.

Receptionists wave at him like he’s a returning sitcom character.

Orderlies call him “Crash Boy” behind his back (and sometimes to his face).

The lab techs have started taking bets on what his next injury will be.

You don’t participate.

You’re above it. You’re focused. Clinical. Efficient.

Totally not spiraling.

Totally not hearing the group of nurses whispering near the vending machines with wide eyes and hushed giggles like they’re in a goddamn K-drama.

“She’s totally into him.”

“Did you see the way he smiled at her?”

“If that was my patient, I’d fake a fall too.”

You walk faster.

You’re fine.

You’re great.

You’re professionally ignoring it like any emotionally stable adult would.

Even Carla’s in on it.

And she doesn’t say a thing.

Just watches. With those all-knowing eyes. That judgmental smirk. The silence of someone who is absolutely clocking your entire life.

You’d honestly prefer if she just made fun of you. That would be less terrifying.

But the worst moment?

The moment that breaks you?

It happens at the nurse’s station on a Tuesday.

You’re just finishing up paperwork when he strolls in. Casual. Bright-eyed. Smiling like he belongs here.

He chats with a few nurses. One of them—you don’t know her name, she’s new, she’s probably still in school—laughs too hard at something he says.

Her hand lingers on his forearm. She tosses her hair. Her scrubs are—unfairly flattering.

You’re not looking.

You’re definitely not glaring.

Okay, maybe you are.

But then—she slips him a piece of paper. Probably with her number. In front of you.

You nearly rupture a blood vessel.

Mark looks confused at first. Then a little smug. And then—he looks over.

Sees your expression.

The twitch in your jaw. The vein in your forehead. The pure murder behind your eyes.

And he chuckles.

Chuckles.

Like some teenage fanboy who just realized you’re jealous.

You want to disappear. Or commit a minor crime. Or both.

You choose to dramatically slam a clipboard and walk away before you punch something.

You do not look back.

(You do.)

And he’s still watching you. Grinning like he just won a game you didn’t know you were playing.

You hate him.

So much.

(You don’t.)

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Your day off is sacred.

It’s the only time you can collapse onto your couch, wear pajamas that should be considered a war crime, and pretend your job doesn’t exist.

So when your phone buzzes mid-coffee sip, you glance at the screen with the enthusiasm of a corpse.

✆ Unknown Number:

hey. quick q—how long is soreness supposed to last after a shoulder strain?

You blink.

Stare.

Frown.

Then sigh like you’ve just aged thirty years.

Because of course it’s him.

A few seconds later, another text follows.

it’s mark btw. grayson.

didn’t wanna bother you but i also don’t wanna die of arm failure sooo

You roll your eyes. Hard. So hard, your soul might’ve left your body for a second.

You type back.

That depends.

Did you slip on another ice cube or fight a blender this time?

There’s a pause. Then—

wow.

harsh.

i’ll have you know the blender and i are in a good place now.

You shake your head, but your fingers move before you can stop them.

ice it 20 mins on, 20 off. stretch it lightly.

if it starts throbbing, go in for imaging.

A pause.

so you do care

You close your eyes.

unfortunately.

That’s how it starts.

Little check-ins. Random questions. Half-medical, half-ridiculous.

✆ Unknown Number:

is it normal to be this tired after walking up stairs?

or am i dying

✆ Unknown Number:

asking for a friend—what happens if you take tylenol on an empty stomach but also 3 gummy worms

✆ Unknown Number:

totally unrelated but like

hypothetically

if someone wanted your coffee order

what would that be

You don’t save his number.

You don’t need to.

You know it now—by the rhythm of his texts, the way he never uses caps, how he spells “definitely” wrong every single time.

He’s just there.

Sitting quietly in your phone like a secret. A quiet, buzzing, annoying little constant.

And maybe…

Maybe you start looking forward to it.

Even when you pretend you don’t.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

It starts with a simple text.

✆ Unknown Number:

you up?

No context. No greeting. No injury.

Just that.

You stare at it for a long minute, thumb hovering, debating whether to throw your phone across the room or call 911.

Eventually, you settle for the less dramatic option.

You call him.

The line clicks. He answers on the first ring.

“Hey.”

His voice is soft. Like he didn’t expect you to actually call. Like he’d already braced for rejection and is now wildly unprepared.

You roll your eyes. “If this is about a medical emergency, I swear to God—”

“It’s not.” A pause.

“I just… couldn’t sleep.”

Your mouth opens, then closes again.

You’re in your kitchen. Hoodie. Slippers. Lights off. Phone pressed to your ear like a lifeline.

“What do you want, Grayson?”

He breathes a laugh. “Dunno. Talk? You don’t have to, obviously. I just—thought of you.”

Silence.

Then—“…You always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. Like you’re not trying to ruin someone’s night on purpose.”

He chuckles. “Only yours.”

You’re going to kill him. Slowly. Lovingly. Maybe with a pillow.

Still—you don’t hang up.

You lean against the counter instead, phone wedged between your cheek and shoulder, arms crossed over your chest.

“What did you do today?” you ask, voice quieter than you want it to be.

He hums.

“Got yelled at by a coffee machine. Ate cereal with a fork. Thought about texting you like eight times before actually doing it.”

You snort.

“Your turn,” he says.

You shrug, even though he can’t see it.

“Saved some idiot’s leg. Again. Almost killed Carla with a clipboard. Avoided committing a felony.”

“Proud of you.”

A breath.

Then another.

You don’t talk for a while after that.

Just… exist. Two quiet people sharing the same silence. The same phone line. The same heartbeat pacing slow and low under your skin.

He breaks it first.

“You always sound tired,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You close your eyes.

