#taskmaster x reader

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your childhood was abusive, which caused you to have PTSD and your lover helps you through it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Please read with caution ♡

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter had always been perceptive, but he knew better than anyone how wounds could be hidden beneath easy smiles. He saw it in the way your body tensed at raised voices, how your fingers curled too tightly into the fabric of your sleeves when a door slammed too hard. He never pressed, never pried. He just let you be, offering his presence as a quiet, unwavering shelter.

- The first time he saw you flinch—really flinch—was when he’d accidentally knocked a stack of books off his desk. The sound had sent you back to something far away, something dark. He saw it in the way your breath hitched, in the glassy sheen of your eyes. And without a word, Peter had just… sat down. Cross-legged on the floor, keeping his movements slow, his voice soft as he said, "You’re safe. Right here, right now—you’re safe."

- Patience was something Peter knew intimately, and he carried it into every touch, every kiss, every moment spent tangled in the sanctuary of his arms. He never reached for you without warning, never raised his voice in anger. The world could be loud, but Peter? Peter was a whisper, a steady heartbeat against your ear, a warm presence always willing to meet you where you needed him.

- And God help anyone who reminded you of your past. The first time someone tried to tear into your scars with cruel words, Peter had them webbed to a streetlamp before they could blink. "People like you? You’re nothing," he said, voice calm but cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth he always gave you. Because Peter would take any punch for you—but he would never let anyone hurt you again.

- At night, when nightmares curled around your throat like smoke, he would hold you through it. His lips would press against your forehead, murmuring soft reassurances, his fingers tracing absent patterns into your skin. "You don’t have to be strong right now," he would whisper. "I’ve got you. I’ll always have you."

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony had seen trauma in every shape and shade, had felt it crawl beneath his own skin like a second heartbeat. But the first time he saw it in you, it wrecked him. The way you shrank at a raised voice, the way your entire body locked up at the sound of breaking glass. The realization hit him like a freight train—you hadn’t just survived something terrible. You had lived in it.

- He changed after that. Subtly, at first. No more slamming doors, no more snapping at employees. His hands stopped hovering near yours and instead waited, patient and steady, for you to reach first. His voice was softer around you, his movements slower. He was a storm everywhere else—but with you? He was the calm.

- But the world wasn’t always gentle, and Tony Stark was not a man who forgave cruelty. When someone thought it was funny to push your limits, to test your reactions, Tony didn’t even raise his voice. He just smiled—sharp, cold, terrifying. The next day, that person lost everything. Their job. Their reputation. Their place in the world. "No one touches what’s mine," he told you later, brushing a hand through your hair. "No one."

- Tony had never been one for sleep, but after learning the weight of your nightmares, he never left you alone in the dark. His arms became your haven, his heartbeat a rhythm you could anchor yourself to. And when you couldn’t speak, when the memories were too thick, he would simply pull you close and say, "It’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Just breathe with me."

- You weren’t broken. He never saw you that way. You were a masterpiece with fractures, and Tony—Tony had always loved things that had lived, things that had survived. He traced his fingers over your scars like they were constellations, pressing kisses to the places that once held pain, as if rewriting history with every touch. "They don’t own you anymore," he murmured one night, lips against your temple. "Only you do. Only you ever will."

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve was gentle by nature, but after he learned the truth—after he saw the weight you carried—he became something else entirely. He became careful. Every touch was preceded by a quiet "May I?", every movement slowed until he was sure you felt safe. The world had been unkind to you, but Steve Rogers would never be.

- The first time you flinched at his raised voice, he looked wrecked. He had only been arguing with Sam, nothing serious—but when he turned and saw the way your shoulders curled inward, the way your breath stuttered—his heart broke. That night, he held you without a word, just pressing soft kisses to your hair, silently promising to never let his anger touch you.

- He carried your pain like it was his own. When he saw bruises on others, when he heard whispers of children suffering at the hands of those meant to protect them—he acted. His fists never wavered when thrown in the name of justice, but when it came to you, his hands were only ever soft.

- Steve had always been a shield before a sword, and with you, that never changed. He positioned himself between you and the world’s cruelty, standing firm against anything—or anyone—who thought they had the right to hurt you. "No more," he told you one evening, his blue eyes burning with something fierce, something unyielding. "No one will ever lay a hand on you again. Not while I’m here."

- He became your home. Not just in the way he held you, but in the way he stayed. When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when you couldn’t find the words for what hurt, Steve was simply there. His hands traced slow, soothing circles into your back, his voice a steady hum of comfort. "You’re not alone," he whispered against your skin. "You’ll never be alone again."

Thor

- Thor had never known restraint. He loved fully, existed loudly, and wielded his presence like the storm that bore him. But the first time he saw you recoil, saw the way shadows swallowed the light in your eyes at the wrong tone, the wrong movement—he stilled. For you, he would quiet the thunder.

- He learned to approach you with care, to temper his strength into something softer. "You are safe, my love," he told you often, his voice as steady as the earth beneath your feet. When others forgot, when the world was careless, Thor remembered. Every sharp sound was met with his immediate presence, his hands warm and grounding against yours.

- But the storm did not vanish—it was merely redirected. The first time someone sneered at your trauma, dismissed the things you had suffered, lightning cracked the sky. Thor did not raise his voice—he did not need to. He simply looked at them, eyes dark with a promise of wrath, and they crumbled. "You will speak no more," he commanded, and the heavens listened.

- At night, when the weight of the past crept in, Thor would wrap himself around you like an unshakable fortress. His fingers traced the curve of your spine, his lips pressing warmth into your hair. "Breathe with me, beloved," he would murmur, his heartbeat steady and unyielding against your own. "Feel the steadiness of my soul, the certainty of my love. You are here, in my arms, and I shall never let harm befall you again."

- Thor did not see you as fragile—he saw you as enduring. He did not mourn your scars, did not pity your past. Instead, he celebrated you, worshipped the strength it took to survive. "You are mighty," he whispered one night, pressing a reverent kiss to your palm. "Mightier than even I. And I shall spend every day proving to you that you are worthy of love."

Loki

- Loki was not a man who shied away from darkness. He had lived in its embrace, had let it carve itself into his soul, twisting and shifting until it was impossible to tell where the wounds ended and where he began. So when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your breath hitched when hands moved too fast, he did not ask questions. He simply understood.

- He moved differently around you—not out of pity, but out of respect. His steps were quieter, his gestures slower, his voice a low, soothing thing instead of the sharp-edged blade it usually was. He never forced you to speak of your past, never pressed when he saw the weight in your eyes. He simply let you be, allowing you to come to him when you were ready.

- But Loki was still Loki, and he was vengeful in the way he loved you. He kept a careful tally of those who mistreated you, of those who so much as sneered at the pain you had endured. And when the moment was right, when their own sins came to collect, he ensured they suffered. He never told you, never admitted the reason for his sudden, pleased smirks—but the air always smelled of satisfaction after your ghosts disappeared.

- When nightmares curled their fingers around your throat, when sleep was stolen by memories of cruelty, he was there. He would whisper to you in languages older than time, his voice an anchor in the storm. And when you couldn’t bear to be held, he would simply sit beside you, a silent sentinel against the ghosts that dared haunt you.

- "They will never touch you again," he told you once, fingers tracing slow patterns along your wrist. "You belong to no one. No gods, no mortals, no past. You are yours, and I will burn the world before I let them steal even a whisper of you."

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint had never been one for loud spaces, had never been the type to fill silences just to hear himself speak. He noticed things—the way you tensed when voices rose, the way your hands clenched when something moved too fast, too sudden. He saw it all, but he never made you feel watched. Instead, he made sure you felt safe.

- He adapted without hesitation. Doors never slammed, footsteps never came without warning. When arguments brewed, he kept his voice steady, calm, even when frustration burned in his chest. He knew what it was like to grow up under a heavy hand, to flinch before the pain even came. And if he could make sure you never felt that way around him, he would.

- But God help anyone who reminded you of your past. Clint might not have been as openly vengeful as others, but he had his own ways of handling things. A carefully placed arrow, a reputation ruined in the right circles—silent, subtle, but effective. And when he returned home, when he climbed into bed beside you, he never told you what he had done. He just pulled you close, letting you rest against the steady rhythm of his heart.

- The first time he caught you in the grips of a panic attack, he didn’t speak. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to force you into comfort. He simply sat with you, close enough that you knew you weren’t alone, but never too close, never pushing. And when your breathing finally steadied, when the world no longer felt like it was closing in, he simply murmured, "Atta girl. I knew you’d find your way back."

- Clint wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with grand declarations—but in every action, in every careful movement, he told you what you meant to him. And when you doubted yourself, when the past clawed its way to the surface, he would only shake his head, lean in, and press a kiss to your temple. "You’re tougher than all of them," he’d whisper. "And I’ve got your back. Always."

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha recognized the signs before you even knew she had noticed. The way you stiffened at the wrong tone, the way your body seemed to shrink in on itself at sudden movements. She had lived it—had felt it in every sharp order, every bruising lesson drilled into her bones. She didn’t need to ask. She just knew.

- She adjusted without hesitation. She never moved too quickly around you, never raised her voice when emotions ran high. If she was angry, she stepped away. If you were overwhelmed, she gave you space—but never too much. Just enough to breathe, just enough to know she was still there, waiting, steady.

- But when it came to those who had hurt you—those who had carved fear into your very skin—Natasha was not merciful. She did not believe in forgiveness, not for them. She was quiet in her vengeance, unseen and unknown, but when she returned, when she curled up beside you at night, there was a peace in her that hadn’t been there before. A satisfaction that told you she had made sure they would never haunt you again.

- She never pushed you to talk, never forced you to relive what had already scarred you. But when you were ready, when the words finally slipped from your lips in a trembling whisper, she listened. And when the silence stretched between you, heavy and raw, she simply reached out, tracing slow, deliberate circles against your wrist. "They don’t get to win," she said, voice steady. "You do. You already have."

- Natasha wasn’t one for flowery words or grand gestures, but she made sure you knew. Knew that you were safe, that you were hers, and that nothing—nothing—would ever touch you again. And in the quiet moments, when the past felt like a weight you couldn’t escape, she would press a kiss to your shoulder and whisper, "No one owns you anymore. No one ever will."

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knew trauma. Knew it like the back of his hand, like the weight of a metal limb that wasn’t his to choose. He saw it in you, saw the way your body locked up at the wrong sounds, the wrong movements. And he didn’t just understand it—he felt it. Deep in his bones, in the echoes of his own past.

- He was careful with you in a way he hadn’t been with anyone else. His movements were always slow, deliberate. He never reached for you unless you reached first. Never raised his voice, never let frustration color his tone when he knew it would hurt more than help. He knew how it felt to be afraid of something you couldn’t control, and he would be damned if he ever became one of those things for you.

- But Bucky was not a forgiving man when it came to those who had made you this way. He didn’t rage, didn’t storm—he simply acted. No words, no threats, just quiet, methodical destruction. And when he came back, when he curled his body around yours at night, he never told you what he had done. He just kissed your hair and whispered, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- When you woke up gasping from nightmares, when panic had its claws around your throat, Bucky didn’t try to fix it. He just stayed. He let you grip his shirt, let you shake in his arms until the storm passed. And when words finally found you, when you whispered apologies into his chest, he only shook his head and murmured, "You don’t have to say sorry. Not to me. Never to me."

- Bucky didn’t promise that the past wouldn’t hurt anymore—he knew better than that. But he did promise that you wouldn’t have to face it alone. That you would never be trapped in it again. And when the memories threatened to drown you, when the fear clawed its way back, he would hold you tighter and remind you, "You survived them. You beat them. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure they never touch you again."

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matthew was a man who carried his own ghosts. He understood pain, not just in theory but in the way it etched itself into bones, the way it lingered in the spaces between breaths. He didn’t need to see your wounds to know they were there—he could hear them in the tremor of your voice, feel them in the way your heartbeat stuttered when voices were raised. He never asked. He simply knew.

- He adjusted to you the way he adjusted to the city—effortlessly, instinctively. His movements became softer, more deliberate. He never reached for you without warning, never let his own temper boil over into something you might mistake for danger. Even when he was furious—when justice burned in his chest like a second heartbeat—he kept his voice steady, kept his presence calm. He refused to let anything make you feel unsafe.

- But Matt was not a man who tolerated cruelty. He had seen too much of it in his lifetime, and he would not abide it in yours. If there was anyone who still haunted you, anyone who had left scars on your soul, they would not last long in Hell’s Kitchen. The city had a way of swallowing people like that—of making them disappear in the dead of night. Matt never admitted to it, but the satisfaction in his silence told you all you needed to know.

- When nightmares clutched at you, when memories turned your breath ragged and your body rigid, Matt did not rush you. He did not drown you in empty reassurances. He simply stayed. His hands—calloused, steady—would find yours, grounding you. And when you could finally breathe again, when the world stopped spinning, he would murmur, "You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With me."

- Matthew did not offer false promises. He did not tell you that the past would stop hurting or that the fear would vanish overnight. But he did promise you this—that you were his, and no force in heaven or hell would ever harm you again. And when the city whispered threats in the dark, when shadows from your past tried to creep back in, he would remind them, in blood and bruises, that Daredevil does not forgive.

Frank Castle (Punisher)

- Frank was not a man of gentle words. He was not soft, not delicate, but he was careful. With you, at least. The first time he saw you flinch at a raised voice, the first time you recoiled from a sudden movement, something in him snapped. He had known cruelty before, had spent his life hunting the kind of people who inflicted it. And he knew—without you ever telling him—that someone had hurt you. Badly.

- He never asked for details. Never pushed you to talk. If you wanted to tell him, you would. Until then, all he needed to know was that it would never happen again. The first time he heard the name of someone who had hurt you, he disappeared for three days. When he came back, there was blood on his knuckles and peace in his eyes. He never said a word about it, and you never asked.

- Frank wasn’t good with emotions, wasn’t good at comfort. But he was good at protecting. He noticed your triggers, memorized them like a soldier memorizes an enemy’s weakness. He never slammed doors, never moved too fast around you, never let his anger spill into something reckless. His rage was a weapon, and he wielded it with precision.

- He was your shield when you needed it, your anchor when the past threatened to pull you under. When you woke up shaking, when memories made your hands tremble, he would simply pull you into his chest, let your fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt. And when words failed you, when all you could do was breathe through the fear, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ you again. Not while I’m breathin’."

- Frank Castle was a monster to the world—a nightmare wrapped in flesh. But to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A force of nature that stood between you and the demons of your past. And when ghosts tried to return, when the world thought it could hurt you again, Frank reminded them, in blood and fire, that The Punisher doesn’t forgive. And he doesn’t forget.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye was not a good man. He had never been a good man, and he never pretended otherwise. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you anticipated pain before it ever came, something inside him twisted. He recognized that fear. He had been the one causing it most of his life. But he wasn’t them. He wasn’t the bastards who had hurt you. And he’d make damn sure you knew that.

- He changed for you—not in a way that made him soft, not in a way that stripped him of the sharp edges that made him him, but in a way that mattered. He learned your triggers, memorized them like a game he refused to lose. He didn’t raise his voice around you, didn’t move too fast unless he wanted you to see it coming. Control was everything to him, and he exercised it for you.

- But he was still Bullseye. Still sadistic, still twisted in the way he loved. He didn’t just hate the people who had hurt you—he hunted them. It wasn’t about justice. It wasn’t about morality. It was about fun. And there was nothing more satisfying than making monsters feel like prey. He never told you what he did, but the way he smirked when he came home, the way he wiped blood off his hands with a satisfied sigh—it was enough.

- He wasn’t good at comfort, wasn’t good at softness. But when you woke up shaking, when the past crawled up your throat like poison, he didn’t mock you. He didn’t push you away. He just pulled you into his lap, let you cling to him until the tremors stopped. And when you finally looked at him, vulnerable and raw, he would grin, tilt your chin up, and say, "I don’t care how broken you think you are, sweetheart. You’re still mine. And I take care of what’s mine."

- Bullseye was chaos incarnate, a storm with no mercy. But for you, he was something else. Still dangerous, still unpredictable—but yours. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to crawl out of the shadows, they wouldn’t last long. Because Bullseye didn’t just protect what he loved—he destroyed anything that threatened it.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc was haunted long before he met you. He carried ghosts in his skin, blood on his hands. He was a man split in three, a storm constantly raging beneath the surface. But when he saw the fear in your eyes, the way you recoiled from sudden movement, something inside him settled. He knew pain when he saw it. And he knew how to handle it.

- He adapted instantly. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t make any sudden movements around you unless he warned you first. He made sure you always knew it was him—whispered your name before entering a room, let you see his hands before reaching for you. He knew what it was like to live on edge, to always expect the worst. He would never be a source of that for you.

- But Marc was not a merciful man. When he learned the truth—when he learned about the people who had made you this way—his entire body stilled. And then, with a terrifying calm, he asked for names. He didn’t yell. He didn’t rage. He simply disappeared that night, and when he came back, there was no more past to haunt you. Only silence. Only peace.

- He didn’t push you to talk, didn’t force you to relive the worst of it. But when the pain overwhelmed you, when you woke up gasping for breath, he was there. He would hold you if you let him, would whisper reassurances against your hair. And when you finally settled, when your breathing evened out, he would kiss your temple and murmur, "They don’t get to hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here."

- Marc Spector was a man of war, a man built for violence. But with you, he was something else. He was safety. He was home. And if the world ever tried to take that from you again, it would learn—painfully, brutally—that Moon Knight does not forgive. And he does not forget.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster had spent his life among the worst of humanity. He had trained murderers, killers, people who saw life as nothing more than a transaction. He didn’t consider himself a good man—never had, never would—but when he learned about what had been done to you, something in him twisted. He had never been one for justice, but vengeance? That, he understood. That, he thrived on.

- He noticed your triggers before you ever spoke about them. The way your breath hitched when someone raised their voice, the way your body tensed at sudden movements. He wasn’t the kind of man who asked questions—he didn’t need to. Instead, he adapted. His voice never rose around you, his movements became deliberate, controlled. The world saw him as unpredictable, but around you, he was calculated. He would never be something you feared.

- He was possessive, territorial in a way that most people would find terrifying. But with you, it was different. It wasn’t just about having you—it was about protecting you. When he found out who had hurt you, they simply ceased to exist. There was no spectacle, no grand revenge plan. Just silence. Just a quiet, efficient elimination. And when he returned to you, wiping blood off his gloves, all he said was, "They won’t bother you anymore."

- Taskmaster wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But he was good at making sure you knew you were safe. When the nightmares hit, when memories turned your breath ragged, he wouldn’t drown you in reassurances. He’d simply pull you into his lap, let you press your face against his chest, his body a solid, unshakable presence against your trembling form. And when you could finally breathe again, he would murmur, "Ain't nobody touchin’ what’s mine. Not ever again."

- He was a weapon, a killer, a ghost that haunted the criminal underworld. But to you, he was something else. Not soft, not gentle—but yours. And if the world ever tried to touch you again, to drag you back into the hell you had escaped, Taskmaster would remind them—painfully, mercilessly—that Tony Masters does not forgive.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny had never known real fear—not the kind that lived in bones, in breath, in the spaces between heartbeats. He had been reckless his entire life, unafraid, untouchable. But when he saw the way you flinched at raised voices, the way your body froze when anger crackled too close, it hit him. Hard. You weren’t just sensitive. You had been hurt.

- He didn’t know how to deal with that at first. He was loud, animated, a storm of energy and fire. But for you, he learned to temper himself. He kept his voice light, playful, never sharp. He warned you before he moved too fast, before his hands reached for you. It wasn’t something he did consciously—he just wanted to make you feel safe.

- But Johnny was also angry. Not at you, never at you, but at the people who had made you this way. He wasn’t violent—not like some of the others in your life—but if he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, he wouldn’t hesitate to burn their lives to the ground. Not physically, maybe, but socially, financially? He’d ruin them with a smile, make sure they lost everything.

- He didn’t always know what to do when the past clawed at you, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable. But he stayed. He cracked stupid jokes, let you curl into his warmth, let his fire chase away the cold that lingered in your bones. And when words failed him, when all he could do was be there, he would press a kiss to your forehead and whisper, "You got me, babe. You’ll always have me."

- Johnny was reckless, wild, untamed. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if anyone thought they could hurt you again, if the past ever came crawling back, they would learn the hard way that the Human Torch burns hotter than any hell they’ve ever known.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed was a man of logic, of science, of equations and solutions. But there was no equation for the way your breath hitched at loud voices, no formula for the way your body braced for impact when someone moved too quickly. He noticed it all, memorized the patterns, the reactions. And it wrecked him to realize why.

- He approached it the way he approached everything else—with patience, with precision. He never made you feel like an experiment, never made you feel studied. But he adapted. His voice never rose in anger, his movements were controlled, calculated. If he noticed you shrinking away, he would slow, give you space. He would never be something you feared.

- But Reed was also furious. He wasn’t a violent man, wasn’t someone who solved problems with fists or fire. But he was powerful. And when he found out who had hurt you, he destroyed them in the way only he could—legally, financially, socially. They lost their jobs, their reputations, their entire existences. And it was done so subtly, so flawlessly, that they never even knew why their world was falling apart.

- He wasn’t always good with emotions, wasn’t always good at comfort. But when you broke, when the past pulled you under, he was there. He held you, let you cling to him, let you find solace in his steady, unwavering presence. And when the worst of it passed, when you could finally breathe again, he would cup your face in his hands and whisper, "You are not alone. You never will be again."

- Reed Richards was a scientist, a genius, a man who could reshape reality itself. But for you, he was something even greater. He was yours. And if the world ever tried to hurt you again, he would remind them—quietly, ruthlessly—that there is no escape from the mind of Mr. Fantastic.

Ben Grimm (The Thing)

- Ben Grimm had seen the worst of the world. He had felt the sting of rejection, the ache of knowing that no matter how much good he did, there would always be people who saw him as a monster. So when he learned about your past, when he realized the weight you carried, it wasn’t anger that filled him—not at you, never at you—but at the people who had made you this way. The people who had hurt you, who had made you flinch at loud voices and sudden movements, who had made you believe that love was something you had to earn.

- Ben was big—he knew that. He knew his size, his strength, could be intimidating. And so he was careful with you in ways most people wouldn’t expect. His movements around you were slower, more deliberate. He never raised his voice, never let frustration slip into his tone. If he ever had to yell, if the world pushed him to the point of shouting, he always made sure you weren’t in earshot. Because the last thing he ever wanted was to make you afraid of him.

- When the nightmares came, when the past wrapped its claws around your throat and dragged you back into the darkness, Ben was there. He didn’t say much—he knew words weren’t always enough—but he was steady. A wall of warmth and strength that you could lean against, could hide behind, could trust. And when the worst of it had passed, when you were left shaking and breathless, he would squeeze your hand and murmur, "Ain't nothin’ gonna hurt ya no more, sweetheart. Not while I’m here."

- But Ben was also fierce in his love. If he ever saw the people who had hurt you, if he ever had the chance to make them understand the damage they had done, he wouldn’t hesitate. He wasn’t a cruel man, wasn’t one for vengeance—but for you, for the love of his life, he would make an exception. They would know fear. They would pay. And if you ever worried about what he had done, about how far he was willing to go for you, he would simply shake his head and say, "Some people don’t deserve a second chance, doll. Some people just deserve a reminder of what it means to be small."

- Ben Grimm had been turned into a monster, but he had never been one. And when it came to you, when it came to keeping you safe, he was something else. A fortress. A protector. A love so unwavering it could withstand anything. And if the world ever tried to take you from him, if the past ever tried to claim you again, it would learn—The Thing doesn’t break. And he doesn’t let go.

Susan Storm (Invisible Woman)

- Susan had always been a shield, always been the one to stand between the people she loved and the things that threatened them. But when she learned about your past, when she realized the depth of your pain, she felt something she hadn’t in a long time—rage. Not the kind that burned hot and fast, not the kind that exploded outward, but the kind that simmered deep, the kind that settled into her bones and waited.

- She was gentle with you. Not because she thought you were fragile—no, she had seen your strength, had felt the resilience in your touch—but because she knew what it was like to carry a weight you couldn’t always put into words. She never pushed, never pried. But she watched. She learned your triggers, learned the small signs that meant you needed space or, conversely, that you needed her. And when you needed her, she was there—always.

- But Susan was not just a shield. She was also a weapon. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she didn’t hesitate. She erased them from your life, not just physically, but completely. She made sure they could never reach you again, never so much as whisper your name. She would never tell you what she had done—you had suffered enough. But if you ever asked, if you ever needed to know, she would take your hands in hers, look you in the eye, and say, "You never have to be afraid again."

- But beyond the protection, beyond the quiet, careful ways she ensured your safety, Susan loved you. And her love was soft. It was hands in your hair, arms wrapped around you in the quiet of the night. It was whispered reassurances, gentle smiles, the kind of tenderness that never asked for anything in return. She made you feel seen, made you feel wanted in a way you never had before. And if you ever doubted it, if the echoes of your past made you question your worth, she would cup your face in her hands and remind you—"You are not what they made you. You are mine."

- Susan Storm was many things. A hero, a leader, a woman who had faced more than most could ever understand. But when it came to you, she was something else. Unbreakable. Fierce. Yours. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if the people who had hurt you ever resurfaced, they would learn the hard way that The Invisible Woman sees everything—and she does not forgive.

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia had spent her life slipping through the cracks of the world, always one step ahead, always dancing between the lines of hero and villain. But with you, there was no game, no mask. When she learned about your past, when she saw the way you shrank from anger, the way your breath hitched at the wrong tone, something inside her snapped. Because she had spent her whole life taking from people—stealing from them—but you? You had only ever had things stolen from you. And that? That wasn’t something she could forgive.

- She didn’t change who she was, didn’t suddenly become soft and delicate. But she became careful. Her teasing turned more mindful, her touches more deliberate. She never made a move without your permission, never touched you unless she knew you wanted her to. And if you ever flinched, ever winced at something unintentional, she would stop in her tracks, hold her hands up, and wait. Not with impatience, not with frustration, but with the unwavering promise that she would always let you set the pace.

- But Felicia was still Felicia. And when she found out about the people who had hurt you, she hunted. Not for money, not for jewels, but for revenge. She made their lives hell, made them feel small. She didn’t kill—not because she wasn’t willing, but because she knew that some punishments were worse than death. When she was done, they were nothing. Just ghosts of the monsters they had once been. And if you ever asked, if you ever wondered why you never heard from them again, she would smirk and purr, "Oh, kitten, let’s just say karma has very sharp claws."

- But for all her fire, for all her wild, reckless energy, Felicia loved you in a way that was startlingly soft. It was the way she curled against you at night, the way she brushed her fingers through your hair absentmindedly, the way she looked at you like you were the most valuable thing in the world. And for someone who had spent her life chasing the thrill of the steal, she found that nothing compared to the way you whispered her name in the quiet.

- Felicia Hardy was not a hero. She was not safe, she was not predictable. But when it came to you, she was something else entirely. Devoted. Fierce. Unrelenting. And if the past ever tried to take you from her, if anyone dared to hurt you again, they would learn—The Black Cat does not share. And she never lets go.

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen was not a man easily shaken. He had seen horrors beyond imagination, had faced gods and monsters and lived to tell the tale. But when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way your breath came too fast at sudden movement, he felt something inside him break. This? This was worse than any magic, worse than any curse. Because this was something human.

- He was not naturally gentle—not in the way others were. He was sharp, impatient, his mind always ten steps ahead. But with you, he learned. He softened his voice, measured his tone. He let you see his hands before he touched you, let you know where he was before he moved. He was deliberate in his care, never careless, never reckless.

- But he was also merciless. He did not tolerate those who harmed the innocent, and when he found out about your past, about the people who had made you this way—he acted. Not with violence, not with rage, but with something worse. A quiet, inescapable curse. A twist of fate that ensured they would never hurt anyone again.

- He wasn’t always great with comfort, wasn’t always great with words. But when the past gripped you too tightly, when you couldn’t breathe through the weight of it, he did what he did best—he protected. He cast wards around your mind, spells to soothe your fear. And when even magic wasn’t enough, he simply held you, his voice low and certain as he murmured, "You are safe. You are mine. And nothing will ever hurt you again."

- Stephen Strange was a sorcerer, a man who wielded the very fabric of the universe. But for you, he was something simpler—home. And if anyone thought they could take that from you, if the past ever dared to reclaim you, they would learn, in the most painful of ways, that Doctor Strange does not give second chances.

Namor

- Namor was not a gentle man. He was the ocean itself—vast, untamed, merciless when necessary. But when he learned of your past, when he realized the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have protected you, something inside him darkened. He had always known the cruelty of the surface world, had witnessed the rot that festered in its people, but to know that you—his beloved—had suffered beneath their hands? It ignited a rage deeper than the Mariana Trench.

- Yet, despite his nature, despite his storms, Namor was careful with you. He had never been one to temper himself for anyone, had never felt the need to soften his edges. But with you, he became something else. His voice, once sharp as the tridents he wielded, became measured in your presence. He moved with intention, never sudden, never careless. And if you flinched—if the ghosts of your past tried to drag you back—his hands would hover near but never touch, his eyes searching yours, waiting for permission. For you to reach for him.

- He did not speak empty reassurances, did not offer hollow words of comfort. Instead, he made promises. Promises backed by the weight of his throne, by the power of Atlantis itself. "No one will ever harm you again," he vowed, his voice like the tides—endless, absolute. "Not while I breathe. Not while I reign." And Namor was not a man who broke his vows. If he ever saw the ones who had hurt you, if they still drew breath, he would ensure that breath was stolen from their lungs, swallowed by the sea itself.

- But love with Namor was not only protection; it was devotion. It was the way he brought you to Atlantis, let you stand beside him, let the world see that you were his. It was the way he lifted you above even his own people, a mortal among gods, and dared anyone to question your place by his side. And when nightmares clawed at your mind, when fear crept into your bones, he would hold you—truly hold you, as if anchoring you to the present, reminding you that you were safe. That you were his.

- Namor was not a gentle man. But for you, he became something he had never been before. Patient. Steady. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the world—The ocean does not forget. And it does not forgive.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny had been to hell and back—literally. He had seen damnation, had felt the weight of chains, the burn of brimstone. But none of it compared to the rage that ignited in his chest when he learned what had been done to you. You didn’t have the scars he did, not the kind that burned in the shape of a demon’s touch, but you had scars all the same—ones that ran deep, ones that made you flinch at raised voices and sudden movements. And for that, he would never forgive the world.

- He was rough around the edges, hardened by a life that had never been kind. But around you, he softened—not in a way that made him weak, but in a way that made you safe. His voice never rose in anger, his hands never moved too fast. He always made sure you knew where he was before he touched you, always gave you the space to come to him. He wasn’t a gentle man, but for you, he learned to be careful.

- But Johnny was also vengeful. He didn’t believe in letting monsters walk free. When he found out who had hurt you, the Ghost Rider stirred in his chest, the flames of vengeance licking at his bones. He never told you what happened to them—only that they were gone, their souls left to answer for what they had done. And if the nightmares still came, if the past still clawed at you, he would pull you against him, let the warmth of his fire chase away the cold.

- He wasn’t good with words, wasn’t good with comfort. But when your breath hitched in fear, when memories turned your nights into something unbearable, he was there. He let you cling to him, let you bury your face in his chest, his arms steady and strong around you. And when the worst of it passed, when the ghosts of your past finally loosened their grip, he would press a kiss to your hair and murmur, "Ain't nobody hurtin’ you again. Not while I’m around."

- Johnny Blaze had been cursed, had been broken, had been forced to walk through hell itself. But when it came to you, he was something else. Steady. Safe. And if the past ever came for you again, if the people who had hurt you ever dared to resurface, they would learn—painfully, mercilessly—that the Ghost Rider does not forgive.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie had never trusted the world. It had chewed him up, spit him out, left him hollow and angry. But when he met you, when he saw the way you carried yourself—beautiful, but always guarded—he recognized the same war in your eyes. And when he learned why, when he pieced together the way you flinched at raised voices, the way you braced for impact at sudden movement, something inside him snapped.

- Venom reacted first, a growl rumbling from deep within his chest, a protective rage Eddie had never quite felt before. "Who hurt her?" the symbiote demanded, its voice a low, dangerous snarl in his mind. And Eddie, for once, didn’t try to hold Venom back. Because for the first time in his life, he had something worth protecting.

- Eddie wasn’t a good man. He had tried to be once, had tried to play by the rules, but the world had beaten that out of him. And when it came to you, when it came to them, the ones who had hurt you—there were no rules. He never told you what he did, never let you see the mess he made of them. But he came back to you with blood on his hands and nothing but gentleness in his touch.

- Venom became your shadow, an unseen protector that never strayed far. "We will keep you safe," the symbiote would whisper to you in the dead of night, its voice low and almost affectionate. Eddie wasn’t much better—he was obsessive in his care, possessive in the way he made sure you always knew you were his. Not in a way that suffocated, but in a way that promised—no one will ever hurt you again.

- Eddie Brock was not a hero. He was not kind, not merciful. But for you? He was yours. And if the world ever thought to take you from him, to drag you back into the darkness you had escaped, it would learn the hard way that Venom does not share.

T'Challa (Black Panther)

- T'Challa had spent his life protecting his people, had spent years ensuring that no harm befell Wakanda. But when he learned of your past, of the pain you had suffered, it was the first time he had ever felt helpless. Because this was a war that had already been fought, a battle whose scars could not be undone. And for all his knowledge, all his power, he could not rewrite history. He could only stand beside you in its aftermath and swear that you would never face such suffering again.

- He was a man of control, of precision, but around you, he became something softer. His movements were measured, his tone always gentle. He never raised his voice near you—not in anger, not in command—because he had seen the way sharp tones made your breath catch, had felt the way sudden movements made you stiffen. And T'Challa was not a man who ignored the unspoken. He adapted, not out of obligation, but because he loved you. And love, to him, meant understanding.

