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wolferine · 1 year ago

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I AM HERE, IT HAS BEEN QUITE A WHILE SINCE THE LAST JFU FIC BUT THIS WAS AN EXCELLENT INSTALLMENT AS USUAL

So excited that our amphibious little friend Jeffrey is back! (Now, if only his comic would come back soon too)

I love that R casually mentions being stabbed and there is no other context or explanation given. Just a typical R thing to say, honestly.

Jeff, our clueless dumb boi. He was certainly giving me Remy from Ratatouille vibes in the kitchen. I also though we are not allowed to trust Nat in the kitchen, so I'm not sure why Jeff did not try to forcibly take the spatula from her and cook pancakes himself.

(Of course Nat would have tried to feed him a burnt pancake in the past, that was probably the catalyst for Jeff learning how to cook himself, he was tired of being fed bland and burnt things)

Jeff's carseat suddenly reminded me of that random dog car harness I showed you a while ago, where Jeff would be suspended for no good reason lol.

Also, Fanny is an AKITA???? I thought she was some kind of golden retriever mix this whole time.

I ship Yelena and Jeff (platonically). I would like to see them on a mission together one day, that would go very well.

Thank you for reiterating the headcanon that Jeff is ILLITERATE.

And now I'm saddened by the fact that Fanny was not included on the card making.

And I'm even MORE sad because EYE did not get a Valentine's card from Jeff this year. Oh well, there is always next year!

Thank you for this fluffy and lovely fic Peppa!

Jeff's Valentine

Summary: Natasha and R go on a Valentine's Day date without Jeff, leaving a very upset landshark in Yelena's care.

Word Count: 3086 Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader Warnings: Nat and Yelena threatening each other, some romcom bashing, otherwise it's all just fluff :) A/N: It's been a few months since the last entry to the JFU, but everyone's favourite landshark is back :) I hope you all enjoy and, despite the title, it's quite light on the actual romance part. Also this isn't proofread.

Part of The Jeff Fictional Universe

Jeff mumbled tiredly, finally settled into bed for the night. You’d kept him active all day, taking him to the beach, buying him treats, and giving him all of your time overall which, to Jeff, made your next betrayal even worse.

The landshark hadn’t settled into his own bed that night – despite the plethora of options he had – he’d made himself comfortable on yours, which meant waiting for you and Natasha to settle down before he could go to sleep. He groaned again, but neither of you took the hint, both of you continuing your conversation as if he hadn’t interrupted.

“It’s going to be the perfect day,” Jeff heard you promise. Natasha reached out to cup her hand around the side of your face; since neither of you were even looking at him, Jeff huffed once more and stomped around the bed, clearing the space for him to flop suddenly into a curled-up ball.

“Just the two of us,” you continued. Jeff faced away from you, if you weren’t sleeping soon then there was no point in him staying up.

“Not even Jeff.” The amphibious creature took some issue at that. Gone was his prior sleepy state and in its place – a whole new readiness to fight. What did you mean ‘not even Jeff’? Where would he be? What day could be perfect without him?

You glanced briefly at the agitated shark, but your attention was soon drawn away when Natasha propped herself up on one elbow. Jeff relaxed too, confident in the belief that his other parent would step in to defend him… until she didn’t. What she did do was turn your head back to face her, then leaned in to kiss you.

“I’ll trust your plans, love,” she smirked, “afterall, it can’t be worse than that Valentine’s a couple of years back.”

“In Paris?” you hummed, “romantic destination at least.”

“For the couples who choose to go there, maybe, not the ones on last minute missions. You almost bled to death.”

“Oh, yeah. Getting stabbed isn’t in the plans tomorrow though, don’t you worry.”

“Mmmm, good. I can’t wait to see what is. Goodnight Y/N, and goodnight Jeff.”

“Mrrrr,” Jeff responded, scathingly, though Natasha didn’t know it. He felt somewhat content in his action of wishing you both a bad night, but still fumed from the end of the bed at the fact you had planned activities without him. He vowed never to forget this betrayal and, as he fell asleep, planned to take vengeance in the morning until you reconsidered your plans.

By morning, all was forgotten. Jeff had never had the best memory, but his anger was about to be reignited.

Natasha prised herself slowly and carefully out of bed, taking caution not to wake you as she did so. Unfortunately, that meant walking further away from the bed than usual on her route to the door, and closer to Jeff's corner bed – which he'd retired to midway through the night.

“Mrrrr,” he grumbled, his sleep now disturbed.

“Sorry Jeff.”

Jeff didn’t forgive Natasha with the apology, but he was curious as to what she was up to, so stood up and stretched before padding after her. After slipping through the door, he continued to follow the assassin as she muttered some sort of recipe; he perked up significantly when he realised her destination was the kitchen.

The land shark bounded to her side, purring and butting against Natasha’s legs to attract her attention.

“I’m making pancakes for Y/N, Jeff, do you want to help?”

“Mrrrr!”

Natasha stared at him blankly. “I’ll assume that was a yes,” Jeff heard her mutter, then he was hoisted into the air and deposited on the kitchen counter. “You have to wash your hands first though.”

The redhead shuffled away while Jeff hopped into the sink, where he sat and nudged the tap on in order to wash his hands and his feet and, well, practically his entire body in the end.

Eventually, he flipped the water back off and fell back to sit with all four legs stretched out in front of him, so that he could show his clean hands to Natasha.

“Very good, Jeff,” she approved, “you can help now that you're clean.”

“Mrrrr,” Jeff beamed.

“Why don't you just sit there while I finish off the batter, then I'll make you one and you can taste test. Sound good?”

“Mrrrrr!”

“Yeah, thought you'd like that.”

Natasha hurried around for a few seconds more, whisking the bowl until she felt content. Jeff, meanwhile, grew impatient, so grabbed a saucepan from the side and dragged it along the counter, onto the stove, which he then switched on.

Natasha frowned at the action, while Jeff flopped back into his hind legs and grinned incidentally. “I'm not sure how you know how to do that,” she muttered, “but thanks Jeff.”

“Mrrrr!”

As the redhead got to work, Jeff didn't take his eyes off the batter: from the final bit of mixing, to the pouring, to the misshapen thing in the pan, Jeff knew his mission.

“Mrrrr!” he alerted a few moments later. Natasha had gone off to prepare a tray for you, leaving Jeff worried that she would forget about his pancake and feed it to him burnt. She had previous.

At Jeff's alert though, Natasha came running back over to hastily flip the pancake. She patted Jeff's head in gratitude for his warning, knowing she would have burnt it otherwise. She had previous. Then returned to her set up.

Finally, Jeff's pancake was done, and Natasha served it to him with a wide smile. “Look, it's your face, Jeff!”

Jeff looked down, then back at her, then at his reflection in the kitchen sink. He did not resemble this beige blob, but no matter, he could still engulf it, so he did.

“How is it?”

