#living in platonic solids | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

acid-ixx · 1 year ago

Text

ch.3: again &. again (platonic! yandere batfam x neglected! gn reader)

directory: preq, chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five pt 1, chapter five pt 2,

read until the end for an author's note.

tw: allusions to sexual assault, prostitution, and alcohol abuse.

"hey baby bird!!! <333 long time no see! how are you?!"

please stop.

"i know that we haven't been talking for quite a long time—"

no, you have never once had a solid conversation with him.

and you wish it stays that way between the two of you.

"—so let's catch up over coffee, yeah? i'll be staying at the manor for a week!"

you don't want to, you don't want to see his face at all, his dismissive eyes. don't want to hear his voice, how it only sings praises for everyone but you.

"(name)??? it says you have seen the messages :( are you asleep? you shouldn't sleep with your phone on, baby bird, that's dangerous!"

he doesn't have the right to scold you, he's not your older brother anymore. and you're not asleep, fuck, you regret not dozing off this afternoon. hell, you're more than awake and aware of the messages he's sending you, eyes scanning over the train of spam that clutters what was once an empty one-sided conversation.

"baby bird? c'mon, i miss you!!!"

lies, lies, lies. all he ever says are lies and you wouldn't fall for it, not anymore.

yet you're simply frozen in shock, seated up in bed as you simply watch dick's messages stack upon each other.

you watch, and wait. it's like you have lost autonomy over your body's actions.

five minutes pass.

your phone rings.

it was the only sound that fills the room other than the wringing in your ears.

it continues ringing, reverberating throughout the room, but all you do is stare, stare until the it ends, for everything to end and for all of this to be a sick hallucination your brain played on you.

there's nothing else you could focus on, your heartbeats spike the longer the call sound continues. you didn't even have the strength to decline the call, let alone move as you fear you might end up pressing the accept button.

so you wait, you wait until it stops.

and once it does cease, your sweaty thumb immediately pressed the block button on dick's profile, even going as far to delete all the past chats you had sent him. then, without moments hesitation, hastily scrolled all the way to the bottom of the list, where their other contacts lay barren of messages.

you have only used enough effort to message dick. that's what probably triggered his sudden intent on spending time with you, no? or was this all for his sick pleasure?

fortunately, all your other contacts with your past family are empty.

it will remain empty.

so you immediately blocked them, all of them. the thumps in your heart are erratic, so much so that you had to remind yourself to breath. through your nose, and out your mouth.

that's it, right? he'll get the message, definitely. that you don't want him to talk to you, to get rid of the false pretenses between the two of you, you don't want to "catch up" over coffee, or over anything.

it's all over, you tell yourself.

'calm down, relax...' you're in the safety of your own apartment, you should feel safe right now, he wouldn't bother you anymore.

not anymore would you be led to believe that they care for you.

— so why is it that you can feel that familiar rise of bile? taste it, even? why is it that your body is shaking so uncontrollably?

what the fuck.

seriously, just what the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

you never take yourself as an overdramatic person, especially not now, at the age of eighteen where you had finally learned to live for yourself, to never yearn what you knew was unattainable. your past tantrums were no more, no more you say but you wish so badly to carve a knife into your very heart.

why is it that now— now that you were out of your comfort zone, out of their empty presences and their overwhelming absences; why is it now that he just suddenly decided to appear? why is it just now that you feel your skin scorching uncomfortably at just a single message.

shit, your heart hurts so much. you want to take the beating organ out of your chest, just to make the pain stop.

your momma always told you, she said it herself that you are a brave child, her pride and joy despite the hellish living conditions you both were subjected to.

why is it so hard to believe her now?

just, why are you so weak?

when your mother hid you inside that closet - one too small for even a malnourished child like you to fit - telling you to hush for her, and that it's just a game of hide and seek with the 'bad guys', to not make a single sound at all or even come out if you hear screaming— you did what you were told, obediently, covering your mouth, trying your hardest to ignore your sore joints and heavy breathing.

"woah, mommy! is this really me?! you always make me look so nice." a young voice squeals, the sound echoing throughout the hollow room.

"yes, it's you, baby. you who are so strong, unlike me. momma will always love you." scarred hand, littered with gashes and soiled bandages run brush through your messy hair as your small form sat on the dirty bathroom sink. your eyes are drifted towards a mirror, checking out the new shirt your mother had bought for you.

"i love you too..."

you never cried that loud when light suddenly hits the cramped interiors of the closet, when you were caught and shoved outside of your hiding space by strange men, your mother nowhere to be found. when you felt the same men ripping your clothes apart, knives branding your skin like a searing hot pan; you never fought back because that's what your mother taught you. even when they pinned you down and injected you with a strange substance, head suddenly numbing and vision darkening; you still woke up alive, no?

... you woke up alive and conscious in a police station, where you had questiomed to the kind officer about your mother's disappearance, where she had bared the news that you would be taken in to a new family; a new home where your father resides in. one way cleaner, way safer she says.

yet for the next 15 years you were neglectef of the love your mother had given you. you were only raised by a butler too busy to fully focus on you. you had compared yourself to your siblings, siblings who had achieved so much in so little time.

and you?

you are only a wayne by name, but a (last name) by heart.

but you are brave, you are strong— you came from the lowest of the low, yet you pushed through and through to be a better person, and look where you are now...!

... just look at yourself now.

your phone lays untouched on the bed sheets. it tempts you, mocks your panicked state, and you want to rip that rectangular piece of metal apart. yet all you do is stare at it, sitting upright as one hands supports your weight. your fingers clench the mattress, it does nothing as your vision darkens from your lack of breathing.

breathing.

oh, breath in, breath out. do what alfred has taught you years ago, the- the one he uses whenever you would run alone in the desolate halls of the manor to alfred's room, just because you were anxious of the monsters in the corner of your eyes, where he would help you return to your senses and play you a lullaby from an old music box right after. the one he uses after you two would watch horror movies and you were too scared of any sounds that engulf your surroundings.

your throat tightens, and you want to vomit out the contents of what you have eaten— but you have to try.

five things you can see.

your eyes, although frozen wide and stinging with tears, darts around the room. everything is darker now, it's cold and you feel so small. your apartment was small. unlike the place you had lived before, it lacks of furniture, of life, of personality. the only things in your tiny apartment were basic necessities, but even food was scarce for someone like you who had juggle working multiple jobs and college just to pay for rent.

you can see your phone, the candy wrappers you had forgotten to throw, the overflowing trash bin, an empty bottle of prescription pills, alfred's gifts on the shelves counts, right? you laugh sarcastically at yourself; even a trashcan has more contents in your shitty apartment.

fuck, your chest throbs, you remind yourself to breath a little deeper.

four things you can feel.

the mattress is too hot for you, sweat already running down your forehead as if you had ran a marathon. you can feel the tears well up your eyes, overflowing with bitterness that you thought you had already buried deep down, and your hands gripping the sheets so uncomfortably tight. the weather is too cold, winter's nearing but the blood pumping through your veins scorches your very being.

that's four, three more to go and you hope this would all be over. you hope that this would all be a dream, a hallucination, anything.

three things you can hear.

does your choked sounds count? or does it need to be anything else? fuck, why doesn't it work as well as when alfred helps you through? you told yourself that you could take on anything in life, but is it all just a lie—?

focus. focus on your surroundings. you can hear your sniffling, heavy intakes of air, and a repeat of the phone ringing with dick's name as the contact.

shit, shit, shit. don't remind yourself of that. move on, just get onto the next thing.

two things you can smell or... taste? you don't remember, why can't you remember? your thoughts keep running back in circles to the messages, that stupid '<3', the way his desperation could be felt through the phone.

it reminds you of yourself.

before you knew it, your fist brought itself to punch your chest.

thump, beat, thump.

every time your heart beats too loudly, you strike your chest as hard as you can, uncaring for the pain it inflicts you, uncaring for the way you beat the air out of yourself. as long as it distracts you from the bile rising up your throat and the unsated nausea from sitting in the same position— it'll be fine if you hurt yourself. you've already done so a million times, no?

... yet nothing works.

why doesn't anything work out in your favor?

please don't do this to me.

your fists eventually stops. everything hurts even worse.

just earlier ago, you were praising yourself for all the progress you had made. how you weren't in need of validation anymore. you try so desperately to erase any inch of evidence that you were a wayne.

it all crashes down, again and again, and again and again.

moments ago, you were laying on your bed, scrolling through social media, making plans to hangout with your small group of friends in college, trying to cling on to the good parts of your past— ignoring the empty chats of what was once family.

but even without them, even if they haven't knew that you pushed them away from your life— they're always seeping their way at the back of your mind.

you truly can not erase your past. no matter how much you shake your head to rid of the thoughts, no matter how much you try to erase any documentations, any

even talking to alfred reminds you of your stupid past. a past that eats you up every time you wake up from the nightmares, wishing that there would be someone, anyone, who would hold your body tight and tell you it's alright. your mother, your father, your brothers and your sisters— they just were never there for you for so many years. and you hate to admit it but; you still cling to the wish that one of them would...

would hug you and kiss all your wounds away. drive away the countless of dreams filled with terror and torture.

you're independent now, but at what cost? what good does it do when you still try your damn hardest to live? when you know it in your soul that you still desire for a semblence of familial love.

and now that you've pushed alfred away, you're truly alone.

alone and stuck in a loop of trying to run away from your past and failing miserably.

and all you can ever do is, well...

you cry.

the tears bursts out of your eyes like a broken faucet.

you cry because that's the only thing you know how to do. you let the waters loose, hands quickly tangling itself on your hair, ripping fragile strands apart. you cry because you've been living a such a life full of lies, of broken promises, a life where you have to constantly walk on eggshells. you cry because you want to turn back and throw away all your progress just to feel the embrace of a family who had never once held you in their arms. you let yourself heave, let your voice wail out to its deepest frustration, uncaring for the thin walls, or the sleeping neighbors next door, or the rumbling of your empty stomach.

you cry, for what seems like hours, unending like the memories of solitary isolation, like the wanting of a love that you could never quite catch. you let your eyes become all puffy and red; red like the gashes you have scratched upon your skin, like the crimson, beaded blood from your bitten lips.

you don't find any strength in yourself to stifle your sobs anymore.

not when you're so, so lonely in this world.

and when your voice dies down, when your hoarse shrieking becomes no more; you simply force yourself to stand, despite the spinning of your vision, the stumble in your steps and the lack of air in your lungs; you run to your bathroom, slamming the door shut, letting adrenaline take its course into your already tired body.

your knees, they buckle after its few wobbly steps. it's sore and lacks the circulation to be properly controlled, but you ignore it in favor of expelling the acidic bile that finally rushes itself up your tongue.

at least you find just one thing to be grateful for— that your knees slipped on the wet tiles and land coincidentally towards the toilet's rim, a loud thud vibrating through the room.

alfred says the best way to cope is to never jar your emotions.

it's painful, everything is so painful that you want to scream; you need to let it all out.

you don't care if your knees were to bruise because you couldn't help it anymore, spilling out the contents of your breakfast onto the toilet bowl. your throat constricts into itself, and all you could do is gag and force every bit of food out of your mouth.

and it tastes so bitter that you cry even more. there were some bits and chunks stuck on the sides of your tongue, you can taste the acid on the back of your throat. you feel the urge to vomit even more but there's no more to expel. all you can do is dry heave, shaking hands finding its way to cover your mouth from gagging anymore.

it's so pungent, so fucking disgusting— but all you do is force yourself to stand once more, to look away from the mess you had created and flush it away.

the tears just wouldn't stop, the throbbing in your heart could never be expelled just as easily as the contents of your stomach.

yet you chose this life, there's no more alfred to assist you on your own personal struggles. there's no more rubs on the pack, pats on the head or a warm meal that greets you every time you drown in your own emotions. it's only you who can solve your own problems. you can't depend on anyone but yourself...

if only life was as easy as it is to flush away unwanted contents from your stomach.

if only you weren't in gotham... if only dick wasn't in...

gotham.

he's in gotham right now.

shit.

shit, shit, shit.

dick is in gotham, and you know he just doesn't give up.

he can track you down, he'll find you, he might hurt you because you blocked him— you know of his temper, of his unadulterated anger; you're scared of that. just what have you done wrong? did you take something that was his? no, no, never.

you've never been in his room before. he knows yours because he had visited once, but you don't know his. you don't even know which hallway leads to it.

oh, fuck.

you stumble towards the bathroom sink, hastily twisting the faucet's valve. cold water immediately rushes down, you cup your two hands together to collect the running water.

you need to get to you bearings, prepare for the absolute worst because you know, you know the power he holds in his arms.

with the amount of times he had spammed you, called you even— there's something he wants from you, and you don't want to entertain whatever he has on his mind.

you splash your face - splotched with tears, snot and drool - clean multiple times, rub your swollen, red eyes, and wipe the bits of vomit on the sides of your mouth. you can still taste the vomit. god, it's disgusting.

so you hastily grabbed your toothbrush, pushing an insanely large amount of toothpaste on the bristles. you scrub your teeth aggressively, feeling the urge to rid of the pungent taste of stomach acid. then you gargle mouthwash, twice, and spit it all out.

your movements are too quick for your own self to catch up, but you have to do this. your brain tells you to follow through whatever it has to do.

follow through instincts, get him out of your mind.

distract yourself from dick and the cryptic messages he had sent, that you had thoroughly deleted but...

it dawns upon you that albeit all your failed attempts at bonding with him— you know nothing about dick beyond the circus incident that had killed his parents and his identity as gotham and bludhaven's vigilante, nightwing.

you know nothing about him...

and you fucking blocked him before you could ask for an explanation.

what does that message mean? what does he want to talk about all of a sudden? a person doesn't just fucking waltz in someone's life after 15 years of absence and exclaims himself as close as your friend, no?

it had been so long since you had last heard him call you baby bird, let alone even read your messages, so why spam you now?

your knuckles grip at the bathroom sink's tiles, it was the only thing that provides you balance, legs too wobbly to support the dizziness. you feel a huge lump on your throat again, but you can't just erase all the efforts you had done to get yourself together.

— but at the same time, it's too hard to ignore the panic that resurfaces on your very mind.

so what do you need exactly?

distraction, something to get your mind off of the current situation? before you run away from gotham—

you need a distraction, anything. even if it's stupid, you'll regret it later, just not now.

cigarettes? no, you don't smoke. alfred will kill you if he finds out and you can never lie to him.

drugs? you'll be shot in the head by nasty criminals scamming naive citizens for half the price before you could even purchase them.

... then what?

you look at yourself in the mirror, puffy eyes glazing with emotions you yourself couldn't comprehend.

'despite everything, it's still you, no?'

if you could describe yourself right now, you would call yourself a mess, a big loser who had let their emotions run free for too long, let themself go way too quickly, gave up too quickly, and believed too naively. you had lost so much yet gained so little. a wayne so stubborn that it was the only thing you could ever relate to your father who had estranged you without knowing it.

there was more negatives than positives, you're aware of it.

but if there's one trait that anyone could generalize off of you, it would be that you're always desperate for something.

anything.

and just one time, you tell yourself. one time and that's it, nothing more, nothing less.

once you done relaxing, you're packing your bags and making a run for it. you'll even cut alfred off of your life once and for all. no matter how much it pains you to do so, it's necessary so you could make a new identity from scratch.

it'll hurt you so deeply.

but that's why you're going to do what you wish you had done back when you were still so young—

you need a drink right now.

the wayne manor, in all its glory, is truly just an empty palace that houses buried memories.

with walls that cover the cries of one lonely child; a child who yearns for the unreciprocated love of their family. it was a cage for a child who stalks the frigid halls without any company, who sleeps in a room too small for their age, who cries for anybody to notice the pain that they had hidden with rose colored tints for so long, who yearns for a warmth that could never be provided in the spaces of harsh, black wallpaper and harsh winters.

it will always be innately lonely, and cold.

yet it's even more sullen now, an atmosphere so empty nobody could pinpoint.

no more was the voice that sings of the butler's splendid cooking. no more was the etching of ballpens on smooth paper on an intricately designed diary that stores all the rants of one's daily life. no more were the strokes on colorful canvases that paint dreams of a different life. no more was the humming of multiple tunes every morning. no more was the presence of the ghost who water the plants every afternoon. no more were the footsteps that thud in the kitchen and the hands that opens the fridge.

and most importantly—

no more were the hushed cries of the kid who resides in the smallest room of the wayne manor.

a house could be described as a building where a unit, moreover a family, lives in; but a home is what represents comfort, a place of belonging and safety.

it was a place encased with deep, historical roots.

but right now, encased in a field of damp grass - wet from heavy rain - and the overwhelming scent of petrichor— the manor is simply a house.

for it could never be complete without the presence of the very lonely child who cries for a love never to be attained.

the wayne manor, in all its worth, would never be the same without (name) wayne, a child who had always belonged, but at the same time, always wronged.

bruce wayne never considered himself the greatest father.

he could be gotham's best detective, the most feared vigilante, or the heavily beloved billionaire who donates millions on hospitals, hosts charity events, and so much more.

he could spend his entire life saving countless of other lives that do not deserve the turmoil of living on edge constantly, attend meetings, plan out his every moves, sit on cushioned seats as he broods over where the all the next criminal hideouts; he could do everything and he'll be damned great at it.

—but he will never be the greatest at being a father.

he had long accepted that fact, embraced it even, facing countless of criticism from both alfred and media alike, but it would never be an excuse to neglect or mistreat any one of his children, just like how it would never be right to just ignore a kid's cry for comfort in the barren halls of a manor.

bruce was never outright cruel towards anyone, every action of his baring significance to his moral code.

which was why bruce feels a pit of neverending regret now.

in all the years that he had spent trying to raise his children, children who, in a way, are trouble. who all differ from each other from ideals, to pasts, to habits, to preferences— he wouldn't lie and say that he never had difficulty helping each and every one of them grow to be who they are now.

living through his decisions are never easy, especially if the outcomes were unpredictable; raising a child, let alone children, could go so many ways.

the lives that he had to juggle, alongside his identity as bruce wayne and as batman, they were all an endeavor that he had chose to balance. he had come so far and stumbled so often. but at least by the end of it, he would be proud to say that he truly will never regret having them by his side when he was at the lowest points of his life.

he had his flaws and his mistakes, he had done irreversible actions that he wishes he could reverse, and most importantly, he had failed each and every one of his children indubitably.

but he really tried.

he tried his best to be there for every single one of them. he was there for dick when he had witnessed the death of his mom and dad, adopting the boy who was overflowing with rage towards the killer of his parents and utilizing his gymnastic skills for good. he was there to pick jason up when he had stolen the batmobile's tires, helping the child unlearn the past abuse he had fallen victim to (and although he had died, then resurrected, and turned cold-blooded towards criminals, murdering without hesitation— he still cares for jason deeply). he was there when tim had lost his parents. there for damian who had only been raised as an assassin since he was born. for cass, for duke, for everyone.

he really tried to be active in their lives, supporting them through their blood, sweat, and tears.

... but he had never tried to be there for you.

his forgotten third child, the biological firstborn, child of a well-known prostitute, (name) (last name), whose identity has long been erased off of the face of the internet; the scandal of a century that took the shared efforts of him and barbara to decimate whatever information the late (or missing?) (last name) has in the underground.

(name), his child he has never once bat an eye on, too preoccupied with tim, aversing his attention away from you to train the other kid; ultimately ignoring the immense trauma you must have dealt with from being raised by a mother targeted by most criminal organizations from extorting their cash. it was sickening for him to think of just how cruel were the conditions the two of you were forced to live through.

it was sickening for bruce to imagine the even lonelier years you had to suffer through after your mother's disappearance— years where your father's presence was elsewhere, years that a child has to suffer through alone without any figure to look up to.

it was your name that he had hesitated to even say, in fear of butchering the pronunciation and earning more of alfred's judgemental looks.

(name) wayne.

not even a face can be associated with you, not your voice, your hobbies, nothing.

he couldn't recall a memory where he had taken you to a fancy gala, or one-on-one father-child dates, or any occasions that requires bonding with each other.

he wasn't the man who welcomed you through the doors of the manor, nor was he the father who should've picked you up at the police station.

bruce wayne knows nothing of his third child.

if alfred hadn't confronted him about your terrible living conditions as of now, living in debt whilst trying to push through college, then how long would he have ignored your presence inside the manor? how long would the years pass without him acknowledging any important milestones that you would reach?

until your untimely demise perhaps?

he couldn't even remember a time he had at least given you a gift during christmas or new year or any time of the day.

not even the name of your elementary and high school, or your college university. he doesn't know of your friends, your teachers or what subject you excel in.

you had already graduated highschool, and he wasn't even there for your ceremony. he wasn't there to walk you up the stage, wasn't there to shield you from the thousands of photographers who would've attended should they know that a wayne would attend, wasn't there to offer you a pat on the shoulders for a job well done.

then who had to walk you up the stage?

"alfred..." he stops walking, clearing his throat as alfred turns back at bruce, offering a raised eyebrow at the sudden pause and bruce's rigid pose.

"yes, master?"

"when... (name) graduated," he hesitated on saying your name again, catching on alfred's sudden squint of the eyes. "who walked them up the stage?"

he hopes you didn't have to go up there alone, that a teacher at least accompanied you or—

"i was the one who attended in your stead, master bruce." the butler replies without hesitation, as if it was a normal occurrence. he sighs again, too tired to scold bruce's surprise for absolutely dismissing all the important dates that include you and instead turns back to continue on his treck to guiding bruce to your room.

alfred's look of condescension makes him sink deeper into the void of regret. for being unable to

fuck, how many important events had bruce missed? from school plays, to parent-teacher conferences, to talent shows— was there ever a "bring your father to school" day?

oh... he really hopes there wasn't.

his hands find itself scratching his head, fingers tangling itself onto his hair in hopes of providing distraction— but his thoughts all circulate towards you, a faceless entity, an itch that he could never reach unless he sees you for himself.

the further he walks through frigid halls, the smaller the space seems to get.

how many birthdays had he missed?

when even is your birthday?

you are eighteen now, five when you were taken in which means... almost fourteen years of missed birthdays...

he didn't even give you a single gift card out of pity. not even money for allowance, or a birthday cake.

bruce was never there for you, and he has a feeling that that may have been one of the reasons of you moving out.

he needs to make up for it at least, once he contacts you he'll apologize for everything—

but first, he needs to see the state of your room. to at least have a first impression of you, of what your life was in the manor; any clues that pertains to just who his child is, as humiliating as that sounds for a father.

which was why he didn't hesitate to let alfred lead him straight to your room, albeit the shame he feels for not even knowing where his own child's room is located.

back when he had taken damian in, it was him who introduced the boy to his own room, whom had promptly thrown a tantrum and demanded someplace bigger before ultimately accepting his fate.