- But there was also fire in his love. A quiet, unshakable wrath that burned beneath his skin when he thought of those who had hurt you. He did not believe in cruelty, did not believe in striking down those who were weak. But if your abusers still lived, still walked, he would make certain they never did so again. Not through violence, not through blood—no, T’Challa was smarter than that. He would dismantle their lives piece by piece, until they had nothing. Until they felt, for the first time, what it meant to be powerless.

- But his vengeance was not the weight he placed on your shoulders. With you, he was light. His love was the kind that wrapped around you in quiet moments, the kind that whispered through fingertips grazing your skin, through the warmth of his presence beside you. He did not try to fix what had been broken—he simply stood beside you, unwavering. And when the nights were long, when the memories clawed at your mind, he would hold you against his chest and murmur, "You are not alone. You will never be alone again."

- T’Challa was a king. A warrior. A man who bore the weight of a nation on his shoulders. But when it came to you, he was something else entirely. A protector. A lover. A promise. And if the past ever tried to take you from him, if the shadows of your childhood ever threatened to return, he would remind the world—The Black Panther does not bow. And he does not forget.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra had never believed in softness. Her world had been carved from blood, from betrayal, from the understanding that love was often just another weapon waiting to be used against you. But with you, everything changed. Because when she learned of your past, when she realized the depths of the pain you had endured, it was the first time in her life that she wanted to protect something—not for duty, not for advantage, but for love.

- She was sharp edges and honed steel, but for you, she became something different. She learned your triggers, memorized them like she would a target’s weaknesses. She moved differently around you—not with hesitation, but with intent. She never raised her voice, never made a move she knew would unsettle you. And if you ever flinched, if the ghosts of your childhood ever tried to pull you back, she would wait. Not with frustration, not with pity, but with the steady patience of a woman who had spent her life navigating war zones.

- But Elektra was still Elektra. And if she ever saw the people who had hurt you, they would cease to exist. Not metaphorically. Not in some abstract, distant way. She would erase them from the world, make them disappear in the only way she knew how. And she would never tell you. Because she knew you—knew that despite everything, there was still goodness in you, still kindness that the world had not managed to steal. And she would not let her darkness stain that.

- But her love was not just vengeance. It was fierce devotion, the kind that bound itself to your bones and refused to let go. She did not whisper reassurances, did not offer empty comfort. Instead, she showed you. In the way she stood between you and the world, in the way she let her guard down in your presence, in the way she let you touch her scars—both the ones on her skin and the ones hidden deeper. With you, she was not the assassin, not the warrior. She was simply yours.

- Elektra did not believe in softness. But for you, she learned. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, she would ensure one thing—The world may have failed you once. But it will never touch you again.

Muse

- Muse was not a man of warmth, nor was he a man of comfort. He was a creature of chaos, an artist who carved beauty from suffering, who found divinity in destruction. Yet, when he learned of your past, when the remnants of your childhood bled into the present, he did not respond with words—Muse was never a man of words. Instead, he listened, in his own twisted way, tilting his head like a predator considering its prey. Not out of cruelty, not out of disinterest, but because he was fascinated—not by your pain, but by you. By the fact that you had endured.

- His movements, normally erratic and unpredictable, shifted in your presence. He never made sudden gestures near you, never raised his voice—though his voice was never loud to begin with. And though he lacked the morality most others possessed, he understood something primal about fear, about trauma. He had seen it in the eyes of those who had stared too long into the abyss before he ended them. And so, when your past clawed at your mind, when memories threatened to drown you, Muse would simply be there—unmoving, silent, an ever-present shadow beside you.

- But Muse was still Muse. And when he realized the ones who had hurt you were still out there, still breathing, he could not fathom why you had let them live. You may have been content to let the past remain buried, but he was not. He was an artist, and what better canvas than the flesh of those who had dared to break what was his? He never told you what he did. Never let you see the grotesque poetry he left behind. But if your abusers began disappearing, one by one, if whispers of horrors filled the underworld, you would know. And Muse? He would only tilt his head and smile.

- But it was not only destruction that defined his love—it was obsession. The way his fingers would trace your features, as if memorizing every inch of you, as if you were the only masterpiece worth preserving. The way he would sit in silence, sketching, painting, creating you over and over again as if he could capture you, keep you forever. The way he would stare—unblinking, unwavering—not with judgment, not with pity, but with a reverence so deep it was almost worship.

- Muse did not love like others. His love was twisted, fractured, something neither holy nor entirely damned. But in his own way, he was constant. And if the past ever tried to take you, if the shadows of your childhood ever reached for you again, he would remind the world—Pain is temporary. But art? Art is eternal.

Victor von Doom (Dr. Doom)

- Doom did not tolerate weakness—not in himself, not in others. But when he learned of your past, when he saw the way you flinched at anger, the way fear flickered in your eyes at the wrong tone, he did not see weakness. He saw injustice. And Doom did not tolerate injustice.

- He did not ask questions—he did not need to. The knowledge of what had been done to you came to him through his own means, through whispers and shadows. And once he knew, once he understood, he acted with the precision of a man who had never allowed an insult to go unanswered. The ones who had hurt you ceased to exist—not just physically, but entirely. Their names were erased, their legacies burned, their very existence reduced to nothing.

- Doom was not a man of softness, but with you, he was something close. His voice never rose in your presence, his movements were deliberate, measured. He did not comfort—he protected. He ensured you were untouchable, invulnerable. He built walls around you, not to keep you in, but to keep the world out. And if that meant drenching the earth in blood, so be it.

- He was not affectionate in the way others were. He did not whisper reassurances, did not soothe with words. But when you trembled, when memories wrapped around your throat like chains, he was there. He would tilt your chin up, force you to meet his gaze, and state—simply, factually—"You are Doom’s. And Doom does not allow his to suffer."

- Victor von Doom was a tyrant, a ruler, a man feared by nations. But when it came to you, he was something else. A shield. A weapon. A god. And if anyone, anyone, thought to take what was his, they would learn—painfully, excruciatingly—that Doom does not forgive.

Peter Quill (Star-Lord)

- Peter had spent his life running—from responsibility, from the past, from the weight of loss. But he couldn’t run from this. He couldn’t run from the way you flinched at sudden movement, the way your breath hitched when voices rose too loud. And when he learned why—when he learned what had been done to you—his usual easygoing demeanor cracked.

- He wasn’t like the others—he wasn’t ruthless, wasn’t cruel. But he was protective. And when he found out about the people who had hurt you, he didn’t let it go. He didn’t let them go. He wasn’t a killer, not by nature, but for you? He would make an exception. He didn’t tell you what happened—only that they wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

- Peter wasn’t always great at dealing with feelings. He was better with jokes, with distractions. But he was attentive. If he saw the past creeping up on you, if he saw the way your hands trembled, he wouldn’t push, wouldn’t pry. He’d just pull you into some ridiculous adventure, make you laugh until you forgot, if only for a moment, that the past even existed.

- And when that wasn’t enough, when the weight of it all settled too heavily on your shoulders, he would hold you. No words, no reassurances—just warmth, just presence. And when you finally pulled away, when the worst of it had passed, he would grin and say, "Y’know, babe, I don’t say this lightly, but… if you ever need someone to be space dust, I got your back."

- Peter Quill was not perfect. He was reckless, immature, sometimes a little too much. But for you, he was something else. He was home. And if the past ever came knocking, if the people who had hurt you ever thought to reclaim you, they would learn that Star-Lord never lets go of what’s his.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider had seen suffering. He had seen entire planets crumble, had watched as entire civilizations were snuffed out like dying embers. But when he learned of your pain, of the horrors you had endured at the hands of those who should have loved you, it was different. Because this wasn’t war, wasn’t some inevitable cosmic tragedy—this was personal. This was something that had been done to you, something that had shaped the person he loved. And he didn’t know how to handle that.

- He had always been brash, reckless, loud—but for you, he tried. He learned not to raise his voice around you, even when frustration burned in his throat. He learned to move slower, to be gentle, even when every instinct told him to rush in, to act. And when you flinched—when old wounds resurfaced and you expected anger, expected punishment—he would stop, hands raised, eyes wide with something raw. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here. No one's gonna hurt you. Not ever again." And he meant it.

- But Nova had never been good at stillness. He needed action, needed to do something. And the knowledge that the people who had hurt you were still out there? It ate at him. He wasn't like Daredevil, wasn't some brooding vigilante lurking in the shadows—he was Nova. And that meant he could go anywhere. It meant that if he ever found them, if he ever got so much as a whisper of their location, he would ensure they never so much as breathed in your direction again. He wouldn’t kill them—he wasn’t that kind of man—but he would make damn sure they wished he had.

- But love with Richard was not only protection—it was light. It was the way he made you laugh, the way he insisted on making you laugh, even when the weight of your past threatened to pull you under. It was the way he wrapped you in his arms, warm and solid, a barrier between you and the rest of the universe. It was the way he kissed you—soft when you needed gentleness, fierce when he needed to remind you that you were here, that you were his, that you were alive.

- Richard Rider had seen entire worlds burn. But he had never fought for anything as fiercely as he fought for you. And if the past ever tried to reclaim you, if the wounds of your childhood ever bled anew, he would remind the universe—There’s not a single star out there worth more than the person I love. And I will tear the cosmos apart before I let them suffer again.

[homiesexuallaj]

a funny thing i’ve been thinking about but, drunk! reader saying goodnight to the Thunderbolts*,

Yelena: Okay, y/n, let’s say night night to everybody, да?

Reader: Okay! Goodnight Ava!

Ghost/Ava Starr: Goodnight

Reader: Goodnight Antonia!

Taskmaster/Antonia Dreykov: Night

Reader: Goodnight Alexi!

Alexi Shostakov/Red Guardian: Goodnight! Sleep tight!!

Reader: Goodnight Bucky!

Bucky Barnes: Goodnight.

Reader: Fuck you *flips off Walker*

John Walker: Wha-? *offended*

Reader: Goodnight Bucky!

Bucky Barnes: ..goodnight.

Yelena, leading Reader away: You already said goodnight to Bucky

Reader: I know. I like Bucky.. :]

[doudouneverte]

Picture perfect

a/n: I try something, i don't know why

*not my GIF*

Pairing: Antonia Dreykov x Female!Reader

Summary: after a series of recurent dreams where she live a perfect life, Antonia started to feel insecure and you have to help her

Type: i tried to write Hurt/Confort

Warning: mention of Red Room and everything related to

word count: 3123

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The sun was beaming, and Antonia was there, lying on a long chair near the pool. She put her book away and walked to the pool. She tested the water with her right hand before entering it.

Once her body was fully wet, she started to relax. It was her first holiday since Christmas, and she decided to use this time to visit the world. And here she was in Cuba, in a beach house, far away from her stressful job and her problems.

Antonia started to swim when the bay window opened. Then a man came out of the house with a plate full of snacks and drinks. "Oh, I see that you finally decided to have fun." The man said.

"Well, I was just finishing reading my book, but the plot kind of disappointed me, so I decided to take a break." She replied.

"I'm glad to hear that because it would be a shame if I had to drag you into the water. But now let me get rid of this before I join you." He placed the plate near the edge of the pool before joining his wife. "You know what? I'm really happy right now."

"Oh, yeah, and can I know why?" Antonia asked before wrapping her arms around her husband's neck.

"I'm here, in a beautiful place, with beautiful weather, a loving dog, and more importantly, the most beautiful, smart, and hot woman in the world." He smirked when he noticed that the Russian woman was blushing. "I love you, Antonia."

"I love you too--"

She couldn't finish her sentence before being awakened by the alarm. The brunette looked around before spotting your phone and turning off the source of her disturbance. She groaned when she checked the time and saw 9 a.m. She hesitated for a long time before deciding to leave the bed.

Chills ran through her back when her feet made contact with the cold ground. She yawned and made her way to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she was in front of the sink, facing her own reflection in the mirror. She didn't like it. She didn't like the way the woman in front of her looked like. Even after all this time, it was hard for her to face herself. It reminded her of everything.

The bad things she did, the lives she took, and the treatment she received. But the worst thing was that it plagued her face. The burn marks were there to remind her of that day. Even if after all these years and Red Room's technology they didn't physically hurt her anymore, the inner damages were here, and they returned almost every time she looked at them.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn't notice you coming. You were looking for something when you spotted her looking at her own reflection with this look. You sighed and walked carefully before wrapping your arms around her torso. "Hello, sleepy head, did you sleep well?" You asked and maintained eye contact with her through your reflection.

When she nodded, you smiled and pressed a light kiss on her neck. "When did you have to leave today?" Your girlfriend asked.

"Don't ruin the mood, please." You said with your head hid in the crook of her neck. She chuckled a little but didn't push you. You stayed with her while she was brushing her teeth, and you were brushing her hair while you were informing her about what had been planned for your day.

"I think you should go now or you'll be late." The Russian said.

"I'm the boss; I can do whatever I want, babe."

"I know, but I need to remind you that you have your new intern today; you can't be late." She headed to the kitchen, and you followed her like a lost puppy.

"Can I at least have a kiss before going?" You asked even if you knew the answer. After a heated kiss, you left the house with a proud grin while your girlfriend plastered a fake smile in the hope that you didn't see through it.

A few hours later, Antonia was watching TV. She didn't even know what she was watching, and it didn't last long until she fell asleep.

This time it was different; she was in a park, sat on a bench, and took a look around. There were some parents talking together, some kids playing and screaming, and even some dogs running after each other.

The weather was perfect; the sun was shining, but her straw hat protected her just enough. She didn't have to wait long before a familiar voice called her name.

"Antonia, malyshka, I missed you." Here was her dad. He was smiling more than she remembered (when was the last time she saw him really smile?). "I just came back today. I wanted to visit you at home, but Thomas told me that you were there." He sat beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

"I wanted to call you, but I got so lost in the book. I really love that one." She said.

"I'm glad that you love this one; honestly, I was very worried about the story when I was writing it. I felt like including a new character like that would lose the readers."

"What, are you joking? The character of Yelena is very cool, and I really like her. And when we learned that she's Natalia's sister, my mind blew. I'm really excited to read more." She explained with a smile.

"I'm happy that you love that. I didn't know that you would be so eager about spies."

"Me neither, but you write them so right; it feels like we're living with Nat and we follow her in her adventures."

"Okay, I'm really happy that you love that, but I think that now we need to head back home. I think that Thomas is waiting for us, and I'm sure that Alexei is ready to go back home right now."

The two of them stood up and started leaving, just after being joined by a golden retriever.

At home, Antonia was greeted by her husband, who was setting up the table for them. When he noticed them, he came to greet his wife with a passionate kiss before hugging his father-in-law. The dinner was animated with playful chat and jokes between the three of them. Everything was perfect; it felt like a life that she always dreamed about--wait dream about?

Antonia slowly woke up. She looked around and noticed that she was back in your shared house. She was about to stand up when she noticed that her head was resting on something.

"Good evening, sleepyhead." You greeted her with a smile. "When I came back, I saw you lying on the couch, and the pillows were scattered on the ground." You explained while she noticed that she was resting on your laps. "I don't know what you were dreaming about, but it should be very good, judging by your smile. I hope you dreamt about me." You said with a grin.

Your girlfriend smiled at you, and even if you could see the pain through it, you decided not to question it. At least not now.

"I had a very awful day at work, and I don't really want to cook now. Are you okay if we order something?" You asked, and she just nodded.

While you were ordering food, the Russian left the living room and locked herself in the bathroom. Today was a hot day, and after her nap, she was now a little sweaty, so she decided to take a shower.

She slowly peeled her clothes off her body. Once naked, she looked at her reflection for a few moments. Her eyes were tracing every scar and burn mark. You always praised her body, it was something she loved about you. Always whorshiping her body, despite her little special aspect, as you like to call her defaults (at least they were for her).

When she stepped into the bathtub, she wanted to stay there forever. Far away from anyone. From the indiscrete glare that everybody gave her every time you would go on a date. But she also wanted to stay away from you. In this moment, her insecurities took the lead, and she was scared that one day you would change your mind and decide to find someone prettier than her.

It's been one year since you two were together, but she still didn't know what made you want to shoot your shot with someone like her. Since she got freed from the Red Room and her father, she started to hate her past actions and herself when she noticed how people outside the Red Room looked at her when she didn't wear her helmet.

Trying to run away from everything, she found her way into this house. She thought that it was just an abandoned house near the sea, and she was glad about that, until one day you opened the front door to see a sleepy Russian on your couch. When she woke up, she was shocked to see someone cooking for her. And the most shocking part was how you looked at her for the first time. After this 'incident' you explained that it was your second home, a house that you bought to hide in every time things became too much. She proposed to leave, but you quickly changed her mind and proposed to let her stay here with you because this house was too big for one person.

This was two years ago. Now you have officially moved in with her. Of course, it's not always easy, and at first she was avoiding you because she didn't trust herself and thought that she could lose control anytime and hurt you. But you never back down. You tried every day to pull down her walls, and it finally paid off one day. It surprised her first, but then she learned how to trust you, and you taught her how to love herself again.

Coming back from the bathroom, she saw you in the cooch with your camera in your hand.

Your camera was also something that helped her reveal more about herself. She didn't like when people took pictures of her, but that didn't mean she didn't like to see you take pictures of everything. You were a photographer; you had your own studio and a room dedicated to it in the house.

Seeing your girlfriend walking to you, you aimed your camera at her with a big smile. "No, please, not now." She tried to hide her face with her hand, but she knew it was futile.

It was something she noticed lately; you loved to take pictures of her, and even if she didn't like the idea, she was too enamoured by you to stop those habits.

"Don't worry, love; nobody will see it." It was the promise you made so she would let you use her as your model sometime. You had a lot of models during your career. Some were more stunning than others, but no one would compare with her.

Maybe it was because she didn't have to pretend every time you captured any of her expressions. During dates, movie nights, or even when you captured her body after sex. She was just too perfect.

"I didn't know what you wanted, so I ordered pizza." You said before pushing a piece of it between her lips.

"Stop feeding me like that, please."

"I'm sorry." You were smiling, and she knew that you were not, but she didn't say anything.

After dinner, you finished your movie and headed to bed. Antonia was wondering, what will she be dreaming of tonight? She secretly hoped to have the same type of dream that she had recently. Focus on that. She was surprised when she felt your hand move from her back to caress her abdomen.

She knew exactly what you wanted, but not today. She stopped your hand and pushed the sheet to cover her body. "Not tonight, Y/n." She said, but her voice sounded more harsh than she intended.

Sensing that something was bothering her, you just nodded and said "Okay, good night, love," before spinning your body in the opposite direction to prevent you from trying to be physical during the night. Antonia sounded usually dried like that when she was letting her insecurities take the lead, and you know better than anyone to push her in this state (she is still the Taskmaster after all).

Antonia cursed herself when she heard how her voice sounded, but she really wasn't ready to let you see her today. Maybe her recent dreams started to bring some bad feelings back. Living briefly in a world where none of her insecurities were an issue, where her father seemed like a good man, a world where she seemed to be happy with her own body. Maybe everything started to make her jealous because she lowkey knew that there were things she could never have, not after everything happened to her.

The next morning, she woke up alone. She tried to reach for you but was met with nothing but a cold sheet. She took a deep breath before leaving the bed. The recurrent dreams didn't show up last night, and it let her be a little confused, but in the end, they were still dreams.

In front of the mirror, while she was brushing her teeth, she was thinking about last night and the past few days. She knew that she had become involuntary and a little more distant because of all the things that kept popping into her mind.

A few minutes later, she joined you in the living room. You were looking at some photos you took yesterday when you noticed your girlfriend. "Y/n I need to tell you something." You heard what she said and left everything to focus on her.

Her body language told you that whatever she wanted to talk about was serious and also made her a little stressed.

"Mm, okay, right. Come on." You said and opened your arms. The Russian didn't think twice before accepting your invitation. She sat on your lap, facing you. You wrapped your arms around her torso and rested your head on her chest, and she rested hers on yours.

It was easier for her to have a heart-opening conversation with you like that. Even if you didn't know why, you started to get used to that.

"So, what's the problem, love?" You asked quietly, not trying to rush the things.

"First of all, I want to apologize for last night, I was--"

"Hey, it's okay; you don't have to apologize for that. You didn't want to have sex, and I completely understand that. Honestly, I think I should be the one apologizing for that; I should have asked you first. I'm sorry." You pulled away to look at her while you said that and watched her expression soften; she didn't seem angry or anything.

"Don't worry; like I said, it's not your fault." She said before giving you a brief kiss before you placed your head against her again. "And more importantly, I need to talk to you about something…" She started to tell you everything about the last things that happened to her. The dreams that felt way too realistic and how they impacted her a little to see a life where everything seemed perfect. And more importantly, the new rise of her insecurities.

It was something you were used to for the first year of living together, but they slowly left. At least that's what you thought.

"Hey, it's okay, babe. Look at me." You cleaned up the new tears rolling down her cheeks. "Remember, you're beautiful, the prettiest woman alive, and I know that I say that every day, but I mean it." You left some pecks everywhere on her face before something popped into your mind. "Let's go change; I have something to show you at the studio." You told her before leading her into the bedroom.

An hour later, you were in your studio, leading her into the room where you took almost all your photos. "Please, detka, I don't want to take some pictures right now." Your girlfriend was a little curious about what she was doing here.

"Don't worry, you don't have to. Just look." You grabbed the black curtain that you use for a plain background and tossed it on the floor. Then she saw it. The whole wall behind it was totally covered in pictures. Pictures of her that you have taken for a while now. Everyone had a date for when they were taken.

"What the…" she inspincted every photo on the wall.

"It's my personal collection. I promised you that no one would see them, and it's true; nobody knows about it. It's something I do to keep me motivated to work when I miss you." You explained.

Your girlfriend was totally shocked. All those pictures that you took of her. They looked beautiful. It was like they were illuminating the room more than the lightbulbs.

"Did you edit them?" She asked.

"Only a few of them, because the light was awful, but for most of them, I just let them be like this. I never touch anything with you on them. Well, it's not like you needed it in the first place."

While you were talking, she finally noticed it. The common thing about all of the pictures. She was always smiling at all of them. From the ones you took during your dates. To the ones you took while she wasn't aware of them. And even during more intimate moments. There was always this smile.

"I called this collection Portrait of a Healing Smile. But I'm not fully sure about it." You explained. "So what do you think about it?"

"Is it really how you see me?" She asked back with a trembling voice, and when you looked at her, she was crying again.

"I already told you. I usually have a different version of the world when I'm looking through my camera, but it seems that even in this version of the world, you're still so perfect. I know that sometimes you ask yourself how I can still love you every day, but reassure you, your smile is totally worth it." You grabbed her hands, and she looked at you. "You're my favorite smile in the entire world, and nothing can change that." You pressed your lips tenderly against hers.

"I love you so much, Y/n."

"And I love you as much."

[the-evil-lovable-simp]

Give me ideas of what type of Greg Davies x reader one-shots I should make

(don't tell me entirely just x _________ reader or something)

I have a few ideas but eh…

[lyrawhite]

I cannot believe marvel understood the assignment this time. They hired an amazing crew and for once, let them cook. This pays off, suits.

# LET ARTISTS COOK

[supercap2319]

My Boss, the Bitch.

They walked into the former Avengers Tower as Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was busying pouring herself a drink. She brought Bob into the world, and now she was gonna pay for it. Bucky led the charge with John, Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and Y/N in tow. There were many mixed feelings up in the air about Valentina, but one thing's for sure: She was a bitch. She gathered them all together in hopes that they would kill each other, but she didn't count on them coming together like a discount version of the Suicide Squad.

Bucky's voice cut through the silence of the hollow space, cold and with calculated precision. “This ends today.”

Valentina smiled. “Congressman Barnes, wow. You know, I never really thought you'd have a promising political career, but less than half a term?” She made a shocked face. “Yikes! I'd be embarrassed to show myself for a little bit after a stunt like that.”

The former Winter Soldier nods his head with an impressive smile at Valentina's jab. He brushed off to the side as John Walker spoke next. “We're taking you in, Val.” He told her, causing her to turn her head toward Walker, and scoff. Almost as if his threat amused her, and it did. “I don't think so, junior varsity Captain America.”

John rolled his eyes at that, about to free the on the side of his holster by his right leg, but Bucky stopped him with a, “Walker” and John put it back in its place. Valentina ignored John's death glare and turned her head towards Ghost. “Oh, nice to see you, Ava.” She greeted before focusing on Yelena. She eyed the former Black Widow up and down,wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Yelena, you look awful.”

Yelena gave her a fake smirk. “Mhm.”

“You sure you're really ready for that public-face role you asked me about?”

“Eat shit, Valentina. Where's Bob?”

Instead of answering her question, Valentina turns to Y/N. "Y/N Maximoff? A dead speedster brother and a dead reality-warping sister, and you still managed to be the least impressive thing about your family. That takes a special kind of failure—almost admirable, really."

“I'm sorry, Valentina, I just can't hear you over the loud color of your cheap pantsuit.” Y/N told her, flipping her off.

Valentina chuckles humorously. “You are all so adorable. Just think, I sent you down there to kill each other, and instead you make nice and you formed a team.” She looks at all of them before stopping at Alexei. “Who is this old Santa?”

“I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

Valentina blinked. “What?”

[multipotentialitepisces]

Can I Crash Here?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63717988

Greg Davies x Ed Gamble’s Sister! Reader

When Greg turns up at one of Ed’s blowout parties, you never expected to form such a strange, comfortable closeness with the comic you’d just met. Lots of fluffy fluffy fluff! I love domestic Greg being quietly romantic EEEEKKKK

A/N: Here’s another Greg fic that’s been sat in my drafts for a while! i’ve really been enjoying writing lately, and have a Ted Lasso fic in the works ❤️‍🩹 hope you love!

Ed’s parties were your idea of hell, to put it lightly. He was making far more money than he ever needed to, and yet he hadn’t got a bigger house to accommodate the extortionate numbers of guests. The last time he’d had a big blowout like this, you’d ended up sharing a bed with at least three comics whose names you wished you could remember. The amount of alcohol provided by Ed and everyone that arrived coupled with his lack of guest bedrooms meant it was utter chaos, and a complete nightmare for you who was typically living at Ed’s house for up to a week afterward. Tonight was going to be no different, no doubt.

It was the height of summer, and you had been staying at Ed and Charlie’s for the past few weeks after months of promoting your new book, and were knee deep in house hunting. The London property ladder was no joke.

Your older brother absolutely adored having someone to host when he wasn’t on tour, and you and Charlie got on like a house on fire, so staying at theirs was never a chore, but his huge parties often made you regret ever deciding to stay at his. The singular guest bedroom basically belonged to you, decked out with a queen size bed, a small chair in the corner, and a huge bay window looking out into the garden. You’d filled every surface with books, and adored your slow mornings sat reading watching the sun come up, enjoying a sense of serene peace at their house unlike anything you’d felt anywhere else. That was a stark contrast to the way you knew your peace would be upturned tonight once the drinks started flowing.

At 7.30 guests would be arriving, so you went to go and buy your drinks and anything else Ed and Charlie asked you for after you’d gotten dressed. Walking down the street towards the nearby corner shop, you cracked yourself up at the sight you’d be right now: wearing sheer tights and a black, 70s style minidress paired with your slippers and a seemingly ancient hoodie from a long-ago ex-boyfriend, along with your makeup clad face and immaculately styled hair – it was an overall silly outfit, but perfect for the occasion. As you lugged your bags of wine, cocktail sausages and other various party foods back to Ed’s, you felt yourself feeling quite optimistic about tonight. It was the first house party you’d been to in a while where it hadn’t been abysmal weather or full of people you’d never met, so it seemed like all was looking good. You’d been keeping the company of the British comic circuit for the past couple of decades ever since Ed entered the fray, now being able to call some of them your very best friends, meaning this should hopefully be a good, friendly get-together, but something told you it might go awry.

As you stepped back into the house, you saw Charlie putting out food on the dining table and Ed stuffing as many crates of beer into the already packed fridge.

‘Christ, how many people are you expecting, or are the three of us just getting absolutely bladdered?’

Ed swung around, simultaneously laughing at your incredulous face and grabbing another crate of beer for the fridge. ‘Only about 100 people tonight,’ he said, immediately turning back to pack the fridge with cans.

He didn’t catch the fact you blanched at the statement, not expecting that many people, but Charlie came in from the next room and made you blush crimson almost immediately.

‘Yeah, Greg’s coming tonight, you know.’ She offered you a side smirk, and Ed let out a less-than-attractive chortle from his post at the fridge door. It had been an ongoing joke in the house that you had an attraction to the Taskmaster. The three of you would watch the show together, and from the very beginning they had watched you turn pink at Greg’s very being there. Despite he and Ed’s close friendship, you’d never actually met the man. He was at Ed’s wedding, but your duties as maid of honour had meant you hadn’t had the time to converse with anyone new, and by the time you could, the exhaustion and emotion of the day meant you went to bed as soon as possible. Ed and Charlie only meant it as a joke, but you had somewhat fallen for him through friends’ anecdotes, and his stupid despotic persona on Taskmaster. The fact he was 6’8 also helped, considering you were the same height as your brother and finding a man taller and not emasculated by that was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Trying to act nonchalant was not one of your strong points, so you just looked at Charlie and laughed ‘We’ll see how that goes’ and then excused yourself to finish getting ready.

As you touched up your hair and makeup, and strapped on your heels, the nerves in your stomach got worse and worse as you could hear people arriving downstairs. You’d brought a bottle of wine that you’d bought upstairs to your room for some Dutch courage and had already drank half of it, but it wasn’t making you feel any less nervous, especially knowing that Greg would be descending soon.

Eventually you bucked up your courage, aided by the knowledge you’d be able to eat and make some cocktails, and you made your way downstairs. Immediately you were met by Charlie, entertaining a hoard of female comics in the living room, and a subsequent swathe of compliments on everything possible. It made your nerves dissipate slightly, until Ed came and nudged you in the side, winking about when Greg might possibly get here, earning you more questions from all of the ladies in front of you.

It was sweet relief when you saw Lou Sanders stroll through the door, immaculately dressed and clutching two bottles of ice-cold champagne. You scooped each other into a hug and immediately the news about Greg came spilling from your mouth. You were expecting a sorrowful and understanding reaction, but instead in classic Lou fashion, you were met with a scream of ‘Oh my God! You’re definitely getting laid tonight!’ and then the resounding ‘Pop!’ of a champagne being opened and thrust into your hand. Any anxiety you had was replaced with excitement. You were immensely glad for Lou’s presence, making you feel confident rather than terrified.

The kitchen was completely deserted as the party was in full swing, but as you rounded the corner, breathing deeply to get some time to yourself after having non-stop small talk with people you hadn’t seen in years and introductions to people you’d never met, you didn’t have time to prepare for the inevitable meeting with Greg as you heard his voice reverberate around the quiet room in comparison to the thump of bass throughout the rest of the house. ‘You alright there?’

You hoped he didn’t realise you jumped when he spoke, but his slight smile told you he definitely did. ‘Overwhelmed. Why are you hiding in here?’ It was such an odd experience feeling Greg’s presence in person. Despite the casual nature of the meeting, you couldn’t help yourself blushing, and you were very grateful for the dim lighting to hide the crimson creeping to your ears.

‘I’m only here for the food, might as well stay where it is.’ He said, taking a long drink from his beer, lounging in a dining chair in the link between the two rooms. You were struggling to keep your eyes off him, half in disbelief that he was actually in a room alone with you, and at how good he looked in person. Distracting yourself with making a drink, you were kicking yourself for not continuing the conversation, but you needn’t have worried for long as he made his way over to the kitchen counter where you were mashing mint leaves inside of a cocktail shaker. ‘What on earth are you making?’ He was stood basically completely behind you, his height shocking you. Of course you knew he was almost a foot taller than you, but wearing your heels and feeling him essentially breathing down your neck was a shocking realisation, finally acknowledging just how attracted you were to him despite this being your first meeting. You were inevitably nervous, but the closeness between the two of you seemed to come easy, and distracting yourself by doing something with your hands made it easier to converse with him.

‘A Hugo Spritz.’ You continued mashing the mint leaves in the bottom of the shaker, sneaking a look behind you to see the expression on his face. The one you were met with made you laugh, his eyebrows furrowed closely together beneath his glasses, but with a slight smirk on his face. ‘It’s elderflower, gin, prosecco, lime and mint. Want one? Its nicer than that shit beer Ed bought in bulk, I’ll tell you that for free.’ You added, looking slightly disgusted as you glanced at the half empty amber bottle on the counter.

‘Alright, go on then.’ You could hear the questionable smile in his voice as he moved to your left, leaning his back against the counter and facing you, watching you somewhat intensely as you manoeuvred around the kitchen in search of ice and other ingredients. Eventually you presented Greg and yourself with two wine glasses filled with ice and adorned with a lime wedge and sprig of mint. He looked, once again, questionably at the slightly effeminate drink in his hand, but clearly he was in the mood for being a good sport, and looked down at you with bright eyes as he took a sip. He seemed pleasantly surprised by the cocktail you’d offered, and continued drinking as you cleaned up your mess. The two of you slipped into a reverie, him stood with his back against the island, and you sat with your legs dangling next to him, sipping at your drinks and gazing out of the French doors into the almost dark sky outside.

That was swiftly broken as Ed essentially stumbled through the door from the hallway, flooding the quiet kitchen with loud music and chatter, and Ed’s own drunken laughter, ripping you and Greg out of your companionable silence. The two of you shared a quick glance as you turned to look at Ed, and Greg’s face cracked into a huge smile as he embraced Ed.

‘When did you get here?’ a clearly incredulous Ed asked the man he seemed to be clinging on for dear life to.

‘Almost an hour ago, slipped in through the back door.’ Greg released Ed, and only then did your brother realise who had been keeping him company and hiding him from other guests all this time.

‘I see you’ve met my little sister.’ Ed said, slipping a wink towards you and clapping Greg on the back.

‘Yeah, mate. She’s made me a drink and not told anyone I’m here, so she’s kept me happy.’

