#correct answer is nat

[thewrittenpodcast]

Clint and Natasha, frozen and staring at each other across the counter:

Bruce: this is so creepy

Tony: how long have they been like this

Peter: about an hour

Steve: what happened

Peter: he stole her chips

[starkzdaughter]

Miss Natasha Romanoff, the definition of, "Do I want to be like her?" or "Do I want to be with her?"

[borealtwilight]

The Simp

Shitposter

Banger Artist

NYEH

I... I mean yeah. Simp is.

>.>;; correct

IDK ABT BANGER ARTIST THOUGH I'M JUST SOME GUY GHSGHJKS

[astronomalyy]

when we did the Merchant of Venice in secondary school English everybody despised Antonio and Bassanio. our teacher was so happy about that. 'Yes! You understand the subtext! Shakespeare couldn't publicly condemn the antisemitism of the time so he performed the Tudor equivalent of blinking in Morse code by making them total shitlords and giving Shylock a passionate and humanizing speech so you'd understand the ending as deeply unjust tragedy!' and no one had the heart to tell him that it was actually because the class were aggressively shipping Portia and Nerissa and the other two were getting in the way

[anytimebitchess]

Idk if I’m a snob from the north, or Warsaw isn’t the city for me.

[wandanatsgf]

Inappropriate Feelings Part 2

Pairing: WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Summary: Wanda and Natasha learn that before you got together you had heard them having sex. They proceed to tease you about it before they reenact what you heard, this time with you included

Warning this contains: strap on use, teasing, mommy kink, daddy kink, praise kink, oral sex, degradation, spanking, orgasm control, Wanda is a switch, Natasha is a dom, Reader is a sub

Authors Note: this can be read as a standalone. this is just scraped content from Inappropriate Feeling that I wrote but ultimately cut because I felt like it didn’t work in the story. I had so much cut material I figured I might as well rework it into a second part!

Part 1

"How'd you even know about my daddy kink detka?" Natasha asks one night, referencing the first time the three of you slept together. The three of you are lying in bed after a long night of fucking, everyone’s body completely spent.

Everyone is covered in a thin layer of sweat, skin sticky but none of you care. You’re lying on your side on Natasha’s chest, her hand playing with your hair. Wanda is on the other side of you, holding you from behind.

The question had been on her mind for a while. Were you just that in tune to the two of them that you knew what she liked? Did Wanda tell you telepathically? Natasha is truly curious.

It takes you a second to realize what Natasha just asked you. Your face instantly flushes.

"I might have heard you and Wanda going at it before," you say, burying your face in the crook of Natasha's neck, a blush covering your face.

"Dirty girl," Natasha teases.

"I can't help it, you two were loud," you try to explain, your blush an even deeper shade. But Wanda, ever the mind reader, can see your thoughts. See how you had touched yourself to the thought of them. See how you felt guilty afterwards, and she wants to change that. She projects her thoughts to Natasha, who nods in agreement.

"Aww its okay baby. You just wanted to be a little perv and hear us huh?” It’s Wanda who speaks that time, joining in on the teasing. She pulls your head out of Natasha’s neck and forces you to look at her. She readjusts you so that you’re facing her now, laying on your side.

“You wanna tell us what else you heard?” Wanda’s right hand brushes down your side. Your breath hitches as she gets close to where you want her before she pulls her hand back.

“Wanda,” you whine.

“That’s not my name baby,” she says correcting you.

“Mommy.”

“Good girl,” she praises. Her words go to your core, reigniting your need.

“You gonna answer mommy’s question? What else did you hear?” It’s Natasha who speaks this time. She’s behind you, hand around your throat.

“I heard daddy fucking mommy,” you manage to say in your lustful state.

“Yeah? Did you like it baby?”

“Yea Daddy I loved it,” you admit which is the truth. After you had accidentally heard them you had to go take a cold shower. And then when that didn’t work you touched yourself to the thought of them. Sure you had felt gross about it afterwards, but it felt good in the moment.

Wanda’s hand moves towards your core, hands slowly moving down your body while Natasha talks.

“You wanna see it this time, not just hear it?”

“Please,” you beg.

“She means it Natty. She’s soaking wet,” Wanda says, swiping two fingers through your folds and then bringing them up to Natasha’s face, who licks them clean, savoring your taste.

“Lay back on the bed by the headboard detka,” Natasha says. You reposition yourself while Natasha walks to the closet. Wanda positions herself so she’s in between your legs, face down and ass up.

She’s so close you can feel her breath against your bare heat. You try to move closer to her, but she takes both hands and holds you down.

“No baby. Not yet,” she reprimands.

“Mommy,” you whine out, which leads to Wanda pinching your thigh in warning. You don’t push your luck anymore, you just sit there and wait for Nat.

Natasha walks back out, a pitch black strap on attached to her hips.

“You wanna show our pretty girl how much of a slut you are for me?” Natasha asks Wanda. Nat’s shocks you, you’ve never seen Wanda bottom before, but it turns you on all the same.

“Yes daddy,” Wanda says. She wiggles her hips, wanting Natasha closer. Natasha responds with a slap on Wanda’s butt cheek.

“Stay still and eat our pretty girl out,” Natasha commands. Wanda obeys and dives into your pussy making you squeal. Your hand wraps itself into her hair, pulling her closer.

“Mommy,” you moan out. Your legs clamp around Wanda’s head, smushing her between your thighs.

While Wanda devours you, her lips suctioning around your clit, Natasha leans down, standing behind Wanda. She runs a finger through the younger woman’s wet pussy.

“Fuck you’re soaked,” Natasha murmurs. She lines her strap up with Wanda’s entrance and pushes in. As she pushes in a wet squelching sound fills the room. Wanda moans into your pussy, sending vibrations through you.

“Please,” you beg. Your head tilts back and your eyes shut, you’re so close. You just need a couple more licks and you’d fall over the edge.

“You don’t get to cum yet baby. You wanted to watch daddy fuck mommy so watch us,” Natasha commands. Wanda pulls her head back from your core, letting you calm down.

“Fuck daddy,” Wanda yells out when Natasha hits that spot inside of her.

“You like that my little slut?” Natasha asks, relentlessly pounding into Wanda. You had never seen Wanda be this submissive before, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t like it.

Wanda moves her head back to your pussy, tongue running and teasing through your folds. But your eyes stay glued to the scene in front of you. Natasha thrusting into Wanda, Wanda moaning into your pussy with every thrust.

You can tell she’s close, and you are too.

Your thighs clench around Wanda’s head while Wanda’s pussy clenches around Nat’s strap.

“Cum for me darlings. Soak my strap like a good little slut. Cum all over mommy’s face,” she says. Wanda cums immediately, body shaking and toes curling. Her moans vibrating though you send you into an orgasm, your body thrashing as the pleasure courses through you.

Once Wanda settles down Natasha slides out and takes the strap off, throwing it off to the side to be cleaned latter.

She goes to the bathroom while Wanda gets up and adjusts the two of you so that you are holding each other. Your heads are lying against the pillows while you wait for Tasha.

The two of you make small talk while waiting, whispering sweet nothings to each other.

“Spread your legs darlings,” Nat says when she walks back in, cloth and water in hands. Both of you spread your legs and Natasha cleans you up. She’s gentle, wiping up any sticky mess. She throws the cloths into the hamper and then hands the two of you water, which you both take big gulps of.

“Good girls,” Natasha praises. She sits down in between the two of you, holding you both with one arm.

The three of you lay in each others arms, content to hold each other when you have a thought.

“You two knew I was there that day, didn’t you?” The realization strikes you suddenly. No one has ever heard the three of you before and you had never heard them after that day. They had to have done it on purpose you realize.

“Of course we knew baby. Why do you think we were so loud?” It’s Natasha who speaks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“I hate you two,” turning your face away from Nat to burrow your face into your pillow.

“No you don’t, you love us,” Wanda says, leaning over Nat to leave a kiss on your exposed cheek.

“That I do.” Your voice comes out weirdly, your face smushed against the pillow.

“We love you too,” they both say at the same time. Your heart fills with affection for the two women. It’s not the first time they have said those words to you. But each time they say it, it fills with you with a soft, fuzzy feeling.

The three of you hold each other, spending hours talking until the three of you fall asleep in each others arms.

[tropes-and-tales]

Friends and Lovers, Part II

(Robert "Bob" Floyd x F!Reader)

CW:  Angst; Jake as a good guy; probably typos.

Word Count: 3916

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @callsign-frostbite for the April Showers event! It is a sequel to this!

There’s no end, it seems, to how bad Bob can feel. 

He feels guilty as hell, a sick wash of shame that courses through him each time he remembers the look on your face—the hope, the dashing of that hope—when he jokingly slid an heirloom engagement ring on your finger.

It doesn’t help that he can barely get ahold of you.  You don’t ghost him entirely, but you are avoiding him.  His calls go to voicemail, and his texts go unanswered for long hours.  When you do answer, your responses are short, terse, and brook no further conversation.

You’ve been friends for years, and you’ve had arguments before.  Petty spats, misunderstandings…they all resolved within days with little more than apologies and hugs. 

This?  This is different. 

For one thing, Bob feels different.  With the usual friendship frictions of the past, he only felt lightly irritated with himself or you, and it dissipated quickly.  This time, he feels worse and worse as each day passes.  He obsesses over that last morning with you, tries to understand why in the hell he did what he did.  He tries to understand your feelings, both in that moment and now. 

For the first time in his life, he struggles to fall asleep each night.  He can’t turn off his mind, and his stomach perpetually aches with the shame of hurting you so carelessly. 

For another thing, the near silence lasts for days, then weeks.  You and Bob are usually a package deal, and it isn’t long before the other Daggers note your continued absence from nights at the Hard Deck.

It doesn’t help that the Daggers generally refer to you as Bob’s girl either, even though Bob has a girlfriend who technically qualifies more.

“Where’s your girl?” Rooster asks one night.  “Haven’t seen her around in a while.”

It’s a slow night at the Hard Deck, quieter and sparser than usual, so their collected attention turns to Bob and Rooster’s conversation, and they all learn, in fits and starts, of that last morning together.

-----

Throughout Bob’s adult life, there has been moments, large and small, where he realizes that his childhood wasn’t the standard.  Not that there is a standard, really, but those moments always stun him for a moment and cause him to recalibrate his perspective.

Admittedly, many of those moments are small.  Inconsequential things.  For example, he grew up in a family that was not particularly religious but still muttered grace over dinner.  The first time he ate dinner at a friend’s house who didn’t say grace—it was a realignment of his world view.  A reaffirmation that his childhood, his family, wasn’t necessarily the template.

But sometimes it’s a massive moment that shifts his perspective, and it happens on a slow night at the Hard Deck when the Daggers sift through Bob’s falling out with you.

He explains it as best he can.  He flushes when he gets to the part about the ring, the dumb joke.  He still doesn’t understand why he did it.  He feels a fresh wave of shame when he sees his fellow Daggers wince at the story.

Hell, he feels a second wave of shame when he sees how hard Hangman cringes at the story.  It’s not a good feeling to think that Hangman would have been kinder than Bob.  That for all his smarm and cockiness, Jake would have been less cruel to you than Bob was.

