#weird space menace

[kryptonbabe]

Loving the non-binary representation of this Superman vs. The Aliens compilation. I too am a weird space menace.

From The Best of DC Blue Ribbon Digest #42 (1983)

[taraxippos]

I love this painting (The Cyclops by Odilon Redon) but it kind of scares the shit out of me. It has a very dreamlike quality and also I have a lot of dreams about giant things pursuing me/watching me so it's a distressing combo (again, love it.)

[meowrimo]

breaking out of selective mutism is the hardest thing i’ve ever had to do tbh and anytime someone makes me feel bad for not speaking i want to kick them in the shin

[leolithe]

when a character has been forced to grow up and take a disastrous amount of responsibility on her shoulders i zap her with the age regression beam immediately

Lotus absolutely has a Little in her system. I am not budging from this headcanon

[stellanslashgeode]

Okay, so. Star Wars has all these concepts that weirdo New Left boomer George Lucas tosses in there but because of storyteller limitations it would kill the plot to fully explain them all, so later writers have to come in for the spin-off materials and bat clean-up to fully explain all this crazy crap. And I would like to talk about something that made me actively angry at first, but which I now adore. And that is the Naboo.

So much about Naboo culture is infuriating from a logical standpoint. They have a queen, okay. A constitutionally elected queen? Weird, okay. Don't know why they'd do that but... She's FOURTEEN? Excuse me? Is it a ceremonial thing or, oh no it's not? Legit head of state? Why does she dress like that? Why does she talk like that? I'm so tired.

Here's the explainer. Let me go cook.

There's this joke in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy where the last living human goes back in time and finds out humans aren't actually from Earth, but an alien culture that tricked all the middle managers, pedantic weirdos, and other infuriating folk into getting in a space arc which they gave the wrong evacuation coordinates to simply get rid of them. The Naboo are like this but they're all artists and poets and hippies, but like classy ones. They fled their home planet during a war and crash landed on Naboo, then did a colonism to the Gungans because, hey, they were fleeing a war and it was do or die. This spiritual rot in their creation story is later rectified by Padmé. But it's super important to their cultural psychology. They're hippies, but will subjugate if needed. They are "peaceful" but I guarantee you every single one of them has a tiny extremely shiny pistol up their sleeve and they will draw down on you if backed against a wall.

The scene that I think says it all is at the end of Phantom Menace when Padmé is surrounded by Nute Gunray and his droids, they've got her dead to rights, but Sabé her double creates a distraction so the queen can make it to her throne. This one piece of furniture is the Naboo in a nutshell. It's richly carved with artistic details, it has two seats to the side so the queen's handmaidens can read the lips of people in the back of the room and use hand signals to communicate with the queen while she can remain focused mostly on who is speaking to her. It is hundreds of years old. And it has a secret compartment in the armrest that is FULL OF GUNS. Layers of artistic opulence hiding their true intentions.

The Naboo were created to be backwards compatible with Princess Leia. They're compassionate pacifists, but they will shot you if needed.

Why do they elect teenage royalty? It's a little creepy. It's giving "age of consent is emotional maturity". It makes no sense.

The explanation they give outsiders is they want youthful idealism untainted by cynicism. What they don't tell you is that they take kids with stated interest in politics and put them in an advanced highly competitive Leadership Academy which is like Model UN mixed with Battle Royale. Well, they don't kill each other but it's intense. It's like what the clones went though just all diplomacy training and tea ceremonies all the time. Which is crazy but so Naboo.

Oh, and all the delegates for the royalty election run using pseudonyms for security. Imagine voting for the head of state but you can't run a background check. It's so crazy.

Why does Padmé dress like that? Well, fashion is one of Naboo's major industries so it's like she's wearing the entire Fall line catalog at once. To advertise not only the talent of her people, but to show how much they favor her. BUT that dress has multiple layers of padding and resin armor. And aforementioned spots for those little silver blasters. And it breaks up her silhouette making her harder to shoot. And it's so elaborate you pay more attention to the crazy dress and not if the person wearing it is really the queen or a decoy. Everything about Naboo is like this.

Queen Amidala has that weird accent while Padmé does not. Because all her handmaidens helped create the accent together so they all can imitate it. It's like if you gave girls at a rowdy sleepover the job of federal counterintelligence. That's what they came up with.

The handmaidens wear colorful identical clothes so you can't tell them apart, hoods to partially conceal their identity, and they don't wear the queen's fancy makeup. So one of them can be the queen and spy on people in the audience. Because the Naboo don't trust shit for shit.

Their public face is so silly to hide all the truly weird shit they do behind the scenes.

They use their reputation as artist hippies to conceal multiple layers of subterfuge and disguise their methods of self defense and assuage their paranoia due to wartime trauma and their disturbing colonial past. All of them are completely off their rocker even by Star Wars standards. And I love them so much. They put on a show so everyone thinks they have them figured out but what they have going on is far more weirder and more sinister than meets the eye. You know how catty, neurotic, and competitive art school students stereotypically are? Yeah, planet art student. Love them!

There you go, @charmwasjess

[kunasthiast]

bathroom meetings

you were finally in the tub.

bubbles everywhere. hair piled up. candle lit. mood set was divine. perfect silence. peace. it was your me time. after a ridiculous week that felt like being hit repeatedly with a spreadsheet and then lit on fire, the only thing you wanted was solitude and maybe for your skin to absorb enough lavender oil to knock you out for twelve hours.

sukuna had been in full corporate tyrant mode the past few days. buried in meetings. constantly yelling into headsets like he was declaring war (he might’ve been).

there were moments you’d pass by the home office and hear him through the closed doors: “i said quarterly projections, not emotional projections. are you fucking with me?”

in that same low, terrifying voice he used when he was threatening that random guy on the street who once slapped your head thinking you were his friend. and obviously, that’s the tone that meant someone’s career was about to combust.

not that sukuna had been ignoring you, though. there were still sleepy kisses in the morning. half-asleep cuddles at night. coffee mug swaps between meetings. the quiet, steady kind of love. but you missed him. his annoying, smug, feral ass. just a little.  

so when the bathroom door creaked open mid-bath, you didn’t even flinch. you just knew. and yep, there he was.

dragging in his entire goddamn office chair. into the fucking bathroom.

yes, a literal, high-backed, leather executive monstrosity. the one he always dramatically called ‘the only chair that respects my spine.’ he wheeled it in like he was about to conduct a strategy meeting in your bubble sanctuary. and then he parked it casually beside the sink, facing you.    

you blinked at him from your lavender-scented cocoon of suds, “what the hell, babe… are you serious right now?”

“hi, baby,” he said, already settling into the seat like this was perfectly reasonable. “i wanna spend time with you. so i brought my chair.”

“…in the bathroom?”

“yeah, got a problem with it? you’re hot. the lighting’s warm. the air smells like that purple crap you love. it’s a vibe. this is my happy place.”

you stared at him. “you brought your chair.”

“‘course I did,” he said, already opening his laptop (he fucking brought one) and clicking away like this was just another thursday. “i’m swamped. figured i could do my stupid shit and look at you. productivity. efficiency. serotonin. and dopamine. win-win.”

you squinted at him. he never used that many words to justify something unless he was spiraling. which meant that he’s fucking really drained for today – an oddity. sukuna never gets drained. he had the chaotic stamina of a toddler with an espresso machine. weird visual, but whatever. 

“you just wanted to watch me and pretend it was multitasking.” you teased.

“baby, i don’t need to pretend to watch you,” sukuna replied without shame, eyes flicking down over your shoulders, lingering for a breath too long. “i’m your husband. it’s practically in the vows.”

you groaned and slid lower into the bubbles. “you’re so annoying. you have zero concept of personal space.”

“bold of you to say when i was balls deep in you last week,” he muttered, eyes back on the laptop screen.

you rolled your eyes. “rude. that was emotional love-making, actually.”

“you cried after,” he added helpfully, with a teasing grin this time, looking at you.

“i was overstimulated and exhausted!”

“from all the love,” he said, voice dropping slightly as he winked. “you looked so fuckin’ pretty like that, by the way. all whimpery and soft. should’ve taken a photo. mental health purposes.” he then turned back to his laptop and continued doing whatever shit he was doing like he hadn’t just shattered your dignity. 

“god, you’re insufferable,” you sighed, watching him lean back and spread his legs like he owned the damn place (he does). shirtless. and just in his boxers. basically, a menace in soft lighting.

“only for you,” he said, then paused, dragging his eyes down again. his fingers slowed on the keyboard. “you always sit like that in the tub when you want me to look.”

you froze slightly. “‘kuna, i’m literally just bathing.”

“uh-huh. with your knees poking out of the bubbles like that. water dripping down your collarbone. are we pretending you’re not trying to make me fail this report?”

you stared him down. “you’ve been shirtless all day. i haven’t said a word.”

“you bit me earlier. for no reason.”

“you were walking around with a pen in your mouth like a chew toy!”

he grinned and stretched out in the chair, legs wide, muscles relaxed. “ohhh, my bad, madame la professeur. je m’excuse.” his voice dipped, teasing. “would you prefer I recite conjugations again?” 

you choked on a laugh, bubbles shifting. “no... baby, stop. i don’t wanna heart it,” you said as you covered your ears.

“sweetheart, you threatened to drown me with a beret when i said ‘voulez-vous coucher avec moi’ in class.”

“because you said it in front of the TA! and winked at me after saying that, who does that?”

“me, obviously. and now look at us,” he gestured vaguely between the two of you, “still conjugating. still undressing with language.”

“gross.”

“grammatical,” he corrected smugly.

“anyway,” you huffed, “this was supposed to be sacred alone time.”

“correction,” he said, typing, “this is now sacred us time.”

“i can’t believe this is what my marriage looks like.”

he looked up again, glasses low on his nose. hair messy from a full day of stress-yanking (not love-making). dark eyes locked onto you like you were another report he was ready to manhandle. “consider me your emotional support office chair. i’m quiet. i click keys. i’m shirtless. it’s a wellness experience, brat.”

you gave him a deadpan look. “remind me again why you’re still doing reports when you own the entire damn company?”

“because my exec team is full of morons and apparently need their daddy to babysit the fucking budget.” he muttered, his eyes back on the screen.

“… so you really say that in meetings? ‘don’t worry, daddy’s here with the spreadsheets’?”

he gave you a withering look. “baby, don’t make me come over there and show you why they call me that.”

you sat up straighter, mock-scandalized. “you are not turning my bath into a boardroom kink.”

“oh, please,” he snorted. “you’d let me reorganize your filing system if i said that it in that voice.”

 “try me,” you puffed your cheeks and threatened, “i will throw a loofah at you. and for the record, ‘kuna? this is ambush. i was having sacred time, you bulldozer.”

“and yet… you married me.”

“temporarily lost judgment.”

“five-year lapse?”

you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “shut up. you’re ridiculous.”

“correct. and in love.” he said easily, shifting the laptop onto his other lap. and you let out a soft laugh at that because you know it’s true. 

for a moment, he didn’t say anything. just watched you, still half-soaked in warm light and bubbles. his eyes lingered, not with hunger and mischief, but with something softer. like he was memorizing. or making sure you’re here.

“you good, babe?” you asked.

he blinked, like coming back from wherever his head has gone. “yep, just…” he shrugged. “you’re the best part of the day, baby. seriously though, i missed you,” he said voice quieter now, like it didn’t just knock the air out of your lungs.

you blinked and froze a little. not because he said it, but because of how soft he said it. you rolled your eyes again, but your heart was already melting. “i’ve been busy. you’ve been busy. it’s fine.”

“it’s not fine,” he said, not looking up from the screen. “i like working. but i like you more. well, love. whatever, you know.”

that... shut you up a little. for a whole minute, even. you stared at him as candlelights softened the hard lines of his face. he was typing again, brows furrowed, but his jaw was tight.

“… okay, damn. for someone who threatened brad from finance with a stapler, that’s surprisingly romantic, ‘kuna.” you said quietly.

he cracked a small smile. “brad’s an idiot. you, on the other hand, are my peace.”

you were silent for a second and sighed out relief you’ve been wanting to let out for the past week. “well, you’re a clingy little bitch.”

“only for you, baby,” he said without missing a beat. then he smirked and cocked his head, eyes sliding over your shoulder, chest, legs – all barely hidden under the bubbles. 

“also, this bath is really doing things to my productivity levels. like, negative productivity. you gonna stand up at some point or do i have to pretend i dropped something in your bathwater?” he added, clearly back to his cocky self.

you threw the loofah at him. he caught it one-handed. “you’re such a menace.”

“only for you, brat,” he repeated again, softer this time. then added, “also, your left boob’s out. always a ten out of ten.”

“get out.”

“i just got comfortable,” he grinned. “and again… i’m your husband. my perving is legally protected.”

––

a/n: lol i went thru a writing slump last month and i can't think of anything – and thank heavens i've maxxed out my scrolling that i was able to come out of that coping (from a failed subject and delayed grad) lol so here's another husband!sukuna just bc and this ain't proofread

[dykebehaviour]

okay, so, uh… how do i put this on?

loser lesbian!ellie strapping you for the first time

cw: smut, first time strap on sex r!receiving, established relationship, top!ellie, bottom!reader, awkward but sweet.

you weren’t expecting ellie to be this nervous.

scratch that, you were.

you were absolutely expecting her to be exactly this nervous.

she’s standing at the edge of your bed in a worn nasa t-shirt and boxers, holding the strap-on like it’s a piece of alien technology. it’s still in the black drawstring pouch it came in, which she has half-unzipped and is now peering into like she’s expecting it to bite her.

“i feel like this thing should come with a manual,” she mumbles, scratching the back of her neck. her ears are flushed, the tips glowing pink, and she looks anywhere but at you, despite the fact that you’re sitting in front of her, already half-naked and very ready.

you smile, biting your lip. “you watched, like, twelve youtube reviews on this, ellie.”

“yeah, well, they didn’t show this part!” she whisper-yells, motioning dramatically to the strap. “they just talked about, like, material and suction and… girth.”

that last word makes her physically recoil, like it personally offended her.

you laugh; genuine, warm, and scoot to the edge of the bed, reaching out for the harness. “here. gimme.”

she hesitates, then hands it over, still not making eye contact. “sorry. i just… i wanna do this right. i wanna make it good for you.”

your heart actually aches a little at that. she’s trying so hard. so ellie about it - awkward and earnest and somehow both endearing and annoying at the same time.

you kiss her, gentle and slow, a hand coming up to cradle her jaw. “hey. it will be good. you’re here. i’m here. and you-“ you grab the harness again, smirking. “-are about to become a total menace.”

“oh my god,” she groans, burying her face in your neck. “don’t say it like that. i can’t feel cool when you say it like that.”

“you’ve never been cool a day in your life.”

she pulls back just enough to look at you, squinting. “rude.”

“true.”

you both break into quiet laughter. the kind that fills the room in the spaces where nerves used to be.

ellie takes a deep breath, steadies herself. “okay. i’m doin’ it.”

and she does - clumsily at first, buckling it backward the first time and swearing under her breath, but eventually getting it on, adjusting the straps with all the seriousness of someone gearing up for battle. she looks down at herself once it’s on, eyes wide.

“…huh.”

you tilt your head. “you okay?”

“i don’t know. i feel like i should salute someone.”

you snort. “please don’t.”

“i feel like i should have, like, a badge. or a license.”

“ellie.”

“I HAVE THE POWER.”

you grab her hand and pull her onto the bed before she can spiral any further. “c’mere, soldier.”

the laughter dies down slowly, replaced by the kind of silence that hums with electricity. she’s looking at you now, really looking. her eyes go soft, mouth parted slightly like she’s about to say something and forgot how.

you touch her cheek. “you good?”

she nods. “yeah. yeah, i just… this is kind of a big deal, huh?”

“yeah,” you breathe. “it is.”

she kisses you again. slower this time. more deliberate. her hands are on your waist, your thigh, your hip. she moves with more purpose now, like something has clicked into place. the jokes are gone, replaced by a tenderness that makes your chest ache in a different way.

“god, you’re so-fuck, you’re soft,” she breathes, dragging her hand down your side, over your hip, between your legs. “can i?”

you nod, already breathless. “yes. please.”

she touches you first - fingers sliding slowly through wetness, testing how ready you are, and her eyes go wide.

“holy shit. that’s for me?”

“no, it’s for the pope.”

“shut up,” she laughs, and then her mouth is on your neck, your collarbone, nipping and kissing a trail lower. her hand never leaves you.

“tell me if anything feels weird, okay?” she says softly.

“ellie.”

she meets your gaze.

“i want you.”

her expression melts - turns open and overwhelmed, like she’s never been told that before, even though you say it all the time.

she lines up carefully, letting the tip brush against you first, back and forth in teasing little strokes that make you shift your hips with a whine.

“okay?” she checks again.

you nod, gripping her arm. “yes. i’m good.”

she presses in slowly. not all the way at once, just enough to make you gasp, then pause to let you adjust. her eyes are glued to your face, watching every little reaction, every twitch and breath. she’s completely focused on you, eyebrows knit like she’s trying to memorise how this feels for you, not her.

“oh my god,” she breathes when she’s fully in. “you’re so tight, holy shit-“

you moan quietly, nails digging into her bicep. she holds still for a beat, leaning down to kiss you again. it’s sloppy now, needy, less careful, her hips rocking slightly like she can’t help it.

“move,” you whisper. “please.”

that’s all it takes.

she starts a rhythm; slow at first, cautious, her hips grinding down at just the right angle. the harness presses against her pelvis, and she lets out this stunned little groan, like she’s shocked she can feel anything from it.

“is that okay?” she pants.

“so fucking good, ellie. just like that.”

her confidence builds fast. the thrusts get steadier, deeper, more sure. she adjusts your legs over her hips, one hand gripping your thigh, the other laced with yours by your head. she’s panting now, her voice wrecked.

“you’re doing so good,” you whisper, clinging to her. “so good, baby.”

her eyes flutter shut and she lets out a broken moan. “fuck, i-don’t say stuff like that, i’m gonna melt.”

“please melt. melt inside me.”

“babe-!”

you’re both laughing a little even as things intensify. her thrusts get sharper, more deliberate, each one landing perfectly, building that fire inside you until you’re arching into her, gasping, grabbing her ass to pull her closer, deeper.

“ellie-right there-”

“yeah?” she groans. “i got you, i got you.”

she presses her forehead to yours, driving into you with a steady rhythm that has you falling apart fast. your legs tremble around her, your mouth falling open, and you barely manage to choke out her name as you come, clenching around the silicone, body shaking with the force of it.

ellie slows down immediately, still kissing your face, whispering breathless praises against your skin.

“you okay?” she murmurs. “that was-fuck, that was so hot.”

you pull her down, kissing her slow and deep. “you were perfect.”

she collapses half on top of you, sweaty and glowing and so smug you could slap her.

“so…” she pants. “was i a menace?”

you laugh, threading your fingers through her damp hair.