‘I bet.’ Ed’s cheeky comment may have slipped past an uninformed Greg, but certainly did not slip past you as you once again turned crimson for the umpteenth time that evening.

‘I’m off for a smoke, I’ll see you boys later.’ You slipped through the French doors, both of the men watching your retreating figure disappear into the cold evening. You sat yourself on one of the sofas, sitting lengthways to stretch out your aching legs and feet from being stood in stilettos all evening. As you closed your eyes and breathed in deeply, the warm smoke filling your throat immediately relaxed you. Ed hadn’t said anything too incriminating, but staying in that conversation would have made it harder for you to speak to Greg like a normal person, and you weren’t feeling much less overwhelmed than when you snuck into the kitchen in the first place. After a while, once the immediate effects of your cigarette had passed, you realised you’d forgotten your drink.

You looked back into the house to go and collect it, and possibly a jacket from your room, enjoying the serenity of the garden much more than the house itself, but as you turned your head you saw Greg making his way towards you with both of your cocktails in hand. He walked around to the front of the seat, handing you your drink, and tapped your toes to signal he wanted to sit on the end of the sofa. You scooched back a little to allow more room, and adopted somewhat of a fetal position in the seat. When he’d settled himself and looked back to you, the sight made him laugh at how clearly uncomfortable it must have been.

‘Oh come on, that can’t be nice.’

‘I’m fine. Thanks for bringing my drink, by the way.’

‘Either take your shoes off or just stretch back out again, I don’t mind being a foot rest for a pretty lady like yourself. Anyway, I didn’t think you young folk smoked anymore.’

You tried not to acknowledge how excited his ‘pretty lady’ comment made you, trying to calm yourself down with the fact it was an offhand joke and get back to the actual conversation happening. ‘I’m 35, I’m not exactly doing my GCSEs am I?’

‘I mean I knew you were Ed’s younger sister, but I didn’t think you were that close in age. I thought you must’ve been about a decade younger.’

‘Nope, just over three years between me and Eddy. Obviously I’m the favourite child.’

‘Well I’ve only met you tonight and youre definitely higher on my rankings than Ed is.’

Greg’s flattering words gave you the confidence to stretch your legs back out onto his lap. It was only fair considering how enormous the width of his manspread was. You slowly removed one foot and then another from being flat to the wicker surface of the chair, moving almost like a stork to place one ankle on top of his suit-clad thigh, and then another, crossing your legs at the ankle. The warmth from his leg was almost radioactive, especially in the chilly breeze. It made you shiver, but then Greg placed an even warmer palm on top of your ankle, making you inhale quickly with shock. Once again, the immediate closeness and comfort the two of you felt was like nothing you’d ever experienced. The two of you got talking, smoked a couple of cigarettes, and shared dirty secrets about the comedy circuit before moving onto the far too intimate topic of exes.

‘Weren’t you with Acaster a few years ago?’ Greg asked you, now unafraid to make extended eye contact with the easiness of the conversation.

The liqueur had loosened you up enough to be fully expressive, and at the embarrassing memory of the papers catching you and James out for dinner made you instinctively pull your knees back into your chest and hide your face with your hand, but Greg’s hand was on your ankle, stopping you from hiding yourself. He was laughing along with your embarrassment. He could feel that whatever he’d read in the news about Ed’s sister had been a misunderstanding, but being the typical men they were, neither Ed nor James wanted to talk about it, and Ed got suspicious when Greg started to pry, so he had to back off. He’d be lying if he hadn’t felt a pang of jealousy over his younger friend’s dating of Ed’s sister. He knew it was ridiculous, even back then, to have a slight crush on a woman he’d never met, but most of his friends only had good things to say about you, and the mystery around your clandestine dating history intrigued him more than he’d like to admit.

‘Alright then, what went on, ‘cause I’ve clearly got the wrong end of the stick?’

‘God I can’t believe you of all people have asked me about this!’ You were properly laughing now, and you could feel Greg’s body moving with his own laughter, relaxing you further into telling the story. He tried to push the question of what ‘you of all people’ could possibly mean, but he focused on the task at hand. ‘He’d just been cheated on, I’d just been cheated on. We went for dinner, we’ve been friends basically since Ed got to know him, and that is literally it! I don’t know why everyone and their mother asks me about it!’ You were getting exasperated all over again, the memory of the buzz of news irritating you. You had been in precisely one scandal, and it was that one, and your agent had kept you from seeing the worst of it.

‘Because the paparazzi thought there’d be a comic royal wedding, apparently. And some other truly crass things I’d not be able to look you in the eye after saying.’ Greg confessed. Even in the darkness, you could see he was a little uncomfortable just hedging around it, but you were in too deep and too drunk and too confused to not ask.

‘What? Like what?’ You sat up a bit straighter, with Greg’s hand on your leg tightening slightly. It was keeping the two of you present and aware of precisely what was going on, despite how overwhelmed you both were that this meeting had finally happened and was going better than you could ever have imagined.

‘Just some crude things, and that you were the other woman for James. It was a really strange time for all the Britcom lot because it was so obviously not something Acaster would do, and Ed went round defending both of your honours. Usually if theres an awful bit of gossip going around, we all take the piss a bit, regardless of how bad it is, but this time it kind of struck a chord because the two of you are so loved in all of our circles, and I’m just so relieved nothing like that has ever come out again.’ Greg seemed to visibly relax as he finished talking, and was absentmindedly stroking his hand up and down your stockinged shin.

‘I mean, that’s not as bad as I was expecting. I’m glad I wasn’t a punching bag for the comedy circuit because I’ve stayed out of public bother for a reason, and that’s one of them.’ At the clear relief the two of you felt, you downed your drink and shivered, which Greg noticed as goosebumps appeared beneath his palm.

‘Are you alright? Do you want to go back inside?’ Once again, Greg’s furrowed eyebrows returned, and he released your legs to allow you both to head inside. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and cracked them open, handing you one and cheersing your bottle with a ‘clink.’ The two of you headed into the packed living room. For the fact Ed and Charlie’s house only had two bedrooms, the downstairs was perfect for entertaining. With an adjoining kitchen and dining room and a huge living room, it could host more people than it could ever hope to house, and as you entered the huge living room, everyone within a metre radius turned and looked at who had just snuck in. Lots of excited faces were lit up at the sight of Greg, but Ed, James, and all of your nearest and dearest friends were laser focused on the sight of Greg’s hand ghosting your lower back. You were immediately regretting re-entering the party, but Greg’s hand lightly holding your lower back made you feel less alone and less terrified, but you didn’t have much time to process those feelings as you were swept into a hug by James.

‘Where have you been hiding all night with Greg, eh?’ His eyebrows shot up and down rapidly, suggestively implying you’d been doing something devious, when the reality was far more boring.

‘We had a smoke in the garden, James. Nothing exciting.’ You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile snaking its way across your face as you gazed up at him in his tight embrace. He pulled you in closer, pressing your face into the corduroy of his jacket, feeling the warmth of someone who’d not been sat outside for the past hour.

It was nice being with your friends, and you missed spending quality time with them, especially when Lou dragged you into the kitchen to explain every single detail of your interaction with Greg, as she failed at hiding her disappointment that he hadn’t ravished you in the downstairs loo. The two of you went back to your group of friends once again in the living room, having catchups with Nish, Aisling and Charlie as it had been so long since all of you had been together. A sort of silence descended on your friends, however, as you felt a familiar hand holding your lower back once again. Greg had squeezed himself in, standing beside you with his right hand cupping your waist. Nish’s face was a picture, the classic image of complete glee and disbelief that he sometimes liked to break out when he was processing something groundbreaking. He was beaming up at Greg, having a vague conversation about how their lives were going since the last time they’d spoken, but his light eyes kept darting back to you, making you lose focus as you tried to remain engaged in whatever Aisling was telling you about. Nish seemed to become a teenage boy whenever anyone had an inkling of romance, especially you with your abysmal dating history, so his incessant glances made you blush.

A few more hours later of socialising and drinking heavily, there were people sleeping on couches and the party was clearly winding down. You had decided to start clearing up the kitchen, filling the dishwasher and stacking plates in the sink, and throwing out any discarded food so the overall clear up would be easier for you all in the morning. Typically those who had crashed would help put the place back into an orderly fashion, but it gave you time to wind down and prepare yourself to go to bed. You were organising the dishwasher when someone leaned over to slide a plate in, and you recognised the large hand and black blazered wrist immediately. Greg was clearly drunk, and as you stood up to close the dishwasher, he wobbled slightly, relying on the steadiness of the kitchen counter next to him for balance.

‘Do you know of anywhere I can crash tonight? The couch isn’t even long enough for Ed, nevermind me.’ Greg laughed, sounding slightly slurred, but soft and tired by the alcohol and the winding down of the party.

You leaned your hip against the counter and pursed your lips, thinking of what would be acceptable for a man of his height. Ed and Charlie had already gone to sleep, so their bed wouldn’t be any use, and none of the couches were long enough. Your bed was huge and it would only be you in it, but you didn’t know if that would cross a line. You’d have been happy taking the armchair in your room, knowing you’d wake early anyway, so the uncomfortable position wouldn’t be too much of a pain. The alcohol had loosened your lips and made you more confident, and you supposed you had nothing to lose.

‘Well, I’ve got a queen bed if you want to sleep in my room. I’m happy to take the chair if you’re okay with sharing a room.’

‘I mean, that would be great, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’ll show you the way now and you can freshen up.’

As you and Greg made your way up the stairs and into your room in tandem, you felt the pain of your feet throbbing in your shoes, and sat down in the armchair in front of the window to remove them immediately. Greg sat on the side of the bed closest to you, removing his blazer and shoes. An image of the two of you like this in your own home every night after returning home popped into your head, but you swept it out quickly, not allowing yourself to gain any false hope. As you sat back in the chair, tucking your feet underneath yourself, you saw Greg focusing intensely on you.

You chuckled ‘what?’

‘Is that the chair you plan on sleeping on?’ Greg looked quizzically at you, that half-cracked smile making its way across his face, wrinkling all the way up into the corners of his eyes.

‘Yeah, I’ll wake up early anyway so it doesn’t really matter. Anyway, here’s the ensuite. I’m going to let you sort yourself out and then I’ll be back in a bit. Make yourself comfortable.’

‘Right, I’m not letting you sleep in that child sized chair, Jesus Christ. We’ll just share, it’ll be fine.’ He clearly found your insistence on sleeping in the chair to avoid making either of you uncomfortable both very endearing and very funny, but you were too exhausted to really notice.

‘Only if you’re sure. I’ll be back in a minute. Get yourself comfy and I’ll be back in a bit and then we can figure this out.’ As you left the room you heard a soft chuckle, and then the sound of the bathroom light being turned on.

You’d made yourself a cup of tea and a plate of leftover party food to snack on as you got ready for bed, and then headed back upstairs untethered by your painful shoes. As you made your way into your bedroom, Greg was lying on top of one side of your bed reading the book on your bedside table, making sure to keep your bookmark in the correct page. He looked incredibly comfortable, lounging as if he lived there and appeared half asleep, clearly content in the space you found most peaceful. He had unbuttoned the top of his crisp black dress shirt, and as he noticed you returning to the room, he looked up and pushed his glasses back up his nose.

‘I brought us some snacks.’ You placed the grazing platter on the middle of the duvet, between where the two of you were inevitably sleeping based on the position Greg had adopted. ‘Do you fancy a cuppa? I can make you one if you like.’

‘No, I’m okay, thank you. I can’t in good conscience let you sleep on that godawful chair, so it’s either we share, or I’ll put a sleeping bag on the dining table. The choice is yours, sweetheart.’ With that, he slammed your book shut and got up to fill a glass with water, walking past you to the bathroom allowing you to get a waft of his cologne and a scent that was unmistakably his own.

‘Fine. We’ll share. I’m an early riser anyway.’ You heard a chuckle from the bathroom, and saw his face cracked with laughter as he emerged. You turned to rifle through the ancient chest of drawers next to your bedside table, focusing your exhausted eyes on the pyjamas you wanted. The exhaustion and preoccupation combined with the strange yet comfortable intimacy you and Greg felt immediately when in each other’s presence made you completely oblivious to the way his eyes refused to leave your back until you retreated into the bathroom. He guessed what you were doing as different sounds reached his ears: brushing your teeth, washing your face, going to the loo and then getting changed. You emerged from the bathroom looking more beautiful than ever, with hair piled on top of your head, fresh faced and bundled up in pyjamas despite it being the heat of summer.

As you clambered into bed, tucking yourself beneath the covers, you text Ed, knowing he’d see it in the morning, congratulating him on another great party. Greg silently put your book back on his side of the bed, and watched as you fell asleep. He could tell you were exhausted, and as soon as you’d text Ed, you were almost immediately asleep. Greg got up from his side of the bed, very slowly as to not wake you, and placed your phone onto charge on the bedside table. He closed the curtains, and pulled the duvet up further onto your shoulders, ensuring you’d be warm and comfortable. He then turned all of the lights and lamps off and got into bed, taking one last look at you breathing softly next to him.

In the morning, Ed and Charlie were up unusually early for the night that they’d had before. Ed was used to waking up with a banging headache and feeling like he’d not drunk water in months, hearing the blaring speaker and clattering of dishes from you cleaning up in the kitchen. Typically he’d trudge down, squinting as the light got brighter in the kitchen, begging you to make less noise so his brain wouldn’t feel like it was two times too large to fit inside of his skull. This morning, however, was different. He made his way unsteadily down the stairs, and seeing the kitchen in the same state as last night, and the living room filled with his sleeping drunken friends, he checked the clock on the wall to make sure it wasn’t 4am and that he wasn’t dreaming. It was 9am, and you were nowhere to be found. Unheard of. Ed set off in search of you, heading back upstairs and knocking quietly on your bedroom door. Once he was a hundred percent certain there was no answer, he sheepishly opened the door and peered around it, almost jumping at the sight in front of him.

Through the cracks in the blinds and curtains where the early morning summer sun was pouring in, Ed saw you and Greg Davies sleeping soundly in each others arms. Greg was snoring softly, and had his arm around your back, breathing in the scent of your shampoo with every inhale, timed perfectly to your own. You had your head on his chest and an arm wrapped around his torso. The top of the duvet cover had moved down throughout the night, allowing Ed to see the configuration of the two of you. He thought some miracle must’ve happened, with his little sister sleeping past 7am, and sleeping in the arms of a man she’d fancied for years. Ed smirked, closed the door, ensuring not to make any sound, and went to spill the beans to his wife immediately, but not before snapping a photograph of the two of you entangled and soundly sleeping.

[woantohae]

THE NEW TEASER OF THUNDERBOLTS* !!!!!!!

There's definitely more Bob/Void one shots to come 👀💞✨️

[roanofarcc]

seeing Thunderbolts* tomorrow!! send me requests for any of the characters bc I KNOW this film will consume my brain the second I enter that theater :)

[itzsephig5]

13 (What Lurks in the Dark)

My Masterlist

This story on Wattpad

Intro 0 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 Updated Character Info 9.5 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 18 19

Important info for this chapter:

Words/Sentences in Russian:

Открой дверь - Open the door

Я думаю, что я влюблена - I think I'm in love

Влюблен? Серьёзно - In love? Seriously

Влюбленность в Ванду - In love with Wanda

Да - Yes

Words in Romanian:

dragoste - love

Y/n's POV:

I was finishing braiding my hair when I heard a knock on my door. "Come in." I say as I tied the hair tie on end of the braid. When I looked at the door, I saw Wanda standing there. "You ready to go?" She asked me. "Yeah, almost. I just need to grab my shoes." I told her. I stood up and went to the closet and put on my sneakers. "Now I'm ready." I tell her. She smiled. "Good. I figured we could stop by a bunch of different stores and see what we could find." Wanda says. "That sounds good. I really don't know how I want to decorate my room anyways." I explained. "That's understandable. I didn't know how I wanted to decorate mine after I got here. I really had to think about it and go to a lot of stores just to find a bed set that I liked." She tells me. I nodded. "How are we even paying for this? I don't have any money right now." I say. Wanda holds out a card. "We all steal Tony's card when we decorate our rooms. It's not like he's going to miss it." Wanda comments. I laughed at that. "I guess." I say. "Come on, let's go dragoste." Wanda says while grabbing my hand and pulling me to the garage. She gets into the driver's seat of one of the cars. I got into the passenger seat. We drove for a bit until we made it to a mall. "This is my favorite place to go to find some smaller things for my room. I figured we could look around to see what we could find." Wanda says. I let out a hum. "I don't think I've ever been to a mall before." I say. I see Wanda frown slightly. "Really?" She asked softly. I nodded. "There are a lot of things I haven't done because of my past. I'll just have to learn as I go." I tell her. "Don't worry." I added. The two of us walked into the mall and went into multiple stores. I found some new clothes, a few posters, some tiny trinkets and some furniture. I was really excited. Even when I lived in Ohio, I don't think I decorated my room since Yelena and I shared a room. "We should probably head back to the compound, so we are there for dinner. And you can also start to decorate a bit." Wanda tells me.

We got back to the car and put all the bags into the trunk. We drove for thirty minutes and talked the whole way. Once we got back to the compound, I grabbed my bags and headed to my room. I put the bags down and went over to Yelena's door. "Открой дверь." I called out. "You're annoying." I hear Yelena say as she opens her door. "You love me anyways." I say when I stood face to face with my sister. "Come help me decorate." I say to Yelena before dragging her into my room. "I don't remember agreeing to this." Yelena says. "Too bad." I say while dumping out the bags onto my bed. Yelena just stands near my door and watches me do so. "Why am I even in here?" She asked. "Я думаю, что я влюблена." I say. "Влюблен? Серьёзно?" She responds. I nodded my head. "I know, I know." I say. "I didn't think I'd ever fall in love, especially after what they drilled into our heads." I say. "Love is for children." Yelena says. That damn phrase was drilled into our heads. "Yeah." I sighed. "I wonder how Natasha was able to get passed that and start dating Maria." I mumbled. "You should ask her. She might have a little bit more insight on how she dealt with it." Yelena says. "Just help me put these posters up." I say as I tossed a poster at her. "Влюбленность в Ванду?" Yelena asked. I let out a hum. "Да." I confirm. "I think you should go for it. If you really like her, go for it." Yelena tells me. "I'll think about it." I say while I kept decorating my room. I finally finished decorating my room with what I got. I sat down in the hanging chair that I had and just looked around. I liked how the room looked. It finally felt like my own room, like I had my own style and not something that was pushed onto me. "It looks good in here." Yelena says as she laid on my bed. "It's nice. Something of my own for once." I say. We sat in silence for a while. "Do you actually have a crush on Wanda?" Yelena asked me. "I think that's what I am feeling. I'm not used to these feelings." I say. "We're learning how to be normal people now. Natasha has had time to unlearn everything; we've only been out for like half a year." Yelena explains. I nodded my head. "I guess so." I say. "It just feels weird. I've never thought that my life would change this drastically." I mentioned. "Yeah, me either to be honest." Yelena said. "Anyways, I'm going to head back to my room, sleep well." Yelena tells me. "You too."

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

Your first kiss

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

PETER PARKER (SPIDER-MAN)

- The city is quiet tonight, or as quiet as New York ever gets. You sit beside Peter on the rooftop of his apartment, your legs dangling over the edge, the skyline stretching endlessly before you. The neon lights paint his face in streaks of color, flickering like the embers of something unspoken between you. He’s rambling—about school, about the Bugle, about the latest science joke that made him laugh—until he stops mid-sentence, swallowing whatever he was about to say. His fingers tap anxiously against his thigh, a restless rhythm betraying his thoughts.

- It happens when he turns to look at you, his brown eyes soft and unbearably earnest. There’s something about the way the wind plays with your hair, the way the city hums beneath you, the way the space between you feels like a held breath. His hand, calloused from web-swinging, brushes against yours, tentative but lingering. "I—uh," he starts, then stops, then exhales a nervous laugh. "I think I've been waiting for the right moment, but—maybe this is it?" He’s always second-guessing, always overthinking, but this time, you see the decision settle in his gaze before he moves.

- The kiss is hesitant at first—Peter Parker, for all his brilliance, is still a boy who fumbles when he cares too much. His lips are warm, the taste of laughter and something achingly familiar laced between them. And when you don’t pull away, when your fingers find their place in his hair, he exhales against your mouth like relief, like gratitude. His arms circle around you, pulling you closer, the city forgotten, the night reduced to the way you fit against him.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath unsteady. "Okay," he murmurs, voice edged with wonder, "so, that was—wow." And then he grins, that boyish, lopsided thing that makes your heart stutter. "I think I need to run some tests. Y'know, for science. Just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke." He’s already leaning in again, and this time, neither of you hesitate.

TONY STARK (IRON MAN)

- The night is heavy with champagne and the soft murmur of jazz drifting through the penthouse. Tony, ever the spectacle, had spent the evening dazzling the crowd with sharp wit and sharper smiles, but now it’s just the two of you, the after-hours of the party settling into something quieter, something real. He’s undone the top buttons of his shirt, sleeves rolled up, exposing the scars that speak of past battles and victories that cost too much. His fingers trail along the rim of his glass, but his eyes are on you, dark and contemplative.

- "You know," he muses, voice rich with amusement, "I’ve kissed a lot of people in my time. Scandalous, I know." A smirk, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "But this one—this one might actually matter." The admission is half a jest, half a confession, and wholly Tony Stark—deflecting with humor, with bravado, but never insincere. He leans forward, the world outside reduced to the warmth of his gaze, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

- The kiss is molten, slow but deliberate, the kind of thing that leaves its mark. Tony Stark is a man who takes what he wants, but this—this is different. He kisses you like a man savoring a stolen moment, like he’s memorizing the taste of you, the feel of you, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, you might disappear. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with something almost reverent.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his eyes darker than before. "Well," he murmurs, his voice rough at the edges, "that was definitely a top contender for best kiss ever. Might have to do some retesting, though. Y'know, for science." The grin that follows is lazy, pleased, but there’s something softer beneath it—something that lingers as he pulls you in for another.

STEVE ROGERS (CAPTAIN AMERICA)

- The battlefield is silent now, the fight won, but the scent of smoke and steel still clings to the air. You stand beside Steve, both of you breathing hard, adrenaline still crackling in your veins. His shield is strapped to his back, his uniform scuffed and torn in places, but he’s whole. Alive. And for a moment, that’s all that matters. The world around you is chaos, but in this sliver of time, there is only him. The golden light of the setting sun catches in his hair, highlights the worry still etched in the furrow of his brow as he turns to you.

- "You scared me today," he says, voice quiet but steady. Not an accusation, just the truth. Steve Rogers doesn’t scare easily—not when facing enemies, not when staring down impossible odds—but you, you are something else entirely. His gloved hand reaches for yours, fingers tracing the bruises blooming along your wrist, a silent apology for the pain neither of you could avoid. His jaw tenses, and then, softer, "I don’t want to lose you."

- The kiss is inevitable, a culmination of unsaid words and lingering glances stretched over countless battles. Steve moves like a man who believes in purpose, in certainty, and right now, you are his. His lips meet yours with quiet desperation, firm yet impossibly gentle, as if he’s afraid you might break beneath his touch. But there is strength in the way you answer, in the way you hold him closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his suit. The war fades into the background, the ache in your bones forgotten beneath the weight of him.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own. "I mean it," he murmurs, a promise laced between the syllables. His hand tightens around yours, unwavering. "I’m not letting go." And somehow, you know he never will.

THOR

- The storm rolls in like a heartbeat, distant thunder thrumming beneath your feet as the wind tangles in your hair. You stand beside Thor on the edge of a cliff, overlooking the vastness of Asgard’s golden horizon. The feast is still raging behind you, laughter and music spilling from the halls, but here, in the open air, it is just the two of you. His gaze is on you, blue and endless, filled with something deep and unshaken.

- "You are different from the others," he muses, tilting his head as if pondering a great mystery. "Stronger, in a way that has nothing to do with battle. I have seen warriors crumble beneath lesser burdens, and yet—you endure." There is admiration in his tone, reverence even, as if you are something worthy of legends. His fingers brush against yours, tentative for a god who has known conquest and war. "It is… humbling."

- The kiss is as sudden as the storm breaking overhead—lightning splitting the sky as Thor moves. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing, only the raw certainty of a god who knows his own heart. His lips are fire and fury, the taste of rain clinging to the space between you. He holds you as if he could keep you here, bound to him by the force of his embrace, by the quiet, unshakable devotion that lingers in every touch.

- When he pulls away, the storm settles, the world exhaling as if in reverence. He watches you, eyes dark with something ancient, something unbreakable. "I have lived lifetimes," he murmurs, his voice a promise carved into the bones of the universe itself. "But this—I would live them all again, if only to find you once more.”

LOKI

- The air crackles between you, heavy with something unspoken, something that has been threading through your conversations like a whispered promise for longer than either of you will admit. Loki lounges before you, the very image of ease, but his fingers tap restlessly against the arm of his chair, betraying the storm beneath his skin. His sharp green eyes trace your form, lingering, considering, as if trying to decipher a puzzle he has yet to solve. “Do you know what it means,” he muses, voice a blade honed to silk, “for a creature like me to crave something?”

- The question lingers, woven with challenge and invitation, but you do not flinch. You have never been one to cower beneath his words, and that—more than anything—has always drawn him to you like a moth to an unforgiving flame. He stands in a slow, fluid motion, closing the space between you with deliberate steps, the ghost of a smirk curving his lips. "I have held kingdoms in my hands, stolen secrets from the lips of gods—" his fingers lift, barely grazing your chin, "—and yet, I find myself most drawn to the one thing that refuses to be claimed."

- And then he kisses you. No warning, no hesitation, just the full force of Loki's unyielding will pouring into you like a flood breaking through a dam. It is a kiss spun from defiance and devotion, from a god who has never known worship in the way he craves it from you. His hands—so often wielding knives and illusions—now cradle you as though you are the only thing in this world worth holding onto. There is something desperate in the way he moves, as if he fears this moment will be stolen, as if even now, he expects the universe to take you from him.

- When he pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his usual mask nowhere to be seen. He searches your face, as if expecting you to vanish like another trick of the light. “Do you see now?” he murmurs, his voice quieter than before. “This is not a game for me.” There is something almost fragile in the confession, something that would be a secret to anyone but you. You smile—soft, knowing—and pull him back to you, sealing your answer between his lips.

CLINT BARTON (HAWKEYE)

- The first time Clint kisses you, it’s after a mission gone sideways, when the dust has barely settled and the adrenaline still thrums in your veins like a second heartbeat. The two of you sit on the rooftop of some rundown motel, passing a cheap bottle of whiskey between you while the neon lights of the city flicker in the distance. There’s a gash on his cheek, dried blood beneath his nails, but his grin is easy, effortless, as if you both didn’t almost die hours ago. “Hell of a night,” he says, taking a slow sip before handing the bottle to you.

- He watches you as you drink, something unreadable flickering in his sharp blue eyes. Clint has always been good at watching, at noticing the things no one else does—the way your fingers tremble just slightly when you exhale, the way your shoulders carry the weight of too many ghosts. “You okay?” His voice is quieter now, serious in a way he doesn’t let himself be often. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the whiskey burning in your throat, or maybe it’s just the way he looks at you—like he’s already made up his mind about something—but you don’t lie. “Not really.”

- And then his lips are on yours. No preamble, no hesitation—just Clint, raw and unguarded, kissing you like he’s afraid this moment will slip through his fingers like everything else in his life. He tastes like whiskey and recklessness, like battle scars and late-night confessions. His hands find your face, rough and calloused, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as if memorizing every inch of you. He pulls you closer, like he’s trying to drown himself in you, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

- When he finally pulls away, he exhales a quiet laugh, forehead resting against yours. “Guess I really suck at timing, huh?” There’s something vulnerable in the way he says it, like he’s bracing for you to tell him this was a mistake. But you just shake your head, smiling as you steal the whiskey bottle from his hands. “Nah,” you murmur, taking a slow sip, “you’re just an idiot.” He grins, and just like that, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

NATASHA ROMANOFF (BLACK WIDOW)

- The rain falls in soft sheets around you, the dim glow of the streetlights casting shadows along the slick pavement. Natasha stands beside you, her red hair damp, strands clinging to her cheekbones. The mission is over, the enemy neutralized, but neither of you have moved from this quiet corner of the city. She has barely spoken since you both walked away from the wreckage, but you know her well enough to recognize the weight in her silence. “You don’t have to be okay,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with me.”

- She looks at you then, something shifting behind her guarded green eyes. Natasha is a woman who has built walls so high that even she forgets what lies beyond them. But here, in the quiet of the rain, she lets something slip—just for a moment. "I don't know how to do this," she admits, the words foreign on her tongue, heavy with a truth she rarely allows herself to speak. She takes a step closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her despite the cold. “But I want to try.”

- And then she kisses you. Slow, deliberate, like a secret unfolding between you. Natasha Romanoff has always been calculated, controlled—but here, with you, she allows herself to be something else. Her lips move against yours with a quiet intensity, as if she’s searching for something she has spent her whole life denying herself. Her hands rest lightly against your jaw, fingers trembling just slightly before she grips you tighter, pulling you in like she’s afraid to let go.

- When she finally pulls back, she stays close, her breath warm against your lips. “Tell me this isn’t a mistake,” she murmurs, and there is something fragile in the way she says it, something raw. You brush a damp strand of hair from her face, meeting her gaze with quiet certainty. “It’s not,” you promise. And this time, when she kisses you again, she does not hesitate.

BUCKY BARNES (WINTER SOLDIER)

- The cabin is silent except for the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth. Bucky sits across from you, his metal fingers curled loosely around a mug of coffee, steam curling in the dim light. Outside, the snow falls thick and heavy, turning the world into something quiet, something untouched. He has been different since coming here—softer, but still carrying the weight of ghosts in his eyes. “Feels like another life,” he murmurs, staring into the fire. “Like I don’t belong in it.”

- You set your mug down, moving to sit beside him on the worn-out couch. “You do,” you say simply, because it is the truth. He turns to you then, something unreadable in the depths of his blue eyes. Bucky Barnes is a man who has spent a lifetime fighting his own reflection, drowning in the echoes of a past he cannot escape. But here, now, you see something else—something softer, something searching. “You make it feel real,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

- And then, with a quiet resolve, he leans in. The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s waiting for the world to pull him away from you. But when you don’t flinch, when you don’t disappear, something in him unravels. His lips move against yours with aching slowness, like he is memorizing every second, like this is something fragile he is terrified of breaking. His hands shake slightly when they settle on your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater, grounding himself in the reality of you.

- When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “Tell me I’m not dreaming,” he murmurs. You smile, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re not.” And for the first time in a long time, Bucky Barnes believes you.

MATTHEW MURDOCK (DAREDEVIL)

- It happens in the quiet hours of the night, when Hell’s Kitchen is caught between the restless hum of the city and the stillness of something deeper, something almost sacred. You sit beside him on the rooftop, the neon glow of a flickering sign painting his face in sharp red shadows. His hands are bruised, his knuckles split open like old confessions, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, his fingers twitch against his thigh, as if fighting the urge to reach for you. “You’re too good for this city,” he murmurs, his voice rough, edged with something that sounds dangerously close to longing.

- You shake your head, smiling softly. “And you’re not?” The question lingers between you, heavy with meaning, with the weight of all the nights spent tending to his wounds, of all the times you’ve felt his presence before he even spoke your name. He turns his face toward you then, unseeing eyes searching, and you wonder if he can hear the way your heartbeat stutters beneath your ribs. “I know what good feels like,” he says finally, his voice quieter now, like a confession. “And it’s you.”

- Then, before you can speak, his lips are on yours. There is no hesitation, no faltering—just Matt, breaking the tension like a dam finally giving way. His hands find your face, fingers tracing the shape of your jaw with a reverence that makes your breath catch. He kisses you like he’s memorizing you, like he’s mapping out something he’s known for years but never dared to touch. He tastes like rain and something bittersweet, something that feels like the beginning of an ache he’ll never quite shake.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is unsteady, his hands still cradling your face like he’s afraid to let go. He presses his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me I didn’t just make a mistake.” There is something fragile in the way he says it, something vulnerable beneath all the armor. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fresh bruise on his cheek. “You didn’t,” you promise, and he exhales, like he’s been holding his breath for longer than he’ll ever admit.

FRANK CASTLE (PUNISHER)

- The world around you is painted in blood and smoke, the aftermath of a night that should have ended differently. The warehouse still burns in the distance, the scent of gasoline thick in the air, but neither of you move. You’re standing too close to him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours, the adrenaline still thrumming between you like a second heartbeat. He’s got a cut on his forehead, dried blood tracing the line of his jaw, but his eyes—sharp, dark, unforgiving—are focused only on you. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, though there’s no real warning in his tone.

- “And you should?” you challenge, your voice steady despite the weight of everything that’s just happened. Frank exhales through his nose, a sound that could almost be a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. He’s looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite know what to do with, like you’re a puzzle with missing pieces. “You don’t get it,” he mutters, his jaw tight. “Everything I touch, it ends up—” He stops himself, shaking his head. But you don’t let him finish. “I’m still here,” you say softly, and those three words cut through him sharper than any bullet ever could.

- And then, without warning, he grabs you. His hands—rough, calloused, steady despite the storm inside him—frame your face, and then his lips crash against yours with a force that steals the breath from your lungs. Frank Castle doesn’t do anything gently, and this kiss is no exception. It’s raw, desperate, full of all the things he can’t say, all the things he’s spent too many years trying to bury. He tastes like gunpowder and whiskey, like violence and something achingly human.

- When he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands on you, his forehead pressing against yours. His breath is ragged, his grip just shy of bruising. “You’re too good for this,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. But you don’t move, don’t pull away, don’t give him the out he’s expecting. Instead, you just tighten your hold on him, anchoring him to something solid. “I don’t care,” you whisper back, and for the first time in a long time, Frank lets himself believe you.