“And you don’t feel any sort of way for her?” Nat asks Bob gently.

He shakes his head.  “I mean, she’s my best friend.”

“So, no?” asks Bradley.

He shakes his head again.

“Are you sure you don’t, though?”  Nat again.  “Because the two of you are pretty damned cozy.  You bring her around more than Kenzie.”

Nat is technically correct.  Bob does bring you to the Hard Deck more than his girlfriend.  Kenzie is more of a homebody—like him—and the few times she met up with the Daggers for a night at the bar, she hated it.  You’ve always been more flexible, able to shift in either direction—quiet nights in, raucous nights out—so it was always just easier to bring you along to the Hard Deck.

Bob tries to explain it to them now.  Tries to break down how Kenzie is his girlfriend, possibly more in the future, but that you’re his truest friend, his best friend—

“I’m sorry,” Jake cuts in when Bob haltingly tries to explain it again.  He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath like he’s trying not to lose his cool.  “Why do you keep saying she’s your best friend like it’s something mutually exclusive?”

“Huh?”

Another deep breath.  “You keep saying that she’s your best friend like that explains anything.  I feel like I’m missing something, Baby on Board.”

Bradley chimes in with “Are you not attracted to her?” and Bob shakes his head.  Starts to say that he never thought about it because you’re his best friend, but at that phrase—best friend—Hangman throws his hands up in frustration, and even Nat drops her head and shakes it, exasperated.

Their frustration makes Bob frustrated.  He looks at each of them, huffs out, “you don’t marry your best friend” as if it’s a given fact everywhere.

All three of them give him the exact same incredulous look, and Bob realizes that he’s in the middle of another perspective shift.

-----

It’s not that Bob’s parents don’t love each other:  they do.

They just aren’t best friends, and they never have been. His father’s best friend is a guy named Glen who he went to high school with.  They watch football together and relive their own glory days on their high school team.  They engage in a constant, benign one-upmanship revolving around home improvements.  Once a year, they go to the same lake in the upper peninsula of Michigan and fish for walleye and pike.

Bob’s mother has two best friends from college.  They have an entire secret code system, inside jokes and short-hand phrases that can telegraph entire memories with little said.  They have nicknames for each other.  They triangulate their petty spats against each other, and they have an annual trip too that revolves through cities and locations each year.

Bob’s parents would never describe each other as the other’s best friend.  Their relationship, so far as Bob has observed it—first as a child living in it, then as an adult weighing it against his own dating life—is solid.  Practical.  They fit together neatly, and their home, their children are testaments to the ease of their partnership. 

It works for the Floyds:  two of Bob’s sisters are married, and their marriages seem much the same as his parents.  Solid, practical, loving in a mild, steady way.  But not best friends.  If Bob looks backwards to his grandparents, he sees the same sort of pattern.  He sees it with his aunts and uncles, and some cousins too.

It never occurred to him that anyone else was different.  It never occurred to him that he could be with his best friend because he never saw it modeled for him in his life.

And now Nat, Bradley, and Jake are staring at him like he’s the stupidest man alive, and for once, Bob thinks he just might be.

“Of course you can marry your best friend,” says Nat.

“Isn’t that kind of the goal?” adds Bradley.

He tries to explain it, but in describing the marriage of his parents, he ends up describing them as cold, loveless people.  Which they aren’t—there’s plenty of affection between them, they certainly love each other—but how can he accurately explain that his family seems to draw a line between friendship and love, and that it’s never seemed to do them any harm?

“Don’t you think it’s telling,” Jake asks, “that you called her for a late-night airport ride and not Kenzie?  Isn’t she the person you rely on when you need something?”

Jake’s not wrong.  It’s dawning on Bob that he’s been wearing blinders for a long time.  Anytime something significant happens, good news or bad news, or when he needs support or to celebrate, his knee-jerk reaction is to always call you first. 

He’s put a wall between the woman who’s his best friend and the woman who’s his girlfriend, and he’s done it because that’s the relationship model that was demonstrated for him his entire life…and now it’s dawning on him that it’s not a rule at all and never needed to be.

“Do you think…”  He starts to ask the question, then licks his lips nervously.  He takes a breath and continues.  “Do you think she thinks of me as more than her best friend?”  He has to think it’s the case—what else could explain that glimmer of hope in your eyes when he joked around and slid that ring on your finger?  Yet it seems so preposterous; the thought makes his breath catch in his throat that you’ve been in front of him all this time and just waiting for him, waiting and waiting and waiting while he never even noticed…

Jake scoffs, and Bob glances at him in time to catch his elaborate eye roll.

“No, Bob,” he tells him, his voice laced with sarcasm.  “I think she’s just icing you out after the ring debacle for the hell of it.”

He ignores Jake and fixes his gaze on Nat.  “I messed up, didn’t I?”

She nods, says nothing.

“You think I can fix it?”

She gnaws at her lower lip, thinks on it.  “Maybe.  Maybe not.  Do you want to fix it?”

“I do.”  He misses you more and more with each day that passes, and the realization that he could have had more with you, that people can be with their best friends (it’s so stupid, he’ll realize someday in the future, of course a best friend can be a lover) only makes him miss you more. 

“You need to cut Kenzie loose,” Bradley says.  “It’s not fair to string her along if you’re all in on another woman.”

He nods in agreement.  It probably means something, the way his stomach dips and roils at the thought of giving up Kenzie—safe, reliable Kenzie—to go all in on you.  It’s terrifying, but there’s excitement underneath the terror, like he’s in the front car of a rollercoaster that’s clicking steadily up the big first hill.  The ride is already in process, there’s no chance of stopping it.  All he can do is brace himself, try not to puke, and enjoy the plunge.

-----

Breaking up with Kenzie isn’t easy. 

Bob keeps bumping up against his family history, the knowledge that Kenzie is a solid partner and could have been a solid wife.  Bob knows that if he married her, he’d likely have a marriage much like his parents’ marriage.  It wouldn’t be the worst thing.  He has an engineering degree and is a WSO with the Navy:  he likes the rules of physics, the rules of the military.  He likes the comfort of a certain thing, so letting Kenzie go is difficult. 

He meets up with her at her apartment, he is as gentle as he can be.  She takes it as well as she can.  They part and promise to stay friends, to stay in touch, but they both know it’s a benign lie.

-----

Getting ahold of you is not easy either.

Bob knows you haven’t blocked him.  You read his messages and reply to every other one.  He catches you on the phone once, manages to keep you talking to him for five entire minutes.  He doesn’t try to apologize or explain himself—he wants to do that in person.  Instead, he asks about how you’ve been, and he cringes at each stilted, quiet answer.  Normally you’re so open, and now you’ve been reduced to careful, formal conversation.

He hates it.

He tries to end the call with a promise to meet up.  He’ll take anything and offers it all to you.  A night at the Hard Deck.  A night at another bar.  An afternoon to get coffee.  An evening in, his place or yours.  An evening of video games, board games, movies, mindless reality television.  He’ll cook, he’ll order your favorite meal, he’ll bring your favorite wine or favorite cake from that German bakery you love…

“I don’t think so,” you finally reply after a long beat of silence to all his ideas.

Bob sighs.  “I miss you.”

There’s another long moment of silence before you tell him that you miss him too.

“I just need time apart, I think,” you add. 

“I want to talk to you.  I want to tell you—”

“I don’t want that right now.”  You cut him off, and he hears the strain in your voice.  “I need time to get my head straight.”

“But what if we don’t talk?  We could just hang out.  We could—”

“No.”  This time you sound firmer, more forceful.  “I’m embarrassed, Bob.  I’m mortified at what happened, and I need time to…. not feel that way anymore.”

He ends the call by apologizing after all.  He offers a weak “I’m sorry,” but he doesn’t count it.  He still wants to see you, explain everything to you, and offer you a genuine apology…if he can get you to agree to see him ever again.

-----

In the end, help comes from an unexpected quarter, though while it’s happening, Bob remains in the dark.

Weeks pass.  He doesn’t hear from you.  You trade careful, short texts with each other, but you don’t talk.  Bob’s life narrows down into just work and not-work:  he skips most of the nights out with the squad and sits alone in his apartment and goes to bed early.  He doesn’t seclude himself exactly, but he leans into the solitude.  He uses the time to think about his family, his life so far, the things he wants in the future.  He thinks about what his life might be if you never return to him, and he thinks about what it may be if you do.

Weeks pass, and there comes a Saturday night where the Daggers manage to cajole him into going out to the Hard Deck.  He settles into his usual seat, ready to watch Nat and Bradley in a round of pool.  Nat chalks his cue and starts to bend to the table for the break shot when something over Bob’s shoulder pulls her gaze and stops her.  She glances at him, her face confused, so he turns and looks too.

He sees you standing near the entrance of the Hard Deck…and Jake stands right beside you.  Worse, it looks like Jake has his hand on you—a hand on the middle of your back, steadying you.  For a brief, terrible minute, Bob thinks he’s lost you to Jake:  Jake with his good looks and impressive piloting and his understanding that the goal in life should be to marry one’s best friend.

Then Jake catches his eye.  He tips Bob a nod, then leans down and says something near your ear that makes you nod as well.  You turn to Jake and smile at him, but then you turn and find Bob, and you smile at him too.

Then Jake pushes you gently forward, towards Bob.

-----

Another shift in perspective for Bob, then.

He always considered Jake as selfish, cocky, and painfully arrogant.  He thought his fellow Dagger to be shallow, and he never considered that Jake might care about his teammates and might work on their behalf for good.

Which is exactly what Jake did over the past few weeks:  without saying a word to anyone, he slowly worked on Bob’s behalf.  Bob always knew that you gamed with the other Daggers here and there—linking up for campaigns when schedules aligned—and Jake was no exception.  After Bob laid out the entire pathetic situation with you to his teammates, though, Jake spent the next few evenings afterwards lingering online, waiting to see if you logged on to play.

When you did eventually log on, he did what any Top Gun pilot would do:  he engaged with you, a dogfight of sorts, though Jake was so good, you never even realized that you were being carefully, methodically handled.

A few days of friendly gaming ceded to texting each other.  Low-stakes stuff.  How was your day?  How was work?  Any plans for the evening?  Jake kept it friendly but not flirty.  After a few weeks of constant-but-cordial chatting, he invited you out for coffee.

He spent the coffee date broaching the subject of Bob.  Nothing too deep or introspective—just the history there, how you and Bob met and became friends.  Over coffee, Jake gently talked up Bob, talked up his good traits, talked him up while teasing him so it wasn’t so obvious what he was doing.

Then more gaming.  Occasional texting.  Tiny seedlings planted about what a great guy Bob was.  Tiny feelers to gauge your own thoughts.  Then another friendly date, this time at a bar far from the Hard Deck.

Over a shared pitcher of beer, Jake made his move.  He waited until you were one and a half beers in (and one order of soft pretzels in as well) before he brought up the subject of Bob more seriously.  He gave you the details around Bob’s baffling misunderstanding of relationships.  He gave you the details, as he understood them, of Bob’s family, of his childhood, and how both gave him preconceived notions that he hadn’t even been aware of.