... how would you have reacted to your own? he wishes to at least picture your face, probably opposite to damian's, as you get to live in an entirely different space from what you're used to.

would you be pleased? would you look at him with sparkling eyes and thank him? or would you maintain a neutral stance? an overwhelmed one?

he really wants to see you, your expressions, just a sliver of your presence.

but nothing comes up in his mind. not the length or color of your hair, not your height, not anything. he could picture a vague imagery of your mother, but not you.

it makes him wonder; does any of your siblings know what you look like? were you at least any closer to them that you are to him?

he hates just how much desperately the darkness in the pit of his chest is crawling in need to hasten his steps towards wherever your room was.

the rain outside had already ceased, but a newer thunderstorm was brewing inside bruce's heart.

he needs to see you.

as he walks behind alfred through the halls of the manor, he had just noticed how barren the other side of the manor truly is.

cob webs and dust particles litter through the corners of the untouched furniture, the wallpaper peeling off itself and revealing untreated mold and even more cocoons of baby spiders that would soon crawl out, and even most of the ceramic vases they had passed by houses no flowers, instead being covered in a thin sheen of dust.

it was obvious just how neglected this corner of the house is.

just like you.

alfred was always meticulous in his duty as a butler, but bruce had advised the old man to leave unexplored parts of the manor be, seeing as how nobody would stroll by; and to only clean it whenever he would host an expensive gala in the manor with spare rooms as guest rooms.

it made bruce wonder if these halls are the path that leads directly to your room, which it actually does, and he feels even more guilty at just how... different your living condition is compared to your siblings.

it was no wonder why the butler would always excuse himself early, seemingly always making a treck towards a forgotten chamber that he rarely visited.

he'll make a note of relocating you to a room closer than his if you ever were to decide to come visit during holidays or vacations.

... alfred said it had been six or seven months since you had left, just how many occasions have he missed?

counting only fills the dread in his the growing hole of the pit of his heart.

yeah... he will get you a new room, one preferably closer to his; just so he could greet you every morning by knocking on your door and at least escorting you to the kitchen for breakfast. he'll try to make small talk, invite you over and... bond with you.

that'll be a good habit he could incorporate into his daily life.

a small part of him wishes you wouldn't look at him in disdain if he had to forcibly visit your apartment.

he swears it's in all the good of his heard; he just needs to check for himself if you were doing okay.

as him and alfred nearly arrives at your bedroom, the two had already noticed the light peaking from outside the doors and what seems to be two voices ensuing an argument.

even alfred, who had ceased his steps, looked surprised at the presence of the people who seemed to be there before them.

bruce doesn't even hesitate jogging towards the room, unaware of alfred's immediate shift to a calculating gaze, as bruce immediately opens polished, mahogany doors, inviting himself in.

... it smells of bleach and fabric refresher.

his heart clenches at the implication.

"father...? why are you here?" damian's voice cuts through the tension, bruce merely dismisses youngest child as his eyes takes in the space, ignoring how the other presence in the room - dick, with wide, feral eyes - quips about an ongoing "family" reunion.

bruce analyzes every detail, heart thumping loudly in his chest.

small... your room is way too small, and lacks of any design or life whatsoever. a tiny bed is shoved in the corner, the closet too miniscule to even contain clothes for someone your age (just where do you store them, then?), the windows barely welcome any ventilation nor sunlight, even your bedside table was too small to be considered one; the lampshade on top of it could be easily toppled over by a single sway of a hand.

everything is clean, too clean and orderly.

his eyebrows furrow at its state. even a model's walk-in closet is significantly bigger than the cramped space he calls your bedroom.

no proper ventilation, not even any space is provided for... your hobbies. hobbies that he wasn't even aware of.

is this how you had been living for almost eighteen years of your life?

how do you live like this?

just how much has he neglected you?

"bruce...?" it was dick's voice that he had now registered. it sounds out of breath, way too abnormally distraught and out of character.

he slowly looks at dick, equally befuddled at the presence of his eldest and youngest sons.

he seems disheveled, stressed even. the athlete's blue eyes were wide and dilated, seemingly unfocused as his stance was rigid. he was breathing too deep, hand clenching his phone too tight, veins popping through muscles, and he holds a... notebook in the other, this time like it was a delicate piece or artifact.

"... why are you here?" dick tries to cover his current state with an awkward laugh, but he could never hide the furrow of his brows, the flickering in his eyes, nor the anxious stomping of the his feet. sweat runs down dick's forehead; it looks like he's been inside the room the longest.

and dick refuses to get out of it. he won't, not until he finds out just why were you pushing him always all of a sudden.

he's afraid of forgetting his baby bird once more and neglecting your needs. if you were just as self-depracating as he is then... just how well would you be coping all by yourself?

does bruce share the same intentions as him? he doesn't know, his thoughts all leading to a path of thinking about, well, you.

you and your wide eyes looking at him like he was the world.

"i'm just here to visit... (name)'s room." bruce replies, a deep tremor in his parched throat, threading even further into the cramped space as his eyes seem to lock into the multitudes of messily stacked notebooks in the center of the bed.

they were all captioned '(name)'s diary', each having different fonts for every notebook and a date plastered on the very bottom.

"and you both are...?" he stares at them, demanding an answer as he sits on your too small bed (—it creaks, he hates that it does so he promises to get you a new one, a bigger one even, with enough space to fit in at least four people just as you deserve), picking up one of the diaries in his hand; it sports messy calligraphy and peeling stickers, reminiscent of just how old it was.

the hold he has on the diary is delicate as he flips through the first page the same way the eldest child had done. the papers were stained gray from the lead of the pencil, doodles littering every page, from flowers to animals and even faces that bruce couldn't recognize.

at least it provides the void in his heart food for thought, taking in every small detail about you and your hobbies.

you like documenting your life through diaries, that was the first thing he noted about you. the entries all date far from back when you were five or younger, the earlier pages highlighting, well, you and your mother's life. though the handwriting wasn't all that eligible, bruce finds himself becoming fond of the common topics you often rant about from "momma's burnt stack of pancakes" (paired with a drawing on the side, colored with dried markers and glitter gel pens), to the fairytales your mother loves to read you.

as much as it was entertaining for him to read through your mind, it's sad how aged the papers were and how some pages were crumpled to the point some contents were incomprehensible.

he'll get you even more high quality ones, rather than the cheap paper the one he's currently holding has. and he'll buy you designer pens, or do you prefer the more functional ones? would you like fountain pens or glass dip ones just to enjoy the experience?

bruce notices a pattern of the pen's strokes, an array of thinner lines were preferred in most of your entries compared to the thick pencils you sometimes force yourself to use, as there was an entry you had mentioned where if you use thicker lines then you'll run out of pages quicker, and "my mom doesn't have enough money to buy me one right now."

even the doodles in pencil had prefered line widths. finer quality for even finer details, thicker lines to emphasize and exaggerate your art on the side of the papers.

would you prefer mechanical or charcoal pencils? charcoal is messy and smudges, bruce knows as he sees small drawings of a tiny sprite that point towards a smeared sketch of a flower, a look of disdain on its furrowed brows.

he couldn't contain the upward quirk of his lips, blocking out dick's shadow that seems to get closer to bruce.

unfortunately, there were no ballpens of your preference on your bedside table for him to take for himself. he'll find out himself sooner enough though; what materials you like to utilize for your diaries and sketches. hell, it seems you like using a mix of normal and puffy stickers alongside a mix medium to obtain different colors.

journaling supplies, you'll find a lot of them in your arsenal soon.

he'll make sure of that once he finds out where you live.

he looks at damian flipping through what seems to be one of your sketchbooks.

art is, undoubtedly, one of your hobbies too— that's the second thing he notes, picking up what seems to be your second diary right after he flips through the first one, wasting no time to learn more about you.

this time, your second diary talks about your early life into the gotham manor. your anxious yet earger energy to meet your father, how the dick grayson (presumably your idol, with how you mention him as the) is now your brother, and how you almost got lost just wondering in the manor; they all highlight your innocence and curiousity about the world. you write so effortlessly, unafraid of writing down what you truly feel.

though you barely mention the incident regarding your mother, you have stated multiple times about how you miss her beautiful smile and her captivating laughter.

he's grateful that you're fond of writing diaries, exposing bruce to the deeper, more personal parts of your life. he doesn't need to pinpoint any lies or truth. all your secrets, your endeavors, your dreams and your passions are buried deep into the crevices of your diaries, etched in thousands of words and drawings that tell bruce just who you are.

and truly, you are his child.

bruce craves to know more about you in person the more he reads through your entries.

fortunately, it wasn't only him that feels an intense need to take you in, as the presence of his eldest cuts him off of the his train of thoughts.

"y'know, before you forget we're even here, bruce," dick quips with a fond smile as he looks at his bruce's unkempt state, taking a seat next to his father who seems to be in his own world just like damian. the bed creaks against their weight, both cringing at the sound before bruce returns to his own world of... analyzing you, just like he did hours ago.

but he knows that his father knows how to multitask, so he doesn't hesitate to answer.

"i'm also here for (name), i promised to take them out for dinner month's ago." that seems to actually catch bruce's attention, as he looks up from reading your second diary, gazing at dick as if to urge him to continue.

dick proceeds with a sigh, a smitten smile plastered on his face as he recalls the only memory he has of you.

"(name) really has a knack for writing and all, right? i love them for it. when i first met them, they were just so adorable. my baby bird tried to ask me for an autograph!" dick couldn't help himself from yapping, chuckling lightly as he remembers the deathly grip you had on alfred's cuffs, how you were hiding behind the butler's legs and looked at dick so enamored. he couldn't contain his unhinged smile, the goosebumps on his skin made shivers ripple throughout his entire body.

bruce (and even damian, who had all his attention on your sketches) had listened in on his monologue.

"i was the one who helped lead them to their room," he continued confidently, tapping his phone with his fingers, "they clung really close to me when we climbed up the steps, even tried to hide under my jacket..."

looking back, dick wishes he had carried you up the steps. thing was, you were incredibly small back then, and the manor's staircase is particularly hard to transverse through when ascending, so you must've felt exhausted and leaned onto him for support. your tiny legs must've been sore once you two had arrived by your room.

oh, he should've noticed. dick swears he won't make that mistake again once he gets you back in his arms, he promises to carry you the moment you even show the slightest bit of fatigue.

he swears he will, and he'll make sure to spoil you rotten with all the affection you deserve.

oh, dick really wants to see his baby bird again.

"yeah, that's, uh, the only time we had only ever talked." he admits shamefully, opening his phone for what seems like the thousandth time, looking at your profile over and over again, one that had him blocked.

he bites his lips, nibbling his skin in anticipation, in hopes that in the good of your heart that you just, unblock him.

it was just so unbelievable, despite you having all the reasons to push them away from your life, he just doesn't want to accept it. doesn't want to think of the worst outcome; of you hating him.

his baby bird blocked him and he just couldn't comprehend the amount of hurt he's feeling right now. what's wrong with checking up on his baby sibling? on someone he hasn't talked to for a long time already?

scrolling up through your previous messages fills him with both dread, and another emotion he doesn't want to admit— the slightest bit of pride he feels that you chose him over everybody else. you chose dick grayson as your idol, as someone to look up to and eagerly wanted as your older brother.

he was the favorite.

yet he feels terrible at the same time for taking it for granted, for forgetting your his own younger sibling. and bruce? bruce feels terrible just looking at how much your disappearance - an existence he didn't even know existed not until a few hours ago - impacted the atmosphere of the house.

is your absence the reason why the manor had felt too empty, then...?

even alfred seemed to sulk more often, always having his phone around and... talking to someone?

does alfred know where you are? or at least maintain communication with you?

it seems like the family was equally keen to find out just who you were.

whilst the two engross themselves in their own personal matters, damian continues to stand near the middle where the light hits the brightest, analyzing all the pages of your sketchbook. the youngest couldn't even afford to miss a single detail, green eyes mulling over the poses of your human sketches; the anatomy, the composition. all the progress, the mistakes, the erasures... his mind seems to eat up every drawing as if it was a piece of art hung in a museum.

which it should've been— but he wouldn't even let worthless critiques lay their eyes on any one of your sketches. they wouldn't understand you as much as he does.

it's his to look upon, nobody else could understand the meaning of your art, the meaning of his older sibling's art.

the older sibling who he used to threaten with his sword, who he called vile names — a bastard child, he told you one day. he was unable to ignore the glare you sent him, how he felt a pang in his heart after — the older sibling who he ridiculed endlessly in front of his best friend, whose actions he criticized without end; who had started to avoid him like the plague after all of his incessant bullying.

his older sibling who he had used as a punching bag for all his negative emotions, who he was incredibly jealous of, who he felt the need to fight, to compete with, all for the sake of grabbing your attention without seeming frail in his intentions.

his weak and incapable older sibling, who he knew hated him with all their gut.

the unwanted and undeserved treatment he had subjected you to was gruesome.

it was just exactly like your drawings... gruesome and brutal, to say the least. as if it was a medium of releasing all your unparalleled anger. charcoal strokes violently covers the entirety of your pages, it was unpredictable where the lines meet and end, whenever there is color, they blotch each other without harmony, all the subjects of your art either human or anything else within your vicinity.

if someone else with inexperienced, undeserving eyes were to witness your sketches, they would not understand and dare say, criticize your art pieces for being too contemporary, for letting your emotions run free through cheap quality paper without any ounce of care for the rips and tears of the pages.

but damian likes it... he likes the rawness of your pieces, likes it when you incidentally find a way to express tragedy, grief, and all the antagonistic traits a human could bare. he likes just how all thr subjects you paint were muddled with dull colors, sometimes too vibrant, sometimes too neon, sometimes a mix of all— your hectic personality bleeds through the pages.

you should've... shared your talents with him. albeit the jealousy he feels towards you, the sense of competitiveness— a small part of him admits his desire to bond with his only blood sibling... he doesn't even know why he treated you like trash, yet felt so incredibly heartbroken whenever you would retaliate with a blank, soulless stare.

he doesn't know why he felt so compelled to melt into your embrace, despite never once being physically close to you. your warmth always emanates off of your body; he hates that he wanted your validation, your praise and your attention.

he'll apologize to you sooner, damian will drag you back even if he has to, he needs to, actually.

needs to get you to forgive him, to look at him fondly, and to love him without bounds. he's on his path to redemption, he acknowledges his wrongs, all the wrongs he had done to you, he couldn't list it all out but he knows just much it affected your views on him.

damian knows he should've dismissed your reactions— he was raised by assassins for gods sake! he should not be so perceptive of every micro expression of yours, but the connection he feels towards his blood sibling is stronger than any bond, a bond that he himself chose to sever and came to regret afterwards.

he remembers one specific expression of yours after he had criticized your anger issues when he had heard news of you being transferred into another school. it was a glare that lacked any fight or bite, you had long since given up on him and allowed him him harass you whenever he felt like so. but that day was the same day you had snapped, nearly choking on his

he told himself to ignore it, that you were merely throwing a tantrum (despite how hypocritical he seemed)

yet he didn't expect to be overcome with regret.

with hurt.

with empathy at the tears that welled on your eyes.

damian doesn't want to admit it but, that was one of the first times he had hesitated to retaliate with an even crueler comeback to your glare. he wanted to so badly run to you and bond with you and your unadulterated anger, to comfort you and provide you the affection you had so desperately needed— but in the bitterness and the jealousy of his heart, he had forced himself to leave you be; a decision even until now he regrets because... you had no longer seen him as a younger brother, let alone treat him as one, as he desired to.

after that incident, you tend to avoid him more and more, not even eating in the same room as him, let alone ditching whatever you were doing in favor of keeping to yourself.

he should've held himself back from hurting his older sibling, the one who, despite doning no skills or talent in combat whatsoever, who knew that he was more of a threat than a younger brother; was brave enough to approach him with a tray of alfred's baked cookies and a hesitant yet welcoming grin.

and yet he had replied with a sword to your neck and an insult to your origin, calling you a bastard child; the product of a whore and his father's terrible decisions.

he had simply watched as you had left the hallway with a knick on your neck and a wobble on your steps, nearly dropping the tray of untouched goods due to the inconsolable shivers you must've felt.

you hate him, no? he could see it in your eyes, no matter how defeated it may be, there was always a tinge of resentment towards him that he knows he couldn't undo.

you hate him, you must've hated him so much and he hates that. hates how he wants to throw a rampage over the fact that you would never consider him as a younger brother.

... if things were different, if he had never let his emotions and his past dictate his actions, would you love him?

for the first time in quite a while, he had felt tender longing and desire, his hands caressing the pages of your sketchbook as if it could bring you back to the manor.

for the first time in a while, damian allows himself to want, to dream about a fantasy where you would cherish him, allow him to melt on your chest whenever he feels the pressure of the world getting to him, let him sulk about his deepest darkest insecurities as you would run your fingers through his hair and tell him it's all alright.

for the first time in so long, he would openly admit the immense regret he feels, wishing for an opportunity to turn back time, to never unsheath his sword towards you and to never open his mouth to allow vile words to spew out of it.

time passes by oh-so quickly when you are left alone with only your thoughts to accompany you.

it had been quite awhile since the trio were left pondering about your very existence, alfred noted, watching the three scramble about through their minds. they had seemed to have forgotten the very butler who had been observing every single one of their actions.

alfred had waited so long for this moment to come, for them to realize just how crucial you are to the family, how you are the very final jigsaw puzzle the complete the picture perfect definition of a home, how much they need you if they wish to maintain even the slightest bit of sanity.

it was only right that he decides to place the final nail in the coffin.

after all, this was all to get you back to your safety, to where you rightfully belong.

—"it seems like the family has finally taken notice of young master (name)'s disappearance...?" alfred buts in by the door, a single eyebrow raised, crossed arms, an all-knowing look that just screams 'i told you so'.

he continues once he had their complete attention, "i would like to say that i am heavily disappointed in how it took more than a decade and a half for all of you to find out about their existence. if it wasn't for the long months of their absence and even a personal sermon towards master bruce about their financial struggles, they would've long been gone. well... they would be gone soon if they are unable to pay this month's rent for their apartment."

his tone was sullen as he nitpicks every single one of their reactions, a mixture of confusion, shame and regret a commonality between the three.

"(name) is in financial debt?" it was damian who asked first with furrowed brows and wide eyes, unbelieving of what alfred had just stated. "but father wires money to all of his children, right?

the youngest turns back to his father's seated form, expecting a nod of some sorts, but all bruce had was a tense jaw and a solid stare. it speaks of volumes, all damian could do was shut his mouth, looking back at alfred with a pout.

alfred expected this reaction. it was truly unfortunate how the family would never know just how important you were in their life.

yet all he could do was press on, further their guilt and desperation.

"young master damian, i am aware of bruce's willingness towards providing for his children, but (name), like you, had adopted your father's stubbornness to accept any financial aid on their part..."

the silence was defeaning now, tension so thick that not even a knife could cut through it. fortunately, the people alfred were with are trained combatants, formidle not only through fights but with words.

it was a shame they had never used their brains to connect the dots with just how sullen the manor was the moment you were gone.

"how do we...?" this time it was dick who talked, albeit hesitantly. "bruce could at least send a few thousands to them, then? or i could do it, you could just give us their location and—"

"unfortunately, there is nothing i could do about it, master dick," alfred interrupts dick's sudden onslaught, "for even i do not have master (name)'s address. they refuse even the slightest bit of a clue, hence why i have confronted master bruce about it."

it was like a needle had dropped on the floor, an intense, numbing feeling everyone present was subjected to feel.

... what?

it was dick who had reacted first, springing up from his seated position as he stared at alfred's defeated eyes incredulously.

"are you serious, alfred? (name) could be anywhere in gotham right now? unprotected, unsafe, and in debt?"

a long, defeated sigh was what he had merely received from the alfred.

"yes, master dick, you hear exactly what i say."

"but the world outside is too dangerous for (name)! we can't just let them loose in a street filled with criminals who can take advantage of their innocence!"

"they're eighteen, dick." all of a sudden, it was damian who cuts back with a roll of his eyes, "i'm sure they can survive on their own."

"yeah right, and have you even read their latest diary, or are you just gonna pretend like you aren't going to keep their sketchbooks all for yourself, huh?" dick retaliates with clenched teeth, letting himself be swayed by his own emotions. "or... you're planning to track their location without us so you can get a reservation to visit them first?"

"calm down, dick—" bruce stands, immediately holding dick back, gripping the athlete's tense shoulders.

"why should i, bruce?! (name) can be anywhere, we— i can't afford to bide time on anything but them!" he glared back at his father, slammimg his fist onto your bedroom walls without hesitation. cracks immediately formed on the chipped wallpaper, a testament to dick's strength; you'll be relocated to another room, a better one anyways and they'll... they'll turn this one into a bigger atelier for you.

dick just needs to let his anger out, yeah... unfortunately, his father seems to think otherwise.

bruce retaliates with a snarl, "we need a solid plan, dick. we can't just randomly search where they are—"

"look, if none of you are willing to help, then fine, i'll track (name) all by myself—"

"— i've never mentioned not coming, grayson." damian cuts him off with a glare, possessively holding all your sketchbook in one hand. "i'll be the one spending time with them first."

"yeah, right... and you, bruce? you coming with or no?"

defeated, bruce replies, "... you already know the answer, dick."

"of course, dad. glad to know we're on the same team after all," dick lets out an airy laugh, returning to his old demeanor. but bruce could easily pinpoint the sharp edge to his giggles, how calculated it is and how it's all merely a cover up to hide the unbearable itch to get you into his arms.

not like bruce could help it too, feeling the same way dick does— all he wants to do is see you for himself after all.