BULLSEYE (LESTER)

- The motel room is dimly lit, the neon sign outside casting an eerie blue glow against the cracked wallpaper. You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not like this. But you are. Bullseye leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, head tilted as he watches you with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “You got a death wish, sweetheart?” he asks, but there’s something almost amused in the way he says it, like he already knows the answer. Like he already knows that you aren’t leaving.

- “If I did, I’d be dead already,” you answer, and that makes him grin, all teeth and danger. He takes a slow step toward you, his boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “Guess you’re tougher than you look.” His fingers brush against yours, a ghost of a touch, but even that is enough to send something electric skittering down your spine. He’s testing you, waiting for you to flinch, to pull away. You don’t.

- And that’s all the permission he needs. His lips crash against yours, all heat and hunger and something far more dangerous. Bullseye doesn’t kiss like a man who loves—he kisses like a man who consumes. His teeth scrape against your lower lip, his hands gripping your waist like he’s daring you to run, like he wants to see just how far you’ll let him go. He tastes like sin, like something forbidden, like trouble wrapped in leather and bad intentions.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his pupils blown wide. He runs his thumb over your swollen lip, his smirk laced with something almost possessive. “You’re playin’ a dangerous game, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t let you go. He doesn’t want you to. You tilt your head, smirking back at him. “So are you.” And just like that, he’s kissing you again, laughing against your lips like he’s just won something.

MARC SPECTOR (MOON KNIGHT)

- The desert air is cool against your skin, the stars stretching endlessly above you in a sky so dark it feels like you could fall into it. Marc stands beside you, his posture tense, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hasn’t spoken in minutes, but you can feel the war raging inside him, the weight of something he can’t seem to shake. “You don’t have to do this alone,” you say finally, your voice quiet but steady. He exhales a sharp breath, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the thing,” he mutters. “I do.”

- You step closer, closing the distance between you. “No, you don’t,” you insist, and something in his expression cracks. Marc has spent years running, years convincing himself that he is nothing more than the sum of his mistakes. But here, now, with you, he feels something he doesn’t quite know how to name. Something terrifying. Something real. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns.

- And then he kisses you. It’s sudden, desperate, like he’s trying to brand the moment into his memory before it disappears. His hands are firm, holding you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. He kisses like a man who’s afraid this is the last time he’ll ever be allowed to. He tastes like dust and exhaustion, like prayers whispered into the void.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath uneven. “I don’t deserve this,” he murmurs. But you just cup his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “That’s not your call to make.” And when he kisses you again, it’s softer—less like a battlefield, more like a promise.

TASKMASTER (TONY MASTERS)

- The night is heavy with the scent of rain, the pavement slick beneath your boots as you follow Taskmaster through the abandoned lot. His mask hides his expression, but you’ve known him long enough to read the tension in his movements—the tight set of his shoulders, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s bracing for something. “You got a habit of walking into trouble,” he mutters, voice edged with something sharp, something protective. “Yeah?” you counter, stepping closer, tilting your head. “Then I guess it’s a good thing you never let me walk alone.”

- He exhales sharply, tilting his head toward you. His mask catches the neon light in slashes of blue and red, making him look almost inhuman. But you know better. You know the man behind the skull, the one who memorizes the way you move, the one who catalogues your tells, your habits, the way your breath hitches when he stands too close. “You keep getting in my head,” he mutters, and there’s something dangerous in the way he says it, something that sounds almost like surrender.

- And then, without warning, he lifts his mask just enough to press his lips against yours. The kiss is firm, deliberate—like a decision made in the space between one heartbeat and the next. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, his body a wall of heat and tension and unspoken words. He tastes like adrenaline, like a man who’s spent too long in the dark and doesn’t know how to step into the light. You grip the fabric of his jacket, anchoring yourself to him, and he lets out a quiet, almost frustrated groan, like he hadn’t meant to let himself do this.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is uneven, his mask still lifted just enough to show his mouth, his jaw. He stares at you for a long moment, his fingers still curled against your hip. “This is a bad idea,” he says, but he doesn’t let go. You smile, brushing your thumb over the fabric of his glove. “Then why does it feel like the best one you’ve had in a long time?” He huffs out something that’s almost a laugh before tugging his mask back down. “Damn you,” he mutters, but when he walks away, he reaches back, just once, and takes your hand in his.

JOHNNY STORM (HUMAN TORCH)

- The rooftop party is in full swing, music pulsing through the warm summer air, laughter spilling over the edge of the building like champagne bubbles. Johnny stands beside you, drink in hand, his usual smirk in place—but there’s something different about the way he looks at you tonight. Less cocky, more searching. He’s used to attention, to adoration, to people flocking to him like moths to an open flame. But you—you don’t just admire him. You see him. And that scares him more than he’ll ever admit.

- “You’re quiet tonight,” he muses, nudging your arm with his elbow. “That’s a first.” You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in your smile. “Just taking it all in,” you reply, letting the city lights reflect in your eyes. He watches you like you’re something he’s trying to memorize, something fleeting that he’s afraid will slip through his fingers if he looks away. “You ever think about just… leaving it all behind?” he asks suddenly, his voice softer than usual. “The fame, the cameras, the expectations.”

- And then, before you can answer, he kisses you. It’s sudden, impulsive—because Johnny Storm has never been one for patience, never been one to hesitate when he wants something. His lips are warm, impossibly so, like he’s carrying embers beneath his skin. One of his hands cups the side of your face, fingers threading into your hair, while the other settles against the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you like he’s afraid this moment might burn away before he gets to hold onto it.

- When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the warm summer air. He chuckles, a little breathless, a little dazed. “That was—” he starts, but then he stops himself, grinning. “—about damn time.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he grins even wider before pulling you in for another kiss, because Johnny Storm has never been one for half-measures.

REED RICHARDS (MISTER FANTASTIC)

- The lab is quiet, save for the soft hum of machines and the occasional scratch of pen against paper. You sit across from Reed, watching as he scribbles furiously in his notebook, his mind a million miles away. He gets like this sometimes—lost in thought, in theories, in equations only he can fully understand. But tonight, there’s something different. His brow is furrowed, his fingers tapping against the desk in a distracted rhythm. “You’re staring,” he remarks, not looking up.

- “You’re brooding,” you counter, tilting your head. That finally earns you a glance, his sharp eyes meeting yours over the rim of his glasses. “I don’t brood,” he mutters, and you can’t help but smile. He sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It’s just… I’ve been considering something.” You raise a brow, waiting. He hesitates, then stands, moving to stand beside you. “An experiment,” he murmurs, voice quieter now. “A hypothesis I need to test.”

- And then, before you can fully process his words, he leans down and kisses you. It’s careful at first—measured, precise, like he’s cataloging every detail, like he’s analyzing the way your lips fit against his, the way your breath hitches, the way your fingers instinctively grip his sleeve. But then something shifts, and the scientist gives way to the man beneath. His arms tighten around you, his hands splaying against your back as he deepens the kiss, no longer thinking—just feeling.

- When he finally pulls away, his gaze is sharp, searching. “Fascinating,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. You blink, still catching your breath, and then you laugh. “Did you just kiss me for science?” He smirks, adjusting his glasses. “No,” he says simply, and then he kisses you again, because some things don’t need an explanation.

BEN GRIMM (THE THING)

- The night is quiet, the world softened by the glow of streetlamps and the distant murmur of the city. You sit beside Ben on the park bench, your fingers just barely brushing against his. He’s always careful with you, always so aware of the strength in his hands, the weight of his presence. But tonight, there’s something heavier in the air, something unspoken. “Y’know,” he mutters, staring straight ahead. “I ain’t exactly what most people would call… kissable.”

- You frown, turning to face him fully. “That’s not true,” you say, your voice firm. He lets out a rough chuckle, shaking his head. “C’mon, sweetheart. I ain’t exactly soft.” His voice is gruff, but there’s something vulnerable beneath it, something that makes your chest tighten. “Ben,” you say gently, reaching for his hand. He flinches, just slightly, but doesn’t pull away. “You don’t get to decide how I see you.”

- And then, before he can protest, you kiss him. You feel the moment he freezes, the way his breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t know what to do with this—with you, with the way you touch him like he isn’t something to be wary of. But then, slowly, carefully, he responds. His lips are warm, hesitant, like he’s afraid of breaking you, of breaking himself. His hands tremble slightly as they settle against your waist, his fingers barely curling around you, like he can’t quite believe this is real.

- When you finally pull back, he stares at you, wide-eyed, like he’s waiting for you to take it back. “You… you really mean that, don’t ya?” he murmurs, voice rough. You smile, pressing your forehead against his. “Yeah, Ben. I really do.” And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself believe it.

SUSAN STORM (INVISIBLE WOMAN)

- The evening is quiet, the world outside the Baxter Building hushed under the glow of the city. You sit beside Susan, watching the skyline through the vast glass windows, the lights flickering like stars fallen to earth. She is always composed, always poised, but tonight there’s a restlessness to her—a quiet tension in the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass, the way she exhales just a little too sharply. “I never let myself have this,” she murmurs, and when you turn to her, she’s already looking at you, her blue eyes full of something unreadable.

- You know what she means. Susan Storm carries the weight of leadership, of family, of responsibility. She is the glue that holds everything together, the lighthouse in the storm. But for all her strength, for all her brilliance, there are moments—fleeting, rare—where she lets herself be something else. Something softer. Something just for herself. And tonight, you realize, you are one of those moments.

- She reaches for you, hesitant at first, like she’s testing the shape of the decision she’s about to make. And then, suddenly, she moves—decisive, certain, as if she’s crossed some invisible threshold. Her lips meet yours, warm and insistent, the weight of unspoken things pouring into the space between you. There is something fierce in the way she kisses—something that speaks of restraint finally abandoned, of walls finally lowered. One hand tangles in your hair, the other resting lightly against your cheek, like she’s memorizing the feel of you.

- When she pulls back, her breath is uneven, her eyes searching yours for something—reassurance, maybe, or permission to fall just a little deeper. “I don’t want to lose myself in this,” she whispers, but you shake your head, touching her face, gentle and steady. “You won’t,” you promise, and something in her melts at the certainty in your voice. She leans in again, this time slower, softer, the weight of the world momentarily forgotten in the warmth of your touch.

FELICIA HARDY (BLACK CAT)

- The city belongs to you both tonight, the rooftops your playground, the neon glow painting Felicia in slashes of silver and blue. She moves like moonlight—fluid, untouchable, slipping between the cracks of the world with a smile that’s equal parts mischief and danger. “You’re keeping up,” she teases, glancing back at you over her shoulder. “I’m impressed.” You roll your eyes, but you know she can see the amusement flickering at the corner of your lips. “Maybe I just don’t want to give you the satisfaction of losing.”

- She grins, sharp and knowing, because that’s always been your game—this endless push and pull, this dance on the edge of something electric. You don’t chase Felicia Hardy. You don’t catch her. You match her. And that, more than anything, is what keeps her coming back. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping into something lower, silkier. “You know what I love about you?” she muses, tilting her head. “You make me want to break my own rules.”

- And then she kisses you, swift and decisive, like a thief taking exactly what she wants. There’s no hesitation, no uncertainty—only the heat of her mouth against yours, the way her hands find your collar, tugging you closer as if she’s daring you to keep up. She tastes like adrenaline, like the promise of trouble, like midnight secrets whispered against bare skin. The kiss deepens, slow and teasing, a game in itself—because Felicia Hardy never gives anything away for free.

- When she finally pulls back, her lips are curled into that signature smirk, her fingers still hooked in the fabric of your jacket. “Careful, darling,” she purrs, her voice thick with amusement. “I might just steal you next.” But you only smile, catching her wrist before she can slip away. “Maybe I’ll let you,” you murmur, and for the first time in a long time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would feel like to be the one caught.

STEPHEN STRANGE (DOCTOR STRANGE)

- The Sanctum is still, the air heavy with the scent of ancient books and forgotten incantations. Stephen stands at his desk, eyes scanning the open pages of a tome older than memory itself, but his mind is elsewhere. You can tell by the way his fingers twitch against the parchment, the way his jaw tightens as if battling thoughts he refuses to voice. “Something’s on your mind,” you say, stepping closer. His gaze lifts to meet yours, sharp and contemplative. “You,” he admits, and the honesty of it knocks the breath from your lungs.

- Stephen Strange is not a man who loves easily. He is a fortress of intellect and discipline, a scholar of the arcane who has spent lifetimes mastering the impossible. And yet, here he stands, unraveling just slightly in your presence. He lifts a hand, fingers brushing against your cheek in an almost hesitant gesture—like he is tracing the edges of a spell too powerful to fully comprehend. “I was never meant for this,” he murmurs. “For softness. For wanting.”

- And then, like surrendering to something he cannot fight, he leans in. The kiss is slow, deliberate—a study in patience, in precision. His lips press against yours with a quiet intensity, as if memorizing the very essence of you. One hand rests at the nape of your neck, steady and grounding, while the other lingers at your waist, his touch both careful and commanding. He kisses you like he is trying to rewrite fate itself, like he is making a choice that defies every law he has ever known.

- When he finally pulls away, his breath is uneven, his usually composed expression softened in a way few have ever seen. “I should warn you,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing absent circles against your skin. “Nothing in my world is simple.” You smile, reaching up to touch his face, grounding him in something real. “Then it’s a good thing I’ve never been afraid of the impossible.” His lips quirk into something small, something almost reverent, before he kisses you again, sealing the spell between you.

NAMOR (THE SUB-MARINER)

- The ocean sings in the distance, waves lapping against the shore like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Namor stands beside you, the moonlight casting silver across his sharp features, his dark eyes reflecting the vastness of the sea. “This world is fragile,” he says, voice laced with something ancient, something heavy. “It does not deserve you.” You glance at him, at the way he watches you—not with admiration, not with softness, but with something deeper, something possessive. “And yet,” you murmur, stepping closer, “I am here.”

- Namor has never been a man to beg. He does not kneel. He does not ask. He takes what he wants, claims what he deems worthy. But with you, there is hesitation, a silent battle waging beneath the surface of his control. His fingers brush against yours, the slightest touch, but it is enough to set the air between you alight. “You tempt me,” he admits, voice low, almost reverent. “And I have never been a man with much patience.”

- And then he kisses you, fierce and unyielding, like the tide crashing against the shore. His hands settle on your hips, drawing you against him as if daring the world to try and pull you apart. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing—only the heat of his mouth, the sharp inhale of breath as he claims you the way he has always wanted to. He tastes like salt and storm, like the very essence of the ocean, like something wild that refuses to be tamed.

- When he finally pulls back, his grip remains firm, his forehead resting against yours as he exhales slowly. “You are mine,” he murmurs, not a question, not a plea—an undeniable truth. And for the first time, you realize you do not mind being claimed, not when it is by him.

JOHNNY BLAZE (GHOST RIDER)

- The desert wind howls through the canyon, a restless spirit caught between sand and sky. The motorcycle beneath Johnny hums like a living thing, its metal frame still warm from the hellfire that lingers in his veins. You sit beside him on the hood of an abandoned car, the silence stretching between you, thick with something unspoken. He isn’t a man of easy words, and neither are you, but there are moments like this—where the quiet speaks louder than any confession ever could.

- He glances at you, the flickering embers of his curse hidden beneath the deep blue of his eyes, and you feel the weight of his stare like a brand. “I don’t get good things,” he mutters, voice rough, shaped by years of regret and roads paved in fire. “Not for long.” You know he means you, means this, the fragile thing growing between you both. And maybe he’s right—maybe fate has already written tragedy into your story—but right now, with the stars burning above and his hand ghosting over yours, you want to defy it.

- He moves before you can answer, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that speaks of desperation, of stolen chances and borrowed time. His hands are warm—almost too warm, like he’s barely holding back the fire inside him—but he doesn’t pull away. Not this time. The kiss is rough, raw, a clash of teeth and longing, and for a moment, you taste the hellfire that runs through his soul. He kisses you like a man who’s already lost everything once and refuses to lose again.

- When he finally breaks away, his breathing is uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if grounding himself in the reality of you. “I don’t deserve this,” he whispers, but there’s no regret in his voice—only the trembling remnants of a man still learning how to hold onto something good. You grip the front of his jacket, pulling him closer, and when you speak, your voice is steady, unwavering. “Then we’ll steal it.” A slow smile tugs at his lips, something wild and reckless, and when he kisses you again, it feels like a promise to fight whatever hell comes next.

EDDIE BROCK / VENOM

- The city is a restless thing at night—buzzing, pulsing, alive. You stand on the rooftop beside Eddie, the neon lights casting shadows across his face, the distant hum of traffic filling the space between you. There’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that never quite leaves, the weight of a body that’s never entirely his own. “He likes you,” Eddie mutters, gesturing vaguely to the symbiote that lingers just beneath his skin. “Says I should stop being a coward and kiss you already.”

- A low, amused growl echoes in the back of Eddie’s throat—not entirely his own. “Yes,” Venom rumbles, voice curling through the night air like something alive. “She is ours.” Eddie groans, rubbing a hand over his face, but there’s no real annoyance in it. If anything, there’s something close to agreement buried beneath the exasperation. He turns to you, gaze flickering between hesitation and something darker, something unspoken. “You want this?” he asks, voice rough, uncertain. “Me? Us?”

- You don’t get the chance to answer. One moment, you’re staring at him, the city sprawled beneath your feet. The next, Eddie has you pressed against the rooftop ledge, his mouth on yours, his hands tangled in your hair. The kiss is desperate, consuming, an unspoken plea wrapped in heat and longing. And when the symbiote joins, its inky tendrils curling around your skin, it isn’t unwelcome—it’s protective, claiming, a silent promise that you are theirs, that they will never let you go.

- When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. “Too much?” he asks, but you shake your head, fingers still fisted in his jacket. “Not enough,” you murmur, and a slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips. Venom purrs in agreement, and as Eddie leans in again, you realize that whatever this is—whatever you’ve become to them—it’s already too late to turn back.

T’CHALLA (BLACK PANTHER)

- The air is thick with the scent of blooming jasmine, the Wakandan night stretching vast and endless above you. T’Challa stands beside you on the palace balcony, his gaze sharp and contemplative as he watches the city below. He has always been like this—thoughtful, deliberate, a man who carries the weight of a nation with grace that borders on impossible. But tonight, he is not just a king. Tonight, he is simply a man, standing beside the one person who makes him forget the weight of his crown.

- “There is a saying in Wakanda,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent. “That love is not something taken, but something earned.” He turns to you then, his eyes dark with meaning, with unspoken truths. “I do not take this lightly. I do not take you lightly.” There is something beautiful in the way he says it, in the way he allows himself to be vulnerable with you, to let his guard drop even for a moment. You lift a hand, brushing your fingers along his jaw, and he exhales, his composure faltering just slightly.

- And then, like a tide giving way to the shore, he closes the distance between you. The kiss is slow, deliberate, like the turning of a page in an ancient story. His hands settle at your waist, steady, grounding, as if anchoring himself to the moment. There is no rush, no urgency—only quiet devotion, the kind that lingers, that settles deep in the bones. He kisses you with the weight of a man who has spent his life making careful decisions, and this—this is the one he chooses without hesitation.

- When he pulls back, his fingers trace a slow path along your cheek, his gaze still heavy with something unreadable. “You are my greatest risk,” he murmurs, and you know he means it. Because love, for a king, is always dangerous. But when you smile, pressing your forehead against his, he only exhales softly, as if surrendering to something inevitable. And when he kisses you again, it is no longer with hesitation, but with certainty.

ELEKTRA NATCHIOS

- The rain falls in thin silver threads, washing the city clean in its quiet embrace. You stand beside Elektra on the rooftop, the neon lights below flickering against the wet pavement. She is always beautiful like this—sharp, lethal, untouchable. But tonight, there is something different in the way she watches you, something softer, something almost fragile. “This is a mistake,” she whispers, but she doesn’t move away.

- You know what she means. Elektra is not made for gentle things. She is blood and steel, shadow and fury. She has killed men for less than what you make her feel. But even knowing this, even with the sharp edges of her past pressing against the space between you, you do not flinch. Instead, you step closer, watching as something in her gaze flickers—fear, maybe, or something far more dangerous.

- And then she moves, closing the distance between you with a swift, decisive grace. The kiss is not soft. It is not hesitant. It is fire and hunger, teeth and desperation. Her fingers curl into your hair, pulling you against her like she is trying to burn the shape of you into her memory. She tastes like danger, like a storm breaking over the city, like something you should run from but never will.

- When she finally pulls back, her breathing is uneven, her lips slightly parted as if she is about to speak. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses her forehead to yours, the tension in her body slowly unraveling. “You should walk away,” she murmurs, but when you don’t move, when your hand finds hers in the dark, she exhales, defeated. And when she kisses you again, it is not a warning—it is surrender.

MUSE

- The world around you is a canvas, but Muse does not paint in colors meant for beauty. He sculpts in blood, in the echoes of silent screams, in the jagged edges of chaos where meaning is stripped bare. You should not be here—you, with your warmth, your softness, your ability to turn even the void into something full of light. And yet, he lets you stand beside him in the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to destroy or to hold.

- "I see you," he murmurs, voice rasping like something broken. His eyes—dark, unreadable, filled with a hunger that has nothing to do with flesh—trace the lines of your face like you are something he will never be able to capture. "I see you in a way I don't see anything else." His art is made of madness, but you, you are the only thing that remains clear in the haze of his unraveling mind. And it terrifies him. It excites him. It pulls him closer, the weight of obsession curling around his ribs like wire.

- His hands move before his mind catches up, fingers ghosting over your jaw as if memorizing the texture of your skin. And then—without prelude, without hesitation—his mouth crashes against yours. It is not gentle. It is not kind. It is a claim, a signature scrawled in fevered ink, a vow written in the space where language fails. He tastes of copper, of sleepless nights and the sharp tang of something unhinged, but he does not pull away. He drinks you in like a man starved, like an artist who has found his only masterpiece.

- When he finally parts from you, his breath is ragged, uneven, his forehead pressed against yours as if trying to anchor himself. "I will ruin you," he whispers, a warning and a promise both. But your hands do not tremble when they pull him back in, when you whisper against his lips, "Then make it beautiful." And for the first time, in a life stitched together by violence, Muse finds himself desperate to create something that will not break.

VICTOR VON DOOM (DR. DOOM)

- The air is thick with the scent of burning embers, the remnants of his latest experiment still crackling in the distance. You stand within the towering walls of Doom’s kingdom, a place where gods are made and broken, where the laws of nature are rewritten by the will of a single man. He watches you with an intensity that borders on divine, his green cloak casting shadows against the molten glow of machinery and magic entwined. Doom does not love like mortals do. Doom does not kneel before lesser emotions. But Doom has chosen you.

- "You are a fool to stand beside me," he muses, voice rich with arrogance, with certainty. "There is no safety in my presence. No mercy. No retreat." He speaks as if this is a warning, as if you have not already chosen to stand in the eye of the storm. You meet his gaze, unflinching, and something in the iron walls of his soul fractures. He does not understand it, this defiance wrapped in something so soft, so steady. He does not understand you. And Doom despises what he does not understand.

- The kiss is not an accident, nor is it impulsive. Doom does nothing without calculation. It is a conquest, a declaration, a moment where even the weight of the world bends to his will. His gauntleted hand cups your cheek, the cool bite of metal a stark contrast to the heat of his mouth against yours. He does not kiss like a man—he kisses like a ruler branding his empire, like a god bestowing a gift upon the only mortal he has deemed worthy. It is overwhelming, intoxicating, and it is absolute.

- When he pulls away, his gaze is unreadable, something ancient and unfathomable lingering in its depths. "You belong to Doom," he states, as if it is law, as if the universe itself would sooner collapse than deny him this truth. And perhaps he is right. For when he kisses you again, you realize that the world has already reshaped itself around his words.

PETER QUILL (STAR-LORD)

- The stars stretch endless above you, the vast expanse of space humming with the quiet melody of a universe still singing itself into existence. Peter leans against the railing of the Milano, his usual bravado dimmed into something softer, something more honest in the quiet glow of starlight. “You know,” he starts, voice lazy, teasing, but edged with something deeper, “if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna think you actually like me.”

- You roll your eyes, but the truth lingers between you, unspoken but undeniable. Peter has always hidden behind humor, behind cocky grins and deflective quips, but you have learned to read between the lines, to hear the way his voice wavers when he talks about the things that matter. And you—you are one of those things. He won’t say it outright, not yet, but it’s there in the way his fingers drum against his thigh, in the way he leans closer without meaning to.

- "You ever think about how weird this is?" he asks suddenly, gesturing between the two of you. "Like, of all the people in all the galaxies, somehow, it’s us?” There’s something vulnerable in his voice, something almost hesitant. You don’t give him time to second-guess it. Instead, you grab the front of his jacket and pull him in, and for once, Peter Quill is speechless. The kiss is electric, dizzying, like the first rush of a jump through hyperspace. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear into the stars.

- When you finally part, he’s breathless, grinning like a man who just won the greatest jackpot in the galaxy. “Okay,” he says, voice slightly dazed. “Yeah. That was definitely my favorite thing that’s ever happened.” You laugh, shaking your head, and he presses another quick kiss to your lips, just because he can. “You’re in trouble now, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’m never letting you go.” And when he pulls you into another kiss, you believe him.

RICHARD RIDER (NOVA)

- The weight of the Nova Force thrums beneath his skin, a power that has shaped and shattered him in equal measure. Richard is used to battles, to the endless war against forces greater than himself. But this? This is different. This is not something he can fight, not something he can outrun. You stand beside him on the edge of a dying world, the stars reflecting in your eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he feels like maybe—just maybe—he’s not fighting alone.

- "You make me want to stay," he admits, voice rough with exhaustion, with the kind of honesty that takes more strength than any battle he’s ever fought. He turns to you, something raw and unguarded in his gaze. "That’s dangerous." He has spent too long losing people, too long watching the universe take and take until there is nothing left. But you—you are something the universe has given, and it terrifies him.

- The kiss is sudden, but not thoughtless. It is the culmination of something inevitable, something that has been building since the moment he let himself care. His hands cup your face, firm but reverent, as if afraid you’ll disappear the moment he lets go. He kisses you like a man clinging to the last piece of something real, like a soldier who has finally found a reason to return home. And in that moment, for the first time in a long time, he feels weightless.

- When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath steadying. “If I could choose anywhere in the universe to be,” he murmurs, “it’d be right here.” His fingers tighten around yours, and as the stars continue their endless dance above, he wonders if, for once, the universe will allow him to keep something good.

[wowpindrop]

Reunited | Ed Gamble

For: anon

Request:

I think it’s absolutely messed up how there is no Ed Gamble fic’s and was wondering if you can do a fluffy one for him? I’m not sure at all what it be about and will happily leave that to you but I am ADHD (Inattentive and distractible type) and was wondering if you could include the fic

Summary: you haven't seen Ed for a while due to him being on tour. You are missing him. A lot. Finally you two are reunited.

Notes: Hi! I'm so so sorry that it's taken me this long to write this. I've just started college so life has been very hectic and it took me a long while to think of a storyline I was happy with. I hope you like it and happy reading!

You opened your eyes slowly, groaning at the tiredness that washed over you. Checking your phone you glanced at the time.

4am

Great.

Just what you needed for today. You glanced over at the empty left hand side of the bed, and felt that familiar pang of longing.

How you missed Ed.

You two had been together for a couple of years now. However, you had never been apart for this long.

Ed was on tour, with his show Electric, travelling up and down the country performing to hundreds of fans on a nightly basis.

You were proud of him. Of course you were. Doesn't mean that you weren't jealous of those people that got to see him.

You felt your emotions more than the average person. You'd always been that way. That meant that the sadness you felt at not being able to see you're favourite asshole hurt just that little bit more.

Well you certainly weren't getting back to sleep now.

_____________________________________

You got yourself sorted as you always did. Shower, dressed, breakfast.

When finished, you plonked onto your couch and popped on something to watch. Unsurprisingly it was something Ed was in. An old episode of mock the week to be precise.

It made you smile to see the man you loved laughing so hard at his friends jokes.

You watched another episode.

And another.

You didn't know how many episodes you had gone through before your phone buzzed next to you, making you jump.

It was a message.

Your heart lept when you realised it was from Ed.

It was a fairly encrypted message that you couldn't really decipher. It contained four words:

Train station.

30 minutes.

Ed wasn't due home for a few weeks yet so you were very confused as to what he meant.

That's when you realised the time.

12pm.

Shit. How had that long passed already. You hadn't been sitting there for that long. Right?

Shaking that thought aside, you stood up to go to the train station as your boyfriend had requested. Still really confused as to what he was on about.

_____________________________________

You arrived at the train station about 20 minutes later, the hustle and bustle around you common for London at this time of day.

You stood in the main entrance, not really knowing what to do, back facing the doors behind you.

You stood for about 5 minutes, people constantly milling around you. Some running in the hopes that they wouldn't miss their train. Every now and again someone would brush arms with you accidentally, as the station was so busy.

You were beginning to get impatient. That is until you recieved another message.

Look behind you, dumbass

You frowned. The heck was he on about?

You turned, not seeing anything, until you felt a tap on your shoulder.

You spin back around to be faced with him.

Ed.

He was here, infront of you.

"Shit!" You jumped in suprise, not expecting to see him standing there.

"Did you miss me?" He smirked. You wrapped your arms around him, enveloping him in a huge hug. You smiled so glad he was here.

He ruffled your hair, laughing his all too familiar laugh at your delight. He hugged back and you revelled in the feeling of familiarity it brought you.

"I'll take that as a yes then." He teased, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

"What in the everliving fuck are you doing here, you're meant to be in Brighton tonight." You exclaimed, immediately worried that he would miss his gig.

"Eh. It only takes an hour or two by train. Anyway, I wanted to see my favourite gullible prick."

You flicked his forehead at that. Ed made a slight noise of pain as you laughed at his reaction.

"You have no idea how much I've missed you" you admitted, staring into those blue eyes.

"Me too. Me too" he replied.

You hugged again. Comfortable in each others arms.

Time seemed to stand still. It felt so good to be reunited.

_____________________________________

I hope that was alright. Sorry again for the delay.

I love Ed sm and the fact that there is no fanfiction for him is abysmal. Hopefully this makes up for that.

Hope you have a great day or rest of day!

[trainer-from-unova]

void

𖤐 english ao3 𖤐 spanish ao3 𖤐 masterlist 𖤐

ship: the void x mutant/black widow reader (x robert reynolds)

summary: They were getting used to Bob and Void. Most of the time they dealt with Bob, who was shy and respectful — and on the other side was Void, who thought he was superior to everyone (or almost everyone) and could get on their nerves a lot of the time, but they had learned that, for some reason, most of the time he only showed up when the former was alone with _______, so they tried not to let those situations happen.

c/w: lack of communication, consensual sex, oral sex, piv sex, masturbation, alcohol, light angst

a/n: this is post-canon and the movie isn't out yet so if the void's ooc or don't have some powers or somebody who died in the movie (Taskmaster- wHO SAID THAT!?) is here don't mind it. Also English isn't my first language. (Edited version after watching the movie: 💚)

word count: 3'8k

Dealing with a system could be difficult, let alone living with it — fortunately, they were getting used to Bob and Void. Most of the time they dealt with Bob, who was shy and respectful — and on the other side was Void, who thought he was superior to everyone (or almost everyone) and could get on their nerves a lot of the time, but they had learned that, for some reason, most of the time he only showed up when the former was alone with _______, so they tried not to let those situations happen.

At first she was confused that such a thing happened, then it began to annoy and even sadden her. She thought he hated her for some reason, and she thought it made the most sense that he hated her for being a mutant.

"He doesn't hate you for that," Yelena said in her typical annoyed tone. She and the others knew it wasn't personal.

It was girls' night out and the four of the team were drinking in a bar in Manhattan as Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.

"Oh, so you confirm he hates me," she said in the same tone.

"No, he doesn't hate you- well, I think," she hastened to correct herself.

Of all of them Yelena was the closest to Bob, but she didn't know why he was giving her the cold shoulder; she just knew that if she asked him directly it would be too suspicious. The few times Yelena brought up the subject when the two of them were alone together he tried to quickly change the conversation, saying he didn't want to talk about it, and she accepted in defeat because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable, let alone provoke a trigger for Void to come out. Every time they commented on these attempts she or the others said that maybe Bob thought there was a possibility that it was _______ posing as Yelena with a mask and wig, and that would explain why he didn't want to talk about it even with her.

"I'm sure he hates me for that reason," she said referring to her mutation, not wanting to say it explicitly because she was in public.

"If your theory were true, wouldn't it make more sense for him to hate me too," Ava asked, "even more than you?"

"Exactly!" said Yelena pointing and agreeing with her, understanding her point. Antonia nodded slowly and silently as she sipped her drink.

"I mean, even if it's not..." she stopped and waved her hand, and they all understood that she meant "mutant" "I think my power is scarier than yours, and he doesn't treat me like he treats you," said Ava.

"Yeah, but I don't know..." She shrugged her shoulders. "That's the only logical explanation I can see, or maybe I have done or said something that upset him too much without meaning to and he doesn't dare tell me."

"You'd have the explanation if you got inside his mind," Antonia reminded her.

"But I don't want to do that," she said.

They all knew why she didn't want to do that, it wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last time they would talk about him and that subject, so there was no need to remind them.

At the beginning, when they were together with all the group, she would catch Bob looking at her, and their gazes would cross — not when they were on a mission, but when they were in calmer, more domestic settings she would sometimes smile at him, but he would always, no matter the situation or the place, look away seriously and quickly. Now it was she who looked at him from a distance, and he didn't even look her in the eye when she spoke. Luckily they both tried to be cordial in group, not wanting to make the others uncomfortable — they didn't speak directly but they spoke, and if someone were looking from the outside, probably no one would notice what was, or rather, what was not between them.

The one she did speak directly to and make eye contact with was Void, the few times they were together. He even dared to come dangerously close to her and scan her from top to bottom without any disguise whatsoever. It didn't bother her — even though she knew it wasn't technically him, she found the difference curious and it was better than nothing. It wasn't him, but his body was the same.