He then listened to you in turn, listened carefully as you explained how you had loved Bob for nearly as long as you’d known him.  Jake listened and nodded as you described how difficult it was to be a friend and nothing more, to watch Bob fall in and out of love with other women. 

Then he listened as you described that morning to him from your perspective:  how Bob had playfully slid that ring on your finger but how you’d been blinded to the joke of it.  How your hopeful little heart had hammered in your chest, how your brain had chanted finally, finally, finally he sees me…and how quickly it was all shattered.  How embarrassment barely even captured the feeling afterwards.  How the waves of mortification and humiliation were sometimes only broken up by anger—at yourself, at Bob—until you were so deep in a well of bad feelings that you couldn’t even look at Bob again.

Jake heard it all.  He let you vent, commiserated with you, shook his head at Bob’s cluelessness.  But where you saw malice behind Bob’s poor joke, Jake gently corrected you.  Bob could be oblivious to you, but he could never be cruel to you…and what if there was some underlying emotion behind the joke?  What if, clueless as Bob was to your feelings, he was just as clueless to his own?  Jake stressed that point over and over—how Bob had no clue why he did what he did.  What if it was Bob’s subconscious driving him?  What if, deep down, he recognized that he loved you too and making a terrible joke was the only way to express it?

The discussion went all night.  When the bar lights flickered for last call, Jake gathered you up and took you for a drive to a taco stand by the beach.  Over tacos and Mexican Coke, Jake fired his final shot, the kill shot, and he put it as best he could in the terms he understood best.

“What you have to realize,” he had told you.  “Is that you and Bob both love each other the same.  You just had longer to acclimate to it.  He got it all at once in a big dose.  It’s like flying.  You had the gentle climb to cruising altitude while poor Bob was strapped to solid rocket boosters.  But you’re in the same place now, at least.”

You had laughed at that, elbowed Jake in the side and joked that he should employ more poetical language around love rather than spaceflight analogies, but then you went quiet, and Jake didn’t say anything else.  The two of you sat and watched the ocean, watched the sky start to lighten behind you, and it was only after a long stretch of silence that you cleared your throat and said, quietly, “maybe I should talk to him.”

-----

Which is what the two of you do now.  You talk.

Bob leads you outside of the Hard Deck.  You exchange niceties as you walk down the beach, far enough away from the bar until the noise is drowned out by the waves.  It’s darker here, and you both shed your shoes and sit down in the sand to allow the water to lick at your toes.  You don’t touch, but you’re close enough to Bob that he can feel you there, the slight gravitational pull of your body against his.

You talk.  You rehash all of it:  your mortification, Bob’s confusion that ceded to understanding.  Bob turns to look at you when you talk, but you keep your face turned towards the Pacific.  There’s a storm miles from shore, sheets of rain illuminated by lightning.  It’ll probably spend itself before it makes landfall, but it does kick up a breeze that ruffles your hair.

It's the first time he’s really spent time with you since that morning.  He can just make you out in the darkness, but he can see enough, and it makes his throat grow tight with how beautiful you are to him. 

How did I never see it? He thinks.  How did years pass with me so blind?

You must sense him staring because you finally turn and face him.  He has the sudden realization that this is the moment of no return, not that awful morning a few months ago.  This is the moment where you are both revealed to the other, where you each lay your respective cards on the table and hold nothing back.  Bob realizes too that even in this moment, he is experiencing an intimacy that others in his family have not experienced, and he feels so extraordinarily lucky—and grateful, for Jake’s intervention—that he grimaces against the sudden urge he has to cry.

You see the face he makes, but you seem to understand the emotion underneath it.  Why wouldn’t you?  You’ve always known him so well, and now that you’re at this moment together, you know him even better. 

You don’t say anything, though.  You’ve both spent the past few hours talking, and words would fail anyway.  You only offer him a smile—small, gentle, knowing—and then you reach your hand across the sand to him.

He reaches back, and you thread your fingers through his.  Together you sit on the dark shore and watch the storm raging out on the ocean.  There will be time in the coming days and weeks and months when you’ll say more, do more.  You’ll both stumble through this new reality of loving each other, of learning how to be together.

For now, though, you just sit together, your hand in his, and enjoy this tiny interlude between the old life you had together and the new one that is just starting.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

a/n: part 2. idk

summary: natasha romanoff x married!reader; nat and you used to be in love. now, years later, you're married to a wealthy man and have a daughter with him. will running into natasha change everything?

warnings: none

word count: 6.4k

part 1, part 2, part 3, …

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— COOKIES AND CONVERSATIONS —

"Natasha?"

Her eyes lock with yours as she slowly straightens up, making Nina let go of her sleeve in the process. You pull your daughter closer, staring at Natasha incredulously.

"Y/N", she finally says, a tad too coolly for your liking.

"What are you doing here?", you ask, still wary. Nina has grabbed your hand, a bit confused by how icy and distant the interaction between you two seems. You both said you're friends, after all. She's too young to grasp just how complex your relationship actually is.

'Friends' is far from the truth.

Natasha looks around the lobby, noticing the stares she's getting from strangers.

Yes, she specifically. You're a familiar face around here, probably visiting every week with your daughter in tow. She, however? She's unfamiliar. A face that stands out, someone who doesn't fit in. Her traitorous brain remarks that she should be used to that feeling by now. But she isn't.

"Can we maybe move this outside?", she asks quietly, her eyes flitting back to meet yours. You frown, unsure whether you should agree to her request.

But then again, Natasha is safe. Despite the breakup, despite the years of distance — you trust her. Part of you also realizes that your conversation is being overheard, which you don't like. Too many people know too much about you already, so there's no need to give them more stuff to talk about.

"Fine." You reluctantly follow her, making sure you're holding on to your daughter. No way is she running off again. That'd be the second time within less than a week.

You look at her as soon as you're outside, standing by your car. Natasha pushes her hands into the pockets of her coat, observing you out of the corner of her eye. She still can't shake that habit, it seems — always on the lookout, always studying you. It's as endearing as it is frustrating.

"So?", you eventually say, your thumb rubbing Nina's fingers. You're trying to calm yourself down. Or keep yourself calm. Either of those. "Answer me."

Natasha's gaze briefly sweeps over your surroundings. Traffic, an empty sidewalk, that gigantic building you just exited. Nobody in vicinity, which is a relief.

"I wanted to see you", she says. A half-lie. She did want to see you, in some way at least, but that's not what she's here for. She came her to find evidence, to gather intel about your precious husband.

Can she tell you that, though?

No. Not yet.

Your expression falters for a moment, the mask of indifference crumbling and vanishing. A variety of emotions flickers across your face, unreadable yet obvious. Natasha can see every single one, making her chest feel tight with guilt.

"You've got great timing", you say weakly, feeling the early autumn breeze brush over your cheeks. "It's been seven years."

"It's been a little more than five days", Natasha corrects you, still stoic.

"You know what I mean", you say sharply. "That thing at the art gallery? Doesn't count. Besides: if you wanted to see me, why'd you come to my husband's office?"

"I didn't know this was his office", she immediately replies, which — to you — is even more ridiculous than her claiming she wanted to see you. She's a spy, for god's sake. She doesn't do anything without a purpose, especially not something like this.

"So this is a coincidence?" You let out a hollow laugh. "Natasha-"

"Okay", she says, stepping closer. You quickly look at her, feeling the urge to take a step back. You can't get close to her again. "Maybe I did know he works here. But how else was I supposed to find you?"

"Not at all would've been a start."

"Charming", she says drily, her attempt at concealing the hurt in her voice failing. "Nice to see you too."

"Oh, come on." You sigh. "I'm sorry, but this...it's odd. I didn't think you'd be the one to seek me out first after, you know...", you trail off. She smiles bitterly, averting her eyes.

"Not all of us hold grudges", she says, softer this time. "I guess you're just harder to forget than I thought."

There's a teasing lilt to her voice, something that's meant to protect you both. It doesn't work, but you appreciate the effort. Plus, it manages to elicit a small smile from you. That's more than enough for Natasha.

Nina, ever the restless one, lets go of you to grab Natasha's hand again. The woman looks down at her, a smile appearing on her lips. The child is staring at her as if she's some kind of superhero, which is pretty much spot on.

"Looks like I've been replaced", you comment, the smile on your face turning more genuine now.

Nina is sociable. She loves people of pretty much all ages and is guaranteed to talk their ears off. Still, this kind of immediate fascination is something you haven't seen before. Like mother like daughter, it seems. When you first met Natasha, you felt this kind of enchantment as well. It's a spell that's hard to break.

"I am very likable", Natasha boasts playfully, grinning at your daughter. The little one turns to look at you, pleased that she made the pretty lady smile at her.

"Mommy, she's nice", she pipes up. "Can we get cookies? You promised."

"I did promise cookies", you sigh, shooting her an affectionate look. Then you glance at Natasha. "We were supposed to pick up a snack on our way home", you say sheepishly. "Care to join us?"

"Change of heart?", the redhead teases.

"Yeah, well..." You crack a smile. You're aware you went from pissed off to mildly flustered, all within the span of mere minutes. It'd throw her off guard if she wasn't still familiar with it. "It's always been difficult to stay mad at you."

Natasha hums, looking at Nina again. The girl smiles as if on cue, bouncing on the spot.

"Please?"

"Will I get a cookie, too?", Natasha asks, raising her eyebrows.

Nina nods. "You can have one", she says, her tone generous yet slightly self-important. You and Natasha exchange an amused look — it's a kind and genuine offer, but the way she's saying it makes it sound like the cookies are hers to give away. You're starting to see why your parents have called your daughter spoiled before.

"Looks like the boss has spoken. So, you're joining us?"

"I can't say no to Miss Nina here", Natasha confirms, squeezing Nina's hand.

"Nobody can", you huff, smiling, and take Nina's free hand. "There's a café down the block. We can walk there."

To say that this is weird would be more than just an understatement.

You haven't seen her in years. Haven't talked to her, haven't texted her, nothing. Refusal to reach out from both sides resulted in complete radio silence. And now?

Now you're walking down the street together, both of you holding onto Nina as she walks between you. You're not talking — thankfully, your daughter has decided to do that for you. She's chattering nonstop, her little voice ringing through the air.

It's warm inside the café, with the scent of pumpkin spice wafting right into your faces. Nina instantly lets go of you both, running up to the counter to inspect the pastries. She clasps her hands together in front of her, as if to prevent herself from touching the glass that's separating her from the sweet treats.

"She's a good kid", Natasha says quietly as you catch up to the girl. "She must get that from you."

You smile slightly, glancing at the woman next to you. Your gaze gets stuck, lingers, traces her features. You never could've forgotten what she looks like — not in a million years — but she's even more beautiful than you remembered.

Natasha notices you staring. She looks at you from the corner of her eye, subtly tilting her head. "What?", she asks softly.

"Nothing", you respond in a low murmur, quickly digging through your purse. "It's just weird seeing you here."

She manages a faint smile, silently agreeing with your words. Her eyes zero in on your wallet as you reach for a few dollar bills and her hand comes up to gently stop you.

"I got this", she says, reaching for her own money.