“You always sound like you’re hiding something,” you say back.

That shuts him up.

Not in a bad way. Just… in a way that says he wasn’t expecting that. That maybe you’re both too honest right now.

Or maybe not enough.

The next thing you know, your head’s on the pillow.

The phone’s still pressed to your ear.

His breathing is slow. Steady.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up the next morning and see the call log.

Call ended: 4 hours, 57 minutes.

You stare at it.

Then lock your phone.

You don’t say anything.

But the next night?

He texts you again.

✆ Unknown Number:

up?

And somehow, it’s already part of the routine.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t see his name on the intake board.

Which would be great.

Except—he’s here anyway.

Mark Grayson. Not limping. Not bleeding. Not holding an ice pack or pretending to have an invisible concussion.

Just… standing.

In the waiting area.

Smiling at the front desk like he owns the place.

You spot him during a chart pickup and physically pause. Like your body’s buffering. Like your brain is trying to update to the latest version of What the Hell Is He Doing Here 2.0.

He catches your stare instantly and waves. A little too enthusiastically. Like this is a surprise party and not a professional workplace.

You approach slowly. Warily. Already drafting an internal HR complaint in your head.

“You’re not even bleeding this time,” you say by way of greeting.

Mark shrugs, like you’ve just asked him what he had for lunch.

“I was in the area. Thought I’d stop by. Y’know—check on my favorite doctor.”

You stare at him.

“This is a hospital,” you say flatly. “Not a Starbucks.”

He gasps. “Wow. You wound me.”

“I’ll do more than that if you don’t get out of my hallway.”

He grins.

You really hate him.

(You don’t.)

All you can try to do is simply ignore him.

Really, you try to do so.

But he’s too tall. Too warm. Too smug. He somehow makes the break room coffee smell good, which should be physically impossible.

He chats with a nurse his age. Then another.

You watch it unfold over the rim of your clipboard with all the restraint of a saint and the rage of a woman one bad laugh away from murder.

One nurse touches his arm.

Another giggles—like really giggles.

You swear one of them actually twirls her hair.

And that’s it.

You corner him in the supply closet six minutes later.

Mark blinks as you slam the door shut behind you.

“Okay,” he says slowly, “this is new.”

You don’t even let him finish.

“You can’t just hang around here like this is a date,” you hiss.

“A… date?”

You wave a hand at the closed door.

“Talking to people. Smiling. Giggling—God, someone giggled. Do you know how hard it is to get people to even smile around here?”

Mark blinks again.

Then says, “Are you… jealous?”

You short-circuit.

“No,” you say too quickly. “Obviously not. That would be insane.”

“Right. Totally insane.” He nods, mock-serious. “Because it’s not like you dragged me into a closet or anything.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then try again.

“I’m trying to keep this professional.”

Mark takes a step forward.

You immediately take one back.

He keeps going.

Another step. Then another. Until your back hits the shelf and he’s right there. Not touching. Not crowding. But close.

Too close.

His arms cage around you—not touching, just braced on either side of your head. Heat radiates off him like a furnace.

His voice drops to something low. Steady.

“I didn’t come here for them.”

You don’t breathe.

His eyes scan your face, softer than you’ve ever seen them. “I’m only here for you.”

You want to say something.

Something scathing. Something sarcastic.

But the words fumble on your tongue and disappear altogether when his gaze drops to your mouth—just for a second.

Just long enough to make your pulse stutter.

You hate him.

So, so much.

(You don’t.)

This is completely unprofessional. Entirely against hospital policy.

And for some godawful reason?

You don’t want him to leave.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

Mark’s been a lot of things lately.

Tired. Sore. Bad at lying. Worse at staying away.

But mostly? He’s confused.

Because this—you—were never supposed to matter this much.

It started as curiosity. That’s what he tells himself.

Just some random hospital visit. He hadn’t been hurt, not really. Just enough to limp in as a civilian and sit through the fluorescent light misery like everyone else.

You’d been there.

Sharp. Efficient. Not a hint of softness in your tone. Told him to sit down and shut up like you hadn’t even noticed his face. Like you didn’t care.

He’d been hooked instantly.

You didn’t even blink.

And Mark couldn’t stop thinking about it.

So… yeah.

He came back.

The first fake injury had been dumb. He knows that now.

Sprained wrist, lame excuse. He’d tried to play it cool. He’d tried to be casual.

You didn’t buy it for a second.

But you also didn’t call him out. Not really.

You examined him like a puzzle piece you weren’t quite sure how to hold. Cold hands. Precise words. Steady fingers on his skin.

He’s never had to try this hard just to be noticed.

And it’s not even about the attention.

It’s about you.

He loves the way you frown at your clipboard. The way your voice drops when you’re tired. The way you say his name like you’re chewing on it, like you’re deciding whether it’s worth swallowing.

You think he doesn’t notice, but he does.

Every time your stare lingers.

Every time your fingers hover a little longer than they need to.

Every time your lips twitch when you’re pretending not to laugh.

It drives him crazy.

But there’s a problem.

You don’t know who he is.

You know Mark Grayson. College kid. Chronic klutz. Occasional insomniac.

You don’t know Invincible.

Not really.

Sure, you saw him twice—that version of him. But you hadn’t seen his face. You hadn’t put the pieces together. And he hadn’t given you a reason to.

Because if he tells you—

If he lets you in—

You might leave.

You might stop talking to him. You might look at him like everyone else does—too bright. Too strong. Too alien.

You might stop smiling at him like he’s just a guy.

And he loves that.

God, he loves that.

He loves being just a guy with you.

Not a hero. Not a name. Just a stupid, reckless twenty-something who texts you too much and doesn’t know how to say what he’s feeling without turning it into a joke.