"then call the others into the batcave, now. tell them it's a priority mission, don't let them say otherwise, and don't settle on any excuses."

bruce is so grateful that he had his hands on your diaries, that he was given the grace to read through your entries and embrace even the slightest clue about you.

although there was no face to associate with your name, no photograph nor portrait— he at least has an idea of your personality, of what you like and prefer; something that bruce would hold dear, something that feeds the growing urge to find you.

find you to not only correct his mistakes, to make up for all the lost time, but to also get closer to you. to bond with his child, the one he should've focused on all those years ago. the one who, despite showing disinterest to vigilantism, chose to not fall deep into the pits of resentment, of committing heinous acts— you had chosen to run away from them without any intentions of badmouthing your own family even after the years of neglect.

his child, (name) wayne.

you were a symbol of what he had strived to cherish, to protect. it was your innocence through these pages, your eagerness to the world despite its cruelty, that relays the message to bruce that he should've centered his attention on both you and tim instead of just tim.

maybe then the dispair he had felt after jason's death would've been less devastating, maybe then you'd act as his source of light in the darkness he had choose to brood in. maybe then he wouldn't have acted so rash, so impulsive and tense.

after all, you had lost your mother too early, and your father was just somebody you can watch through the television and read through the newspaper.

and you? you were forced to take the short end of the stick, without any familial attention nor emotional support whatsoever— a substantial failure on bruce's part. you didn't deserve anything you were subjected to, didn't deserve to know what pain and despair felt like.

bruce should've been the father who had to shoulder all your burden. he should've been there for you as he was there for all your other siblings.

he should've been the man who would kiss your wounds away whenever you go out to the park with him to play. he should've been the man who would sit on the crowded bleachers to watch you perform on a talent show. he was supposed to be the father who would hold you close to your chest as you cry about your first heartbreak, about your overdue projects, about the bullies in the school.

but he wasn't that father for you. and now, you seek love and attention from people who weren't even family. because they had failed you, he had failed you.

there was so much things about you that he doesn't know of, so much he had missed out on. his absence was a constant in your life; what would you have felt if he suddenly barged in on it then? especially now that you've moved out on the presumption of neglect?

but could he help it if he does?

could bruce help it if he was already concocting a way to bring you back? alfred had explicitly told him that you were living off of debt

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

PLEASE READ: 11,100+ words. no beta we just die. undertale reference. this is my least favorite chapter LMAO, despite it's length i had to waste blood sweat and tears for this and i hate it so much. anways guys pls comment or send as ask if u like this and what's good abt it bec this chapter literally made me question my ability as a write 😭 erm im gonna take a break after this and mostly answer asks bec istg my energy is so drained. also is it jst me or does everyone default the reader as female ^^' it's jst weird for me bec i always write them as gn/male. oh and if anyone is wondering, yes i am gonna add the batgirls too bec they r family !! the entire family (universe) is obsessed with u !! also yall i cant add anymore to the taglist, tumblr won't allow me.

taglist: @lilyalone, @secretomelettetroops, @earlqurl, @simpingfor-wakasa, @amber-content, @ruiroku , @okaybutfullhomo , @trasshy-artist , @obsessedwithromance, @jjsmeowthie, @fairy-lenaa , @ilovvmyhusband , @6uuyuuhgy, @plsfckmedxddy, @lavender-moony , @sweetheart-era, @chemicalsandghosts , @darling006 , @starringyau , @samanthahanes, @rosecentury , @jaythes1mp , @pi1nkl0ver , @i-thirsty-boy, @sharks-are-cool-l, @silverklaus, @traumaramacenter , @maddimoon , @anxrq, @thedarknesslord , @h0rr0r-10ver-69 , @lazy-idate , @cupids-pretty-boy , @alishii, @mel-star636 , @sitepathos , @freakyotaku059-blog , @dirtydiavolo, @sunbleachedantlers, @24hrsoflanii, @ceramic-raven , @une-lueur-dans-la-nuit , @tdickensstuff4 , @thickerthanthieves , @arlandvery , @distressed-lezbo, @bunbunboysworld , @bellethesleepypotato, @nebuluma, @alliwantisadonut, @alishii, @kusakiguzen, @sirenetheblogger, @emmbny, @ryukyuin, @solkara, @starsdotalk, @nightstarblue, @huhuhhuhh, @shadowpup163, @sunshine-skz, @24hrsoflanii, @bazellawrites, @pato-spoiler-27, @harumy07cat, @rains-mae, @funnybunnyxxx, @littlelilithspost, @howisgroguthiscute, @yuyuzi-ling, @tullipam, @coldcrusadehideout, @princessloveweird, @hybridcon

7K notes · View notes

shina913 · 6 months ago

Text

A Very Patient Man | LJH

Pairing: Lee Jihoon x AFAB!Reader

Rating: M 🔞; NSFW

Genre: F2L; FWB; smut; pwp

Warnings: cussing; breast play; fingering; cunnilingus; unprotected sex; PIV sex; riding; ass smacking; dirty talk; creampie

Word count: 4.6k words

Summary: You’re frustrated because it takes you longer to reach an orgasm during sex. This has made you feel insecure, and you started to accept the fact you’d never meet someone patient enough to give you the attention you need. Your friend, Jihoon, casually offers a solution.

A/N: Idk. I slipped and fell onto my keyboard and all this horny word vomit spilled out. Thanks to @roaminginthenights for always enabling me in the DMs 🤣

This is also un-beta'd so...it is what it is.

Anyway! Here’s something filthy to end the year! 💜

It started innocently enough at Jihoon’s studio. You were sitting on his couch, venting about your dating life, and as always, he listened attentively just as you do when he shares his own experiences.

However, today’s visit was different. He’s letting you ramble on about a very specific topic.

“I feel like there’s an invisible time limit on foreplay.”

Jihoon’s chair creaks as he leans back, laughing at your incredulous claim. “No, there isn’t!”

“But I really think there is!” you argue. “My last date got visibly impatient, even though I...” you inhale through your teeth, “clearly asked him for more time down there. Instead, he just said, ‘It’s been five minutes, it’s my turn now.’” You huff in annoyance.

“Well, that sucks. Did you get rid of him?”

You grimace before replying. “Please don’t judge me. He was cute, so we still fucked. My vibrator finished the job,” you admit guiltily. “I blocked him on the app afterward though.”

He sighs, shaking his head in mild disappointment. “You shouldn’t compromise on your needs. If you want more time, say so and stick with it.”

You huffed wistfully. “I just take too long. I get all panicky when someone’s been down there for longer than 5 minutes.”

“You can’t rush pleasure,” he comments.

“I know that, but now, it makes me think—how long is too long before you come? Is there a play clock winding down on the field? Do I need to call out an audible?”

He doubles over again, laughing when you start using sports metaphors.

“How can some women summon an orgasm—” you snap your fingers, “just like that?”

His laughs subside, turning more serious now. “Don’t do that. Don’t compare yourself to other people. Everybody’s different.”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me,” you remark sarcastically.

He turns away to face his screen, adding more edits to a track he’s working on.

“I don’t know…” you mumble, shrugging in defeat. “I guess my vibrator and I are destined to spend the rest of our lives together. Might as well reserve matching burial plots.”

Jihoon snorts. “You just haven’t found the right partner. A really patient one, I might add,” he says, half-joking.

You smack him on his bicep, and your hand stings from the unexpected firmness under his oversized shirt. Has his arm always been this solid? When was the last time you touched his bicep? Wait—why are you even thinking of his bicep?

You and Jihoon have been close friends since college, maintaining a purely platonic relationship—never a hint of romance or sexual tension between you. On rare nights out, you even act as each other’s wingman, helping one another find potential dates. You two simply click on a different level—easy and no complications.

He looked up from his mixing board, turning to you with a slight smirk. “I don’t know if I’ve ever told you, but I happen to be very patient.”

The lilt in his voice was unmistakable. It was the kind of tone he used when chatting up potential conquests on your nights out.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare use that Joey Tribbiani move on me.”

“It’s not a move.” He keeps his face serious, looking genuinely hurt by your comment. “You’re my friend. I wouldn’t do that to you,” he says softly. “I’m just saying, if you ever wanted to try, I’m game.” He tilts his head, giving a casual shrug. “No judgment.”

You stare at him, stunned, as his offer hangs in the air. You try to laugh it off, shifting uncomfortably in your seat.

Was he seriously proposing that you two—nope! You refuse to go there. Jihoon is a great friend, and although you trust him, you’re not sure you’d be comfortable with the idea of...

You shake your head. You can’t even finish the thought. You glance at your watch for no reason at all.

“You know, I think I’m going to call it a night.”

“Oh? I thought you wanted to grab dinner?” He’s surprised and confused at your sudden change of plans.

“It’s getting late.”

Truthfully, it wasn’t that late. You feel guilty lying to your friend, but you need to escape this conversation—and this situation—as quickly as possible.

“I just got a notification from work. I need to come in early, yada-yada…You know how it is.”

He looks disappointed but doesn’t push. You gather your things, slipping your puffer jacket on, despite the room feeling several degrees warmer.

“Alright. If you’re sure—”

“Yeah,” you cut him off. That came out more tersely than you initially intended. “I’m sure,” you add with a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes to try and make up for it.

He rises from his seat when you do and moves in for a hug—just like he usually does. But this time, the hug feels different; you’re suddenly hyperaware of his touch, your skin tingling all over. You return his hug stiffly, without your usual warmth, then hurry out of his studio and immediately tear off your too-hot jacket.

That night, your dreams were filled with visions—his hands tracing paths across your skin, his dark head dipping between your thighs, his intense gaze meeting yours as you hovered on the edge of unbridled pleasure. The dream felt so vivid you could have sworn you felt the warmth of his breath against your skin. It wasn’t until your alarm began blaring, leaving you trembling and drenched in sweat, that reality came crashing back.

********************************************

A couple of days passed, and you couldn’t stop thinking about Jihoon. This wasn’t your usual “hope he remembered to eat lunch” thoughts or impulse to send him funny memes that popped up on your algorithm.

After your NSFW dream about him, you started noticing little things about him you’d never paid attention to before—the adorable way he’d scrunch up his nose while concentrating on work, how his muscles moved when he reached for something, or how the warm red studio lights perfectly highlighted his features.

You shake your head. It’s not that deep. Jihoon’s suggestion was only practical. There’s no reason to go down this rabbit hole.

Still, you can’t deny the growing curiosity gnawing at the back of your mind. You hadn’t expected his offer to affect you this way, but it does.

After days of avoiding him, you decide to invite him to dinner at your place. Maybe if you discussed this with him, the dreams and inappropriate thoughts would stop.

The moment he walks through your door, everything falls apart. You become hyper-aware of his every move. You catch yourself stealing glances when you think he isn’t looking, and you flinch whenever he gets too close.

Finally, he’s had enough.

“Okay,” he says firmly. “What’s with you? Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird,” you lie, your heart racing. You reach for your drink and take a hefty gulp.

“Have I said or done something? You’ve flaked on me the last couple of times I asked you to go out, you’ve left me on ‘read’ more than you’ve responded...”

You felt guilty for avoiding him, but you needed that space to sort out your thoughts. Though you wanted to have this conversation, you couldn’t find the right moment to broach the topic.

“Then you invite me over, barely talk—” he continues to rant.

“It’s... it’s really more of a me-problem,” you stammer.

“Just talk to me! I can take it.” He throws his hands up in frustration.

You inwardly groan, before finally coming clean. “Remember the last time we were at your studio? I was whining about...something.”

He squinted for a bit, then you could see the recognition slowly dawning in his eyes before lowering his voice. “You mean, how you take a long time to reach an orgasm?”

You shut your eyes, mortified when he articulates it. “Yes…”

“What about it?”

“It’s not exactly about that, but it’s more about what you said after. You know—your offer to help?”

His face visibly relaxes, prompting you to continue. “Okay.”

Your heart feels like it’s about to beat out of your chest, but you push through. “Did you mean it, or were you just messing with me?”

He stares at you for a moment before shaking his head, the corner of his lips quirking up. “The offer still stands, if you want it.”

You sit there chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling torn. Your brain tells you to be careful—fucking your best friend could make things weird. But your body has other ideas. The warmth pooling between your legs makes it harder to think straight.

“Are you considering it?” His voice is gentle, giving you space to choose.

You deflect, buying time to sort through your tumbling thoughts. “I’m curious... have you thought about this before? About us?”

“The idea has crossed my mind from time to time.”

His candor sends butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “Oh,” is all you can manage to say.

“What about you? Have you thought about us...doing things?”

You draw in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to be equally honest. “I never thought of us that way before you mentioned it. But now...” you trail off, unable to verbalize how his suggestion has shifted something between you.

He inches closer, but maintains enough distance to keep you comfortable. His expression grows serious, earnest. “Listen, I would never pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to. You’re one of my best friends, and that matters more to me than anything else. If I’m out of line, just say the word and we won’t talk about it ever again.” The sincerity in his voice, the genuine concern in his eyes makes your heart ache. You’ve always known him to be considerate of your feelings.

“You weren’t out of line.” Hearing you say this was a huge relief to him. “But you can’t really un-ring that bell,” you add wryly.

You also couldn’t get past an earlier comment he made. “So…you’ve thought about us before?”

He takes a moment before answering. “Yeah. I mean, you’re beautiful. Who wouldn’t want you?”

Your cheeks flush at his compliment.

Your best friend has always had this effortless way about him—you’ve seen firsthand how easily he charms people during your nights out together.

Your resolve crumbles, and honestly, you’re tired of fighting it. “How are you so chill about all this?”

He laughs. “It’s sex, not rocket science.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands. “Things won’t get weird afterward, will they?”

“Afterward? So...you’re saying you want to have sex? With me?” His eyebrows raise slightly.

You already knew the answer to that question the moment you asked him to come over. “I guess I do,” you say softly with a nervous smile, “for science?”

His sexy, throaty laugh echoes through the room.

********

You sit nervously on your couch facing each other. Since this is completely new territory for both of you, you know you need to take things slow and make sure you’re both comfortable. Gathering up the courage to agree to this experiment is the easy part, but actually getting into it?

“Just to be clear—this is a one-time thing, right?”

“Of course,” he confirms. “This is purely for educational purposes. And your pleasure.”

You scrunch your nose in protest. “That doesn’t seem like a fair exchange.” The idea of him seeing this as one-sided doesn’t sit right with you. “Shouldn’t this be mutually beneficial?”

“I never said I had to get something out of this. You want to experience an orgasm from foreplay alone, without mechanical assistance, right?”

You nod.

“Okay. So, let me focus on making that happen for you. You don’t need to think about anything else.”

You didn’t want to be selfish, but his offer was difficult to refuse.

“This is about you, not me,” he insists. His decision is firm and he wasn’t budging.

“Okay,” you relent. Fidgeting nervously with the hem of your shirt, you take in a deep breath and release it before muttering, “How should we do this...”

When Jihoon doesn’t immediately offer any suggestions, you think of the most natural way to start.

“Maybe we could start with kissing?”

“Right, good idea.” His voice wavers slightly, betraying that he’s just as nervous as you are despite his attempts to stay composed. Oddly, this puts you at ease—knowing you’re both on the same page, figuring this out as you go.

You both move in closer together, and time seems to slow as he leans in. Your eyes flutter shut, then his lips meet yours. They’re exactly as you’d imagined—soft, warm, and unexpectedly gentle. The kiss starts tentatively, but as your lips find their rhythm, everything feels natural.

When you break apart for a moment, you can’t help but smile. “You’re a good kisser.” You barely finish the sentence before being drawn back to his lips.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he hums, and you can feel his smile against your lips as you both laugh, the sounds melting into your kisses.

Your kisses grow more intense, your mouth sucking on his top lip while his tongue traces delicately along yours, building a warmth that spreads through your entire body. You fist at his shirt, bunching the fabric between your knuckles, while his hand cradles your neck, his thumb gently stroking along your pulse point.

Gradually, his kisses move from your lips, following a path along the curve of your jawline, down to the slope of your neck. You can’t help but giggle at the sensation.

He instantly pulls back, a worried look on his face. “Sorry, are you not into that?”

“No, no—I mean—Yes, I am into it. I’m just a little bit ticklish there, that’s all,” you explain.

“Oh... okay. Do you want to keep going?”

You nod, and as he leans in for another kiss but pauses when you place a hand on his chest. “You know, I didn’t think I’d enjoy this because we’ve been friends for so long, but I have to admit that I like it.”

“Yeah?” A smirk plays across his lips. “Tell me what else you like.” He nips at your jawline. “Or show me.”

Desire spreads through you like wildfire. This was the point of no return. You take his hands and guide them under your shirt until they cup your breasts.

“What do you want me to do?” He murmurs through your lips.

“Play with them.”

His lips capture yours again as he squeezes your breast gently.

He eases you down onto the couch, his lips trailing from yours down your neck to your sternum. When he lifts your shirt to your chest, you feel constrained and pull it off completely, tossing it aside. He follows your lead, removing his own shirt.

His skilled fingers unhook your bra and takes a nipple into his mouth while his thumb teases the other, drawing a sharp breath from you.

You run your fingers through his hair as his kisses trace down your stomach, making your back arch at the sensation against your skin.

His hands glide down your sides until they reach your jeans, where he carefully undoes the button. You hook your fingers into your waistband and start pushing your bottoms down. He helps slide them off, his touch remaining gentle but with a hint of urgency as he pulls the fabric from your legs. As the last piece of clothing falls away, the cool air against your newly exposed skin makes you shiver.

One of his hands pushed between your legs, making them fall open shamelessly. His other hand continued to massage your breasts, making them unbearably sensitive. You can’t believe how slick you’d gotten in a short span of time. To think he hadn’t done much to you yet, apart from kissing you and squeezing your tits.

His gaze traveled down your body, lingering where his fingertips teased your sensitive folds. His feather-light touches made your inner walls clench with need. This only heightened your arousal, making you squirm beneath him, silently begging for more.

He slid one finger carefully into you. Your eyes closed against the unbearable vulnerability of being spread out naked and fingered by your friend, kneeling on the floor beside you. “Don’t think…just feel.” You keened as Jihoon pulled out and thrust gently back into you with two fingers. You couldn’t hold back a moan.

It’s probably been a few minutes now, you’re not sure as you’ve completely lost track of time. You blink furiously in a mild panic and stare down at him, still leisurely finger-fucking you. What he was doing felt so good, but you weren’t even halfway to your peak yet. By this point, other partners would be coming up for air, wanting you to return the favor or just ready to stick their cock in to get their fill.

“Relax...” he cooed, pressing a kiss against your inner thigh. Each deliberate dip and languid curl of his skilled fingers inside you made you wetter, gradually coaxing your muscles to yield. “It’s not a race,” he reassured you softly, his voice thick with desire. “I’ll keep going until you come.”

His words of encouragement sent waves of arousal coursing through you, making your breath catch in your throat.

“Kiss me,” you choked out, needing to feel his lips against yours. Without hesitation, he obliged, sealing his mouth over yours in a deep kiss that made you dizzy.

Your fingers clutched desperately at the edges of your cushions, knuckles turning white from your grip as you felt that familiar sensation between your legs. “Right there. Don’t stop,” you gasped between heavy breaths, your hips bucking against his steadily thrusting fingers. The pleasure was building to an unbearable level, making you feel like you might shatter to pieces if he didn’t push you over the edge soon.

He continued to whisper the filthiest things—words you’d never heard him say to you. They revealed previously unspoken fantasies that ignited your body and overwhelmed your senses. A fleeting thought crossed your mind, wondering if this was his usual bedroom talk. But that thought slipped away as his words and actions consumed you completely. Before you realized it, you were peaking.

“I want to see what you look like when you come,” he purred. “Do you look as pretty as you do right now?” Everything tightened in your core while he kept up his ministrations in a steady, unhurried rhythm.

“Oh fuck, I’m coming…”

“Don’t hold back. Let me hear you,” he urged.

You let out a strangled cry, your mind far beyond the depths of euphoria to care about being quiet or demure about this. He was mesmerized, unable to look away at the sheer pleasure that washed over you. Before you could even process what just happened, he’d already hooked your leg over the back of the couch and covered your cleft with his mouth.

He stroked your clit with his tongue, fluttering over it, building your hunger back up again. He teased your slick folds, taunting you with the promise of another orgasm—something you thought impossible to achieve so soon, yet your body responded eagerly. When his fingers pushed inside you at the same time, you had to bite your lip to stifle a scream.

You came again, your thighs trembling, tender muscles pulsing around his touch. His growl vibrated through you. You didn’t have the strength to push him away when he returned to your clit and sucked softly…tirelessly…but now you wanted more. You needed to feel him.

You manage to sit up and squeeze his shoulder to get his attention. He peers up at you from between your thighs.

“I want you to fuck me.”

“Already?” He smiles, teasing you with painfully slow strokes of his fingers. “Pretty sure I can get another one out of you,” he says cockily.

“Lee Jihoon—I. Am asking you. To fuck. Me,” you punctuated. “Will you do it or not?”

He sits up, turning sheepish all of a sudden. “I, uhm…didn’t expect us to be doing this, so I didn’t bring any condoms.”

It’s not like he was some random guy. Although you appreciated his caution, you just wanted him inside you. “I trust you,” you tell him before pressing a kiss to him.

After he settles on the couch, you shift unsteadily to straddle his hips, pressing your bodies together. Reaching between you, you fumble with his jeans until he helps, lifting his hips in a fluid motion to pull them down just enough to free himself. Bracing yourself, you let him guide you as you slowly sink down onto him. Your lips part with an involuntary sigh that turns into a soft moan as he fills you completely, stretching you in the most delicious way.

When you begin to roll your hips, the friction sends sparks of pleasure through your core.

“Fuck, your pussy feels good,” he breathes out roughly, his fingers digging into your hips before worry suddenly crosses his face. His cheeks flush as he stammers, “S-sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

You giggle at his compliment, causing your muscles to clamp around his length. “I’m not mad at it,” you reassure him. “You make me feel really good, too.”

“Yeah?” His brow quirks. “You like when I fuck you?”

“Yes,” you moan, dipping your head to his lips in another kiss as you find your rhythm together.

His hands roam your back, pulling you closer as you rock against him with increasing urgency. Before this, you’ve resigned yourself to never experiencing an orgasm from penetrative sex, and yet here was another brewing and there was nothing you could do but let it happen.

You gasp as his hand makes sudden contact with your ass, the unexpected sting making you freeze in place. You stare at him dumbfounded.

“What are you going to do about it?” he challenges. Before you can answer, his hand comes down again with another firm smack that rings through the room. “What?” The sound of provocation in his voice makes your pulse quicken.

You hover over him, eyes narrowing as you lean closer. Through gritted teeth, your voice emerges as a heated whisper. “Harder.”

“I thought so.” He smiles slyly before your lips crash in a fierce kiss that leaves you both breathless.

With a firm grip, he holds your hips still as he thrusts into you with deliberate, measured strokes. You clutch at him, the rhythmic sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the room. Jihoon buries his face between your breasts, his rough groans reverberating against your flesh.

You whine helplessly, overwhelmed by the building pressure as the familiar coil of tension in your belly winds impossibly tight. Your thighs burn as you teeter on the edge of release.

“Yes...d-don’t...stop...hm...so close,” you pant.

He slows his movements to an agonizing pace, drawing out each thrust to drive you insane. He pulls out completely before sinking back into you with one deep thrust that makes you see stars. Your jaw drops, unintelligible sounds tumbling out your mouth as you come hard.

You hold onto him for dear life, your nails leaving a trail of crescent marks on his skin as he picks up the pace once again, his own rhythm becoming more erratic as he chases his own orgasm. A deep groan rumbles from his chest as your walls pulse and clench around him.

“I’m close,” he warns, his usually calm and collected face now twisted with agonizing need.

“Don’t pull out,” you manage to choke out between strained, ragged breaths.