"No, hey-"

"Hush", she says firmly, then gives the barista a polite smile. She lets Nina order her own cookie (the rainbow one, of course), then she lists off everything else. Chocolate chip cookies — a classic —, an espresso and your favorite beverage.

You hide your smile, trying to get over the fact that she still remembers.

You find a quiet, secluded corner of the café, and sit down there. The sky is littered with clouds, covering the sun and allowing the soft lights of the café to be the star of the show.

Nina is tucked into the corner seat between you, her little hands breaking the cookie in two. Her excitement over something so mundane is serving as a buffer between you and Natasha, helping you through initial awkward silences.

"It's a nice place", Natasha comments, taking a sip of her espresso. "Much better than that place in D.C. with the squeaky chairs."

"And the bitter coffee", you add, looking at her. You reach out, tapping the frame of the glasses she's wearing. Those are definitely new. "Didn't know you need glasses now."

"I don't", Natasha says, quickly sliding the glasses off her face. Her eyes meet yours, deep green and softened. "They just help me be recognized less, believe it or not."

"I recognized you", you counter, stirring the hot drink in front of you before taking a tentative sip.

"Yes, you did", she says pointedly, glancing at Nina as she holds out a piece of her cookie. The girl has her head tilted sweetly.

"Trade?"

"Sure, honey", Natasha says, handing her a piece of her own cookie in exchange. Then she focuses on you again. "Now let's hope the rest of Manhattan isn't as sharp-eyed as you."

You roll your eyes, an amused sound escaping you. "Well, don't look at me. I don't think a pair of glasses could ever make you blend in." You pause, a thought crossing your mind. "What are you hiding from, anyways?"

Natasha looks at you, her brain — again — settling on a half-truth. "You know me. From the rest of Manhattan, pretty much."

"Right", you say, smiling faintly. "Always on the run."

"Old habits die hard", she says wryly, leaning back with her arms crossed. Irony — her very own way of suppressing the guilt that's starting to rear its head. She's lying to you pretty much constantly, keeping secrets and finding excuses.

Natasha has reasons for that. She can't just tell you what's going on, not until she knows for sure. Until then, you might be of use.

Telling herself that is easier than admitting why she's actually sitting here with you.

"Funny. I thought you'd have found some peace by now." You tilt your head pointedly. "Or at least a better disguise."

"Me and peace in the same sentence? Never thought I'd see the day", she says, finishing her espresso. "And the disguise? It's low-maintenance."

You let out a sound that's between a laugh and a scoff, wiping a few cookie crumbs off Nina's face absently. She rubs her eyes tiredly and you place a soothing hand on her back. "You were never low-maintenance."

"I thought I was charmingly uncomplicated", she smiles, briefly glancing at Nina to check on her. The girl looks sleepy, so it must be nap time for her soon.

"Yes, sure. If that's what you'd call having three passports in the glove compartment whenever you drove me anywhere."

The sole purpose of the smirk on Natasha's face is to hide a wince. It wasn't just the passports — it was everything that came with being with her. Switching cars while driving in the middle of the night, being prepared to run at any given moment. Making sure she could up and go whenever she wanted. Never entirely grounded, one foot always in the shadows.

Her existence was unpredictable, untethered. A stark contrast to the safe but stifling life you lead now, filled with monotony and routines.

Being with her allowed you to soar, even if it sometimes meant crashing down.

"Touché", Natasha says, watching you smooth down Nina's hair. Yet another new mannerism you've picked up — an endearing one at that. "Makes me wonder why you didn't run."

"Maybe I liked the thrill", you reply, looking at her again. Nina's head droops onto your arm for a moment. She's definitely ready for her nap. "Or maybe I liked the person behind the passports."

"That person hasn't changed as much as you may think."

"I think we've both changed."

Natasha watches you scoop the yawning child into your lap. Nina nestles against you, her eyes closing.

She never thought she'd see you like this: all motherly and nurturing, quietly soothing a child — your child. So maybe you have a point. Maybe you did change.

"Maybe", she admits, giving a small smile. "Some things don't, though."

"Like what?", you ask quietly, a hint of challenge in your voice.

Natasha leans forward, her gaze holding yours. The café, the people around you, the noises and smells — it all disappears. At least for a moment, it does.

"Like the way I recognized you, too."

. . .

— THE WEB UNFOLDS —

Her office is small but efficient, filled with the tools of her trade. Screens glowing with data, paperwork and open files scattered across her desk, a steaming mug of tea. She toys with a pen as she scans the financial documents she retrieved once more, one name standing out: Durant Enterprises.

Multiple transfers to and from said company, the amounts large and the descriptions vague. It's the frequency that makes her pause. This isn't just routine business — it's deliberate.

Natasha feels on edge as she puts her pen aside, now pulling up a secondary window on her screen. She cross-references the company with known entities in her database and starts to dig.

At first, Durant Enterprises doesn't raise alarms. Everything seems ordinary until more troubling details surface.

Natasha pauses, her hands stilling. She stares at the screen, feeling a chill run down her spine.

Ties to overseas operations, suspiciously under-the-radar accounts — and, most notably, an association with human trafficking syndicates.

She swallows, her fingers continuing to move over the keyboard in a rapid pace. A list of contacts connected to Ethan catches her eye, several names matching aliases from SHIELD's database of traffickers and corrupt officials. A few of the numbers that are listed appear to be burner phones, heightening her suspicions.

Natasha plugs in the USB stick and runs a deep scan of the files on Ethan's computer. A dense folder of corporate documents, mostly financial data — endless spreadsheets, balance sheets, transaction records. But, nestled among them, an invoice marked for 'freight services' from a shipping company she's never heard of.

It's not an innocent transaction — the total is unsettlingly large.

She pulls up the details, her eyes narrowing as she connects the dots to previous intel. And there it is again: an obscure company, linked to the same shadowy network she's seen before.

Dammit, Bailey, she thinks, taking a hasty sip of tea. What are you dragging them into?

As expected, her thoughts have drifted back to you. To you and Nina, completely oblivious to what Ethan — the man who's supposed to protect you and care for you — is doing.

And then there's Natasha — about to tear this entire network down, about to expose him to his family and countless others. She knows you'll have to find out eventually; it's only fair, after all. You deserve to know the full truth, even if it'll add yet another weight to your shoulders.

Part of her wonders whether you'll forgive her. She's been lying to you ever since that night at the art gallery, and she continues lying to you constantly. It's what she has to do to protect you and Nina.

Lingering affection wars with duty. Shield you from all of this or tell you the truth, let you live in this little bubble you've created for yourself or make it burst. Natasha shouldn't let her feelings get in the way, especially not when this entire mess concerns you and your daughter as well.

Every part of her being is trying to stop her from getting you involved in this. You don't deserve to be a part of this — but here you are.

And she's certain she'll do everything in her power to protect you, even if it means losing you once and for all.

Natasha sets the tea aside and grabs her phone. Her finger hovers above the call button for an excruciatingly long moment, then she decides against it. She leans back in her chair, starting to massage her temples. A dull ache has started to form behind her eyes.

It's a realization, a resolve, that hurts.

She'll have to use you somehow.

. . .

— MOMENTS IN FOCUS —

The sunlight filtering through the windows has a richness to it, making everything appear softer and more vibrant. Leaves dance in front of the floor to ceiling windows, shades of amber and russet that make the scenery outside look like the perfect October morning.

You look up from the ingredients in front of you — bananas, berries, a handful of spinach, all ready to be thrown into the blender — when you hear footsteps approach. Ethan pauses at your side, briefly glancing up from his phone to press a short kiss to your cheek. 

"Good morning", he says, looking like the epitome of effortlessness. Hair wet and slicked back, a crisp white robe tied loosely around his waist. Nina doesn't even notice him; she's too engrossed in the picture in front of her, her tongue sticking out as she focuses on coloring within the lines of the butterfly. "What's on the menu?"

"Smoothies, scrambled eggs, yogurt with granola", you list off, turning on the blender. It hums softly as the colors swirl together, creating a nice pinkish shade.

"Hear that, Nina?", he asks, leaning against the counter next to you. She barely looks at him before going back to coloring, now choosing a purple crayon. "Jesus. We've really got to make sure she pays more attention. This is rude behavior."

"She's tired", you defend her, pouring the smoothie into two glasses and one plastic cup. "Also, it's 7 in the morning. You can't expect her to function properly at this hour, Ethan."

"Why not?", he counters, reaching around you to grab one of the smoothies. He takes a few big gulps, already sitting down at the breakfast table and reaching for the newspaper. "She's almost four. It's time she learns some manners."

"She has manners", you retort, crouching down in front of your daughter. She stops coloring, her eyes meeting yours expectantly as she waits for you to say something. "Breakfast is ready, sweetheart. Are you hungry?"

"No", Nina says, but gets up anyway. You smile and swiftly lift her into the air, then sit her down on the chair with her booster seat. She reaches for her cup, holding it with both hands as she takes a sip. "That's yummy."

"Thank you, baby." A kiss is planted on the top of her head, then you join them at the table.

Ethan looks up from the newspaper, casually drumming his fingers on the surface of the table. "Do you have anything planned for today?"

"Not that I know, no", you say, glancing at him. "Why? Did something come up?"

"Oh, yeah. This magazine — Art & Culture Monthly, you probably know them — called this morning. They want to feature the gallery's grand opening in their upcoming issue. It's a pretty big deal, you know? Anyway, they'll interview me and also feature our family."

You can hear the excitement in his voice, causing you to smile faintly. Of course — another thing he can add to his long list of achievements. You can't believe you thought he'd ask if you wanted to do something normal. Go to a pumpkin patch, maybe visit a park. Simple, ordinary things.

"Whatever. They want to take a few pictures of us later today — you, me, the kid. It'll be great for the gallery's reputation, and it'll really solidify our place in the art scene."

Your smile fades a bit. A photo shoot. You've done a couple of those before, but they were always for private usage. You don't want Nina's face to be printed in some magazine everyone can buy, even if basically no one would recognize her anyway.

"I don't know", you say hesitantly, handing Nina a napkin. She has some of the smoothie smeared across her chin and cheeks. "It's a bit unexpected. Plus, Nina is too young for that. She won't be able to sit still for that long."

"Hey, it's okay", he says, brushing off your concerns. "You'll be fine, Nina. Won't you? Anyways-" He turns to you without waiting for an answer, "it's a huge opportunity for us — for me, really. They want to showcase the perfect family, and we're pretty much spot on."

The perfect family — husband, wife, cute little daughter. Well-off but still relatable, at least in a way. Always happy, always fitting society's expectations. You're tired of being pushed into this mold.

You sigh, glancing at your daughter. She looks at you, not understanding too much. "Photos?", she asks curiously.

"Yeah, photos. A photo shoot", you say, feeling uneasy. "Are you sure this is necessary?"

"Come on", your husband pushes impatiently. "It won't take too long. Besides — it's not like you have anything to do, do you? You'd spend the entire day sitting around. At least you'll make yourself useful."

You roll your eyes. Yes, that's definitely the case. It's not like you have a toddler to take care of, right? And even if you do — it can't be as hard as what Ethan does, obviously.

"When do we have to be there?"

"Two hours", he says happily, eating a bite of his scrambled eggs. "By the way, did you put chives in this? You know I don't like chives."