He wants more.

He really does.

But he wants this even more—the late night calls. The sarcastic banter. The look on your face when you think he’s full of shit but don’t hate him for it.

So he waits.

And waits.

And waits some more.

Because maybe, one day, he’ll tell you everything.

But for now?

He just wants to hear you say his name again.

Just Mark.

Just yours.

‎٨ـﮩﮩ٨ﮩ_ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ෴ﮩ____

You don’t expect to hear your doorbell.

Not this late. Not on a night like this.

So when it rings—once, then again, a little longer—you groan from the couch, hoodie half-on, takeout half-eaten, dignity fully gone.

You don’t rush. Just shuffle toward the door like a zombie. Ready to murder whoever it is with a spoon.

But then you open it.

And—

Oh.

It’s him.

Mark.

He’s leaning against the frame, hood down, hair a mess. His face is pale. His lips are tight.

And there’s blood—real blood—trickling sluggishly down the side of his abdomen, soaking into his shirt.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice thin.

“Think I… might actually need medical attention this time.”

You stare at him.

Then blink.

Then stare harder.

“…What, no blender story?” you say automatically. Your tone is flat. A reflex. Something to hide the sudden weight in your throat.

He gives you a half-smile—weak, lopsided. “Didn’t wanna disrespect the blender.”

And then he sways.

You catch his arm before he can stumble. It’s instinct. It’s muscle memory. It’s terrifying.

“Jesus,” you mutter, hauling him inside. “You’re such a goddamn idiot.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, the faintest laugh. “But I’m your idiot, right?”

You don’t answer.

You just lock the door behind you. Lead him to the couch. Grab the med kit without thinking. Your hands are already in motion before your brain can catch up.

Because it’s not a joke this time. Not some bruised ego or imaginary fracture. It’s real.

He’s hurt.

And for some reason, that makes your chest ache more than it should.

You kneel in front of him, snapping on gloves with a sharp snap that sounds a lot more confident than you feel.

“Lift your shirt.”

Mark blinks. “Buy me dinner first.”

You glare.

He winces, lifts it anyway—slowly. Hesitantly.

And holy fuck.

It’s worse than you thought.

A deep gash across his side, jagged and angry and still bleeding sluggishly. Bruises blooming along his ribs in shades you don’t want to name. A few smaller cuts littered across his chest. There’s dried blood on his collarbone.

He exhales when your fingers ghost near the edge of the wound.

“Didn’t know where else to go,” he says quietly. “Didn’t want to go in. Not like this.”

You say nothing.

Because now? Now it’s not funny.

Not even a little.

You dip gauze in antiseptic, press it to the worst cut. He hisses.

“Sorry,” you murmur, but your voice sounds strange—tight.

Small.

Mark watches you. Watches your hands. The furrow in your brow. The tension in your jaw.

He doesn’t say a word.

You clean around the injury carefully. Work in silence. You try not to notice how warm his skin is.

How his breath stutters every time your hand brushes too close to his ribs.

You fail.

Utterly.

“You’re not the first moron to bleed in my hands,” you say after a long pause.

He huffs something like a laugh. “But your favorite, right?”

Your eyes flick up to meet his.

Mistake.

He’s looking at you—really looking at you.

His eyes burn into you like he’s memorizing you. Like he already has.

Something in your chest tugs.

You go back to patching him up like it’ll distract you. Like your hands aren’t shaking a little. Like your heart isn’t beating faster with every inch of exposed skin.

He closes his eyes briefly when your fingers graze a bruise. You feel his stomach twitch beneath your palm.

“Sorry,” you whisper again. Your voice is breathy this time. Too soft.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

“You keep showing up like this.”

His lips tilt—not quite a smile. “Can’t help it. You make a damn good doctor.”

“Flattery won’t stop me from punching you.”

He opens one eye. “You’d patch me up after, though?”

You don’t answer.

You’re too busy staring at the cut. At the curve of his waist. At the way he breathes when you touch him.

You don’t mean to react. But God, he looks too good.

His waist—narrow and stupidly defined—tapers in like he was sculpted on purpose. Abs tight. Skin flushed. There’s blood, yes, and bruises, but all your traitorous brain can focus on is how good he looks like this.

Cut-up and pretty.

Which is horrifying.

You are a medical professional.

You are a grown woman.

You should not be getting distracted by the slope of some twenty-year-old’s V-line while he’s actively bleeding out in your living room.

But when his breath stutters under your touch, when his abdomen flinches ever-so-slightly with a soft, involuntary sound—

Yeah.

You absolute freak.

You try to focus. Really.

But your fingers keep brushing the edge of his hipbone, your eyes keep catching the way his chest rises and falls—and every time he winces, there’s a noise. Barely audible. Low and quiet and fuck, why is that attractive?

You press gauze harder than necessary.

He exhales sharply, jaw clenching. “You trying to kill me?”

“Stop making noises like that.”

“Like what?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because now you’re flustered. Because now you’re too aware of the silence. The tension. The way your breath hitches in tandem with his. The fact that your hands won’t move away.

You’re not patching up just any idiot.

You’re patching him up.

And his voice? His waist? The heat rolling off his skin?

It’s all getting to you in ways it shouldn’t.

Not here.

Not like this

It’s too much.

Too quiet.

Too close.

Your hands still.

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, he’s looking at you again—like he’s about to say something. Like he’s about to do something.

The air goes heavy. Thick. Tense enough to cut with the scalpel you dropped ten minutes ago.

His eyes flicker down—to your mouth.

You feel it like a jolt. A pulse.

Your heart stutters.

You lean in—

He does too—

But just before your lips meet—

He pulls back.