She knew she probably shouldn't make a big deal out of the situation, if he didn't want to get along with her for whatever reason that was his problem, but she couldn't help but feel frustrated. She wanted to get along with him — not because she felt the need to make everyone think well of her, but for the sake of coexistence and above all because she did like him, even if it didn't make sense.

It was on a sleepless night that she approached the answer that was keeping her awake — as she couldn't sleep as the hours passed she became thirsty, so she quietly left her bed and her bedroom for the kitchen to get something to drink. It was when she reached the living room on her way down the stairs to the first floor of the complex that she saw that the chandeliers were on, and stopped dead in her tracks as she saw Bob walking away from the kitchen, heading towards where she was in just his pyjama bottoms. When he noticed her he stopped in front of her and looked at her in surprise, but quickly changed his expression — she knew it wasn't him anymore.

"It's been a long time," she said in a calm tone, slowly approaching him.

"You can visit me if you miss me so much," he said in his typical mocking smile and tone, slowly approaching her as well. "As easy as knocking on Bob's door and waiting for me to open it for you," she laughed, snorting through her nose as she folded her arms.

"He'd have a heart attack."

"I'm here to protect him," and that answer made her furrow her brows in frustration and curiosity.

"Why doesn't he like me?" she asked once and for all. She didn't really want to discuss the subject with him, it was personal and emotional, but clearly she couldn't ask Bob directly either. "Why do you have to protect him from me? I don't understand."

"You've never entered his mind?" he asked still with that mocking tone, as if it was ridiculous for him to ask such a question because she could easily get the answer doing that.

"No, I'd rather not, if possible..."

"Afraid of not making it, as in my case?" He asked, reminding her of the time she tried it when he got out of control and blacked out Manhattan.

"It's not that," she said, rolling her eyes, "I don't like to do it, specially with people I'm close to."

"Then you'll never get an answer."

"Let me talk to him," she pleaded.

"Why so much interest in him?" he asked slightly more serious and even a little annoyed. "At least I like you."

"Is that another reason why I can never be alone with him?" she asked surprised and confused by the sudden and ambiguous confession.

"Maybe," he replied mockingly again.

He was starting to get on her nerves, but at the same time she couldn't help raising her eyebrows and laughing incredulously, looking in another direction. In their conversations there always came a moment when she didn't know whether to give in or play along, but that night she decided to play along.

"Oh yeah?" she asked looking at him, imitating his tone and dropping her arms.

"Yeah."

"I don't think you like me as much as you say you do," and she wasn't partly lying, but she wanted to know how much truth there was in his words.

"Do you want me to prove it to you?" He asked daring to stand dangerously close to her as he lowered his gaze to her lips. She was surprised by his proposal and his boldness, but decided to be expressionless at the moment.

"Alright," she replied averting her gaze to his lips and being aware of what was likely to happen a few seconds later. What she didn't expect was for him to bring his fingers to her chin to lift it even higher as he closed the small distance between their lips.

They got straight to the point: the kiss was intense and desperate from the start. Unconsciously she moaned and brought her hands to his shoulders as he brought the hand that cupped her chin to one of her cheeks, and with the other he pulled her closer to him by her waist.

When they parted for lack of air he raised his hand to turn off the lights with his powers, and then grabbed her hand and guided her hurriedly to his bedroom, where in complete darkness they quickly took off all their clothes and got into bed to continue kissing there, with him on top of her. When he tired of kissing her lips he settled down next to her to kiss her neck while he slid his fingertips down her abdomen, creating little spasms until he reached where he wanted: her clitoris.

He began to move his index finger in circles. Her breathing began to hitch, and she tried not to moan, but it was impossible. She bit her lip and put a hand to her mouth to silence herself, but he grabbed her with his free hand, intertwined her fingers and placed it against the mattress.

"There's no reason to hold back, the walls are theoretically sound proof," he said against her neck, tickling her with his voice. He was loving her moans, and he was getting hard just listening to her moan and feeling her writhe in pleasure beneath her, and she could easily feel it against her thigh.

Wanting more he began to move his finger faster, making her moan more often and harder. She also began to feel a warmth inside her abdomen moving down to her crotch and she began to spasm harder — it was obvious to both of them what was happening. She ended up exhausted even though she had done nothing, having to catch her breath.

Then he released her and slid down, where he put his hands on her thighs to spread them open and kissed his way down to her crotch. Noticing what he intended to do she opened her eyes like plates and blushed like hell, almost having to stifle a gasp of shock — she wouldn't complain about not having to do anything and be sexually pleasured, but she was embarrassed to have someone get that close there. He was a first in that sense, none of the few men in her sexual history had dared to do so — unfortunately it wasn't common for normal men, but he was clearly not a normal man, in many ways.

Unconsciously her hips bucked against his mouth and nose, and her body began to tremble as he thrust his tongue into her, making her even wetter than she already was inside. She closed her eyes, threw her head back and grabbed him by his long hair, tousling it even more. She found it hard not to writhe in pleasure and he could tell she was about to make her climax again by her uncontrollable moans, which grew louder as she clung even tighter to him.

After that he climbed on top of her and she noticed him settling back on top of her and between her legs, and she cooperated by wrapping her legs around his back. He didn't put on a condom as he knew it wasn't necessary.

He slid the tip of his member across her entrance as if he were painting on a canvas with a brush, causing her lips to open slightly, and then he inserted his member slowly, causing her to clutch at his back. She was very wet, but it was still hard to make her way in. "Fuck, you're tight..." he growled, his forehead resting on her shoulder and making her blush. "I thought you Black Widows had a lot of experience."

"What a subtle way to call me a slut," she said now slightly offended as he began to thrust into her, slower and then faster. Her moans were rising again, as she heard his hips grinding against her buttocks, and most of all, the bed frame bumping against the wall and the wetness inside her.

She decided not to hold back her moans as he began to thrust harder and faster, and soon after she felt that warm sensation again, moving down her belly and into her crotch. A few more thrusts and they were both on the verge of orgasm — she was moaning uncontrollably from her throat and begging him to please make her cum as she arched her back and tightened her fingers. He finished the same way, sighing and cumming inside her as her walls closed around him, her hips spasming before coming to a complete stop.

When they were done, exhausted and lying on their backs, they stared at the pitch black ceiling as they caught their breath.

"Okay, so..." she said suddenly, now calmer and after wiping herself with a packet of tissues that he took out of one of the drawers of the small table next to the bed. "You like me sexually, that's for sure, but... In general, why do you like me?"

"You're very curious," he said laughing quietly, "aren't you?" he asked as he turned his neck to the left even though he couldn't see her.

"If you were- if you two were" she corrected herself quickly, adding Bob to the equation as she did the same with her neck, only to the right, "clearer, I wouldn't have so many doubts," she said slightly annoyed.

"Well," he turned his neck towards the ceiling again, "you're attractive in many ways and you're the most powerful one here- after me, of course."

"Of course..." she repeated sarcastic, doing the same. "Thank you, I suppose...? Though I'm not the most powerful among the others by far."

"That's what you think," he said surprisingly serious, "but you have potential. Maybe with proper training you could have gotten into my mind back then."

After that she was silent and thoughtful for a few seconds, and decided to change the subject.

"When... can I talk to Bob?" she asked turning sideways.

"Do you really want to talk to him right now?" he grumbled, to which she now laughed quietly.

"No, but soon, okay?" she said poking him in the arm.

"Okaaay, okay."

She was exhausted, and he let her sleep there, in his bed. They both suffered from insomnia, but after all they had done, falling asleep was easier, especially for her. She was the first to fall asleep and the last to wake up — the last to fall asleep was Void, and the first to wake up was Bob.

He woke up slowly, and opened his eyes in surprise and confusion when he noticed that he was completely naked. The confusion got worse when he noticed someone next to him, and that someone wasn't just anyone — it was _______ and just like him she was naked, he could see it because there was some morning light coming in through the window of the bedroom. He blushed and panicked, having her there with him and guessing what happened in the night between her and Void. As usual he didn't remember anything and thought that, as usual, Void would take control of his body — but to his surprise he didn't, so he panicked even more.

He stretched out his arm until he could reach for his mobile phone on the small table to his right, trying not to move too much or make too much noise so that the sleeping woman to his left would not wake up. He looked at the time, but that wasn't really the information he wanted to get — he wanted to go to the notes app in case there was a message from Void explaining the situation, but there was nothing there. The situation took a turn for the worse when he noticed her stretch and move towards him, curling up next to him.

"Good morning," she whispered tiredly, her eyes still closed.

"Uh... Good morning...?" he asked extremely confused, almost scared.

The moment she heard that, noticing his change of tone and his complete confusion, she opened her eyes wide and sat up, not caring that she was bare-chested and looking at him just as confused and scared as he was.

"Bob?" she asked nervously.

"Um yeah," he answered and did the same.

"Oh God, that bastard appears and disappears at the worst times!" She exclaimed annoyed, referring to Void as she sat cross-legged under the sheets.

"Tell me about it..." He whispered, "What... happened last night?"

"Oh, well..." She blushed as she remembered what happened, averting her gaze in another direction as she bit her lip. "A lot of things, actually..." she laughed nervously.

"I mean, you don't have to give me all those details," he said nervously and blushed as he sat down in the same way as her, "I just want to know what led to this..."

"Okay, so..." She sighed deeply and prepared to launch into the monologue that would be the explanation. "Well, I was having trouble falling asleep so I went to the kitchen to get a drink," she said looking into his eyes, but she got nervous so she looked down, and she wasn't the only one as he did the same while listening to her explanation, "but there I ran into you and Void appeared, then we greeted each other and mentioned you. He said that he protects you from me and that confused me, even more because I've been annoyed for months now by the fact that you've been ghosting me and whenever we're alone he literally always appears..." She said, gesturing with her hand and looking in another direction. "I wanted to talk to you about it but since I couldn't I asked him, and he asked me if I'd gone into your mind..." he tensed and looked at her again, even though she was crestfallen. "I said no, not because I can't as in his case, but because I don't want to, it seems to me an intrusion..." she said, now looking in the other direction. "Like sneaking into someone's house," she shrugged her shoulders. "So, all of a sudden... I think he confessed to me that he likes me...?" she asked confused, now finally looking him in the eyes — he was listening to her intently, but also confused, surprised and embarrassed. "Because he told me that and that literally that maybe that was also a reason why he always showed up when we were alone," she said looking down again and pointing at him with one hand, "so I decided to play along and he told me that if I didn't think he liked me that much he could show me, so we kissed, came here and... Well, the rest is history," she looked back into his eyes as she laughed nervously and shrugged, waiting for him to finally say something, but he was too busy sighing deeply and taking it all in to say anything.

"So, let's be clear... You really wanted to...?" He gestured with his hand, pointing at her with his index finger and then at his chest, and so on a couple of times.

"What?" she asked confused. "Fuck? Uh yeah, you're- you two are hot, and I had three orgasms..." she whispered, smiling but blushing.

"Oh..." he said surprised and blushing. "I'm glad, I guess..." She nodded silently and slowly, and they both stood in silent, crestfallen for a few seconds, not knowing what to do or say.

"Um, Bob..." she said nervously to get his attention as she craned her neck to look at him, and he did the same, "Have I ever done or said anything to you...? Or do you hate me because I'm a mutant...?" she said trying to hide her distress as much as possible, wanting to make it seem more like curiosity, but her tone and facial expression really gave her away.

"Hate you!?" he asked nervously. "No no, for God's sake! I don't hate you."

"Then... Why don't you talk to me? Why don't you look at me? Why do you disappear every time we're alone?" she asked as her voice broke and her eyes began to water. It broke his heart to see her like this, so vulnerable because of him: she was literally naked in body and soul.

"I... I'm afraid of your power," he confessed chagrined and defeated as she looked at him without understanding what he was referring to. "My mind it's a chaos, and... I don't want anyone to see that part of me nor my past, especially you all... Knowing that you have the power to do it and that you can't get into Void's mind... Two plus two equals four, I guess... Even when we're in a group I try to think of other things in case you're hearing my thoughts."

"I've never gone into your mind or any of the team's," she said shaking her head, "I don't generally like to do it because of what I said before, it's very invasive and none of my business... I wouldn't want anyone to enter my mind without my permission, without warning. I only do it on missions. And I don't listen to your thoughts or anyone else's, otherwise I wouldn't be able to go anywhere. That's more like... Mm..." She paused to look for a good example, "like going on Spotify and hitting play on a song — you have to go into the song and hit the button, if you don't you don't hear it..."

"Good to know..." he said sighing deeply again, but calmer.

"Yeah..." she did the same.

"I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time, I really couldn't imagine it was affecting you so much..." he said embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it anymore, the past it's in the past," she said trying to smile in a convincing way.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"Void made up for enough last night, but if you want another round..." She joked, causing him to blush again, more than at any point in the entire conversation. "I'm kidding!" but she wasn't completely kidding. "Let's get some breakfast, come on," she said as she laughed.

[steppin-on-the-last-train]

The End of Love

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

Although I encourage everyone to read this, full disclosure it is male!reader. I tried to keep specified pronoun use to a minimum, but it can’t always be helped. There might be some mental rewriting required if you decide to go on.

Synopsis:

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

Or, a look at who Natasha Romanoff was before the Avengers. Told through the eyes of the person who loved her the most.

Word Count: 43,000

Foreword: I wrote most of these scenes out of order and then proceeded to edit nothing so if something disagrees with something later on that’s why.

Acknowledgements: One) Title from the song with the same name by Florence + The Machine. Two) The final scene with Willem is indeed a copy from that scene in Good Will Hunting. Three) All rights to the original media.

It’s spring and something has shifted. You’re in bed with her when the feeling hits you. You are in bed together, legs twisted together under the sheets, the callous pads of her feet warm against the inside of your calf. You wonder if she feels it too.

You’ve been like this for hours. Nothing more, not tonight. Just the simple act of breathing in tandem with someone. Of holding tight until you don’t know how you could ever part again. 

She likes you because you are hers. Her mission partner, her choice, hers. There is power in choosing who you give yourself over to. And you understand but you prefer this. You hate to disappoint her, to stop her after just a kiss, knowing there is want for much more.

But her head is tucked beneath your chin and she’s so close she might as well have burrowed herself inside you and you hope it’s enough. Because this is safe. Her, always. But there are some things which you can’t speak. So she starts with a kiss on your cheek and you end with a kiss on her lips.

You are not at peace, but for now, wrapped in her arms and the scent of something that is so distinctly her, you are content. And you’ve done this so many times before, too many but somehow not enough all at once. 

The first time had been after your plane went down shy of returning to the Red Room. You were smaller then, less muscle and too long limbs and grief enough to suffocate. The walk back had taken two nights to complete. You would freeze to death if you didn’t share body heat after the sun went down. You both knew this. You slept back to back, bundled in extra shirts and the parachute from the jet. You both pretended you didn’t trust each other just a little more in the morning. 

Now you roll and stretch and Natalia makes a small noise of protest. You tell her you’re getting a glass of water, ask if she wants one too. She doesn’t answer.

The air in the motel room is stale and the light in the bathroom stutters like a heartbeat trying to stave off death. You fill a glass under the tap and drink until it’s empty again. Your breath wavers ever so slightly. You push down on the countertop a little too hard, your palms beginning to sweat. 

Then she’s behind you with a steady hand creating a rhythm of up-down, up-down on your back. You had tried to be silent, hoping she would not notice. You didn’t want her to see you like this. But she extricated herself from the warmth of the bed to be by your side anyway.

She knows you. And it’s terrifying.

She is not gentle but in these moments she is human, and so are you. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. You are not a person who apologizes. So you say it when the only thing it can mean is nothing. When it’s as weightless as the breath from which it comes from.

“It’s okay.” She is not a person who forgives. She is both the bullet and the finger behind the trigger. She is the dazzling starlet who shines the light in your eyes so you do not feel the knife in your back.

Your reflections in the mirror do not feel real. You make a point not to look too closely. Because when you do you see with the eyes of those who would put a bullet in your head for this. No, not quite. Because they would do much worse.

Lately you’ve been dividing time by the moments with Natalia and the moments in between. By one stolen night followed by a week, five weeks, a dozen. You never know. And it’s an adjustment because you can’t quite pinpoint the moment you stopped sleeping down the hall from her more nights than not.

You spend the time without her taking orders, putting on the Taskmaster mask, leaving messages in the form of bodies with sword-shaped slits. Then you’re still taking orders but wearing a different sort of mask, one where they can see your face but still can’t see you and you’re shaking hands and learning real politics is nothing like what you’ve studied. 

“You see what sort of dogs I have to deal with?” General Dreykov asks. Ever since the military dress uniform appeared in your room and you flew to Moscow as his “second” he’s been speaking to you more and more as a peer. Far from most of the time. But occasionally. Enough for you to remember and collect like they were some sort of medal. 

And Madame B, who has always detested you for being too emotional, had finally seemed to approve. One day on your way out after you had been training some of the young recruits she spoke to you across the wasteland of the dance studio. You stopped at the doorway to turn back toward her, but she stayed facing the wall like it was a window to another studio where she must judge a dozen more girls with bleeding feet.

“I never understood why he kept you around.” She always spoke clipped, enunciating each syllable like the crack of a cane. “You were an insolent child. Yes, you can dance but this power makes you think you’re invincible.” You watched her, too stunned to feel indignant about the criticism, too apprehensive to notice how small she was now that you were grown. “But. Perhaps it was not such a bad idea to rear you here. You will lead with an iron fist. And most importantly, you will understand.”

You left without saying anything.

What was there to understand. This place was all you knew.

You come back with a hand on your cheek. Natalia is staring into your eyes like they reflect the answer to life. But if your eyes were mirrors all she’d see was herself.

“You think too much,” she says.

You can’t argue with that. Because now that you’re looking at her in the light and you’re so close you can see each fractal of green in her eyes you're thinking there’s nothing more intimate than this.

She’s not your friend but if she were she’d be your best one.

She asks you to come back to bed. You nod and follow her into the dark. She is sitting up. On your stomach you drape yourself over the edge of the mattress and take her hand. Already you mourn this night. You cannot enjoy the time you have when you don’t know if it will be your last. You have become far too important to each other.

You can tell she feels the same. Misery has settled over the both of you like a cold, wet snow. She is tense as she runs her fingers through your hair. You lay your head in her lap and close your eyes against the danger lurking outside.

It is spring and something has shifted.

—

And it is that stupid feeling which makes you turn yourself over to the Americans after she is captured. That feeling which has transformed since you were small and angry. That feeling which has always been evolving; this new chapter taking an ugly turn. Perhaps you have let this go on for too long.

You are grown now, but still very much full of rage.

They show you a file they have on you which you think looks very hastily put together. Because they would have no reason to suspect you of anything. That’s the way your life has been curated. There is what you do in the daylight and what you do in the dark with a skull mask over your face and a hood over your head. These people are not the same. 

But you’ve made a purposefully big mess on American soil as Taskmaster and they’ve finally connected his face with the official headshot of one Junior Lieutenant of the Russian military.

Is this you, they ask and despite the handcuffs cutting into your wrists and the four guards with guns on their hips you laugh and call the man asking an idiot. The other guy is your twin brother. 

You don’t think he appreciated your answer because the next thing you know you’re being cuffed on the ear.

Along with the picture of you in your official uniform there is a mugshot of you from the day they brought you in. You don’t often see photos of yourself. The guy in this one looks dangerous. There are also two very grainy, very dark photographs pulled from security cameras of a figure who might be you from assassination runs you went on. You recognize yourself in one, and you’re pretty sure the other is of someone in a Halloween costume.

They’ve taken you in with nothing but the clothes on your back and your weapons and a watch of Dreykov’s he had given you a few years ago.

Even though your stomach is empty and your face is bruised you don’t help them put the pieces together. You tell them the same thing you’ve been saying. You know they have the Black Widow. You want to talk to her.

And weeks later when they think they have broken you down and built you back up with S.H.I.E.L.D.’s name around your neck they let you out of your cell.

The guy who slapped you that first day is your new handler. His name is Richard Kremer. You don’t think he likes you all that much. He’s old and he acts like he can go back and win the Cold War if he gets you to roll over.

But you’ve learned he can’t hit you now that you’re not a prisoner. So when you tell him you know his type, that he probably got discharged from field service because he broke down and nailed some kid in the head all he can do is tell you to shut up. I’m right, aren’t I? You ask and he is silent. Oh come on G.I. Joe. He tells you to get out and you happily oblige.

It is when you are outside on the track one day that you finally see Natalia again. You are allowed time outside with supervision–like you are a dog–and you don’t think you’ve ever been happier to see the sun. It’s just you, the rubber beneath your feet, and the wind in your hair. Because you are not worried about the rookie who’s been assigned to watch you. You can pretend you are somewhere else. You can pretend you are running back home instead of pacing holes through this American ground.

You tense when you hear another pair of steps. You do not want to go back inside. Five more minutes. But you look over your shoulder and the figure has bright red hair and astonishment in her eyes. 

You are so surprised to see her because you thought maybe you weren’t going to again that you stumble in your haste to stop. You skid and your feet fly out from beneath you. You catch yourself on your hands, bits of track sticking to your palms. 

Natalia laughs and you can’t fight the grin on your face. She offers a hand and you take it. You let her pull you to your feet. She doesn’t stop there. She is strong and you fall into her. You throw yourself over her, wrapping your free arm around her back. Your hands are still clamped tightly together. You are too relieved to see she is okay to care about who may be watching. Let them see. They know why you came here. And right now, she feels so familiar. 

She pulls away first. “You’re here,” she breathes, eyes wide. Her irises glitter in the sunlight. “Блять. I didn’t believe it.”

“You’re okay,” you say, still breathless. “They didn’t kill you. I thought they were going to kill you.”

“No, they didn’t.” She grows serious, the initial shock wearing off. “Change of plans, I guess.”

You switch to Russian now because you are finally leaving this place. “What idiots. To spare us both. Natalia, we can be out of here tonight.”

She stares at you for a moment, looking guilty. Finally, she shakes her head and very slowly explains, “I’m not going back to Russia. I’m staying here with S.H.I.E.L.D. We’ve come to an agreement. I’m going to defect.” You are bewildered and it must show in the whites of your eyes because she reassures, “I’m okay. This is my choice.”

You don’t know what to think, much less what to say. “Are you serious?” 

“Yes.”

“Look, it doesn’t matter how they’re threatening you. I can get you out.”

“I’m not under threat.”

You narrow your eyes at her and back up a step. They must have messed with her mind, then. Because the Natalia you know would never do this. She was vicious like the edge of a blade and she was strong-headed like no one you’ve ever met. She could not be harnessed.

She grabs your hands. “Look at me. I’m still here.” You jerk because it is like she can read your mind. “It is better here,” she says. “They’ve offered me freedom and protection. That’s all.”

“How could you–” you start, but words don’t feel like enough to convey your disbelief. You shake your head. This can’t be happening. Because you’ve quit and run without permission. You were going to get forgiveness on your return. But you can’t go back without her. You tell yourself it’s because they wouldn’t accept that kind of failure, but you think she would be a tolerable loss compared to you. No. You don’t want to go anywhere without her. “You have to go back. We need to go back. I came here to free you from them.”

“And I’m telling you there’s nothing to free me from,” she says. “I’m using them to free myself.”

But you don’t hear her. You leave, a new word coloring the image of her.

Traitor.

And she’s dragged you to hell with her.

—

Inside your pillowcase is the newest spot you’ve chosen to hide your stash of stolen items. It’s not much, a rock from outside, a fork from the cafeteria, a broken matchstick you found on the ground. 

You are not allowed to have things. Nothing is yours, they tell you. Everything is shared as part of the collective. Don’t get caught up in the scheme of materialism. That’s why everyone takes turns doing the laundry and scrubbing down the showers and disposing of waste. But you don’t really want these things to own. You only do it because they tell you not to.

They found your collection when you put it under your bed and when you began carrying the things in your pockets. Both times they beat you for it. You’re sure they’ll find this one and make you count to fifty instead of twenty-five but there is something rotten inside you and you can’t help it. Maybe after this time they’ll finally thresh it out. 

It is night and you grope through the dark until you find the items. You find all three tucked safely where you left them. But something else pokes your finger as you retrieve your things. Your hand grasps a fourth item and you can’t see it but it feels like a small needle. You don’t remember taking this. Did someone put it here? How did they know about your stash? 

You lay curled on your side and take turns holding each item. You decide the mystery object is definitely a sewing needle. Maybe you did take it and you forgot. You move on. You’ve found a good rock this time. It is small and smooth and almost perfectly round. 

You think about throwing it at Madame T’s head. Then, you hide them again and fall asleep.

You wake up with a cold hand over your mouth. You slap it away and tackle the offending person to the floor before you’ve formed your first conscious thought. 

“Сука!” She hisses as her back lands on the wooden floor and you sit on her stomach. “When are you going to stop doing that?”

You stare down at the vague outline of a body before you slowly let her up. “When you stop waking me up by choking me out.”

“I’m not choking you. And it’s not my fault you cry in your sleep. I’m helping you. Would you rather have a guard come in here?”

“I do not cry in my sleep.” You wrinkle your nose.

“Yes you do. Like a little baby.” You imagine her smirking through the dark. You don’t know who keeps visiting you in the night, only that it’s the same girl each time and she’s probably in your class. You can’t see anything at night here. You know her voice, but there is little speaking during the day. And none of the girls talk to you anyway. Her hair is a little past shoulder length, but that’s the way most of theirs is. 

And she won’t tell you who she is. 

“Shut up,” you say, shoving her in the shoulder. 

“Hey, no fighting in the dark. It’s not fair.”

“I’ll stop when you tell me who you are.”

“What, so you can rat me out?” You’re sitting close so you don’t have to talk very loud. You can feel her breath against your face.

“I won’t,” you say. “I promise.”

She laughs. It is too bitter a sound for someone your age. “Like that means anything.”

“I’m going to figure it out eventually.”

She shakes her head, hair swishing against your cheek. “You haven’t yet. And you never will.”

“Yes I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Yes,” you say, pouncing on top of her. You’ve taken her by surprise. She reacts quickly, rolling the two of you an extra time so she can sit on your chest. 

“I’m too good for you,” she says. 

“Arrogance will get you killed,” you retort. You struggle beneath her but you’re about the same size and she knows exactly how to pin you down.

“That’s a big word for you. Who’d you copy that one from?”

You ignore her, still focused on trying to get up. 

“Stuck?” She asks, her voice light. “Don’t start fights you can’t win, Markov.” She lets you up and pads toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Another week passes and something else appears inside your pillowcase. It’s a ribbon from a ballet shoe. You take it out and hold it up in the light of day. You know for sure, you did not take this. Someone else was messing with you. Or helping, you don’t really know.

You watch the girls around you. There are the mean ones–which are most of them–and the nice ones–of which there used to be more. You think it’s one of the nice ones who comes to you at night because she is waking you from bad sleep. But then again she likes to argue and wrestle with you. So maybe it’s a mean one.

You keep fighting and dancing and learning things like how to blend into a crowd and how to craft the perfect lie. You don’t find out who’s been adding things to your collection. But you hope you do before the guards find this new hiding spot. 

They find it when you have to strip your bed for laundry day and realize you have nowhere to hide the new things. You stuff it all in your pockets again and they call you stupid for not learning your lesson last time. So they drag you screaming and kicking downstairs and strip you naked. You bite one of them when they try to tie your hands to the pole because you remember what they told you would happen for the third time you were caught stealing. A boot collides with the side of your head and you go limp for a second. The big things in your life make you forget how small you are. 

There is a moment to breathe and for the ringing in your ears to subside. Then, just as the world refocuses, hellfire is released upon your backside.

You lay upstairs on your stomach and do not sleep. There are deep trenches of blood carved into your back. You could barely crawl into your unmade bed after they dumped you back on the floor in your room. 

You find a flower when you have to go outside the next day. It is bright and yellow and a rarity out here where everything is dead most of the year. You don’t take it.

The fourth night after you finally sleep, your body forcing itself to shut down despite the pain. You are getting better. But not fast enough. 

You only groan when you wake and realize there’s a hand on your face. 

“Shhh,” she says. Then she is silent. You think she is looking at the door. 

You push yourself up, drawing blood as you bite your lip. You slide into the corner away from her. “I can’t do this tonight,” you say. “I’m so tired.”

“I had to. It was going to be them or me.” She pauses. Then, slowly, the mattress dips as she climbs onto the bed.

“I’m serious,” you say. You are hurting and she is strong. She cannot know this. “It’s not fucking funny anymore.”

“Geez, I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “I would’ve done that a long time ago if I wanted to. Here. Take this.”

“I can’t see you.”

“You are impossible.” She brushes your arm. You recoil. She grabs your hand. It feels odd, like she’s trying to be gentle. She flips your palm up and places something in your open hand. It’s soft and delicate and feels a little like rubber. You roll it carefully through your fingers. You brush your other hand over the top and feel the petals. They are silky. Nothing can compare. It still smells like outside, like life. 

You realize she is the one who has been collecting prizes for you. 

“You’re trying so hard to watch out for me you forget I’m looking out for you too,” she says.

“I can’t take this,” you say. “They’ll find it. You have to take it back.”

“No,” she says. “Scoot over.” 

You obey, trying to hide how much it hurts to move. She takes your spot in the corner and you hear a ripping sound. “What are you doing?” You hiss.

She doesn’t answer. “Give me the flower.” You hand it to her, brushing her hand as you do. You wait in silence until she turns back around. “There’s a little hole in your mattress. I put it in there. They won’t find it. I promise.”

“Like that means anything,” you say, mimicking her tone. And as you do, you realize who you’re speaking to. It just clicked. You know this voice. “Natalia.”

“Look who’s finally earned his detective badge.” You wish you could see her smile instead of just hearing it.

—

You stay at S.H.I.E.L.D., thinking she will see sense eventually. You can’t leave the campus yet so you spend a lot of time wandering and watching. You count how many paces it takes to get from one building to another, estimate how quickly you could run. You look up at the buildings, wonder if you could climb any of them. Every day that passes is excruciating. You can feel the Red Room getting farther away. It’s been far too long since you’ve been in contact with them. You haven’t had the chance to tell them you’re coming back. That you’re not a traitor.

The only thing that makes life bearable is Natalia. She said she just wants to be called Natasha now and it confuses you even more. She really is changing.

You tell them you want to defect too. You pretend like you are fine. Like you are not in fact drowning.

You spend time in Natalia’s room, which is exactly like yours but she has a couple of books and a badly drawn picture of what looks like a person. You can’t really tell.

You point to it. “What’s this?”

She smiles. She’s been doing a lot more of that lately. It’s certainly not the worst thing. “It’s you. In your combat suit. You like it? Clint drew it.”

“He must be some kind of artist then. I could barely tell that that thing was a human.”

She laughs, and for a second the sound makes you forget how she has turned traitor. Because it is sweet and real and uniquely hers. “Look,” she says pointing. “This is your mask. See the eyes and the jawbone?”

“So those are teeth?”

“Yeah. And this arc is the hood, and these lines are the cape.”

“What are those?”

“Your katanas.”

“Why are there five of them?”

“There’s not. These are the swords,” she says, pointing to two lines angled toward the bottom of the page. She moves her finger to three lines above the figure’s head. “I think these are anger lines.”

“Anger lines?”

“Yeah. To signify danger. You know you’re pretty scary in that thing.”

You shrug. “Sure, I guess. And what did I do to have this honor?” You ask.

“You put yourself on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s shit list.” She takes her attention from the sketch and looks at you. “Clint said they didn’t know who they had at first, so he drew me this.”

“And you kept it.”

“I needed decoration. What’s better than a picture of you?” She smirks and nudges you in the ribs. “Like a guardian angel.”

You nod because she’s flirting with you and it’s making your head spin just a little bit. You like her even though you know you shouldn’t and you think she likes you too. You aren’t dating because people like you don’t ‘date’ but there’s something, just below the surface. Like an undertow waiting to drag you under if you wade out too far. You can sense it, like a coming storm.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Why did they send you after me? And in such a dramatic fashion. It doesn’t make sense.”

“I don’t know,” you lie. No one sent you. Maybe you were already out in the middle of the ocean. “You’re the best they’ve got. There’s two dozen widows but there’s a reason you’re the one everyone’s been chasing.”

She shakes her head. “No. You’re the best they’ve got. Dreykov would never trade you for me.” She’s looking at you like she knows you’re lying. You hate to find that there’s hope in her expression. Like she’s waiting for a confession. But the truth is unacceptable. You cannot say you ran after her like a prince in a storybook. You cannot open yourself up. 

She has never hurt you. And you will not give her the opportunity now.

So you gamble on the chance she doesn’t know for sure. You shrug and look away. Because you’ve never been as good as her at hiding things. “Guess he did.” You open your mouth again.

“I’m not going back,” she interrupts because she knows what you’re going to say. She puts a hand on your chest, the other on your cheek. “We can make a place for ourselves here.” Despite her conviction she still sounds disappointed. Doesn’t she know she’s won?

“I know,” you say.

Eventually a month goes by but you have not left. By some sickness she has you trapped. This is why Dreykov had warned you against the widows. Because they spun and they lied and now you could not bear to leave her in this strange place.

There are weekly mandatory shrink sessions you must attend as part of your agreement. You aren’t cleared for missions unless you get their green light. It’s a whole fraud that seems to have everyone in this country up in arms but you are sure it’s just S.H.I.E.L.D. trying another clever way to extract information from you. The discussions at least have been mildly amusing. You don’t have much else to focus on right now.

You’ve been transferred to a different “professional” twice now. The first one had obviously been scared of you so you played into it. He was asking you about your life and about guilt so you spent the entire hour making up stories that were unbelievable even by your standards. You told him your job used to be to torture political enemies and captured agents. You stared him down and tried to blink as little as possible when you told him you enjoyed skinning them alive and hearing them scream.

So the next time you go in it’s office 109 instead of 212 and there’s a woman instead of a man. She’s kooky and has you lay on a couch as she asks about your childhood. So you tell her a story too. 