“absolutely.”

perm taglist: @yasmilks , @natsheretic , @lovemiraamira , @ellies-real-wife , @wewerewildandfluorescent , @jullsii , @eyesttokill , @dmenby3100 , @bunchogravie , @oneinameliann , @intheshadowofthestars , @pariiissssssss , @vanpalmertruther , @madsxh1022 , @rbnvrnxoxo , @firefly-ace , @alyaserrax , @silly-pigeon69 , @glassofgreenteapls , @pearlsiie , @aj0elap0l0gist , @sincerelyherz , @imsiriuslycool <3

[noredemptionhere]

𝙷𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙲𝙰𝙽𝙾𝙽𝚂 ⋆˙⟡♡ 𝚆𝙸𝙵𝙴!𝚂𝙴𝚅𝙸𝙺𝙰 𝚇 𝙵𝙴𝙼!𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙴𝚁

no warnings—just fluff

ᡣ𐭩| sevika isn’t ticklish. except in one spot. you found it by accident, barely brushed your fingers there, and she flinched. the realization hit you both at the same time. she narrowed her eyes. “don’t.” you grinned. “got your ass.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is secretly the biggest hypocrite. tells you to “be careful” but gets into fights twice a week. says she “doesn’t like sweets” but always steals bites from your dessert. acts like she’s all serious, but the moment you’re out of sight? she’s wrapping herself in your blanket like a burrito.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika rarely gets sick, but when she does? she’s miserable. won’t admit she’s sick, won’t take medicine, just sulks in bed with a blanket over her face. you try to help, and she just groans, “leave me here to die.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika makes the worst coffee. it’s either jet fuel or straight-up bean water—there is no in-between. and yet, she still drinks it like it’s fine. if you complain, she just slides the cup toward you. “all you jealous bitches got nothing on me.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika is good at cards. too good. it’s infuriating. she doesn’t even try. she just sits there, unreadable, waiting for you to make a mistake. when you finally do lose, she just smirks, shuffling the deck with lazy precision. “wanna go again?”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika does not ‘scoot over.’ if you want to sit beside her, you make it work. you push at her, wriggle into the smallest available space, throw a leg over hers—and she still won’t move. just lets you struggle until you’re satisfied, smirking the entire time.

ᡣ𐭩| she does not like sticky things. syrup? hate. honey? disgust. the one time you kissed her after eating a popsicle, she physically recoiled. you had to follow her around the apartment with sticky lips while she threatened to throw you out.

ᡣ𐭩| she talks in her sleep. not often, but when she does, it’s nonsense. once, she mumbled, “no, i don’t want the frog,” and you spent weeks trying to figure out what it meant. she refuses to acknowledge this ever happened.

ᡣ𐭩| her sneezes are terrifying. she tries to hold them back, but when they come out, it’s like a gunshot. the first time it happened, you screamed. she laughed so hard she had to sit down.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika’s hands are always warm. annoyingly so. you press your cold fingers against her just to hear her complain, and she always does. “fuck’s sake—” but she doesn’t pull away. just sighs and lets you steal her warmth like the menace you are.

ᡣ𐭩| she has a soft spot for the dumb things you love. that one stupid tv show you’re obsessed with? she’s seen every episode. that weird little stuffed animal you’ve had since childhood? guarded with her life. she pretends to be indifferent, but then you catch her muttering about the plot holes in your favorite series like it personally offended her.

ᡣ𐭩| she grumbles when you move too much in bed. full-on, deep-chested grumbling, like a bear being disturbed from hibernation. you shift once? she sighs. you shift again? she tightens her grip. the third time? “seriously?” and suddenly you’re locked in place.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika has the world’s worst sleep schedule. she’ll tell you she’s going to bed early, and then you’ll wake up at 3 AM to find her standing in the kitchen, eating leftovers with her fingers and flipping through a book she has been obsessed with like she’s solving a murder case.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika cannot whisper. she thinks she can, but her whisper is just her normal voice, slightly lower. if she tries to say something discreet in public, people from across the room will turn to look. you’ve stopped letting her tell you secrets in quiet places.

ᡣ𐭩| she refuses to eat the last bite of anything. no explanation. no logic. just a deep-seated refusal to finish a plate completely. she’ll sit there, arms crossed, staring at the single remaining bite like it personally offended her. you’ve started eating it for her out of spite.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika hates when you’re mad at her. not because she can’t handle it—she can. but because she doesn’t know what to do. she just kind of… hovers. pokes at you. drops things near you so you have to pick them up and acknowledge her existence.

ᡣ𐭩| she thinks she’s subtle when she checks you out. she is not. she does the whole slow, full-body glance, then immediately acts like she wasn’t just devouring you with her eyes.

ᡣ𐭩| sevika sighs like she’s got a mortgage and three kids. you’ll say something mildly annoying, and she’ll exhale like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. you once asked her why she does that. she just looked at you and sighed again.

ᡣ𐭩| she pretends she doesn’t like sweets. but every time you get something sugary, she takes a bite. every. single. time. and if you ever try to call her out on it, she just shrugs. “tastes better when it’s yours.”

ᡣ𐭩| sevika acts like she’s above petty behavior—but she’s not. one time, you jokingly called another woman “pretty,” and for the rest of the night, sevika miraculously forgot how to do anything for herself. needed help unbuckling her belt, unbuttoning her shirt, everything.

[syrinq]

thinking about ketheric thorm bg3 who slayed so much cunt he dieded

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Don't Move

*Loosely inspired by the new Netflix movie Don’t Move but I haven’t actually watched it and only saw clips and read the synopsis.

I never should have parked so far from the grocery store. I’d stopped to grab a few items for dinner on my way home from work and parked in the last row, wanting to give myself an opportunity to walk a little extra to the store and stretch my legs after sitting at a computer desk all day, especially since today was an uncharacteristically sunny fall day. When I finish shopping and come back out to my car, I vaguely take note of another car parked next to me.

Weird, considering half the lot was empty but who am I to judge, I’m not the parking police. I roll my cart to my car, unload my shopping bags, and return the cart before rounding my car to get in and leave. That’s when I realize that the car next to me parked absurdly close to mine.

I silently judge the distance and decide that maybe I can squeeze myself into my driver side door without dinging his door or mine so I step in the space between the two vehicles. As soon as I pull open my door, I can tell that my plan won’t work. I huff out a little laugh and decide to just crawl in through the passenger side when I hear the car door slam from behind.

“Sorry!” An embarrassed sounding male voice sounds. “I totally misjudged the distance and parked a little too close.”

I turn to see a tall man stride around what I assume is his car that he was sitting in, coming towards me. I smile back at him, “No worries, it happens to the best of us. I can just crawl in through the other side.”

His eyes crinkle in a kind smile and he raises one hand to run through his hair bashfully. I realize that he’s really attractive, the kind of boy-next-door attractive that makes you feel at ease. He’s closed the distance between us and stands near the back bumper of both our cars, his frame filling the space and effectively trapping me in.

“No, don’t, I can move my car, just give me a sec,” he says, giving a wry chuckle. I glance down at his other hand and see him holding an umbrella. I raise an eyebrow, gesturing towards it with my chin, “Expecting rain?”

He looks down as if he’s surprised to see the umbrella in his hand, “Oh! This! Well, you can never be too prepared, right?” He shrugs lightly and takes another step into my space.

“Plus, it’s really useful for times like this,” he says before clicking a button on the handle that makes the tip light up with electricity. His umbrella is a stun gun in disguise. Before I can react, he jabs it into my side and I let out a strangled yelp as sharp pain floods my body and I crumple.

He catches me and the last thing I see before my vision goes black is his handsome face twisted in a dark, menacing smile.

—

The rhythmic jostling of a car wakes me up and I found myself laid out across the backseat of a car with my arms tied behind my back and my legs tied together at my ankles. I let out a soft whine, my body aching as I slowly clear my head.

My eyes dart around the car and I see him driving. He tilts the rearview mirror down so we can see each other and he flashes me a charming smile.

“Good morning. Sleep well?” His voice is teasing, as if we were lovers, waking up in bed together and not a deranged kidnapper and his prey.

“What the fuck? Let me go!” I thrash against my restraints but he’s also strapped me into the seatbelts and made it impossible for me to get free.

He smiles, “Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

I feel the car turn and from my limited view out the windows, I see him turn us from a main road onto a smaller path that seems to lead into the forest. Fear starts to overtake my every emotion.

“Where are you taking me? Are you going to kill me?” I say, my voice cracking.

He laughs in response but doesn’t deign to give me a verbal response. Before I can muster up the courage to ask more, the car comes to a stop and he steps out before opening the door by my feet.

With a strong grip, he hauls me out of the car and I stumble out, legs unsteady and uncoordinated from being bound together. “Please, please, let me go!” I beg him, my heart in my throat.

He grins at me, “Let’s play a game. I’ll give you an opportunity to run, and if you out-run me, I’ll let you go.” I gasp, staring at him, waiting for the catch. He reaches behind me and with a swift motion, unties my arms. He leans down and does the same for my ankles and I stare at him in shock.

“You better run, little bird.” His voice is teasing as he takes a step back from me. I don’t hesitate. I spin and take off.

My breath is harsh and my heartbeat wild as I sprint through the woods, ignoring the branches that scratch at my face and arms. I hear his laugh following me and then his voice shouting after me, “Run, little bird, run as fast as you want but you won’t get far!”

I don’t stop to think, just mindlessly crashing through the woods as fast as I can, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. I’m not sure how far I’m able to get when suddenly, my leg seems to give out from underneath me and I take a tumble.

I gasp, trying my best not to scream as I trip and find myself landing hard on the ground. Pain shoots through my body and I grit my teeth, not wanting to make any more noise in case he can hear me. Adrenaline is still pumping through me as I scramble to push myself back up from the floor. I manage to stand and take a step before my knees buckle again and I drop to my hands and knees.

What the fuck is going on? Why isn’t my body cooperating? I’m frantic, horror filling my blood as I realize something is very wrong. My legs won’t move and I don’t know why. I try to crawl forward but suddenly, my arms give out and I end up sprawled across my front, branches digging into my body painfully.

I can’t escape like this. My brain is begging my body to just move and keep running but nothing is happening. I use an excruciating amount of effort to roll myself from my front to my back so at least I can have a better vantage point but that’s all that I’m able to accomplish before my body completes shuts down. I’m left splayed out on my back, limbs frozen, mind screaming in panic when I hear footsteps approaching.

And then, I hear his voice. “Little bird, did the drugs kick in?”

My heart drops at his words. He drugged me. That was why I couldn’t move. Tears filled my eyes and I blinked rapidly, the only movement I could still produce.

I see him walk into my view through my tears and I hear him chuckle. “Looks like my little bird can’t fly anymore.” He walks up next to me and looks down at me and waves a syringe mockingly.

“A paralytic. Fast-acting and long-lasting. You’re going to be like this for at least several hours,” he says, a maniacal gleam lighting up his eyes. I try to speak and realize that I can’t even do that.

He crouches down next to me and brushes my hair off my face, then trailing a hand down my cheek, collecting a tear. “We are going to have so much fun together, little bird.”

He hefts me up into his arms and carries me through the forest, retracing the path I’d ran down. I realize with a sinking heart that I did not make it far at all and in a few hundred yards, we end up back at the car. My mind is still screaming at my body to move but nothing obeys.

He carries me into a cabin, the intended destination of our car ride, and I stare listlessly at the space around us. We end up in a bedroom with a large bed and I feel another wave of fear pass over me. He’s going to rape me.

He lays me down gently on the bed like I’m some kind of precious cargo. Then he disappears from view and I hear the sound of running water from what I assume is the connected bathroom. He comes back holding a first aid kit and a wet towel. He starts with the scratches on my face, wiping them down before putting some kind of cream over them, his fingers gentle.

He makes a tsk sound at me, “Look at you, little bird. Covered in scratches, I’m going to need to take good care of you, hm?” He smiles down at me and my stomach curdles. My eyes are wide as I stare back at him, silent.

Then he pulls out a pair of scissors and I want to flinch but I can’t. He starts to cut my shirt off my body and I feel dizzy with terror as my clothes start to fall away in strips. I beg my body to move but just like before, there’s nothing in response.

He moves down to my pants, opting to unbutton them and gently pull them off my legs, taking care to maneuver my body around. Tears are streaming down my face, wetting my temples and my hair as I stare up at the ceiling blankly.

I’m naked now, stripped bare, splayed out on the bed. “Fuck, little bird, you’re beautiful,” he says, his voice low. He runs a hand down my cheek, ghosting over my throat and down between the valley of my breasts, over my stomach, and he comes to rest in between my legs. I close my eyes, trying to escape from this horror.

He nudges my legs further apart, revealing my pussy to his hungry gaze and I feel his finger dance across me. The movement is gentle, teasing, and if I could move, it would have made me tense and jerk away. But instead, I lay still, my body unable to do anything except let him take what he wants.

He trails a gentle finger against my clit and the touch makes electricity dance down my spine. He pulls his hand away for a second and I feel his finger press against my mouth. My eyes fly open to meet his. He smiles at me before gently pushing his finger into my mouth. My lips part with no resistance and when he pulls his hand away, a string of saliva follows.

His spit-wet finger goes back to between my legs and he rubs my clit again. My eyes clench shut as an unwanted wave of pleasure washes over me and if I could moan right now, I know that I would be biting it back. His wet finger moves up and down over me and he knows exactly how hard to rub and where to touch. I feel my breath stutter in my chest and I want nothing more than to push him away, to make him stop.

“Little bird, I can feel you getting wet,” he purrs at me and I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to block it out. “I’m going to take such good care of this pretty pussy,” he says as he gently slides a finger inside of me. I’m so wet now that there’s no resistance at all, and my relaxed body only helps him breech me.

He adds a second finger and suddenly, I feel the hot touch of a mouth on my clit. It’s unbearable, the forced pleasure permeating every single sense and nerve, the paralytic erasing every possible outlet I could have to soothe the sharp, overwhelming blanket of unwanted bliss. I can’t clench my legs, can’t roll my hips, arch my back, or even make a single sound. It’s torture.

His mouth and fingers work at me relentlessly and I can feel an orgasm building up. Except my body can’t respond to it, my pussy can’t tense and contract, there’s nothing to soften the rush of pleasure that slams into me. Tears are streaming down my face as my orgasm takes my breath away, the unimaginable pleasure shooting through me with no physical outlet. It makes my entire being go hazy, my breathing quickening as much as it could with my body in this state.

He doesn’t stop when I cum. His fingers continue to slide into me, curling upwards to hit my g-spot with painstaking accuracy. He lifts his mouth from my clit and flashes me a devious smile, “I told you I’d take good care of you. And fuck, you taste so fucking good, little bird. I could do this all day.”

His lips seal around my clit again, sucking, flicking, licking. I’m trapped in my body, trapped in this unbearable pleasure, as he wrings another orgasm out of my helpless body. Finally, he pulls back, sliding his fingers out of my dripping pussy. He sits back on his heels and looks down at me, triumph and satisfaction making him look like a king surveying his conquest.

He slides off the bed but stays in my field of vision as he begins to strip, every article of clothing removed revealing his attractive form. When his pants and underwear come off, I see his long, hard cock jut out, tip already dripping with pre-cum. I want to beg him to stop, tell him that I can’t take anymore but I can’t. I can only watch as he stalks toward me, crawling onto the bed and settling between my legs again.

He’s on his knees, towering over me as he strokes his cock languidly. “I’m going to make you fall apart on my cock, and make you take every single inch in that tight fucking cunt of yours. You are going to be mine, little bird.”

He moves my legs from where they’ve been spread wide, moving them to press both against my chest, leaving my pussy exposed and open for him. I feel the head of his cock push against my pussy and I close my eyes, trying to will myself away from this.

He laughs, “You can’t hide from me, you know that.” His body moves as he slides his cock into me. He’s gentle, slowly feeding an inch at a time, giving my lax body time to adjust to his massive size. I want to thrash and writhe, the feeling of his cock filling me so completely takes my breath away and it feels so fucking good I want to crawl out of my skin.

He lets out a low groan, cursing under his breath as he finally sinks all the way into me. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good, your cunt was made for me.”

Then, he fucks me. His hips slam into me without remorse, every thrust making my body jolt, his grip on my legs and hips the only things keeping me in place. My eyes roll back into my head as the pleasure overwhelms me.

Every thrust slams into my cervix, the pain-tinged pleasure makes me want to scream, to do anything to relieve this mind-melting, all-encompassing feeling. His movements are relentless, each one punctuated by the sound of his pleasure-filled groans. The sound of my pussy’s wetness fills the room, along with our skin slapping together, creating a cacophony of lewd noise.

“Fuck, little bird, I’m going to cum in your tight cunt. I’m going to mark you as mine from the inside,” he growls, his grip on me tight as his hips speed up. Waves of pleasure crash through me and I want to claw myself out of my physical form. I can’t cope with the pleasure shooting through every nerve with nowhere to go.

His hips stutter against mine and I hear his voice rasp out a drawn-out moan as he cums inside of me. He lets my legs down gently, taking care not to strain me as he leans over me. “Fuck, next time I do this, I want you writhing underneath me in pleasure,” he says, voice breathless. I can only stare back at him in response.

He pulls away from me, the feeling of his cock leaving my pussy sending tingles down my spine. He looks at me, his cum dripping out of my cunt and he smiles. “Don’t worry, we’re not done yet.” His words push a stab of anguish into me. What more can he do to me? I can’t handle any more.

He climbs off the bed and steps out of my line of sight. When he comes back, he’s holding a horribly mean-looking vibrator. My eyes widen and I blink frantically, my mind screaming at him to please stop. He can’t hear me but he wouldn’t listen to me even if I could verbalize my pleading.

He smiles and spreads my legs apart again, leaving me exposed and I hear the wretched sound of the vibrator fill the room. There’s no gentle touch, no softness that comes to soothe me, just the horrible, nerve-shattering press of the vibrator against my clit.

My mind breaks. The pleasure explodes out of me but every single muscle of my body stays relaxed, amplifying the unimaginable feeling. There’s nothing to dampen it, no clenching of my legs to make it any better, no cries, moans, whimpers, and screams leaving my throat to distract me. Just the vibrator destroying me.

My orgasm rips through me and he doesn’t relent. Moments later, another orgasm makes my every nerve combust and he only grounds the vibrator harder against me. The next one makes my vision go white and my brain shuts down any higher function and leaves me a shell only capable of experiencing the torturous pleasure. The last orgasm rips through me and tears through my consciousness and my world fades to black.

—

I wake up to a darkened room, clearly a few hours since I passed out, judging by the dusky sunset peeking in through the windows. I’m raw, destroyed, shattered. I desperately will my body to move and I feel my heart jump when my fingers twitch against the bed. My eyes dart around the room, taking in the lack of his presence, and for the first time, I feel hope beat in my chest.

And then, I hear footsteps and see him walk into view. My heart sinks. He’s holding another syringe and he smiles at me. “I see you’re awake, I hope you had a good nap.”

I desperately try to force my body to move but all I get is another pathetic twitch of my fingers. His gaze zeros onto it and he smirks. “Looks like you need a second dose, little bird.”

I want to scream, to beg, to do anything to put up a fight but there’s nothing that can be done. He comes up to the bed and with gentle fingers, pushes the syringe into my hip and presses the plunger down. Tears drip out of my eyes as I fight against my paralyzed body, my fingers still twitching desperately.

A few moments later, even that movement leaves me. He brushes my hair off my forehead and leans down to press a long kiss against my head. “You’re mine forever now, little bird.”

--

Note: This concept is so hot to me and when I saw a clip of the movie's premise, I knew I had to write this! Hope y'all enjoy! <3

[sh4nksslvt]

shanks x reader with a cat-like or cat based zoan devil fruit?

sounds cool www

Claws, Cuddles, and Catnip Chaos

Shanks will do anything to win over the crew’s mischievous cat-like Devil Fruit user—even if it means competing with Benn and surviving a sneak-attack nap.

shanks x reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, sfw, light romance, nap cuddles, clingy antics, catnip a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ff a bit cringe, akward, and confusing word count: 991

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

There were exactly three things the Red-Haired Pirates learned about you very quickly:

You were a certified menace in a cat’s body.

You had zero respect for personal space—unless it was Shanks’s.

You absolutely, unapologetically favored Benn Beckman.

"She purrs for you, Benn?! I've fed her, I've scratched her ears, I even gave her that weird fish jerky from Dressrosa!"

Shanks was sulking—again—as you laid sprawled across Benn’s lap like a lazy feline sunbathing, flicking your tail with royal indifference while he casually stroked between your ears.

“She lets me pet her when she’s in a good mood,” Benn replied calmly, taking a drag of his cigar. “Maybe try not throwing her off your shoulder when she lands there mid-meeting.”

“She knocked over seven mugs in ten seconds!”

“I was clearing the table for snacks,” you muttered, not opening your eyes.

“You yeeted a map. Into the ocean.”