So do you.

Silence.

You don’t know what to say.

Neither does he.

Mark exhales shakily. Pushes his shirt down. Winces when it brushes his side.

“I should go,” he says.

You nod. Even though part of you wants to scream don’t.

He stands. Slowly. Carefully. Walks to the door. But before he opens it, he turns back.

Eyes soft. Voice even softer.

“You always make it hard to leave.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re alone again.

You stare at the empty space where he stood. Unlock your phone. Open your messages. Type something out.

You okay? Text me when you’re—

Backspace.

Don’t be stupid next time—

Backspace.

I meant it. Don’t apologize—

Backspace.

You lock the screen.

Let it fall to the couch beside you.

And sit in the dark with your heart pounding, your hands still smelling like antiseptic and something else you can’t quite name.

Something you’re afraid to acknowledge.

And you know exactly what it is.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

⋆ ˚｡⋆ ˖⁺‧₊˚❤️‍🔥˚₊‧⁺˖ ⋆ ˚｡⋆

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌He sees it by accident.

Sort of.

Mark’s at your place. Fifth time this week. You said you only allow it because he brings ACTUAL food. Does he care? No.

He would bring you anything and everything if you only asked.

Right now you’re tossing your phone between hands while half-asleep on the couch, scrolling aimlessly as you mumble about discharge paperwork and Nurse Carla’s espresso addiction.

He leans over to look at something—your screen lights up, message preview glowing.

“Unknown: you up?”

And it’s his message.

He blinks. Frowns. Stares at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Wait—hold on,” he says, sitting up. “You still have me saved as… Unknown?”

You glance at him, unfazed. “What else would I save you as?”

“I don’t know. Mark. Grayson. Hot guy who keeps bleeding in your ER. Something with a little dignity.”

You shrug. “Didn’t feel like changing it.”

He gapes. “Wow. Cold.”

You just smirk, stretch like a cat, and toss your phone aside as you get up to grab water.

And that?

That’s your mistake.

Because the second you’re out of the room—he pounces.

Grabs the phone. Unlocks it with terrifying ease. Scrolls straight to his contact entry like it’s a goddamn rescue mission.

’Unknown.’

Unacceptable.

He deletes it on instinct. Then pauses, thinking. Fingers hovering.

What would annoy you the most?

What would make you roll your eyes?

What would make your heart do that little stutter thing he’s started to notice, way too often?

He grins.

And types—

’Future Boyfriend’

He stares at it for a second.

Then adds a heart.

Then deletes the heart.

Too soft.

Then adds it back anyway.

Perfect.

He sets the phone down just as you return with a glass of water, eyeing him suspiciously.

“What did you do.”

Mark smiles. Innocent. Almost saintlike.

“Nothing.”

You squint. Then pick up your phone. Check your messages.

Pause.

Your brow furrows. And when you tap into the contact?

Your whole face goes still.

“…Are you kidding me?” you mutter.

He shrugs. “Thought it was more accurate.”

You glare.

He beams.

You shake your head. But then—you sigh. And your fingers curl around the phone like you’re not actually planning to change it back.

Your lips twitch.

Just barely.

But he sees it.

And when you don’t delete it—when you toss your phone back to the table like it’s nothing, like he’s nothing, even though your ears are a little warm—

Mark just leans back, smug as hell.

Victory tastes a lot like your name on his tongue. Like your laugh. Like the future he’s trying so hard not to beg for.

And he’s starving for more.

For you.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌ongoing TAGLIST: @pickledsoda @f3r4lfr0gg3r @bakugouswh0r3 @katkirishima @delusionalalien @bellelamoon @monaekelis @feminii @sketchlove @lilacoaks @cathuggnbear @forgotten-moon94 @lalana1703 @smikitty @barbare2 @sleepyzzz3 @sunspl0tionjuice @maki-rollsss @angelbelles @scarletdfox

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

taglist sign up: 𓉘here𓉝

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌With Love, @alive-gh0st

[urinarythreatinfection]

Confusion In My Love

Sanji x Male Reader. Angst and fluff. Part one. 1908 words.

Desc: Sanji has realized his feelings for you but struggles with how to deal with them.

tw: misunderstandings on how gay relationships work.

This is hard. Sanji finally accepted the fact that he’s in love with you… but what now? It may be easier knowing what his feelings are but now that he knows there’s a new issue. What is he supposed to do with them? He’s a romantic, but that’s strictly for women. Even if it’s you he doesn’t know if he has it in him to be romantic towards a man. Plus, is he a bottom or a top? This is very important to him.

“Sanji.” He snaps out of his thoughts, right, he was talking to Robin. She sits at the small table with her plate of snacks, him standing next to her. “You suddenly went still, is everything alright?”

“I’m completely fine, Robin-chan.” He says with a small smile, “I’m sorry for worrying you.” then clasps his hands together with heart eyes. “But I'm happy you’re worried for me, you���re an angel!” She giggles.

“If you say so, but I recommend you not keep things in. It’s bad for you.” Her words cause his heart to sting.

‘Keeping things in..’ It’s not like bottling up his feelings feels nice, obviously, but he doesn’t know what else to do. ‘If I decide to confess, how?’ He doesn’t know what men would like out of another man, and he isn’t crossdressing no matter how many times it pops into his mind. ‘Maybe if I visualize it it’ll help.’ He starts to imagine what his confession would be.

“Oh (Y/n), I just love you so much! Can we be together?” Sanji shyly confesses, batting his eyelashes like a maiden.

Yuck. That doesn’t look right at all. Fully grown man batting his eyelashes shyly, no way. He can’t play the woman. Maybe he should try confessing like he would normally.