. . .

It's an upscale studio, bustling with assistants, lights and backdrops. Ethan is just as polished as the space you're in, immediately stepping up to the photographer — an older man, balding, with tiny glasses and a sweater vest — and staff to charm them. You keep your daughter close, feeling out of place.

As much as you hate this — you have to admit that Nina looks impossibly cute in her outfit. A white cabled fisherman sweater, matching yours, paired with denim jeans in a light wash. A pastel yellow headband is keeping her hair out of her face, making her cheeks look even rosier than usually.

"Mommy, this is itchy", she whispers, tugging at the front of her sweater. You grimace, quietly sympathizing with your daughter. The fabric doesn't exactly feel nice on your skin.

"I know, honey", you reply in a hushed voice, making sure the assistants and photographer don't hear you.

"And it's bright", she adds, squinting as she accidentally looks at one of the lights. You snort in amusement, gently making her turn away so she doesn't let the brightness fry her eyes.

"Yeah, I know. It'll be over soon, alright?"

"You ready?", one of the assistants says, waving you over. You nod and gently nudge Nina along.

The photographer positions you in various poses — Nina perched on Ethan's knee, Ethan with his arm around you, you holding Nina. It feels rehearsed, like they know exactly what they want to sell. Which, realistically speaking, is probably the case here.

Picture after picture, pose after pose. You're not the only one who starts to get restless. You spot Nina fidgeting more than once, subtly reaching into her pockets to make sure her crayons are still there — crayons she brought along secretly.

"Stop that, please", the photographer's voice cuts through the air. You don't like the irritated tone with which he's speaking one bit, but you decide to ignore him.

Nina stops, quickly pulling her hand out of her pocket.

"Yes, perfect. Ideal!", he gushes, continuing to snap pictures of you. You smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. You silently wonder whether anyone will look at the pictures and realize that you'd rather be anywhere else. Ethan won't, that's for sure — he's beaming, oblivious to your discomfort.

"Mommy?", Nina whispers as you pick her up, already clutching her crayons in her smaller hand. You're finally done after what feels like an eternity of posing and smiling stiffly. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes, sweetheart, we're going home", you nod, letting her nestle into you. "Let's just finish up here, okay?"

"Okay", she mumbles, her crayons pressed against the clean fabric of your sweater. They'll most likely leave stains, but you couldn't care less about that. You're just relieved you're done with this.

The drive home isn't silent, to your dismay. Ethan keeps going on and on and on about how great the photos are and how important this is and how it'll certainly elevate his public image. He's talking so much you're surprised Nina managed to doze off in her seat, her chin resting on her chest.

You don't bother responding — instead, you just stare out the window, your mind drifting. You wonder whether Natasha would've laughed at how absurd this whole thing is. You wonder what's she's doing, whether she's thinking about you.

In that moment, you get a text message.

Natasha: Hey, Y/N. This is a bit random, but does Ethan know a few guys in the whole arts world?

I'm looking into something for Tony. — 2.17 pm

You: Hey! I can ask him for a few of his

contacts and send you a list, maybe? — 2.17 pm

Natasha: That's perfect, thank you. — 2.18 pm

You look to your left when Nina stirs. She looks at your phone, rubbing one of her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Who is that?"

"That's Natasha", you say. Ethan doesn't even notice. He's now telling your chauffeur about the feature, again rambling about the interview and the art gallery. Part of you is thankful for that.

"Natasha?" Nina suddenly doesn't seem so sleepy anymore as her eyes light up. "Say hi!"

You smile at your daughter's enthusiasm. Seems like she's really starting to adore the redhead.

You: By the way, Nina says hi. She's all smiley. — 2.19pm

Natasha: Right back at her :) — 2.20pm

Natasha: Are you guys in town next week? There's this park near

the old tower, I think she'd love it. (I promise I won't hog the cookies

this time.) — 2.21pm

You glance at Nina. She looks at you, wide-eyed and practically buzzing with excitement.

"Natasha's asking if we want to go to a park with her", you say, reaching out to adjust her seatbelt. "What do you say, NeeNee?"

Your daughter immediately nods. "Yes, I want to go! Can we go?"

You smile faintly. "Sure, we'll go."

You text Natasha back, confirming the day and time. Then you slip your phone into your pocket.

You let out a small breath, your lips curving into a smile before you even realize it. The weight of your lousy day lingers, but it seems lighter now.

The idea of seeing Natasha tugs at your chest in a way you weren't prepared to unpack. It's almost absurd, how a simple text exchange could bring you such warmth. There's a faint flutter beneath your ribs, caused by a mix of excitement and a wary kind of anticipation.

It's been years, yet you still don't know what it is about Natasha Romanoff that can do this to you with such little effort.

. . .

It's a nice day — the October sun is warm but not overbearing, the chatter of children is echoing through the open space. You get out of the car and scoop the squirming child out of her booster seat, her hand tightly clutching her favorite stuffed bear. You set her on the ground, making sure she doesn't just run off.

"Mommy, can we go there first?", she asks, pointing at the swings. You smile, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Let's find Natasha first, sweetheart. Then maybe she can push you."

Your suggestion earns a gleeful nod. With her hand clasped in yours, you start making your way down the winding path leading into the park. The late-afternoon light dapples the ground through the trees, creating a peaceful but slightly surreal atmosphere — though maybe that's just your nerves.

You spot Natasha near a quiet corner of the park, leaning casually against the wooden fence by the playground. Her pose is relaxed, but her sharp eyes are scanning the area around her.

Once she sees you, her face softens.

"Natasha!", Nina yells, voice bubbling with excitement, and frees herself from your gentle grip to dart forward.

Natasha crouches down just in time to catch the girl in a gentle hug, her expression warm. "Hey, Tiny!"

You ignore the nickname and the way it sends butterflies through your stomach. Instead you approach her, your steps hesitant but steady. She straightens up, her eyes meeting yours, and the park fades into the background.

You feel a small rush of warmth — one that leaves you confused.

"Hi", you say, your voice quieter than intended.

"Hi", she responds, her tone equally soft. But her gaze lingers, taking you in, and the curve of her lips hints at something deeper. "Should we sit? Or does Nina have a playground mission I should know about?"

Nina tugs at Natasha's hand, a grin on her face. "Swings first!"

The little girl manages to slightly break the tension. You let out a laugh, shooting your daughter a fond look. "Looks like you've got your orders."

"Please", Nina adds, remembering the magic word. She keeps pulling at Natasha's hand, who plays along easily. She follows Nina to the playground, all while exchanging a brief look with you — a silent 'Is this okay?'

"Go ahead", you say, nodding, and follow them to the swings.

Leaves crunch beneath the soles of your shoes, the air having a slight bite to it already. A boy, slightly older than Nina, runs past with his father chasing after him. Laughter and voices carry through the air, allowing you to relax a little.

Natasha makes sure Nina's holding on tight before she takes the lead in pushing her. You stand next to them, arms loosely crossed over your chest to preserve some warmth.

"Higher!", Nina promptly demands, trying to glance at Natasha over the thick fabric of her scarf.

"Higher? What are you, a little daredevil in training? You're going to give your mom a heart attack!"

"She's already started", you say, mildly exasperated. "You should've seen her last week, when she tried to climb the bookshelf."

"Huh." Natasha smiles, her eyes briefly meeting yours. There it is again, that annoying tug of warmth. "Sounds like someone I used to know."

You huff, but you can't deny the truth behind her words. You shrug, pushing your hands into the pockets of your coat.

"You never complained."

"I didn't", she agrees, gently stopping the swing when Nina starts to talk about the merry-go-round. "Doesn't mean you didn't make my nerves fray, though."

"Please." You start walking to the merry-go-round, watching Nina speed ahead. "If anyone's nerves were frayed, it's mine. I watched you leave for missions on a weekly basis. I can't even count how many times I stitched you up afterwards."

"You make it sound like I was some kind of wrecking ball", she smirks.

"You didn't need to be." You let out an amused chuckle, your eyes glued to Nina as she sits down on the circular bench of the merry-go-round. "You were a force of nature, and I spent most of my time just trying to hold it together while you ran off into the chaos."

"You always did", she agrees, her voice quieter now. You stop when you reach the merry-go-round, watching Nina as she starts to spin around. "You were good at it, though. At stitching me up, I mean. Better than I deserved most days."

"Very true", you say, trying to keep it light. "I think I deserved a medal for keeping up with you."

"You mean for putting up with me?", Natasha corrects you, her hand briefly touching the handle of the merry-go-round to make sure it doesn't spin too fast.

A faint smile forms on your face. She's not entirely wrong — some of the time, it really was 'putting up with her'. Rolling with it, with her lifestyle, with the way every day seemed to be pure chaos.

You know it's not her fault. It's who she is, it's the life she ended up choosing for herself after never getting to have a choice. You were patient, too — you understood why she had to do all those things. Why she could never just rest.

"I'm just saying: most people would've thrown their hands up after the third emergency stitch job", you say mock seriously, earning a quiet laugh.

"Good thing you're not most people", she says, her smirk letting some tenderness shimmer through.

"Yeah", you agree, watching her. She's looking at Nina again, making sure she isn't spinning too fast or getting dizzy. Again and again you realize the same thing: only days later, Natasha fits in perfectly. Maybe that's what scares you the most. "Real good."

. . .

With Nina playing in a sandbox, you and Natasha get to be alone for a moment. You never take your eyes off your daughter to make sure she stays right where she is, but most of your attention is on the woman sitting next to you.

"I never knew how fast things could change", you speak softly, your words lingering in the chilly air. "I mean — one moment, I was making all these big plans. And now?"

"...now, you're a mom", Natasha says, smiling faintly as Nina smushes down her sandcastle.

"Yeah, exactly."

"You found a calmer life", she says, half to herself. It's bittersweet — she's glad you made it to a place where you don't have to worry about her or the dangers that come with the territory anymore. Now, your days are filled with cartoons and picture books and colorful bandaids. No more midnight missions, no more bloodies bandages. "A safer one."

"Calm and safe, sure", you mumble absently. "But I'm not so sure about...better."

Natasha turns to look at you, frowning slightly. What you said is odd enough, but the way you said it really threw her off. She scoots closer, her voice lowered.

"What are you talking about?"

You open your mouth to answer, but before you can say anything, Nina calls out to you. She's running, one hand clutching her teddybear. "I'm thirsty, mommy."

"Come here, honey." You grab a juice box from your backpack and hand it to her. She struggles with the straw for a moment, then she manages to poke it through the hole. The straw is now covered in grains of sand, making you grimace — but, of course, your daughter doesn't care about that.

She empties the juice box in record time, then she tosses it into the trash can. Off she goes again, her eyes locking onto the pony spring-rider. Natasha watches her with increasing fondness, silently wondering whether, in some other, faraway universe, this is what her life looks like.

"Always on the go", you say quietly, watching her. "So full of energy, I swear."

"I guess that's why I like her so much", Natasha says, glancing at you. You smile.

"She reminds you of yourself, huh?"

Natasha laughs under her breath, shrugging. "Maybe. Though I hope not too much."