“You…s-sure…?”

You nod eagerly. With your permission, he thrusts deeper and harder, making your neck loll in ecstasy. He draws you back into a rough, hungry kiss that muffles your shared moans as he reaches the end of his rope, his hips jerking against yours while he spurts inside.

Pressing your sweat-slicked forehead against his, you wait for your heart rate to return to normal. There’s no doubt in your mind—no previous partner could compare to Jihoon.

“Oh my fucking god,” you sigh. “We’ve been missing out all this time.”

He laughs softly, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “It was worth the wait though!”

********

After a quick shower and a necessary trip to the pharmacy down the block, you and Jihoon return to your apartment with bags of late-night snacks. All that sexual activity had certainly worked up an appetite, and you found yourself craving something sweet. An ice cream waffle cone hit the spot for you.

“Are you okay?”

You smile, endeared at his worrying. “You know, you’ve asked me that same question multiple times now, and I’ll keep giving you the same answer—I’m fine. Great, actually!”

“I know, I know,” he responds sheepishly. “I just hope this doesn’t make things awkward between us.”

“Trust me, I don’t feel awkward about any of this at all,” you respond with complete sincerity before facing him to find out if he felt the same way you did. “Do you?”

He shakes his head, tilting the bag of Skittles into his mouth. “Nope,” he answers between chews. “To be honest, I thought that was fucking mind-blowing!”

You inhale sharply at his candid comment, nodding in agreement. “Same. Absolutely no complaints from me!”

He gets up from the couch, takes out a small box from the shopping bag to set it aside, and stuffs your discarded candy wrappers into it before heading to the kitchen to throw them away.

When he returns from the kitchen, your eyes linger on him. “Thanks, Jihoonie,” you whisper. “For…everything.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies with a wink before sinking back into the couch beside you.

This turned out to be the complete opposite of your initial fears. Not only did this one-off experiment exceed all your expectations, but it seems your friendship remained the same. Though you never would have guessed that your best friend would end up giving you the best orgasms of your life.

As you continue to enjoy your treat, you notice Jihoon’s eyes fixed on your tongue as it swirls around the chocolate ice cream. His dark eyes watching you with the same intensity as when you came undone with his touch earlier.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You arched an eyebrow at him. “Quit staring at me like that,” you cautioned, though your tone suggested otherwise.

“Then don’t ever eat an ice cream cone in front of me,” he responds with a chuckle as he subtly adjusts himself beneath his pants.

You bite your lip, feeling a warmth between your legs again. “You know...” you clear your throat, reaching for the box of condoms he left on the coffee table, “I wonder if these things really live up to the ‘raw’ feel.”

He clicks his teeth dismissively before responding. “I think it’s false advertising.”

“You think so?”

He takes the box from you, examining the label. “I mean, we do have a perfect point of comparison,” he reasons, a smile ghosting his lips. “Should we find out?”

You stare at each other for a moment before breaking into grins and exclaiming in unison, “For science!”

Main SVT Fic Masterlist

Thank you for reading!

Interaction/feedback is appreciated but *not* required. But just in case you feel comfortable enough to comment or just say hello, my inbox 📩 is open 💜💎

#jihoon x reader #jihoon fanfic #jihoon smut #woozi smut #seventeen x reader #seventeen fic #seventeen fanfiction #lee jihoon #svt imagines #svt x reader #svt fanfic #seventeen smut

2K notes · View notes

cadelinhadaromanoff · 2 months ago

Text

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓

Summary: Natasha finds herself sinking into the quiet storm of her own insecurities—trapped in the uncertainty of her almost-relationship. Though deeply in love, she struggles with the fear that something so good can’t last. She worries she’s temporary, that she’s not enough, that she’ll be left behind. The lack of a clear title between them—no “girlfriend,” no labels—only feeds her anxiety. Despite knowing deep down that she’s loved, the ache of not hearing it aloud, of not being certain where she stands, begins to unravel her from within… until all of it changed.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic Clint Barton.

Word count: 11615

Warnings: Emotional Insecurity & Anxiety, Mentions of Trauma (Red Room), Mild Language, Implied Nudity/Intimacy, Age Gap Relationship (33 and 23)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Author's Notes: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve been giving this story—it honestly means so much to me. I’m sorry it took a little longer to post this one, but I promise it was worth the wait (yes, it got long, I know, but I couldn’t help myself). As always, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message—I absolutely love talking with you all about the story!Hope you enjoy the chapter… especially now that they’re finally, finally official!

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

Natasha had always believed that solitude was safety. That the quiet after a mission, the dim silence of her apartment, the untouched corner of a bed meant she was doing it right. Keeping the world at bay. But lately—no, ever since you—solitude didn’t taste like peace anymore. It tasted like absence. It tasted like something she wasn’t supposed to swallow down anymore. Because now she knew what it felt like to be held. And God, she craved it. Every cell in her body missed you when you weren’t there. It was like her skin had developed a memory, a longing—your fingers stroking through her hair, the solid weight of your arms around her, the way your voice softened when you said her name. She wasn’t built for needing people, but somehow, she needed you.

It was worse on nights like this, when the plan had been simple. Just bed. Just cuddles. You, her, and Ana—wrapped up like a secret in soft sheets and warm limbs, safe from the world. That was all she wanted. No espionage, no world-threatening disasters, no coded briefings. Just domestic silence broken by the gentle hiccup of Ana’s giggle or your breath whispering across her neck. And when it didn’t happen, when the world pried you away again with one more emergency or one more delay, something inside her clenched with a quiet, aching frustration.

She never expected this. She never expected to become this… touch-starved. Not her. Not the Black Widow, trained to endure, to resist, to suppress. But every time you left, she felt like her skin was betraying her, screaming for your touch. Her body missed you like a second heartbeat gone quiet. She found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the weight of time unbearable until she could feel your warmth pressed against her again. You didn’t just touch her skin—you calmed the war beneath it. The war that had never really stopped since she was a child.

She sleeps better now. That’s something she can’t even say aloud without her voice cracking. Before you, sleep was something she survived. A minefield of memories, of missions, of screams that were never hers but still lived in her head. The Red Room was always there—just under her eyelids. But with you… it’s different. When she lies beside you, her body folds into yours with such aching relief it almost breaks her. And on the nights when the dreams still come—because they do, not as often, but still—you never even hesitate. You just reach for her. Sometimes you wake up to the sound of her breath hitching, and you’re already there, pulling her into your arms before she can even open her eyes. Her face tucked against your chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume like it’s a tether. It makes her feel safe. Not just safe from danger—but safe from herself.

You never ask her to explain. You never demand the shape of her fear or the color of her scars. You just hold her. Stroke her hair. Whisper to her. And it’s not even always words—sometimes it’s the quiet rhythm of a song you love, hummed against her temple, the vibrations sinking into her bones. Sometimes it’s a story, one of your myths or legends you adore, soft and slow like a lullaby. You talk about Persephone’s garden, or Selene’s moonlight, or the stars that guide lost souls home. And slowly, slowly, the war in her chest dies down. She breathes. She lets go.

And sometimes—her favorite times—you say nothing at all. You just stay. Stay with her. Stay present. Stay real. Your fingers weaving through her hair, your heart steady against her back. That’s how she heals. Not in grand gestures or loud declarations—but in these quiet nights where you remind her, without ever needing to say it, that the Red Room can’t reach her anymore. That Ana is safe. That she is loved. Fully. Completely. Unconditionally.

She never thought she’d have this. Never thought she’d be someone’s comfort, someone’s world. Never thought anyone would be hers. But you are. And she’s yours. And tonight, even if you’re not here, she holds onto that. Holds onto you. Because she knows that when the door finally opens, when your shoes are kicked off at the entrance, when you finally come to her again, you’ll climb into bed and fold yourself around her like you always do. And she’ll sleep. Truly sleep. Because you exist. Because you love her. And because somehow, impossibly, she’s allowed to love you back.

The text had barely finished delivering when Natasha’s heart leapt. “Coming home soon, love. Ana picked out a little bunny she refused to let go of. We miss you.” It was nothing extraordinary, just a simple message. But for Natasha, it lit her from within. She stared at the words until the letters blurred slightly, her chest warming with something fierce and tender and almost too much to hold. She could already picture it—the jingle of keys at the door, the sound of Ana’s babbling, your voice calling softly through the apartment, and then, finally, your arms around her. Your warmth at her back, your scent in her lungs, your presence like a balm to the always-too-tight coil in her chest. And Ana, her sweet little girl, pressed between you both like a heartbeat.

That had been the plan. The only plan Natasha cared about today.

She had tidied the room three times, not because it needed it, but because she needed to stay busy. She had fluffed the pillows, pulled out the softest blankets, even changed into your favorite hoodie—the one that still faintly smelled like you. The one she never admitted she slept in whenever you were gone too long. Her whole body was ready to melt into yours. Her mind was already there, halfway between your laugh and Ana’s cheek squished against her chest. That was her safe place now. That was everything.

But then her phone rang.

And everything—everything—shifted.

She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her. Clint. The only person she might’ve answered for tonight. The only one who knew her long enough to still pull her back into the life she thought she was beginning to leave behind. She pressed answer, already sighing.

“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” she muttered before he could even speak.

“I wouldn’t if I had a choice,” Clint’s voice replied, casual but carrying that slight edge she recognized instantly—he was serious. “I need backup at the compound. New recruits are crashing hard. They’re not listening, not responding. They need someone who scares them straight.”

“They’re not my problem,” she said flatly, her jaw already tightening. “Not tonight.”

There was a pause.

“You said you were easing back in. This is easing. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”

And there it was—that tug, that guilt-laced thread woven into years of loyalty and battles and blood. He knew it. He used it. And she hated that it still worked. But even as the pressure behind her eyes built, her voice snapped back, sharper this time. “Clint, I haven’t seen them all day. She’s been gone since morning. I just—” her voice cracked, barely, “—I just want to hold my family. I was going to hold them and breathe, and not think about combat posture or tactical breakdowns or angry kids trying to prove they’re bulletproof.”

“I get it,” he said gently. “But this is one of those nights I can’t handle it alone.”

She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Anything. But instead, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Her free hand twisted into the hem of your hoodie, holding on like she was bracing for impact. Her silence dragged long enough that Clint said her name.

“I’ll go,” she said, bitterly. “But I’m not happy about it.”

“I know.”

And with that, she ended the call and stood there, motionless, the echo of her own frustration boiling beneath her skin. Her body physically hurt from how much it had wanted to be touched. Held. She could almost feel the phantom of your arms around her already, like her body had preemptively exhaled—and now that touch wouldn’t come. Not yet.

She peeled the hoodie off like it burned her, tossing it onto the bed with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a growl. She hadn’t felt this moody in years. This let down. It wasn’t just the cuddle. It was the hope she’d let herself build. The sacredness of such a quiet plan. The simplicity of love, denied.

She didn’t bother looking in the mirror as she tied her boots and clipped her hair back. The woman staring back would be one she barely recognized tonight. All sharp edges again. All steel and cold breath and detachment. She hated it. Hated how easily the armor still fit.

Before she left, she glanced at the phone again, almost against her will. No new texts yet. You were probably driving, Ana babbling in the backseat. The image made her eyes sting.

She typed quickly, furiously, deleting twice before finally sending:

|Me: Clint called. Going to the compound. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight so badly.

She didn’t wait for the reply. She couldn’t. If you told her it was okay, she’d hate herself more. If you told her you missed her too, she’d fall apart.

She stepped out into the night with her fists clenched in her coat pockets and a weight in her chest that made her feel like she’d left her soul back in that bed, still waiting for your aren't .

The elevator hummed with sterile efficiency, bright lights buzzing above her head as Natasha stood with her arms crossed, back pressed into the cool metal wall. Her jaw was tight, ticking faintly as she stared blankly at the floor numbers ticking upward. The ride felt slower than usual, and she hated how her foot kept bouncing with impatience. She was still thinking about the bed, about you. About Ana’s little hand probably gripping that bunny you mentioned. About the warmth she was supposed to be folded into by now. Instead, she was in a steel box, dressed for war, on her way to babysit rookies who probably couldn’t tell the difference between real fear and adrenaline.

Damn Clint.

The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, releasing her into the training sector’s lower level—a new wing Stark had greenlit, full of sleek equipment, minimalist black panels, and eerily quiet lighting. The second she stepped out, the air changed. It was cooler here, laced with the faint scent of sterilized tech and recently dried sweat. Ahead of her, through the glass wall, she could see them—six newbies strapped into individual chairs, motionless, eyes twitching beneath closed lids. Each one connected to the simulation grid via a thin neural band wrapped at the base of the skull. A glowing interface pulsed beside each chair, tracking vital signs and neurological responses.

Great. They’re using the Divergent crap tonight.

.Natasha muttered it under her breath as she stepped into the observation deck, her tone soaked in irritation, though the flicker of reluctant admiration lingered beneath. Her eyes swept over the simulation chairs lined in two perfect rows, each rookie hooked up to the neural bands you had personally helped design. A sleek web of bio-responsive tech wound from scalp to spine, and beneath the blinking lights and soft whirring of the monitors, she could practically hear your voice in her head explaining it all—every circuit, every serum compound, every neural feedback loop.

She hated how good the tech was. Hated how brilliant you were. Because tonight, that brilliance had stolen you from her arms.

This wasn’t some off-the-shelf copy of what the Divergent factions once used. No, this was yours—your creation. A modified, perfected version of the concept. Inspired by the movie, sure, but completely reimagined under your touch. Instead of fearscapes, you built a neural simulation that generated complex, high-risk, hyperrealistic fake missions. Rescue ops. Espionage trials. Ambush recoveries. Each one designed to push recruits to their limits—not by terrifying them, but by testing them. Every scenario was tailored based on psychological profiling, combat scores, and instinctive behaviors. And unlike the fear tests, the recruits were fully aware they were inside a sim.

That was the genius of it—it wasn’t about whether they could survive. It was whether they would choose to keep going even when it felt hopeless. They knew it was fake. Their minds still reacted like it was real.

Natasha folded her arms and exhaled sharply as one of the screens flickered to show a recruit crawling through smoke and glass, her simulated arm “injured,” her path blocked by simulated debris. Natasha recognized the scenario. A building collapse, with two civilian hostages on opposite ends of the structure. One had to be sacrificed. Classic moral tension. A test of choice, not strength.

She clenched her jaw.

It was brilliant. Brutal. Effective.

And right now?

It was a colossal pain in the ass.

She should be home. Curled into your chest with Ana asleep between you, your heartbeat beneath her ear and your perfume weaving through her senses like safety incarnate. She should be buried in warmth and peace and the sacred comfort she only ever found in your touch. But instead, she was standing here, cold and tense, watching over recruits struggle inside a world you built, your fingerprints in every line of code.

A quiet pang stirred in her chest. Not jealousy. Just longing. The ache of missing you while being surrounded by pieces of you.

She glanced at the chair nearest her. The young man strapped in was shaking, sweat beading along his temple. His simulation feed showed him breaching a hostile compound, wounded and alone, with a timer ticking down until the bomb exploded. Natasha watched his eyes twitch beneath their lids, watched his hands grip the armrests like they were the last lifeline he had.

It was working. Too well.

Clint appeared beside her, arms crossed like he’d been watching her rather than the recruits.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said quietly.

Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the screen, on the chaos within the simulation.

“She built this,” she said finally. “Twisted it from some dystopian crap into a full-on psychological battlefield. It’s smarter than most field ops I’ve seen.”

Clint nodded. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”

“She’s brilliant when she wants to be.”

And then softer, bitter under her breath: “And I was supposed to be holding her right now.”

Clint winced.

“And then you called.” she added, sharp.

He raised his hands defensively. “And I said I was sorry.”

She turned away from the screens, tired of watching ghosts. “Let’s just finish this. I want to go home.”

Back to you. To warmth. To your arms and the scent of that bunny Ana refused to let go of. Back to what was real. Because no matter how convincing these simulations were—no matter how much of your brilliance hummed inside every byte—nothing in this cold, tech-lit room could compare to the life you’d built with her. Nothing could replace the soft gravity of your touch.

And when this was over, she’d crawl into bed no matter the hour, pull you against her, and breathe you in like a woman resurfacing from the deep.

The minutes dragged by like hours.

Natasha leaned against the edge of the control console, arms folded, posture tense but practiced. Beside her, Clint clicked between feeds on the main monitor, pulling up different simulation views. The room was quiet aside from the soft hum of processors and the occasional groan or muttered curse from one of the strapped-in recruits. The feeds flickered and changed—different scenarios, different reactions—and most of them, Natasha had to admit, were either absurd or just plain painful to watch.

“Did he seriously just run at the sniper with a knife?” she muttered, eyes narrowing at one of the panels.

“Yup,” Clint said with a grin, leaning in. “Didn’t even try cover. Full-blown hero charge.”

“He has a grenade on his belt.”

“I think he forgot.”

Natasha dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not forgetting. That’s suicidal optimism.”

Another screen showed a recruit trying to sneak through a corridor with absolutely no spatial awareness. He knocked over a chair, then tripped on it, then somehow managed to drop his weapon in the most exaggerated, dramatic tumble Clint had ever seen. Natasha didn’t say anything—just blinked slowly, her expression blank.

Clint laughed, loud and unfiltered. “That kid’s not even fighting the mission. He’s fighting gravity.”

On the far right panel, another recruit surprised them both. She rewired a security terminal in under thirty seconds using a snapped wire and part of her earpiece mic. Natasha raised an eyebrow.

“That one’s sharp,” she admitted.

Clint whistled. “That’s your girl’s tech, too. Interface adapted mid-sim. Pretty sure the sim actually improved her hacking instincts.”

“Good. Maybe someone here will make it past next month without getting themself killed.”

The next screen showed a recruit tossing his weapon to a simulated hostage and yelling, “Cover me!”

Natasha stared.

Clint choked on his laughter. “Oh my God.”

“He armed the hostage.”

“Strategic empowerment?”

Natasha shot him a dry look. “Strategic idiocy.”

They both laughed—hers short and bitter, his open and entertained. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased.

But only for a moment.

Clint glanced sideways at her when her smile faded. Her shoulders sank back into that familiar coil of silence, her expression hardening again as the recruits continued their digital trials. He studied her for a beat, then turned slightly toward her with that familiar smirk—the one he always wore when he was about to start poking the bear.

“You’re unusually grumpy tonight.”

She didn’t look at him. “Am I.”

He leaned on the console next to her, nudging her with an elbow. “C’mon. Even you usually enjoy mocking the next generation of idiots. What gives?”

Natasha sighed through her nose, eyes glued to the screen. “I had plans.”

“Oh no.” Clint gasped with mock horror. “Plans. Were they dangerous? Illegal? Food-related?”

“They were quiet,” she snapped. “They were warm. And soft. And involved zero morons giving weapons to fake hostages.”

Clint grinned. “So, cuddles?”

Her glare was pure ice. “Yes. Cuddles. That’s the mission you dragged me away from. The real one.”

Clint pressed a hand to his heart. “Heartbreaking.”

She didn’t respond, just clenched her jaw tighter.

Clint waited a second, then added with a mischievous glint, “You’re mad because you didn’t get to spoon your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

Natasha shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the sim.”

Clint chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’d need a whole custom scenario. ‘The Training of Barton: How to Shut Up and Let Natasha Cuddle in Peace.’”

She turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The irritation was real, yes, but even now, she could feel the edges of it softening around Clint’s usual nonsense. Still, it didn’t fix the ache—didn’t dull the image of what she could be doing. The gentle weight of Ana in her arms. Your body wrapped around her back. Your voice, soft and teasing against her neck. Her bed. Her home. You.

And here she was instead. Watching twenty-year-olds try not to shoot themselves in the foot.

Clint nudged her again. “Seriously though. You okay?”

For a while, she didn’t say anything. The screen in front of them flickered, throwing a cold blue glow across her face. A recruit stumbled through a simulated blizzard, searching for a beacon he’d never find, and Natasha’s expression was unreadable, carved from quiet tension. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, then stilled.

“I’m trying to enjoy it,” she finally said, voice low. “Her. Us. Every second we get.”

Clint’s brow furrowed. He didn’t interrupt.

Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction, but her shoulders stayed drawn tight. “It’s been… good. Too good. So good it makes my skin crawl some nights. Not because I don’t want it—because I do. God, I do. But something in me keeps whispering that it’s not going to last.”

Her throat worked, like the words were digging themselves out against her will. “I keep getting this… this feeling. Like I’m losing her. Like she’s slipping through my fingers and I don’t even know why. Like this—whatever this is—has an expiration date and I just haven’t been told when yet.”

Clint’s voice came quieter. “She give you any reason to think that?”

Natasha shook her head. “No. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t lie to me. She holds me like she means it. Like she’s never letting go. But I can’t shake it. I wake up sometimes and I look at her and I think, this can’t be real. Life doesn’t give me this. Not for long. Not without taking it back.”

Clint exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through hell, Nat. Of course your brain doesn’t know what to do with softness.”

She looked away. Her jaw clenched hard. “It’s not just that.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She hasn’t asked,” Natasha said finally, quieter this time. “We’re not… anything. Not officially. Not girlfriends. Not friends-with-benefits. We’re just… something.”

She let the word hang, fragile and heavy.

“I think about it more than I want to admit,” she continued. “I keep wondering why she hasn’t asked. If it’s because she’s not sure. Or if it’s because she’s already decided and just doesn’t want to say it. What if she didn’t ask because she’s planning to leave? What if she’s just waiting for the right moment to end it clean?”

Clint frowned. “Do you really think she’d do that to you?”

“No.” Natasha’s answer was instant. She blinked hard, jaw still tight. “No. She wouldn’t. That’s the part that messes with my head. I know she wouldn’t. But it’s like my body doesn’t believe it. Like every scar in me is screaming that love is a trick, and safety’s just a lie waiting to collapse.”

Her voice cracked, barely.

“I hold her and I’m happy. She kisses my forehead and I want to cry because it feels so damn real. And then the voice comes in. The one that says, you don’t get forever. You don’t even get ‘official.’ You just get this borrowed time until she figures out she deserves someone better. Someone whole.”

Clint was quiet for a long moment. The sim monitors flickered in silence behind them, each recruit caught in their own temporary hell.

He shifted beside her, then leaned forward on the console with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”

Natasha didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to shut up either. So he took that as permission.

“I think you’re scared out of your mind,” Clint said, not unkindly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve never had anything like this before. Not really. Not where you could breathe in it. Where you could stay. Where no one was going to be dragged away or shot in the dark or pulled out of your arms while you watched helpless.”

She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a second. That soft tremble in her lashes said enough.