In truth, Jeff didn't have it in his mouth long enough to notice a taste, but he grinned and gave a thumbs up anyway, setting Natasha into action. She began to pour vaguely heart shaped servings into the pan, which Jeff monitored, as Natasha never seemed to know when to turn them. Together, they produced a good stack of heart shaped pancakes which she carried up to serve you in bed.

Jeff followed her upstairs and hurried around to your side of the bed to stare and beg for food, which you sneakily provided, until it was time for you and Natasha to get up and ready for the day.

You dressed yourself, picked out clothes for Natasha, and even grabbed some of Jeff's things, giving him hope that he would be accompanying the two of you. The feeling was exacerbated when you called him to the car and strapped him into his car seat. His excitement grew and grew… until he realised that he recognised the roads you drove down; he'd been to this place before.

“My favourite nephew!”

Jeff wagged his tail politely, but turned to you pleadingly. As excited as he was to see Yelena, all he really wanted was to stay with his parents, which he knew wouldn’t be happening if they’d brought him here; he would be left all day, at the very least. While Natasha thanked Yelena again for taking him, Jeff pulled at the ends of your trousers, drawing your attention just so he could whine and plead to you with wide, watery eyes.

“Jeff, you usually love it here,” you crouched down to his level and whispered. His eyes seemed to be getting larger and sadder by the second, so you ducked your head, knowing any more of this and you’d fold to his wishes. “I’ll be back tonight, I promise.”

“Mrrrr.”

“Nat and I are going to be doing couple-y stuff, and you don’t want to be around that, do you?”

“I wouldn’t”

“We know, Yelena.”

“The land shark is better with me,”

“That’s why he’s here, Yelena.”

You ignored the sibling bickering and turned back to Jeff. “Yelena is right, buddy, you’ll have a great day here with her and Fanny, then we’ll be back to pick you up before you know it!”

He whined again but, with great difficulty, you turned away to follow Natasha out of the door, ready to begin the date you’d spent weeks planning. You could practically feel Jeff’s teary eyes boring into your back, so you didn’t dare turn around, knowing you could never leave that sight behind.

Yelena could put up with a lot – The Red Room had put her through a lot – but this day with Jeff had somehow managed to find and push at her limit. You'd been gone for an hour now, but Jeff still sat at the front door, right where you left him, crying and scratching and howling in displeasure.

She hadn't seen Jeff this distraught since the day they first met, and that was not an event anyone wanted a repeat of.

“Can you talk to him?” she asked Fanny when the crying got too much to bear. The dog told her head but, after a pointed finger from Yelena, made her way towards the mopey land shark. She wasted no time and judged Jeff harshly for his attention, before springing forward with her front half lowered playfully to the ground.

“Mrrrr,” Jeff pouted, though already noticeably less melancholy. Fanny barked and jumped towards him. Jeff growled, then sprang up, running in circles around the living room to goad the Akita into chasing him. They played like that for several minutes, while Yelena breathed a sigh of relief and settled back into the sofa, glad the whines had finally given way to playful yaps; they were much more manageable.

The two animals did eventually calm down though and, when Fanny went to lay at her owner's side, Jeff followed, climbing into the Widow’s lap rather than snoozing on a hard wooden floor.

“Hello Jeff”

“Mrrrr.”

“You are happy now?”

“Mrrrr,” Jeff shrugged, He glanced to the door, then back at Yelena, before his features drooped.

“They are celebrating Valentine’s Day,” Yelena told the shark patiently, watching his face for any indication of how he felt about it.

“Means they do lot of romantic things together. Couples do. But they must leave you behind because they are a couple, and you are not.”

Jeff frowned and shuffled on Yelena’s lap until his hands were freed. “Alone,” he signed, then pointed to himself.

“Yes, in a dating sense, but so am I. It is not so bad to be alone.”

“Couple. Join them?”

“Double dates are an option, but-”

Jeff cut her off, signing urgently, “You. Me. Couple.”

“Us?”

Jeff nodded.

“I am flattered, Jeffrey Landshark, but we are too far apart in ages, and different species; I don't date anyone even of my own species.”

Jeff looked down dejectedly, his face downcast as he signed “alone” again.

“One day you can find a nice land shark partner, if that's what you want, but Valentine's is not all about couples. There is a lot you can do, little land shark! Treat it as a normal day, spend time with friends, enjoy the alone time… here, let me show you.”

Yelena nodded her head as she stood up, in a clear sign that Jeff should follow her; he took the hint and leapt gently off of the sofa. Fanny looked up at the movement and decided to trail her owner too. So Yelena paced through the house, her two animals marching in step behind her, until she pulled a box out from a hallway cabinet, half-full with crayons and stickers and pink slips of paper. Fanny sniffed it curiously.

“Natasha and I used to do this every year,” the younger assassin explained. Meanwhile, she'd picked the box up again and led the troupe back to the living room table.

“We would watch funny movies and make each other cards. Look, see, this is from your mother-”

A pink card was shoved into Jeff's hands; adorned with a blood-red heart on the front, Jeff opened it to see Natasha's neat, calligraphic handwriting, not that he could read any of it.

“Mrrrr,” he said.

“Yes,” Yelena replied, not understanding him at all, “she was angry with me that year. I threw her out a window a couple days before.”

“Mrrrr,” Jeff tried again, this time signing “can't read” alongside it.

“Oh, yes, she has bad handwriting, hard to read. I will read it for you.” Yelena beckoned for the paper, which Jeff passed back to her.

“Dear Yelena,” she read aloud, “sometimes I am glad I didn't kill you. Lots of love, Natasha.”

“She is very sincere.”

“Mrrrr.”

“Let's make cards. You can give it to your parents when they pick you up, yes?”

Jeff nodded, and the two of them set to work. The TV was switched on and played a collection of rom-coms that the network has chosen to air for Valentine's day, allowing Yelena to laugh at the tropes and throw popcorn at the TV whenever it became too unrealistic for her to believe. In turn, that kept Jeff and Fanny entertained, as they scrambled to get to the fallen popcorn first.

“Mrrr?” Jeff asked at one point, after Yelena had cut and folded the card for him. He had one hand on the front of the card and a red pen balanced between his teeth, which he hovered just above the page.

“You want to outline your hand?”

Jeff nodded, causing the pen to lower and mark a red line on his hand.

“Okay, let me do it then,” Yelena stepped in, taking the pen off of Jeff. “You want a full outline? If you move your fingers together it is like a heart.”

Jeff tried it, moving his first finger towards his thumb, then his other two towards each other on the other side. Yelena had been correct; thanks to his short, sharp fingers and a rounded hand, it did form a somewhat heart-like shape when traced.

“There we go. A perfect heart!”

Jeff looked at the paper. The heart was about as perfect as Natasha's pancakes had been that morning, but he considered that maybe the sisters didn't know what a heart was supposed to look like, and he was content to let them live in ignorance. Jeff gave a thumbs up.

Yelena handed the card back and turned to the TV once more.

“Why are they kissing! They just met!” she yelled suddenly, jolting both Jeff and Fanny from their relaxed positions.