You look down at your lap, at your hands that are resting there, and subtly toy with the ring on your finger. Your gaze shifts back to Natasha, a small, wistful smile on your face.

"I disagree. I wouldn't mind if she was a bit...wilder." You bite your lip, then add: "Like you. I mean, you were the one always pushing me out of my comfort zone. It was part of the deal: I tried to rein you in — unsuccessfully —, and you kept pushing."

Natasha smiles, her hand briefly reaching out to squeeze yours. You exhale softly at the simple touch — you haven't felt her skin against yours in years, but it's still the same.

"Did I ever do it right?", she ponders. "Push you the way you needed?"

"Maybe not always", you admit. "But you made me feel alive. Even when it was complicated."

. . .

"For you!", Nina says, handing a flower — a chrysanthemum — to Natasha. The redhead smiles, taking the small plant and twirling it between her fingers.

"A flower? For me? I'm honored!" Natasha turns to look at you, a teasing look on her face. "See? She already likes me better than most people."

You chuckle, lifting Nina into your arms. "I wouldn't be so sure", you say, smiling back just as teasingly. "She gave the mailman a flower last week, too."

"Oh really? And here I thought I was special."

You hum, adjusting your hold on your daughter. "You are special", you say, this time completely sincerely. You can't remember the last time Ethan spent the whole day with you like this — simply existing, doing things that aren't work-related, making sure Nina has fun. This was Natasha's idea, too — not yours. For the first time in a while, you don't feel isolated.

You clear your throat, giving a quick nod. "Well, uhm...thank you. For this. She really had fun."

Natasha hesitates, her gaze flickering from the flower to your face. "I didn't just come for her", she eventually speaks, the words hanging in the air as you exchange a look. You swallow, managing a faint smile.

"Let's not get too sentimental", you say, trying to sound lighthearted. You nudge Nina to distract yourself. "Say bye, honey."

Nina waves at Natasha. A few hours of playing outside in the fresh air have turned her cheeks rosy. "Bye, Natasha!"

"Bye, Tiny."

Another quick glance at each other, then you part ways. Natasha goes in one direction, you go in the other. Years linger between you, years that were spent together and that keep you close. There's a pull that's close to magnetic, and you're not sure how you managed to resist it for such a long time.

Both of you wonder whether you were ever able to truly leave your past behind — or if, somehow, you're still tangled in it, just waiting for the right moment to unravel.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @fxckmiup

[cece693]

Hi! I love your stories and I was wondering if you could write something about Buck Barnes or Steve Rogers with a male reader who got sick but is being stubborn about it. He refuses to accept he is sick and doesn't want to let his boyfriend take care of him, insisting there is no need to rest or go to the doctor, he has to work and it's no big deal even if he clearly feels warm and looks tired. The more he fights it the more exhausting it gets and he starts to look really childish, like a whiny toddler throwing a tantrum or something

Simple requests always are my favorite, more so when they target some of my favorite characters.

I'M NOT SICK (I PROMISE)

pairing: stucky x male reader tags: you're not sick, but you are, caring boyfriends, like who wouldn't want to get smothered by them, you're such a drama queen, but in a good way, comedic elements

You wake already annoyed — at your own body, mainly, because it dares to feel like a bag of wet cement. Your head is stuffed with cotton, joints aching as though you sparred ten rounds with Steve and Bucky back-to-back. Obviously you are not sick; you simply...slept funny. You tell the mirror so while splashing water on a face that’s gone a worrying shade of pale.

Down the hall, voices drift from the kitchen.

“He was burning up last night,” Bucky mutters, soft enough you almost miss it.

“Let him try toughing it out for one more hour,” Steve answers, impatience tucked beneath kindness. “Then we stage a coup.”

A coup? Over your totally-not-illness? Ridiculous. You stride in, shoulders squared, clutching your laptop like a shield. “Morning,” you croak. (Why does it sound like gravel?)

Two sets of super-soldier eyes track you: Steve stirring oatmeal while Bucky leans against the counter with arms crossed. Both clock the tremor in your hand when you reach for a mug.

“I’m fine,” you say before they can speak, because offense is the best defense. “Just a big day. Gotta answer emails before the morning briefing.”

Bucky lifts a brow. “Emails can wait. Your temperature can’t.”

You wave him off. “Drama queen. Look, I’m— ” The room tilts; you catch the back of a chair before you become a new floor decoration. Bad move: Steve is at your side instantly, steadying you with a palm to your forehead.

He winces. “You’re burning, sweetheart.”

“Captain Rogers, stand down,” you huff, wriggling free. “I’ve had worse after one of Nat’s curry nights.”

“Nat’s curry doesn’t make you shiver,” Bucky says.

“I’m not—” A violent sneeze bends you double, proving everyone’s point except yours. When you straighten, both men are staring the way a pair of wolves might regard an injured bunny.

You cross your arms. “Don’t look at me like I’m made of glass.”

Steve sets the oatmeal spoon aside, blue eyes sliding from your flushed cheeks to the goosebumps on your arms. “Glass is stronger than you look right now.”

“’M not calling off work.” You place your laptop on the counter and open the screen. “If I miss that briefing—”

Bucky’s metal hand closes gently over the lid, easing it shut. “Doll, you’re typing gibberish. ‘Regrads’ isn’t a word.”

Heat pricks behind your eyes — half fever, half humiliation. You yank the computer back like a toddler stealing a toy. “Mind your business, Tin Man.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks, but Steve only sighs, patient in that maddening Boy-Scout way. “We’re your business. You’re ours.”

“I don’t need babysitters!” Your voice cracks, too loud for a Wednesday morning. You know you’re being ridiculous; still, the more reasonable they get, the more you dig in. Why does accepting help feel like surrender?

“Okay.” Steve shifts tactics, the commander scenting mutiny. “You have two options. One: you let us put you on the couch with fluids, Tylenol, and bad daytime television. Two: I declare you unfit for duty, call Sam to cover your briefing, and carry you there myself.”

Your mouth drops. “That’s coercion.”

“That’s love,” Bucky corrects, gentle. “Love sometimes sounds like orders when stubborn punks don’t listen.”

You attempt a scathing retort but it devolves into a coughing fit so brutal you see stars. When your vision clears, you’re mortified to find tears clinging to your lashes. Bucky’s flesh hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades; Steve wipes your cheek with a dish towel, tenderness undoing every scrap of defiance.

“I hate this,” you whisper, voice small. “Feels like losing.”

Steve tilts your chin until you meet his gaze. “Letting people care for you isn’t losing. You’d patch us up in a heartbeat, wouldn’t you?”

“Well—yeah, but—”

“Then let us return the favor,” Bucky says. “That’s what being in a relationship is, doll.”

Your shoulders sag. The fight, finally, ebbs out of you, leaving only exhaustion and a grudging gratitude. “Fine,” you mumble. “But I want the couch, not the bed. And no thermometer—I don’t need the numbers judging me.”

Bucky snorts. “And you called me a drama queen.”

Steve kisses your burning temple. “Couch it is. But the thermometer stays. Compromise.”

You grumble yet comply, allowing yourself to be herded to the living-room fortress Steve prepared: pillows stacked like ramparts, fleece blanket already warmed by the dryer. The moment you hit the cushions, your eyelids feel weighted. Steve tucks the blanket under your chin; Bucky appears with a steaming mug of honey-ginger tea that smells like safety.

“Tiny sips,” he warns. You obey without argument this time, too tired to posture.

The first sip scalds in the best way, unlocking the knot in your throat. You blink up at them, shamefaced. “Sorry for the tantrum.”

Bucky brushes his knuckle across your hairline. “You’ve seen Steve when he refuses to admit he’s injured. Trust me, yours ranks low on the toddler scale.”

Steve grins, sheepish. “I do recall hopping on one foot insisting my ankle was ‘just tweaked.’”

“Broke it in three places,” Bucky adds, deadpan.

Their banter coaxes a weak laugh from you, which morphs into another sneeze. Steve slips a tissue under your nose like a dad with perfect reflexes. You mutter thanks, cheeks hot for reasons beyond fever.

“Rest,” Bucky orders, voice gone syrupy with concern. “Movie marathon while you nap?”

“Something terrible,” Steve suggests. “So you don’t mind missing chunks.”

You groan theatrically. “Put on The Room. My pain should be mirrored on screen.”

They chuckle, but Steve actually cues it up. As Tommy Wiseau begins his infamous rooftop rant, Steve presses a cool kiss to the side of your forehead. “Love you,” you whisper.

Steve smiles against your ear. “Love you more.”

Bucky scoffs playful jealousy. “I’m right here, punk.”

“…love you both.” Sleep tugs you under.

You wake thirteen hours later to sunlight and the smell of pancakes. Your fever’s down, head merely cottony instead of magma. Steve’s stretched beside you reading a dog-eared novel; Bucky dozes in the armchair, metal fingers still curled like he fell asleep guarding you.

You swallow around a tender throat, throat thick with unspoken gratitude and leftover stubbornness. Steve’s eyes flick to you, soft. “Feel better?”

You nod.

He arches a brow. “And?”

“…And maybe next time I’ll admit when I’m sick.”

Bucky cracks one eye open. “Record that on your phone so we can play it back.”

You roll your eyes—then smile, sheepish. “Fine. Next time I’ll let my annoyingly perfect supersoldier boyfriends fuss immediately.”

Steve tucks stray hair behind your ear. “Good. Now eat your pancakes before Bucky claims them.”

“Hey,” Bucky grumbles, sitting up, “we share everything in this relationship—especially flapjacks.”

[hellishfig]

so THAT'S why they released the oath of freedom paladin subclass

god i love eursulon. i've seen a lot of people being like "i want more eursulon moments" well HERE WE ARE BABEY

NAT 20 PERCEPTION AND OATH OF FREEDOM. THEIR SORROW IS MY SORROW. FULL BELLIES FOR ALL. WHILE ANY YET ARE CAPTURED HOW CAN ANY BE FREE!!!

how topical

also i absolutely love how ame, suvi, and eursulon's classes/subclasses were created by and for their players. the witch class, the wizard of the citadel subclass, and the oath of freedom subclass. beautiful

EURSULON IS LEVEL FIVE NOW!!!!!!!!!!!! HE HAS HIS PALADIN OATH!!!!!!!!!!!!

also the man in black... lucio's ferry... he is so fascinating. i still need to know why he went to sir curran's resting place

going back also for a moment– every form is my true form... the only correct answer to "what is your true form, shapeshifter?" it's giving nimona. i know brennan and molly ostertag are friends and i know brennan has played in a campaign with nate stevenson. it is genderfluidity and i love that

i will never be normal about this show and thank goodness for that

[lifespectator]

I really can’t!! They both are beautiful angels and would never betray them 🥹

Thanks @fandomnerd9602 !! Let’s not forget to include Tony next time though 😆

Tony: and now for the winner of sexiest Avenger…Wanda voted for Nat

Wanda hugs Nat…

Tony: Nat voted for Wanda

Natasha gives Wanda a kiss on the forehead

Tony: Y/N hasn’t voted yet

Y/N: I can’t! You’re asking me to choose between the two loves of my life! I can’t! They’re both unbelievably sexy!

Wanda and Natasha coo and kiss their shared detka…

Tony: why am I not on the ballot?