“My father,” you start, even though you hadn’t had one since you were six years old. But none of these people knew anything from where you came from. “He was a terrible alcoholic. He used to slap my face and shake me like a rag doll. I mean, is that what a real man is supposed to be?”

“No, honey. But it’s okay. You’re safe now. Go on,” she says. “How did that make you feel?”

“It made me so angry, doc. So one day I said to him, ‘I’m gonna show you what I’m made of.’ I grab his shotgun that he keeps under his bed and blam! Gunpowder and lead.” You open your eyes and her face is looming over you, confusion starting to bloom. You break out singing, because this is the good part. “I’m goin’ home, gonna load my shotgun. Wait by the door and light a cigarette. He wants a fight, well, now he’s got one. And he ain’t seen me crazy yet!”

You’re smiling because you heard the song on the radio once and you’d remembered it and the singer’s accent after all these years. Her confusion has turned to anger and suddenly the session is over. Oh no.

Kremer has a talk with you after this incident. He tells you to cut the shit and sit through it like everyone else does. Then he reminds you what will happen if either him or one of these therapists deems you unfit for work at S.H.I.E.L.D. But you don’t care. They’re not going to get the best of you twice.

But you go another week to a new office with something to prove. You’ve got a winning streak to maintain. This guy has glasses and graying hair and a stomach that’s a little round. There are shelves and shelves of books and you pace the room, grazing your hand over the spines.

“You got one in here that’s going to tell you how to fix me?”

“Hello,” he says. “My name is Dr. Francis, but you can call me Willem.” He is soft spoken and you think you can break him like you did the first one. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Okay Willem. Sure.” You slouch across from him in a chair level with his. He’s not behind a desk like the first man or hovering over you like the woman.

“Do you like to read?” He asks, because you’re still scanning the shelves.

You used to, but not really anymore. “I’m not working here because I’m some genius who sits around reading all day.”

“No. Certainly not.” Was he making fun of you? “Has anyone told you how this works?”

You shake your head.

“Well I, along with my colleagues, are not ‘S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.’ We’re privately contracted. You know what that means, yes?”

“It means you probably get more money for sitting around and talking nonsense all day.”

“Sure. You’re not wrong. But it also means I don’t owe S.H.I.E.L.D. anything. Whatever is said in this room stays in this room. My only obligation is to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself or others.”

You eye him and his cardigan, wondering how he could walk out of the house with something like that on. “That’s what I’ve been missing!” You snap your fingers. “You’ve got my full trust now Willem, goodness I can’t believe what a great resource this is. What do you want to know? I’ll tell you everything.”

He chuckles. “You’re funny, aren’t you?” 

“I’m only as serious as this whole charade is,” you say gesturing around at the office which looks so out of place here at S.H.I.E.L.D. The clutter on his desk in the corner, the old wood furnishing, the acoustic guitar lying among stacks of books. “But okay sure. Let’s say you’re not going to turn around and blab to Kremer so he can be more efficient about making my life harder. You’re only here to make sure I’m not a danger.” You make little air quotes with your hands when you say this. “You do know what kind of missions are conducted here, no?”

“Of course. I did my time in the military.”

“Really?”

“This surprises you.”

“Yeah, I mean, come on,” you wave your hand at him. “I could kill you with my eyes closed.”

He raises his eyebrows. “I have no doubt you could. But as I was saying. I don’t mean you can’t be dangerous. Just that you have to know when to pick it up and put it away. For example, now was not the time to threaten me with mortal violence.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, getting out of the chair. You couldn’t do that. Violence was who you were. And you were tired of this anyhow.

 You make it to the back wall where there’s a window and on the sill there’s a picture frame. You pick it up, showing it to him. “Is this your family? Your kids are pretty cute.”

“Watch it,” he says.

 You flip the frame around and look down at it. “How old are they? The little one can’t be older than eight, no? What a shame I know her father’s name.”

Maybe it’s because you don’t actually plan to find his family or maybe it’s because you’ve underestimated him that your heart pounds when you look up and he’s in your space with a serious look on his face. 

“Don’t fuck with my family or I will end you.”

“Touchy, touchy,” you say.

“Get out.”

And that’s how your first interaction goes. So you’re surprised the next week when you hear you’ve been ordered back with Dr. Francis.

You stroll into the office like nothing ever happened. “You again. How are your kids doing?”

“Shut up and sit down,” he says.

You mock pout but sit anyway.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“You’ve got my file. I’m sure it says somewhere in there.”

“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.” He’s wearing another ridiculous outfit. A gray polo shirt with a brown patched cardigan.

“So you can make some big point about how I’m young and don’t know anything, right?” You ask. Because this feels awfully familiar. 

You remember a time when you were twelve and told this Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR) officer named Evgenia you were eighteen when she asked. Zhenya laughed and said, yeah right, if you’re eighteen then I’m forty. When you’d finally told the truth she looked at you funny. Do you know what this assignment is? You told her this was a joint mission to take out high-ranking members of a certain Russian mob family who had overstepped the line between civilian and state.

You’re a little young for this, no? She’d asked. 

No one had ever given pause because of your age before. You assured her you were capable of this assignment. 

She let it go but didn’t stop calling you “kid” for the whole two weeks. You hated it until you realized she didn’t mean it in a bad way. It was kind of nice, actually. To feel looked after. Carrying things on your own was so exhausting.

She made you try Oreshki as you sat in a hotel working on the mission reports because she couldn’t believe you’d never had it. Then she asked what your parents were feeding you at home because she’d never seen someone your age so strong. You told her your parents were dead and she’d stared at you for a few minutes. You pretended not to notice. 

When it was time to go back she told you to look after yourself. She seemed reluctant to let you go.

You assured her you would be fine. You always were.

Now you stare at Willem and wonder where he wants to go with this question.

“Something like that,” he says. “Come on, it won’t hurt you.”

“I’m twenty-eight,” you lie. Because there’s no way the number in the file isn’t just an estimate.

He’s quick with his response. “No you’re not.”

You’re about to tell him yes, you are but there’s something in his eyes, in his posture. He’s confident you’ve lied. “Fine. I’m twenty-two. Happy?”

“Exactly. You’re twenty-two. You’re a kid. You’ve barely reached the age we let kids have alcohol in this country. Tell me, have you ever read anything by Shakespeare?” You shake your head. “You ever swam in the ocean?” Another no. “Been to an art museum? Hiked up a mountain? Fallen in love?”

You stop him then. “Love is a scam. It’s some great ideal everyone chases like an idiot because they think their worth resides with another person. It’s an opiate for the masses. You tell someone they’ll be fulfilled if they find this ‘love’ and they’ll blind themselves in pursuit of it. People are more easily controlled when they are distracted by emotion.”

“I don’t think so. And I’ve been in love for twenty years. Almost as long as you’ve been on this earth. Love has brought me great joy and great sorrow. But you wouldn’t know about that. About giving yourself over to someone else. About allowing someone to open your eyes, to challenge you. I am not distracted by emotion, and even if I was I wouldn’t care. Because at least I’ve lived.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

He raises a hand. “Or you’re a coward. You want to think you’re above it all. You had Dr. Casey thinking you were a psychopath. You wanted me to think you were a monster. But you’re not. You’re a scared kid with his chest puffed out. You’re the kid who pushes others on the playground because you’re getting pushed at home. But guess what. I can’t be pushed.

You’re scared to talk because you don’t know what might come out. Scared to let people in because you think they won’t like what they see. How many people have you talked to since you’ve been here? How many people knew you, and I mean really knew you back in Russia? What about that young woman who got here a couple weeks before you? You’re unique. I’ll bet I’ve never met someone like you and I never will again. So I can’t get anywhere, I can’t start if you don’t help me. You have to talk to me.”

And after that he dismisses you, just like that.

The next time you come back the ball is in your court. He doesn’t talk to you, just sits and stares expectantly. Well two could play that game. You’ll show him you won’t talk if you don’t want to. So you sit and count away the seconds and leave when the hour is up.

Another week passes and you’re in his office again. And he’s silent, again. 

You won’t be the one to break. But you’re looking at the guitar on the stand in the corner with all its dust and you think it’s as safe a conversation starter as any.

“Do you play?” You ask, nodding at the instrument.

Willem sits up and blinks a couple times like he hadn’t been expecting you to speak. “No. Not really anymore. And to be honest I could never really play even when I used it. Shame, it’s a beautiful instrument.” He gets up to retrieve the guitar and begins to tune it. “I’ve never really had the ear for music.” He plucks at a string and goes onto the next one.

“Wait,” you say. “Go back. That one’s not right.”

“Too flat or too sharp?”

“What?” Just turn it a little more.” He complies and finally it sounds right. You nod and he goes to the next.

“I didn’t peg you as the musical type,” he says as he plays and you nod or shake your head.

“I’m not. Just a feeling, I guess. I know what notes sound like.”

“But you don’t know this is the ‘E string?’”

“No, nothing like that. I can play a song though.”

“Let’s hear it then, champ.”

He hands you the guitar and you play a song you saw someone playing one time on a mission in Mexico City. There are the movements of the man in the street who had captivated you to stop and watch, and there are your own hands, years later, mirroring his. 

When the song finishes Willem is quiet, then asks, “When did you learn that?”

“I didn’t really learn,” you shrug, like it’s not a big deal. “Saw a guy do it once. Copied what he did.”

“Do you know what chords you used? Can you play anything else?”

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

You smile, because you have impressed him. “Neat party trick, huh?”

“Seems like it could be more than just a party trick.”

You tilt your head back and forth because he’s right but you don’t want to talk about that. “I don’t use it to sing pretty songs, that’s for sure. Where’d this interest of yours come from anyway?”

“My wife got it for me actually. When we were overseas I used to go on and on about missing music. About how I was butthurt having to join the army because it meant I never got to learn how to play the guitar. And she remembered. And the first Christmas after we got home, even though we barely had enough money to get by, she got me this. That’s part of what love is.”

“She’s ex-military too, then?”

“Yes,” he says, like he’s trying to recapture an old dream. “Let me tell you something. Wait, actually, this first. You ever been in a warzone?”

You hesitate for a second and he must see the debate in your mind so he clarifies.

“I mean a real warzone. Out in the trenches with a couple hundred other guys trying to fall asleep to the sound of bomb fire. Not knowing who’s going to have their leg blown off or their head opened up before the next sunrise. Knowing you’re all out there as nothing but cannon fodder, that everything they told you about the army before you left was nothing but a load of horseshit. And you ate it because your life was shit too.” You shake your head. “Well, it’s damn lousy. You have to keep each other’s chins up somehow. There was this joker in my squad, you see. Terrible sense of humor but we all laughed anyhow because things were just that bad. One day, she looks over at me and says, “Imagine this. Two fish are in a tank. One looks at the other and says, ‘Hey, do you know how to drive this thing?’””

You blink at him but can’t help the laugh that escapes. “That has to be the most awful joke I’ve ever heard.”

“It is!” Willem agrees. “But you know what? That’s the moment I fell in love with my wife.”

Now you are surprised. “Because she told you a bad joke?”

“No. Because she was so serious she didn’t know how to be funny but she always cracked herself up anyhow. And I loved her for it.”

“She was?”

“Pardon?”

“You said she was serious. Is she dead?”

“No. We are,” he pauses, quieter now. “We are separated for now. I suppose it’s been long enough that I've started talking about her in the past tense.”

“But you said she’s your wife.”

“She still is, nothing’s official, but,” he trails off, like he’s given up already.

“What?” You smirk. “You cheat on her? She cheat on you? Found some other guy who thought she was pretty and laughed at her dumb jokes?” When he doesn’t react you try something else. “You beat her up?” His head snaps to you and his eyes harden like you’ve pulled out a gun. “That’s it, isn’t it? You talk about war and all this stuff like I need a lesson but you can’t even handle it yourself so you spend all night drinking and you come home and she’s there with her ‘where were yous’ and her idiocy that you didn’t see before because you told yourself you were in love but now she’s annoying the life out of you so you try and put her head in the wall. Right?”

His glare has faded and it makes you a little nervous because it was always a bad sign when Dreykov stopped yelling and got quiet. “Yes,” Willem says calmly as if you hadn’t just gutted him open. “There’s one thing you’re wrong about though. I never had to tell myself I was in love with her. I just was. And I still am. She was right to kick me out.”

You puff your cheeks and blow out air. “You are a bigger идиот than I thought. Have you apologized?”

“Yes. I did the next morning when I realised what I’d done.”

“And she didn’t accept it.”

“No, she did,” he says, dragging a large hand down his face. “She did but I thought some time apart would be for the best.”

  “So you could get yourself a shrink.”

“Not exactly. They say therapists make the worst patients. I’ve found that to be true.”

“Well,” you say. “Sounds like you’re a coward too.”

Willem smiles. Just the smallest upturn of his lips. “Time’s up.”

—

The wilderness is no place for two children. Especially not the barren wasteland of Siberia. The boy has a rifle slung around his shoulder and no coat. The girl has two coats. Blood from a wound on her side drips out onto the snowy terrain underfoot. But she is strong. She refuses the boy’s offers to help her walk.

A long trail of footprints in the otherwise unblemished landscape leads back to a small massacre site.

The children are hungry but cannot stop because something is chasing them. It’s why they had to leave the little house with the fire and the old woman. 

They will hide, they will kill, they will walk until they collapse so the ground may swallow them whole. 

Because the wilderness is no place for two children. It certainly cannot be the place for three.

—

More weeks pass and you keep living and you try not to think too much about how Natalia is doing fine for herself. She has a team now with agents called Barton and Hill and Coulson and May. 

You do not talk so often, even if this is the most freedom you’ve had to talk since you’ve known each other. At first you tried to convince her to go back but no. She is adamant about staying here, about untying herself rope by rope from the Red Room.

The things you exchanged seem so trivial now. You know her favorite color is blue and that she is fine with coffee but would much rather have tea and that she has a scar beneath her collarbone. But here such information is freely given. 

You see other men talk to her in the cafeteria, watch her in the gym. She has always been the most beautiful woman in the room. 

And it is one day when you are eating lunch together that another agent approaches. He has an apple in his hand and sits next to Natalia like he knows her. “Natasha,” he greets. You don’t like how close he is. He extends a hand across the table. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of meeting,” he says. “I’m Agent Matthew Hunter.”

You take his hand and shake it, squeezing a little harder than necessary. “Nice to meet you.” This is a lie. He is entitled and he is American and you would prefer he left you alone.

“Matt,” Natalia says, smiling.

He turns to face her like you aren’t there. “Listen I got to run, but I haven’t had the chance to say how great of a job you did on the Berlin mission last week. I wanted to catch you before I forgot.” 

She licks her lips and turns her shoulders toward him. “You weren’t too bad out there yourself.” 

He waves her off. “Are you kidding me? I have never seen someone handle a room like that before.” Agent Hunter looks at you next but his body is still facing Natalia. “Did she tell you about this? I mean what a fucking bombshell.”

“No,” you say. “We haven’t had the chance.”

“Ah, well. You should really ask her. Hell of a story, hell of an agent.”

Natalia looks down at her lap, her cheeks reddening ever so slightly. 

“Anyway. I have got to go hit the gym. No days off, am I right?” 

He is looking at you and expecting a response so you just say, “Sure.”

“Alright, nice to meet you, man. See you later Nat.”

You watch him walk off like he owns the place and it’s only when you turn back that you realize Natalia had been watching him too.

You take a drink of water and ask, “Do you like him?”

She snaps her attention to you. “Who, Matt? Yeah he’s nice. A bit talkative, but that’s all right. What did you think?”

You ignore her question. “No, I mean. He was flirting with you.”

“I know that.”

“So,” you gesture. She would lead you in circles until your head twisted off if you let her. “Are you going to get with him?”

Her smile fades like you’ve asked if she was planning to kill him instead. “No. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Why not?” You ask. “He’s handsome, young enough. You said you liked him.”

“Because I don’t want him.” And there is this look on her face like you have grown a second head. “I’m not just going to go run around sleeping with people.”

“I didn’t say you should. I was just wondering because I could tell you were into him.”

She scoffs. “I’m not ‘into him.’ He’s friendly. He gave me a compliment. What's so bad about that?”

“Nothing. It was just a question, that’s all.”

She is quiet for a moment, dragging her fork through the last grains of rice on her plate. “You know I like you too, right?”

“Of course. And I like you.”

“No. I mean, in the way you think I like Matt.”

Now it is your turn to choose silence. The two of you kissed and shared a bed sometimes when you had only ever slept alone before. And Natalia was the only person you’ve had sex with, at least in any way that counted. But that didn’t mean anything. You didn’t know any better and neither had she. There was bad and there was worse. You just happened to be sufficient for her when the bar was six feet under the ground. 

“You know, that doesn’t mean anything. You don’t owe me,” you say.

“I know I don’t owe you anything. It’s not about owing,” she says, shaking her head in incredulity. “You’ve been weird since we’ve been here. It’s not a death sentence anymore.”

“I’m saying just because we got together before doesn’t mean you can’t go after this guy now. It was a matter of circumstance you know. There was no one else to choose so you chose me, I get it.”

Her eyes narrow as you say this. You speak for her, but you do not know.  “What are you talking about?”

But you’ve built up steam now and you think if you stop you won’t get the words out because you’re sure they’re not true. You speak for the man you want to project. The one Dreykov would approve of. “And you’re pretty and you came on to me so,” you shrug. “But come on. You were a warm body. So were a lot of the other widows. And so was I. Let’s not make it a bigger deal than it is.” 

But it is a big deal. You ignore all the times you held each other in the middle of the night. The time she taught you how to braid her hair. All those times you made each other laugh. These are the things you take great effort to minimize.

And you are so focused on pushing her away because you are a bird with its wings clipped hurtling toward the ground that you don’t notice her own rage building.

She is used to being silenced. She just never thought you would join the long line of others who’ve treated her as lesser than. She thought you understood, that you were different.

“Fuck you,” she says, looking you straight in the eye. You can’t read the expression on her face. She has always been good at making her face vacant, like marble.

She leaves. Not that there was anything to leave in the first place. 

You tell yourself this is what you wanted. For her to be free. Free of you and free of any guilt that might plague her. Not that the Black Widow felt guilt.

But if this is what you wanted, then why did you feel like you had just severed a limb?

But you are fine too. You have a team with agents called Rumlow and Ward and Rollins. They are callous and crass and they remind you of the guards back home. They do not care where you have come from, despite the fact you still bear the title Junior Lieutenant, technically. Despite what everyone else thinks.

You are strong like the fabled Captain America and could home a bullet into any target with a blindfold on. That’s all they care about.

They say they do not care about your accent that you wear like a scarlet flag. And sometimes, you join them when they go out to drink. Ward and Rumlow are outspoken. Rollins is not. But they all share the same cynical view of the world. And so do you. Maybe that’s why you get along.

There is control and there is chaos. You are all agents of the former.

After word about your squadron placement gets around, no one eyes you in the hall like they want to fight. No one questions your–albeit minimal–authority. At least not to your face.

Missions with them are quick and bloody. You use a rifle most of the time now. One that is bulky and can fire an unnecessary amount of rounds per second. You are a strike unit, so you creep up to the outside of an office or warehouse or home and when everyone is crouched like predators in the shadows you jump out with blazing muzzles. You can’t really call what you do fighting.

It is one day you are out with them that you run into an old friend. She is one of the ones you are hunting. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes doing that, you’ve figured out. Sending you out on missions to destroy what you’ve spent your life building. What you were supposed to sit at the head of the table of one day.

They want to see when you might snap. They want you to cut and run. They do not believe you can change. You don’t believe it either.

But she tells you, and oh is it nice to speak Russian again, that Dreykov wants your head. You cannot go back. You hadn’t wanted to be a traitor, but you’d lit the torch when you let the Americans take you in. And now when you look back, the bridge is engulfed in flames.

She says rumor of your defection has grown and spread like a tumor on Dreykov’s name. You’ve humiliated him by turning your back, and now he is losing power.

“But,” you say. “I didn’t. I don’t want–I’m not loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stops you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I’m still–”

“You’re not listening to me.” She grabs you by the arm. “If you go back there you will die. Apparently Dreykov was kind of a black sheep. They were all looking for a reason to strip him of his rank, and now that he’s lost his two best weapons no one will listen to him. The entire Red Room is on alert, looking for a way to capture you.” She stabs a finger to your chest.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. “But there must be some way to clear this up. If I could talk to him I know I could explain. Or if I could get back. If I talked to the Headmistress.” You know she would understand and she would not be mad. Because she was stern but she never hit you. You used to talk every week in her office, just the two of you. You missed her.

Your friend shakes her head. It’s a “no,” but it’s also full of admonishment. 

“What?” You ask.

“Always so eager to please.”

“It’s called having honor.” 

There are footsteps outside the office you’ve pulled her into. She tugs on your arm and you retreat around the corner.

“We don’t have much time,” you say.

She’s silent for a moment, then, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. It won’t be hard. No one will be looking for me as long as you have that S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your chest. I’m saying you should leave too.” She puts a hand on your cheek, makes you look her in the eye. “We could be extraordinary.”

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why not?” There is disbelief, there is frustration. “You just said it yourself. You’re not loyal to them. And these brutes have nothing on us. We can disappear.”

“You should go. I really think you should. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“I wanted it with you.”

“Goodbye, Svetlana,” you say, kissing her on the cheek. She is still.

On your way out, she speaks up. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s funny. You’ve always been so blind when it comes to her. You think anyone can know the Black Widow? She will drain the life from you.”

She leaves you with a note with an address on it.

“In case you change your mind.”

When you get back you hide the slip of paper in the nightstand with Dreykov’s watch.

—

You pull on the hideous shirt with the too large sleeves and try not to think about how ridiculous wearing tights is. You grab your shoes and head down the hall to the other dressing room. 

When you enter the dancers that are actually a part of this company stare at you. The four widows–excluding Natalia–don’t bat an eye. Modesty was a long lost concept for all of you. Especially around each other. Nastya looks over and smiles at you. You wink back.

The understudy for the lead part–who like the rest of you earned the role after members of the main cast suddenly became ill the night before–finds you like a heat-seeking missile. Her blood red hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the fluorescent lights pale her skin to a moonlight shade. She looks like she has come from another world to ravage war upon this one. She is muscle and sinew and bone. She is magnificent. 

She snakes an arm around the back of your neck and kisses you on the jaw. She wants them all to see. You are hers in this show and hers backstage. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You go out and perform on auto pilot because you watched a recording of the show once and now the movements are ingrained in the memory of your muscles. You focus on the crowd, try to spot your targets. There is a war going on in the shadows. You’ve all been sent to end it. To show them the Red Room is superior. They won’t even know what hit them. 

You have a break to watch Natalia perform her solo. You stand in the right wing and watch her under the spotlight, dazzling the crowd. Even here she is dangerous. She is like a panther getting upwind of its prey. Every move is measured, every step beaten into submission because of how many times she practiced. She makes herself delicate, but you know better.

There is a part where she almost rushes off stage as if reaching for something, but an invisible force drags her back to the center. You are standing in the spot she reaches for. Maybe you knew she would end up here, maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because her eyes snap open and for a half second you lock eyes. The audience members aren’t the only ones she’s made believe in her desperation. 

After the first act ends Anastasia and Yeva leave for the targets’ hotel where they will be waiting. The four of you who are left finish the show and keep eyes on your targets. When you take your bow you are holding Natalia’s hand. Then you slink into the shadows, ditch the outfit, and put on your mask and hood. 

You leave as a unit out a back door and climb to the roof. It is raining outside. Not more than a drizzle, but the brick underfoot is slick and your targets will be hiding under coats and umbrellas. Stefanya kneels to assemble a rifle that had been packed into a violin case. You crouch in the shadows, feel the rain begin to soak through your pants. 

The crack of the rifle is loud like lightning and the crowd parts around the dead man. An ambulance is called but you know it is too late. The four of you split there. You will find each other later in an apartment building across town. 

You know Natalia will beat the ambulance to the hospital and an accident will befall the entourage of the dead. Nowhere is safe.

You follow a fleeing family of four to their car. The father is a high-ranking official of your enemy, the mother a scientist. They both know tonight is no accident. They run into the dark, down an alleyway instead of along the main road. Smart. You watch them go. You know where they will end up. 

You get in a vehicle which has been left for you and follow them out of the city. You drive until the houses have become sparse and so has the light. The rain is pouring down in sheets now. You step on the gas and flip the car’s brights on. The front of your car rams into the back of theirs. The sedan spins out of control, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. The car drifts into a ditch and you pull up beside it. 

You step out of your car and draw your swords. Because this is a message, not an accident. Two shots are fired your way. You duck behind the car and let the guy shout insults at you. But you hear the fear in his voice. He saw who they’d sent for him.

You rush through the dark, cape heavy and soaking behind you. You ram your fist into the passenger window and slide the end of one sword through the woman’s mouth. There are more shots but you have already disappeared again into the night. 

The children in the backseat scream. Their anguish refuses to be drowned out by the storm. You hear them as if they are crying right into your ears. The man gets out and slams the door shut. You see him in the flashes brought by the lightning. He yells for you to come out. So you oblige. You launch yourself onto the car roof and stare down at him. Here I am, you say. He points the pistol at you and you slice his hand off. He goes down, still cursing. The last thing he does is ask you to leave the kids out of this.

You go up to the backdoor. Didn’t he know? This was a family affair.

You tell yourself what you have done tonight is for the greater good. Many more will live off the blood of this sacrifice. 

When you get back to the rendezvous point you find only Stefanya and Marina. You were supposed to be the last one back. Where are they, you ask. They are quiet. Stefanya looks you in the eye and says none of them ever showed. You know she is lying. You take a breath and step closer so you may look down on them. They are not intimidated by you. Even in the dark, even with the rain outside, even with your face behind a mask they know you will not hurt them. 

Because you all grew up together. And that means something. 

So you draw back your hood and remove the mask. You let them see the worry in your eyes. Come on, you say. What happened.

They are quiet for a moment longer. Then, Marina whispers. Yeva and Nastya never returned. Natalia went after them. She told us not to tell you. 

You put your gear back on and rush out the door. Stay here, you call over your shoulder. You fly through the night to the hotel they were supposed to be at and find Anastasia sitting against the wall bleeding. She raises her gun at you when you barrel through the window. You take off your mask and rush to her. Nastya, you say. She is shot and she should be dead but widows are not ordinary humans. You ask if she is all right and she laughs. Clearly, I am not. She already has a shirt tied around her stomach and she is holding another tight to staunch the bleeding. 

Natalia has been here, you say. Yes. You ask where she has gone and where Yeva is. She tells you she doesn’t know. That Yeva and she were ambushed and overwhelmed. The room is trashed. Bullet holes in the walls and broken furniture. There are bodies littering the floor. They must have had two dozen men up here to overpower just the two of them. 

You ask if she will be all right if you go. She tells you yes she thinks so. Then you hold a hand out. She takes it. Her hand is clammy and cool to the touch. Are you sure, you ask. Because Katya might actually kill me if you die on my watch. Go, she tells you. Find Yeva. 

So you leave out the window and try not to think about it all being too late. If they had the chance to drive off they could be out of the city by now. You weren’t even supposed to be out hunting for them. You should’ve taken Stefanya and Marina and gone back to base. The others’ failure was theirs alone to bear. So you stand in the dark collecting raindrops, wondering why this has come as an afterthought. You realize in your haste you’d left your mask back in the hotel room. Water drips down your face as you stare up at the sky. Maybe the stars know.

Then, through the stench of the storm and the dirt and oil the rain has sloughed from the ground you smell blood. It is sharp and metallic and unmistakable. You trot down the near pitch black alley in search of the source. There are a number of irregular shapes down a perpendicular alleyway. You can barely see they are there. You stop, your boots splashing in a puddle. 

With measured steps you stalk forward, unsheathing the swords on your back. The shapes are bodies of men in ruined suits with ruined faces. One’s eyes have been gouged inward, pushed deep in toward his brain. Belly-up he stares unseeing into some void. And as if he hadn’t suffered enough he is also eviscerated. Guts and blood leak from him onto the dirty ground as if from an overfilled trash bin. No wonder you were able to smell it.

There is another with his throat slit and his head bashed in. Another with his jaw ripped wide open. He has been shot, but only in the leg. None of these men went out with a clean death. All of them suffered.

You find Natalia in the middle of the carnage, holding another body. Yeva is limp in her arms, eyes closed. You kneel beside both of them. She’s gone, Natalia whispers. You try to ignore the awful pang in your chest. Because she died in the service of her country. She died a soldier’s death. It is an honor. 

But alone in the rain in a struggle is no way to die. Dark blood is still seeping from the hole in her forehead to stain her blonde hair. She looks so young. 

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alleyway. Stefanya and Marina have Anastasia supported in between them. Stefanya is taller than them both which makes it an awkward position but they have made it. You’re not surprised they didn’t stay at the rendezvous either. 

The cops are here, Marina says. We need to go.

Natalia stands, Yeva in her arms. You pull your hood deeper over your face and lead them away. In a stolen car you drive out of the city. There’s a field and it’s on its way to being flooded but it will have to do. You have no tools so you dig with your hands and you try to ignore how familiar the action is. Even Nastya insists she helps. 

Dawn has already broken when the grave is finally dug. You lower Yeva’s body in and replace the dirt under the young sunlight. None of you care about the consequences the day will surely bring.

Very few will ever know that she lived. And only you will know about her death, about this gravesite. It’s only fair you take a moment. They tell you you are nameless, faceless, inconsequential and that it is selfish to believe otherwise.

But dammit Yeva was a person. They refused to give her a place in the world. So you suppose that’s what the four of you have done now. What a shame it could only be given after her last breath.

—

The next time you’re being briefed on a mission there are forty agents in the room. You go to the side of the room where your squad along with the rest of the platoon are standing. Rumlow tells you there must be a big fucking fish to fry.

Crowded on the other side of the conference table are members of STRIKE Team: Delta, including Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. You lock eyes with her for a moment but you turn away because Agent Matthew Hunter is right there next to her. Rumor has it they’ve been “going out.” Last week Ward asked you how it felt to have some tool like Hunter steal your girl. You told him she wasn’t your girl. That she’d be fucking a new guy in another week. You don’t know why you said that last part.

Then everyone is quiet because Fury is here and the Director never bothers with things as trivial as mission briefs.

Turns out there’s a huge freaking terrorist compound in Iraq and you’ve been authorized to take it out. Agent Barton is in charge of tagging the leader. Everyone else, don’t get killed.

So you fly out in three separate jets and you’re on the one holding a mix of both teams. Everyone’s keeping to their own side but Natalia comes over to stand by you.

“Hi,” she says. 

“Hi,” you say back. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been missing her. But now that you’ve heard her voice and she’s so close your shoulders are almost brushing it hits you like a bucket of ice water. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. It’s odd though, you know.” 

“What is?”

“Not speaking with you.” she says. “I mean we’re in the same building most of the time now. It’s just been too long.”

“I agree,” you say. And because you cannot bring yourself to admit you feel less alive when she’s not around, that now that she’s here you have to stop yourself from grinning like a moron, you say, “I don’t think we’ve been on a mission together yet. Not since coming here.”

She’s looking at you and now you’re thinking about the furrow in her brow and the shine in her eye when she’s thinking hard. The little things you’re sure only you know because you’re the only person she’s shown them to. “You’re right,” she says. “We haven’t.”

“Kremer was probably scared shitless about the potential the two of us have together.”

“Kremer?”

“My handler. He’s an absolute asshat. I feel like he had one look at me and has already sentenced me. Nothing I do can change his mind.”

“That’s too bad for him,” she says. “He’s missing out on a great agent.”

You finally allow a smile to crack through. “How’s Barton?”

“He’s good. I think the two of you would get along.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you both know how to be a huge pain in my ass.” She smirks and you shove her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into Romanova.” 

She takes your hand and traces circles on the inside of your palm. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” she murmurs.

Your face flushes because you hadn’t even realized what you’d said. “I can stop. I just, I forget sometimes. And besides.” You lean in and switch to Russian because someone is always listening in. “Natalia Romanova is the strongest person I know. I don’t think you should be ashamed of her.”

She turns her face toward yours and responds in kind. “You don’t have to stop. I like what it means when you say it.” You can feel her breath on your cheek and you wonder if she might kiss you. But she pulls away to smile at you again. “And you’re the only one who can pronounce it right anyway.”

You touchdown and by some force of habit you and Natalia pull away from the others and slink into the shadows. You pull your pistol out and shoot a figure with his gun out before Natalia can get to him.

She turns back to you. “Since when do you use a gun?”

You shrug. “Since I became American.”

“You don’t have your swords?”

“No. Those are still confiscated. But,” you take a retractable blade from your belt and unsheath it. “I’ve got this.”

“Can you use it?”

“Well enough,” you say. You could use a sharp stick if you needed to. “Actually, it’s quite different from using my katanas. First of all there’s only one of whatever this is. It’s pretty terrible. Americans have no idea about blades. Whoever made this shaped it like a toothpick.” You thrust it forward into the empty air. “You can’t slash with it, which is what you want to do,” you say, drawing an arc this time.

“Easy, tiger. I can’t believe I almost forgot how much of a nerd you are.” You’re about to retort but she stops before a corner and gives you a look. Down the hall there’s an open door and a light on. You edge up to it and count four guys smoking and playing cards. As one you jump out, Natalia covering you as you barrel into the thick of it. There are two guys with bullet holes in them and one writhing on the ground from one of her taser discs.

You’ve plunged your sword through the last one and are still trying to wrench it free when she kicks the one getting shocked in the head. Finally you get it free, his ribs cracking from how hard you had to pull it out. 

“That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Oh please,” you respond, wiping the blade off on your sleeve. There’s blood on your hands and face and more spreading over the concrete floor. “You’re the one who likes making messes on purpose. I told you this sword is atrocious.”

She shrugs. “I only do that if they really deserve it.”

“So that’s like everyone, right?” You turn away from her, shaking your head hard enough you know she must see. “It’s appalling really. I mean have some decorum Natalia. Twenty-three times is a lot to stab someone, you know.” 