“(Y/n)-chan, my beautiful prince, will you do me the honor of being my lover?” Sanji declares while on one knee, his arm outstretched with hearts in his eyes.

No way. He’s sappy like that with women but with a man he just can’t handle that. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Plus, it feels more embarrassing knowing that it’s you. You make him too nervous for him to lay on his usual dramatic love. For either option, your reaction…

“Ah.. Sanji I know I said liking men was okay, but do you have to be creepy like this? It’s really cringey, maybe we should put some distance between us..” A look of discomfort and disgust is on your face as you grimace at the cook.

His heart painfully throbs and his hand instinctively goes to his chest. That hurts. So much. He can’t do that. You distancing yourself, you being disgusted with him, no no no he would rather keep it in forever.

“Sanji.” Robin calls to him for the second time, he spaced out again. “You really are not your usual charming self, are you sure nothing is the matter?”

“No, I’m completely fine!” He steps back. “Actually—I have to prepare dinner. Call me if you need anything Robin-chan!” He retreats to his oasis to avoid the conversation, just like before. It’s okay. He’ll keep himself busy. It’ll be easy to keep sane if he’s preoccupied.

__________________

..That’s what he thought anyway, but he’s too skilled at cooking. “Shit.” His hands grip the counter, he never knew he’d dislike his ability to cook on autopilot; though he does feel a bit better. ‘I worried Robin-chan too, I’m a horrible excuse for a gentleman.’ He laments while skillfully marinating meat. Robin is right. He isn’t his “usual charming self.” at all. That repeats in his mind. ‘My charming self. Charm.’ Maybe he could try charming you, but what would a man like out of another man? What would you like in another man? Even if he tries to keep it in with all his might, he can feel himself starting to crack, too romantic to be able to keep anything like this bottled up. At this rate he’s going to end up blurting it out, and most importantly he still doesn’t know if he should be the bottom or the top. ‘I should top, obviously, but what if he wants me to bottom? Would I have to take it? It’ll hurt.’ He’s anxious. He needs his body to fight and if he ends up sore somehow it would affect his speed while cooking. How would he fit into a wedding dress when you two get married? Surely it would look unflattering on him. Or maybe you’re into that sort of thing, that would make it a lot easier. Wait, he's thinking about crossdressing again! “Shit!” He slams a bowl of cut up veggies next to a pot, then pours it in. “Can I still top while in a dress!?” This is very important to him.

“Hey.”

“KYAAA!” Sanji turns to find Zoro in the middle of walking into the kitchen, the door slowly closing behind the stunned swordsman.

…

He grins maliciously, uh oh. “Was gonna ask if the food was almost done, didn’t know there was a little girl cooking instead of curly brow.” This is the worst person who could’ve heard him.

“Shut up! You make tons of weird noises whenever you sleep!” He angrily continues to cook while defending himself.

“Alright sweetie.” Sanji’s grip tightens around his ladle.

“I’m gonna put glass in your food again, I swear I will.” He places dishes down onto the dining table before walking over and the door to outside. “Dinner’s ready!” He yells and crewmates come flooding in, including you. Your sight closes in to see Sanji glaring at Zoro, which isn’t new, but what is the smug happy look on Zoro’s face. When he spots you his grin gets wider.

“Oy, (Y/n). Turns out the cook has another side.” Sanji grabs Zoro by his coat, his anger looks mixed with distress. Something pops into your mind.

‘He found out about Sanji’s attraction to men!’ You misunderstood. ‘He’s using it to make fun of him though.. that’s really mean.’ You stop Sanji from shaking Zoro. “You don’t have to tell me, and don’t use that as a way to make fun of him. It’s not cool.” They both stare at you wide eyed, then Sanji turns pale.

‘H-He knows!?’

“What?” Zoro furrows his brows. “He makes fun of me for stupid shit all the time.”

“I know, but a sensitive topic like that… c’mon.” You frown and so does Zoro. Was what he said that bad? You’re starting to make him second guess.

“It’s not like it’s all that serious but.. alright.” If something like that is important enough, apparently, he won’t go blabbing. Sanji’s got enough faults already for him to make fun of; even if it’s a shame and he’s still confused on how screaming kya is a sensitive topic. He walks to the dining table, glancing back at Sanji to see how pale he is. ‘Jeez, was it that crazy?’ Meanwhile, you walk over to the cook and put a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, I’m sure Zoro didn’t mean to be malicious and I’m not gonna judge you.” You’re trying to be comforting even though Sanji feels like he’s gonna throw up. If you know he said kya you could think less of him, you know he likes men(?). He’d seem completely stereotypical if he was girly like this. ‘I hope that comforted him.’ You think to yourself as you go to your seat to eat.

_______________

“Sanji, can you help with this?” You ask and he turns to you quickly.

“Yes! My-” He stops himself. “Sure.” ‘Hold it in.’

_______________

“Haha! You’re funny!” You laugh as he gets rejected by Nami. He spins around to you, managing to stop before he blurts out something overly loving.

“Ah- uh.” He falters, then speedwalks away with red ears. ‘Hold it.’

_______________

“Sanj-” He runs away.

‘Hold!'

____________________

This is bad. He underestimated the amount of times he’d have to hold it in and it’s piling up quick. It’s like the more he hides his romance in fear of being rejected the more they struggle to come out. It’s so bad he hasn’t realized even you’ve started taking notice. How couldn’t you? He can’t hide the way his cheeks flush when you’re close to him, he’s white, it’s very noticable. The thing holding you back is how vulnerable he is. On the slight chance you could be wrong the consequences would be terrible. He told you he likes men then you assume all of a sudden he’s into you? That’s one of the textbook things not to do.