“But Nat,” he continued, gently now, “you’re not in the Red Room anymore. You’re not in a cage. You’re not some shadow they trained to be disposable. You’re home. You built something. With her. With your kid. You think that’s an accident? You think someone like you—someone who’s lived through fire and came out human—doesn’t deserve this?”

She clenched her jaw again. “It’s not about what I deserve.”

“No. It’s about what you’re terrified to hope for.”

Natasha looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, there was nothing but years between them—wars survived, trust earned, quiet confessions passed like thread between wounds.

“I’m not good at soft,” she said finally. “I never was.”

“No one’s asking you to be good at it,” he replied. “Just don’t run from it.”

She went quiet again, but the air between them had shifted—thick with the weight of things unspoken and the quiet, aching truth she’d been too afraid to say out loud.

“I just…” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, low and raw. “I want her to want me forever. Not just now. Not just while it’s new, or easy, or exciting. I want her to choose me. Name me. Claim me. Because this… something… it feels like everything, but I keep waiting for her to say it out loud.”

“And until she does, you’re stuck in limbo.”

She nodded, once. Slow. Painfully slow.

Clint tilted his head. “Then ask her.”

She blinked. “What?”

He shrugged. “Ask her. Be brave, Romanoff. You’ve taken down gods and dictators. You think you can’t survive asking the girl you love where you stand?”

“It’s not about surviving,” she said quietly. “It’s about what it’ll feel like if I’m right.”

Clint studied her for a beat, his expression softening. “And what if you’re wrong? What if she’s just scared, too? Or waiting for you to ask because she doesn’t want to pressure you? What if she’s lying awake at night, wondering why you haven’t said anything?”

Natasha looked down at her hands. The scar across her knuckles. The place where you kissed when you thought she was asleep.

“She holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish,” Natasha whispered. “But I hold her like I’m already losing her.”

Clint didn’t have an answer for that. Not one he could speak, anyway.

So he reached out and gently bumped her shoulder. A wordless reassurance. A tether.

“You’re not losing her, Nat. You’re just scared.”

She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A spy afraid of love. That’s original.”

“Hey,” he smirked. “Even assassins get hearts. Yours just took a while to remember how to beat.”

She didn’t reply, but her eyes flicked to one of the monitors without really seeing it. And Clint watched her, watched the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her fingers dug slightly into her arms like she was holding herself together by will alone. He knew that posture. Knew it from rooftops and bunkers and long silences between missions. It was the way Natasha braced when something inside her was louder than anything outside.

“Nat,” he said, voice quieter now, less teasing, more solid, “she’s not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you do. You do, and that’s what’s killing you. You know she loves you. You know she’s not lying, not playing, not keeping you around out of convenience. And that scares the hell out of you because the only thing more terrifying than losing her… is believing she might stay.”

She exhaled, sharp and shaky, and suddenly the room felt too small. Like the walls were pressing in with all the things she never let herself feel. All the quiet dreams she’d folded into the corners of her mind. All the hope she never gave herself permission to want.

“I’ve lost so much,” she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the monitors. “More than I ever let myself count. And now I have her. And Ana. And I keep thinking… what if this is just the calm before the storm? What if the universe is just fattening me up before it rips it all away again?”

Clint didn’t scoff. Didn’t try to joke it off. He just let her say it, let the words crack open between them like raw nerve.

“I think,” he said softly, “that maybe this time… the storm already passed. And this isn’t the before. Maybe it’s the after. Maybe you’re already standing in what’s left, and instead of ash, it gave you something to live for.”

That made her look at him. Her throat bobbed, her eyes glassy but refusing to spill. She wasn’t a crier. Not even when she wanted to be.

“I’m scared,” she said again, like it was a confession.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Just… tell her. Tell her you want more. Tell her this in-between isn’t enough. That you want to be hers. For real. She’ll listen. She’s not like the others.”

Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.

She exhaled slowly, almost as if the weight on her ribs had grown too heavy to carry in silence. Her voice came softer this time, stripped down, the edge dulled by something more fragile. “I never really noticed how hard it is… being a single mom. Not until I wasn’t doing it alone.”

Clint turned toward her, careful not to speak, just letting her unravel.

“I mean, I knew it’d be hard. Of course I did. Late nights, the crying, the routines, the guilt. But I thought I had it under control. I thought I was doing okay.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere vague, like she was watching a reel of half-remembered mornings and chaotic afternoons. “And then she came in.”

Her voice thickened—not with regret, but awe.

“She didn’t just help me. She showed up. She saw me. She saw Ana. And it was like…” Her lips curved, barely, aching. “Like she’d always been meant to be there. Like Ana was waiting for her too.”

Natasha swallowed hard. “Damn it, Clint. It’s like she was made for us. Like some piece I didn’t know I was missing finally clicked into place. She’s a breeze of fresh air in a house that forgot how to breathe.”

She looked down at her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold on to something intangible. “Ana adores her. She laughs differently when she’s around. Softer. Freer. Like she feels we are safe, it's like she can see that I am better. like she already knows who her home is.”

Clint watched her, eyes warm, but said nothing. Letting her get to it.

Natasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dipping low again. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because she’s ten years younger than me. Ten years of freedom. Ten years of unburned skin. She could have anything. Anyone. And I’m just… me.”

Her jaw clenched. The words tasted bitter coming out. “What if one day she realizes she wants someone her own age? Someone without baggage? Without trauma layered under every smile?”

Clint’s lips pressed together, but he still said nothing. He knew too much now. Knew more than he was allowed to say. And even if the box was burning a hole in his pocket, even if he could already hear your nervous voice rehearsing the proposal over and over again… this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.

Natasha sat there, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want Ana to lose her. I don’t want to lose her either. But I can’t stop thinking… why would she stay with me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn’t come with a whole damn history of blood and ghosts?”

Her hands moved to cover her face for a second, as if she could scrub the vulnerability out of her pores.

Clint finally leaned back with a small sigh. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”

Natasha peeked at him through her fingers.

“You’re thinking about why she shouldn’t love you. But have you looked at how she does? She’s not with you because of what you’re not, Nat. She’s with you because of everything you are. The fact you care this much? That’s not weakness. That’s proof.”

Natasha blinked, slowly.

“You and Ana aren’t just a chapter in her life,” Clint added, softer now. “You are her life. She made you part of her story. And she’s not walking away.”

He paused, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just trust me on that, okay?”

And Natasha… didn’t argue. She didn’t fight it. Not this time.

Instead, she looked down at her hands again, and let herself feel the full weight of what she’d built. What she stood to lose. And maybe—what she’d never have to.

They kept watching the simulations as the room buzzed with artificial chaos—guns fired, teammates failed, a building in one of the fake missions collapsed because someone forgot to check structural integrity. Idiots. Clint muttered something under his breath, scribbled a note about better obstacle training, and sighed heavily as a recruit ran into his own reflection thinking it was a teammate.

Natasha didn’t even blink.

Her eyes were on the screens, but she wasn’t watching. Not really. She was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, warm, and filled with the faint scent of your perfume. Somewhere Ana was babbling in the background, dragging books across the living room carpet, while your fingers brushed Natasha’s hair back from her temple and your lips pressed to her shoulder without needing a reason. She could almost feel the weight of you behind her, arm snug around her waist, breathing synced with hers.

Her brow was furrowed, though her body was still. She was thinking too much again. Drowning in it. All those sharp edges of self-doubt scraping against everything she wanted. Everything she had no idea how to ask for.

Clint watched her out of the corner of his eye, occasionally glancing between her and the recruits as another poor kid accidentally set off a chain reaction that ended with simulated civilian casualties. They’d laugh about it later, probably. But he couldn’t even get a smile out of her now.

Then his phone buzzed.

He checked it, and when he read the message, his face changed. Something settled behind his eyes—a flicker of amused satisfaction—and he slowly tucked the phone away like it wasn’t burning in his hand.

He leaned in, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, I’ve seen enough bad decisions to last me the rest of the week. And you—” he pointed at Natasha without looking at her. “You’re done here.”

She didn’t look away from the monitors. “What?”

“I’m kicking you out.”

She raised a brow, just a little. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yep. You’re useless like this,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re not paying attention, you’ve been staring through the screen for the last fifteen minutes, and if I have to watch you sit there and stew in existential dread one second longer, I’m gonna throw myself into the next sim.”

She gave him a look—flat, unamused.

Clint grinned. “Go home, Nat.”

“Clint—”

He put a hand up. “Nope. No arguments. I’m the boss tonight. Go.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even like being in charge.”

“Well, tonight I do. Because it means I get to tell you to get out of here, go home, and stop being a haunted, brooding mess.”

She stared at him. He stared right back.

Then, slowly, her body shifted. Like a tired weight was finally giving up resistance.

“…Fine,” she muttered, dragging herself up from the chair.

Clint tossed her a mock salute. “Tell her hi for me.”

Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but he caught the way her fingers twitched slightly at the mention of you. The way her spine straightened Natasha stepped into the elevator, her body moving on autopilot, but her senses already alert—trained, sharp, impossible to fool. Something was in the air. Not the kind of tension that came before a fight, not the weight of danger—this was quieter. Warmer. Thicker, almost. Like anticipation had taken shape in the oxygen itself.

She narrowed her eyes slightly.

She passed her keycard across the scanner. Beep. The familiar green light lit up, and the doors slid closed behind her. As the elevator began its descent, her fingers flexed against her thigh. Something was going on. Not a threat. No—she would’ve smelled that. But something… intentional. Delicate. And no one had said a word.

When the doors opened, her brows furrowed instinctively.

Her living room.

Soft amber light bathed the space in a gentle hush, like the entire apartment was holding its breath. No mission debris. No toys scattered from a wild Ana afternoon. Just… peace. Her eyes scanned quickly—then landed on the dining table.

Two plates. Steam rising. The scent of tomato and garlic filled the air like a memory.

Italian takeout.

Her lips parted just slightly. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor without thought. She took a slow step in, like she was afraid the quiet might shatter if she moved too fast.

And then she felt it—before you touched her.

Your warmth behind her. That familiar hum that her body recognized before her mind could catch up. It wasn’t noise. It was presence. You.

Your arms slipped around her waist like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there—and pulled her against you with a gentleness that made her breath catch. Her back met your chest, her hands instinctively finding yours. Her eyes closed.

You rocked her softly, slowly, swaying the way she might soothe Ana when she couldn’t sleep. “Good night,” you whispered, your lips brushing her hairline. “I missed you.”

The sound of your voice in that low, loving hush hit something deep. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself in the reality of it—of you. Your arms. Your smell. Your heartbeat against her spine.

She wanted to ask what all this was for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

She just stood there in the quiet, still as a statue, letting herself be held.

Letting herself believe—for this moment—that maybe this wasn’t too good to last.

Your arms tightened around her just a little, pulling her closer, your presence now not just behind her—but wrapped into her. Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply let herself be held, her body still tense with that faint echo of disbelief, like she didn’t quite trust that something this warm could be hers.

You leaned in, soft and slow, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. It was small, nothing grand, but it made her shiver—made her heart stutter in her chest. You stayed there for a moment, your lips resting against her like they belonged there, then moved higher, burying your nose gently against the crook of her neck.

You nuzzled her, slow and affectionate, like you were breathing her in—like the scent of her skin, her warmth, the quiet strength she carried, was enough to steady your soul. Natasha let out the softest exhale, something closer to a sigh, her hand instinctively rising to rest over yours where it lay across her stomach.

Her walls didn’t fall all at once.

But they shifted.

Bit by bit, you were undoing her—not with force, but with love. Quiet, patient, steady love

.As you nuzzled into the soft curve of her neck, Natasha let out a slow breath, one hand rising to lightly curl around your wrist. Her voice came quiet—barely more than a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the spell.

“Where’s Ana…?”

You smiled against her skin, lips brushing her gently before you answered, your voice warm and full of affection.

“She was out like a light,” you murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the car ride. I tucked her into the crib—she’s sleeping like a little log, all bundled up in her blanket.”

Natasha exhaled a soft chuckle, the sound barely there but rich with relief.

You pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “So tonight?” you added with a teasing smile, “You have my full, undivided attention. Every second of it.”

That earned you a look. Soft. Unreadable. But the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, the tiredness in her eyes replaced with something gentler.

You slid your hand into hers and guided her toward the couch. The moment she sat, you were already pouring her a glass of wine—her favorite kind, the one you always remembered.

She took it with a small nod of approval, swirling the liquid lazily in the glass before taking a sip. Her head leaned back with a quiet sound of satisfaction, the day melting off her shoulders.

Then she tugged at your wrist again, wordless and sure. You didn’t need an invitation—you curled into her side easily, letting her arm drape around you as you snuggled against her, your cheek pressing to her shoulder.

“This,” she murmured, almost like she was admitting a secret to herself. “This is what I was waiting for.”

You nestled deeper into her side, the wine glass balanced in her hand while her other arm stayed wrapped around you. The low light flickered across her face, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones, but her expression had softened into something that felt… private. Vulnerable. At ease.

Your hand slipped under her shirt—slowly, reverently—finding the warm skin just above her hip. You didn’t rush, didn’t push. You just stroked her in slow, affectionate circles with your fingertips, letting her body adjust to the intimacy not of passion, but of peace. Of being wanted like this. Of being held.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She simply breathed out, deeper this time, the kind of breath that meant home.

You shifted slightly, brushing your lips along her jawline, feather-light kisses tracing their way upward until you found the hollow just beneath her ear. You kissed her there too, the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent.

Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, giving you access without a word. That small surrender said more than she ever could out loud.

She took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening slightly in your hair as she leaned her temple against yours.

“You’re dangerous,” she whispered finally, voice husky and low, not from seduction but from truth. “You make this feel so easy.”

You smiled into her skin, your hand continuing its slow, grounding motion against her waist. “It is easy,” you murmured, lips brushing her jaw again. “With you, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Natasha didn’t answer, but her thumb began tracing small circles on your shoulder, mirroring the way you touched her—as if learning your rhythm in return. And in that quiet, in that warmth, the silence said everything.

You pulled back just a fraction, your fingers still lingering on her skin, and raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So, we’re not eating yet?” you asked, your voice laced with playful curiosity. “I mean, the Italian’s just sitting there, getting cold… but I guess I can let it slide if you’re not in the mood.”

She shifted just slightly, turning her head to catch your eyes, her gaze soft yet filled with a playful challenge. “Right now, I’m more in the mood for cuddles than anything else,” she said, her voice low and tired in the way that only came when she’d been running on fumes all day, but somehow it sounded like the most honest confession. “We can eat later.”

You couldn’t help but smile, that familiar warmth curling in your chest as you leaned in a little closer. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, your lips brushing the edge of her ear as you whispered. “And here I thought I was going to have to convince you to eat. But… if it’s cuddles you want…” You let the sentence trail off, your fingers making their slow journey back up her side, brushing the fabric of her shirt.

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips, but her face was still soft, relaxed. “Yeah, that’s right,” she murmured. “Cuddles. No distractions. Just us.”

You pretended to consider it for a second before leaning in just a little more, your lips now a breath away from her ear. “Hmm… So, you’re telling me you want me to just sit here, and you don’t want me to make sure you’re properly taken care of?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful fire lighting in her gaze. “What are you implying?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

A smirk spread across your lips as you held her gaze, knowing full well where you were going with this. “Oh, I don’t know,” you began slowly, your hand now slipping just a bit lower, tracing the curve of her waist. “You’ve seen how I feed Ana. I could be your personal chef too, you know. Maybe you’d like that? I could feed you, just like I do with her. Spoon you some pasta, maybe?”

She let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head at you as she tried to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but her eyes softened, clearly entertained by the thought.

“Oh, I could make it happen,” you said, completely unphased by her teasing. “I’d even cut your food into little pieces and feed it to you bite by bite. Keep your hands free for… cuddling,” you added with a wink, your finger tapping her chin gently.

She rolled her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t able to keep the grin from breaking through. “You’re something else, you know that?”

You grinned back, leaning in to brush your lips over hers, just a light kiss, but one that lingered for a moment longer than usual. “I’m just saying, if you want me to treat you like I treat Ana, I’m happy to spoil you, too.”

Natasha let out a long, drawn-out sigh of mock exasperation, but her arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she rested her head against your chest. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice softened by the exhaustion that had been following her all day. “But, fine. Maybe you can feed me later. For now… just stay here with me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against her hair. “Anything you want, babe,” you said softly, letting your hands find their place on her body again, just holding her as the moment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket.

The two of you stayed nestled together, your fingers tracing slow, invisible patterns over her skin—soft lines, gentle spirals that spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each touch was an unspoken expression of care, of reassurance, as if you were reminding her that, even in the stillness, you were there. The warmth between you both created a safe little world that wrapped itself around your hearts like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt as though nothing else existed.

Natasha finished her glass of wine, placing it on the coffee table with a soft clink that broke the silence, but only slightly. She sighed softly, her head still resting against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath her. Her body relaxed into yours, the tension of the day dissipating slowly, but there was something new in the air now—a shift that neither of you could quite pinpoint.

You paused your gentle movements, fingers hovering above her skin for a heartbeat longer than usual. The atmosphere in the room felt thicker now, a quiet anticipation hanging between you, pulling your thoughts into focus. It was time.

“Natasha…” Your voice was soft, hesitant, and she could feel the change, the weight of it pressing against her chest.

She tilted her head just slightly, her hand curling against yours as she looked up at you, eyes warm but attentive. “What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.

You took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than you thought they would. “I… I need to say something important. Something that will change everything for us.”

Her heartbeat shifted slightly beneath her ribs, her hand instinctively squeezing yours as she waited, her attention sharp, her usual warrior’s demeanor softened in the quiet of the moment.

“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show. “I’m afraid of doing this… afraid of what it might do to us.” You paused, looking down into her eyes as if searching for some sign, any sign, that she was ready for this, that she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m scared because I don’t know what I’ll do if you… if you run away. I don’t know how to handle it if you decide I’m pushing you too hard, or if I make you feel trapped in some way.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she said nothing, simply letting you continue.

“I never want to pressure you, Natasha. I never want you to feel like you’re being forced into something you’re not ready for. But this… what we have—it’s more than just something to me. It’s everything.” Your voice broke for a moment, that rawness creeping through, the emotion you’d tried to keep at bay spilling over in the quietest of ways. “I just… I’m afraid. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. But I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need to know that you want this, that you’re not just here because it’s easy or because I’ve been too blind to see your hesitation.”

You paused, biting your lip slightly as your hand found her cheek, cupping it gently. “Please, just… don’t walk away from me, not when I’m starting to believe this could be everything I’ve always wanted.”

She didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with those unyielding eyes, but the weight of her gaze seemed to wrap itself around your heart in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.

Then, with a deep exhale, she spoke, her voice gentle but filled with that quiet understanding. “You think I’m going to run?” she asked, her tone soft but sharp with sincerity.

You nodded slowly, unable to mask the nervousness that lingered in your chest. “I don’t know what else to think. I… I don’t know how to balance this, the fear of losing you, with the need to tell you how I feel.”

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips, and she leaned forward just enough to press her forehead against yours, soft and slow, as if grounding you both in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me,” she said simply, her voice a steady anchor. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”

You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you. Her hands reached up to touch your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, and it was like the whole world stopped in that one soft connection.

“But I can’t promise things won’t change,” Natasha continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, honest gaze. “I can’t tell you I won’t be scared too. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”

You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. “I just needed to hear that.”

She smiled again, a little brighter now, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You have me. Just don’t worry so much. I’m not going anywhere.”

Her words were quiet, but they held an unspoken promise. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your own fears begin to lift, even if just a little

The quiet that followed was heavy, but not in a burdensome way—it was the kind of silence that wrapped around the room like velvet, soft and full of meaning. You could hear the hum of the city outside, but it felt a thousand miles away. Natasha was still curled against you, her fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm, but your thoughts were no longer calm. They were storming in the most beautiful, terrifying way.

You sat up slowly, careful not to startle her, and then stood. Natasha blinked, looking up in confusion as her body instinctively followed your movement. But then you moved—slow, intentional—and lowered yourself to one knee in front of her. Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And she froze, just like that, staring down at you as if the world had slipped off its axis.

You held the ring box in your hand, but it stayed closed for now. Your eyes didn’t leave hers.

“Natasha,” you began, your voice trembling with everything you’d been holding in for too long, “I love you.”

Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came. Her eyes were locked onto yours, wide, stunned, as you continued.

“I love all of you. The parts the world has seen. The ones they’ve judged. The ones they’ll never understand.” You took a breath, slow and shaking. “I love the fire in you, the way you stand unshaken when everything’s falling apart. I love the way you fight, not just in battle, but for people—for Ana, for me, for everyone who’s ever had the chance to be loved by you.”

Her chest rose slowly, her lips tightening as emotion began to blur her vision, but you weren’t done. Not yet.

“You’re brilliant. The smartest woman I’ve ever known. Strategic, sharp, deadly. You walk into a room and shift the balance of it without even trying. But when Ana cries, you drop everything, and you hold her like she’s your whole world. And she is, isn’t she?”

A tear slipped down Natasha’s cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it.

“I see the way she looks at you, Tasha. Like you hung the stars. But you know something else?” You swallowed, emotion clawing up your throat. “She looks at me that way too. Because you let me be part of her world. Because you let me in. And God, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”

Her hand came up to her mouth now, covering her lips as the weight of your words hit her. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.

“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” you whispered. “Not just because of what you do. But who you are. When you stroke Ana’s hair while she’s falling asleep. When you cry in your sleep and bury your face in my chest and let yourself be small with me. When you don’t speak, but hum those lullabies under your breath just so your brain stays quiet. I see you, Natasha. All of you. And I still fall.”

Your hands opened the ring box slowly, revealing the simple, elegant band inside. Her eyes flicked down to it—and she audibly gasped.

“I don’t want you to be just my girlfriend,” you said, your voice now thick and raw. “That word—it doesn’t come close to what you mean to me. I want you to be my fiancée. I want to skip that middle step because it feels too small for us. I want to wake up every day knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how deeply I love you.”

The silence that followed was devastating and breathtaking all at once. Natasha’s face had completely crumbled, her lips trembling, her breath shallow, her eyes spilling quiet tears. She looked at you like you were breaking her open—in the most healing, impossible way.

You held the ring toward her with a trembling hand. “Will you marry me, Natasha Romanoff?”

She didn’t speak. She just stared at you for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. And then she nodded. Slowly at first. Then fiercely, with a choked laugh through her tears.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word so soft you could’ve missed it.

But you didn’t.

You rose slowly, carefully, your fingers still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. She looked down at it in disbelief, her hands shaking, then reached for you with sudden urgency, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you down into her, kissing you through laughter, through tears, through every wall that had ever tried to stand between you.