You rolled onto your back, belly up, tail flicking toward Benn’s arm. “Benny understands me. Right, Benny?”

Benn chuckled, slow and satisfied. “You’re a little gremlin, but you’re my gremlin.”

Shanks practically burst into flames from jealousy. “That’s MY gremlin!”

"Ownership implies consent," you said, still not moving.

“You SLEPT ON HIS DESK FOR THREE HOURS!”

“I was asserting dominance.”

Shanks’s eye twitched.

Flashback: The “Desk Incident”

You’d sauntered into the war room mid-strategy meeting, tail high, whiskers twitching with curiosity. No one questioned it. You did this all the time.

Except this time, instead of knocking over a globe or licking a compass like a weirdo, you simply walked across the table, plopped down on Benn’s open map, and curled up into a ball.

Then you snored.

For three hours.

Shanks tried to nudge you off gently at first.

You bit him.

When Benn reached over and scratched your chin, you purred like a motorboat and flopped onto your side.

"Traitor," Shanks muttered.

Back to the Present

"Alright, that's it," Shanks declared, standing on a barrel dramatically. "From now on, I'm enacting Operation: Make Cat Fall in Love with Me."

Benn raised an eyebrow. "That’s the name you’re going with?"

"YES," Shanks snapped. "Step one: catnip. Step two: fish. Step three: ultimate snuggles."

"She’ll see right through it," Benn said, but he was smirking.

You stretched and yawned loudly. “I can hear you, you know.”

“I’m not hiding it!” Shanks declared. “I’m wooing you.”

“Woo me and you die.”

“You’re saying that now,” he said, pointing dramatically. “But just wait.”

Operation: Catastrophic Success

Step one was—predictably—catnip.

You were wise to his games this time, narrowing your eyes at the sprig he dangled like a bribe.

“I’m not falling for it again.”

“Come on,” Shanks wheedled. “Just a sniff.”

“Nope.”

Shanks leaned in, holding it under your nose like a shady merchant. “High-quality, imported, no sticks.”

You hissed and batted it out of his hand.

Then you lunged and stuffed it in your shirt.

“…I said I wasn’t falling for it, not that I was above stealing it.”

Shanks blinked. “...Fair.”

Step Two: Fish Diplomacy

Shanks cooked. Personally.

The crew avoided the galley like it was on fire.

When you walked in, the smell of something vaguely edible reached your nose. Shanks stood with a crooked smile, apron inside out, face smudged with flour, and a suspiciously burnt fish in hand.

“For you.”

You sniffed it.

You stared.

“Did… did you use rum instead of oil?”

“I panicked!”

You padded over to Benn and took the jerky he always kept in his coat pocket.

Shanks’s soul left his body.

Step Three: Ultimate Snuggles

It happened completely by accident.

You were curled up on your usual sunspot near the helm, tail twitching softly as the Red Force cut through calm seas. You’d been lounging near Benn earlier, of course, but he’d gone to smoke and you felt… restless.

The sun was warm.

The wind was soft.

Shanks was lying in the hammock like a lounging idiot, one leg up, book on his face, softly snoring.

And for some reason, your legs just walked over. Your ears twitched. Your instincts went haywire.

And before you could even think, you leapt into the hammock like a heat-seeking missile and curled up on his chest.

Shanks woke with a loud OOF.

He froze.

He blinked up through his book… and found you, kneading his chest absentmindedly, eyes already half-lidded, clearly ready for a nap.

“Wha…”

“Shh,” you mumbled. “You’re warm. Good pillow.”

He nearly died on the spot.

She’s on me, he thought. She chose ME. Over Benn.

He let his arm slowly wrap around you like he was defusing a bomb. Then he just laid there, stiff as a board, trying not to breathe too loudly.

When Benn walked by and raised a brow, Shanks grinned like a victorious maniac.

“She came to me,” he mouthed.

Benn just puffed his cigar and said, “Try not to scare her off.”

“She’s purring,” Shanks whispered smugly. “She likes me now.”

“I give it five minutes before she sneezes and claws your face.”

Five Minutes Later

You sneezed violently.

Your claws came out.

“OH GOD MY NIPPLE.”

Later That Night

You sat on the railing, brushing your tail as the moonlight washed over the deck. Shanks sat nearby, nursing his dignity and some scratch marks under his shirt.

“…Still worth it,” he mumbled.

You side-eyed him. “You’re a masochist.”

“I like a challenge.”

You flicked his forehead with your tail. “You’re annoying.”

He grinned. “But you like me.”

“…No comment.”

You hopped off the rail and stretched. Then, casually, you flopped down and laid your head in his lap.

He froze again.

“…Are you trying to kill me with happiness?”

You yawned. “You’re comfy. Better than your fish, that’s for sure.”

He beamed.

“You like me more than Benn?”

“Don’t push it.”

“But—”

You shot him a glare. “I will go scratch his beard and nap in his bunk again.”

Shanks shut up real fast.

“…I’ll take the win.”

[divineturtle]

Bothers me when I'm reading a fanfic and they make Doctor Leonard "Bones" McCoy just like. A mean asshole? MY Doctor McCoy introduced Spock to baby talk. MY Doctor McCoy bounces on his toes and has a smile bright as the sun. MY Doctor McCoy knocked Kirk *and* Spock out with a hypo to sacrifice himself for them even though the aliens said he was almost for sure going to die, and the other two would probably live. MY Doctor McCoy was like, hey, sure Spock committed mutiny, but do we really gotta arrest him? Yeah he's grumpy sometimes, but have you considered the fact that he's stuck on a ship in Space with two assholes that literally never listen?

I just watched the Abraham Lincoln episode and I stg it's a miracle McCoy isn't actually a huge asshole, because wym "this planet WAS deadly but Abraham Lincoln says it's cool so we're going" "hey, don't do that, you could beam down into lava and literally DIE" "Ugh shut UP McCoy we're following Abraham Lincoln onto the Lava Planet That WAS ENTIRELY LAVA until two minutes ago" dude I'd be swinging at a mfer. Especially if I was their doctor knowing it was going to be my job to sew them back together. They're absolute menaces to him and he still loves them and is willing to die for them every other episode.

And I don't ever want to see another "ahh he hates Spock" when he so obviously does not. In the last episode, he wasn't even sure that Kirk and Janice had swapped bodies and yet again, he was ready to commit mutiny with Spock and Scotty (why does Spock love mutiny? 🤨) He does like to rib Spock and get reactions out of him, but Spock likes to do it to McCoy just as much. He's been around humans his ENTIRE life, his mom is a human, he's half human, "I have no idea what you mean, Doctor, I'm just a simple little logic machine," you cannot convince me it's not a game.

And every time I feel like McCoy is being hurtful for actually no reason, the next scene is Spock taking action because of whatever McCoy had said and allowing himself to tap into that human part of him. He has a way of speaking Spock. It's not always nice but it's a way that gets through. Do you think asking Spock to use his Vulcan powers to permanently alter his friend and captain's memory so he forgets his grief over this chick he fell desperately for and then also she died in the span of like four hours is a great idea? No, he'd probably have some moral or logical issues with that. but just speech at him about love and feelings and stuff, throw something in there about how great it'd be if he could just forget, and he'll do it himself.

ANOTHER THING. When he's an asshole, he apologizes. He's not an asshole often, but when he is, he apologizes. Leonard McCoy is a lot of things, but he's not really a dick.

I think he deserves to be represented for the guy he is. He has SO many nice and good moments, he's just subtle about them. Remember when Kirk was like, "Bones, why didn't you tell me she was blind?" And he was like, "Idk Jim maybe because that'd be rude? Have you considered it's not your business?" REAL. Honestly, real.

This is a much longer rant than I meant for it to be and somehow I still have more I could say so imma cut myself off right here ❤️ If you read all that, thanks, you're just as weird as I am, even if you don't agree with my lil character analysis. If you didn't read all that, then you're not reading this ✨️

[itneverendshere]

Can we get the first time rafe said i love you to bitchy!pogue!reader?

as sick as it sounds, i loved you first - r.c (+18)

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe warnings: smut; fluff; angst (barely)

He was being weird again.

Not weird in the usual Rafe way—where he’d mutter something half-menacing under his breath, act like just breathing the same air as you gave him hives, and walk away like he hadn’t just insulted someone’s entire bloodline.

This was worse.

This was hovering, this was nice.

He was sitting across the couch with that glazed-over look he’d started wearing lately, the one that made it feel like he was watching you breathe, acting like you were some miracle he couldn’t wrap his head around.

You hated it.

(You didn’t.)

“Stop looking at me like that,” You didn’t bother to glance up from the bracelet you were tying around your wrist. One of those shitty little ones you’d made together out of string and beer caps last weekend when he’d shown up at your place at 2am with a “surprise” and the worst craft supplies imaginable.

“I’m not looking at you,” he said, instantly defensive.

“You’re literally—”

“Not in a weird way.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe a little weird,” he admitted, shoving his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. The one you’d stolen and pretended you hadn’t. 

Rafe had gone from arrogant and angry to… clingy? Affectionate? But he was yours and that was the part you hadn’t worked through yet.

He came to sit beside you, thigh pressed to yours, no sense of personal space whatsover. He smelled like detergent and whatever cologne he used way too much of, and somehow it didn’t suffocate you anymore.

It made your stomach twist, in a good way, a way you’d never felt before.

You remembered when just seeing his name in your phone, asking for a booty call, made your roll her eyes so hard it gave you a headache. When you used to flirt with his friends at parties for shit and giggles, just to watch that angry control of his slip away into nothing, because it always did.

That was the fun part, pissing him off, making him want you even when he hated you. Back then, it was a game, yet now, you were wearing his hoodie, he was close, warm, and gentle, and you didn’t know what to do with that.

“Why are you staring?” You asked, flicking your eyes toward him.

His hair was a mess, lips a little bitten, thanks to your fabulous work. His cheeks pinked under your gaze, which made you suspicious. He only got flustered when he was about to say something unhinged.

He leaned his head on your shoulder, he never used to do that back when you were constantly bickering across bonfires and making out with other people just to piss each other off. Now he was clingy, gentle. It was kinda hot.

“You ever just look at someone and think… shit, she really used to hate my guts and now she’s wearing my hoodie and letting me kiss her?”

“I still hate your guts,” You said sweetly.

“No you don’t,” he grinned, proud of himself.

You didn’t dignify that with a response, only hummed in acknowledgment, fiddling with the bracelet again so you didn’t have to deal with the intensity of his face.

“I think I love you.”

The words were a car crash in your chest. You froze, fingers still tangled in string, head snapping toward him, eyes wide, like what the actual fuck did you just say?

Rafe blinked. Then: “Okay. Bad timing.”

“No shit.”

“I just—” He shifted to face you more fully, fidgeting in his seat, trying not to bolt. “I was gonna wait. Or, like, make it a thing. Flowers and a sunset, I don’t know. Something romantic or whatever you deserve. But you're sitting here with your stupid little bracelet and your stupid beautiful face and I couldn’t not say it.”

You turned to look at him, slowly, eyes scanning his stupid pretty face. Maybe, you could find the old version of him buried under all this softness. But he was gone, that boy who used to shove past you at keggers like you were nothing, who once told you no one would ever really stick around for someone like you? Gone.

He winced. “You’re not saying anything. That’s bad.”

This one—this version—looked like he’d get on his knees if you asked.

“You just called me stupid twice.”

“I meant it lovingly.”

“You love me lovingly,” You said, lips twitching.

“I do love you lovingly.”

It should’ve made you gloat. That used to be your whole thing—getting under his skin, bending him to want you enough to break him. And now he was saying that to you?

It didn’t feel like winning anymore, more like drowning, sweet and terrifying. Somewhere between the late-night calls and the mutual destruction, between his bloodied knuckles and your bruised pride, he stopped trying to fight you, and you stopped trying to run.

He was looking at you like you meant something and you hated how badly you wanted to believe it.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, pretending you hadn’t heard him. Maybe saying it again would undo the panic rising behind your ribs.

You stared down at the bracelet in your lap, fingers still curled around the unfinished knot.

It made you sick. (It made you ache.)

“You’re not gonna say it back, are you,” He didn’t sound surprised. His voice was quiet, not even disappointed, just sad. He got it, knew exactly what kind of girl you were and loved you anyway.

That made it worse.

You looked at him then. The Rafe you remembered—the one with blood in his teeth and a chip on his shoulder—in his place was this… idiot. Your idiot, soft-eyed and pink-cheeked, hoodie strings uneven from where you tugged on them earlier when you kissed him hard enough to make him dizzy.

He looked so earnest it made your throat go tight.

Rafe huffed a breath, a half-smile twitching at his mouth. “You don’t have to say it back,” he said, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I just needed you to know.”

You were always good at pushing people away, letting them want you just enough to hurt them. It was easier that way. But Rafe—Rafe didn’t run that night. Not when you were screaming, not when you were cruel, not even when you told him you didn’t care.

You curled your fingers around his.

“You’re still kind of a dick.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“And I still kind of hate you.”

He nodded solemnly. “I can work with that.”

You stared at him for a long second, your chest hollow and full at the same time, and leaned in to press your mouth to his. 

“You’re annoying.”

You didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t know where to put all this feeling. It swelled up in your chest until it made your fingers tremble, until your lungs forgot how to work, until all you could think was himhimhim.

“I think I might love you too,” you whispered against his lips, like it was a sin.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging gently, and that earned you a involuntary groan straight from his throat. Rafe angled his head, breath hitching, and kissed you deeper, tongue sweeping past your lips.

You made a small, broken noise into the kiss, and he inhaled it while hands were everywhere, fingers dugging into the fabric of your hoodie—his hoodie, stretched and oversized on you—and he tugged you into his lap without asking. He needed you close, all the time.

You gasped against his mouth when your knees hit either side of his hips, straddling him, but he didn’t pull back. Just kissed you harder. His tongue slid against yours again, slow, making you feel like a live wire, the taste of him was sparking in your chest, down your spine, through your fingertips. You curled your fists into his hair even harder and he made a noise that sounded like surrender.

It wasn’t perfect—your noses bumped, your teeth clicked—but none of it mattered. You shifted in his lap, hoodie bunched awkwardly between you.

You tilted your head and let Rafe deepen it, mouths parting, tongues sliding together—messy in the best way. It wasn’t clean, it felt real. Your hands found his jaw, thumbs brushing the edge of his cheekbone, he felt like warmth, home, and that was terrifying.

Rafe kissed you like he was trying to apologize for every awful thing he ever said over the years, and you kissed him like you were ready to forgive him. 

He pulled back just an inch, breathing hard, lips pink and wet. His hands slid up your back under the hoodie, thumbs stroking bare skin, making your stomach flutter. His mouth dragged down to your jaw, sucking a bruise just beneath your ear, marking you—he couldn’t help it.

“Say it again,” you breathed, dizzy from him, from how easily you fit together like this.

He grinned, leaning in. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

It came out like the most honest thing you’d ever said.

“I love you,” he said, immediately, no hesitation.

You bit his bottom lip gently, kissed it better a second later, “I love you too.”

He laughed, nose brushing yours.

“Yeah,” he whispered, dragging your hips a little closer until your chests were flush, “I know, sweetheart.”

Right now, you wanted to crawl inside his ribs and live there, wanted to hear him say it again, and again, and again. Until you believed it.

His hands under your hoodie weren’t tentative anymore. They were bold—palms gliding up your back, fingertips brushing the edge of your bra, trying not to push, but couldn't stop himself either, making you arch just slightly into him.

“God, you drive me fucking insane,” he whispered, mouth still working a bruise into your collarbone. 

His voice was wrecked, full of that gritty desperation he always tried to hide but never could around you. 

“You don’t even know,” he said into your mouth, kissing between the words now, tongue chasing the taste of you. “You don’t know what you fucking do to me. I can’t think when you’re like this.”

Your lips brushed his jaw. “Good.”

“Mean,” he breathed, and his hands slid down, one dipping under the curve of your thigh, hiking it up until your core was right against him. “You’re mean to me.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, his cheek, “Still love me?”

“Worse,” he said, like a confession. “I need you.”

You felt it, the way his voice cracked when he said it—it physically cost him something, he was handing you a weapon and trusting you not to use it. You could’ve laughed, thrown it back in his face the way you used to, just for the power of it.

You ducked your head like that might hide how much it meant to you, if he didn’t see your face, he wouldn’t realize how deep it went. You were terrified of what this meant, of how much he was giving you, of how much you were giving back. 

“I’m right here. You have me.”

His hand crept up beneath your thigh, holding you there, grinding you down against the hard line of him through his sweatpants, and shit—you moaned, breaking the kiss.

Rafe’s head dropped back against the couch. “Keep doing that and I’m not gonna make it to the bedroom.”

“Who said we’re going to the bedroom?” you murmured, dragging your nails under the hem of his hoodie. You let your fingertips skim up his stomach, slow and teasing. His abs jumped beneath your touch.

You leaned down, mouth brushing his again, sweetly. And then you rolled your hips, his head dropped back with a strangled noise—half curse, half prayer.

“Fuck. Fuck, baby, you gotta stop unless you want me to—”

You bit his earlobe. “I do.”

“I’ve been so good, baby. I’ve been so fucking good, I swear.”

 “I know.”

“I wasn’t gonna touch you,” he murmured, desperate now. “Not 'til you were ready. Not 'til you told me you wanted it too.”

“I do,” you told him again, mouth brushing his. “I want you.”

His hands cupped your ass and he surged up, kissing you like a man starved, lost at sea for months. You could feel him, hard against you, could feel how bad he wanted you, how close he was to losing it, and it made you insane.

“You're on probation,” you reminded him, even as your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his own hoodie, tracing his collarbone.

“I know,” he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then lower, dragging his teeth down your throat. “I deserve it. I’d wait forever if I had to.”

You exhaled hard, body buzzing, nerves coiled tight from weeks of pretending you didn’t miss this or want him like this. You hadn’t let him touch you—only let him kiss you—since the night you said you wanted to try for real. Your breath caught in your throat, and your thighs squeezed tighter around his hips instinctively at his confession.

“You gonna let me?” he whispered, grinding up against you in slow, perfect circles. “Let me show you how much I fucking love you?”

You nodded, breathless.

He kissed your neck again, lips wet and open. “Then say it again.”

“I love you,” you gasped, tugging his hair.

“Louder.”

“I love you.”

His lips curved against your skin, pleased.

“Good girl.”

“You’ve been good too,” you whispered against his ear, kissing the shell of it, “so good.”

His whole body trembled under you.

“I’m not gonna last if you keep talking like that.”

You smiled against his neck, kissing your way down. “So don’t.”

Rafe flipped you onto your back in one motion, hoodie riding up past your ribs, his hands everywhere. He kissed down your stomach, groaning when he saw the little strip of bare skin between the hoodie and your underwear, a gift.

“I missed this,” he said, mouth pressed to your hipbone. 

You tugged at his clothes. “Then stop talking and take this off.”

And he did—hoodie gone, yours halfway up, kisses trailing lower.

He paused when he got to the edge of your underwear, breathing, trying to memorize the moment. His hands were warm, thumbs brushing circles over your hips, he couldn’t believe he got to touch you like this again.

“Still with me?”

You nodded, legs parting slightly, an unspoken answer.

Rafe exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“God, I missed you,” he said again, this time like a prayer, and pressed a kiss just above your waistband. Then another.

His mouth was gentle, making your whole body twitch. He took his time, dragging the fabric down your legs and when he finally kissed between your thighs, it didn’t feel like a favor or a performance—it felt like worship.

Rafe meant it, he’d dreamed about this every night he slept alone.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmured, mouth ghosting right where you were aching. “I wanna do it right this time.”

You whimpered. “Rafe—”

He groaned, it physically hurt to hear his name in your mouth like that. “Say it again.”

“Rafe.” You gasped it now, your hands in his hair, hips lifting of their own accord. “Please.”