Silence is the only answer you receive. But the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and in a flash she’s on your shoulders trying to bring you down.

You keep talking in between the short bursts of laughter rising from your chest. “At that point it’s disrespectful.” She covers your eyes with one hand and your mouth with the other. Then she twists with just enough force to signal she wants you down and you get to your knees to soften the blow before you completely collapse on your back. 

“The cops can’t even recognize the poor bastards.” She’s on top of you with a glint in her eye like she’s hungry. You put your hands up. “Please don’t, oh no I have an ounce of cocaine I still need to snort tonight.” She puts the handle end of a knife against your cheek and drags it down toward your chest. “I have so much to live for,” you say, suddenly putting on an American accent.

She cracks, a little smile emerging on her face. She stands before she thinks you’ve seen and leaves the room. “Get up. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I saw that,” you say, jogging after her.��

“Saw what?”

“You think I’m hilarious.”

“No, I think you’re dumb.”

“I can be both. It’s called having range.”

You wouldn’t say you enjoy what you do, but it’s all you know. At some point you had to become numb to it or you’d drown in the guilt. But you have missed working with Natalia. Your team is fine. But it’s different when she’s had your back in the field since you were ten years old. When you could pass out right now and know she’d keep you safe. When you know exactly what move she’s going to make next.

The end of the hall splits off and you go left while she goes right.

You pass a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and give them a nod before turning down another hall. You check another room and there’s a woman in there with a gun.

You raise yours, and you don’t know why but something makes you hesitate. Maybe it’s because you don’t think she’ll shoot. Maybe it’s because there’s been this bug in your ear nagging about innocence until proven guilty. 

But she doesn’t and there’s a shot and a bullet in your side. You don’t waste time before you fire a return shot that shatters her kneecap. She drops her gun and goes down screaming.

Rage explodes hot in your chest. At her, for shooting you. But mostly at yourself for slipping. “You bitch,” you seethe in Russian. The pain in your side is mixing with the anger in your chest and the storm is deafening. 

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” she sobs, laying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not with them. I won’t fight anymore. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” But you’ve seen this act before. You won’t underestimate her twice.

“Shut up,” you say in English. You put your foot on her broken knee and stand on it. She wails even harder. You’re looming over her as you unsheathe your sword. Her sobs are the only sound left in the room. You seethe in silence. Like you always have. 

You raise the blade above your head like an executioner with his axe and bring it down over her neck. Her head comes apart from her body. There’s a thud as she settles on her back. The sword snaps as it strikes the concrete from the weight of your full strength. You stumble forward. Sometimes you forget how strong the serum has made you.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. You can’t tell if you can’t catch your breath because you’ve been shot or because of something else.

Then, “Holy shit.”

You whip around and aim your gun at the voice by the doorway. 

“Woah, woah, woah. Don’t shoot me, partner,” says Agent Hunter.

Блядь.

You put your weapon away but don’t say anything.

He looks at the blood on your face and the broken sword you’re holding onto like a lifeline and the body at your feet. The woman’s eyes are still open. Locked in a panicked gaze. Then he blanches and turns away. The sound of him throwing up almost makes you hurl too.

“Hunter,” you pant, finding your voice.

But he’s backing away with his hands out like you’ll get him next. “You’re sick.”

More footsteps come down the hall and a group of agents checks on him. It’s over for you as soon as the first new arrival sees the body and the blood on your hands. Oh my god, he says. The judgement rolls through the crowd that’s begun to amass. 

Agent Hunter is out of your sight now but you can hear him. “He fucking killed her. She was on the ground begging for her life and he fucking chopped her head off.”

Your face heats up and your heart is pounding something crazy in your chest because you still haven’t caught your breath. There’s too many people in the room. Too many eyes on you. You can hear every gasp, every hitch in their breathing, every whisper. It’s driving you nuts. Why can’t they just mind their own fucking business. 

They’re going to kill you for this. You’re injured and vulnerable. There’s a dozen of them now and they’ve all got guns. 

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” You yell. “Get out!” 

They stare at you for another moment before shuffling away. 

You think you see a glimpse of fire-red hair in the crowd. There one second, then gone. Like the flicker of a flame.

Rumlow is the first one to approach you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t come too close. “Come on, man,” he says in the same rough voice he always uses. The familiarity is good. “It’s time to go.”

—

The girl with the blood red hair stops at a small grove of trees. She tells the boy it is time. She cannot go further.

The boy stops because the girl is the strongest person he knows. If she says she cannot go on she must mean her feet have fallen off. But he is also confused because there are supposed to be weeks and weeks left. This is not right. 

The girl curses and curls into a ball at the base of a skinny, bare tree. Because she knows this too. Stupidly, she thinks if she makes the area around her stomach just a little warmer everything will be okay. She is desperate.

But their luck has run out. The girl was good at keeping secrets and when the secret could not be kept any longer a man named Ivan put her on a long-term espionage mission. The boy has always disliked this man whom the girl looks to like a father but he owes him for this. 

But things went sour as things happen to go and when the girl sent the message from the cabin the boy should not have come. But this was a thing worth running for. 

Miracles do not exist.

The boy sinks into the snowy ground next to the girl. She turns her face toward his and they press their foreheads together Like a kiss, but with the tenderness that can only be born from the innocent. I love you, the girl tells him. 

The boy tries to be brave even though he is scared. I love you too, he says. No matter what happens.

—

They make you go to medical when you get back because everyone was watching you on the plane and it was obvious you had a bullet in your side.

You sit in a private room that’s got a door instead of just curtains between beds. But it’s not really private because there’s a doctor and two armed guards at the door. All three of them stare at you. They haven’t gone so far as to handcuff you but you know you’ve taken a huge step back. 

The doctor introduces herself as Helen Cho and asks, “Are you able to remove your shirt?”

You don’t want to take your shirt off. It leaves you too vulnerable. And you don’t want them to see your back.

“Agent, there’s a bullet in your torso. Remarkably it hasn’t hit anything vital. And by some miracle you’re sitting up like nothing’s wrong. But I still need to take it out. It’s not supposed to be in there.” She is direct but still somehow soft-spoken. You don’t like being in this white room with these strange people but you suppose she could be worse.

You fidget with your hands. You’ve washed them but there’s still red on your palms, dried flakes under your fingernails. Finally, you say, “I can get it out myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I would be more comfortable if you would let me do it. Have you ever extracted a bullet before?” You shake your head. “It’s tricky, it requires precision, and it hurts the person it’s in. It’s hard to keep your hand steady when you’re in pain.”

You glance up at the agents keeping guard. “Sure I know.” 

Doctor Cho notices and waves at them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Ma’am, we have orders to keep him under supervision.”

“He’s injured. You can stay right outside the exam room. Nobody is going to disappear into thin air.”

“But–”

“I’m the doctor. And this is my patient. You can wait outside,” she says sternly.

And this time they listen. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to you. “Better?”

You nod slowly, finally drawing in a larger breath. Your side ignites in fire and you gasp, which only makes it hurt worse. Your hand flies to the wound, hovering over it. 

“Getting shot isn’t fun, is it?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now there’s two ways we can do this. You can lay here and let me help you or I can have you sedated.”

“No,” you wave a hand at her. “No, don't do that.”

“Okay I won’t,” she assures. “But I’ve been at this long enough to know some people need a little extra help. It’s all right.” She pauses. “I still need to see the wound site. I’ll walk you through it every step of the way,” she offers.

“You will?” 

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s to stall a little longer. Maybe because you actually care. “You’re not worried about being in here alone with me?”

“Why would I be? You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “But you have to be wondering why I’ve got a couple of angry looking sitters.”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “‘I’m curious. But I don’t make a habit of judging people I don’t know. And besides. I’m a doctor. I’d treat you no matter what.”

“So there’s no limit?”

“No, I’ve got a limit.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s for people who think they can talk their way out of treatment,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Come on.”

Slowly, you maneuver your right arm out of the t-shirt. The movement stretches your side and it hurts but you grit your teeth and push through the pain. You leave your shirt on around your neck and left side. The wound is still oozing blood just above your right hip. You figure she has enough room to work.

Doctor Cho sighs. She takes a once-over glance at your body. Her attention locks on the bullet wound then flickers to your back then refocuses again. 

“You’re probably going to want to lay down.”

You oblige and she comes over with gloves on her hands but no mask on her face. You’re grateful for this. The doctors in the Red Room always wore masks and headgear that made them look less human. They also didn’t talk. Not to you anyway. And their notes always had the word “Subject 094” instead of your name.

You swallow as she sits on a stool by your side with a pair of forceps and a pen light. You don’t know when you'd gotten so sweaty. 

“I’m going to locate the bullet and extract it. Sound good?”

You nod and she waits. “Yes,” you say. 

She clicks on the flashlight and puts a cool hand on your stomach. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to go under for this?”

“I’m sure.”

She presses down lightly with two fingers around the entry site. It hurts but it doesn’t really hurt until the fourth spot she touches. You suck in air through your teeth and clench your fists.

“I started working in the medical field because I wanted to cure cancer,” she says. “My passion was research, but my parents wanted me to get my M.D. They said there’s no success in research. So I did both. I have an M.D. for them and a Ph.D. in biomedical research for myself.” 

You focus on her words, imagining a younger Doctor Cho in your mind. She can’t be much older than you. “You must be some kind of genius,” you grit around a clenched jaw.

She blushes, and even though there’s a pair of forceps lodged way too deep inside your torso the pain eases a little. “Nothing like that. I just worked hard. And you know the crazy part? I ended up loving the patient work almost as much as I loved running tests in a lab. So my parents had the right idea after all, just for the wrong reasons.”

You’re looking at her face now instead of her hands and trying to memorize the slight purse in her lips and the brightness in her eyes. This is her arena, her fight.

“Сука!” You curse and jolt a little.

“Steady,” she says. “I’ve got it. Just have to pull it out.”

You try to draw in deep, steady breaths through your nose and out your mouth. “Great.” You can’t watch anymore so you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself pain is only a mental construct even though it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

There’s a clink and a rattle and Doctor Cho says, “The hard part is done. I’m going to clean, stitch, and bandage you now.”

“So you’ve given up on curing cancer to take bullets out of idiots instead?”

“No. Actually, I work in research almost full time now. They’ve got a pretty nice lab here. You should stop by, if you’re not too busy catching more bullets.” She doesn’t look you in the eye as she says this. 

“This is my first time getting shot.”

“There shouldn’t be a first time,” she counters.

“You said you do research almost full time now. Should I feel special, then?” You smile.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a disturbance to my day off, actually.” She takes a bottle of water and flushes it through your wound. 

You hiss. “Please remind me never to get shot again.”

“If you come through here injured again I’ll kick you out,” she says, smiling. “I thought you all had armor for this type of thing. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. A bulletproof vest.” She wipes the rest of the blood from your skin.

“I don't wear those. Too much of a restriction on movement. Agility is the most important thing out there.”

“I don’t know about that. Sounds like I’d want this thing that keeps me from ending up on the wrong side of this bed.”

You shrug. Because she’s running thread through your skin and it hurts more than you try to let on. Maybe she has a point.

Doctor Cho retrieves a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the corner. “This part will be easier if you stand up.”

You stand and stumble. You have to catch yourself on her shoulder. “Sorry,” you say. “Might have lost a little bit of blood recently.”

“You don’t say.”

You fix her nametag, the picture smiling shyly back at you.

She wraps the bandage taught around your stomach. “No strenuous activity until I clear you, understand? Nothing that raises your heart rate too much. And I want to see you back in three days. Think you can manage?”

You shrug back into your shirt. “Does that mean I can’t go to my underground fighting club tonight?”

She makes an overexaggerated frown. “I’m afraid so.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cho,” you say earnestly.

“Don’t mention it.” And as you put your hand on the door knob, she adds, “Call me Helen.”

You smile over your shoulder. “See you in a few days Helen.” 

Your personal guards march you down to Kremer’s office. You tell them you’re sure you can get there on your own but they’re not in all that talkative of a mood.

Kremer is standing over his desk, arms braced against the wood like he’s trying to ground himself. He has his glasses on but removes them when you enter. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards disappear, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit down,” he says. When you don’t move he says it again, louder. “Sit down! That’s an order.”

You sit but he doesn’t. He stands, hovering over you like some angry buzzard.

“What the fuck was that? I’ve got a dozen eyewitness reports saying you beheaded some defenseless woman. You want to tell me something different happened?”

“Sir,” you start, cautiously. Because even though a plan is already in your mind to bolt you would rather not have to sleep with one eye open tonight. “I don’t know how you have a dozen eyewitness reports. Agent Hunter was the only one present for the moment of death.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t fucking care if it was one person or fifty people or just God himself as witness. Did you do it?” “She shot me first. She wasn’t exactly defenseless.”

Kremer mutters to himself under his breath. “But you didn’t need to chop her goddamn head off! I’ve seen the pictures. Looks like an excessive use of force to me. Was she threatening you when you did it?”

“She could’ve had another weapon under her shirt or in her waistband. I made a call.”

“Hunter said she was sobbing, begging you not to kill her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! She could have been acting. I’ve seen it done a hundred times.”

“You Reds and your excuses,” he shakes his head. “It’s my ass when you pull some stunt like this, do you understand? I don’t know how you did it back in Russia but here we don’t go around beheading people like barbarians. And if you don’t want to end up in some hellhole I suggest you get yourself up to our bar, quickly.”

“You think I did that just because? The bitch shot me first! I just spent twenty minutes having a bullet dug out of my stomach because of her.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” he points a finger at you. “I think you’re a fucking animal who was just waiting for some excuse to make another person suffer. I know your type. You get off on this kind of violence. If it was up to me you’d be rotting out in the middle of the ocean right now.”

“What the fuck?” You sputter. “I don’t–”

“We’re done here. You’re on a month’s suspension.” He sighs, putting his glasses on and sitting down. “But if you step one toe out of line you’re out of here.”

You stand up far too quickly. The ache in your side flares like you’ve ripped it open again. 

“And I think you should know,” he adds. “Fury has given me complete authority over this matter. Whether you stay or go is my call.”

You salute him before you go, pretending your eyes could burn holes through his skull.

The agents turned guards aren’t waiting for you when you leave Kremer’s office so you head back to your room. Your side hurts even worse now. The adrenaline has worn off. Every step you take makes you want to sink to the floor. 

By the time you make it across campus to the barracks you’re sweating a little and breathing hard. You’ll have to tell Helen you broke her rule. 

Natalia is in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed in her mission suit. Her hair is still braided back, little flyaways sticking to the back of her neck. 

“How did you get in here?” You ask.

“You’re all right,” she says in relief. She crosses the room, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your cheek. 

“Yeah,” you breathe, putting a hand on her arm. “Can I sit? I’m not exactly totally good.” You don’t wait for her to answer before almost collapsing into the chair at the desk in the corner.

“What happened?” You look up at her, thinking about how you saw her in the crowd. How she didn’t come up to you. Didn’t defend you.

“I was shot,” you say. You lift the edge of your shirt up, just enough to reveal the bandage.

She sits on the bed again. “And?” She prompts, head tilted slightly. 

“And I got it patched. But it still hurts,” you say. Because you’re not going to give her what she wants to know yet. She has to play her hand first.

“I heard what happened. On the jet. People were talking.”

“People were talking,” you say, looking away and nodding your head. 

“They were,” she answers. “And I thought maybe you weren’t coming back. You know how people like to talk. Things get embellished. But you’re okay. They let you off. Right?”

“I don’t know,” you say flatly. You look right at her so she can’t hide. “Were they embellishing? You can cut the shit Natalia. I know you were there.”

She is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. “I saw the aftermath. That doesn’t mean I know what happened. Only you can know that.”

“Why don’t you ask your buddy Matt?” You spit his name like it is a curse. “He saw most of it. And I’m sure he wasn’t shy about telling everyone.”

She stands, says your name. She is already close, but takes two steps to completely close the distance anyhow. “I don’t care about what happened. I just care that you’re okay.”

You look up at her. She is frowning down at you like you are some wounded dog. You want to ask her why she did not ask this thing when you were standing alone, a dozen pairs of eyes on you. But you know. Oh you know. She did not want their judgement to pass to her, did not want to be seen with the outsider with blood on their hands.

And maybe, part of her was scared of him too.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “And if I told you they were outside the door waiting to take me away?” You come back to a way she has already disappointed you.

She takes a breath. You search her face. She searches yours. “Then you would need to disappear.” You wait for the second part. About how she would let you go but in a month’s or year’s time it would be her sent to hunt you down. It would be her with the gun to your head. Because she was the only one smart enough to find you, ruthless enough to betray you. She was the only one you would ever lose to.

You lower your head. You need to stop pulling open this wound. Things are hard enough.

But then. She rakes a hand through your hair. “And I would need to disappear too. I’d kill everyone in here for you, you know that. If it came down to it, I would leave with you too.”

This is new. She has not yet chosen you over them. You feel an opening.

Your head snaps back up. “We can go.”

“But they’re not coming. They’re giving you a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance,” you say. 

“Don’t say that,” she shakes her head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why are you so adamant about staying here?” You are getting frustrated. “You left the Red Room because you were a pawn but now you want to serve some other cause. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I’m not going to spend my life on the run, in the shadows. Not when I can do something with it.” She sighs, her gaze turning melancholic. “I need. I need to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you argue. She was already perfect. “The world needs a little pain. Humanity will never go in the right direction without it.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t control everything.” She puts her hand on your cheek. You hate yourself for leaning into it. You hate her because she knows how to make you pliant. 

You think of all the other times she’s touched you like this, the times she’s made you feel chosen only to turn away the next moment with apathy in her eyes. Because she is a mask of indifference, a one-night flirt. But for you she’s made an exception. You’ve seen her come apart, seen her struggle to be human. But still. Some part of you whispers, “trap.” She is just using you to keep herself afloat. After all, she is first and foremost a survivor. If anyone was going to make it out alive it would be her.

“But we could,” you say.

“No,” is her only answer. She says it like she is watching you drift away and she cannot follow. 

Maybe you are. Or maybe she is the one leaving you.

—

You dread having to talk to Willem after the incident. You know what he is going to ask about before he opens his mouth.

“I heard you had an eventful last week.”

“Are you going to lecture me too?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. It’s a cheeky smile without teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle all the same. “I heard you got yourself on some kind of double probation. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“You hear what I did?” You ask. Part of you hopes he hasn’t. You’d never admit it, but you don’t mind him. Whatever this was was weird. But it would be a shame for it to change now.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t care to. I want to know what you think. I’ve known Kremer for a long time. He’s a hard ass.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoff. “He needs to come in here.”

Willem laughs. It’s a nice, hearty sound. But he keeps whatever he had found funny to himself. He steadies himself with a hand on his knee. “You think he’s unfair.”

“I mean, yeah. He doesn’t give me the time of day. It’s like he’s out to get me.”

“Do you think he was wrong to suspend you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

You hated Kremer but you also hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. But that wasn’t exactly your fault either. She was dead the moment she pointed a gun at you. What did it matter how you’d done her in? And she’d only shot you because you’d hesitated. That was Kremer’s fault for yelling at you so much about restraint. You pivot instead. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Willem frowns at that. You think it’s not so much at the content of the question, but at your lack of answer for his. “Yes,” he replies.

You wave your hand in a vague gesture. “Then you know.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“The feeling,” you wave again. “I don’t know. That rush when you, you know.” 

“The bloodlust,” he supplies.

“Sure,” you say. “That seems a little extreme.” 

“That’s the name we had for it in the army. Everyone had a similar story. Some guy in their platoon you wouldn’t have thought would make it a week. He’s too skinny or he wets the bed or he cries at night. Whatever. But by some miracle he survives. And one day he’s toe-to-toe with some enemy combatant. Everyone thinks he’s a goner. But he gets his first kill. And it’s not from some machine gun a few hundred yards away or a mine he rigged up. No. This is personal, it’s bloody. From then on the guy’s an animal. Nobody makes fun of him anymore cause he might claw your eyes out. The bloodlust.”

You shake your head. “Not like that. Just in the moment. When it’s you or them. Everything else fades out. You get this urge. Like something has to break. And it can’t be you.”

“Sure,” he says. “In the moment. But you can’t go on living like that all the time. Or you end up like that batshit private.”

“That’s all it was,” you say. “I don’t get why it’s not acceptable for me to blow off a little steam.”

“Because it’s dangerous. If you can’t control yourself you shouldn’t be out there.”

“So you’re taking Kremer’s side, now?”

“It’s not about sides. But you have a job to do. And there’s standards you have to abide by. You think I could do this if I flew off the handle with every client?”

“You’ve yelled at me,” you point out.

“You’re the exception.”

You roll your eyes.

“Do you feel good about what you do?” He asks.

“I don’t feel bad about it,” you say, although it’s only a half-truth. You used to feel terrible when you had to hurt someone. You didn’t want to do that. But time went by and you got used to it. You had to. There’s only a twinge left now. You call it respect for the dead.

“Let me rephrase. Do you like what you do?”

“Define ‘like.’”

He ponders for a second. “If you were free to do anything you wanted, would you still be here?”

“That’s a stupid hypothetical. No one is free to just do as they please.”

“I think we are. Or at least we should be.”

“So walk up out of here right now,” you say, gesturing at the door. “Try your luck begging for money on the street. See how you like your freedom then.”

“I’ve walked away once before. That’s how I ended up here.” Of course he’s got a story for everything. “My first job after I left the military was private security. Ex-military means a lot more to civilians than it does to anyone who actually served. It was nice. I never once pulled out my gun. I had to babysit these assholes who thought way too much of themselves but it paid. About two-and-a-half times what I’m doing here. And all I needed was my high school degree.

I worked awful hours. Wasn’t at home much. But it didn’t matter because I was supporting them. Giving them the life my father couldn’t give me.

Then I got this gig. Full-time bodyguard for some idiot who was going to pay half a million a year. I took it and realized I wasn’t happy. My family wasn’t happy. So one night I don’t show up. They called and I said I couldn’t make it. My kid had a ball game.”

“You just left?” You ask.

“Yes. I realized life is short, and you only get one. I needed to reprioritize, so I did.” Willem pauses to give you that look he always does. As if you can’t hear him if he doesn’t stare you down “It can be done. So let me ask you again.You’ve been given a second chance. What the hell are you going to do with it?”

“Of course that’s what this is about,” you say, throwing yourself into the chair back. “You just want to make sure I’m on the right side. You and Kremer playing ‘good cop, bad cop.’”

“Cut the crap,” he retorts. “I couldn’t care less about that. You’ve been given a fresh start. You have a world of opportunity ahead of you and you’re throwing it away. Do you know how many people would kill to have a re-do like this?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, throwing your hands up.

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, his voice flat. “Someone like you, the prodigy you are doesn’t just get taken in by the enemy without a fight. And he certainly doesn’t stick around for no reason.” 

You are silent. You can’t admit that you came here for Natalia. And you definitely can’t admit you’ve stayed because this place hasn’t been so bad after all.

“Nothing to say?” He taunts. 

You don’t answer.

“Then we’re done here.” He stands and walks to the door.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. Because he can’t just quit. That’s not how this works. You jump up and follow him.

“You think you’re some martyr,” he says, opening the door. “You’re crucifying yourself for things you’ve been given a real chance to overcome. I’m not here to watch you jump into an early grave.”

“Fuck off,” you yell, slamming the door shut. “You want to talk about martyrdom? Why haven’t you made amends with your wife?”

“Because I did a terrible thing,” he says in that annoyingly calm voice of his.

“You fucked up!” You pace a few steps away. “But you don’t want to put in the work to fix yourself. So much for all the love you have for your family.”

“That’s my call to make.”

“That’s right. It’s your fucking call and you’re making the wrong one. Some people they fuck up and they own up to it! What are you doing? Coming in here and hiding behind someone else’s problems so you don’t have to look at what a mess your own life is!” You’re shouting and you can’t keep your hands still. 

He stands across from you, hands in his pockets. He says your name, tells you to look at him. “Why are you here?”

You stop and put your arms down. Because he is calm, and you are not. It’s like nothing you’ve said has stuck. 

“Look at you, tough guy. You’ve got a smart remark for everything but you won’t answer this simple question. Because you can’t face the truth.”

He opens the door again. And this time, you walk through it.

—

You wake tied to a chair. It is because your eyelids are heavy like lead that you jerk and try to escape without reason first. You breathe from your nose because when you tried to take a panicked inhale through your mouth there was something gagging you out. 

Look who’s awake, a deep voice says. Looks like you won the bet.

You settle because the rope wrapping over the entire length of both your forearms and your ankles gives you no other choice. You are stripped down to your underwear but still you sweat. You are in what looks like an office with the furniture removed. There is a man you do not recognize and a woman you do.

Evgenia looks nothing like the woman you have been working on and off with for six years. Nothing like the woman who scolded you but not for the same reason as anyone in the Red Room. She told you you had to stop hiding your injuries because you are a kid and not a dog and showed you the real world was not as intense of a picture as you believed. 

She showed you new foods and taught you the songs her grandma taught her even though she could not sing. And one night after a particularly gruelling mission she told you you had to draw lines between what was okay and what was not. That nobody could tell you what those were except yourself. You have to listen in here, she said, pointing to your heart. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

There is more to life than just the fight. You just need to look up.

Her face was also the one you saw as you felt a prick in your neck and a tiredness began to consume your body.

You look at her now, at her cold gaze and think what a glorious trick she has pulled on you. You challenge her to be the first to look away as you search for an ounce of guilt in her posture and find none. In the end it is you who breaks away first.

The man, who is dressed in a black shirt and black pants approaches you and takes the gag from your mouth. He tells you he has a few questions about Dreykov and the Red Room. He tells you you all are an outdated parasite on modern Russia and need to be excised. Let me demonstrate, he says, picking up a thin knife. He grabs your bicep and you try to jerk away but the rest of your arm is tied down and even though you are awake the world still feels out of focus.

Everything becomes clear real fast when he starts sawing at your arm. You don’t scream, managing to minimize your agony into a series of gasps and grunts. This is a yet undiscovered pain. He comes away with a little piece of your skin. He holds it in front of your face and flaps it like it is some sort of banner. Like this, he says. You know the air is not burning even if your arm is trying to tell you it is.

You look at Evgenia. She is standing back a few paces, arms crossed. 

Where is the Red Room? The man asks.

I’m not telling shit, you say, even though it feels a little like your brain is having trouble connecting to your mouth. You think I’m some traitor? You would all be lost without us. Dreykov is going to–

He slices at you again, this time on your shoulder and you can’t stifle the yell that emerges. You clench your fists and fight to get away but it's no use. 

You can’t help but look at Zhenya like she is a source of comfort. Like she might help you. She says your name. Just tell him and this can end. Please, you don’t have to do this to yourself.

Go to hell, you grit. The man grips you by the hair and takes a large patch of skin from your neck. You scream. You had never thought there could be this much pain without a single drop of blood.

He steps back. Where is the Red Room? You stare at him, breathing hard. The rope digs into your skin. You ache to put your hands around his throat. You are going to regret this, you say. You should know who you’re messing with. 

Oh, he says, cocky. He waves the knife at you. But no one will know it was us, you see. 

Kill me, go ahead.

I’m not going to kill you, no. You’re very valuable property. Very marketable. You are only the second man in history to get Russian version of super serum and not go batshit insane. Did you know this? Yes, there are powerful people who would pay a lot to have you in their arsenal. And they already have. You’ll be someone else’s little hound soon. And guessing at who our buyer is, you won’t even remember this conversation after they do what they do.

He holds the knife to your cheek. Too bad keeping this pretty face intact was not a part of the deal.

Wait, Evgenia speaks up. Let me.

He backs off and shrugs. All right.

She takes the scalpel and kneels before you. Hey, she says. Hey, hey, look at me. You must still be pretty out of it because you thought you were looking at her. Just tell us what we want to know and this can end. Don’t make me do this. 

You are looking into her eyes and you think you see a little bit of the woman you thought she was. I trusted you, you whisper.

I know, she frowns, mocking. I’m sorry. She starts to cut at the skin on your thigh. It feels more painful than any of the other times because she is the one doing it. You watch the strip of skin come loose and then think you must be dreaming because she turns away and rushes at the man. 

She stabs him in the stomach with the scalpel and throws a punch at his head. He is caught off guard and stumbles back. Without hesitation he rips out the blade and swipes at Zhenya. She takes a couple of quick steps back. 

You strain anew at the rope holding you down but it is thick and unforgiving and wrapped around your arms and legs like a python. 

He presses forward with the blade out, forcing her to work around him. She takes a step too close and he slices her across the stomach. Blood begins to bloom and stain her shirt a shade darker. But she is quick, she cuts at his wrist and forces him to drop the knife. Then, without missing a beat, she tackles him to the ground.

But he is bigger than her, stronger. He shoves her into the wall and dives for the scalpel. It lies just outside of his reach. Evgenia seizes the opportunity. She kicks it farther from his grasp and scoops it up. 

She turns around just as he tries to get her from behind. The scalpel cuts deep through his throat. Blood sprays from his neck onto her face as if from a fountain. His hands raise and try to staunch the bleeding but it is already too late. He falls first to his knees and then flat on the floor. He gurgles as he tries to draw his final breaths and then it is quiet. 

Zhenya stumbles backward, holding the wound on her stomach. You are still trying in vain to break free from your bonds. She curses and comes to you with the knife. You flinch a little when she points it at you. She apologizes. I didn’t know what to do, she says. This was the only way. I didn’t want to hurt you.

It’s okay, you tell her as she saws through the coils and coils of rope. You forgive her easily, instantly. You don’t think you could have been mad even if she truly had betrayed you. Because you will always be that twelve year old kid with fists aching from the weight of your anger. And she will always be the one to catch your wrists and demand you let go. 

She gets your clothes for you and you try to ignore how the fabric sets your raw skin aflame. Then, you stare down at the body of the other SVR agent. Zhenya has made herself a traitor because of you. She has ruined her life. You are not worth that sort of action. You shouldn’t have done that, you say. You should’ve let him have me.

No, she says. You are where I draw my line.

Her words make your heart pound and your face heat up. You will not cry because you haven’t for years and it would be ridiculous to now. You have recently turned eighteen after all. You are a proper adult now with proper responsibilities. That’s why they came after you.

You’re going to have to disappear, you say. 

I know.

I can’t know where you go.

I’ll find you, she says. When it’s safe. I promise.

You want to say it will never be safe. But you cannot entertain the notion you will never see her again. When it’s time you walk out first. So when they ask you where she went you can look them in the eye and say you don’t know.

—

Two months later and you have been carving room out for yourself. There is no back so you look forward. You tell yourself you can leave anytime you want. 

The hole in your side has healed, thanks to Doctor Cho. You went and saw her three days later like she’d asked. You checked the medical wing first, asking after her. Most of the staff avoided looking at you, but one nurse told you she didn’t work around here anymore and that you should check the laboratory building.

You thanked her and apologized for the disturbance. Perhaps your reputation was getting a little too out of hand after all.

The scientists in the research building weren’t much better either. They all stared at you when you entered, but that might just have been because they’re not used to talking to a huge circle of people.

“I’m looking for Doctor Helen Cho,” you said.

You were directed down a hall and into a different room. She was there, black hair tied up in a bun, talking to another person in a white coat.

“Doctor Cho,” you said, feeling somewhat off-put in this place. You couldn’t even name half of the equipment in here. 

She turned around, a smile lighting up her face when she saw you. That was nice. It didn’t happen with a lot of other people. She greeted you. “Let me wash my hands,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

She discarded her gloves and safety glasses and the two of you walked down the hall into a small office.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” you replied. “All things considered.”

“Can I take a look?” 

You shrugged. “What am I here for?”

She unwrapped the bandage and stared down at your side. You could see the gears turning in her head. “Well this isn’t right,” she said.

You couldn’t help but smile, just the edge of your mouth turning up. “Am I going to die, doc? Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

She shook her head, still unable to look away from the wound. “No,” she replied, so enraptured she’d missed your joking tone. “This is. This is incredible. It looks like a graze wound. Are you sure you got shot?”

“I didn’t let you take a bullet out of me for kicks.”

Now she looked up at you, eyes wide. You were smiling because her awe was infectious. You’d never impressed someone like this before. You were never good enough. They always wanted you to be faster, stronger, more durable. But the way she was looking at you said this was more than enough.

“How?” She breathed.

“I heal fast,” you said. 

She laughed and you found yourself thinking of more ways to draw the sound out of her. “No shit,” she said. “But I mean, this should be impossible. It won’t even scar.”

“You’re the genius scientist,” you said. “I don’t know how it works either, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody having genetics like this. But I suppose it’s possible. People have different heights and intellectual traits. Your cells must be able to process energy at triple the rate of anyone else.”

You tilted your head. “Eh, not exactly.” Then you paused because you’ve never talked to anyone about this before. And it was sensitive information. You eyed the woman in front of you. If you told her about the serum they’d stuck in your veins maybe she’d tell someone else, and then you’d be a rat in a cage. You couldn’t. So you smiled and said, “I should get back.”

For a second you thought she might press for more. She looked like she had a million more questions. “Do you think you have time for me to show you the lab?” Was all she said. 

You sighed in relief. You decided you liked her. So you let her take you into the lab and explain all the things you’d never understand. She was excited because they were on the edge of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She told you she was working on growing tissue so they wouldn’t have to rely so much on transplants. She hoped their work would save a lot of lives some day. She would be happy if she lived to the day it would save just one.

She was almost winded when she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” she shook her head bashfully. “I’m not usually so talkative.”

“It’s all right,” you said. And it was. Because you’d had more attention on you in the last week than you thought you could handle. “The world needs more people like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good. You’re not doing this for yourself. You’re going to help a lot of people.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I hope so.” When she looked back up at you her cheeks were a little red. “We should talk again. Outside of work.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed.

Now you have come back from a mission gone slightly awry. The intelligence had been perfect, the lab waiting for you like a glowing jewel hidden beneath depths of concrete maze. There was nowhere to run when you broke the doors down and aired the place out.