‘It could be shyness around me since I know his secret.’ You think to yourself as you help Sanji write down what they need to buy at the next island. Once you’re done you hand the list to him, you need to test this.

“Thanks.” He grabs the list but when he does you tug on his hand and hug him. He goes tense immediately.

“I know you’re anxious about a lot right now, but I’m here for you.” You rub his back, he hasn’t kicked you off. “I.. care about you.” You pull back to see him tomato red. ‘Woah.’

“..Thanks.” He finally squeaks out after a moment of silence.

‘This has to be something. It has to be.’ You slide his hand up to his shoulders and gently massage them. “Sanji, if you need to tell me something then say it. Please.” His brain is overloading, you’re so close. You want him to say it, to tell you? Do you know what it is? He didn’t prepare but you’re so close, and he’s so full of emotions.

“L..ove.. I love you.” His voice is shaky as he finally confesses. He’s pretty, face red and looking at you with overwhelmed dizzy love. He’s been holding in his feelings for almost a month, and confused about his feelings for more. There’s only so much he can handle. “I’m in love with you.” Your heart quickens as blood trickles from his nose.

‘So he does.’ You’d pushed down any possible feelings for him from his clear extreme dislike of men but here he is confessing to you while nosebleeding. Your hands move to cup his face. “You- Can I.. kiss you?” His mind seemingly goes blank but before you can change your mind he manages to nod and close his eyes. Your thumb wipes blood from his mouth before you softly press your lips against his. He trembles slightly and holds onto your shoulders, when you both part he pants and his forehead falls to your chest.

“I like you too.” He looks up at you, you’re not quite intense enough to immediately say love. “Do you, um, wanna date?” Even if this would be obvious if two people shared feelings, this is Sanji. He sinks to his knees and you catch him, sinking down to the ground with him. “You don’t have to make this choice now, we don’t even have to date.” Sanji shakes his head.

“N-No, I want to.” He leans back, laying on your forearm. “I just.. am I.. the top or bottom?”

“What? I mean, I’m fine with bottoming if it matters that much to you.”

“It.. does..” It’s extremely important to him, which is why it’s the last question he asks before passing out. Congratulations on the new relationship.

Next

There you go. Might make a bonus smut but it's done. Anyway I'm gonna post once aweek now, should help me not burn out. muah.

[thegallavault]

currently locked in The Gallavault 🔒📚✨

HOOKING UP WITH FEELINGS by PEPPERMINTKATIE ↳ ↳ with cover art by LULUXA

Multi-Chapter | Rated: E | Word Count: 119K | Completed in: 2022

Mickey accidentally stayed the night after a failed hookup.

[ download from The Gallavault | leave love on AO3 | reblog the art on tumblr | follow the creators @peppermintkatie & @luluxa ]

[blaydie]

ᥫ᭡ FIRST ENCOUNTER — “I hope we can play again one day.” Growing up together — from childhood to adulthood. Sunday x GN reader series.

Word count: 2.8k

Contains: Fluff (lots and lots of fluff), first encounters, first friend (his), different backgrounds, growing up together (main stages of life—will progress over each post), lighthearted topics, lonely child Sunday + more!

Chapter: (1)

Starting school wasn’t as bad as you thought it would be. Like the adults in your life said—it’s only scary until you go in and experience it. You have to keep your head held high and believe in yourself, and that’s exactly what you did. To your relief, you made your first friend easily. She was a girl, a lot smaller in height than you. You found her outside of the classroom, hyperventilating while the teacher attempted to console her. Before you could step inside the room, the teacher pulled you aside. You were asked to keep her company since she was having a tough time settling in, and you did it in a heartbeat. 

Her name was Robin. The two of you became inseparable, always found sitting next to each other in every class. For the first time in your life, you were invited back to someone else’s home. After getting permission with some extensive begging, your parents eventually caved and drove you over to her house. You never shut up about her, and she never shut up about you. Both of your families had to endure the nonstop chatter about your best friend. 

When the car stops outside of their house, your breath is taken away by the sheer size. This is way bigger than your place! As soon as the car door opens, you sprint up the path and wait outside of their entryway, a giant smile plastered to your face. You wave behind you at your parents, watching as they get back in the car. They were so proud of you for stepping out of the comfort zone you stuck yourself to when you were younger. Before you started school, their main concern was that you’d have a hard time fitting in amongst the crowd. You didn’t particularly get along well with the children in your neighbourhood, but you didn’t tell your parents the reason why. Those kids were just too mean, nothing like Robin. 

Fiddling with your hands, you began to wonder if anyone was going to let you in. Just as you reach to press the doorbell, the door opens. A man towers over you, a somewhat surprised look on his face. He turns his head back to look in the house, his attention temporarily assigned elsewhere. That’s when you notice the younger boy clinging to his leg, his head tilted as he stares at you with curiosity. 

“Hello, little one. Are you Robin’s friend?” The man pushes the young boy aside, ruffling his hair before crouching down to be on your level.

“I am! We’re best friends.” You give him a cheesy grin, and his face softens. 

“Robin and her mom aren’t here right now. You can come in, it might be a little wait.” He steps out of the way, clearing entry for you.

“Okay! Thank you, sir.” You take your shoes off and wander into the house, taking a look around at the interior. 

Too preoccupied with being wowed by their house, you didn’t hear the conversation between Robin’s father and the young boy who appeared to be hiding from you. Letting out a sigh, Robin's father strolls back over to you, accidentally startling you by placing a hand on your shoulder.

“This is my little boy, Sunday. He’s Robin’s older brother.” His dad drags him forward by the arm, almost crashing your two tiny bodies to the floor.