The kiss lingered—not rushed, not fiery, but slow and trembling, the kind that reached down into bone and stayed there. Natasha clung to you like her life depended on it, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed against your lower back as if anchoring herself in the moment. You could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, her breath stuttering between kisses, her body shaking not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered emotion. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, unraveling, but safe.

When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes still damp, and she gave a tiny, broken laugh that made your heart clench.

“I was not ready for that,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You ambushed me.”

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “You’re a master spy, Romanoff. If I can ambush you, then I’ve earned the right to keep you.”

She let out a shaky breath, that little upward pull of her lips returning—but softer, quieter, the kind of smile she gave only when she felt completely, painfully vulnerable. “God,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I never thought someone would want this… not for a lifetime.”

“I want you,” you said, firm and low, your hand coming to rest over her heart. “Not the legend. Not the assassin. Not the perfect mom. Just you. The woman who watches documentaries about space at three in the morning. The woman who cries when she thinks no one can hear. The one who hums lullabies she doesn’t remember learning. That’s who I want to grow old with.”

Her eyes opened again, blinking through tears. “I’m so scared,” she admitted, barely above a breath. “You’re so young. You could have anyone. You could still change your mind.”

You cupped her face with both hands now, firm and warm. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine waking up next to anyone else. I choose you. Every single day. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you push me away. Even when the world tries to pull you back into old ghosts. I will choose you.”

Her bottom lip trembled, and she closed her eyes again, the weight of your words washing over her like a wave she didn’t even try to fight. She leaned into your hands, into your love, as if some part of her still couldn’t believe it was real.

You kissed her again—soft, reverent—then guided her gently to sit with you on the couch. She nestled into your side, her legs tangled with yours, her hand clutching yours tightly as if afraid you might vanish if she let go.

“I don’t know how to be a fiancée,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more contemplative than unsure.

“That’s okay,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t know either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against your shoulder. “I’m going to mess up.”

“So will I.”

“You’ll get tired of me.”

“I won’t.”

She looked up at you, her expression so open it nearly broke you. “Promise?”

You kissed her gently, pressing your lips to the corner of her mouth like a vow. “I promise. Every day. Every night. Every breath. You and Ana… you’re my home, Natasha. There’s no version of my future without you in it.”

Her chest rose and fell in a deep, shaking breath, and finally… finally… she relaxed. Completely. The last pieces of armor she had left seemed to fall quietly to the floor, leaving behind only Natasha—raw, trembling, loved.

She leaned her head back against your shoulder, lifting her hand to admire the ring through glistening eyes. A soft, wistful smile tugged at her lips.

“Damn it,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get this.”

You held her tighter. “You deserve more than this. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

Outside, the city went on—unaware, uncaring—but inside this tiny apartment, two broken souls had found each other in the rubble, and built something beautiful from it.

The silence between you stretched again, not heavy this time, but shimmering—thick with meaning, with emotion neither of you had words for yet. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her hand still delicately gripping yours, her thumb tracing lazy lines over your knuckles. The ring on her finger caught the light—a soft gleam of diamond and sapphire—and her breath hitched when she looked at it again, as if it reminded her that this was real. That she hadn’t just dreamed it.

She pulled away just enough to look at you fully.

And then, with her voice trembling, she whispered, “I love you.”

You blinked, stunned for a second—not because you didn’t know, not because you hadn’t felt it in every gesture, every stolen glance, every sigh against your chest at night—but because hearing it out loud from her, this woman carved from shadow and survival, was something else entirely.

“I love you,” she said again, firmer now, like she needed you to believe it. Her eyes shimmered, green glass pooling over with tears. “Not in some fragile, half-hearted way. I love you with every part of me I never thought could still feel. With every part that forgot how to be soft.”

Your lips parted, the lump rising in your throat cutting off your breath, your thoughts, everything.

She reached for your face, her palm brushing against your cheek, her thumb catching the tear that had just started to fall. “You broke through walls I forgot I even had up,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You made me feel safe without asking me to be small. You loved Ana without asking anything in return. You let me be me—not Black Widow, not some haunted mess of a woman… just Natasha. And I never thought anyone would love her.”

Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, your vision blurring, your body shaking. She kept wiping them away with trembling fingers, but it didn’t matter—you were crying, both of you were, in this fragile, raw, unguarded moment that neither of you could’ve prepared for, but both of you desperately needed.

“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Terrified. That this wouldn’t last. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m too heavy, too broken. That someone younger, softer, less… haunted would come along and you’d go.”

“I would never,” you managed to say, voice cracking.

“I know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours, noses brushing. “I know. But it still scares me. Because you matter that much.”

The two of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, tears mingling quietly between kisses that weren’t about passion, but presence. Kisses that said I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.

You reached for the small velvet box that had been resting on the couch and opened it again, your own ring sitting there—simple, elegant, with delicate green peridots set into the band like stardust. Natasha gently took it from the box with shaking hands and slid it onto your finger, her own breath faltering as she did.

You smiled through tears, and then it was your turn. You picked up hers—the one you’d chosen so carefully—the central diamond catching the warm glow of the apartment lights, flanked by the two deep sapphires. A past. A future. And a present that gleamed like a promise.

Your fingers trembled as you slid it onto hers, and she watched every motion with eyes full of awe, reverence, disbelief.

“It’s really happening,” she murmured, as if saying it would anchor it into reality.

You looked at her through watery eyes, heart bursting at the seams. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”

And then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and kissed you—deep and slow and forever. The world had fallen away. The only thing that existed now was the soft hush of your apartment, the glow of warm lamplight casting gentle shadows on the walls, and the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breath against your chest. Her weight on you was grounding, like gravity had chosen to settle in the shape of her body. Her legs tangled lazily with yours, her cheek resting just above your heart, and her fingers—those calloused, deadly, impossibly gentle fingers—were laced with yours.

She lifted your joined hands slowly, letting them hover just above her face as she looked at them. The rings caught the low light and shimmered, side by side, like matching vows made metal. Her eyes softened as she stared at them—your delicate band of peridots nestled in gold, and her ring, bold and graceful with its diamond and twin sapphires.

“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick with wonder. “They look… real. Like this actually happened.”

You smiled and kissed the top of her head, your fingers squeezing hers. “It did.”

She studied your ring a moment longer, brows drawing together in curiosity. “Why peridots?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to look up at you. “I mean… it’s beautiful. But I wanna know what you were thinking.”

You hesitated, just a second, brushing your thumb across her knuckles before answering. “Because they remind me of your eyes. Not just the color… the way they glow when you’re calm. When you’re watching Ana sleep. When you’re at peace. There’s this light in you, Nat… something soft and green and alive, even after everything. I wanted it close to me.”

She went quiet, lips parting just slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when they opened again they were glistening.

“And Ana’s eyes too,” you added gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “When I see the ring, I see both of you.”

Natasha didn’t speak for a moment, and you felt her body press closer, her hand gripping yours like it hurt to let go. Her throat bobbed with emotion as she stared at your ring again. “You’re a sap,” she murmured, her voice cracking just a little.

You smiled. “Yeah. But only for you.”

She laughed softly, and then turned her gaze toward her own ring, letting her thumb trace the edge of the diamond, then the sapphires flanking it. “Okay, in mine. Why sapphires?”

You shifted just enough to look down at her, your voice quieter now. “Because sapphires are about truth. Loyalty. Protection. They’re ancient—some of the oldest stones on Earth. They’re strong. Fierce. Just like you.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. “So I’m carrying a gemstone legacy on my hand now?”

You leaned in, your nose brushing her hair as you chuckled. “Exactly.”

She looked back at the ring, still stunned, still somehow disbelieving. Then, with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, she muttered, “Why am I so sure I’m carrying a fortune on my finger?”

“Because you are,” you said without hesitation, your voice suddenly quieter, more reverent. “But not just in gems.”

Her smile faltered, lips trembling, and she buried her face against your chest again.

And in that moment—wrapped up together, rings gleaming, bodies intertwined and hearts unguarded—there was no past. No mission. No Red Room. No fear.

Eventually, the pull to move became too gentle to ignore. Not rushed, not urgent—just the quiet desire to be even closer. You both rose from the couch hand in hand, still wrapped in the softest silence, and made your way to the bedroom, the food already forgotten on the table. There were no words exchanged, no need. Just the unspoken rhythm between two hearts that had finally said what they’d been holding in for so long.

The shower was slow and warm, steam curling around your bodies like a cocoon. Fingers traced over skin not with hunger, but with reverence—soapy touches turning to quiet caresses, washing away the weight of everything that had come before. Water dripped from her hair as she leaned her forehead to yours, smiling in that quiet, content way she only ever did with you. You ran your hands down her back, held her close, and she just let herself be held.

When you emerged, you were both damp and glowing, wrapped in soft towels and softer smiles. Natasha pulled you into bed without hesitation, her arms instinctively curling around your waist, your legs tangled up beneath the sheets as if they’d always belonged that way.

She rested her head on your shoulder, one hand on your stomach, and you traced slow, loving circles on her spine. The only sound was the soft whirr of the fan above, and your breaths syncing into a shared lullaby. Her fingers found yours again under the blanket, twisting together, rings catching the moonlight that spilled faintly through the window.

There were no more confessions needed. No more questions. Just the weight of her against you, the smell of her damp hair, the solid truth of the rings on your fingers and the unspoken vow between your hearts.

And in that quiet, sacred stillness—wrapped in warmth, love, and the life you were building together—you both finally rested.

Not as a spy and her secret.

Not as a single mother and a girl who wandered in.

But as fiancées.

As home

720 notes · View notes

rainydetectiveglitter · 5 months ago

Text

What People Are Jealous Of You For, Based on Your Part of Fortune (PoF):

Your Part of Fortune can reveal not only your natural talents and the areas in life where luck finds you but also what others might envy about you. Let’s break it down by house!

♈ PoF in the 1st House: aries

You seem to have a golden aura—people admire your individuality, confidence, and natural leadership abilities. You give off the impression of always knowing who you are, which others may envy.

What they won’t admit: They wish they could embody your level of independence and charisma.

♉ PoF in the 2nd House: taurus

Money and material resources seem to come naturally to you, or you find ways to live comfortably no matter the circumstances.

What they won’t admit: People might think you have a “money magnet” or assume you’re naturally privileged, not seeing the effort behind it.

♊ PoF in the 3rd House: gemini

Your wit, communication skills, and charm get you far. You have a way with words that makes others wish they could articulate themselves the way you do.

What they won’t admit: They might envy your ability to talk your way out of anything or the ease with which you connect and network.

♋ PoF in the 4th House: cancer

You have a knack for building a sense of home and stability. You may come from a solid family foundation or create your own haven of warmth and support.

What they won’t admit: They’re jealous of your seemingly unshakable roots and emotional depth, even if it looks simple on the outside.

♌ PoF in the 5th House: leo

People envy your creativity, passion, or magnetism. You attract joy, love, or even fame in a way that feels effortless.

What they won’t admit: You inspire, but your ability to light up any room can make others feel overshadowed.

♍ PoF in the 6th House: virgo

You thrive in routine, hard work, and being dependable. Your knack for problem-solving and consistency gets you ahead.

What they won’t admit: They resent that you excel at balancing discipline and grace, and secretly wish they had your work ethic.

♎ PoF in the 7th House: libra

You seem to attract partnerships, whether romantic, platonic, or professional. People admire how effortlessly relationships flow for you.

What they won’t admit: Some may assume you “rely too much on others” or get breaks from your connections that they don’t have.

♏ PoF in the 8th House: scorpio

People envy your ability to transform and rise from the ashes. You may have access to support, shared resources, or a deeply magnetic aura.

What they won’t admit: They wish they had your emotional resilience or mystique, not understanding the challenges that gave it to you.

♐ PoF in the 9th House: sagittarius

You have an enviable sense of freedom, adventure, and wisdom. People see you as expansive and full of life experiences.

What they won’t admit: They envy your ability to find opportunities in travel, education, or spirituality.

♑ PoF in the 10th House: capricorn

Success and recognition seem to find you. You radiate authority, competence, and ambition that people respect (and sometimes fear).

What they won’t admit: They may believe you have it “easy” professionally without seeing your efforts.

♒ PoF in the 11th House: aquarius

You’re surrounded by a network of friends, supporters, and community resources. People assume you always have someone to help you out.

What they won’t admit: They might think you don’t “deserve” all the support or see you as taking it for granted.

♓ PoF in the 12th House: pisces

You hold a deep inner peace, spiritual connection, or creative vision that others don’t fully understand.

What they won’t admit: They might resent your ability to find purpose or growth in solitude while feeling “lost” themselves.

#pof #part of fortune #envy in chart #house placements #house astrology #astro notes #astrology observations #astrology rants

965 notes · View notes

kleopatra45 · 11 months ago

Text

Venus in the Houses [Solar Return]

1st House

This year, you exude a magnetic charm and beauty that draws people towards you. Your confidence and sense of self-worth increase, and you find it easier to attract love and admiration. This is a wonderful time to focus on self-care, perhaps through a new wardrobe, hairstyle, or health routine. Personal relationships are likely to improve, and you may start new romantic connections. Your appearance and the way you present yourself to the world take on greater significance.

2nd House

Financial prosperity and a deep appreciation for luxury and comfort characterize this year. You may discover new ways to enhance your income, possibly through creative endeavors or partnerships. There is a strong desire to surround yourself with beautiful and valuable items, and you might find yourself indulging more in material pleasures. Relationships with those who share your values or can provide financial stability are highlighted, and there is a focus on building a solid foundation for your future.

3rd House

Communication and intellectual connections flourish this year. You are more charming and persuasive in your interactions, making it easier to form and maintain harmonious relationships with siblings, neighbors, and in your community. Short trips and learning experiences bring joy, and you may develop a love for writing, speaking, or other forms of expression. This is a good year to strengthen your social network and engage in activities that stimulate your mind and heart.

4th House

Home and family life become sources of great joy and comfort this year. You may feel a stronger desire to beautify your living space, perhaps through redecorating or making it more comfortable. Family relationships are harmonious, and you may find yourself spending more quality time with loved ones. This placement also indicates a deep emotional connection to your roots and heritage. You may feel a greater sense of inner peace and security, making your home a true sanctuary.

5th House

Creativity, romance, and fun take center stage this year. You are more playful and expressive, finding joy in artistic pursuits and leisure activities. This is an excellent year for starting new romantic relationships or rekindling the spark in existing ones. If you have children, your bond with them strengthens, and you may enjoy shared activities. This placement also encourages you to take risks and follow your heart, leading to a more fulfilling and joyful life.

6th House

Health and work are highlighted, with a focus on creating a balanced and harmonious daily routine. You may find more enjoyment in your job or work environment, perhaps through improved relationships with colleagues or a more pleasant work setting. Health-wise, you are motivated to adopt a healthier lifestyle, incorporating beauty and wellness into your routine. Acts of service and helping others bring satisfaction, and you may feel a greater sense of fulfillment in your daily tasks.

7th House

Partnerships and close relationships are the focus this year. You are more likely to attract harmonious and loving connections, whether in romantic, business, or platonic relationships. Existing partnerships may deepen, and conflicts can be resolved more easily. There is a strong desire for companionship and mutual support, making this an ideal time for marriage or committed relationships. Collaboration and cooperation with others lead to greater success and satisfaction.

8th House

Deep emotional connections and transformative experiences define this year. You may experience profound changes in your relationships, leading to greater intimacy and trust. There is a strong focus on shared resources and financial matters, and you may benefit from joint ventures or inheritances. This placement also indicates a heightened interest in the mysteries of life, including spirituality and the occult. You are drawn to intense, passionate relationships that challenge and transform you.

9th House

Exploration and adventure bring joy and fulfillment this year. You may develop a love for travel, higher learning, and cultural experiences. Relationships with people from different backgrounds or those who expand your worldview are favored. This is a great year for pursuing education, publishing, or spiritual growth. Your sense of aesthetics and appreciation for beauty may be influenced by different cultures and philosophies, leading to a broader perspective on life.

10th House

Career and public image are emphasized, with a focus on achieving success and recognition. You are more likely to attract opportunities for advancement and may find yourself in the public eye. Your professional relationships are harmonious, and you may receive support from those in authority. This is a good year for setting and achieving career goals, as well as enhancing your reputation. Your sense of style and charm can play a significant role in your professional success.

11th House

Friendships and social connections bring happiness and support this year. You are more likely to meet new friends and join groups or organizations that align with your interests. Your social life is active, and you may find yourself surrounded by like-minded individuals who inspire and uplift you. This placement also highlights your hopes and dreams, encouraging you to pursue your aspirations with the support of your social network. Collaborative efforts and teamwork lead to success.

12th House

This year, you may experience a desire for solitude and introspection, finding beauty in moments of quiet reflection. There is a focus on healing and letting go of past relationships or emotional baggage. You may develop a deeper connection to your spirituality and find comfort in creative or artistic pursuits done in private. Secret or hidden relationships are possible, and you may feel drawn to helping others through compassionate acts. This placement encourages you to explore the depths of your inner world and find peace within.

©️kleopatra45

#astrology #astrology community #astroblr #astrology observations #astro notes #astrology readings #astrology tumblr #houses in astrology #astro community #solar return notes #solar return #solar return chart #astrology placements #astro observations #love #astrology blog #love astrology #venus

1K notes · View notes

demie90s · 24 days ago

Note

Give me a pazzi x reader and make it to where the reader had a hard day and the girls comfort her?

Paige Bueckers X Azzi Fudd X Fem!Reader

You Don’t Gotta Say a Word

MASTERLIST, MORE

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Pazzi. You had a hard day and the girls comfort You.

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: Comfort / Fluff / Found Family / Poly-coded or Platonic

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Reader exhaustion, stress, implied anxiety, hurt/comfort

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: ~0.6k

𝐕𝐢𝐛𝐞: quiet softness, shared silence, forehead kisses, late-night ramen, “we got you no matter what” energy

You didn’t mean to slam the door.

It wasn’t that kind of anger. Not explosive. Not loud. It was that quiet kind that builds under your skin all day—tight in your shoulders, heavy in your chest, the kind that turns into a migraine behind your eyes and a weight behind your smile.

You dropped your bag harder than you meant to. Kicked off your shoes. Let out a breath that felt more like a warning.

The TV was on in the living room, but you didn’t look.

Didn’t say anything, either. Just made a beeline for the bathroom.

Azzi looked up first, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a smoothie in one hand and her phone in the other. Paige looked up a second later from where she was stretched across the couch, hair tied back, socks mismatched.

“Did she just—?” Azzi started, brows lifting.

“Yep,” Paige said, already putting her phone down.

By the time you made it to the sink and splashed cold water on your face, you heard them both behind you.

Not too close. Not crowding you. But there.

Azzi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Paige stood in the hall, one foot inside the bathroom, the other out—like she was waiting for your permission to come closer.

You didn’t say anything. Just gripped the edge of the counter and stared down.

“Bad day?” Paige asked softly.

You nodded.

Azzi tilted her head. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head.

“Cool,” Paige said, voice even. “Then you don’t have to.”

Silence again.

Until Paige reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

You closed your eyes.

“You hungry?” Azzi asked, gently.

“No,” you whispered.

“Liar,” she said, smiling just enough that you could feel it without looking.

You felt the brush of a hand on your back. Paige. Just a light rub between your shoulders. Then a kiss to the side of your head.

“I’ll make ramen,” she said.

“Extra egg,” Azzi added. “And sesame oil. You like it like that.”

You wanted to cry. Just from that.

Not because you were sad, but because they saw you. Without you having to explain or perform or fake it.

You just nodded.

And when you finally moved, they moved with you.

You ended up on the couch, wrapped in the softest blanket Paige always claimed was hers (Azzi always stole it). Your legs were tucked under you, sleeves covering your hands. Azzi handed you her half-finished smoothie with a little straw still sticking out.

“Drink,” she said, sitting next to you.

“I don’t—”

“You need something cold in your system. You’ve been hot-faced since you walked in.”

You blinked. Took a sip. Okay, it was good.

Paige moved around the kitchen with muscle memory, humming something under her breath. You could hear the water boiling, the soft clink of a pan, her mumbling to herself about “who the hell puts this back empty,” and then Azzi calling out, “You do!”

They made it feel normal. Safe. Like you were allowed to fall apart here and not have to put yourself back together all at once.

When the ramen came, it was perfect. Extra egg, sesame oil, soft yolk still runny, crushed red pepper just how you liked it. Paige handed it over with a fork already twirled.

She didn’t say anything when you looked up at her with glassy eyes. She just smiled.

And sat on the other side of you.

You didn’t talk for a while.

Just sat in the middle of them, quiet, warm, bowl in your lap, heads resting lightly on each side of your shoulders. The kind of silence where nothing has to be said. Where they’re just there, solid and present, keeping your world from spinning off its axis.

“You don’t have to tell us what happened,” Azzi murmured eventually. “But if you ever want to… we’ll listen. No judgment. No fixing it. Just listening.”

“Unless you want it fixed,” Paige said, voice low but certain. “Then we’re on it.”

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

“We love you,” Azzi whispered.

“Even on your worst days,” Paige added. “Especially then.”

That’s what cracked you.

Not the ramen, not the smoothie, not the perfect silence.

But that.

You let the tears fall without trying to stop them, and Paige reached for your hand while Azzi pulled the blanket up around your shoulders like it could shield you from whatever outside world made you feel so small.

They didn’t try to stop your crying.

They just held you.

Azzi kissed your temple.

Paige rubbed your thigh.

And for the first time today, the weight on your chest began to lift—not because everything was fixed.

But because they were here. And that was enough.

314 notes · View notes

witherby · 6 months ago

Note

Heyyyyy how are ya 😼 I have an idea for angst (Although this has already been done by many authors but I'm curious see how you approach this kind of like concept)

"Neglected... Batsis.... Reader..."

(this is totally not me just manifesting for more neglected batsia content)

-🌭

Hotdog. Dog that's hot. Oblong tube of meat that sits on a bun. As long as you're okay with it not being Yandere, I'll give almost anything a shot.

Lonely in a Crowded Room

Platonic!Batfamily x Daughter!Reader

Content warnings: emotional neglect, isolation, hyper-independence as a coping mechanism

Masterlist is Here!

Your family loves you.

Your family does not have time for you.

Both of these things are true at the same time.

Your mother had abandoned you at the gates of the Wayne manor when you were an infant, leaving nothing but a note telling Bruce your name, her name, and that you were his biological daughter. After taking another DNA test for himself to be sure, Bruce accepted his role as your father and took you in.

Sometimes you wonder how different your life would be if he'd just admitted he didn't have the time to raise you and left you at an orphanage, where another couple looking to care for a child could devote their energy to you instead. You wonder if you'd be better off than you are now.

The thing is, nothing is really wrong. You're clothed, fed, sheltered, and if there's an emergency you are swiftly taken care of. You just don't have any kind of connection to your family.