He didn’t ease into it, instead, as soon as your underwear hit the floor, he dropped to his knees, where he’d been dying to be, he’d starve if you didn’t let him have you. He hooked your leg over his shoulder, pulled your hips to the edge of the couch, and dove in without a single word. And fuck, you felt it.

There was nothing gentle about it—His mouth was hot, tongue sweeping through your pussy like he’d been dreaming about the taste of you. He moaned into you like a man who finally found water in the desert, grabbing your thighs to hold you still while he licked you deep, wet, and messy.

Rafe didn’t stop for breath or come up to check on you. Just groaned and kept going, licking into you like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out.

“God, baby,” he gasped, breath shaky against your skin. “I missed this pussy so fucking much—tastes like heaven. Can’t believe I went so long without it.”

Your back arched, fingers tangling in his hair, but he didn’t let up even when you started to squirm or when your thighs shook around his head. He loved that, so he buried his face deeper, wanting your legs to trap him there. 

He switched it up just when you were about to fall apart—flicking his tongue in tight smaller circles over your clit while one thick finger slid into you, then another. The sound you made had him growling.

“Wanna feel you on my face.”

You did. Loud, messy, with your whole body shaking. He rode it out with you, never pulling back, tongue still working you through it while he moaned, acting like he was the one getting off.

Even after your orgasm hit, when you were twitching and whimpering from the overstimulation, he didn’t stop. Slowed down, sure—but didn’t stop. Pressed soft kisses to your clit, licked up everything you gave him. When he finally looked up at you, chin soaked, lips swollen, pupils blown wide—he looked high off you.

“Want more?”

Because the truth was—he did.

Your body was still trembling when he rose, his eyes meeting yours, it and hit you all over again—this is Rafe. Yours. And he loves you.

He leaned over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, and used the other to gently guide your face toward his. He kissed you deep, with so much love it knocked the air out of your lungs. You could taste yourself on his tongue—feel the way his body shook as he pressed closer.

You watched, chest rising and falling, as he sat back on his knees.

“Wanna feel you,” he said, eyes dark but tender. “All of you. Skin to skin.”

Rafe didn’t just want to fuck you—he wanted to know you like this again. You nodded, still dazed from the way he’d eaten you like a man possessed. “I want you too.”

He kissed you again, sweeter, took his time—needed you to feel what he couldn’t explain. And you did. 

He kissed your palm, then stood up slowly, peeling his shirt over his head slowly, baring his chest to you, no cocky flex, no rush—just his eyes on you the whole time, making sure you were still with him, that you wanted this as much as he did. His skin glowed warm in the low light—gold and flushed. You let your eyes trace over every inch of him: the curve of his collarbones, the scar on his rib, the way his stomach tightened when your gaze dipped lower.

Next came his jeans.

He stood up, undoing the button slowly, dragging the zipper down with a little exhale through his nose. His boxers went with them, sliding down over lean hips, thick thighs, revealing just how wrecked he already was for you. Hard. Heavy. Aching.

He stepped out of them and kicked them aside, then just stood there for a second—completely naked. Letting you see him, all of him.

Shit, he looked beautiful, vulnerable, ready. His chest rose with a shaky breath, and he reached for you again.

“You sure?” he asked, voice husky.

You nodded, biting your lip as you sat up a little, knees parting around him, hand reaching to brush over his stomach. “Touch me.”

That’s when he climbed onto the couch with you, awkward in the best way, knees hitting cushions, hands everywhere, both of you giggling quietly into the kiss because there wasn’t room to stretch out—not properly. So you made do, his chest pressing to yours, your calves curled around his waist,

He lined himself up and pushed in, slow. Your breath hitched—he felt everything. The stretch, your body welcoming him like it had been waiting for him all along. His eyes fluttered shut, and his forehead dropped to yours.

Rafe didn’t move at first, simply stayed there, buried deep, holding you.

When he finally started moving, he rocked into you with deep strokes—no roughness. Every thrust sent a wave of pleasure rolling through you, but it wasn’t just the way he felt—it was the way he looked at you while he did it. He was in awe.

His hands never stopped touching you—sliding over your ribs, cradling your face, tangling in your hair. He whispered things between kisses, confessions pressed to your skin.

“Don’t ever leave me, okay?”

You nodded through the haze of pleasure, wrapping your arms around his back, your legs around his hips. You pulled him in closer—wanted him as close as humanly possible.

You didn’t just want to feel him inside you, you wanted to keep him there. 

“Didn’t think I’d ever get this,” Rafe whispered, voice shaking. “Not like this, with you.”

You brushed your fingers through his hair, pulling him back for a kiss, mouths barely moving, and when he pulled back, his eyes were glassy.

You cupped his face. “You do.”

His hips rocked into you again, and you gasped—back arching instinctively, tightening your legs around him.

“Jesus,” he breathed, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “You feel so fucking good.”

Your mouth found his jaw, lips brushing the sensitive spot. “I’ve never—” You swallowed, breath catching. “No one’s ever made me feel like this.”

Rafe groaned, his rhythm stuttering. “Don’t say that unless you want me to lose it.”

He kissed you again, hard this time, a little desperate. His hands cradled your face like you were something fragile, and for once in your life, you didn’t mind that. You let yourself be held like that.

You held his face in your hands too, eyes fluttering open even as your mouth parted on a gasp.

“You okay?” he breathed, “Talk to me, pretty girl.”

You nodded, pulling him down into another kiss, needy. “Don’t stop.”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” he said, voice wrecked.

He braced a hand under your thigh and lifted it higher, pressing in and the sound you made had his hips stuttering. His lips found your neck again, his teeth scrapping at the skin.

“You feel so good,” he whispered into your skin. “Missed the way you sound. Missed how you look when I’m inside you.”

He rocked into you harder now, your bodies finding a rhythm—natural, perfect. His pelvis grinded against your clit with every pass, making your breath hitch and your legs tremble. It wasn’t just sex or getting off. It was everything you’d both been holding back—missed chances, sleepless nights, every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted all along.

His hand slid between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, perfect pressure movements, and your hips bucked involuntarily.

“There she is,” he rasped, lips brushing yours. “That’s my girl.”

You clenched around him at the words, and his eyes rolled back for half a second.

“Fuck, do that again.”

You did, not even on purpose, just from the way he felt, how he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever loved.

Your fingers scratched down his back, legs tightening around his waist, dragging him deeper. “Rafe,” you whimpered.

His hand cradled the back of your neck. “I know, baby. I know.”

He kissed you again, pouring everything into it—his apology, his want, his devotion. You could feel him everywhere—inside you, against you, with you. His hands never left you for long—one on your waist, the other at your cheek, brushing stray hairs back so he could see you while he made love to you.

That’s what this was, wasn't it? You felt it in your bones. Not sex, not a fuck. Rafe felt it too, you could tell by the way he kept whispering your name, how he blinked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“Been in love with you,” he admitted against your lips. “Didn’t even know it till you were gone. But I knew it here—” He kissed your chest, right over your heart. “Always here.”

You gasped, overwhelmed, fingers gripping his biceps. “I love you. I love you.”

You rolled your hips up to meet him, gave him everything—every moan, squeeze, every soft gasp in his ear. Your bodies were rewriting history, undoing every bitter word you ever spit out with every thrust.

Rafe’s hands gripped your thighs, his weight adjusting over you, you didn’t notice what he was doing until your legs were being lifted, folded back slowly, one at a time, until your knees were bent near your shoulders.

His arms hooked behind them, pressing you open, holding you there.

“Oh fuckkkkk—” Your breath caught, chest heaving against his. He was already sliding—even deeper than before, and you could feel the stretch, the overwhelming fullness that made your hands claw at his shoulders.

“I got you,” he reassured you, his chest still flush against yours. “I got you, baby.”

Rafe didn’t let the new angle break your closeness, not pulling back even an inch. His body blanketed yours, skin-to-skin, sweat-slicked and trembling, his mouth brushing your cheek as he started to move again.

It was making your head spin.

Your breath hitched every time he sank in, your legs trembling where they were pinned. And shit, the sounds. Wet, rhythmic—the slide of him inside you, the slap of skin on skin, the catch of your breath every time his hips rolled forward and hit that spot that had you clenching so tight around him he had to bite down on a groan.

“Shit,” he hissed, kissing down your jaw. “You feel so fuckin’ good like this. Can’t believe I went so long without this.”

Every part of you was open, exposed, his. 

He was taking his time with it, savoring every little reaction you gave him. His thrusts got heavier, your body folded around him making it impossible for him to miss a single spot.

“You’re so deep,” you whispered, voice high and shaky.

“I know,” he breathed. “Lemme give it to you, make you feel it.”

With your legs bent back, your pelvis tilted up, your body perfectly aligned for him, he filled every inch—grinding in with each stroke, his hips brushing against your clit hard enough to make your stomach tighten into that delirious pleasure.

Your toes curled, thighs quivering while kissed you again, desperately now, moaning into your mouth every time your walls clenched around him. You couldn’t stop it—it was involuntary, your body reacting to how he felt, to how fucking perfect this moment was.

You whimpered his name, needy, and he swore under his breath, shifting just enough to press your thighs closer to your chest. The angle made you cry out—your fingers digging into his back.

“That it? Right there?”

You nodded frantically, eyes wide, tears prickling at the corners from the intensity of it. His forehead pressed to yours, eyes locking with yours.

“You’re gonna cum for me first. I want it, baby.”

Rafe’s hand slid between your bodies, fingers slipping down to your clit again—rubbing in a perfect rhythm, in sync with every deep, body-shaking thrust.

It hit you suddely and violently, tearing through you with a sob that broke right out of your throat. Your whole body arched, legs trembling where he held them, walls pulsing around him so tight he nearly lost it right then.

“That’s it,” he gasped, watching you fall apart beneath him. “That’s my girl. Look at you, fuck—look how pretty you come for me.”

You were still shaking when he started to really lose it—his pace picking up, thrusts rougher, more ragged now as your orgasm milked him.

He choked out. “Where do you want it? Tell me, baby, please—”

“Inside,” you whispered, gripping his face. “Please. Rafe, please—”

He buried himself deep, groaning your name like it broke something in him, and then he was coming—hips locked, body shaking, spilling into you in pulsing waves.

You both lay there after, sweaty, trembling, still breathing each other’s air. His hands softened on your thighs, eventually letting them fall around his waist again, where they belonged.

He didn’t pull out, only kissed your shoulder, then your lips, still trembling. You didn’t realize you were crying until he kissed your cheek and tasted salt.

“Hey,” Rafe's thumb brushed the corner of your eye. ��You okay?”

You nodded, breath shaky, lips parted as you tried to speak. “Yeah… yeah, I just—”

Words failed, there weren’t any for this, how full you felt—physically, emotionally. He kissed your cheek again, letting his lips linger. You could feel his heartbeat still racing where his chest pressed to yours.

He was still inside you. 

Your legs had fallen open around his waist again, loose now, your heels resting against the backs of his thighs. His weight was solid on top of you, but comforting, not crushing. His cock—softening, but not leaving—stayed nestled so deep inside you it felt like your bodies didn’t know how to separate anymore.

Your hands drifted up his back, fingertips tracing sweat-damp skin, and his breath hitched at the gentleness of it.

“Don’t pull out yet.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” he murmured, kissing your collarbone. “Not ready to let you go.”

You let out a breathy laugh, aching, “Clingy.”

He smiled, forehead pressing to yours again. “Proudly.”

Your body was still trembling —aftershocks rippling through your muscles in fluttery waves. Every time you moved, even just to breathe, it made him twitch inside you. Not hard again, but still there.

He kissed your lips again, slower this time. 

“I love you,” he said against your mouth, the easiest thing in the world. He sighed, body sinking into yours even more, cheek resting beside your temple, arms wrapped tight around you.

You smiled, eyes wet again. “I know.”

[chrissssssmut]

Seven minutes in heaven with your tomboy best friend/cousin sparks an incestous romantic relationship

Unspoken Tension

Tomboy Winter x Male Reader (SMUT)

AN: SURPRISE! I've been working on this request for quite some time now! Sorry it took this long! I literally had to to multitask and write multiple stories all at once XD. Hope y'all like this esp to the one who requested!

It started with a game—something stupid, something harmless. That’s what you told yourself.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven.”

You should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple.

Winter had always been different from the other girls in your family—louder, brasher, less concerned with being ‘ladylike.’ While the rest of your cousins fussed over makeup and gossip, she was the one climbing fences and challenging you to arm-wrestling matches. Maybe that’s why you never really thought about her that way.

Until that night.

You sat in a loose circle with your cousins and a few friends, the air thick with the scent of cheap beer, soju and perfume. The empty bottle spun, wobbling on the hardwood floor before landing on Winter. And then on you.

A chorus of laughter and teasing erupted. Someone clapped you on the back. Winter only smirked, cocking her head.

“Well?” she drawled, already pushing herself up. “You scared?”

Your throat went dry. This is fine. It’s a stupid game.

The closet was cramped, barely enough space for the two of you. The second the door shut, the air changed. The laughter outside muffled into a dull hum, leaving only the sound of Winter’s slow, deliberate breathing.

She leaned against the wall, watching you in the dim light. “You look nervous.”

“I’m not.”

She laughed under her breath. “Liar.”

Seconds stretched. The air grew heavy, charged. Winter shifted, her knee bumping against yours. A touch so small, yet it sent a jolt through your spine.

You exhaled, trying to focus on anything else—the smell of old fabric, the soft scratch of her hoodie against the wall. But then she moved again, this time closer. Close enough that you could feel her warmth.

“You’re acting weird.”

“You’re the one cornering me.”

Winter tilted her head, considering you. Then, in a move so casual it felt dangerous, she reached out, fingers brushing the hem of your shirt. “You always this fidgety around girls?”

Your pulse hammered. “Not really.”

“Hmm.” A hum, low and knowing. “Just me, then.”

She didn’t kiss you. But she didn’t need to. The way she lingered, the way her fingers grazed your wrist before pulling back—it left something behind. Something unresolved.

When the door finally swung open, the others burst into laughter, throwing questions your way. You barely heard them. Winter just smirked, giving you a look that said, We’re not done.

And she was right.

You went about your days like nothing happened. Like she didn’t corner you in that closet, like she didn’t look at you like she was daring you to do something about it. But the worst part? You kind of wished she would do it again.

And then, because the universe is an absolute menace, something completely unexpected happened.

Winter’s parents were going away for a whole year. They needed someone to take care of her, and without hesitation, your parents had volunteered. You didn’t even get a say in it.

“Are you serious?” you asked as they casually dropped the news over dinner. “She’s staying here? For a year?”

“What, you don’t want me around?” Winter smirked, leaning back in her chair. Her short, dark hair framed her face perfectly, and the way she stretched her arms behind her head made you notice how toned her arms had gotten.

You cleared your throat. “That’s not what I meant.”

“She’ll be fine here,” your mom said, waving a hand dismissively. “And she’ll be sharing your room, by the way.”

Winter arched a brow. “Oh?”

You nearly choked on your drink. “Wait, what?”

“Your bed’s big enough for two,” your dad added nonchalantly.

Winter glanced at you, amused. “Guess we’ll be roommates.”

You wanted to argue, but what could you even say? So, that was that. Winter was moving in, and you were going to have to deal with it.

The first night was awkward.

You lay on one side of the bed, stiff as a board, while Winter scrolled through her phone on the other. The glow from the screen illuminated her face, casting soft shadows over her sharp features. She looked effortlessly cool, like always.

“Relax,” she muttered, not even looking at you. “I’m not gonna bite.”

You let out a breath. “I’m relaxed.”

She side-eyed you. “You look like you’re about to explode.”

You scoffed. “It’s just weird, okay? Sharing a bed with you.”

Winter shrugged. “It’s just a bed. Unless you’re scared you won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

Your face heated. “That’s not—”

“I’m kidding,” she laughed, rolling onto her side. “You’re too easy to mess with.”

You turned your back to her, grumbling under your breath. But even as you tried to sleep, you were painfully aware of her warmth beside you. The scent of her shampoo. The rise and fall of her breathing.

This was going to be a long year.

Days passed, and Winter settled into your home with ease. She got along with your parents, made herself comfortable, and turned your room into her second domain.

The tension between you hadn’t lessened—it had only evolved into something more dangerous. There were moments when you’d catch her staring at you, but she’d look away before you could say anything. Times when she’d stretch and her shirt would ride up, revealing just a hint of skin, making you swallow hard. Accidental brushes of fingers, lingering eye contact, shared laughter that felt just a little too intimate.

Then, one morning, your parents dropped another bomb.

“We’ll be out the whole day,” your mom said, grabbing her purse. “Make sure Winter eats something. And don’t just stay cooped up in your room all day!”

Winter smirked at you after they left. “Looks like it’s just us.”

You ran a hand through your hair. “Guess so.”

“What do you wanna do?”

She leaned against the couch, thinking. “Show me more of that collection of yours.”

You hesitated. “You really wanna see it?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “You always talk about it, but you never actually show me.”

So, you led her to your room, opening the cabinet where you kept your prized collection—vintage video game consoles, classic action figures, and a shelf full of rare comic books. Winter whistled, reaching out to pick up a limited-edition figurine.

“You really are a nerd, huh?” she teased.

You rolled your eyes. “You asked to see it.”

She grinned. “I like it. It’s kinda cute how passionate you get about this stuff.”

You scratched the back of your neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Well, it’s important to me.”

She hummed, placing the figurine back. But instead of commenting, she just stared at you.

You felt it instantly—the shift in the air, the weight of her gaze. It was different this time. Heavier. Intense.

“…What?” you asked, your voice quieter than before.

Winter stepped closer. Your heart picked up speed.

Then, without warning, she reached up and pressed a finger against your lips.

“You talk too much,” she murmured.

And then she kissed you.

Your breath hitched. For a second, your mind went blank—Winter was kissing you. Her lips were warm, soft, lingering just long enough for you to feel everything before she pulled back slightly.

Panic flared in your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. “Winter—”

But she wasn’t letting you go.

Her hands gripped your collar, pulling you in. Her gaze, dark and filled with something unspoken, bore into yours.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she whispered. “I already know.”

She backed you into the corner, her presence overwhelming, her scent intoxicating.

And then she kissed you again.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she continued. “All those times we locked eyes? The way you’d get flustered when I got too close?”

You swallowed hard. “It’s not that simple, Winter.”

She scoffed. “Yeah? Then tell me you don’t feel the same way.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Because you couldn’t. Because she was right.

Winter smirked, stepping even closer, her lips barely an inch from yours. “That’s what I thought.”

And then she kissed you again, deeper this time. And this time, you didn’t pull away.

Your breath hitched, body tensing as Winter’s fingers dipped beneath your waistband, cool against the feverish heat beneath. She didn’t hesitate this time. Her palm pressed firmly against you, fingers tracing your shape through the fabric, feeling every twitch, every pulse.

"So hard already," she murmured, lips brushing against his ear. "Are you that desperate?"

A shaky exhale escaped you, your body betraying as your hips instinctively pushed forward, seeking more. She smirked, tightening her grip, squeezing just enough to make your knees buckle. Your hands shot out, gripping her waist for support, fingers digging into her like she was the only thing keeping you upright.

"Oh, I love that," she cooed, dragging her fingers along his length in slow, deliberate strokes. "I wonder how much longer you can stand."

Her pace quickened, her touch firmer, her breath hot against your neck. Your head tipped forward, forehead resting against her shoulder as a strained groan left your lips. She laughed softly, pressing a teasing kiss to your jaw.

"Don’t hold back on me now," she whispered, giving you another squeeze. "Let me feel everything."

Her fingers hooked onto your waistband, nails grazing your skin as she dragged the fabric down, slow and deliberate. A smirk curled on her lips—she had been teasing you all night, enjoying the way your breath hitched whenever she got too close.

But the moment your pants hit the floor, her entire body locked up.

She froze.

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart slamming against her ribs so hard it almost hurt. Her pupils dilated, heat crawling up her neck as her gaze dragged over you, taking in every inch—every impossible, achingly unfair inch.