[nessheartnat]

Would you shelter me?

autistic(?) fem!reader x older!nat (SFW)

summary: stress had been bothering you for a long time, but a small moment of comfort and safety made it at least a bit better.

warnings: legal age gap (not specified, r is like in her mid twenties and nat in her mid thirties), r being stressed and overwhelmed

notes: finally I managed to write something!! I’m sorry for having been MIA, I’ve been struggling with a writer’s block and too much stress on my plate. And yeah, this one shot was totally not inspired by my awful day :’) 

Also, I’d like to say that r being possibly autistic in this one is mostly based on my own experience, so it might not be the correct way of portraying things.

words: 1.4K

-

You sat in a dimly lit apartment, staring blankly at the screen of your laptop. The warm light of the fairy lights on the windowsill beside you contrasted the bright screen in front of you uncomfortably, but you didn’t want to sit in the dark. The screen was too bright, only increasing the dull throb on your forehead that had been bothering you the entire day. You had taken painkillers, maybe two or three, you weren’t even sure at this point. Natasha would scold you softly if she knew that you had once again ignored the instructions on the prescription.

At the thought of your girlfriend, you felt a tiny warm sensation in your chest. If only the thought would help with your looming stress and overwhelmness at all. Thinking of her wasn’t enough, you needed her. You needed to feel Natasha’s warmth, feel her solid, safe presence. Natasha was always so steady, anchoring you in a way no one or nothing else could. But she wasn’t home yet, and you would never bother her while she was at work. Not that calling her would even be enough right now.

You didn’t even realize your empty gaze was directed at the wall again. You shrugged your head, flicking a finger against your temple. Focus.

You forced yourself to concentrate on the screen in front of you. The essay wasn’t going to write itself, no matter how you wished it would. Luckily, the deadline was still two days ahead, but you knew you should have started earlier. You had actually planned to start two weeks ago, but somehow your habit of procrastinating had taken over. 

You stared at the half empty document in front of you. In the span of five hours, you had managed to write three paragraphs. In no circumstances was it considered enough, and knowing that you had to write five pages, the amount you had managed to produce felt almost worthless. It’s a start, you thought, but the words felt almost mocking. This wasn’t going anywhere.

Once again, your thoughts started drifting before you even realized it. You knew you should be grateful for even getting into university in the first place. You enjoyed studying, you felt passionate about your degree, you knew you wouldn’t change a thing, but that didn’t change the fact that sometimes it was simply too stressful. And you weren’t the best at handling stress. 

It always made you overwhelmed, and being overwhelmed made you shut down. It was impossible to focus, your brain felt foggy, your mind was all over the place. Your head felt too empty and too crowded at the same time, and you just couldn’t think straight no matter how hard you tried. You couldn’t get things done, and that frustrated you greatly. 

It wasn’t just your mind that felt the stress though. Your whole body felt either too sluggish or too tense. Either you couldn’t do anything than stay curled in the corner of the couch, or you paced around the apartment, stimming with your fingers with your mind racing. There was no in between.

You were once again pulled from your thoughts, but this time, it was the sound of the door opening and closing. You could hear sounds of shuffling, then footsteps. Natasha was home.

“Baby?” she called out from the entryway. Before you could think of what to answer, she stepped into the room. “Moya lyubov', why are you sitting in the dark?”

Your brows furrowed. It wasn’t that dark, was it? The fairy lights were on, after all. You looked back at her, but didn’t say anything. 

Natasha watched you for a moment, taking in the sight of you. You were curled on the couch with your laptop on top of your thighs. Your hands were stimming, fingers tapping against each other, and your gaze was focused on Natasha, but something about it felt just a little too empty. She could see that you were probably cold, from the way you had goosebumps all over your arms, but you still hadn’t taken the soft blanket that sat on the edge of the couch. Natasha’s posture relaxed slightly, and it was like she could see right through you.

She walked over to you, grabbed the blanket, and sat down beside you. She draped her arm on the backrest of the couch behind your head, but her hand didn’t touch you yet. At that moment, you realized you hadn’t said a word. 

“I had a headache,” you mumbled, not really knowing why that was the first thing that came to your mind.

Natasha’s face turned into a small, worried frown. Her hand brushed your hair from your face, tucking the strands behind your ear. 

“Did you take a painkiller?” she asked. Her eyes studied your face, reading your lack of expressions. 

“Mhm…,” you hummed and nodded your head slightly afterwards.

“How many?” Natasha asked, knowing you had a habit of ignoring the instructions on the prescription. You turned your gaze down back to the laptop that still sat on top of your thighs.

“Like… Three I guess,” you mumbled. You heard a small sigh, and felt Natasha’s arm move closer to the back of your neck.

“Love, you know you shouldn’t take more than two in a day,” she lectured softly. 

“Sorry… Just thought it would help,” you answered with your head down. Your finger started tracing your knuckles absentmindedly.

Natasha’s gaze assessed you for a moment. She knew you well enough to know you were stressed, and definitely feeling overwhelmed. She had seen the signs for days. Natasha looked at the screen of your laptop, seeing the essay you had been working on. In the corner of the document, she saw the small text, saying that the last edit had been made over an hour ago. 

Natasha seemed to always know what you needed, even though you rarely expressed it out loud. And this time was no exception.

She reached forward, taking the laptop from you. She made sure that the document had been saved, and then closed the device and placed it on the coffee table. 

“Come here, malysh,” she said softly, and pulled you closer until you were resting against her side. You made no effort to resist, as you just let your body slump against her. You laid your head on her chest and let out a small sigh. Natasha draped the blanket over your frame, wrapping it around you in the way she knew you liked it. She wrapped her arms around you, bringing you even closer until your body was flush against her. 

She placed a kiss on the top of your head and started rubbing your back in a slow, soothing motion. Your fingers wrapped around the edge of the blanket, your fist clenching and unclenching around the fabric as your eyes kept staring into nothing.

Natasha knew you needed steadiness, a calm, quiet moment with lots of comfort. But before she’d let you drift off to being non-verbal, she had to make sure you were okay in the aspects which she could directly help with. 

“Did you have anything to eat?” she asked and started carding her fingers through your hair, careful not to tug on the soft strands.

You nodded a little against her chest. 

“Had instant soup. And toast,” you specified, knowing that it made Natasha smile.

“Good girl,” she whispered, and laid another small kiss on the top of your head. Her arms tightened around you, making sure that you were snugly in her hold. 

“You can worry about that essay later, okay? Let me just take care of you now,” she said softly, continuing to stroke your hair. 

You managed to let out a small hum of agreement, and nodded against her chest again. You had wanted to have this moment of safety and comfort for the whole day, so you wouldn’t even think about disagreeing with her. Not that resisting would even be possible, Natasha knew you needed this, and she wasn’t going to let you suffer alone.

“You can close your eyes if you want to… I’m here baby. I’m not leaving, you can just be now,” she whispered and placed another kiss on the top of your head. You nuzzled your face closer to her chest, and for the first time in a while, you let yourself relax in her hold. You were right where you were meant to be.

 “Let’s just take a moment now, hm?”

[f4ggydog]

Young lottie where reader accidentally falls asleep on her while they are having a conversation with the others yellowjackets in a sleepover, and Lottie is all shy while the other girls tease her about it

Thanks 💗

“This is so fucking gay,” Van comments with a laugh.

Taissa rolls her eyes. Her partner was the most mature person in the room as always.

“Let them rest,” Taissa chides. “We all should be getting some sleep.”

“Who are you, the fucking babysitter?” Nat snorts, staring at Lottie’s reddening face. “You never told us you had a crush. When did you score this one home?”

“I see we’re not referring to people with proper respect,” Taissa replies. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

“You’re such a drama queen,” Mari complains. “Haha, look at Lottie guys! She’s like totallyyyy trying to hide her face. It’s so weird!”

“It’s not weird,” Van defends. “We’ve all been in love before. Haven’t we?”

They deliver a nudge to Taissa’s arm. Taissa doesn’t engage and simply sighs.

“Okay, fine. It is pretty cute.” Taissa gives up and engages.

Lottie doesn’t answer anybody. She’s too busy burying her blush in her hands. It doesn’t work. Everyone sees past that timid figure. She’s never been more in love.

“Don’t make so much noise,” Van giggles. “Lottie’s little lover is gonna wake up. And I’m gonna blame you all for it. It’ll be like that one time-“

“Please don’t be a shitty movie reference,” Shauna groans.

“It’s gonna be a TV one,” Taissa corrects with a grin, wrapping her arm around Van.

“Um actually!” Misty raises her finger. “I remember the first time I fell in love. It was the moment I looked into his beautiful brown eyes-“

“A gay coach doesn’t count,” Mari teases.

“You wouldn’t understand!” Misty barks. “When’s the last time someone’s ever loved you, Mari? Didn’t some guy dump you for his cousin? He chose incest over you! Maybe think about that.”

“Okay that’s enough,” Taissa mediates. “You both sound like idiots. Let the fucking person go to sleep.”

“Yeah let’s go back to picking on Lottie,” Nat chuckles. “Isn’t that right, Ms. Can’t Even Look Me In The Eyes?”

“You guys are such assholes,” Lottie mumbles.

(This kinda turned into everyone bantering and picking on each other but I hope you still liked the lottie digs anon)

[mynameismckenziemae]

Behave

Bob Floyd x You x Natasha Trace

This is the result of the following prompts I received:

"Behave, I wouldn't want to have to punish you now."

Toying with a piece of clothing, whether that be the collar of your shirt, slowly undoing your belt, sliding a finger under the waistband of your underwear before letting it snap back against your skin.

Warnings: Adults (18+) only! MDNI! This work contains: smut, f/f, f/f/m, adult language, dirty talk, teasing, oral (m&f receiving), biting/marking, overstimulation, a little spanking.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

It’s late. The patrons left at the Hard Deck are long past sober, with the exception of you three.

A quick glance around the bar shows no familiar faces as you take the pool cue from Bob, not sparing him a glance, still sullen from earlier.

“‘’scuse me,” you murmur, not looking at Natasha either as you brush past, your pushed-up tits grazing hers before you turn to bend over the table to line up the shot, pushing your ass out when you arch your back.

Hands much softer than Bob’s run up the outside of your thighs when she steps close to cover the skin revealed by your sundress riding up.

"Behave,” her thumb lifts the elastic band of the underwear Bob had you put on earlier as she leans over your back, “I wouldn't want to have to punish you now."

She lets it go and it snaps against your tender skin just as you shoot.

“No!” you drop the cue on the table and straighten, missed shot forgotten as you turn to face her, “I mean, please no,” your cheeks heat as you quickly correct yourself at an arch of one of her perfect brows, “Bob already did…earlier.”

“Poor thing,” she pouts, “That’s why you were late, huh?”

You nod bashfully, still refusing to look at Bob who’s approaching the two of you.

“What’d you do?” She leans in to whisper. Her warm breath against your ear and the hint of her perfume make you shiver.

Your eyes drift closed as gently sucks your fluttering pulse point.

“Answer her question,” Bob orders softly as he pushes your hair back, out of her way so she can kiss lower.