“I am sorry,” she grumbled calmly, “they are just dumb.”

Fanny huffed and settled back into her bed, while Jeff went back to colouring in his Valentine's card. And so, they settled into their routine for the rest of the day.

There was, of course, a break for lunch, and then again to walk Fanny (and Jeff, but in his mind he walked the other two). The rest of the time was spent doing arts and crafts in the living room, moving on from the Valentine's card, to friendship bracelets, to Yelena teaching Jeff simple origami.

By the time you and Natasha came to pick up Jeff, late in the evening, the table overflowed with stacks of folded paper, beads, and glitter covered cards; and your landshark blended right in with how much glitter he had spilt on himself.

Natasha gasped and practically ran into the house. You panicked, thinking she would storm in and reprimand Yelena for the mess, but, to your surprise, she headed straight for the table and fell to her knees beside it. “You brought out the crafting stuff!” she exclaimed, in a tone totally opposite to what you had expected, then beckoned you over right before she began to rifle through the mess.

You closed the door slowly, sensing that your original plan to quickly pick Jeff up and head home would be no more.

“What's going on?”

Natasha ignored you, and instead looked up to her sister, “I remember writing this one, you'd pushed me out of a window just before it.”

Your head swung rapidly to Yelena, who shrugged at your expression, “We were only one floor up.”

After knowing the pair of them for years, you knew when it was best to let things slide, and this was one of those times. Further questioning would only yield more questions than answers.

“Y/N, come sit down,” Natasha smiled and pulled you down to her side, “this is what Yelena and I used to do every Valentine's day.”

“Before she met you,” Yelena added.

“Do you mind that I'm joining?” you asked the younger Widow directly, even as Natasha piled heaps of craft equipment in your lap. “I don't want to intrude on a sibling tradition.”

Yelena glared at you for a few seconds, long enough to make you sweat under her gaze, before she eventually broke into a smile and shook her head. “No, no. It is a family tradition, and you are family now. I do not mind. Come, the land shark can show you how it's done.”

With Yelena’s blessing, you shuffled around at the table and got to work making a love letter of your own. The message you wanted to convey came to you quickly, and the page soon filled with your expressions of love. Natasha finished hers at almost the same time, and you all agreed to exchange them at once.

“Three, two, one-”

Yelena pointed Jeff towards you and Natasha, but he shook his head and turned back to her, depositing his card in her lap. Meanwhile you and Yelena had both pushed your cards across the table to Jeff, and Natasha’s to Yelena.

“Thank you, Jeffrey Landshark,” Yelena said earnestly, “I am touched.”

“Hey, I gave you a card too!” Natasha complained, only to be shushed by her sister.

“You are not as special as Jeff.”

Natasha looked to you for backup, but you only shrugged. Though you pulled her into a side hug immediately after, of course, because she might have pushed you through a window if you hadn't.

“This is a bit awkward, huh?” you whispered, smiling against her hair as she rested her head on your shoulder, the both of you watching Jeff and Yelena exchange friendship bracelets and admire their Valentine's day cards. “Put our hearts out there and didn't even get a single card back.”

“You put your heart out there? Oh…”

“Natasha… why does this just say ‘die’?”

Jeff taglist: @unexpected-character @wolferine

General Taglist: @canvascoloredin @fxckmiup @wizardofstories

#imagine knowing a name #jeff the land shark #jeff cult

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wolferine · 2 years ago

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He's such a menace 😭

But good on Modok for getting Jeff out of the house to see the Thanksgiving parade!

it's jeff! #30: parade escapade

#nameforthemain #jeff the land shark #jeff the landshark #better than jeff eating the turkey this year

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wolferine · 2 years ago

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Still very intrigued, I wonder what will happen next...

Darkest Knight - Part 2

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You meet a pretty woman in a bar...

Word count: 4954

AN: Click here for Part 1!

Thanks to everyone who read and interacted with Part 1. Things get a little wild in this one...

“I should have never come here,” Natasha cries. “You don’t deserve this, after everything you’ve done for me–”

“I can help you,” you insist. “Please, Nat. Just tell me who they are–”

She looks up at you, and even in the darkness the fear in her eyes is unmissable.

“The Red Room.”

The words send physical shivers down your spine. They weren’t ones you had expected to ever hear again, and you were shocked that this woman knew of its existence, let alone escaped. Now, you can fully sympathize with and understand her fear.

“Put your shoes on. We’ll go out the back door. Hurry.” You speak in short but commanding sentences, directing Natasha into the kitchen. The pounding on the door escalates to heavy, inconsistent thuds, and you know the “officers” are using their battering ram now. Luckily, you had assembled this cabin yourself, board by board, with the door built of solid oak, so that would buy you some precious time.

You stop at the freezer to grab a plastic bag that Natasha doesn’t even look at. She’s staring at the back door, practically shaking with fear, and anger fills you so suddenly you can’t see. But you can’t slip into one of your rages now, not with Natasha being in such close proximity and having no idea what you’re actually capable of. If she knew who you really were, what you were, she’d run happily into the Red Room goons’ arms and beg them to take her away from you.

On the other side of the back door, you hear the crunch of boots on fresh snow, the anxious heartbeats, and the pump of a shotgun.

You don’t have any time to warn Natasha before you jump in front of her, shielding her body with yours just in time as a round of buckshot blasts through the door into your chest. The pain is like an explosion that takes your breath away, but luckily darkness engulfs you before it becomes overbearing.

Natasha screams when your weight falls back into her. You are ridiculously, unexpectedly heavy, almost pinning her down, but she manages to scramble back in time, leaving you to thud onto the floor. She stares at your body in shock, where lead pellets are buried in your chest, blood seeping out to soak your layers of shirts. Natasha instinctively gravitates for you, trying to find an area to apply pressure so she can slow the bleeding.

“Y/N, Y/N,” she whimpers, ignoring the fist punching through the weakened door and opening the lock from the outside.

“Hey, I found her!”

“And you took out the other one!”

“Natalia…” someone says in a mocking voice. “Natalia, come home to us…”

Natasha’s head snaps up and adrenaline fills her veins as she blindly launches herself at the soldier who killed you. She tears the shotgun out of his hands and clubs him on the head with it, knocking him down and smashing the butt into his helmet’s face shield until it cracks. She hasn’t felt fury like this in a while, putting her in an almost euphoric state, but her focus is a concentrated pinpoint, and she doesn’t see the second soldier behind her pointing a gun at her head.

“RAHHHHH!”

Natasha ducks, wondering if someone let a large animal into your home. She catches a flash of silver as the muzzle of the soldier’s gun falls harmlessly to the floor as if sliced right off. You’re back on your feet all of a sudden, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl, three silver, knife-like claws protruding from your knuckles. You slash at the soldier, tearing through his body armor effortlessly and puncturing his heart. He crumples next to his partner, who’s shaking in complete terror while crawling away from you.