Oh. Oh.

Her mouth went dry. She swallowed thickly, fingers trembling slightly as they hovered uselessly at her sides.

What the fuck.

A shaky exhale slipped from her lips, her thighs pressing together instinctively. She tried—tried—to say something, anything, but all that came out was a soft, broken breath. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, her voice barely above a whisper, she muttered:

"You’ve got to be fucking kidding me."

And then, without thinking, she reached for you.

She gripped you—tight, desperate—her fingers wrapping around his heat like she owned it. Her first stroke was slow, agonizingly slow, dragging up his length before gliding back down with a firm, deliberate squeeze. Your entire body jerked at the sensation, a ragged breath escaping him as his hands clenched uselessly at his sides.

"Oh?" Her voice dripped with amusement, but there was something darker beneath it—something possessive. She stroked you again, this time faster, her grip unrelenting, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to his core. "Already shaking?"

She tightened her hold, twisting her wrist just enough to make his breath hitch, his legs threatening to buckle. Her lips brushed against his ear, her voice a husky whisper.

"Poor thing. I haven’t even started."

"We… we can’t—" Your voice broke before you could even finish the sentence. Your entire body was trembling, your hands twitching at your sides like you wanted to push her away, to resist—to fight this.

But then she squeezed you.

Your breath hitched, hips jerking forward against your will. A strangled, wrecked sound ripped from your throat, your head falling back against the wall with a dull thud. Your fingers dug into her wrists, tight, your whole body tense like you were about to snap.

"Shit—" You gritted your teeth, shaking your head as if trying to clear it, but it was useless. Every slow, torturous stroke of her hand sent another wave of heat crashing through you, dissolving what little self-control he had left.

"I… I can’t—fuck, I can’t do this—" Your voice was raw, like you were begging yourself to stop, but your body was already betraying yourself, your own resolve crumbling with every slick movement of her fingers.

Her grip tightened, her pace quickening just enough to make your knees buckle. Your breath turned ragged, fingers flexing uselessly before grabbing onto her hips, desperate for something—anything—to hold onto.

"You’re shaking," she murmured against your ear, her voice dripping with amusement, with control. "Still going to pretend you don’t want this?"

You shuddered, chest heaving, your last shred of resistance snapping as a broken groan tore from his lips.

"Fuck it." Your voice was wrecked, desperate. Your fingers tightened on her hips, dragging her closer. "Just—just don’t fucking stop."

Your entire body jerked when you felt it—warm, wet—her spit dripping onto his aching cock, sliding down your skin as she stroked you even faster. Your breath hitched, a strangled groan ripping from your throat, fingers twitching against her wrists like you were going to stop her.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

"Fuck," you gasped, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut as she worked you with a pace that had your legs threatening to give out. Your grip tightened on her shoulders, desperate, trying to ground yourself, but she wasn’t done with you. Not even close.

Then you felt it—her mouth.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

Your entire body locked up as she took you in, her lips wrapping around your tip, her tongue gliding over sensitive skin, sending a violent shudder down your spine. Your thighs tensed, your breath coming out in ragged gasps, your fingers instinctively threading into her hair.

"Shit, shit," you choked out, voice wrecked, shaking with a mix of pleasure and sheer disbelief, like you couldn’t even process what was happening. Like it was too much, too good, too fucking much.

Her mouth sank lower, taking you deeper, her tongue teasing, stroking, tasting. The wet sounds, the heat, the pressure—it was all driving him insane. Your fingers curled tighter in her hair, hips barely restraining themselves from bucking forward.

"F-fuck," you groaned, breath broken, your entire body trembling beneath her touch, your last shred of self-control disintegrating with every second she had her mouth on you.

You were completely, utterly ruined.

She pulled back with a wet pop, her lips slick, her breath coming fast as she stared up at you. A thin strand of spit still connected her mouth to your cock before breaking, sliding down her chin. Her eyes were dark, burning with need, with hunger that made your stomach tighten.

She stroked you once—slow, deliberate—watching the way your body shuddered beneath her touch. Then she leaned in, pressing her lips against your ear, her voice breathless, dripping with impatience.

"I can’t wait anymore," she whispered. "I need it inside me. Now."

Winter’s grip on you tightened, her body pressing closer, heat radiating off her skin. She dragged her lips down your neck, voice trembling with anticipation. "Don’t make me beg for it."

She let the last piece of fabric slip from her body, pooling at her feet, leaving nothing between them. Your breath caught in your throat. Your fingers twitched at your sides, fists clenching, like you were forcing yourself to hold back.

She stepped closer, slow, deliberate, her body impossibly warm as she pressed against you. Taking your hands, she guided them over her bare skin, making you feel her, making sure you had no room to run.

"I want you," she whispered, voice thick with need, her lips brushing against your jaw. "Right now."

Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. Your grip on her hips tightened—too tight, like you were fighting yourself. "We shouldn’t," you ground out, voice wrecked, self-control hanging by a thread.

She didn’t give you time to think. Instead, she reached for you again, dragging you closer, aligning their bodies in a way that made your pulse hammer in your skull.

"Then stop me," she murmured. A challenge. A plea.

You should have pulled away.

But instead, your hands moved on their own, fingers digging into her skin, claiming her, dragging her down with you as you gave in.

There was no stopping now.

At first, you moved slowly—too slowly. Your own breath was uneven, your grip on her hips tight, like you were still fighting something deep inside yourself.

But she couldn’t take it. Not like this.

"Faster," she gasped, her voice breaking as she pushed back against you, desperate for more, for everything. "Please—don’t hold back."

Your fingers dug into her skin, body tense, struggling. But then she turned her head, eyes glazed, lips parted, utterly wrecked with need.

That look snapped something inside of you.

Your pace quickened. Your hesitation shattered. The sound of your skins meeting filled the room, her breathy moans turning into shameless cries as she clutched on to you, trembling beneath you.

"More," she begged, voice shaky, wrecked, needy. "Don’t stop—please—"

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Your grip tightened, your movements rougher, hungrier, as you lost yourself in the way she needed you, the way she clung to you, like she’d fall apart if you even dared to stop.

And God help you, but you wanted this just as much as she did.

Winter was gone—completely lost in the heat, the pleasure, the way you moved against her, inside her. Every touch sent her spiraling deeper, every thrust breaking down whatever restraint she had left. Her fingers gripped on to you, her body shaking, overwhelmed, desperate for more.

"I don’t care," she gasped, voice raw, breathless, her head tilting back in ecstasy. "I don’t care if we’re related—I love this, I love you—"

Her voice cracked as another wave of pleasure crashed over her, her back arching, her nails clawing at his skin. "I’ve always wanted this," she confessed between ragged moans, eyes wild, dark with something dangerous and real. "I don’t care if it’s wrong—just don’t stop!"

Her words hit you like a shockwave, tearing apart whatever was left of your resistance. Your grip on her tightened,your pace turning desperate, reckless, drowning in the way she needed you, the way she clung to you like she never wanted to let go.

Your breathing was ragged, his body trembling as you felt yourself teetering on the edge. Every movement sent a firestorm of pleasure surging through you, every desperate moan from her lips pushing you closer—too close.

Your grip on her hips tightened. You had to stop. You had to pull away.

But then Winter looked back at you.

Her face was flushed, eyes glazed, lips parted as she gasped for air. She was shaking, gripping your arms like she’d fall apart if you let go. And then—

"Inside," she pleaded, her voice breaking, thick with desperation. "Please—I'm on the pill."

Your mind short-circuited. You were already too far gone, but hearing her say that? Seeing the way she needed you?

"Winter," you rasped, your restraint barely holding on.

She didn't let you think. Didn't let you hesitate.

"Please," she whimpered, pushing back against him, her nails digging into his skin, her entire body begging for you. "I need all of you—please—"

Something inside of you snapped.

Your hands gripped her harder, movements turning reckless, desperate, completely lost in her, in the way she wanted this, wanted you.

And in that moment, nothing else in the world mattered.

Your body tensed, every muscle locking up as you finally gave in. A deep, shuddering groan ripped from your throat, your grip on her waist tightening as you poured yourself into her.

Winter gasped, her body jolting as she felt it—felt him. Her legs nearly buckled, her fingers clawing desperately at his arms, at anything to hold herself up. A broken moan escaped her lips, her head tilting back against your shoulder, completely overwhelmed.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Your heavy, uneven breaths filled the air, bodies still locked together, both of you trembling in the aftermath.

Then, finally, the strength in your legs gave out.

Still tangled in each other’s arms, you both stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto the mattress in a dazed, breathless heap. Bodies sank into the sheets, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to process what had just happened.

What you both had just done.

Winter was the first to speak, her voice barely above a whisper, still breathless. "...Holy shit."

You swallowed hard, your pulse still pounding, your mind spiraling. "Yeah."

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke another word.

Because there was no taking it back.

Your bodies were still tangled, limbs heavy, breath shaky as they lay there, staring up at the ceiling. The air was thick, buzzing with something undeniable, something neither of you could ignore.

Winter was the first to break the silence.

"...Did you like it?" Her voice was soft, almost hesitant, but there was something underneath it—something deeper, something needy.

Your throat felt dry. You swallowed, still trying to steady yourself, but there was no point in lying.

"Yeah," yoy admitted, exhaling slowly. "I did."

Winter turned her head towards yoy, her eyes searching your face, her expression unreadable. A beat of silence passed before she bit her lip and murmured, "...Me too."

Your breath hitched.

Then she shifted, pushing herself up just slightly, her fingers trailing over your skin, hesitant yet deliberate. "Do you still want to?"

Your pulse pounded. She was asking—not just testing you, not teasing, but really asking.

And you should have hesitated. You should have thought about what this meant, what this was.

But instead, you looked at her—at the way she watched you, at the way her body still pressed so close, warm, inviting, familiar.

And yoy whispered the only answer you could.

"...Yeah."

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips.

"Good," she breathed.

And just like that, the tension snapped again.

She kissed you again. Rougher this time. Like she already knew the answer.

And maybe that was the moment he realized—this wasn’t going to stop.

Because it didn’t stop.

Not after that night.

Not after the stolen glances across the room, the accidental touches that weren’t so accidental.

Not after she found excuses to be alone with you—at family gatherings, at your house, in the quiet corners where no one would see.

And he did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

AN: This will be the last for this week! Will be busy again!🫶🏻

[mishellii]

♢ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ♢

naruto, sasuke, shikamaru, kiba, shino, neji, iruka & kakashi

a/n: sooo,, i SHOUld be working on my uni essays and on the bf!neji texts BUT this had been sitting in my notes app for a while so i decided to post it ;D (the neji texts will come soon i promise). some are longer, some are shorter for which i apologise,,,,,, please ignore typos, i can't spell & enjoy MWUAH

likes & reblogs appreciated <3

warnings: some NSFW parts! MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! :) also not proofread as usual

masterlist

♢ɴᴀʀᴜᴛᴏ ᴜᴢᴜᴍᴀᴋɪ♢

✿oh my baby boy

❀first off: angel. 100%.

✿because u are his angel u feel me

❀he can't go a day without telling u

✿then also just the basic baby

❀but mostly when he wants something from u or he's apologising for dumb stuff he's done

✿puppy eyes and all

❀and also during sexy time

✿it's his most used name for u there

✿fight me on this

❀big on his own self made nicknames for u

✿for instance: u fell down the stairs once?

❀"hey, stairs, how you doin'"

✿and just silly ones like: boo, pookie, apple of my eye

❀he's weird like that c'mon we been knew

♢ꜱᴀꜱᴜᴋᴇ ᴜᴄʜɪʜᴀ♢

✿now this guy is a wild card

❀he'd prefer ur name through & through

✿but he'd slip in a casual babe sometimes which makes ur knees weak obviously

❀because he barely ever calls u that

✿if ur married he'd only call you his wife

❀doesn't even let you answer questions on your own sometimes just so he can hit them with

❀"well, MY WIFE, thinks you suck ass, so.."

✿during sex he can be quiet mean 

❀I DONT THINK in the derogatory way but more in a teasing way

✿"c'mon, sweetheart, look at me."

❀when ur just about to black out??

✿but like i said 

❀not big on pet names but he'll use them more often if he knows u enjoy it <3

♢ꜱʜɪᴋᴀᴍᴀʀᴜ ɴᴀʀᴀ♢

✿pretty

❀just pretty bro.

✿not ALL THE TIME, especially not in public as i don't think he's big on PDA

❀but in the comfort of ur own 4 walls? definitely

✿now don't HATE ME for this but,,,

❀woman. and brat.

✿but only in petty situations, like when ur scolding his lazy ass and he hits u with a "go easy on me, woman, i just woke up."

❀or u've been going on his nerves while he's working

✿,,i'm busy, brat.''

❀in bed tho???

✿love or doll

❀i'm almost CERTAIN.

✿like,, can u imagine?? in his dumb fucking charming voice ???

❀PFFF i'm on my knees 

♢ᴋɪʙᴀ ɪɴᴜᴢᴜᴋᴀ♢

✿now this fucker

❀teasing names through & through

✿ur shorter than him? 

❀"hey, shortie, need help?"

✿ur taller than him?

❀"hey, giant, how's the weather up there?"

✿he's a DICK ok (affectionately ofc)

❀but he can be sweet too i promise

✿he's having fun with calling u bunny during sex or simply baby 

❀also ???? "okay, boss." when he's been annoying u all day and u finally snap at him?

✿he's a menace with nicknames i'm telling u

♢ꜱʜɪɴᴏ ᴀʙᴜʀᴀᴍᴇ♢

✿you probably guessed it and bully me if you'd like but,,,

❀bug or lovebug

✿come oooon he loves his bugs AND he loves you?? it fits PERFECTLY

❀not one to do it infront of other people either but in your private space he just wouldn't stop calling you one of these

✿i also see him using the regular honey but the abbreviation so hun because it's short and sweet and he doesn't like those long ass names

❀apologies if ur name is long LMAO mine is too tho

✿takes the hun into the bedroom but prefers a gentle love while having sex

❀shino's not a sweet talker in my mind, but the pet names make up for it FOSHOU

✿ALSO big brain idea i just had:

❀i think shino can't fully express his emotions verbally so before going on missions he definitely writes u letters and that's where he's blooming

✿''u keep me going everyday, sunshine.''

❀and it doesn't even matter if you have a bubbly personality or not

✿UGH lovesick fr

♢ɴᴇᴊɪ ʜʏᴜɢᴀ♢

❀this pretty princess doesn't even know ur name when ur alone with him 

✿ESPECIALLY when ur texting

❀sweetheart, love & darling

✿he'd make u fall in love over again whenever he calls u one of those i'm just saying

❀because he's always so sincere when he's talking to u it drives me crazy just thinking about it 

✿during sexy time too, he would NEVER

❀& i will die on this hill 

✿NEVER use any degrading names for u

❀ur his baby don't make him do that

✿even when ur fighting, he'd always address u in such a kind way i'm actually going insane

❀"have you had dinner yet, dear?"

✿ sedate me pls

♢ɪʀᴜᴋᴀ ᴜᴍɪɴᴏ♢

✿AAA this guy

❀soo,, like father like son,,, angel

✿u can't change my mind

❀being the kind hearted person he is, it just fits u can't tell me off

✿but i will also say he'd use some funny ones in private because we all know he's just a silly lil guy deep inside

❀i'm thinking toots & peach

✿especially when greeting u !! like ''ey, toots, how's it going?''

❀during sex he will be quiet awkward at the start of ur relationship, settling in angel as he's most familiar with it at first

✿but after some time he'd pull a babydoll or gorgeous on u

❀i mean,,, i'd cry but idk about y'all

✿oVERALL he loves using pet names and wouldn't be opossed to u calling him some sweet ones as well <3

❀call him handsome and he'll go through the roof

♢ᴋᴀᴋᴀꜱʜɪ ʜᴀᴛᴀᴋᴇ♢

✿AHEM

❀so this man,,

✿at the start of ur relationship he's such a shy lil bean so he'll only use your first name

❀but once he's been with you long enough he gets so so comfortable

✿starts of with the regular baby because u are his baby aight.

❀his most frequently used one too i'd say

✿but then he'd go like 

❀"hey, beautiful." "y'alright, sweetheart?"

✿and idk about u but i'd faint

❀HE KNOWS ABOUT HIS AFFECT ON U TOO

✿uses it against u during sex SO OFTEN

❀grunting a "there y'go, darling." into your ear with a sly smirk on his lips 

✿i'm (s)creaming

❀but he's a very private person so don't expect too much of that in public !!

✿a side from a "yes, ma'am" when u tell him not to die on a mission <3

a/n: i hope this doesn't SUCK ahemm,,, and i'll see you beans next time bye bye x

devider by @enchanthings

[natsaffection]

Code Red. pt 4 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting mention, gun mention, blood, trauma, therapy, alcohol

word count: 12,3k

A/n: Tumblr has a freaking line limit, and I was stressing over it! So please, ignore the weird spacing. I had to mash a lot of things together just so Tumblr would let me upload it 💔

I even had to delete the entire ending and will have to add it in the next part, BECAUSE I RAN OUT OF SPACE

It had been thirty-one days. The hospital had changed since the shooting. There were more protocols. More drills. More doors that required keycards to open. But there were more people, too. New nurses, new faces from other cities, other programs. They’d flooded in like reinforcements when the ICU bled staff, some transferred, some promoted, some…never came back.

You were healed. The dressing had come off your shoulder weeks ago. The bruises were long faded. You walked clipboard under one arm, talking to nurses and humming under your breath when you thought no one was listening. Natasha always listened. She never stopped. “You’re staring again.” Maria murmured beside her at the nurses’ station, sipping coffee like it was a sedative.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Natasha shrugged. “Maybe I’m making sure my patient’s follow-up is behaving.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Your ‘patient’ was cleared for full duty two weeks ago.”

Today, the sun slanted in through the long windows of the atrium. Late afternoon. The lull before the night shift. You were leaning against a column, chart in hand, when you saw Natasha approaching and smiled. “You steal my post-op notes again?”

Natasha’s voice floated, low and teasing, and you didn’t need to turn to know that signature smirk was already in place. You grinned as you looked up from the nurses’ desk. “Maybe I’m just trying to be more like you.”

“Dangerous goal.” Natasha said, resting a hand on the edge of the counter. “You might end up brooding and terrifying.”

You cocked a brow. “And somehow still everyone’s favorite?”

Natasha shrugged. “Can’t help it if I’m charming.”

You laughed, a real one. Loud, open. It earned a glance from a passing nurse, who smiled like they all did now when they saw the two of you in the same room. Like they knew. And why wouldn’t they?

Natasha brought you coffee every morning now, black with a sugar packet she’d roll between her fingers first, just like you liked. She reviewed your charts even when she wasn’t assigned to your service. Left little red pen corrections in the margins with sarcastic smiley faces.

She waited for you after night shifts, even when she wasn’t on-call. Once, she dozed off in the hallway chair with her hoodie pulled over her eyes, and you had smiled like your whole chest couldn’t hold it. Natasha leaned a little closer now, eyes flicking to the notes on your tablet. “You missed a decimal here.”

You sighed. “You’re gonna bring that up forever, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace.”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “Only to interns I like.”

Something soft passed between you, just a glance, but enough to hold the weight of what you didn’t say. “Hey, Natasha!”

Addison’s voice cut clean through the hum of the nurses’ station. You straightened instinctively, but Natasha didn’t flinch. Addison walked toward you in her signature heels and dark red scrubs, hair tied up in a neat twist. She had that glow about her, the kind that always made people move just a little to the side when she entered a room.

“Montgomery.” she greeted. “Looking terrifyingly awake for a double shift.”

Addison smirked. “Someone’s gotta make up for your brooding.”

Natasha chuckled. “Touché.”

Addison turned to you, and the moment shifted, just a fraction. Your whole posture softened. Your smile went crooked in that familiar, loving way. And when Addison leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was yours. Natasha looked away politely, just for a second. But her smile didn’t drop. She held it like armor. Addison lingered with her forehead against yours for a heartbeat. “Lunch?”