“Hi…” Sunday speaks quietly, unable to look you in the face.

“Hi, Sunday.” You smile, your eyes drifting down to see him fidgeting with his hands in a similar way you do.

“Do you wanna play with my toys…?” Mustering all of his courage, he looks at you and waits for your answer. 

You stare at him, then up at his dad. You were supposed to be here for Robin, but no one gave you a time frame for how long she would be missing. Since you had nothing else to do, you nodded. Sunday’s father made a cheer noise before leaving you in the living room with the young boy. He had long hair, a similar bluish shade to his sister’s. The wings attached to his head flutter before he extends his hand out.

“Let’s go play.” He beams, accepting your hand that you stretched out to meet his. 

The two of you scurried upstairs, a half-sprint, half-walk, speed. Neither one of you was that fast, but there’s no rush. Family pictures decorated each space on the wall, ranging from baby pictures to wedding photos. It was nice to see how well everyone seemed to get along, it made you happy that Robin had a nice home to live in.

Sunday’s room was huge—even bigger than your parents’ bedroom. Your mouth dropped as you looked around at all his belongings, a wide collection of stuffed animals littered on his bed. You wanted to say something, but you couldn’t get any words out of your mouth.

“Um… Do you want to play with my teddies? You’re looking at them funny.” Sunday walks over to his bed, taking one of the stuffed animals into his arms.

“Sorry! I think they’re cute. We can play whatever you want!”

“I want to play with the teddies.” He mumbles, scooting over to make space for you on his bed.

“What are your teddies’ names?”

“Oh, I didn’t give them names. Am I supposed to?”

“It makes it more fun! Can I name them?”

“If you wanna.”

“My one is gonna be called Cuddles and your one can be Patchy.”

“Patchy…” Sunday looks down at his teddy, squeezing it tighter in his embrace.

“What job is Patchy gonna have? Cuddles is a teacher!”

“I want Patchy to be the president.”

“Wow, the president?”

“Yeah, I wanna be the president too when I’m older.”

“That’s so cool!”

“You think?”

“Yeah!”

Sunday’s cheeks grow warm from hearing your excitement. He stretches Patchy’s arms and makes it “hug” Cuddles.

“Do you go to my school?” You inquire. You’re sure Robin would’ve introduced you to her big brother by now. 

“I’m homeschooled.”

“You have school at home?”

“Kinda. My parents have a tutor that comes in and teaches me stuff.”

“Ohh.” You’ve never heard of homeschooling, but it piques your interest. “Do you have any friends from homeschool?”

“Not really.” He didn’t want to admit that he was the only one who attended the private tutoring sessions.

“Why don’t you come to school with me and Robin?”

“I like it at home.”

“That’s awesome!” You give him a thumbs up, continuing to delve into the roleplay you created in your mind.

After a while of having Cuddles teach Patchy some valuable life lessons, such as how to pour a glass of water without spilling it, you begin to wonder where Robin is. You’ve been here for at least an hour or two, but then again, you don’t know how to tell the time quite yet. Sunday’s eyes were sparkling as he watched you play—this was his first time playing with someone who wasn’t part of his family.

“Do you wanna be friends?” Sunday asks, his nose scrunched while he waits for the big news. His wings were completely still—it almost seemed like he was holding his breath.

“Of course I wanna be friends! You’re really fun and nice.” As you would with Robin, you lean forward and wrap your arms around him, feeling the flutter of his wings brushing against your cheeks. It tickled, and you began to giggle.

“Can I tell Dad?” There was nothing but joy in his voice when he broke free, springing to his feet straight away.

“If you want to!”

Bursting out of his room, Sunday runs down the hallway calling for his father. Met with urgency, he comes running at the call of his son, bumping into him before he can make it down the stairs.

“Dad!” Sunday exclaims, practically jumping in place with Patchy still in his hands.

“Is everything okay?”

“I have a friend!”

“Is that so? I’m glad, kid! Go on, go back to play.”

“Are you proud of me?”

“Very. Good job, Sunday.” Placing a kiss on Sunday’s forehead, his father pats his back before he dashes back off to his room. 

Sunday returns, stumbling over his own feet. He lands flat on the bed, chuckling to himself as you stare down at him. This was a big thing for Sunday, and you could tell that this friendship meant a lot to him. 

“Do you know when Robin is gonna be back?”

“She’s at singing practice with Mom. But it’s okay, we can play together.”

“Robin can sing?!” You gasp, clasping your hands together while Sunday nods.

“Yeah, she’s been going to those lessons since like, forever. She’s really good too!”

“Wow, you guys are so cool.”

“You’re way cooler.”

“Am not! You’re super smart and Robin can sing, I don’t really have anything like that.”

“You’re good at imagining things! I couldn’t even think of names for my teddies until you gave them some.”

“Is that cool?”

“I think it’s cool. I dunno how you do it so easily.”

You feel a surge of happiness wash over you, cuddling your knees to your chest. Sunday was so nice. Part of you wishes he could come to your school so you could all play together at recess, but Sunday seemed pretty adamant about liking his homeschooling. 

Time passes by quickly, you and Sunday continue to play with the teddies, having their identities expand rapidly. You yawn, rubbing your eyes and putting down Cuddles. Outside of Sunday’s window, you can see that the sun has started to set, and Robin still hasn’t made it back. You’re sad that she ditched you, but it wasn’t all bad with Sunday’s company.

“My parents are gonna be here to pick me up soon.”

“Already?” Sunday whines, his bottom lip flipping down. “Maybe I can ask Dad if it’s okay for you to stay for dinner.”

“Will I be allowed?”