“Don’t look, Nat,” you growl and she turns away, flinching when she hears the man’s cut off scream. She jumps when you grab her shoulder, afraid that she’ll find herself on the other end of your knives, but you shake her gently. When she looks at you, your knives are gone and so are the buckshot holes in your chest.

“How are you–What did you–” Natasha stammers.

“It’s okay,” you say, taking a step back from her when you sense her overwhelming levels of stress. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

Natasha slips her hand into her pocket, where your stolen pocket knife is. It would be like trying to fight you off with a toothpick, but Natasha Romanoff wasn’t one to go down without a fight.

“Nat, please. We can get away on my motorcycle. Come on.”

You’ve made no move to hurt her, keeping your hands where she can see them. Even though you had turned the Red Room soldiers into shish kabobs, you hadn’t let them suffer, taking them down with deadly accuracy and efficiency. Deep down, Natasha knows she can trust you, but her body is having a very resistant physical reaction to going with you. After all, anyone’s natural instinct would be to run very fast and far from away from a person who literally came back from the dead and mowed down two grown men with knives built into their arms.

“Nat?” you prompt a final time, not sure what you’re going to do if she refuses to go with you.

“Okay,” she says, wringing her hands together frantically. “I trust you.”

It means more than you can explain that she’s put her faith in you and you lead her out of the bloodied kitchen. You race to the shed, where you tear off the padlock with your bare hands. There’s only one helmet, which you clasp around Natasha’s head. You throw one leg over the seat of your motorcycle and it sinks considerably under your weight. Natasha slides on behind you, wrapping her arms around your muscular torso, unable to resist the waves of body heat coming off of you.

She hardly notices the blistering wind as you take off into the forest, somehow finding your way around trees and rocks despite keeping the headlights off. Her fingers are clenched, almost frozen, to the plastic bag you had made such an effort to retrieve from the freezer. She has no interest in its contents now, clinging to you desperately and closing her eyes, hoping that when she opens them she’ll wake up from this nightmare.

You eventually turn the motorcycle onto a road and careen on.

*********************************************************************** It’s probably not the wisest idea to stop at a motel, but you’re certain Natasha is still exhausted from the long night that’s not over, and you need some time to collect yourself. You park your motorcycle in the dirt lot and shake Natasha awake.

“We’ll stay here for a few hours, then keep moving,” you say, gently prying the plastic bag from her. Her hands are freezing and you feel awful for not taking care of her better.

“But the men…they could catch up–”

“You need to get proper rest,” you interrupt. You’re not sure how many hours she had been awake before she met you at the bar, and while she’d already been looking better after dinner, you didn’t want to push her.

“This is too dangerous–” Natasha protests.

“They know you’re with me,” you say, and this quiets her. “So they’ll need to come up with a new plan if they want you.” You untwist the plastic bag, pulling out a soggy wad of cash. Her eyes grow wide. “This should keep us covered for a few days.” Then, you notice the rusty red splotches of dried blood splattered across your shirt. If you walk up to the front desk like this, the manager would call the cops. “Uh…shit.”

“Here.” Natasha takes her jacket off, despite your protests for her to keep it on, and she wraps the sleeves around your shoulders, carefully draping them in a way that hides the blood splatter. She fights back a visible shiver. “Much better.”

“Thanks. Let’s go quick,” you say, herding her into the tiny front office that barely fits the two of you side-by-side. “Two rooms,” you tell the pimply boy behind the dusty desk who smells like energy drinks and weed.

“Huh?” he responds, blinking slowly at you.

“Two rooms. Please,” you say through your teeth, pulling out a few bills to show your commitment.

A long pause as you stare each other down.

“Uh, yeah we don’t have two rooms,” the boy says. “Just one–”

“That’s fine, then,” Natasha intervenes, as you can consider hefting the kid over your shoulder and dragging him out to the dumpster around the corner. “We’ll take whatever you have left.”

“Sure.”

You reluctantly hand over the deposit and he disappears into the back room to find the keys. Mumbling under your breath about the lack of hiring standards, you rub absently at your chest and Natasha looks at you in concern.

“You okay?” she whispers.

“Yeah.” You drop your hand back to your side. “Probably gonna cough up some buckshot later, to be honest.”

Natasha doesn’t know if she should laugh or leave. “How did you…” she trails off, searching for the right words.

“Heal so fast?” you supply. “Always have. I was literally just…born that way.”

“And the…” Natasha gestures to her own hands and forearms.

“Claws?” you finish. “Been with me since the beginning, too.” Your answers are vague, almost useless in the new number of questions they spark, but Natasha knows now is not the time. The boy finally returns with a key hooked to rabbit’s foot, which you accept with a very judgemental scowl, but are very glad to finally be on your way to some privacy for the night.

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

Natasha startles awake, trying to piece together the traumatic memories of the past eight hours into a coherent storyline. She’s alone in the motel room, her anxiety skyrocketing at the thought that you might have ditched her, when the door creaks open and you step back in. You’re wearing new clothes and holding a crumpled white bag stained with grease.

“Did you sleep okay?” you grunt, tossing the bag onto the bed by her feet. “I got you some breakfast. It’s probably shit, but everything else nearby is closed.”

“Thanks.” Natasha reaches for the bag, despite having almost no appetite. She takes out one of the sandwiches, but can’t bring herself to take a bite. “Y/N, I think we need to get moving again. We’ve hung around for too long–”

“Eat your damn sandwich, then we’ll leave,” you gruff, and it’s almost endearing to Natasha how grumpy and thoughtful you can be at the same time. “But you know, we can’t keep running forever.”

“We can run far enough,” she insists. You don’t respond and Natasha realizes you’re waiting for her to take a bite of her egg and sausage sandwich. Fighting back a smile of amusement, she nibbles off the edge of the dry muffin and you nod in satisfaction.

“Look Nat, I want to help you. You know that, right? But I’m…familiar…with these Red Room goons and–” Her eyebrows shoot up as she keeps chewing. “That’s another story for another day.”

“Did you escape from them, too?” Natasha asks, her eyes wide.

“Well, not exactly. But I know who they are. What they are. And what they do to women like you.”

Natasha tenses suddenly, sensing judgment from you. She’s ready to defend herself, that she didn’t let them break her or keep her hostage, when you add, “They should be burned to the ground. Just a bunch of psychopathic perverts.” She laughs out loud, startling you because you weren’t even trying to make a joke, but you let out a snort.

“But they’re a damn smart bunch of perverts,” you continue. “And you know we can’t take them alone. I have some old friends that can help us. I’ll take you to them.”

“More old friends? Like the one who’s clothes I’m wearing?” Natasha says, wanting to join in on the lighter mood, but she immediately regrets so when she sees the sadness cloud your face.

“Not like that,” you murmur. “She would’ve helped us, though. But she’s gone now, so…”

Natasha doesn’t know what to say, guilt gnawing at her stomach for making such an unnecessary joke.

“They’re in New York. It’s been a while since I last saw them, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind us stopping by,” you say to break the silence. “They’d help us without question.”