“I get off in thirty.” you replied, and your voice..God, your voice was happy.

Addison nodded, then turned back to Natasha. “You good for the cardio consult at four?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Don’t scare the residents too much.”

“No promises.”

Addison laughed, then took your hand and walked off, still talking softly. And Natasha stood perfectly still. Her coffee was still warm in her hand. The smile still played at her lips. She didn’t look after you. Not right away. But when she did, it was just in time to see you glance back over your shoulder, just once. Just a flicker. Your eyes met.

And you smiled. Not the way you smiled at Addison, but soft. And Natasha smiled back. She stood alone at the nurse’s station, a full chart in front of her and absolutely no memory of what she’d just been reading. She exhaled slowly. Then circled something in red ink. A note you wouldn’t read later.

29 days before:

Natasha sits on the edge of a cold plastic chair, one in a loose circle of doctors gathered in a pale conference room. Her hands rest motionless on her knees, fingers interlocked so tightly her knuckles have turned white. People are talking around her, low murmurs of fear, anger, relief, yet each word drifts in and out of her consciousness as if muffled by cotton.

She is aware of the others in fragments: Dr. Chen wringing his hands as he recounts how he froze when the shots rang out; Nurse Bello blinking back tears describing the blood on her shoes. A therapist or counselor is guiding the discussion, voice gentle and measured, asking them to share whatever they can. Natasha hears the question float by “How are you processing this?” but it might as well be directed at someone else. She doesn’t lift her eyes. She doesn’t speak.

All she can see is the memory replaying in an endless loop behind her eyes. The harsh white lights of the OR reflecting on the pooled blood across your abdomen. Her own trembling hands pressed against your sternum, performing compressions in a desperate rhythm. She remembers counting under her breath, one, two, three trying to coax a heartbeat back. The monitor’s alarm screamed a flatline tone, a single, high-pitched note that drowned out rational thought.

Maria’s voice cutting through the chaos: “He will kill everyone in this room!” At the time Natasha had whipped her head around in disbelief. Then she saw it, him, standing just beyond the swinging OR doors, arm outstretched, the black eye of a handgun trained on them. In the group therapy room, Natasha’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. The others’ voices fade completely as the memories flood her. She feels again the paralytic fear that turned her limbs to stone. In the OR, a lifetime ago and only days ago, she had locked eyes with the gunman. His face was a blur behind her tears, but she remembers the cold steadiness of the barrel aimed her way.

Her heart had thundered in her ears. Maria’s voice had come again, strained and barely calm, “Let her go.” Natasha’s arms had gone rigid, her blood-slick hands hovering uselessly above your open chest. She could still feel the warmth of your skin beneath her palms, then the awful absence of it as she lifted her hands away. For a moment in time, Natasha truly believed it was the end. She was certain she was watching you die. The flatline droned on, and your face was so still, too still. The world narrowed to that single point: the space between one heartbeat and the next, a heartbeat that wasn’t coming. And Natasha had let go. At gunpoint, yes, but she let go.

Someone in the therapy circle clears their throat. The sudden sound yanks Natasha back to the present with a jolt. Her lungs burn; she realizes she’s been holding her breath. Across the circle, all eyes are on her now, the facilitator must have asked her something. Natasha quickly drops her gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor. When the session finally ends, chairs scraping as people stand, Natasha slips out without a word. No one stops her. The hallway air feels cooler on her clammy skin. She draws in a long breath, trying to steady the unsteady thumping of her heart. She survived the crisis. You survived. That’s what everyone keeps saying. Yet as Natasha stands alone in the corridor, all she can feel is the hollow ache left by the moment she thought she lost the woman she…

Without conscious thought, Natasha finds her feet carrying her to the ICU. She pauses just outside your room, fingers hovering at the observation window. The blinds are partially drawn, leaving a gap where she can see inside. You lie propped up in the adjustable bed, pale against the white sheets and connected to a forest of IV lines and monitors. The steady beep of the heart monitor is softer here than it was in the OR, but Natasha zeroes in on it immediately, each measured beep a reminder that you are alive. It’s both a comfort and a knife twist of guilt.

She watches from behind the glass, afraid to open the door. Her own reflection faintly overlays the image of you in the bed: disheveled red hair, haunted green eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She barely recognizes herself. Natasha stands there for a long minute, just watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest. The last time she saw you so still, there had been blood everywhere and a flatline threatening to never end. Seeing you breathing now should ease Natasha’s heart, but instead her chest only tightens.

You stir slightly, turning your head. Natasha steps back reflexively, out of view, her pulse jumping. Coward. She presses her back to the corridor wall beside the door, breathing shallowly. Part of her wants to flee before you notice her; she’s not ready to face those eyes, to field the questions you surely have. But another part of her aches just to be near, to reassure herself you are truly okay. That part wins out, albeit shakily.

Natasha slips quietly into the room. The faint scent of antiseptic and the low hum of the oxygen machine greet her. At the sound of the door, your eyes flutter open. They focus slowly on Natasha, and despite everything, one corner of your mouth lifts weakly. “Hey..” comes the whisper, raspy but warm.

“Hey.” Natasha echoes softly. Her voice is caught somewhere in her throat; she clears it and manages a small smile. She steps closer to the bed, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “You’re awake.”

Your eyes search her face. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to see you playing hooky from rounds..” you joke faintly. There’s a spark of humor in you despite the obvious pain it causes to speak. Ever the optimist.

Natasha’s answering chuckle is thin, but it passes for normal. “I’m just checking on a patient.” she replies, trying for lightness. She reaches for the clipboard at the end of the bed, scanning the vitals as a pretext to avoid meeting your gaze directly. Heart rate stable, blood pressure improving. All numbers that mean you are out of immediate danger. Natasha lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“They said I was pretty out of it after…” you begin, voice halting. “I don’t remember much. Just…pain, and then waking up here.” Your brow furrows as if trying to recall. “What happened? Is everyone-”

“Y/n.” Natasha gently cuts you off. Her heart gives a panicked flutter at the question. She forces a reassuring expression. “It’s okay. Everyone’s okay now.” You’re okay now. She carefully places the clipboard back. “You should rest. Don’t try to talk about it yet.”

You look unconvinced. Your hand twitches on the blanket, like you might reach out. “I heard I… I almost didn’t make it..” you murmur. Vulnerability shades your tone, fear, gratitude, confusion all at once. “They told me you saved my life.”

Natasha’s stomach twists. Heat prickles behind her eyes and she quickly turns her head under the guise of adjusting your IV drip. “The team saved your life.” she corrects softly, almost brusquely. Her own reflection in the dark monitor screen shows the flicker of anguish she’s trying to hide. “I just did my job.”

“But-”

“How’s your pain?” Natasha interrupts, grasping for any safer topic. “Do you need more meds?” It’s cowardly, changing the subject, but she can’t handle your gratitude. Not when she feels like the furthest thing from a hero.

You pause, realizing Natasha’s deflection. A shadow of hurt or worry crosses your expression, but you relent. “I’m okay. Sore… but I’m okay.”

An awkward silence stretches. Natasha forces herself to look at you directly now. The late afternoon light slants through the window, catching the gentle features of your face. You look tired, yes, and fragile in a way Natasha has never seen. But alive. Alive, because Natasha didn’t completely fail. The urge to reach out, to touch your cheek or squeeze your hand, wells up, but Natasha quashes it. She has no right, not with the secret she carries.

“That’s good..” Natasha says, and her voice comes out quieter than she intended. She clears her throat again. “You should get some sleep. I’ll, um, let you rest.” Your eyes flicker with disappointment that Natasha is already leaving, but you nod softly. “You’ll come by later?”

Today:

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual mid-shift chaos, forks clinking, pages fluttering, nurses weaving between tables with half-eaten salads and even less patience. Natasha sat across from Maria at a window-side table, untouched coffee in front of her, one elbow propped lazily on the tabletop as if she were actually listening.

She wasn’t. Her eyes were fixed across the room.

There, near the vending machines, you were laughing. Really laughing, head thrown back, hand on Addison’s shoulder, your scrubs wrinkled in the way that said you’d just come from surgery and hadn’t stopped smiling since. Addison leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and your face lit up like a goddamn sunrise.

Natasha’s jaw tightened. She didn’t even notice she was staring until Maria said her name for the second time. “Nat.”

No response. “Natasha.”

She blinked. “Hm?”

Maria arched a brow, her coffee halfway to her lips. “You heard absolutely none of that, did you?”

Natasha tried to play it off. She leaned back in her chair, flicked her eyes toward Maria. “Sorry. Thinking about the transplant case.”

Maria glanced at the untouched sandwich in front of her, then back at Natasha’s too-still face.

“Bullshit.”

Natasha’s lips curled in a half-hearted smirk. “What, you don’t think I’m committed to the art of liver transfers?”

Maria didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. Her eyes flicked once, subtle, sharp, toward the vending machines. Toward you and Addison. The way Addison’s hand brushed the small of your back. The way you leaned into it without thinking. Then Maria turned back, setting her cup down.

“This is exactly what I warned you about.”

Natasha’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Warned me about what?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Y/n slipping away. And you’re just sitting here watching it happen.”

Natasha forced a laugh, low, bitter. “Y/ns not mine to lose.”

“You were once.” Maria said calmly. “Or you could’ve been.”

Natasha shook her head, more to herself than anyone else. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.” Maria said, voice still low but firm. “You just didn’t want to admit it. Not when she was lying in a hospital bed, not when she was asking for you every day, not when she looked at you like you were the only thing tethering her to this world.”

“That’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair,” Maria cut in, “is that she kept waiting. For you to do something. And instead, Addison walked in, cracked one joke, and you handed her the space you wouldn’t claim.”

Natasha’s throat worked. She looked down at her cup like maybe it held answers. “She’s happy.” she said after a long beat. “That’s what matters.”

Maria’s voice softened, but not in the way that gave comfort. “Don’t feed me that noble martyr crap.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Not directly. Her gaze drifted again, pulled by instinct, back to you, who were now holding Addison’s hand under the table. Smiling at her like she hung the stars. That smile used to be Natasha’s. Not really. Not officially. But close enough to believe it could’ve been.

“She’s not just happy..” Maria said quietly. “She’s in love. And you…you’re sitting here nursing a coffee you didn’t drink and pretending like it doesn’t feel like a knife every time she kisses someone who isn’t you.”

Natasha laughed once, too sharp. “Maybe I’m just growing.”

“Maybe you’re just scared.”

Natasha looked at her, finally. The smile was gone now. Her eyes weren’t angry, they were tired. “She deserves better than someone who didn’t know how to show up.”

Maria didn’t argue. She just leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching her friend crumble in real time.

“You’re still in love with her.” The words hung there. Natasha looked back to the vending machine. Addison kissed your temple. You leaned into her.

And Natasha, very quietly, smiled. “Yeah..” she said.

After that, Natasha walked fast, eyes locked on the tablet in her hand. Lab reports, liver enzymes, graft viability. The transplant consult was already behind schedule, and her attending hadn’t signed off on the pre-op labs yet. She moved like she always did when she had a case on her mind, quick, surgical, with every step meant for something. She turned the corner too sharply. And collided with someone. The tablet jolted, almost slipping from her fingers. She caught it by reflex.

“Shit, sorry-” the voice was familiar before she even looked up. Dr. Derek Shepherd. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall and let out an awkward half-laugh. “Didn’t mean to bodycheck you in your own hospital.”

Natasha blinked, still clutching the tablet. “I’ve had worse.” she muttered, brushing her shoulder. Her voice was calm. Almost too calm. Derek shifted on his feet. “Right. Uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to..well, I know I already said it, but…I’m sorry. For what happened. For everything.”

She looked at him, expression unreadable. He went on anyway. “I didn’t know he’d come for me. I didn’t expect-”

“I know.” Natasha interrupted, gently. Not unkind, but final. “You don’t have to explain again.”

Derek nodded. “Still. I wasn’t sure if you…still blamed me.”

Natasha hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I blamed the wrong things for a while, but…not anymore.” Her voice was softer now, and maybe that’s what made it more painful. She wasn’t angry..just tired.

A beat passed. Something shifted in Derek’s face. “I’m glad you’re back.” he said honestly. “The OR feels different with you in it again.”

Natasha smiled, a faint curve of her lips. Not the sharp kind. Not sarcastic. Just quiet.

“Thanks.” she said. Derek stepped aside to let her pass. “It’s good…that things are finally normal again.”

Natasha looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered in her expression, something hollow. She nodded once. “Yeah..” she said. “Normal.”

27 days before:

Natasha stepped out of your room with her jaw clenched and her fists shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie. The blanket you’d been curled under still clung to the ghost of your warmth. You hadn’t woken when she left. You were still sleeping, weak but alive.

She hated how much that still felt like a countdown. She made it halfway down the hallway before the tightness in her throat demanded air. She pushed into the small family break room, empty at this hour, and dropped into a chair at the table near the window. No monitors here. No beeping reminders. Just her and the thick, choking silence.

She sat there breathing too fast, knuckles pressed into her thighs. She could still see it. The scalpel glinting under trauma lights. Blood pooling like rainwater beneath the table.Your chest open. Your body limp. Your lips blue.

“She’s flatlined.”

“Natasha, let go.”

“There’s no rhythm.”

“LET. HER. GO.”

And Maria’s hand on the ECU cable. Unclamping it. Letting the monitor scream flat. She’d waited until she was alone for that. But now? Now the door opened. And the devil walked in wearing a white coat.

“Hey..” Derek said softly, stepping into the room. “I just checked up on her. She’s holding steady, it’s a good sign.”

Still, she said nothing. “She’s strong.” he added, voice gentler. “Stronger than any of us gave her credit for.”

Natasha’s jaw ticked. “She was the only staff member who got hit and survived..” Derek continued. “The others-”

“Don’t.” Natasha said, sharp. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Derek blinked, taken aback. “I-”

“She almost died.” she said, her voice colder now. “Because of you.”

He froze. “She got shot. Shot! She had a bullet rip through her chest because you had ghosts you didn’t clean up.” Her voice cracked around the edge. “And you weren’t the one who paid for it.”

“Natasha-”

“She coded!” she snapped. “She coded, and they tried to make me let her go. While she still had warmth in her chest. While her blood was still flowing. Maria unclamped the cable so the machine would lie for her!”

Derek’s breath caught. “And you-” her voice dropped, dangerous now, “..you’re the reason he came.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do, Natasha.”

“She went through hell!” she hissed. “Woke up with a tube jammed between her ribs, no anesthetic, no sedatives. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move and you want to stand here and say she’s strong?”

“I didn’t say-”

“You didn’t have to.” she snapped. “You’re trying to make this easier for you. Trying to feel like this wasn’t your fault. But she almost died because someone wanted you dead. And I’m the one who had to hold her together.”

Derek didn’t speak. “You weren’t there when she whispered she didn’t want to die. When she cried into my chest because the pain was too much. You weren’t there when she told me to stop doing the calm voice, because she knew what it meant.”

Her hands trembled. “I had to choose between letting her die with dignity and slicing her open with a fucking scalpel while she screamed into her sleeve. I had to hurt her to save her. And the whole time, you know what I kept thinking?”

She looked up at him, eyes burning. “Why wasn’t it you instead?” Silence. Derek swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Natasha said. “But that doesn’t fix her ribs. Or her lungs. Or the fact that she’s afraid to sleep because the last time she closed her eyes, she died.”

The silence stretched. Then she stood. “I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want your guilt. Just stay the hell away from her.”

And she walked out. She stormed down the hallway, the echo of her own voice still ringing in her ears. Her skin itched with leftover adrenaline. Her fists were clenched. Every step felt too loud. She just needed air..needed out. Her blood was still humming with the weight of what she said and how much of it was true.

She hadn’t meant to say it. She’d meant to keep it all inside. But Derek’s voice..his concern, his gentleness, it scraped against the jagged edge inside her and all the broken things spilled out. She hadn’t planned to scream at him. She hadn’t planned to say she wished he’d been the one bleeding out on the table. But she had. And she hadn’t lied. Her boots hit the linoleum harder now, like her whole body was trying to outrun the shame curling in her throat.

“Nat.”

Maria’s voice, low and sharp. Natasha kept walking. Maria didn’t move. Just grabbed her arm, firm, and pulled her into an empty consult room off the hall. The door shut behind them with a soft click. The silence inside the room was heavy and instant.

Maria stood in front of her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “What happened?” Natasha didn’t answer. She moved toward the opposite wall, leaned against it with her jaw tight.

“Talk to me.” Maria said, slower now. “You’re not okay.”

“I never said I was.”

“No..” Maria snapped, “but I can see it.”

Natasha let out a bitter laugh. “You can see it because you’re back in the OR like nothing happened, while I’m still being evaluated like a mental patient.”

Maria’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The jealousy.”

“Fuck off!”

“No.” Maria said, stepping forward. “Let’s be honest. You’re pissed that I’m cleared and you’re not.”

Natasha turned sharply, eyes flashing. “You think I care about surgical clearance?”

“I think you care that I look like I’m fine. That I’m functioning. That I’m moving on and you’re not.”

Natasha barked a humorless laugh. “You are fine.”

“No..” Maria said, quieter now. “I’m not. I’m just better at hiding it.”

Natasha shook her head. “You didn’t beg them to let you keep holding her heart after she flatlined.”

“No. I was the one who told you to let go.”

That silence hit like a gunshot. Natasha’s hands clenched. “You lied.”

“I protected you.”

“No..” she growled. “You made me think she was gone. You unclamped the damn cable!”

“She was gone, Nat.”

“No, she wasn’t! She was still warm. Her heart was twitching. I felt it. I had her blood under my nails and you wanted me to pretend it was over!”

“I needed you to breathe!” Maria snapped. “You were seconds away from breaking in front of the shooter!”

“Then maybe I should’ve!”

Silence. Natasha’s shoulders dropped. Her voice broke open. “She wasn’t supposed to get hit. It wasn’t supposed to be her. The shooter came for Derek. She got caught in it. And now she..she wakes up crying. She breathes like it hurts. She doesn’t know what happened.” Maria was quiet. Watching her unravel.

“And I’m..” Natasha swallowed. “I don’t know what this is anymore. I’m furious. At you. At him. At me. I keep walking past her room like I’m being dragged back into fire, and then I can’t make myself walk in. I sit at the table and I think if I look at her too long, I’ll snap. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

Maria stepped closer. Her voice softened just enough. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why am I like this?”

Maria didn’t answer right away. So Natasha filled the space herself. Her voice shaking now. “I can’t stop seeing it. Her body open. Her face slack. That second where she died under my hands, and I knew if I let go, she’d be gone. And now? Every time I see her breathing, I want to scream and cry and throw something.”

Her hands were trembling. “I don’t know what I feel.”

Maria looked at her carefully. Then said the one thing Natasha couldn’t bring herself to say: “You love her.”

“That’s none of your business..” Natasha muttered, voice hard.

“It became my business the second I saw her wake up and look around for you.”

That landed. Natasha’s jaw clenched. “She don’t need me there.”

“She wanted you there.”

Natasha said nothing. Maria’s voice dropped lower now. Gentle. Almost sad. “And now you’re not the only one she’s looking for.”

Natasha’s gaze flicked to her. “What?”

Maria hesitated. “Addison.”

Natasha blinked. “The new trauma nurse?”

“She came in with the post-shooting support team.”

“And?”

“She’s been visiting Y/n. A lot..I saw her talking.” Maria continued. “Yesterday. And again this morning.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. “Talking..” she echoed flatly.

Maria’s head tilted. “Laughing.”

Natasha’s jaw ticked. “I don’t know what it is.” Maria said honestly. “But I know it’s new. And I know you’re watching her slip through your fingers while you’re still hiding behind a damn window.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You’re not showing up either.”