“I think so. We have a lot of empty seats at the dinner table.” Sunday takes your hand, leading you towards the door. “Come on, let’s ask dad! Maybe if we add extra pleases it’ll work.”

Scurrying down the hall, you skip a few stairs as he drags you into the living area. You take a moment to catch your breath while he sprints off, heading straight towards where his father is sitting. Due to the distance, you can’t pick up on the conversation, but you see Sunday pointing at you with a pleading expression. Calling you over, you walk slowly towards to the two, still recollecting your breath.

“Sunday asked if you could stay for dinner. Is that what you’d like?”

“If it’s okay I’d like that a lot.” You put on your best smile, remembering what Sunday had mentioned. “Please.”

“What a well-mannered child! You didn’t need to ask so politely, but who am I to say no to a new friend? Do you have your parents’ phone number?”

“Um, I think I gave Robin a piece of paper with my family stuff on it. She said she gave it to her mom.”

“I know where it’ll be. Get comfy on the sofa, you two. I’ll call your parents and let them know to collect you after we eat.”

“Okay! Thank you, Sunday and Robin’s dad!”

Heading to the bigger sofa, you and Sunday climb on, legs dangling while the TV plays in the background. You were thrilled to see what they would have to offer since their house is so fancy, but you’re also worried in case the meal they serve isn’t to your liking. Either way, your parents taught you to eat what you’re given. Whether you like it or not will be kept to yourself. 

“I told you it’d work.” Sunday smiles subtly, kicking his feet which hover above the floor, not quite reaching it yet.

The two of you proceed to watch TV, a nature documentary which had been left running while his father made a call to your parents. After a few minutes pass, he returns and tells you both the good news, catching both of your faces ignite with thrill. It didn’t take long for the meal his father arranged to finish cooking, now scooping fair portion sizes onto three respective plates. The leftovers go back into the oven, keeping them warm for when Robin and her mother return from their outing together. 

Their dining room was grand. It’s the first time you’ve seen a chandelier hang over a dinner table in real life—you always thought it was something exclusive to the rich people in cartoons. It made you wonder if they were rich. They had so much more than you and the other kids in school did, but Robin never spoke much about home. If you lived here, you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet about all of the luxuries. They’re extremely lucky.

When you took your seat, your face contorted at the vast arrangement of cutlery in front of you. You were only used to the classics, unsure of why there were spoons of different sizes displayed neatly in front of you. Sunday pulls out the chair beside you and sits down, patiently awaiting permission to begin tucking in.

“Um… I think your dad gave me too many spoons…” You fidget with the spoons of different sizes, and his gaze drifts over to you. He seems perplexed by your statement. 

“Huh? You have everything you need.” 

“Why do I have two spoons?”

“This one is the main one you’ll eat with,” Sunday picks up the bigger spoon, then slides it over to you. “Use that one first.”

“What about the little spoon?”

“It’s the one you use for dessert.”

“Oh.” You nod your head, blissfully unaware of fine dining etiquette. “In my house, we use big spoons for everything.”

“Really?”

“Before we eat, it’s fair that we show our gratitude for receiving this meal.” Sunday’s father stands to his feet, followed by Sunday. Unsure of what to do, you remain gawking at the two until Sunday tugs you by the sleeve, encouraging you to stand too.

There was a moment of silence over the dining room until his father bowed, followed by Sunday, then you. A domino effect. Now that it had been announced that you could eat, you didn’t hesitate. You weren’t sure what the exact name of this dish was, but one thing is for sure—you devoured it. You could hear the small chuckle Sunday’s father attempted to suppress as he looked at you. It was embarrassing; you thought he would be mad at you, but he seemed to understand the circumstances. 

“If you’d like more, I can get you another serving.”

“It’s okay! Thank you. It’s sooo good! You’re super lucky, Sunday! Your dad is such a good cook.”

“Ah, I didn’t cook it. Our chef did. I’ll be sure to send your compliments later on.”

“You have a chef?!”

“We do indeed.”

“Wow! Like a private chef?! Do they make anything you want?”

“That’s the sole purpose of a chef’s career, dear.” Sunday’s father snickers, reaching for his glass of aged red wine. 

When everyone had finished their plate, a waiter appears from a door you hadn’t initially acknowledged and collects the dishes. Just seconds after, another appears with two bowls of dessert. Your eyes widen as you see the ice cream placed in between you and Sunday. It appears to be drenched in syrup and other toppings. 

“I figured that Sunday would like to share his dessert with his new friend. Is that okay with you both?” His father glances in your direction, watching the nods in unison.

Sunday didn’t seem to eat much, mainly scraping at the sides of the bowl. When you looked up at him, he was smiling to himself, pleasantly happy with the small serving he was given. 

It was about time that today came to an end. You walk towards their door with Sunday and his father following behind. Your parents had already rang the doorbell—now greeted face to face with them as you ran out. Sunday remains close to his father’s side, his cheek resting against his leg while he watches you. Your parents show their gratitude and encourage you to say your thanks and farewells. With a small pinch on his shoulder, Sunday speaks up.

“Bye, I hope we can play again one day.” There was a pout on his face—you swear you saw his lip wobble.

“I hope so too!” You give your final wave as your parents cart you back to the car, setting off as soon as everyone is buckled in.

Inside the house, Sunday sniffles and runs back upstairs, gently closing his room door over. Cuddles and Patchy remain sitting next to each other, and he begins to cry. Tears spill from his eyes at the thought he might not be able to play with you again. After all, you were Robin’s friend first. When Robin is home, you probably won’t even look his way if you come over. That doesn’t remove the memories he made with you from his head though, and he keeps his hope that one day the two of you will reunite and continue to construct Cuddles and Patchy’s future together.