“Even against…the Red Room?”

“They’d have those Red Room schmucks for breakfast,” you chortle, the mood lightening once more. The knot in Natasha’s stomach loosens, and she takes another bite of the sandwich. “But it’s gonna take us a while to get there. And we’ll probably need a car…”

“I’ll handle it,” Natasha volunteers.

You look at her with a raised eyebrow, challenging but curious. “Okay. We’ll go when you’re done eating.”

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

While you clear out the motel room of all your tracks, Natasha triumphantly returns with the keys to a large blue Ram truck. You’re sad to leave your motorcycle behind, but it’s served you well, so you take it for one final ride to a strip mall, Natasha following in her menacing blue truck. You park in a shaded corner, saying good-bye with a caress to the faded leather seat, then join Natasha in the truck.

With good weather and little traffic, the drive would take about 40 hours. And even though you’d be able to make the entire drive yourself with minimal stops, Natasha won’t let you. It’s a long first day, stopping for more junk food and bathroom breaks. You buy a phone from a gas station to text your contact in Westchester, and in the few responses you share, they seem eager for your arrival despite your circumstances.

Another night is spent at a shoddy motel, and this time you don’t automatically ask for separate rooms. Natasha seems comfortable in your presence–tolerant, at the very least–and you’re starting to enjoy her company too. She keeps to herself for the most part and even though you can feel her studying you sometimes, she doesn’t ask anything inappropriate. She also tries to take care of you, though you think of yourself as the last person who needs it, but it’s cute how she picks up on your favorite gas station snacks (the jerky and Snickers bars) and buys you extra packets behind your back, and she offers to drive almost every time the two of you get back into the truck.

So on the third and final day of your trip, when Natasha begs to make a stop at a mall in Ohio, you agree, mostly because you know how happy it will make her. While the mall itself is disappointingly unimpressive, Natasha has the biggest smile as she drags you around under the pretense that she wants to find some clothing that wasn’t bought from a gas station, but she tries to browse every store, commenting which retailers have taken the old spots of familiar locations from her childhood.

“Try this one on,” Natasha says, thrusting yet another checkered flannel shirt at you.

“They all look the same,” you grumble, feeling that you may be colorblind because you can’t tell what’s different about the prior three she’s made you try.

“No, this one goes better with your eyes,” she says, her cheeks suddenly turning red when she realizes what she’s said.

You grin at her. “Then I’ll buy this one.”

You proudly wear the shirt out of the store, sneaking a glance to see Natasha’s expression and she does seem even more excited than when you first arrived at the mall. For lunch, you stop in the food court, and while you’re wolfing down a triple-patty burger with frightening intensity, Natasha suddenly reaches across the table and grabs your hand.

“What?” You stop mid-bite.

“Behind you,” she hisses.

Wiping grease off your chin, you drop your shoulder and turn your head subtly. But you know immediately who Natasha’s referring to. A woman with long black hair tied into an immaculate ponytail, not a single stray hair flying about, wearing a black overcoat and gloves, strides towards the food court with purposeful, powerful steps. You recognize her posture, her outfit, and the cold, emotionless expression on her face.

“Holy shit,” you mumble. “They sent a Widow after us.”

“We have to go!” Natasha tries yanking up but she isn’t strong enough. “How do you think she found us?”

“They’ve probably been tracking us the whole time,” you say, sad to leave the remainder of your meal. “They were just waiting for the right time to strike.” It’s hard to walk fast without making it obvious that you’re running from someone. You offer Natasha your hand and she takes it without hesitation. You drag her along a little, urging her without words. “It’ll be fine, Nat. We’ll take care of her and keep moving.”

“We shouldn’t have stopped here. This was all my stupid idea,” she says.

“It wasn’t a stupid idea. I liked it.”

If the two of you weren’t running from a Widow, Natasha would have stopped and hugged you. Although she hasn’t known you for more than four days, she feels completely safe with you and has a deep admiration for you. You’ve never prodded about her past, you’ve never judged from where she came from. While you’re not such an open book yourself, Natasha can see how much you’ve relaxed around her from your first meeting. She likes your calmness, your willingness to drop literally everything in your life for her, with no expectation of anything in return. She’s never met someone like you before but hopes that you’ll let her stay around even after this mess is cleaned up.

“Go this way,” you say, nudging Natasha into a maintenance corridor, having seen a sign for roof access on one of the walls. At least you could take care of the Widow without worrying about innocent casualties–assuming there weren’t more hiding up there. “Take the stairs,” you instruct Natasha, pushing her into the stairwell.

“I hope you don’t expect me to jump from the roof,” she replies.

“Well, if we have to, I’ll jump first and catch you,” you quip, but there is no time for her to linger on your comment. She dashes up the three flights of stairs with lightning speed, while you lumber up behind her.

“The door’s locked,” she says, stopping in her tracks.

“Move.” Your middle claw rips out of your hand and you slide it between the jamb and wall to cut the lock. Throwing your weight against the door, it pops open easily and you stumble out into the unusually bright outside. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Just hide somewhere and wait.”

Natasha is skeptical of your plans, not wanting to be caught in a dead end with another Widow, but she hurries towards an air conditioning unit. When she turns around, she sees you’re not following her and are facing the roof access door, your claws sliding out as the Widow makes her appearance, now wearing a gas mask.

“Y/N!” Natasha screams with no other way to stop you.

The Widow tosses a metal canister that immediately releases a thick, white fog. It hides the Widow and worse, burns your eyes until they water and destroys your sense of smell with a piercing, peppery odor.

“Shit.” You drop onto your belly, searching for a breathable pocket of air. You hear another canister clang to the ground, spreading the white fog farther and farther. As you crawl to where you think Natasha is taking cover, the unmistakable pops of gunfire ring through your skull.

Your sense of sight, smell, and now sound are completely unreliable and fear ices your veins as you think about Natasha’s safety. But she’s also a Widow herself, so you’ll have to trust that she can handle herself while you figure out the way to her. You force yourself up, wiping snot on the sleeves of your new flannel and hunkering down, focusing hard to feel the vibrations of movement on the roof. You pivot left, inching forward cautiously. The faint click of a rifle trigger alerts you and you lash out with your claws, slicing uselessly through the fog. But it was nothing but a ruse, as the Widow comes up behind you and stabs you in the neck with a pronged instrument that sends hundreds of volts of electricity through your body. Your muscles seize and you collapse to the ground, seizing uncontrollably.

You’re pretty sure you’ve bitten your tongue off as blood fills your mouth and you start choking, unable to roll to your side to cough it out. The Widow points the muzzle of her at your face, pressing the cold metal tip to your forehead. You bare your teeth in a vicious snarl, wishing you could will control back into your body to slash her throat out.

“Good night, mutt,” the Widow says.