Natasha’s voice cracked. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Maria’s voice sharpened. “You’re scared. I know that. You almost lost her. I was in that OR with you, remember? I saw you fall apart in silence. But this..what you’re doing now, it’s not protecting her.”

Natasha’s arms folded tighter. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Start with ‘hi.’”

A bitter laugh left Natasha’s throat. Maria stepped closer. “She keeps asking about you.”

Natasha flinched. “She still looks at the door when someone walks in, like she’s hoping it’s you.” Maria said. “But it never is. And now? Addison’s the one walking through it.”

Silence. Maria softened. “Nat, you were the last person she saw before they pushed anesthesia. You were the last person who touched her heart before it stopped. You fought for her when everyone else gave up.”

She paused. “But none of that matters if you don’t show up now.”

Natasha’s fingers dug into her own arms. “I’m not…what if she doesn’t want me like that? What if she’s just grateful, and I’ve been reading it wrong this whole time?”

Maria smiled sadly. “Then find out. But do it before Addison does.”

Today:

The OR was cold, bright, silent, the kind of silence that buzzed just beneath the skin. Natasha stood at the head of the table, eyes locked on the open chest cavity in front of her. Everything else blurred around the edges. She had waited for this. Worked her ass off for it. One month post-shooting. Cleared. Back on the board. And her first transplant in weeks, a complicated arterial graft, high-risk.

And she was in her element. “Retractor.” she said quietly. “Suction to the left. I’m going for the clamp in three.”

She could hear the nurses shifting. Her team moving as one. She barely needed to look up. And then, the door slid open. Natasha didn’t glance up.

“Assistant requested?” came a familiar voice.

Addison... Of course. Natasha didn’t breathe. Just gave the briefest nod. “Welcome to the table.” Addison stepped into her field like she belonged there. She always did. Her gloved hands hovered just inside the sterile line, ready to step in.

“Need a vascular whisperer, huh?” Addison smiled beneath her mask.

Natasha’s lips barely moved. “Wall’s too calcified. Graft line’s tight.”

“Mm. Got it.” Addison leaned in, eyes scanning. “This part’s always delicate. You’re doing great.”

Natasha focused harder on the scalpel in her hand. They worked in tandem, moving without needing more than a word. But Addison? Addison was always the talker. And Natasha should’ve known she wouldn’t stay silent.

“You know.” Addison said softly, conversationally, like they weren’t elbows-deep in someone’s chest, “She told me this was the first surgery she ever watched you do.”

Natasha’s pulse stuttered. She said nothing. Addison kept going. “She said she watched you work like it was watching fire. That you didn’t even look real. I get it now.”

A nurse passed Natasha the graft tool. Her fingers shook, just for a second. “She always speaks so highly of you,.” Addison continued. “It’s cute, really..”

Natasha didn’t answer. Just clamped. “They told me you kept her alive. That you refused to stop even when the odds were nothing.”

“Focus.” Natasha said quietly. “I need to finish the arterial line.”

Addison didn’t flinch. She just softened her voice. “They said you didn’t let her go. Not even when they told you to. I’m…really glad you were there.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her eyes were glued to the thread-thin suture she was guiding through tissue and graft. Her jaw was locked. Her shoulders too still. Addison’s voice turned even gentler. “She’s alive because of you. And I get to love her because of you.”

There it was. That last part was a whisper. Almost an offering. And Natasha..She smiled. That tight, too-sharp, I-might-destroy-something smile that never reached her eyes.

“Well.” she murmured. “Glad to be of service.”

Addison smiled too, oblivious or maybe willfully blind. “You’re kind of a miracle worker.”

Natasha didn’t speak. She might’ve thrown the scalpel across the room if it hadn’t still been in her hand. They finished the graft in silence. And when the new heart began to beat beneath her fingertips, strong, steady, she knew it wasn’t the only one still bleeding.

Just the only one allowed to show it. Natasha stood at the scrub sink post-op, letting the hot water scorch her palms. Her gloves were off. Her mask hung from one ear. Her eyes were fixed on the stream of pink-tinged water circling the drain, a mess rinsing clean. Too bad that didn’t work on her chest..The door creaked open behind her. She didn’t look up.

“Hell of a job.” Addison said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. Natasha didn’t respond. Just kept scrubbing.

Addison stepped closer, her own mask now gone, red hair tied back, skin glowing from OR lights and a little victory rush.

“You still work like a goddamn machine.” she added, admiring. “Cold hands, warm heart… no pun intended.”

Natasha shot her a look in the mirror. “You coming in here for compliments or to gloat?”

“She talks about you, you know.” Addison said, voice softer now. “Y/n. Not the way I’d expect, given your history. Not with bitterness. Not even anger.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change, but the pulse in her throat betrayed her. Addison leaned in slightly. “She talks like someone who never really got over something she didn’t let herself want.”

“I was her boss.”

“She was also in your bed.”

Natasha didn’t move. Addison’s smile widened. “One night, right?”

Natasha turned her head. Slowly. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I think it matters to you more than you let on.”

The air thickened. “I think..” Addison said, stepping back just a little, enough to feel like a threat pulled away, “you had her. You let her go. And now you can’t stand to see someone else hold what you dropped.”

Natasha laughed under her breath. Dry and dangerous. “You sound awfully smug for someone still checking over their shoulder.”

Addison’s gaze sharpened. “Oh, I’m not worried. She loves me.”

Natasha’s jaw twitched. “That’s new.”

Addison smiled. “No, Natasha. That’s earned.”

The OR was long cleared. The adrenaline had faded. The applause, the soft congratulations, the proud looks from the interns, it was all gone now. And Natasha was alone. The desk in the resident workroom was cluttered with post-op paperwork. Charts, vitals, blood gas reports, transplant summaries. Neatly stacked, just how she liked them. Her pen moved in clean, practiced strokes, her handwriting steady even when her heart wasn’t.

It had taken everything in her to keep still during that surgery. Everything not to shake when Addison leaned closer, asked for the scalpel, and casually said, “She talks about you, you know.” Everything not to respond. Not to react. Not to scream.

Natasha clenched her jaw now, eyes locked on the patient chart, but she wasn’t reading the numbers. Her focus had shifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere painful. The door opened. She didn’t look up. Maria walked in like she belonged there, because she did. Clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in the other. Her steps slowed when she saw Natasha still sitting there, back rigid, shoulders squared like she was in an invisible battle.

“I heard you were in the transplant with Addison..” Maria said, soft but pointed. Natasha didn’t answer. Maria stepped closer, leaned against the desk. “How’d it go?”

The question hung between them. Natasha took her time placing her pen down, folding the chart closed with perfect care. She adjusted the edge until it aligned exactly with the stack beneath it. Her hand stayed on the file for a second longer than necessary. Then, finally, she looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, but dry. Her voice was even, but low.

“You were right.” Natasha said. Maria tilted her head. “About what?”

“I lost her.”

The words didn’t slam out, they fell, heavy and quiet, like a knife dropped onto concrete. Maria’s breath hitched, just slightly. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let Natasha keep going.

“I kept telling myself there’d be time..” Natasha said, eyes unfocused. “That I’d wait until she was better. Stronger. Until I was cleared. Until I wasn’t a mess.”

A bitter smile tugged at her lips. “But Addison didn’t wait.”

Silence. “I watched her put her hand on her shoulder in the scrub room last week. Like it meant something. Like she belonged there.” Natasha exhaled slowly, like the admission physically hurt. “And maybe she does.”

Maria’s voice was quiet. “She only got in because you never tried.”

Natasha let her head fall back slightly, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of being the person who loved someone and didn’t know how to keep them!”

Maria took a step forward. “Nat-”

“I thought if I stayed quiet, if I kept my distance, it would make everything easier.”

She laughed under her breath. “It didn’t.”

Maria didn’t say I told you so. She didn’t need to. She just stood there, watching the strongest woman she knew finally let the truth settle into her bones. Natasha pressed her palms flat to the desk, bracing herself. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She looked so happy today.”

Maria said gently, “Would you rather she wasn’t?”

Natasha closed her eyes. “No. God, no.”

Her jaw trembled. “I just wish it was me.”

Silence wrapped around them again, not cruel, but raw. Maria reached over, placed a steady hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “She’s not gone. You didn’t lose her like that. You just…let her slip through your fingers.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “She was in your hands once, Nat. Heart in your hands. And now someone else is holding it.” The chart beneath her hand still bore your name in neat black ink. Natasha stared at it. And didn’t move.

24 days before:

Natasha sat stiffly in the therapist’s office chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The small room felt too warm, too close, but her posture remained impeccably controlled. She answered the therapist’s gentle questions with clipped, clinical precision.

“I’m fine.” she said for the third time, her voice cool and even. “It was an unfortunate incident, but I’m ready to get back to work.”

The hospital trauma therapist , a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a soft voice nodded patiently, pen hovering over a notepad. “You went through a lot, Dr. Romanoff.” the therapist said quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not completely fine. Let’s talk about what happened in that OR.”

At the mention of the OR, Natasha’s jaw tightened. Her mind immediately pushed back against the memory threatening to surface, your blood on her gloves, the flatline tone screaming in her ears, the cold muzzle of a gun at her temple. She forced those images down, focusing instead on the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Natasha replied, forcing a shrug. The effect was meant to be nonchalant, but her shoulders felt rigid. “My patient is alive. I did my job. End of story.”

Her tone was measured, almost detached. Only the slight tremor in her fingers, hidden as she clasped her hands in her lap, hinted at anything beneath the cool exterior. She was determined to keep it that way. Years of training taught her how to lock away fear and pain behind a steel wall of professionalism. She wasn’t about to let it crack now. The therapist offered a sympathetic smile. “Natasha…may I call you Natasha?”

A curt nod was the only answer she got. “Natasha, you performed CPR on her for nearly 4 minutes. You were still doing compressions when the shooter came in and forced you to stop at gunpoint.”

Natasha’s stomach clenched at the calm description of that horrific moment. She fixed her gaze on a spot on the floor, willing her face to remain impassive. The therapist continued gently, “That is a tremendous amount of trauma for anyone to process, especially when the person on that table is someone you…” she paused, “care about.”

For a split second, Natasha’s eyes squeezed shut, a flash of pain breaking through. Care about. The phrase was such an understatement it was almost laughable. But when Natasha opened her eyes again, they were cold, guarded.

“With respect.” she said sharply, “I don’t need a counseling session to tell me what I already know. I saved her life. It was traumatic, sure, but I’ve seen traumatic things before. I’m trained for this.”

Her words came out harder than intended, a defensive edge creeping in. The therapist leaned forward slightly, unfazed by Natasha’s icy tone. “You’re trained to handle medical emergencies, yes. But this wasn’t just any emergency. This was someone you love in danger.”

Natasha flinched at the word love and quickly masked it by sitting up even straighter. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, using the sharp pain to ground herself.

“It’s my job to handle it.” she replied, voice brittle. “And I handled it. She’s alive. I’m fine.”

The repetition of that phrase..I’m fine sounded hollow even to her own ears, and she hated it. She hated that her emotions were threatening to surface here, in this sterile room under the scrutiny of a stranger’s empathy. The therapist made a note on her pad, then looked back at Natasha, her expression gentle but firm. “I understand why you’d want to move on quickly. But the hospital requires clearance after an incident like this. I need to be sure you’re really ready. Right now, it sounds like you’re avoiding the feelings this brought up.”

Natasha’s temper, usually so carefully controlled, flickered at that. “Avoiding?” she echoed, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping before she could stop it. “What do you want me to say? That I was scared?”

She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing. “Of course I was scared. Any surgeon would be, in that situation. But I did what I had to do. I don’t see how dissecting my feelings about it now is going to help anyone.”

The therapist met her glare calmly. “Talking about it can help you, Natasha. You went into fight-or-flight mode and haven’t come down. It might help to acknowledge what you went through. You didn’t just witness a trauma; you experienced it firsthand.”

She paused, voice softening. “You almost lost someone you love in that OR.”

Natasha’s controlled facade wavered. She felt a burning pressure behind her eyes and immediately looked away to stare at the diploma on the wall. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. Almost lost was an understatement. In her mind’s eye she saw your body jerking under her hands with each compression, saw the heart monitor flatline…heard her own voice screaming your name. Natasha’s fingers dug into her palm so hard it hurt. Don’t you dare, she scolded herself, fighting back the sting of tears.

She would not break down. Not here. Silence hung between them for a long moment. At last, the therapist sighed quietly and closed the notebook. “Natasha, I can’t clear you for surgical duty yet.”

Natasha’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Her voice came out sharp, disbelief and anger lacing the words. A hot spike of frustration shot through her chest. “I’m perfectly capable of operating.” The therapist’s words felt like a slap; surgery was Natasha’s purpose, the one area she always maintained control. Now they wanted to bench her? Her nails bit deeper crescents into her palms.

“I know this is frustrating.” the therapist replied evenly. “But your reactions today show me that you’re still in a state of acute stress. If I send you back to the OR without processing this, it could be dangerous for you and for your patients. You need a little more time and support. Maybe another session or two.”

Natasha shot to her feet, pacing a few steps across the tiny office. The controlled mask was slipping, anger seeping through the cracks. “I don’t need time!” she insisted, each word clipped. “What I need is to do my job. Sitting here talking in circles isn’t helping anyone.”

She knew she was practically snarling, but she couldn’t help it. Being told no ignited something panicked in her chest, a desperate need to regain normalcy, to scrub off the lingering feeling of helplessness by throwing herself back into work. The therapist remained seated, eyes following Natasha with a mix of concern and resolve. “Natasha, please..” she said softly. “This isn’t a punishment. You went through something terrible. It’s only been a week.” Only a week.

It felt like an eternity trapped in one endless nightmare replaying behind Natasha’s eyes. She dragged a hand through her hair, realizing belatedly it was trembling and quickly dropping it back to her side. She took a breath, forcing her voice into a colder register. “I said, I’m fine. I don’t need more time.”

But the quaver beneath her words betrayed her. Even she heard it. The therapist stood now as well, maintaining a respectful distance. “I’m sorry.” she said, and she truly sounded sorry. “I know you want to get back to the OR, but I have to do what’s best for you. For now, I’m not clearing you.”

Natasha’s hands balled into fists at her sides. A storm of emotion roiled in her chest , indignation, fear, and an ache of frustration threatening to choke her. She didn’t trust herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure whether a scream or a sob might come out.

Instead, she gave a tight nod, snatched her jacket from the chair, and strode to the door. Her vision blurred for just an instant as she grasped the doorknob. Pull it together, she scolded herself harshly. She blinked the wetness from her eyes, willing her composure back. Without another word or a backward glance, Natasha yanked the door open and stepped out into the hallway, letting it shut perhaps a bit too hard behind her.

Today:

The hospital floor had settled into a lull. Monitors beeped lazily. The fluorescent lights above cast a soft white glow over tired staff. At the edge of the counter, Natasha Romanoff stood with one hand on a patient chart, pen poised, focus razor-sharp. Or at least, that’s what she wanted it to look like. She wasn’t writing. She was pretending to write. And Maria Hill saw right through it.

“Uh huh..” Maria said, striding up beside her. “Busy with that chart, I see. Real intense.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “Complicated case.”

“Right.” Maria drawled. “So complicated you forgot to call back the girl I hand-delivered to you.”

Natasha gave her a glance. “You what?”

“That ICU nurse. Red scrubs. Obvious crush. You were supposed to call her three nights ago.”

Natasha shrugged, barely hiding her smirk. “I got distracted.”

Maria crossed her arms. “You haven’t touched anyone in weeks.”

“Not a crime.”

“It is when you’re Romanoff and you’re acting like a nun. Something’s wrong with the world order.”

Natasha’s smirk twitched wider. “I’ve evolved.”

“You’ve repressed.” Just then, a laugh echoed down the hallway. The kind that hit too loud, too warm. Maria and Natasha both looked. You.

Coming out of one of the one-night rooms. Scrubs a little wrinkled. Cheeks flushed. Addison Montgomery trailing behind you with the cocky kind of smirk that only came from a very satisfying break. You were laughing at something Addison whispered into your ear. The sound hit Natasha in the chest like a punch wrapped in silk.

Maria’s voice softened just slightly. “They’ve got rhythm now, huh?” Natasha didn’t answer. She just looked away, pen tapping absently against the edge of the chart.

“She’s happy.” she said after a moment. “That’s what matters.”

Maria narrowed her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I mean it.”

“You’re over it?”

“I’m fine, Maria.”

“Sure..” Maria said, too sweet. “You look great. Pale. Unkissed. Basically one step from adopting twelve cats and crying during shampoo commercials.”

Natasha snorted, finally giving her a real look. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re lying.”

Natasha tilted her head, amused. “Oh?”

Maria leaned in, eyes sly. “You used to bring women to their knees with a look, Nat. You flirted like it was a blood sport. You had entire departments whispering after you walked by.”

“And now?”

Maria shrugged. “Now you’re reading vitals like they’re romance novels and making up fake cases so you don’t have to walk past the one-night rooms.”

Natasha exhaled a laugh, dry and low. Maria didn’t let up. “I miss that Romanoff. The one who made the air thick with tension. Who could snap her fingers and make anyone follow her into a storage closet just to beg.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Beg?”

“You know I’m right.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Natasha’s smile turned sharper. She tilted her head, lips parting slowly.

“You want that Romanoff back?”

“I dare you.” Maria said, grinning.

Just then, a nurse passed by, tall, striking, early thirties, glancing up from her tablet. She caught Natasha’s eye. Blushed. Fumbled slightly with her pen. Maria arched a brow. “Perfect timing.”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. She stepped away from the nurses’ station and fell into step beside the woman, voice smooth as honey.

“Hey.” Natasha said, easy and low. “Long shift?”The nurse looked up, visibly startled, and then visibly flustered. “Yeah..Ten hours.”

Natasha offered the kind of smile that always came with a price. “You know what helps with that?”

The nurse swallowed. “What?”

“Letting someone else do all the hard work.”

Maria almost choked on her own coffee. The nurse laughed, nervously, excitedly, and Natasha leaned in just a little.

“I’ve got ten minutes..” she murmured, “and I promise you won’t be thinking about work when I’m done.”

The nurse blushed hard. “Are you-do you mean..?”

Natasha nodded toward the hallway. “Supply room. Now or never.”

The nurse didn’t even hesitate. As they disappeared together into the hall, Natasha tossed one last glance over her shoulder at Maria. Maria raised her arms in mock worship. “There she is!” Natasha winked. And vanished into the dark with the nurse.

Days later, Natasha blinks down at the chart in her hand again, but the words blur. She’s not even supposed to be here, her shift ended thirty minutes ago, but the second she saw the name on the appointment list, she hadn’t walked away. She hadn’t even hesitated. The door clicks open behind her.

“Nat?”

She turns. You stand there in scrubs, slightly flushed from running up the stairs. Your smile is tight, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“I, uh..” You clear your throat. “I was supposed to have a follow-up with one of the trauma nurses today. About the scar. And they need someone from cardio to sit in.”

Natasha arches a brow. “You could’ve asked anyone.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “But I asked you..”

That pulls Natasha short. For a beat, she just…stares. She knows Addison works the late shift today. Knows this isn’t about logistics. Not entirely. And for the briefest second, she lets herself feel it, that flicker of something private.

“I’ll come.” she says quietly.

You smile, wide this time, and lead the way. The room smells like antiseptic and lavender lotion, a weird mix, like someone tried to cover up the clinical with something softer. You sit on the exam table, legs dangling. Natasha leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, pretending to be casual. She’s not.

“So…” You look down. “You and that nurse.”

Natasha’s head tilts. “Which nurse?”

You smirk. “Oh come on. The one with the long lashes. Room 4C?”

Natasha chuckles, surprised. “You keeping tabs on me now?”

“No.” You shrug. “Just proud of you.”

That hits deeper than it should. Natasha blinks. “We’ve been through hell.” you say softly. “And now you’re, you know. Living again. That’s a good thing.”