The lead scientist put his hands up as soon as the bodies of his colleagues hit the floor. You were supposed to bring him in for questioning. You are looking right at the man and his empty hands when there is shouting and a single gunshot.

The target is dead, his head all exploded like rotten fruit. Ward holsters his gun. He says he thought the man had been reaching for a weapon. And that’s what all four of you report when Agent Hill asks you about it later.

It’s a problem because you are supposed to be the most seasoned strike team there is. It’s a problem because that scientist also functioned as an administrator and he could have led you to more cells.

It’s a problem because it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

It’s the third one since you’ve been here. There was the neo-Nazi who claimed he was part of a huge underground organization and the Russian politician who swore he would tell all in exchange for asylum. Both of them had become suddenly violent at the moment you tried to bring them in. Both are now dead.

The first time you had been confused. Then Rumlow looked you dead on and smiled, holding his index finger over his lips. Then you understood why they wanted you on their team.

Because they are imperfect, and so are you.

So you don’t tell your superiors the target had been subdued at the time of death. And they believe you because strikers are always like this, a little jumpy and a little imprecise. Consequences of pulling from ex-military and ex-police force pools.

But now you’re getting back from a long flight and an even longer debrief and Natalia is in your room with her arms crossed and an indecipherable look on her face. You’ve been on good terms. But you haven’t done that thing which is not a thing because it’s nothing where you lay with each other in the dark and communicate without speaking. 

So you find it odd that she’s in your room. 

“Hi,” you say, like a question.

“What are you up to?” She’s not asking what your plans are for the day. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

“Maria is pissed. About the mission. And so is Fury.”

“So? It’s a shame the mission went bad but the target was hostile. He might’ve shot one of us. We’ll get the next guy.”

“Except this is the third time something like this has happened in as many months,” she says, slowly. “And you don’t make mistakes.”

You aren’t alarmed. She’s smart, smarter than you maybe. So you keep your face and body still like you’ve been taught and say, “I don’t. But they do. You must know I was never the one to pull the trigger.”

She huffs because you’re right. On paper nothing is afoot. But you know she has a feeling. You’re stubborn but so is she. “If something is going on you can tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” you lie. Something definitely is. But you don’t care.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Those agents you work with, you can’t trust them.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because Clint,” she pauses to rub at her temple, “he doesn’t like them.”

“And that’s the end of the conversation?” You scoff. “Your new buddy says one bad thing and my team is suddenly suspicious.” 

“It’s not just him. Your ‘team,’ is made up of a bunch of assholes. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t know you held such high moral standards. Tell me, what is your squad up to, huh? You go out and you spy on people so you can throw them a big party?” You don’t want to be angry, not with her, but she is different now. She is jumping on you when she always used to give you the benefit of the doubt, when she always used to be on your side.

She has become a stranger and now she thinks she can barge back in and make you behave as she sees fit. Perhaps you never knew her in the first place.

“I never said that,” she says.

“No, but you think you’re better than everyone else. You always have. And now you’re acting all righteous because the director has made you his pet project.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs. “Really? Dreykov Junior?”

“I’m not his son.”

“No, you just wish you were.”

You turn away and take a deep breath. 

Her voice is closer and softer the next time she speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand.”

You shake your head as if the motion would fling all the anger away like it was some pesky bug. “Me neither.” “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble. That’s all. I wanted to help you.”

You turn back to face her. “I don’t need help.”

“But you do.” Her face is a stone wall, a chiseled mask of indifference. 

You blink at her. It is dark outside, and you are exhausted. Your quarters which have always felt a little like a jail cell shrink in on you. “What?”

She sighs, like you are a child who doesn’t understand. “They think you’re a spy,” she hisses, like she’s not supposed to be telling you this. “They think you are a spy and that you are trying to find a way to bring them down.”

“I’m not.” They have it all wrong, you want to say. You’ve been exiled, but you can’t tell them that. Because then they’d know you’re cornered, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being caught with your back to the wall.

“Then why are you here?” She asks. And you feel like she’s pushed you off the top of the building. Because she is truly asking this question. She thinks you are working against them too. Working against her. “You came here to retrieve me, right? And I said I’m not going back to that hellhole. So you have a new mission.”

You must have some sort of surprise on your face because something clicks in her eyes, like she’s solved a mystery. But you can’t tell her that no, no one sent you here after her, because she’d ask you why you had jumped ship like an idiot and you’d have to tell her you were scared. You don’t have the words to describe how panic had seized you by the throat when news of her capture reached you. How even the daydream of her death made you want to die too.

Because you are not a savior. And she is not supposed to be worth saving anyway. Everyone is expendable. No one is special. And she was just a warm body all those years.

And because you cannot say all this, cannot accept that you ruined your life like some emotion-poisoned whore, you say, “You don’t understand.”

She is quicker with her response, because she has the power. She has always had the power between the two of you. “Then help me understand.”

You shake your head more furiously and back away. “Why do you even care, huh?”

“Because I want to understand you! You have to give me something. You have to show them you’re trying.”

“I am trying.” Could she not see that? How you were killing yourself everyday you woke up in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.? You shake out the wrist you normally wear your watch on.

“But they don’t think so. You can do better.” She approaches you a little too quickly. You can’t tell if her outstretched hands are trying to support you or strangle you.

You seize her by the shoulders before she can touch you. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I might be a stain on your reputation?” You are loud but you don’t care because you are furious.

“No. No, I never said that. I don’t care about my reputation. I want to help you, but I can’t because I don’t recognize you anymore!”

Her face is flushed red like it’s never been before and it scares you so you let her go. “You think I need help?” You throw your arms up because she is ridiculous and so are you. “You think I can’t handle this?” And she is shaking her head and getting redder and the corners of her mouth are turned down in the shape of a frown. She is saying no but you aren’t hearing her. “My whole life I’ve been handling everything just fine! And guess what. I have never needed you.” You’re pointing at her and every time you shake your fist it feels like pulling the trigger of a gun.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there too. I get it but it is no excuse to keep protecting them!”

“It’s not that simple.” Because you had fought and you had suffered and you had had a role to fill. You still do. No, you weren’t just going to accept that you’d lost and roll over for the enemy. You can’t.

“It is!” She says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not perfect, but it is a fucking haven compared to back there. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m not willing to turn my back on things so easily. I can’t just run from one thing to the next, changing who I am to fit in. I’m not like you.”

“Well then you are an idiot and a coward. And I see right through you.” You believe her. You feel so exposed under her gaze. “I’m not pretending to be someone else to fit in. I’m trying to be more than them, to be better. Fuck you.”

“Yeah? At least I’m not a spineless traitor. How could you leave? What has S.H.I.E.L.D. ever done for you?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! The Red Room gave us everything.”

“The Red Room didn’t give us anything. It took our choices and our lives and it’s taking still. Look at yourself!” She thrusts her arms out at you and you flinch. Just a little, but you know she sees. Because you thought she didn’t care about all the ways in which you are ruined.

“I am better for all they put me through. It wasn’t easy, sure, but I’m not crying about it. They saved me!” You eye her, up and down, pretending you hate her. “And where would you be without them? Starving and pregnant by some guy you married who spends all his money on booze?”

“You’re fucking unbelieveable. I am not who I am because of them. I made myself.” She glares at you. You can’t look away. You hate this intimacy. She speaks slowly, making sure you hear every letter. “But they broke you.”

“I’m not broken,” you say, low, like the warning of thunder. You’ve been made in their image.

“You are! It’s not normal to beat children because they do not act like soldiers. It’s not normal to think of sex as a means to an end at twelve years old. But you still think it is! You think it’s all okay when it’s not! You are stuck with what they have told us and you’re too scared to break out.”

“I’m the scared one? You’re the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle it!”

“Maybe you’re not scared. But you should be. You should be terrified of the person you’ve become. Because the boy I knew, the boy who would take a slap over having to slap someone else wouldn’t be okay with this. But they told you you were the chosen one and suddenly it’s okay to let others suffer because you’re on top, right? You’ve forgotten what it was like to be treated like a slave.

Things changed for you. You got your uniform and they told you your name meant something. But things didn’t change for me, or for any of the other widows. They are still trapped like the dirt under someone’s shoe. Their names don’t matter because they are called ‘whore’ and ‘weapon.’ Just like mine didn’t. Until I forced people to see me.”

Her words scare you because there is a truth in them you’ve pretended like you could manage. It’s why Svetlana always dreamed of running off. Why Ekaterina tried to kill you after you’d accidently walked in on her and Anastasia. 

But you can’t let go. There is fear and pain when you submit. But there is so much more if you dare to go against them.

You scowl. “Well who had a hand in making me ashamed of that kid? I changed because I was chasing after you.” You point at her. “Perfect little Natasha.”

“You think I wasn’t scared too?” She retorts.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m evil then, is that what you want to hear? If I’m so bad, why don’t you just kill me for it?” Your heart is racing like you’ve been in a fist fight and your muscles keep flexing like you’re about to hit something.

“I don’t want you dead. I don’t. You придурок, I never said that.” Her eyes are shiny like she might cry and it spooks you because you can count on one hand how many times she’s looked like that. “I want to help you. But I can’t when you don’t talk to me.”

“And I don’t need help. I’m not some victim! You want some explanation for why I’m not good like you? You want to hear how they used to take me downstairs and whip me until I passed out and that’s why I’m so messed up? How I got into an argument with Dreykov once and he broke my jaw? You don’t want to know that shit!”

She is shaking her head and speaking calmer now, but you don’t hear her. You are somewhere else, lost in the storm of all those nights you can’t quite remember right. You are drowning in anger. Yours and Dreykov’s and the Widows’ and the Madames’ and the guards’. Building and building in your chest because you cannot let it go, it is not in your nature to not feel, to not care. 

She is coming at you again and she looks a little like Marina did that one night you slept together only because you had never been taught to say no.

“Get off!” You yell. She is blocking the door so you make a fist and pound it into the drywall next to her head.

She grabs your wrists and tells you to calm down. She says your name. “Look at me. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you!”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. But this is what I’m talking about. These are the things you have to say. The things I don’t know about you.”

You sneer back at her because she is strong and you are not and it’s the only way to protect yourself. “Don’t act like you don’t have your secrets too. But you wouldn’t tell me because you have to be so perfect all the time.”

 “I couldn’t, you’re right. But I will now. I will. Trust me.”

“But you’re a widow,” you say, cold and sober. “How could I ever trust you?”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. Because what she hears you say is that she is not human. That all she’s ever been and ever could be is a weapon. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t trust me.”

So you do. You look her square in the eye and say, “I don’t trust you.” 

Then there is fire in her eyes as she stands there and stares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You really are just like him.”

You almost slap her. She is standing tall with her chin up like she is waiting for it and you think you should knock her down a peg. 

But you don’t. You just walk around her and leave. Because she isn’t worth it.

Continue

[-hiddlesdweeb-]

literally my shayla !!!

Thunderbolts gives me hope, and I'm scared...

I haven't been a fan of the MCU's ventures after Infinity War (I have severe beef with Kevin Feige) so seeing The Thunderbolts and The Fantastic 4 having such interesting concepts, I am terrified Marvel won't let the writers breathe/do their jobs well. If they lean into differentiating the movies from what we've come to know (aka Kevin Feige/Taika Waititi "humor") I will consider it a success. JUST PLEASE DON'T BUTCHER BUCKY'S CHARACTER I'LL TRULY RIOT.

Okay thank you! :D

[multipotentialitepisces]

There's Something I've Been Meaning To Tell You...

Greg Davies x Reader

Greg and his partner, Alex's sister-in-law, finally tell their nearest and dearest about their relationship.

It had been months since you’d had Greg all to yourself. He’d been off filming the studio sections of Taskmaster, and you were excited all week, knowing he was coming home on Friday. 

You’d been talking to your sister, Rachel, a lot this week, knowing she was dealing with the same issue as Alex was away too, and knowing both your partners were coming home this weekend was an exciting prospect. She’d told you Alex was coming home later today, as he was homesick from the children, and all of the work had been done. He was happy to commute for the next few days, whereas Greg hadn’t said there’d be any change in his plans. 

Rachel had known about you and Greg from the very beginning. Alex, however, was another story. 

Alex was Greg’s best friend, closest confidante, and your brother-in-law. You’d met Greg plenty of times in passing, but after moving in with Alex and Rachel for a few months a couple of years ago, you’d seen a lot more of Greg intimately, more than you ever would have on the comedy circuit. You’d immediately been attracted to him, as it was rare to find a man taller than you, let alone one where you couldn’t look him directly in the eyes. He was older, wiser, funnier, and seeing him in close quarters with your nephews had made you fall for him. Alex had made it clear he knew Greg liked you, but what he didn’t know was that Greg had acted on it, and you’d actually been dating for the better part of a year. 

Rachel had sworn not to say anything, knowing it was Greg’s decision of when to tell Alex, and you were thinking about this sticky situation you and Greg had found yourselves in as you walked home from work with a haul of shopping and a skip in your step. After moving out of the Horne’s, you’d found a small apartment nearby, but ended up basically moving into Greg’s townhouse, and living in it when he was away working made you feel safer than your small one bed in zone 6. 

As soon as you kicked off your shoes in the hallway and dumped your bags and the day’s heaviness on the kitchen counter, you put the radio on and began cooking. It was a way to have some true ‘me time’ despite Greg’s absence, and having a dance in the kitchen was one of your biggest joys.

Wham!’s I’m Your Man was now blaring from the speakers of your countertop radio, and in your reverie of dancing and cooking, letting the day’s stresses and anxieties evaporate from your bones, you only just heard a deep, rumbling voice singing along. 

Dropping your cooking utensils and spinning around, your ears recognised the voice you knew well, and you saw Greg’s smug, tight-lipped smile looking back at you, with his arms spread wide, waiting for you. 

You almost sprinted, hopping from your post in front of the stovetop and throwing yourself into his arms, melting into his touch and embracing him tightly. An embrace that demonstrated three months worth of longing and excitement. To think he’d come home early and not told you! 

‘How long have you been here?!’ you beamed up at your lover, still cradled inside of his grasp, incredulous at how he’d kept a secret. Clearly, he knew you loved surprises, and knew how much you’d missed him. He’d clearly missed you too if you were any judge of the misty look in his eyes behind his glasses. 

‘I got home at lunchtime, I’ve been waiting here all day. Wanted to surprise you.’ He states, confirming your suspicions. His smile is now full and teethy, with his eyes crinkling at the corners. He cranes his neck down and places a kiss on your hairline, holding you closer. ‘Loved the singing, by the way.’ The cheeky bastard. 

You give him a scrunched look, embarrassed but too pleased he’s home to truly be annoyed. ‘Did Alex know you were coming home too?’

‘Yeah, got the train back together.’ He states, peppering kisses across the crown of your head. 

‘I’ll have to tell Rach, she’ll want to keep Al from turning up unannounced and seeing me.’ Your anxieties about Alex finding out about your and Greg’s relationship had worsened over the course of their respective absences, and Rachel being your only real confidante was becoming difficult to deal with. Your relationship had gotten a lot more serious over the last 5 or so months, and not being able to tell your parents and closest friends was making you feel guilty. You wanted to share your feelings and love with those you held closest, but with most of your close friends also on the comedy circuit, it was impossible, so you’d begun to rely on Rachel for support and advice. Her situation of wanting to keep your secret out of sisterly love was obviously her first command, but knowing it was mainly because her husband’s closest friend was nervous about the strange, intertwined nature of all of your relationships was taking a toll on her too.

‘Actually, about that…’ Greg pulled away from you, taking a seat at the dining table. The deep lines in his frown and forehead began to worry you. Was he breaking up with you? After coming home early to surprise you? A knot of anxiety tied itself tightly in your abdomen. 

‘I think I should tell Alex. Tonight.’ His shoulders drop hugely, clearly relieved to have come to the realisation that this very committed relationship is no longer something he can keep from his dearest friend and your brother-in-law. The long, deep sigh that escapes your mouth makes him look up from his toes with worry, but that dissipates when he sees the look of sheer joy on your face. You’re beaming like the sun, and Greg doesn’t think he’s imagining the fact you’re glowing. He’d missed you, all of you. He’d missed having to drag you out of bed in the mornings, coaxing you up with toast and a steaming cup of too-sweet builder’s brew. He’d missed watching you run, half dressed, to and from the wardrobe to the mirror, deliberating your outfit choices every morning. He’d missed watching tv every night with you, having to pause it so you could spill your guts in secret to your sister. He’d realised that on the train home, sat beside his best friend, going home to his partner, he needed to be able to tell Alex everything. 

He didn’t know why he was so terrified to tell Alex about your relationship. After all, Alex had been teasing him about the crush he had on you for months, ever since that first chance meeting at the Horne household. Greg had turned up with two bottles of wine to watch the first episode of the new season of Taskmaster. You had opened the door. He’d almost dropped the wine on the front step of Alex’s house. How had he never noticed how beautiful you were? He’d entered the house with a slack jaw and an empty mind, only delivering incoherent mumblings and vague gestures, handing off the wine to Rachel and sitting down heavily on the couch with glazed eyes. Only when you entered the room with an open mouth and a melodious laugh did he come to. Seeing you smile like that, he knew he was done for, and so did Alex. 

‘Why now?’ You had no idea what Greg’s thinking had been, and in your opinion, nothing glorious or awful had happened to cause your little game to be over. 

‘I just can’t hide it from him anymore. He knows how much I fancy you, I just needed to get a grip and tell him. I want you to be there when I do, though.’ He raised himself from the chair, grasping your hand and kissing it, caressing your hair. Releasing your hand, he moved his from where he’d dropped yours at your side and clutched your waist, pulling you in harshly for a kiss like a man starved. It was as if realising he needed to tell Alex had unleashed him. He was no longer scared to show you how much he loved and missed you, not afraid he’d have to break it off for fear of keeping it from his friend. You put your arms around his torso, trying to absorb as much of his warmth and scent as you could. If you could’ve melted into him, you would have.

Sitting at the kitchen table with the meal you’d began preparing earlier finished, nursing your glasses of wine, you and Greg were drafting out a game plan for this evening. Being a Tuesday in a suburb of London in March, getting a reservation for a restaurant was no issue. Getting Alex and Rachel there, and the two of you, without any suspicion or raised eyebrows was another kettle of fish, however. 

‘Well he’s just got home, and Rachel was pre warned-‘ 

‘Unlike me, you arse’ you interrupt him, not letting his deceit go just yet. You were a dog with a bone. 

‘Yes. Unlike you darling, Alex told Rachel, so the kids are at the grandparents. They’re both free tonight.’

‘And Alex knows you’re home because you came home together.’

‘Mhm.’ A beat. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head. ‘And Rachel obviously knows what’s going on here. Why don’t you text her, tell her everything, and she can tell Alex that…’ 

‘That I’m bored stiff and miss her. She can mention that when you ring him asking to have dinner, and…’ You were both thinking deeply now, looking like you were deep into a murder case, not just trying to organise a meal for four adults. 

‘She can say she wants you there so I’m not third wheeling!’ Greg punches the air, feeling like he’s hit the jackpot. 

‘And Alex will be completely on board because he knows you fancy me!’ Your eyes light up, and you clamber onto Greg’s lap, kissing him roughly on the cheek, feeling the harshness of his beard against your soft skin, inhaling his scent deeply. 

‘Right, yep. 8pm. I’ll see you two there. Yes, and her. Okay, bye!’ Greg put down the phone and you removed your chewed fingernails from your mouth. ‘All sorted, we’ll meet them there at 8, they’ll be there early so we can be in the same cab and just pretend we bumped into each other.’

‘I can’t believe you’re actually going to tell him.’ You embrace Greg once again, savouring the feel of his body wrapped around your own, excited to not have to keep secrets from your brother-in-law, and to allow your sister to be honest with her husband. 

You and Greg hopped out of the black cab, Greg giving you a helping hand and holding the small of your back as you walked to the restaurant. Despite it being an uneventful Tuesday evening in the middle of spring, the restaurant was fancy and the boys were celebrating wrapping Taskmaster, so you all dressed well. You were struggling to hold yourself together seeing Greg in an immaculately pressed all black suit. He was experiencing the same issue watching you sway your hips in a fitted dress and sky high heels. You entered the restaurant first, pleased to be out of the cold, and spotted your sister to which you winked. She returned your wink with a sly smile, standing up to give you a hug as if you hadn’t seen each other just last week. Alex did the same, and noticed Greg behind you. 

‘Did you guys get here at the same time?’ 

‘Yeah, what a coincidence huh?’ Greg’s seemingly confident and nonchalant statement came out shakily and unconvincingly, but Alex let it go and sat down. 

The evening went well, and after a few glasses of wine and ordering your food, Greg made it clear he had something to say. 

‘Alex. I-we-I…’ He clears his throat. For such a boulder of a man, Greg sure was nervous regarding Alex’s opinion. He knew he’d be generous and accepting, but he had a niggle about the closeness of his wife to you, and was concerned Alex wouldn’t like the seriousness of the relationship. He was in too deep now, though. He had to get out with it. ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ 

Alex visibly sobered up, becoming straight as a board and white as a sheet. He clearly expected the worst. His wife however, looked genuinely fizzing with excitement. Her eyes were sparkling, and she was fidgeting. She was so happy for the two of you, and her energy no doubt calmed Alex down to a degree. 

‘Y/N and I are seeing each other.’ Both Alex and Greg’s body’s drooped with relief, and Alex finally turned to his wife, noticing her ear to ear smile. 

‘I suppose you knew about this, did you?’ Rachel nodded in confirmation, grasping her husbands hand tightly. Alex dropped her hand however, standing up instead. Greg winced, preparing himself for a a strike to the cheek, but instead Alex just clapped him on the back. ‘I mean, I knew you were seeing someone, i’m not stupid. I just never thought you’d have the balls to tell her how you felt.’ Alex sat back down, this time grasping his wife’s hand instead. 

Greg’s hand had been resting on your bare thigh all evening, providing a grounding presence in a situation where you could have believed you were dreaming. You and Greg told the Horne’s everything. How long you’d been together, how you’d basically moved into his house, how Rachel had known everything from the very beginning (to which Alex was not pleased).

‘But I just can’t understand why you didn’t tell me?’ Alex asked finally, bewildered. 

‘I dunno mate, I just knew I was fucked straight away and wasn’t sure it was going to be serious so I didn’t tell you, and then it was serious and I was in too deep. I just felt like I couldn’t tell you because it had been so long, and with Y/N and Rachel’s relationship, it was an awkward place to be in.’ 

‘So why now, why decide to tell me now?’ 

‘It was when we both came home early today, with you wanting to go home early and see Rach and the kids, and I just realised how much I missed being at home…’ He turned towards you as he said his final part ‘with you.’ 

‘Bloody hell. I thought you were just shagging someone, christ.’ Alex’s genuine shock and disgust at Greg’s earnestness (and probably the fact you’d all had a few glasses of wine) had you all doubled over in fits of laughter, until Rachel piped up with something you’d been pushing to the back of your mind since you’d started getting serious with Greg. 

‘How are you going to tell Mum you’re seeing the Taskmaster?’

‘God, don’t call me that outside of work.’ 

You chuckled, both at Greg’s comment and at realising you were going to have to introduce your boyfriend to his biggest fan and also mother-in-law. ‘She’s basically in love with you, she might try and steal you for herself.’ 

‘Well I’ve met her before, actually.’ Greg’s sly smile conveyed how he was clearly relishing this secret he’d kept from you. 

Your gasp and large smile whilst scanning the table made you realise that of course Greg must’ve met her, being your brother-in-law’s best friend, so bumping into each other at family gatherings was probably commonplace. You had certainly met Greg in passing, and you remembered seeing him at Rachel’s wedding, but you’d been releasing a steady stream of books, and had been touring the country, so being there at every family gathering was simply impossible. Plus, you and your mother had no real need to discuss Greg, with you and your sister keeping the secret, and she’d obviously had no reason to bring up their meeting, but any excuse to give your partner a grilling was not an opportunity you were stupid enough to miss. 

‘And why have I not heard of this meeting before, Mr Davies?’ you ask, conspiratorially turning towards him, wrapping your ankle around his beneath the table to put some mock pressure on him with your overbearing presence. For Greg, however, he was just basking in the fact that you were being this touchy feely in public with him, unafraid of having it leak to the public. He snapped back to reality with a dizzy feeling caused by your closeness. 

‘Well, if you must know,’ Greg paused, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and smirking, adopting the guise of someone who was about to drop some seriously juicy gossip before he continued, ‘I met her at Rachel’s wedding, and we had a chat…’ 

At Greg’s trailing off, Rachel burst into laughter, and Alex looked halfway there. Greg’s face broke and you realised you’d been had. Greg had told the Horne’s about what your own Mum had said to your now partner at her eldest daughter’s wedding. Rachel and Alex’s wedding was only four years ago, but they’d been together for almost two decades, and it was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. Greg was there, and he’s hard to miss in any situation with his towering height, but you’d certainly taken a fancy to him even back then, especially with his best man speech and how kind he was to Rachel. He’d looked fab, though he’d aged like a fine wine, and you were itching to know what your Mum had said to him on that day, especially knowing how badly she held her drink. 

‘Oh, Y/N, you’re either going to love this, or you’ll want to kill all of us, especially Mum.’ Rachel breathed out through her laughter. 

You went bright red, putting your head in your hands and tucking yourself further into Greg’s chest, struggling not to laugh at your own embarrassment. 

‘Basically, she tried to set us up. Pointed at you and told me how beautiful you were. Stupidly, I paid no attention, and that’s why I acted like an idiot when you turned up at Alex’s that one time, but I told Rachel and Alex as soon as it had happened.’ 

‘To be fair to you Greg, she was very drunk. I wouldn’t have listened to her either if I were you.’ Alex admitted. He was very grateful for his mother-in-law, being a doting grandmother to her three grandsons, and an all-round lovely woman to be in the company of. ‘Actually, speaking of that, why did you not tell me about the two of you when I already knew Y/Ns own mother wanted you together, and I thought it was a great idea?’ Alex was clearly still grappling with why Greg had been so clandestine about his relationship. He was immensely happy for the two of you, and honestly very relieved, but still confused as to why he thought it would be such a tricky subject to breach. 

‘I told you mate, I obviously wasn’t thinking straight. And I didn’t exactly think your Mum was being completely serious with the state she was in.’ He turned towards you now, rubbing his hand up and down your upper arm. ‘I should’ve listened to her though, should’ve sought you out.’ 

‘I mean I’m actually quite impressed that Mum knows me so well. You all know I haven’t been in a real serious relationship, and she’s not the overbearing type but making a proper effort to tell you that we should go out is interesting. At least I don’t have to dread telling her.’ 

‘Me and Alex are going to see her tomorrow, actually, to pick up the kids. You two could come, if you fancied?’ Rachel asked, hoping that it would take off the pressure if there were more people there. 

You and Greg exchanged a look. ‘Yeah, that sounds good.’ 

The meal was wrapped up quickly after that. It was getting late and if you were going to visit your Mum in the morning, you’d be having an early start. The four of you drained the bottle of wine and cleared your plates, Greg covered the bill and then you split off into pairs to catch cabs back home, embracing each other in the chilly London air. Rachel caught you in a tight hug, one that told you how pleased and proud she was, how excited she was to see you so happy in a relationship for the first time in a long time. 

You and Greg trundled home in the back of a black cab. He noticed you shivering despite the more than ample heating of the taxi, clearly still being affected by the chill of the air outside, so he silently slipped off his jacket and placed it gently on your bare shoulders, kissing your cheek for good measure. 

As you trotted into Greg’s beautiful townhouse, a sight you were sure you’d never get sick of, you removed your shoes and rolled your shoulders, placed Greg’s jacket onto the back of a chair to avoid creasing it, and turned around to catch him in a hug. Your cheek pressed flush against his chest, he embraced you back, breathing deeply, inhaling the smell of cold from your hair, and the remains of your perfume which had weaned in intensity throughout the night. You both sighed deeply, pleased to be back home and feeling the weight of almost a year of secrecy and guilt removed from your shoulders. 

The two of you showered together, washing off the stresses and emotions of the night, and crawled into bed together. Greg pulled you tight into his chest and kissed your face, pulling you up to kiss your lips, a sensation he’d been missing for the past months during the filming of Taskmaster. He was truly grateful for his job, and loved it immensely, being able to make a living by having a laugh with his best mate and some of the finest names in comedy, but he now understood why Alex was always so eager to have the studio portion wrapped up quickly. Greg had never been one for homesickness, had always felt vaguely unmoored; sure, he loved his mother with every fibre of his being, and adored his home, but he had never had anything he really missed when he was away. Now, that was different. Being away from you had changed everything, and he hoped he was showing you how much you meant to him. 

You placed your chin on top of your interlaced fingers on Greg’s chest, gazing up at him through your eyelashes with a bashful and tipsy smile. You were so pleased he was home. You didn’t need to talk about anything meaningful, he didn’t need to make you laugh, you didn’t need to even be doing anything, simply being in his presence, having him near you, was enough to make you beyond content. 

A thought popped into your head. ‘Does this mean we’re going to have to thank Little Alex Horne in our speeches when we get married?’ You asked, absentmindedly swirling little circles on the warm skin of Greg’s chest. You could feel him tense up as you did this, your question registering in his tired mind. 

‘What do you mean, ‘when’?’ He’d tried to sound confused, and he figured he should’ve been, considering you’d not even been together a year, and had only just officially told his best friend, but it came out with a gleeful tone, and the smile on his face didn’t make him look any more convincingly baffled. 

You gave a short, snorting laugh, puffing the air out of your nose swiftly, and gave his shoulder a playful smack. ‘I’m in this for the long run, honey.’ At this, Greg’s right arm came from his side and he splayed his hand across your back beneath your pyjama top, the contact making you shiver. 

‘Good, cause I’m going to have to start drafting my apology to your Mum for not listening to her at Alex’s wedding.’ 

Despite the late hour, you knew your Mum well enough to be certain she’d be up, a night owl as always. You wanted to call her and let her know she’d be meeting your first real partner in the morning, despite how much you’d have liked to surprise her. She’d probably kill you if you turned up with your partner without giving her any notice to give the whole house a deep clean and cook enough food for a small army. 

You were sat next to Greg in your bed with your book tented on your stomach. The TV was playing something neither of you were paying attention to, casting an ebbing glow across the room. Greg had his bedside lamp on, the warm light highlighting his profile in an orange halo. You could see he was fighting sleep, his eyes half lidded beneath his glasses which had crept to the edge of his nose. 

He jolted slightly, the noise of your ringing phone waking him up, and you watched as he turned, almost catlike in his serene, relaxed movements, towards you with a growing smile. You pressed a finger to your lips and mouthed ‘calling Mum’ so he’d know to keep his mouth shut. He grasped for the TV remote to turn the volume down, and turned further onto his side to listen to your phone conversation with a deeper concentration, knowing it would be about himself. 

‘Hi Mum!’ 

He couldn’t hear your mother’s side of the phone, but it didn’t sound like it was going horrendously by the cheery tone of your voice. 

‘Well, Rach and Al are coming to see you tomorrow so I thought I’d join’ 

Greg watched as a soft pink blush crept across your cheeks, turning the tips of your ears a fierce crimson. He could see you transformed into the teenager he never knew, embarrassed to be discussing your love life with your mother, coy with a shy pride and nervousness. 

‘I actually… Mum I’ve met someone.’ 

He heard a high pitched exclamation down your mother’s end of the phone that registered in his ears as ‘Oh Darling that’s wonderful!’ or something of that calibre, confirmed by the giggle that came bubbling out of your mouth. 

‘We’re going to come to see you tomorrow. I just thought I’d give you some notice.’ 

The conversation dwindled as you got sleepier, and when you put your phone back on your bedside table after wishing goodnight to your Mum, you turned around to see Greg’s signature tight lipped smile, with his crinkled, warm eyes looking kindly up at you. 

He hoisted himself up in bed and gently moved his arm around the top of your shoulders, pulling you into his chest and placing a kiss on your lips. You could feel his smile through the kiss. 

He didn’t need to tell you what he was smiling about for you to know that he was buoyed by the joy of your newly public relationship, finally being able to bask in the domestic bliss you’d enjoyed for the past year without guilt. 

You and Greg woke up early, the bright spring sun sending huge beams of light through the large window in the bedroom you shared. Despite the early morning and late night – not to mention the bottles of wine you consumed – you woke up feeling fresh, and were almost running down to the kitchen where you could hear Greg clattering around. 

You perched yourself on one of the barstools at the island opposite the stovetop where Greg seemed to be absorbed in whatever he was cooking. There were two mugs in front of you: your milky and sweet tea, and Greg’s traditional black coffee. Very un-British of him, he should be ashamed. 

‘Hello, love’ he chirped, despite still being utterly consumed by the contents of the frying pans on the hobs, ‘sleep well?’ 

‘Like a baby’ you beamed, feeling buoyed by a newfound optimism that coming clean to Alex and the prospect of telling your Mum had given you. 

You gazed out of the window for the better part of five minutes, loving the comfortable silences that you had missed so much with Greg being away, but your reverie was broken as you noticed him start to plate up. 

He turned and produced two plates of bacon, hash browns, and scrambled eggs. He had never been much of a cook during the course of your relationship, with you being passionate about the food you ate and cooked, and he was more than happy to let you take the wheel, but he absolutely excelled in breakfasts. It was the one thing you could never rival him on. 

You sat beside each other, recounting last night’s antics and the behind the scenes of Taskmaster, munching away on your breakfasts and sipping your drinks. Greg already knew he wanted to marry you, not in a conscious way, but in that he felt a sense of belonging and home in you, but after his epiphany on the train yesterday, and your casual question last night, sitting here with you enjoying breakfast and basking in the more mundane aspects of his life, he realised he could see the rest of his life stretching out before him, with you in it. 

For him, his life of celebrity and sensationalism was not one that he completely loved. He loved comedy, he loved his friends, and he was mostly happy with the fame and recognition, but he was a simple man, and realising he wanted a normal married life, settling down and enjoying the little things, was only a realisation he’d had after he’d met you.