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

Natasha tucks her mouth and nose into her elbow, charging into the fog while wielding the tiny pocket knife she stole from your apartment. She tackles the Widow with her full bodyweight, puncturing the blade through her vest deep enough that the Widow screams, dropping her gun. Knocking off the Widow’s mask and pulling her into a tight headlock, Natasha squeezes her arms as tight as she can, counting the number of seconds it takes before the assassin finally stops struggling and slumps to the ground. With watering eyes from the gas, Natasha strips the Widow of her equipment, despite knowing that at her peak, her bare hands would be deadly enough weapons. The gas starts to spread further and further and Natasha can finally see your convulsing body.

She runs over to you, tentatively yanking the taser out of your neck. You take a huge breath of air, rolling to your side and coughing hard.

“Thanks,” you mutter as your tongue grows back. Shakily you get to your feet, touching the side of your neck and feeling the jagged openings left by the taser slowly closing. “Where is she? I’m gonna–”

“No. Let’s go,” Natasha intervenes, grabbing onto a handful of your shirt to stop you, like you’re a dog on a leash. You push her away, stomping over to where the Widow is lying motionless. Your claws pop out. She won’t feel anything.

“Y/N, STOP!” Natasha yells and you freeze, turning to glare at her.

“They sent her to kill us,” you seethe.

“But she’s not herself,” Natasha begs. “She’s being controlled. You know that. Please don’t kill her. She was just…She was just following orders.”

You clench your fist, the muscles in your forearm rippling as you retract your claws. Natasha gulps and takes a visible step back from you. She’s never seen such rage in your features before, not that it would be unwarranted, but it almost seems like you’re on the verge of completely losing control. Your expression twitches when you smell the fear rolling off Natasha in waves. She’s not afraid of the Widow anymore. She’s afraid of you.

“Fine. Sorry,” you grunt, backing up. You want to put your claws down your throat for scaring her like this. Your whole life you had fought to convince everyone that you were more than the animal you were born to be. It always felt like a losing battle.

“No, I’m sorry,” Natasha says. “I said something that upset you.”

“Is that mine?” You’re suddenly distracted by the sight of a small knife poking out of the Widow’s side.

“Uh…” Natasha glances at you sheepishly. “I thought it would come in handy eventually.”

“Hmm.” You don’t dwell on it though, having other things to worry about. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”

The parking lot is a jumbled mess as people hurry to leave as emergency vehicles enter the premises. You keep your head down, hoping you’re moving fast enough for no one to notice the few stains of blood on your collar. Natasha races to keep pace with you. She’s barely able to jump into the truck in time before you have it in drive, speeding out of the parking lot.

“Thank you,” Natasha finally whispers as you merge onto the highway.

“For what?” you grunt, your knuckles clenched tightly around the steering wheel.

“For not killing her.”

You make another grunting noise.

“You know she doesn’t deserve that.”

“It’s not about what she deserves,” you snarl. “She was there to kill me and take you back to the Red Room. Which she failed to do. So if anything, the Red Room will probably kill her–”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Natasha interjects. “The Widows are huge investments. That’s why they want me alive.”

“Well, they don’t really seem to care if you get in their crosshairs of trying to kill me.” You don’t like how your words come out, but it’s too late to take them back now. You know none of this is Natasha’s fault–you were the one who willingly came to her aid, who insisted on driving her across the country, who offered your own friends to help.

“You don’t deserve this either.” Natasha’s voice drops. She sounds small, and when you side-eye her, she’s curled up in her seat in a way that makes her look small too. You frown. “You were just trying to be a decent person, and now you’ve had your life threatened several times, you had to leave your home, you’re being chased across the country–”

“Stop it,” you interrupt. “If this is the consequences of my actions, then so be it. I’d do it again a thousand times for you. Because you’re worth it.”

“I am?” Natasha looks at you in disbelief, partially because this is the most emotional she’s ever heard you and partially because she wonders if this is you admitting you have feelings for her.

“Yes,” you confirm, giving her a slight smirk before focusing on the road.

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

The final stretch of the drive is rough, but you make it. It’s nighttime now and exhaustion weighs on your shoulders from the entire day’s events. You shake Natasha awake as you park on the driveway.

“We’re here,” you say, cutting the lights and turning off the engine. Natasha gets out of the car, gaping at the enormous mansion you’ve stopped in front of. As you walk with her up to the front door, she stops to read the plaque.

“‘Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters,’” she says. “Hang on, this place is a school? Why would you bring us here? You’re putting children in danger, Y/N–”

“Hold on,” you cut her off. “The kids and staff here? They’re just like me.”

“Just like you? Meaning–” Before Natasha can finish her sentence, the front doors swing open and a woman with spiky gray hair appears, throwing herself at you.

“Y/N!” she cries.

“Hey, Ororo,” you mumble, returning her hug with a little less passion. “Sorry to arrive so late. Ran into a little trouble earlier…”

“You made it safely and that’s all that matters.” She pats your shoulders affectionately. “Hi there. I’m Ororo,” the woman introduces herself to Natasha, awkwardly standing off to your side. “But the kids around here call me Storm.”

“I’m Natasha.”

“Please, come in. It’s freezing and I know you’ve both been on the road for days,” Ororo invites. “Your room is all prepped, Y/N.”

You hadn’t even thought to ask her for another guest room, but you have a feeling Natasha won’t mind sharing again. You gesture for her to enter the mansion first. She seems in awe, and a little overwhelmed, that this building had been converted into a boarding school. Maybe later you’ll take her to the basements to show her the other half of the school.

A man wearing ruby sunglasses despite the midnight hour stands at the bottom of the staircase, a beautiful red-headed woman by his side.

“Jean,” you breathe, almost frozen in her presence.

“Hi, Y/N,” Jean says in a sultry voice that makes your heart beat embarrassingly faster. Natasha feels a prick of jealousy when she sees the way you’re looking at this new woman.

“Y/N!” the man barks.

“Good to see you too, Scott,” you add, not noticing the way Natasha moves closer to you, almost brushing against your arm. “This is Nat. She’s been traveling with me for the past few days, and–”

“You’re the one who escaped the Red Room,” Scott says, and Natasha cringes.

“Yeah, she is,” you answer, annoyed by his tone of voice.

“And how do we know that we can trust her?” Scott asks.

“Because I trust her.”

There’s a pause while Scott accepts this answer.

“I just finished heating dinner up for you two. It’s in the kitchen,” Ororo interrupts. She’s the only one thrilled to host guests, you think.

“Thanks, Ro,” you say.

“Well now that you’re back, Y/N, we actually need a substitute P.E. teacher tomorrow morning,” Scott teases, his arm going around Jean’s waist. “How about filling in, for old time’s sake?”

You raise your arm, extending the middle claw only. Everyone howls in laughter.

“Put that away,” Ororo chastises. “Come and eat now, before the food goes cold.”

You and Natasha start walking after her, but you stop when you hear the whir of wheels, an older bald man zipping up to you in a wheelchair.

“Professor,” you greet, for the first time taking the initiative to hug, leaning down to embrace him. “Thanks for helping us out. We really appreciate it.”