Bruce gave it his best effort when you were a baby, when you needed more attention. Batman patrolled less often in the night whenever you had a bad time staying asleep. He bottle fed you, he read you bedtime stories, and he would bring you to Wayne Tower with him sometimes and keep you busy with toys while he worked. As you grew older, however, and started developing a sense of independence, that easy attention got harder and harder to get. Suddenly he was needed for a case, or there was an event Bruce Wayne needed to make an appearance at, or one of your brothers needed his insight during investigations of their own.

And, well, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of one. You learned to share his attention, choosing to be the polite daughter that could learn to fix her own problems, and eventually that meant to Bruce that you didn't need attention at all. You couldn't ever find the courage to correct him, to ask him to make space for you. So, still seeking emotional fulfillment, you tried to turn to your brothers instead.

Dick was unfailingly kind. He'd even remarked once that he always wanted a little sister, which was nice. But he was an adult by the time you entered the picture. He had his own life outside of the Manor, living in Blüdhaven and patrolling as Nightwing and maintaining a day job for the BPD. His already limited free time was spent for himself, chasing downtime he often desperately needed, and you didn't want to make him give that up for you.

Jason didn't come around the Manor as a rule. He had bad blood with your dad, and while he didn't explicitly take it out on you, unfortunately you live with Bruce, and so he just wasn't around enough for you to form any solid attachment. Plus, he's clearly got his own stuff going on, and likely doesn't have the time nor will to get to know you. You haven't tried to reach out and neither has he, which is enough of an answer about how he feels in regards to having a little sister.

Tim was kind of like Bruce. He had far too many prior engagements and duties to fulfill, from acting as current CEO of both Wayne Enterprises and Drake Industries, to moonlighting as Red Robin, to attending college and working on his degree. He'd give you a sweet smile and gently ruffle your hair if he caught you in passing, but then he had to focus on the rest of his daily goings on. Trying to catch Tim to talk was like trying to hold water in a cracked cup. He just slips right by you.

And Damian... Damian did not particularly like you. At least, not at first. He came into the picture a couple years after you were dropped off at the Manor. You suspect he felt threatened about there being another blood-relative in the house, and made every attempt to communicate to you that he wasn't happy with your presence. But, as you grew older, when the topic of secret identities and their nighttime work came up, you surprised everyone by showing no interest in taking up the mantle. You did not want to be Robin, or a bat of any kind for that matter, and that seemed to really mellow your brother out. His perceived competition wasn't even competing, and his hostility was for naught.

Now, he doesn't really give you the time of day. It took a while for you to understand that it wasn't malicious anymore. You know now that he's ashamed of his prior actions and doesn't know how to make amends. You've tried to bridge that gap for him, make it easier by showing that you hold no ill will, but either his pride or his stubbornness refuse to take the olive branch you're practically dropping in his lap.

So, you can't get emotional fulfillment from your dad or any of your older brothers. If you can't go to them, maybe you can turn to Alfred. He was a patriarchal figure, always tending to one thing or another and looking after Bruce and his sons after patrol. He didn't patrol himself, so maybe he'd have the time to spend with you.

And he did! He sure did. It just...wasn't quite what you wanted. Alfred was a former British Intelligence operative, and raised Bruce under the complicated duality of both a guardian and a commanding officer. He obviously knew how to talk to you like a normal civilian, because that's what you are, but it was overly formal. He was holding you at arm's length because he didn't know how to relate to you. You were familiar strangers, at best, and you felt that's all you'd ever be despite your best efforts.

So. No one is cruel to you. They are kind, they smile, they ask you how you're doing and genuinely seem to care about the answer. That's not the problem.

You know your family loves you.

You know your family does not have time for you.

Both of these things are true.

You just wish you weren't so terribly lonely.

#batfam x reader #neglected sister au #x reader #🌭

711 notes · View notes

zerosbubble · 2 months ago

Note

hey lovely! it's @nevereclipse (on anon cause side blog). I'm absolutely obsessed with your like father, like rookie series (anything you write with Tim is just chefs kiss). would you mind writing a story where Tim's rookie is really stressed about their six months exam? like perfectionism, either superrr stressed before hand or not happy with their mark afterwards, and Tim helps them/comforts them? love your work sm!

What You Don’t See Yet.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, Like Rookie.

POV: Overwhelmed by the pressure to be perfect for your six-month evaluation, Tim Bradford sees through the cracks—and he won’t let you spiral. Through quiet guidance, firm words, and on-the-job moments, he helps you realize you’re more ready than you think.

A/N: Always a pleasure to hear from you, Eclipse! Thank you for the sweet message and request, this is adorable and I definitely enjoyed writing it! 💕

You hadn’t stopped moving since the start of shift. Not really.

Your nerves were like a second heartbeat—fast, insistent, relentless. Hands fidgeting with your vest straps. Pacing while waiting on call sheets. Tapping your pen against the desk during report writing until Tim’s eyes cut over with a sharp look that made your hand freeze mid-air.

But now, seated in the passenger seat of the shop, you couldn’t fake stillness anymore. Your knee bounced, leg jittering with a mind of its own like you were wired straight into a live socket.

Tim noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You gonna shake the whole damn shop apart, or what?” he asked, his voice even, calm—eyes still on the road.

You startled like you’d been caught stealing. “Sorry,” you muttered, forcing your leg to still. “Just… tired.”

Liar.

You could feel the word in his silence before he even said it.

“Bull.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “What?”

“I said bull,” he repeated, tone clipped. “You’ve been on edge all day. Don’t tell me it’s nothing.”

You tried to swallow the lump crawling up your throat. Looked out the window like the lights passing by might drown out your thoughts.

“It’s—it’s the six-month eval,” you finally said. Quiet.

Tim didn’t respond right away. Just flicked the turn signal, calm and composed, merging into a slower lane like he was waiting for you to keep going.

“And?”

You shifted in your seat, feeling every buckle and seam in your vest. “And, I need to crush it.”

He finally glanced at you—one of those looks. The kind that felt like floodlights cracking you open. Like he wasn’t just hearing you—he was reading between every damn word.

“Crush it,” he echoed, tone unreadable. “Why?”

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “Because if I don’t, it proves everyone right. That I’m too young. That I’m not ready. That I don’t belong out here.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

Instead, he turned on his blinker and pulled the shop smoothly into a parking lot—quiet, mostly empty, lit by a flickering overhead light and the orange glow bleeding from a liquor store window.

The shop rolled to a stop. He put it in park. Killed the engine.

Silence.

You sat there, hands twisted in your lap.

Then Tim turned toward you fully, the weight of his posture shifting—shoulders squared, arms crossing in that solid, grounded way of his.

“You listen to me, and you listen good,” he said, tone hard but not harsh. “This job doesn’t give a damn how old you are. What it cares about is how you show up. And you? You show up. Every single day.”

You parted your lips, some excuse or protest waiting on your tongue, but he cut you off with a look.

“Do you make mistakes? Sure. So does everybody else. You think your eval needs to be perfect? It won’t be. Because you’re not perfect. And you don’t need to be.”

His words echoed in your chest like they were being carved into bone.

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered. “You’ve already proven yourself.”

Tim’s eyes narrowed slightly. His voice dropped an octave—deeper, more pointed.

“You think I didn’t bomb parts of my eval? You think I haven’t sat where you are, thinking if I messed it up, I’d never get taken seriously?”

You didn’t answer.

“You’re not here to be flawless,” he continued. “You’re here to learn. To grow. To take hits and keep moving. That’s what makes a good cop. That’s what makes you worth the badge.”

Your fingers curled around the hem of your shirt. They were trembling. Just a little. But enough.

Tim saw it.

He sighed, quieter this time. “You’re good, kid. Better than you think. And yeah, I’m hard on you. You know why?”

You nodded, voice small. “Because you want me to be ready?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Because you are ready. You just don’t see it yet.”

The words landed with a thud—solid and final. Like the earth settling beneath your feet.

You blinked, jaw clenched against the sudden sting behind your eyes.

Tim didn’t soften. Not visibly. But his hand reached over and patted your shoulder—firm, grounding, real. It wasn’t tender. It was steady.

“Now take a breath. Straighten up. We’re not done with shift, and I need you clearheaded.”

You nodded once. Shaky. Then again, stronger. “Yes, sir.”

His voice was gentler then, but just as sure. “Good. Let’s go.”

He started the engine again, shifting it into gear without fanfare. Just Bradford, making damn sure you knew your worth—even if he had to drill it into your head himself.

And the world kept turning—but slower now. Calmer.

You weren’t okay yet. Not fully.

But you believed him.

And that was enough to keep going.

Post-exam, though? Hit you like a brick with malicious intent.

The fluorescent lights of the precinct buzzed overhead, casting a sterile glow across the bullpen. It was late—too late for how long you’d been sitting in front of your locker, still in uniform, still frozen.

You stared at the evaluation sheet in your hands. It had crumpled slightly from your grip, edges damp where your fingers had trembled. You read the feedback for what had to be the tenth time, the words blurring around the edges. Your chest was tight. Too tight.

“Satisfactory in judgment. Needs improvement under pressure.”

That line echoed over and over in your head, louder than the rustling papers, louder than the clacking keyboard a few desks away. It was all you could hear.

You blinked hard, throat aching. The scent of old coffee grounds lingered in the air. Someone had microwaved leftover pasta—again—but it didn’t even register.

You should’ve done better. You needed to do better.

Footsteps approached from behind—heavy, measured, and familiar. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“Kid,” Tim’s voice was gruff, cutting through the spiral. “You planning on camping out here, or…?”

You didn’t answer.

Tim sighed, and the bench beside you creaked under his weight as he sat down. You kept your eyes on the paper, willing it to disappear, or change, or both.

“Talk to me,” he said.

Your throat closed up.

“I messed it up,” you murmured. “I should’ve scored higher. I knew the scenarios. I just—” You broke off, shaking your head. “Didn’t respond fast enough. Froze when it mattered.”

The paper in your hand felt heavier than it should’ve. The words were smudged a little near the corner from how tightly you’d been holding it—creased, sweat-softened, like it had been through war and back. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up just yet.

Tim’s gaze remained unreadable but steady. You felt it on you, the way you always did. Sharp. Grounding. Impossible to shake.

He glanced at the paper, then back at your face.

“You passed,” he said, voice calm, slow and deliberate—like it needed to be heard through the static in your head.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. “I barely passed,” you bit out. “That’s not good enough. Not for this job.”

The words came fast, bitter, too familiar. You’d been saying them in your head all day. This was just the first time they slipped out loud.

A pause stretched between you. Not long. Just long enough to feel like the air had thickened.

Then Tim’s voice came, low but sharp—like the snap of a taut rope.

“Good enough for who?” he asked. “For Grey? For me?”

He remained sat next to you, his stance firm but not aggressive. “Because neither of us put barely on your report. You did that.”

Your mouth opened, then closed again. No words came. Just that lump in your throat—the same one that had been there since you got your results. It burned behind your ribs, a quiet kind of shame you couldn’t shake.

You looked down. Couldn’t meet his eyes.

He shifted slightly, not backing down.

“You want to be perfect. I get it. But that’s not the job. The job is making the call, learning from it, and staying alive to make the next one.”

The words scraped against the wall you’d built up all day. Slowly, brick by brick, they chipped it.

Your fingers clenched the paper again, crumpling it tighter in your grip.

“I just…” You swallowed hard. “I don’t want to mess up out there. I don’t want to get someone hurt. Or get you hurt.”

The admission cracked something open—soft, exposed. You hadn’t even realized it until it came out. But it was the truth.

The room went quiet. Not the awkward kind. The kind that settled around you like a pause before impact.

Tim didn’t move for a long second. Then his expression shifted—subtle, but real. The edge in his eyes softened. His voice lowered, not losing strength, but gaining something steadier. Warmer.

“You’re not going to,” he said. “Because you don’t quit. And because I’ve got your back.”

The words hit hard. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… honest.

And that made them worse.

You blinked fast, vision blurring slightly.

A memory flashed—uninvited but vivid. Your first week on the job. Nervous energy riding high. You trailing too close behind him on a call, trying to prove you were sharp, fast, useful. And Tim yanking you back by your vest a second before a suspect swung wide with a pipe.

No shouting. No panic. Just that laser-focused look he’d fixed on you as you stood there stunned.

“You’re here to survive. Do that first.”

Back in the present, your breath hitched. The locker room blurred again at the edges.

Tim hadn’t looked away. He never did, not when it counted.

“Take the win, kid,” he said, voice a little softer now. “You passed. Not because you got lucky, but because you’re learning. Every damn day.”

You gave a slow nod, jaw tight, voice caught somewhere in your chest. You couldn’t speak—not yet. You weren’t sure if it’d come out steady if you tried.

Tim didn’t push. Just gave you a moment, then added, businesslike but not cold:

“I want you rested for tomorrow.”

You looked up, confused for a beat.

“Because I’m putting you behind the wheel for most of the shift,” he continued. “And I expect you to call the shots when it’s your turn.”

That made you blink. “Wait. Me? All day? You never let me drive—”

He gave a short nod, like the decision had already been made and he didn’t see the point in debating it.

“Best way to prove to yourself what I already know.” He got up, already facing toward the doorway, but his words lingered. “You can do this,” he said. “Even when your head says otherwise.”

Then he was gone—out the door and down the hall, leaving you in the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of his belief in you.

And for the first time all day, the paper in your hand didn’t feel so heavy.

The next morning started early—before the sun even had a chance to warm the streets of Los Angeles. A low fog lingered above the pavement, curling between squad cars in the lot like smoke that hadn’t cleared. You stood by your locker, already dressed, boots laced, vest snug. But your hands were trembling.

You could still feel yesterday in your bones.

That exam. The feedback. The way it made your stomach twist. And worst of all, the expression on Tim’s face when he told you “You passed”—firm, serious, but not the kind of praise you felt you deserved. He said you did well. Your brain told you he was just being nice. He wasn’t. He never was.

But logic and feelings never played fair.

You were zoning out again—thinking too hard—until a paper coffee cup appeared in your peripheral vision.

“Drink it,” Tim said, not waiting for a thanks as he walked past, heading for roll call.

You stared at the coffee for a second, then followed, hands finally steadying with the warmth of the cup in your grip.

The first call was routine—at first.

Dispute in a strip mall parking lot. You followed Tim’s lead, clipboard tucked under your arm as you approached the two arguing men. One was pacing, the other red-faced and shouting. You kept your tone calm, your posture open, repeating everything you’d been trained to do.

You were halfway through separating them when one of them threw a punch.

You didn’t freeze this time. Your reflexes were faster than your thoughts.

You ducked. Moved in. Grabbed his wrist, pivoted your body like you’d practiced in defensive tactics, and forced him back against the hood of a car, cuffing him with clean, practiced motions.

When it was over, your heart was pounding—but you weren’t spiraling.

You looked up and Tim was already watching you from across the lot, one hand on his belt, expression unreadable.

Back in the shop, after turning the guy over to another officer, Tim gave you a nod.

“Clean,” he said.

You blinked. “Clean?”

“Your takedown. No hesitation. No overcorrection.” He glanced over his shoulder at the commotion dying down. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re growing. You didn’t let your nerves get in the way of your instincts.”

Something about hearing it now, in the field, after doing it right—meant more than the score on your evaluation ever could.

You nodded slowly, your chest feeling lighter.

“Thanks, sir.”

Tim shrugged. “Don’t thank me. You’re the one who put in the work.”

The shift moved on. You responded to a stolen vehicle, a shoplifting call, and a welfare check. Each scene came with moments of doubt—split-second flashes of memory from your early weeks, moments you’d stumbled, fumbled, froze.

But you didn’t now.

You kept moving. You remembered Tim’s voice, his corrections, his dry sarcasm and steady calm.

And at every stop, he was just… there. Quietly guiding, standing just far enough to give you space, but close enough that if anything happened, he’d be in your corner in half a second flat.

It wasn’t until the last call—almost at end of shift—that the day gave you one final test.

A teenager had been reported missing, last seen leaving school.

You and Tim canvassed the area, checking alleyways and bus stops, when you spotted someone curled behind a dumpster. Thin frame, hoodie pulled low. You crouched, gentle voice easing the kid out, while your heart pounded in fear of what you might find.

She was okay. Scared, cold, but okay.

You offered her your jacket, spoke softly while you waited for her parents to arrive. Your words were careful, calm. Reassuring.

And Tim? He stood back and let you handle it.

You didn’t notice he was watching you like a hawk until it was all over.

Back in the shop, you slumped into the passenger seat, the door clicking shut behind you with a dull thunk. Your vest felt heavier than usual—like your body had only just remembered how tired it was now that the adrenaline was gone.

You rubbed your hands together, then dragged one down your face, the skin clammy with sweat and tension. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, like your lungs were still catching up from the last call.

Tim didn’t speak at first. Just adjusted the rearview mirror with a practiced hand, his movements calm, deliberate. The cruiser’s engine hummed under you, warm air filtering through the vents, soft against your chilled skin.

Then, without looking over, he said, “I remember when that would’ve wrecked you.”

His voice wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. Just matter-of-fact, grounded in something that felt like pride.

“When you would’ve stumbled over every sentence trying to talk to her.”

You let out a slow exhale, head tipping back against the seat. The hum of street noise outside dulled to a low murmur through the glass. “Yeah,” you said quietly.

You remembered too.

You remembered that first call with a DV victim—how your voice had caught in your throat, how your hands had trembled when you tried to take a statement, how you’d looked to Tim for backup not because the scene was dangerous, but because you didn’t trust yourself to get it right.

But today, it had been different. You’d moved with purpose. Spoken with clarity. You had looked her in the eyes and told her she wasn’t alone—and meant it. You’d navigated the entire scene without a single glance toward your T.O.

Tim didn’t say anything else. But his silence wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t the kind that made you second-guess yourself or fill the air with nervous chatter.

It was solid.

Like brick and mortar.

The silence of someone who had seen your worst days and never once backed away from them. The kind that said you did good, without needing to spell it out.

You turned your head slightly and caught his profile—jaw set, gaze steady on the windshield, one hand resting lightly on the gearshift. He didn’t look at you, but he didn’t need to.

It wasn’t just about passing the eval anymore.

It wasn’t even about the numbers on the report or the comments scribbled in the margins.

It was about every rough shift that came before this one. Every moment you thought you couldn’t keep up, every time you’d failed and come back anyway. It was about how you showed up today—not perfect, but prepared. Capable.

For the first time in a long time, you weren’t trying to convince anyone that you belonged.

You weren’t trying to convince him.

You were trying to convince yourself.

And in that quiet space between shift calls, in the warmth of the shop’s late afternoon light filtering through the windshield, something in you finally settled.

You believed it.

You belonged out here.

The precinct had thinned out by the time you returned. Most officers were already gone, the last rays of sun bleeding over the city like the world had exhaled a little. The bullpen was quiet, low-lit, with the hum of vending machines and distant radio chatter the only background noise.

You were at your locker, peeling off your vest, when Tim reappeared with two bottled waters and a couple of granola bars.

You stared at them, one brow arched. “This your version of a steak dinner?”

Tim leaned against the row of lockers beside you. “If you wanted a steak, you should’ve tackled a better suspect.”

A small, tired laugh left you before you could stop it. He cracked the faintest smile in return.

“Seriously though,” he said, tone dipping into something lower, more even, “you did good today.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Felt different. Like… I wasn’t constantly second-guessing every move.”

“That’s because you weren’t,” Tim said. “That wasn’t luck out there. That was training. Control. You let your instincts kick in because you trusted yourself.”

You looked down at your hands, flexed them once. “I think… part of me still doesn’t believe I passed.”

Tim’s voice was quiet but firm. “Then believe me.”

You looked at him.

He nodded once. “You’ve come farther than you realize. And I’m not gonna let you burn yourself out chasing some imaginary finish line.”

You blinked hard. “You really suck at pep talks.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, crossing his arms again, “you suck at eating lunch without being told.”

You smiled, warm and lopsided. “Touché.”

Tim reached out and ruffled your hair—not playfully, but with a certain worn fondness. Like someone used to watching over something fragile until it found its strength.

“Go home,” he said. “Get some rest. You earned it.”

You hesitated for a second. Then, softer: “Thanks, sir.”

He gave a single nod, eyes steady. “Anytime, Kid.”

And as you stepped out into the fading sun, boots heavy from the day but heart a little lighter, you realized something important:

You weren’t just surviving out here anymore.

You were growing.

And Tim had seen it before you ever could.

Taglist: @its-ares @nevereclipse @chezze-its @mcckunty @graciereads @gublerstylesobrien1238

#platonic #the rookie #fluff #found family #oneshot #tim bradford #tim bradford x reader #angst

236 notes · View notes

godmadeaterribleerror · 7 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 - The Same Way I Think of You

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, fluff, mutual pining, lightest smut, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: Dean tries to adjust the betterlust, and you get worried. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: Sam you are God's strongest solider.

Title from Bang the Doldrums by Fall Out Boy

Word Count: 5.3k

Read on A03!

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

It only took two days to find a pattern and routine that the betterlust liked.

Dean had started simple. Lock himself in the garage, blast music loud enough to drown out any other craving in his body—cravings to touch soft skin with scars he’d recognize anywhere, cravings for a voice that haunted his dreams and screamed in his nightmares—and slink back to his room in the dead of night, when She and Sam were already asleep. It was shockingly easy to avoid Her, and Dean owed it all to how much of a pathetic, lovesick fucking animal he was. He already knew Her whole schedule—when she woke up, when she ate, what she usually did all day, and when she went to bed—because he used to plan his own time around it. Not exactly, couldn’t have her catching on, but close enough to easily find himself in the kitchen right when she was eating, or get up an hour before her to put on coffee for them both, or accidentally wander into the war room when she was doing research.

Which means that, now, he had all the tools he needed to do the exact opposite. To never see Her pretty face, because if he did Dean was certain the betterlust would knock him to his knees. Dean could go to the bathroom when she was probably busy with something else, grab supplies when she was almost certainly asleep, sneak around the kitchen when he knew She’d wouldn’t be there, and never get close to putting Her in danger. He’d make himself waffles or burgers, or take a piece of pie from the fridge—She or Sam must be stocking it with the expensive shit, because the pie always tasted damn near homemade—then slink back to the garage and lock the door behind him.

He’d considered moving his mattress in here, or simply sleeping in Baby, but the betterlust had hated that. It had insisted on his bed. On the one bed Dean had ever been allowed to call his, and not a flea-ridden motel’s. The bed that got to be in his room. Dean’s room, and no one else’s. Not Sam’s, or his Dad’s, or another nameless body who passed through it in the night. Just Dean’s.

And maybe one other person’s, if She’d wanted that.

And She wouldn’t.