Natasha says nothing. The silence stretches a little too long. So you look away, your voice dipping lower. “I mean, I don’t know everything that happened that day. What it was like for you. But I know it must’ve been…more.”

More than you can imagine. More than anyone knows. Before Natasha can respond, the door opens and a nurse steps in. “Hey.” the woman says brightly. “You ready to take a look?”

You nod, swallowing hard. Your posture shifts..stiffens. Natasha sees it immediately. The tension in your jaw. The way your hands twist in your lap. “Just need to raise the gown a little..there we go.”

The nurse gently lifts the hem, exposing the scar across your chest. It’s mostly healed now, red and jagged but clean. No infection. No swelling. But it’s not the physical part that gets you. It’s the look in your eyes. Wide. Flickering. Lost in a memory you don’t want to relive.

Natasha swallows. And then, without thinking, she moves. Her hand slides into yours. You flinch for half a second, but then exhale slow, shaky. You squeeze back. Just once. Natasha’s eyes drop to the scar. She sees the angle of it. The tissue damage. Her own scalpel. Her own hands. And suddenly-

Blood.

Suction.

Flatline.

The weight of a heart in her palm.

She blinks it away before it swallows her. The nurse murmurs something about tissue healing well and finishes up, giving you both a quick smile before ducking out. The second the door clicks shut, you finally speak.

“It still hurts sometimes.”

Natasha nods. “I know.”

You look at her. And for a second, neither of you pretends. After a while the doctor existed you.

“Hey.” you say, almost hesitant. “Are you… doing anything tonight?”

Natasha blinks, caught off guard. “No. Not unless a liver decides to rupture last-minute.”

You smile. “Wanna go to Joe’s?”

Natasha looks at you. Really looks at you. “Joe’s?”

“Yeah. Just us. I, um…I want to talk to you. Something important.” Something warm flutters in Natasha’s chest. Not fast. Not loud. Just…there.

She nods. “Sure.” The bar isn’t full yet. Just the low hum of chatter, a clink of glasses, and the smell of fried everything. You claim the usual booth in the back, the one you’d stumbled into on late nights after 36-hour shifts, shoes kicked off beneath the table. You’re already sipping a beer when Natasha joins you.

You talk for nearly an hour. About the new cardio attending who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and can’t intubate for shit. About Addison’s constant NPR podcasts in the morning. About that intern who almost passed out during a C-section. Natasha laughs more than she expects to. And every time you smile at her, really smile something unravels a little deeper in her chest. Then you go quiet. Your fingers toy with the edge of a napkin.

“Okay..” you say finally. “This is the part I was nervous about.”

Natasha straightens slightly, heart picking up just enough for her to feel it. “I’ve been meaning to tell you..” you continue, voice gentle. “But I didn’t want to just spring it on you at work.”

Natasha swallows. “Okay…”

You look up at her, eyes warm, almost shy. “I’m getting married.”

The words land like ice water. Natasha doesn’t flinch. She smiles. “Oh.” she says, her voice honey-smooth. “Wow. Congratulations.”

Your face lights up, radiant, soft. “Thanks.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. She can’t afford to. “I wanted to tell you before it went around the hospital..” you add. “And I wanted to…ask you something.”

Natasha nods once, tight. Bracing. “I’d really love if you came to the wedding.”

Natasha laughs, light, effortless, the way she’s perfected it. “You want me there when Addison says ‘I do’? That’s brave.”

You smile, a little bashful. “You’re not just anyone. You…you saved my life. You were there when I came back. And somehow, even with all the crazy and all the silence, you became one of my closest friends.”

Natasha’s throat burns. But she nods. “Of course I’ll be there.” Your shoulders drop with relief. “Really?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” There’s a long pause, soft and full of nothing but old music and the distant crack of a pool ball across the bar. “You’re important to me, Nat.” you say quietly.

Natasha looks at you then. And for just a second, a flicker, a heartbeat, she lets the smile drop. Just enough for it to feel real. “I know.” she whispers.

“You can bring someone to the wedding. If you want.”

Natasha blinks, startled for just a second. “Oh. Uh…”

“I mean..” you continue quickly, “you don’t have to. I just thought, I don’t know. That nurse..?”

Natasha smirks faintly. “Sophie.”

You smile. “Right. Sophie.”

Natasha nods. “I’ll ask her.”

You nudge her again, teasing this time. “So it is serious.”

Natasha’s smile stays in place. Just the right shape. Just the right strength. “She knows what she’s doing.” she says lightly. “Smart. Funny. Kind of scary with a scalpel.”

You grin. “Your type, then.”

Then she picked up her drink. “To love.”

“To love.” you repeat.

It was getting late. The kind of late where the streets are mostly empty and the neon beer signs flicker like they’re too tired to glow properly. Inside, Joe’s is half-lit and half-full, music soft and low, the clatter of glasses still carrying over low conversations.

Natasha leans back against the booth, her second, no, fourth, whiskey sliding warm through her veins. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair a little messy from where she’s run her fingers through it a hundred times tonight. Across from her, you laugh, red in the cheeks, buzzing with that same alcohol warmth. Your beer is barely touched, but the shots Maria lined up earlier had done enough damage.

“I can’t believe you actually challenged Mark to a ‘who can hold a plank longer’ contest!” you giggle, leaning forward to steal one of the peanuts from Natasha’s side of the table.

“He insulted my abs.” Natasha slurs a little, smug. “That’s a war crime.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re laughing.” Natasha points out, finger waggling dramatically. “Which means you love it.”

“I think I’m just drunk.”

“Drunk on me..again.” Natasha declares with a lazy smirk. You roll your eyes but grin. “You’re such a menace when you drink.” You finish the last of your glasses in clinks and shaky giggles, Natasha tilting her head back to drain the final sip. She exhales hard and slow, letting the silence fall for just a beat between you. Then, Natasha murmurs, “I wish I was her.”

You furrow your brow. “Who?” Natasha blinks, eyes heavy-lidded. “Addison.”

There’s a pause. Then you snort. “Are you drunk-flirting with me again?”

“I’m serious.” Natasha says, voice suddenly softer. “I wish I was the one who got to hold your hand in public. Got to kiss you whenever I wanted. Got to…just be with you.”

You stare at her. “Nat-”

But Natasha’s eyes are glassy now, her voice dipping somewhere vulnerable and dangerous. “You remember that night? The one night. Before the hospital. Before the shooting.“ You don’t answer. Natasha sways slightly in her seat, drunk and raw. “It wasn’t nothing. Not to me.”

A beat of silence. Then Natasha’s hand moves, hesitant, trembling, reaching across the table to cover yours. And you don’t pull away. So Natasha leans forward. She’s close enough to taste the alcohol on your breath, to see the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. Close enough that if you moved an inch forward, your mouths would meet.

And then they do. Just for a second. Lips brushing, soft and unsure, a kiss not of hunger, but ache. But the second it happens- You pull back. Not harsh or angry. Just startled. Reality slamming between you. Natasha jerks back, guilt flashing instantly across her face. “Shit- shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

You exhale, blinking hard. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to-” Natasha scrubs her hand across her face. “No, I did, but I shouldn’t have-”

You reach out gently, laying your hand on Natasha’s arm. “Hey.”

Natasha stops. “It’s okay..” you repeat, quieter now. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk. And we’re both a little stupid tonight.”

Natasha laughs, hollow and small. You give a soft smile back. “Let’s just get home before one of us makes another mistake.”

Natasha nods, throat tight. “Yeah. Good idea.” But as you stumble out into the night, side by side, shoulders brushing- Natasha doesn’t stop wishing she could go back. Just one more second..Just long enough to see if you would’ve kissed her back if you hadn’t pulled away first.

1 Month later:

The hospital hums like it always does, monitors beeping, carts rattling down hallways, someone yelling about a misplaced chart. But something’s different. Something feels different. Everyone’s smiling more. Because everyone knows what today is.

“Bride incoming!” someone calls out as you step off the elevator, clipboard in hand. A round of playful cheers echo from the nurses’ station.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“You’re the one still working on your wedding day..” An intern calls from across the hallway, raising a brow. “That’s what’s ridiculous.”

“I just had one patient left to check on.” you insist, waving the chart. “It’s not like I’m gonna flatline on the way to the altar.”

“You better not.” a nurse mutters. “Or we’re doing CPR in tulle.”

That earns a laugh. But even as the staff clears the path for you, teasing and cheering, you duck behind a corner near the stairwell, just for a second. Just to breathe.

And then- “Really?” Addison’s voice rings out with that unmistakable blend of fondness and sass. “You’re hiding?”

You wince and peek around the corner. Addison is standing there in wine-colored scrubs, her hair half-up, makeup soft and done just enough to hint at the occasion. Your smile is sheepish. “I just needed a second.”

Addison steps closer, arms crossed. “You do know the whole ‘you can’t see the bride’ thing only counts when the bride’s actually in the dress, right?”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, well. Close enough.”

Addison’s gaze softens. “You okay?”

“I’m…excited.” you admit. Then, quieter, “And maybe a little freaked out.”

Addison steps forward, slipping her arms gently around your waist. “That’s fair. But I promise not to let you run.”

You lean into her, breathing in the familiar scent of Addison’s perfume, something clean and crisp, like citrus and lavender. “You’d tackle me in the aisle, wouldn’t you?”

Addison smirks. “With love.”

You stand there for a quiet beat, the sound of the hospital fading under the weight of the moment.

“Do I at least get to see the dress before the ceremony?” Addison asks, nosing along your temple.

You pull back just enough to grin. “Nope. Rules are rules.”

Addison groans. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks flush. “I’ll head out soon. Just wanted one last round.”

“Of what?” You look around the hospital, your second home. Your battlefield. The place that nearly broke you…and gave you everything. “One last moment before everything changes.”

Addison presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you at the altar.” You move down the corridor with a tablet in hand, scribbling notes from your last patient. Your hair is pulled up hastily, your badge slightly crooked, but you’re focused, in that calm, collected way you always are when your mind is busy. “Watch it-”

You collide into someone turning the corner. The tablet nearly drops, but steady hands catch you before it does. “Gotcha.” a familiar voice murmurs. You look up. Natasha. All black scrubs. Her hair is pulled back messily, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her temples, the kind that only comes from a surgery done right. You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Natasha chuckles, letting go of your arm slowly. “I noticed.” Her voice is low. Playful. But there’s something…careful in her eyes. “What are you still doing here? I thought today was…kind of a big deal?”

You give her a sheepish look. “I had a couple things to finish up. Patients don’t stop needing care just because I’m getting married in a few hours.”

Natasha nods once, smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. Something unsaid is heavy in the space between you. Natasha shifts, then clears her throat, trying not to look as nervous as she feels. “Hey. That night. At Joe’s…” You look up sharply.

Natasha tries to keep it casual. “Do you… remember it?”

There’s a flash of something in your eyes. Surprise. Maybe something more. But you recover quickly, smiling, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “No..” you shrug. “I don’t know. I was pretty tipsy. You know how Joe’s gets. Loud. Blurry.”

You say it lightly. Natasha blinks once. Nods slowly. “Right.” She smiles. “Blurry.”

Her voice is quieter now. But steady. “Well…I should go. I’ve got charts to finish and, you know. A suit to iron.”

You laugh. “Oh..suit?”

Natasha shrugs with a smirk. “I’m full of surprises.” Then, just as she’s about to turn. A loud chorus echoes from down the hall. “Y/n!”

Your family. Your mom, arms wide. A younger cousin carrying a bouquet. A sibling with a camera already filming. They descend like a joyful storm, ushering you away, laughing and pulling you by the hand. Your smile blossoms instantly, all light and love. But right before you’re swept away completely, you glance back. And Natasha is still standing there, watching. Smiling. Still. But her eyes are dimmer now. Just a little. You lift a hand in a small wave, mouthing: “See you there.” Natasha lifts her fingers in a wave, too. Then she turns.

The golden light from the wide windows filters in like honey, soft and warm against the white walls and the lace-trimmed veil draped over the vanity chair. The hum of string music floats faintly from the garden outside. Everything is quiet. Perfect. You stand in front of the mirror in your wedding dress. You’re breathtaking. Hair pinned just right. Lips glossed in a soft pink. The gown fits like it was made for you,elegant, timeless, radiant. But your fingers fidget at the edge of the lace bodice. You exhale, shallow and slow, eyes meeting your own reflection like you’re trying to steady yourself.

Then, the door creaks open. Your intern, Jules, pokes her head in. Dressed to the nines in a simple plum bridesmaid gown, her hair curled, her grin wide. “Is the bride taking visitors? Or are we preserving the mystique?”

You turn, grinning. “Come in, before I sweat through this dress.” Jules walks in, stops just a few feet away, and lets her eyes sweep up and down, clearly stunned. “Holy crap…You look like the main character in every love story I’ve ever watched at 3 a.m. while crying into ice cream.”

You laugh, the kind that wrinkles your nose. “Wow. That good?”

“Better.” She steps closer, adjusting a tiny piece of veil near your shoulder.

“You happy?” You nod slowly. “Yeah. I really am.”

Your voice is soft, certain, but there’s a slight tightness in it. “Good. You deserve happy. Especially after…you know. Everything.”

A silence hangs between you for a moment, not heavy, but not light either. Then Jules smiles again, trying to lift the mood. “Honestly? If you’d told me months ago that I’d be here watching you marry Addison Montgomery, I would’ve lost a bet.”

You raise an amused brow. “What, you didn’t think we’d make it?”

“No, I just…” She hesitates, then shrugs, “I kinda thought you were gonna end up with Romanoff.” The words land like a soft, slow punch. Your breath catches. “What?”

“Oh. sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It just…I don’t know. Back then, after the shooting, it was like she only existed when you were in the room. The way she looked at you? It wasn’t subtle. None of us thought it was just professional.”

You turn back to the mirror slowly, your eyes distant. “She never said anything.”

“She didn’t have to.”

Your fingers still against the edge of the vanity. Your heart thuds once, too hard. “What exactly… do you mean?”

Jules shifts, suddenly realizing this might be more than casual talk. “I mean… I guess no one ever told you?”

You turn to face her, serious now. “Told me what?”

Jules opens her mouth. Then sighs. “Okay. Don’t freak out, but.. when you were in the OR, after the shooting, your heart stopped. Maria unclamped the cable to fake a flatline when the shooter came in. The machine went quiet on purpose.”

Your face drains of color. “And Natasha…she lost it. She refused to stop. Even with a gun pointed at her. She kept fighting for you. Said she could still feel your heart fluttering. She was shaking. Crying. But she wouldn’t let you go.”

You stumble backward, gripping the back of the chair. You sit, hard. Your vision blurs, like you’re trying to remember something you never got to witness. “They said she only let go when Maria begged her to, for everyone’s safety. She looked like she broke right there. After that…she was different. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t step into an OR for almost a month.”

You stare at the floor. Your mind races, back to Joe’s. That drunken kiss. The way Natasha looked at you. How she said, “I wish I was her…” and meant it.

All this time. You’d thought it was just a drunken mistake. A blip. But it wasn’t, was it? It was grief. Jules swallows, realizing her mistake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t need this today, I just-”

You look up suddenly, and your smile is back. But it’s different now. “It’s okay. Really.”

“I love Addison. I’m marrying Addison.” You exhale. “Whatever that was with Natasha… it’s in the past.”

Your voice is strong. Steady. And your hands are shaking in your lap. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Jules leans down, squeezes your shoulder gently. “I’ll give you a minute.”

You nod. The door shuts. And you’re alone with the reflection again. Your fingers brush the scar on your chest, just visible in the low dip of the neckline. A line Natasha once held in her hands. You close your eyes. And for a second… you let yourself wonder: What if? But then you stand. Straighten your veil. And walk toward your own happy ending. Even if it’s not the one you expected.

The soft hush of music filled the air, delicate piano echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the garden hall. White flowers lined every aisle. Rows of guests, hushed and smiling, turned their heads in unison. You stepped into view.

Your gown shimmered in the afternoon light, every stitch tailored with care. You held a small bouquet of white lilacs and peonies, Addison’s favorite. Your father’s arm was steady at your side. Your eyes, uncertain, but brave, locked ahead, on the woman waiting for you at the altar. Addison stood poised, radiant in an ivory suit, the softest smile blooming across her face. Love, unmistakable and unfiltered, shone in her eyes as she watched you take each step closer.

In the second row, dressed in slate-gray, Natasha Romanoff sat still. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers pale where they pressed into each other. A fine sheen of sweat coated her brow, though the room was cool. She didn’t blink. Barely breathed. She’d rehearsed this, told herself a hundred times she could do it.

But as the pastor began to speak, each word was like glass beneath her ribs. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” You reached Addison, gently taking her hands. Your fingers laced together, familiar and warm. You exchanged a quick look, loving, easy. Your lips twitched into a nervous smile.

Natasha didn’t blink. Beside her, Sophia leaned in slightly. “You okay?” she whispered. Natasha didn’t answer. Just nodded. The pastor continued. “If any person here knows of any lawful impediment as to why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. Her pulse roared in her ears. She looked around. No one moved. Not a breath stirred. Her own legs tensed. She turned to Sophia, barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Then she stood. A quiet murmur rippled through the guests. Addison’s expression didn’t shift, but her grip on your hand tightened. Natasha looked like she hadn’t meant to stand. Her hand hovered uselessly by her side. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. And then, as if gravity caught up, she started to sit again- But stopped.

Instead, her voice, shaky, but clear, cut through the stunned silence. “I can’t.

Every head turned. Your eyes widened. Addison’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.” Natasha said, her voice rising now, firmer.

“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t plan to ruin this, I swear. I was gonna let you go. I wanted to. I told myself that was the right thing.” Her eyes found yours. Just yours.

“But I can’t sit here and watch you promise your whole life to someone else…without saying this.”

She stepped into the aisle now. The guests parted like waves. “I didn’t show up when I should have. Not after the shooting. Not after. I stayed away because I thought I’d break you even more.”

Her voice cracked. “But the truth is…I broke myself.”

Natasha swallowed hard, shaking her head. “That day, when I brought you to the OR, I wasn’t thinking about duty or protocol or even survival. I was thinking about your laugh. Your sarcasm. The stupid way you always corrected some post-op notes with a pink pen.”

A soft, stunned laugh rippled somewhere in the crowd. Natasha didn’t blink. “When your heart stopped, I didn’t let go. I held it in my hands. I begged it to come back. Even when- I just couldn’t.”

She looked down. Her voice softer now. “Because it wasn’t just your life I was trying to save.”

She looked up again. Straight into you. “It was mine too.”

The room held its breath. You stood frozen at the altar. Pale. Silent. Addison’s grip on your hand had loosened. Natasha took one more shaky step forward.

“You asked me that night at Joe’s…what I meant.” She exhaled, brokenly. “I meant that I’ve been in love with you since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in the trauma bay. Since the first coffee. Since the night we lost ourselves and pretended it meant nothing.”

She smiled, a tired, tear-bright smile. “But it meant everything to me.”

And then Natasha whispered, “I love you.”

Dead silence. The words hung in the air like smoke. And then, softly, apologetically, Natasha stepped back.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to say anything. I just…couldn’t let today pass without you knowing.”And with that, she turned to walk away. The room didn’t move. Neither did you.

The silence was crushing. The kind of silence that bent time. You stood frozen at the altar. Addison’s hand had just fallen from yours. The bouquet was on the floor behind you. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. You could still feel the echo of Natasha’s voice, raw and real and shattering, and now the room was full of stares, but you couldn’t see any of them.

Your eyes were locked on the door Natasha had disappeared through. And then you looked at Addison. Her face was unreadable. But her eyes- They weren’t angry. They were knowing.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard. “I’m sorry..” you said.

Addison blinked. “Y/n…”

“I’m so-” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”

Addison took a shaky breath and smiled. It was sad. But not bitter. “Go.”

Your chest clenched. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know.” Addison whispered. “But she’s out there.” That was all it took. You turned and ran.

Part 5