The man smiles, a twinkle in his eye. “Of course. Welcome back, Y/N.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Hopefully, going to the X-Men was a wise decision on R's part...

Let me know what you think. :) Please leave likes, comments, and reblogs. Part 3 coming soon...

#dirtyvulture #fic recs

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wolferine · 2 years ago

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Superhero!Jeff 🥺

It's Jeff! #29 - jeff on ice

#nameforthemain #jeff the landshark #jeff the land shark

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wolferine · 2 years ago

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But how did he GET INTO THE LUGGAGE???

It's Jeff #28: travel-sized

#nameforthemain #jeff the landshark #jeff the land shark

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wolferine · 2 years ago

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Such a little artist 🥰

It's Jeff! #27: sharkman

#nameforthemain #jeff the landshark #jeff the land shark

127 notes · View notes

wolferine · 2 years ago

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Is this based on me??? I'm honored 💙💛

Darkest Knight

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Mutant!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: You meet a pretty woman in a bar...

AN: Came up with a new idea, let me know if you all like it. 👀

Natasha shivers when the door opens behind her, wrapping herself tighter in the thin jacket jacket that is not meant to be worn during the winter. Although she’s sitting in the corner, trying to make herself as invisible as possible, the icy wind stabs at her back and it practically takes her breath away. Her whole body aches from a lack of sleep and food, although so far the bartender had only been generous enough to give her a single glass of water.

It’s almost 9:00pm, evident by the pitch-black gloom outside the windows stained with dirt and snow. Natasha doesn’t know what time the restaurant closes, but she has no way of leaving it safely, having used the last of her energy to stumble here through the surrounding woods on foot. The next city over was probably at least 25 miles away. She closes her eyes, overwhelmed and despondent, reaching for her water glass with trembling fingers.

A lot of luck had gotten her this far, more so than her own skills, but she feared tonight would be when it finally ran out.

Someone drops noisily onto a barstool three seats away from her. “I’ll have a beer.”

Natasha looks over warily at the person joining her. You’re wearing a leather jacket over a flannel shirt that is only buttoned halfway up, and Natasha feels colder just looking at you. You puff on a cigar as you pull out a few folded bills and toss them on the counter. The smell of smoke causes her to cringe away in distaste and she notices you immediately take the cigar out of your mouth and stamp it out on the counter.

The bartender comes over, frowning at the new ashy ring on his wood countertop.

“Add it to my bill,” you grunt, pushing the money towards him and swapping them for a bottle. After you take a sip, you glance over at Natasha for a second, turning to face ahead and watch the television behind the bar.

Natasha drinks her water, wondering if she has the dexterity to steal from the tip jar when she can’t even feel her fingers. She had seen how much cash you had in your pocket–at least another $50–maybe if she played you up a little you’d buy her dinner. You were the only one in the restaurant who hadn’t eyed her like a meal, and Natasha knows you only put your cigar out for her. She has to put her plans on hold, however, when she hears heavy footsteps pad up from behind her. Someone taps on her shoulder.

“Hey, honey,” a gruff voice mumbles.

She doesn’t turn to look at him, but from the corner of her eye sees that it’s the big bald man who had been watching her from a booth since the moment she entered the restaurant.

“You came here alone, didn’t you?” the man asks. “You walked here.”

Natasha doesn’t respond. She notices your attention has moved from the television to the man standing behind her.

“Let me give you a ride home,” the man says, his voice heavy with unsaid intentions.

“No, thank you,” she says.

The man leans in closer to her until his alcohol-laced breath is hot against her ear. “It wasn’t an offer, honey.”

“She said no,” you growl. Both Natasha and the man looked surprised at your intervention.

“Fuck off,” the man spits. “You’re always taking girls home, let me have this one.”

You roll your eyes at his comment. Natasha looks at you with trepidation now as you get up, your footsteps somehow heavier than the man’s despite being shorter than him.

“Go home, Stu,” you tell him. “Alone.”

“Not tonight,” he spits, grabbing onto Natasha’s arm. Normally, she would never allow herself to be handled like this and would have broken Stu’s nose on the counter by now, but that’s a fight she didn’t know she could win in her current state. She tries squirming out of his iron grip but is dragged off the barstool instead. No one sees you lunge forward, cranking your arm back and punching Stu in the face. Natasha cringes when she hears what sounds like clanging metal and pushes away from Stu as he falls to his knees, crying and screaming while clutching his face.

“Are you okay?”

Natasha looks up and sees you offering her a hand. She grabs it, your palm rough but warm, and hops over Stu to stand next to you. She’s shocked to see that the lower half of his face is completely drenched in blood from his broken nose.

“You motherfucker!” Stu gasps, struggling to his feet.

“Stay down,” you suggest. “We should probably leave,” you tell Natasha, and against her better judgment, she eagerly follows you outside even after witnessing you take down a full-grown man with a single punch.

The wind is prickly against her skin and the cold weighs down her bones. Snow falls in hard pellets and Natasha lifts her arms over her face to protect it.

“My truck is over here!” you shout over the wind and Natasha numbly chases after you. It’s a beat-up red pickup truck that has certainly seen better days, but Natasha gives no comment as she climbs in and you turn on the heater, blasting her with warmth. “Sorry about Stu. I’ve never known him not to be an asshole,” you say, adjusting the vents in Natasha’s direction.

“Thank you,” she blurts out.

“Oh. Uh, you’re welcome.” You sound like you’re not used to being thanked. You turn the windshield wipers on to clear off the snow collected there. “I know Stu was right about one thing, though. You’re not from around here.”

“No,” Natasha admits. “Do you know if there’s a motel nearby I can stay in?”

“The closest one is thirty miles out,” you say. “But we’d be lucky to move even five with the snow picking up.” The windshield is almost fully caked in a layer of white again. “My place is only two miles from here. You can crash for the night and I’ll take you up to the city first thing tomorrow when the weather clears.”

Natasha wants to tear up at your generosity. She hasn’t known you for more than five minutes, and you’ve already rescued her from a creep and offered her a place to stay. Maybe her good luck is hanging on longer than she’d thought.

“I’d like that,” she says, and you nod, revving up the engine and driving out of the parking lot. The drive is completely silent but in a comforting way. Although you’re focused on the road, you only have one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift in a very relaxed, almost casual way. Natasha stares at your hands, curious as to why she can’t see any bruising on your knuckles from when you practically turned Stu’s face inside-out. You seem to notice her staring because you suddenly clear your throat and adjust your position, moving both your hands to the 5 and 7 o’clock positions of the steering wheel.

True to your word, your cabin is relatively close to the restaurant, although the drive feels longer to Natasha because you can’t go faster than 15mph. You park on the driveway, hurrying out before Natasha can even unbuckle her seatbelt to have her door open for her.

“Thank you,” she says, although reluctant to step back out into the cold.

“Go through the front door,” you tell her, handing her your house key. “I need to get some firewood from the garage first.”