So it stayed just Dean’s, which was good enough for the betterlust, and he’d catch his mandatory three to four hours before running back to the garage at the crack of dawn.

He lived a whole week like this. Working on Baby, and eating pie, and sleeping. When the betterlust started to push cravings for affection to the surface, he’d shove them back down his throat and spine with an extra burger or quick drive.

He had a handle on this. He wasn’t all that happy, but Dean wasn’t supposed to be happy. He was content, and not all that angry at anyone but himself, so that had to count for something. He wasn’t being a problem, or a poison, and damn it, eventually the betterlust had to get the memo that the one thing it wanted most wasn’t on the menu, and that craving would fade. Dean would be able to go back to Her and Sam, and tell them he felt good.

Sam would give him look of doubt, and She’d have a pretty, worried frown on her face as she asked are you sure?

Feel pretty sure. Dean would throw her a wide grin, and gesture to himself like he was a prize for Her to win. He could be, but that wasn’t the point. Don’t I look it, Sweetheart?

Her eyes would widen in that adorable way that happened every time Dean tried to flirt with her. The way that would spark his heart into a higher gear and make his lips ache to be pressed against Her’s, all while reminding him that She was still too good for him, and still wasn’t comfortable with that part of Dean—because who would be when they’d seen the rest of him—so he couldn’t have Her.

Sam would look Dean over with a cautious gaze as he said are you sure, Dean? Because if this didn’t work, I can call Rowena-

I’m good, Sammy. Dean would wave him off, and end the argument right there with no bloodlust, only the betterlust.

She’d nod, on Dean’s side. It was always pretty awesome when She was on Dean’s side, because she’d give Sam a look that said push me on this and I’ll shave your head, and that would be it. She’d make a soft half-joking, half worried check in of on a scale of literal hell to watching Scooby-Do in the Dean cave with pie, how good are we talking?

He’d wink, and say solid kid in a candy shop, but I could get up to Scooby-Do and pie if I had company.

And he’d grab the pie and popcorn, and She’d start the TV, and Dean would have it all under control.

He didn’t have it right now, but he would. Right now he could indulge in the fantasy of Her body pressed up to his—in a very boring and platonic way—and Her arm reaching over his body to grab the popcorn. Dean could think about their legs accidentally tangling together, or Her falling asleep on his shoulder, or kissing her brow before carrying Her to their room-

Her room. Dean would have to carry Her to Her room. Not his, and definitely not theirs. And apparently he couldn’t even get lost in the daydream, because now his head was pounding and his skin was trying to crawl off his body to find Her and touch her.

He just needed to keep pushing, until the betterlust understood. Just Scooby-Do and pie—alone in the garage—would have to be enough.

It’s around noon, which means Sam’s probably doing something smart in the library, and She’s in the library annoying Sam. Dean misses watching this part of their normal routine, because Dean gets to see Her grin and laugh, and Sam always makes one of his bitch faces, but doesn’t shut Her up because they all know he’s secretly enjoying Her describing—in pointless depth—the plot of some random tv show. Either that, or Sam can always see what he calls Dean’s Puppy-love Face, and knows how quick it will turn into a scowl and grumble if he makes Her go away.

Dean knows it’s probably the second thing. His brother’s stupid matchmaker bullshit at its height, because after She leaves Dean always gets a pointed look and jerk of Sam’s head to go follow Her and confess, which will never happen.

But Dean also knows that Sam doesn’t bring his laptop into the library this time of the day, because he made that mistake once and She spent the whole time asking them questions to find out what type of movie they were.

She was an art film—which made sense to Dean, because She was interesting and beautiful and he didn’t really understand Her at all—and Dean was a low budget 70s sci-fi. He’d hated that answer, and told her to he needed to take it again. She’d said she liked that answer. She said Dean was resourceful, and did a truly amazing job with his limited options, and was always reliable. That she could watch low budget sci-fi over and over and never get sick of it.

Suddenly Dean had been pleased with his answer, and decided that the quiz had been absolutely correct. The quiz had said Sam was a vampire romance novel adaptation, so its accuracy was probably questionable, but it didn’t really matter, because She’d smiled at Dean in that moment. She’d smiled, then Sam had declared he’d never let her near his laptop again, so now that very same laptop was going to be in Sam’s room. And they were going to be in the library.

And Dean was going to watch Scooby-Do and eat pie, all by himself.

He doesn’t have to worry about going into the bunker from the garage, because they shouldn’t actually be there yet. Sam should be in the kitchen, making rabbit food for his nerd session, and She should be in her room doing… Whatever she did in Her room. Dean doesn’t allow himself to think about her room at all, ever, so now wasn’t the time to start. It would just spiral into questions of What does she have in her room? Are there small pieces of Her Dean would get to hold in his hands on her dresser? Does she keep Her clothing in her dresser, or scatter it across the floor? Would there be enough space for Dean’s clothing in her room? She never sleeps in the same position in a motel, because She thinks she needs to always be facing the door, so how does she sleep when she’s safe? On her stomach? On her back? Is Her bed soft? Do her pillows smell like cherries from that fruity girl shampoo she uses? Do her sheets smell like shea butter, because she uses that shit like it’s a religion? Would Dean be able to get Her sheets to smell like him? Would he be able to get Her whole room to smell like him? Be filled with him, fill Her with him-

Fuck. He needed to get his head in the game, because he’s frozen in the hallway, and she could walk out of Her room at any minute. It’s far enough away from Sam’s that she won’t hear Dean opening and closing the door, but that had been close. Too close. This was the exact goddamn reason Dean couldn’t trust himself around Her, because then his whole existence would devolve into those types of questions, and he’d never get a single thing done. Dean was barely functional around Her in the first place, and with the betterlust in the equation, he’d never have enough control to pull himself out of What was she doing in Her room? Was she getting changed? Was she naked, only five doors away? What did Her underwear look like? Dean had seen Her bras before, patching her up after a hunt, but he’d never seen her underwear. That was probably the right call from everyone, though, because Dean could not be trusted around Her underwear. Hell, he couldn’t stop thinking about if it was lacy, or red, and how wet it would get if he touched Her, but most importantly, was it made of a rip-able materiel-

“Dean.”

Dean felt like his skin was flying off his body as he turned, grabbing his gun and aiming it at whatever the hell was in Sam’s room-

“Dude, calm down, it’s me!” Sam’s hands were in the air, his face pale as he looked over Dean’s rigid stance. “Shit, you’re not, you’re still you, right-“

“Of course I’m still me.” Dean lowered his arms, and shot Sam a glare. “I’m not gonna just become a demon overnight, Sammy-“

“Sorry, I know, it’s just.” Sam let out a long breath, shaking his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Dean muttered, even though something vile was crawling around inside his gut. “Just reacted, didn’t mean to, uh.” He swallowed, and the crawling thing began to twist. “Do that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sam shrugged, shuffling out of the shadows at the edge of his room. “I should’ve probably known better. I mean, I’d do the same thing.”

Sam wouldn’t do the same thing. Sam would’ve recognized Dean’s voice immediately, because Sam wasn’t a creep who’d be thinking about their best friend’s underwear. But Dean let out a dry, empty chuckle anyway, and took a half step to the door.

“Cool. I’m just gonna, uh, waffles-“

Sam’s eyes narrowed, and the asshole moved to block Dean’s path to freedom. “It’s noon.”

“So? Last I checked, we’re adults. I can eat waffles whenever the hell I want-“

“But you don’t. You always eat waffles for breakfast.”

Dean waved him off, pushing down how the betterlust was suddenly pounding at his stomach for waffles. “Whatever, it’s not like you always, I dunno, stand in dark corners and sneak up on unsuspecting people-“

“This is my room.” Sam crossed his arms, and didn’t waver. “I can do whatever I want in here. Which brings me to the question, why are you in my room, Dean?”

“I,” Dean looked around the room, trying to keep his face neutral as he frantically searched for a good excuse. “Books.”

Sam raised his brows. “Books.”

“Yeah, I’m bored.” Dean held Sam’s skeptical glare, giving his most casual shrug. “Gonna pick up reading-“

“Dude.” Sam gave him a flat look. “That’s gotta be one of your worst lies ever. And we lie a lot.”

“Shut up, I could read a book-“

“Not when you’re currently under a curse that makes you only want to do things you like. You have your own books, Dean, if you wanted to read, you’d use them.”

“Fine.” Dean sighed. “I was looking for a pillow-“

“We have plenty of pillows that aren’t in my room. Try again.”

“I needed a chair-“

“No you-“ Sam cut himself off with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Why are you being such a dick about this. We don’t see you for like, a week, and then I catch you sneaking around my room?” Sam said Her name, and Dean’s heart faltered in his chest. “She’s really worried about you, Dean, and I need to be able to tell her we talked and that you’re fine. But I can’t do that if you’re going to be so,” Sam gestured at Dean, shaking his head with another noise of exasperation. “Weird.”

Dean couldn’t speak. Sam was looking at him like he expected a response, but Dean couldn’t do anything but remain rooted in place, trying to fight the feeling in his chest and head—rotten and aching and rolling around in a sound of you’re fucking sick, Dean Winchester, you made Her worry about you while you were thinking about her bed and how she smells and her underwear—as the betterlust rioted inside his body. Trying to infect Dean’s last bit of will, override every smart and rational part of his brain that knew he wasn’t allowed to have Her, and force him down the hall. To Her room, to the kitchen, to the library, to wherever the hell She was so Dean could hold her and kiss Her and tell her to never worry about him, because now Dean was touching her, so everything felt good again.

It was intolerable. Every single nerve in Dean’s body felt like it was going to explode if he didn’t get close to Her, if he didn’t hear her voice or see her face. And this was just from the thought of Her, from Sam only saying Her name. Dean wasn’t sure how the hell he’d get through this, not when he really couldn’t have Her. He needed to get out of here, to lock himself away with every other thing that fed the betterlust until he got a dam grip over his own body and stopped feeling like death-

“Dean.” Sam was half shouting, his face drawn in worry as Dean forced himself back to focus. “What the hell is going on with you-“

“I can’t,” Dean raised his hand, shoving the betterlust deep, deep down into a locked chamber near his heart, and forcing careful, slow words onto his tongue with a long, slow breath. “I can’t tell you-“

“You’re freaking me out, man-“

“Because I don’t know!” Dean barked, running a hand over his face in an attempt to wipe off every bit of odd, stinging heat on his brow. “I mean, I do know, but I can’t explain it, Sam. The spell worked, but I don’t, maybe it worked too fucking well. I can’t, I don’t know how to get a goddamn grip over it-“

“You’re not supposed to have a grip over it,” Sam said, his voice suddenly gentle and still coated in stupid, pointless worry. “It’s still the Mark, Dean, it’s just refocused-“

“Well, it’s refocused on the wrong fucking thing! I want, I want something I’ve never even had, so I need your laptop to give it something I can give it-“

“Dean, whatever you need, I’m sure we can find it-“

“The laptop.” He snapped. “It’ll fix this.”

“That’s…” Sam paused, frowning. “That’s not what you want though, right? It’s not the, um, craving?” Sam said Her name, and something hot punched Dean in the gut. “I think she said we’re calling them cravings-“

“Yeah. She did. We talked about it.” Dean had to keep his words short, or he’d start vomiting out things he wasn’t allowed to say. “And what the betterlust wants, I can’t give it. No one can. So,” he nodded to Sam’s laptop, resting on his bed. “If you want to help, let me take your stupid laptop.”

Sam didn’t move, his frown only deepening. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to deny the, uh, the betterlust something it wants-“

“What the hell am I supposed to do about that? I told you, I can’t have it-“

Sam said Her name, and the betterlust clouded over Dean’s skull.

“Sam, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re saying-“

“It’s just us.” Sam sighed, moving to his bed. “You don’t have to lie.”

Dean fists clenched, something tightening around his throat as he watched Sam unplug his laptop. “Shut up-“

“Dean.” Sam gave him one of the most exhausted, flat, annoying looks Dean had ever seen on his brother’s face. “C’mon, man. Just, for five minutes, pretend we’re like, emotionally healthy and trust each other. It’s her.” Sam said Her name again, and he needed to stop fucking doing that or Dean might actually die, the words begging to fall out of his mouth like an exhale or vomit.

“Fuck I, I can’t control it, Sammy. And it’s dangerous. For myself, for,” he swallowed, muttering Her name. “And if you’re about to give me one of those lectures about feelings, I am not in the damn mood-“

Sam turned around, and pushed the laptop into Dean’s hands. “I’m not going to lecture you. You know what I think, and I know you’re going to be a stubborn idiot and not listen to me when I tell you that it really wouldn’t be that bad-“

“This is sure startin’ to sound like a lecture-“

“But,” Sam gave him a stern glare, and it was times like these Dean hated that the man was so fucking tall. “I don’t think now is the time to work on it. I’ll tell her you’re fine, you’ll get a handle on the betterlust, and we’ll figure this out, because that’s what we do. Just,” Sam kept his grip tight on his laptop, frowning down at Dean’s outstretched hands. “Don’t do anything gross with it.”

Dean rolled his eyes, yanking the laptop into his arms. “I’m not gonna be gross-“

“Uh huh.” Sam gave him a flat look, bracing his hands on his hips. “If I get that back only to find a bunch of porn-“

“Then you’ll thank me for showing you the only pair of boobs you’ll ever see- Hey!” Dean dodged Sam’s hand, reaching out to grab the laptop. “This was a gift, man, you don’t get to take it back-“

“It was not a gift, it was a loan. And I’m serious, I don’t want to have to wipe that thing because you downloaded a million hentai videos with viruses-“

“Don’t worry, Sammy.” Dean took a large step back, placing his hand on the door, pausing to make sure She wasn’t outside, and pushing it open. “Your computer is in safe, very chaste hands. I’m a downright angel. A saint, some would call me.”

“I cannot think of one person who would call you a saint, Dean- Dean-“

He’d taken off, half running down the hall to return to the safety of the garage, and Sam’s voice—calling after him—sounded more annoyed than angry. Like he knew he was fighting a war he’d already lost.

“No porn!”

—————————

Sam says Dean is fine. That they’d talked, no murder had happened, and Dean was weird but in a normal, Dean way. That the betterlust has done its job, and he’s not avoiding you, but just busy. That the betterlust has given him a wave of energy, so he’s using it to get things done.

But here’s the thing about living with the Winchesters. At first they’re unreadable—just two brooding, hot men who seem to speak in almost exclusively grunts and strange looks—but then you figure out how to pull one brick from the wall, and the whole thing comes toppling down. You know everything about them, and they don’t think you know everything about them, and everyone is happy pretending that they’re still mysterious and mythical to you.

They’re not.

They’re unbelievably predictable.

Dean has a routine of work he does on Baby—he’d explained the cycle to you once, and you hadn’t followed a word of it, but his hands kept moving and he looked so pretty and his voice was so deep, so who can blame you—and a seemingly chaotic daily agenda that took you about a week to figure out. It’s—even in the bunker—the pattern of someone who lives on the road. He does laundry at midnight because there will be less people, even though the only other options for people are you and Sam. He eats lunch around 11am, because that’s when diners start serving lunch. He goes to the bathroom early in the morning, because he’s getting ready for a long drive he doesn’t have to take.

And you could make the argument that you know Dean so well because of the whole being hopelessly in love with him thing, but Sam’s no better. If you know Dean like the back of your dominant hand, you know Sam like the back of your non-dominant one. You could pick Dean out of a crowd anywhere—because some very, very annoying part of your brain is always searching for him—but you wouldn’t need to pick Sam out of a crowd. You’d just have to cup your hands over your mouth, shout something stupid, and he’d appear behind you to tell I don’t think that’s true. You could follow Dean around like a puppy for the rest of your life, but Sam would be right at your side, bitching and moaning about you not just telling Dean how you feel.

You won’t. You’ll keep looking Dean in the eyes after he comes back from another hookup, laugh at his jokes, and pretend you’re not dying. Not being stabbed right through your chest when he smiles at you, because he’s bragging to Sam about things you want to experience but never want to hear about. Pretending your skin doesn’t grow warm and electric when he brushes his hand against yours on accident, that it doesn’t make your lungs swell with an overdose of air and your brain turn to an intoxicating hum of Dean.

And Sam will keep looking at you with raised brows and a pointed expression, and tell you that Dean will realize eventually so you should just get it over with now.

And you’ll keep glaring at him and remind Sam that he only knows because you explicitly told him. That, unless you tell Dean, he’s never going to have a clue because you’re a fantastic liar. Both the brothers seem to forget that, while they know you, they still don’t really know how to read you.

But you can read them. You know Dean’s every tone, and Sam’s every expression, and their every habit and quirk and pattern.

And Dean’s never busy.

And Sam is fucking lying to you.

You don’t know why he’s lying to you, because Dean’s welfare isn’t something Sam lies to you about. Sam lies to you about his own relationships, or his mental stability, or about doing the dishes, but he doesn’t lie to you about Dean. He’s never looked at your nose—which he only does when he lies—and said Dean's good.

He’s never used that too gruff, bland, painfully rehearsed tone that screams liar to you when he’s talking about Dean. He doesn’t know you’ll immediately figure out that he’s lying, but that just means the lie is more thought out. That he’s practiced the lie, and thinks you won’t catch on.

Sam’s lying about Dean, and you can’t tell him you know he’s lying, and you’re really, really worried. Because Sam says the betterlust is under control, but you haven’t seen Dean for a week. Sam says he’s working on Baby, but you’re pretty sure Dean’s cycle is at its slowest point. Sam says Dean’s just busy, but that man doesn’t get busy unless you’re on a hunt. He lounges around, bothers Sam with you, watches TV with you, eats dinner with you, drinks with you, and talks to you until you’re both a little buzzed and stupid.

But Dean’s not talking to you. You haven’t been in the same room as him since you got back to the bunker, and Sam suddenly seems intent on fucking keeping it that way.

“I,” you glance up at the door to the garage, holding your knees to your chest. “I think I’m just going to go talk to him. See if he needs anything-“

“No!” Sam half leaps to block your path, and you’re not even fully out of the chair. “I mean, uh, it’s okay. He’s fine. Don’t worry about him.”

“But-“

“Do you want to hang out? While I work?”

That makes you certain Sam is lying. Sam’s never exactly enthusiastic about your habit of bugging him while he works, even if he knows it’s just your excuse to either talk to Dean or talk about Dean.

If Sam’s an onlooker to you staring at and weakly flirting with Dean, it ends with him telling you to confess, you flipping him off, and Sam muttering that he wishes you guys would at least be dramatic in the kitchen instead.

If Sam’s a captive audience to you moaning about how much you love Dean, it ends with him making a sour face and telling you that you should make some friends who Dean isn’t related to.

And you always tell him that, if Sam wants you to fuck off, he should say that. And he never does, so you’re there every time, and Sam is mock annoyed every time.

Which is why he never asks you to hang out. You hang out no matter what, and you’re pretty sure Sam secretly prays for the day you forget to flop into the chair across from his, singing a pop song off-key until he rolls his eyes and indulges you.

Sam should not be already indulging you already. You hadn’t even started singing yet.

And that’s exactly why you sit back down. Whatever Sam is up to, whatever’s wrong with Dean, is serious enough for Sam to blatantly lie and throw himself in harm’s way—listening to you talk about Dean for two hours straight—to keep you from knowing.

But you don’t let it go. You pretend you’ve let it go, and Sam buys it, but for the rest of the day your mind is in the garage with Dean, trying to figure out what he needs. If the spell failed, and the bloodlust is back. If the spell worked, but too well, and now Dean doesn’t want to do anything but what he loves, which doesn’t include talking to you or, apparently, Sam. If Rowena taking your hair fucked it all up, and now Dean is trapped doing things he doesn’t love. If he’s in pain, or tired, or angry. And, most of all, why wouldn’t he want you to know. Dean tells you everything, and whatever it is, you’ve seen him do worse and still emerged from the other side in love with him.

Maybe he’d be more willing to listen if you tell him you love him. That he doesn’t trust you and it’s breaking your heart because you love him, and whatever it is, you want to help. You always want to help. Dean could be pushing his guts up his throat, and you’d still want to help. Because you love him.

He wouldn’t believe you. Half the reason you’ve never told Dean you love him is because you’re certain he won’t believe you, then tell you he doesn’t want your pity, then push you away. And you’d lose him forever, because you’d leave and he won’t love you enough to try and bring you back.

But you have to know what’s wrong. It’s eating at your intestines and ribs, because Sam and Dean are hiding something and they don’t trust you with it and Dean’s in pain and you can’t understand why.

You need to look Dean in the eyes and either hear him lie to you—just like Sam, but with a likely devastating impact on your organs and bones—so you know that he really, truly won’t tell you, or watch him decide that he can trust you with whatever’s hurting him and let you help.

It would be easy to do if the asshole wasn’t so obviously avoiding you. If you hadn’t heard him sneaking around the halls like he wasn’t supposed to be there, if he wasn’t suddenly never in your path throughout the day when he’d been previously a key factor of your every moment. He’s hiding, and you don’t have a single clue how to confront him when Sam is acting like going near the garage will give you Herpes.

You know Dean’s sleeping in his room—you can hear him snore through the walls, and when you grab his laundry the pile has grown—but you’re not brave enough to walk into his room and confront him. You don’t think you could live with yourself if he felt violated by that, and even if he didn’t there’s a pretty strong chance just the sight of a sleeping Dean Winchester would make you fall to your knees and forget how to speak.

You haven’t seen him in the Dean Cave once, which is incredibly disturbing, and takes ambushing him while he’s relaxed and two beers into a movie is off the table.

You could get him in the kitchen. You haven’t seen him eating—you haven’t seen him at all—but the pies you’ve been making for him can’t just be disappearing overnight. And there’s still a little too much coffee in the morning—just enough for you to pour into your mug and wonder if this is what Dean would taste like if you kissed him —but it’s colder, which means he’s making it earlier.

But he’s making it.

So if you can time it right, you can stake out the kitchen and get Dean to talk to you. Even if it doesn’t end up answering your questions, at least Dean will have talked to you.

Because that’s really what you’ve missed the most. Through the months without Dean, the time where Dean wasn’t really Dean, and all the bloodlust, you’ve really just missed him talking to you. In an easy, natural way that always made you fall in love with him a little more, and made you more certain in your choice to never, ever tell him. You won’t lose him.

But you seem to already have.

So, nothing bad can really come of chasing just a few more words from Dean.

End Note: The Eric Kripke curse got me, and I had to add another chapter. Dear fan fiction and writing gods, please let this end in five chapters. I've learned my lesson and will never try to estiamte the length of anything again. Amen.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @spacecowgirl126 @globetrotter28 @aylacavebear @lovewolfspirit

@lordofthunderthr @nightxcreature @underground-secrets

355 notes · View notes