“I forgot-“ you gasp as Bob tugs in warning, “I mean I didn’t put undies on.”

“Naughty girl,” she smiles between kisses, sliding her hand beneath your dress again, “and Bob caught you, didn’t he? What did he do to you?”

Bob smiles as he leans his hip against the pool table, shielding you from any prying eyes.

“He spanked me,” you reply, embarrassed yet so turned on. You open your thighs in a silent request to her fingers tracing closer and closer to where you want her, finally ghosting over the fabric, soaked from your arousal and Bob’s release, “and then he fucked me, but didn’t let me cum. And…” you trail off as she starts circling your clit.

“And?” Bob prompts, voice low and husky as he watches his two favorite girls.

“And he made me put on underwear,” you sound pathetic and whiny but can’t seem to help it; being denied earlier have you toeing the edge of release already, “boring, ugly white ones.”

“Well,” Natasha murmurs as she makes her way back up, nipping your jaw, “did you learn anything from it?”

“Yeah,” you pant, forcing your eyes open to meet his steely blue gaze as she pushes you off the edge, “Don’t get caught.”

But just as quickly the pleasure begins, it ends when her hand stills at your words, ruining your orgasm.

“Kidding,” you gasp, hips bucking to follow her hand as she pulls it from under your dress, “I was kidding!”

“She didn’t learn a damn thing,” Nat ignores your protests, holding up her fingers to Bob.

“Nope,” he says matter-of-factly, doing a quick scan of the bar before licking them clean.

“What if…” she trails off, stepping away to whisper something to him, making you whimper from the loss.

His hand finds her hip and squeezes, heat flashing in his eyes at whatever she’s saying. “Yeah,” he swallows thickly, “let’s do that.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

“Only you,” Nat smiles between kisses as she follows the dress over your ass, revealing the white underwear, “can make these look sexy.”

A breathy laugh escapes and your head drops back when Bob latches on to one of your now-exposed nipples.

“Oh you poor thing,” she coos as she pulls the cotton down, “I can still see his handprints. He really did a number on you, didn’t he, princess?”

“Yes,” your fingers card through his hair, “he’s so mean-“ you cut off when he sucks hard at the nipple in his mouth.

“He is mean,” Nat agrees, pressing a kiss to one of the handprints, “but you deserved it, didn’t you?”

Yes. Always.

But ever the brat, you bite your lip to keep from admitting it.

Which earns you another sharp slap on the ass when she rises.

“Do I need to spank you too?” She murmurs in your ear, “Can’t believe I even have to ask after last time.”

The memory has you shaking your head quickly and Bob groans as he switches breasts, obviously remembering too.

Nat had had enough of your teasing and showed you she had a mean streak that rivals Bob’s when she pulled you over her lap. By the end, you were a sopping, teary, sniffling mess. While she kissed you better after, you didn’t sit comfortably for days.

“I deserved it,” you concede, “I always deserve it.”

“That’s right,” she murmurs before nipping the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, “but you’re not off the hook yet.”

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A few minutes later, Bob sits on the bed before reclining back on the pillows, stroking himself slowly as Natasha leads you to the bed.

When she guides your hips down onto Bob's cock with his chest at your back, you can’t imagine how this could possibly be a punishment.

Until they share a look over your shoulder. Bob takes your arms, crossing them behind your back before holding both wrists in one of his hands while Nat settles between his thighs, pushing them apart…which forces yours even wider.

“What-what are you-oh God,” you breathe when she dips her head to brush her lips over your knee to your inner thigh.

“So soft,” she murmurs, softy sucking the supple skin before taking a bite.

You jerk in Bob’s hold; the hint of pain has you clenching around him.

“Oh, she liked that,” Bob chuckles, his free hand coming around to toy with your nipple, still tender and puffy from his mouth, “do it again.”

Nat smiles against your skin as she moves higher before obliging. Soon each thigh is littered with the marks from her teeth and your chest is heaving; the pain lasting only momentarily before blooming into pleasure and settling between your thighs.

She hasn’t touched you intimately and yet your arousal covers Bob.

Then she relents, making Bob groan as he tongues his sac up to his cock and finally to your clit before sucking gently.

Your back arches from the sudden onslaught and the position change pushes him against your g-spot, setting you off without warning.

Bob inhales sharply but tightens his hold on you as you writhe, trying to get away from Nat’s relentless tongue.

Realizing this is her form of punishment when she doesn’t pause before you fully come down, and cry out as she works you into a frenzy once more.

Then again.

And again.

It could be just minutes but it feels like hours as she continues the sweet torture on your clit. Bob’s breathing just as hard as you are and tears stream from your eyes as you squirm in his hold. A deeper, more intense pleasure is building rapidly as you grind on his thick cock, and just when you try to warn her; it crests.

White-hot pleasure engulfs your entire shuddering body; from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. Your release soaks Bob and the bedding beneath you two.

“N-n-no more,” you shake your heavy head, voice shaky and hoarse from your cries, “please Nat-baby? Please?

“I-fuckkkk,” Bob cuts off with a groan when Nat finally, finally gives you a break, her mouth dropping to his sack, “I’ve-I think she’s had enough.”

“More like you’ve had enough,” she smiles, placing one last kiss on your swollen clit as she slowly sits up, lazily sucking on your nipple.

Bob releases your arms and they weave straight into her hair. You try to bring her up for a kiss but your limbs feel so heavy.

Pulling off your breast with a smile, she allows you to bring her up to your lips, kissing you slowly for a moment before guiding you down beside Bob.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Though you’re completely worn out, nothing could keep you from watching your two favorite people together.

“Nat,” Bob chuckles breathlessly as she dips her head to suck his cock sloppily, lapping up his precum, “you don’t have-I’m-.”

“I know,” she pulls off him with a wink, climbing over him and sinking down with no more preamble, “I wanted to taste you both.”

They’re beautiful together; Bob’s big, strong hands gripping her fluently moving hips, letting her lead them to bliss.

Her eyes flutter closed when she slides her hand between her strong thighs to find her clit but fly back open when Bob pinches her butt, “Ah-ah,” he smirks, “eyes on me.”

She nods, an uncharacteristic blush staining her cheeks.

Your spent body still tightens when they cum together; the way those breathy little moans escape even though she’s biting her lip, Bob’s low groan and look of pure bliss.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Later, you fall asleep between the two of them with a smile on your face and absolutely no intention of behaving in the future.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

A/N: welp, it’s finally done! I hope I did it justice for the bisexuals lol. Also, Bob has a corruption kink thing for innocent, white, cotton panties. I don’t know why, but he does. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Tagging:

@lexixstewart

@dizzybee03

@its-the-pilot

@hisredheadedgoddess28

@atarmychick007

@littlezee80

@k-k0129

@phoenix-rising-starbird-one

@jessicab1991

@lonelysoul50

@landpiranha-blog

@fandomology101

@writtingrose

@rascallyrascalreads

@glenpowellluver

@seitmai

[halestrom]

hungry man

“No.”

Bradley turned from where he was staring at Jake from the corner of his eye to look at Coyote who was squinting at Jake, and then looking at Bradley, back and forth before he shook his head.

“Oh, fuck no, Jacob.”

Bradley glanced at Jake who finally turned, raising an eyebrow at Coyote. “What?” Jake asked, face innocent.

“Don’t you what me,” Coyote said, pointing a finger at Jake, looking pissed off. “I thought we agreed we weren’t going to fuck Rooster anymore.”

The silence that followed was loud before everyone started speaking at the same time, the noise getting louder and louder as Bradley tried to figure out how Coyote had figured out he and Jake were doing something again. They had been quiet, they hadn’t been looking at each other in public, they hadn’t left at the same time, they hadn’t been doing anything that would give away that, for the fifth time in knowing each other, they had fallen back to bed together and this time, this time, Bradley felt like it might actually stick.  

“Since when is fucking Rooster a we thing?” Jake demanded, voice cutting through the noise.

“Since, we,” Coyote waved a hand around the room to include all twelve of them, “have to deal with the fall out each time you fuck. Flight school, Oceana, Top Gun even though you were in different classes, that one mission in Germany and fucking Lemoore.”

“I thought Lemoore was before Germany?” Nat asked.

“Was it?” Coyote asked.

“Definitely before,” Halo piped up.  

“Fuck all of you, especially you,” Jake said, glaring at Coyote. “For the record, we’re not fucking.”

That at least was correct. For the first time they weren’t fucking, they were dating, a fact they had agreed to keep on the downlow until they made sure it would stick.

“Bull to the shit,” Coyote replied.

“You’re an asshole,” Jake shot back.

The door opened and Mav appeared, thankfully breaking up the beginnings of a fight. Jake and Javy might be best friends, but they were also both stubborn assholes who could argue like top level prosecutors. Bradley remembered the aftermath of the 2016 argument that had started over something. Bradley had never gotten a straight answer, but he knew he never wanted to be around that again. He’d rather face the SAM’s.

“Yo, Mav. Did you know Rooster and Hangman are fucking?” Coyote called, leaning back in his chair.

Maybe a fight wasn’t the worst idea suddenly.

“Wow,” Bradley said, finally speaking up and glaring at Coyote who looked unrepentant. “Way to out me without my permission. Real fuckin’ solid ally right there. I never told Mav I was gay.”

That at least had Coyote suddenly looking nervous and guilty as he glanced between Bradley and Mav who had stopped part of the way into the door, frowning around the room before he shook his head and kept walking in.

“Oh, no worries. I knew,” Mav said, making it to the front and dropping his pile of folders on the table.

“The fuck you mean you knew? I never told you?” Bradley demanded, glaring at Mav.

Mav snorted, looking up at him. “Yeah, kid. I knew. What? You suddenly missed my cooking anytime Ice was visiting?”

Bradley sniffed, leaning back in the chair. “No one reheats a Hungry Man like you do, Mav. No one. Be proud of that.”

“Kazansky, really?” Payback said with extreme judgment.

“It’s like Hangman version one,” Harvard said.

“The lesser version,” Jake snapped immediately.

“Are you seriously comparing yourself to Admiral Kazansky?” Nat demanded, glaring at Jake.

“He hungry for a Hungry man? Or a Hangry man?” Fritz said, elbowing Omaha with a grin.

“Way to have a type, Rooster,” Fanboy called, causing more than one of them to chuckle and Bradley just rolled his eyes.

“We’re missing the point,” Coyote said, waving a hand around the room before pointing at Bradley and then at Jake. “Fuck…ing.”

“No, we’re not,” Jake said, getting the shit eating grin he always got on his face when he was about to drop a bomb, and Bradley loved that look. Loved Jake’s ego and loved how fucking smart he was. Jake turned, shooting a grin at Bradley that had him smiling back, incapable of not when Jake was looking at him like that. Bradley could hear the groans from around the room, but Bradley ignored them in favor of meeting Jake’s eyes and hoping he’d never have to go a day when he couldn’t see that look on Jake’s face directed at him.

“Nah, Yotes. We’re not fucking. We’re dating.”

The room was silent, and then Coyote groaned, dropping his head onto the desk as Nat started to rub her temples, the rest of the room breaking out into conversation, but all Bradley could do was smile back at Jake because they were dating, and Bradley had never been happier.

Never.