Natasha darts to your porch, fumbling with the key frustratingly before she can get the door open. She stumbles into your home, stamping snow off her shoes. She finds the light switch, flipping it on and surprised to see how barren your house is. There’s a couch, a television, and a potbelly stove in the first room, and an opening to the kitchen on the left and your bedroom ahead. There’s not even a shelf of books or knick knacks as far as she can see.

“Sorry about the mess,” you grumble as you come in behind her, carrying an armload of splintered wood. “I wasn’t anticipating any visitors tonight.”

“It’s cozy,” Natasha comments as you throw a few pieces of wood into the stove and light some tinder underneath.

“The bathroom is through the bedroom if you need it,” you say. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

“Oh, wait, you don’t have to do that,” Natasha starts. “I’m your guest–”

“Don’t worry about it.” You wave her off. Natasha doesn’t know how to respond to your unending kindness. Sometimes, she forgets that good still exists in the world after all the evil she’s been running from. “I’ll heat up some soup. I hope you’re okay with ham and potato.”

“Thank you,” is all she can manage.

“Go ahead and wash up. I’ll need some time to warm up the soup. Use whatever you need. There’s a clean towel and some clothes on the left side of my closet that might fit you. They belonged to…an old friend.” Natasha hears the wistfulness in your voice, her curiosity piqued. But she doesn’t pry and goes into your bedroom, closing the door. She finds the clothes and a folded up towel that you mentioned, so she carries them all into the bathroom.

The hot water has never felt so wonderful as Natasha washes off the grimes from several days’ of traveling. But she enjoys it for too long and soon, the water runs cold. Motivated to step out, she dresses in the clothes you provided, glad for the wool that keeps her insulated and toasty. She joins you in the kitchen, where you’re ladling soup into two chipped bowls on the table.

“Feel better?” you ask her. You’ve taken off your leather jacket now, your checkered flannel fully hanging open over a white tank top. Natasha has no idea how you’re able to withstand the cold in the cabin, although the fire from the potbelly stove has made the temperature much more tolerable. In one less layer of clothing, she can see the muscles in your chest and shoulders, which certainly explained where your powerful punch came from. You have a beaded chain around your neck holding a pair of dog tags. While Natasha is still not sure what to think of you, she has a better idea now.

“I feel amazing,” she says, “Although I think I used up all the hot water–”

“It’s fine. Do you want a beer?”

“No, thank you. Water is fine.”

“Sure.” You pour her a glass from a pitcher in the fridge and grab a beer for yourself. She waits for you to sit with her before dipping her spoon into her bowl. The soup warms her up from the inside and before she realizes it, her bowl is empty before you’ve even had a few spoonfuls. Her cheeks heat up as you fill her bowl without being prompted.

“Thanks,” she murmurs and once again you only grunt in response. After you finish your soup, you don’t refill it, instead sitting back and sipping your beer. Neither of you talk, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Natasha finishes her third bowl, scraping every drop onto her spoon, before her curiosity finally wins.

“Can I ask why you’re being so nice to me?” she asks.

You stare at her as if she’s just asked for your answer to a complex math equation. There’s a few seconds of pause before you respond. “Because you’re someone who doesn’t ask for help, even if you really need it.”

Your answer has Natasha even more confused.

“You remind me of myself,” you add, as if this is enough clarification. When you talk, your voice is low and gruff, almost like you’re not used to having someone listen to you. From the furnishings in your home, or lack of them, it’s clear you live alone and probably have for a while. With the closest settlement 30 miles away, Natasha is surprised you haven’t set up further out. Whatever life you had lived, it seemed like you just wanted to retire in peace, despite that you didn’t look older than 30 years.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says. “After tonight, you can drop me off in town and I’ll be out of your way.”

“You’re not a burden,” you reply.

“And I’m not trying to be.” Natasha takes her bowl to the sink to wash it, but you stop her.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean up in the morning. You should get some rest.”

“Come on, let me do at least one nice thing for you,” Natasha begs.

“Hmm,” you mumble, your face twisting as you appear to think hard about her request. “How about you let me use the cold water in the bathroom to wash up, and then the bedroom is all yours?”

“Deal.”

But while you’re in the bathroom, Natasha sneaks back into the kitchen and washes the dishes. She can’t help herself; it just feels wrong to take advantage of your hospitality without giving you anything in return. She leaves the dishes to dry on the counter, then guiltily hunts around the remaining rooms for any further insight into your life before you get out of the shower.

In one of the kitchen drawers, she finds a small pocket knife that when folded, can be concealed perfectly in the palm of her hand. She had lost her own knife running through the forest earlier that day, and even though she can’t imagine having to use it against you, it makes her feel better to have a blade on her. She pockets it, hoping you won’t miss it, and keeps looking. But there is nothing to find: no receipts, no tags, not even a handwritten sticky note to yourself.

Natasha jolts when she realizes she hasn’t even asked your name yet.

You emerge from your bedroom, your hair flattened by the water, a towel slung around your neck. “Bedroom is all yours,” you say, dragging a moth-eaten blanket to the couch and dropping down on it. “I’ll be out here if you need anything.”

“One more question,” Natasha says. “I’m Nat. What’s yours?”

“Y/N.”

Natasha smiles. “Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night, Nat.”

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

BOOM.

You feel like you’ve only just fallen asleep, but you sit up at the sudden noise, momentarily forgetting where you are.

“Police! Open up!”

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

“What the…?” You blink in confusion, tripping over the blanket as you stumble to the door. Peeking through the blinds, you see four men in SWAT gear standing on your porch. All of them are armed with multiple guns and one of them holds a battering ram. But you don’t see any police insignia on any of their uniforms. A tank of a truck is parked on your driveway, blocking the path to your own, and any chance of unnoticed escape.

“Police! Open the damn door!”

“Y/N? What’s going on?” Natasha suddenly pops up in your bedroom doorway, her hair tousled and face drowsy.

“We’ve got company,” you respond, as there’s pounding at the door again. “They said they’re police, but I don’t think that’s true–”

“Oh, shit,” Natasha gasps. “They found me.”

“Found you? Who?” The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

“I’m so sorry. Oh my God. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you into this.” Natasha begins pacing your living room as bright lights stream through the windows. You probably won’t have much more time before they force entry.

“Nat, what’s going on? Who are these people?” you ask, running over to her. You’ve hardly known this woman for 12 hours, but you have a fierce desire to protect her from whatever’s hunting her. When you had first seen her in the bar, looking roughed up and sad, you had the urge to help her. But scaring Stu off wasn’t enough and even taking her to your home couldn’t keep her safe.

“I should have never come here,” Natasha cries. “You don’t deserve this, after everything you’ve done for me–”

“I can help you,” you insist. “Please, Nat. Just tell me who they are–”

She looks up at you, and even in the darkness the fear in her eyes is unmissable.

“The Red Room.”

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AN: To be continued? Any guesses on R's mutant inspiration? :)

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#dirtyvulture #fic rec #18+

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