#But I do know that above all else I believe in Kindness

[mayakern]

thank you for the kind words! 🥰 we try really hard to keep our prices as affordable as possible.

and we do not believe in charging a fat tax.

frankly, i think the whole idea is stupid and greedy because designing and producing clothing in a factory is very different from a hobby sewist buying fabric at a store and making it into a garment at home. there are small businesses that function more like the latter than the former and whose costs therefore are significantly increased by using more fabric per garment, but that’s not how it works in a larger scale.

on a larger scale, garment orders are placed with factories based on some magic universal minimum number of garments that need to be made, but based on a minimum amount of a single type of fabric that needs to be used per order. when we had 600 yards of the hands fabric we didn’t know what to do with—that is our fabric minimum for that type of fabric being handled in that way (printed as opposed to dyed, as print shops and dye lots also have their own minimums).

it does not matter how many garments we want to make. we HAVE to use that fabric. and for us, labor will always cost significantly more than the fabric itself (which is also pricey but not as much).

so while it may seem counterintuitive, offering extended sizing actually LOWERS our costs over all and makes it easier for us to hit our fabric minimums, because while plus sizes may use more fabric, it requires the same number of seams and specialized techniques as the straight size garments do, so the labor cost is basically the same.

now, don’t read this and go after other small brands. a lot of them are probably operating on smaller batches with factories that specialize in doing fewer things so they can afford to work on garment minimums instead of fabric minimums—but places like torrid or wherever else you shop should function very similar to what i’ve described above, only at a much larger scale than us and with a lot more complications bc they’re probably buying a lot of wholesale too.

the cathedral skirt is finally done….. 😭 expect her early next year……..

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝?

a/n: parts of this (especially when it comes to the red room) are inaccurate/not canon compliant; either because of plot reasons or simply because i don't know better lol

summary: you and nat meet in the red room — years later, you reunite. named after the taylor swift song, but not really based on it. just thought it's fitting as the title

warnings: implied sexual contents, abuse, trauma, forced hysterectomy, descriptions of blood (brief); as always — if you notice anything else, tell me!

word count: 15.7k (yes, this is a long one, but i didn’t want to start another series)

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

You're 12 when you meet her again.

Blood under fingernails and girls huddled together in a dark room. Dirt on cheeks, thin clothes, the air way too chilly for a November night.

Natasha's back. Again.

A mission in Ohio had made her believe in something entirely too good to be true. A fantasy, a pipe dream.

Family, warmth, safety. None of it real, all of it temporary. She allowed herself to sink into the feeling anyway and, foolishly, got used to it.

She should've known it'd end eventually. Part of her didn't want to believe it, though. And now she's back here, being delivered to the Red Room. They drag the girls out separately before moving them inside. When the doors open once more, she clings to Yelena. Her sister's body shakes violently.

This is the moment where they part again.

When the girls walk into the dormitory, it's dead silent. Merely the quiet footsteps and the groaning of the door's hinges cut through the quiet of the night. Rows and rows of bunk beds accommodate two dozen girls, covered by threadbare blankets. They barely stir — at this point, they're too used to this routine to care.

You, however, are awake. The door opening causes the dim glow of the hallway light to seep into the otherwise dark room, and you peek at the door. A handful of the girls, most of them ignoring you and heading straight for the few empty beds.

Only a pair of green eyes meets yours.

The first thing you notice is her blue hair. Then, you dare glancing at her face.

I know her, you think before looking away.

Bedsheets rustle. Natasha climbs into the spot above yours.

. . .

You should've known better than to step out of line.

The Red Room doesn't want you to show mercy, or take it easy on your opponents. It wants you cold and ruthless, not soft and sweet. If there's a gun in your hand, you shoot. If you have someone pinned to the ground, you deliver the final strike.

But you never, ever hesitate.

The instructors were furious. Not only did they haul you off the ground and shove you into the sensory deprivation room, but they also took away your food rations for the day.

The result?

Sitting in a cafeteria full of girls, who all have a tray of food in front of them. Bland chicken, overcooked vegetables, some bread. Dry, soggy, stale. Far from fine dining, but at least it'll fill their stomachs up about halfway.

You keep your eyes glued to the table in front of you, fingers drumming against your thighs.

Suddenly, a slice of bread is slid across the metal surface of the table. You look up, if only briefly, and meet the same pair of eyes you saw last night.

Natasha.

Your mouth opens, then you close it abruptly. No talking — you almost forgot about that rule. But she looks like she doesn't want you to thank her, either. Her face is stoic, apart from the ever so slightly furrowed eyebrows. She looks at her tray again, at the white piece of chicken, and cuts it in half.

You don't even think about what kind of risk she just took, as you're too hungry to focus on the do's and don't's of the Red Room. You just grab the bread and quickly eat it by tearing it into small pieces.

Somehow, no one notices.

"Thank you", you whisper that same night. No response comes from the bunk above yours.

. . .

Rustling of bedsheets and a bunk mate that won't stop tossing and turning.

Natasha glares at the ceiling, her arms crossed over her chest. The blanket is thin and worn, the room cold. Almost everyone else is asleep, at least judging by the quiet breathing and the silence of unmoving bodies.

Of course, everyone but the girl sleeping in the bed beneath hers.

It's been an hour since you started, and there's no sign of you stopping anytime soon. You're caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, your body restless and your mind exhausted. The images in front of you keep switching between dream and reality.

Natasha shifts again, pressing her palms against her eyes. You have training in the early morning, and if she isn't well-rested, it could lead to mistakes. She really doesn't want to get punished.

Why won't you sleep?

A soft whimper makes her glance down at you. Your body jerks, your face buried in the pillow. Natasha pauses and watches your expressions. Is it a nightmare? It wouldn't be your first. God knows she's suffered from those before as well.

Another toss. Another turn.

She can't stand it any longer. It's the middle of the night and she needs to sleep.

The bed creaks underneath her when she sits up. She stays still for a moment to make sure she didn't wake anyone, then she slides off the top bunk and silently lands on her feet. Crouching down next to you, she places her hand on your shoulder.

"Hey...", she whispers, quietly but sharply, and then struggles. Your name. What was your name? "Wake up", she continues, not bothering with the formalities. "Wake up."

Her voice cuts through the mess in your mind, but you don't wake up. Your face scrunches up and you shake your head, hand fisting the sheets underneath you.

It's frustrating, how nothing seems to work. Whatever you're dreaming about seems to have a tight grip on you. Maybe she should leave you alone — but you're being loud, and she doesn't want anyone else to wake up. Not like this. Not over something so...human.

"Wake up", she repeats, shaking you. You suddenly jerk away, and for a moment, her breath catches. Eyes wide with alarm, the fear on your face raw and instinctual. Your body has tensed up, muscles coiled tight like a snake's. You want to recoil, but you manage to make out the features of the person in front of you.

Blue hair, green eyes.

First, confusion. Then, realization. You slump into the bedsheets again, exhaling shakily. Natasha watches. At this point, she's barely breathing. The look in your eyes reminded her of something — of her, of Yelena, of every girl who's woken up in this place.

"Goodness", you finally mumble, and her stoic facade cracks for the first time in days.

"You were loud", she states.

You blink at her, then close your eyes in exhaustion. "I woke you up?"

"No. Couldn't fall asleep to begin with."

"Because of me?"

Natasha shrugs, the loose fabric of the tank top hanging off her slender frame. "You kept tossing."

You shake your head and cover your face with your hands. This should be embarrassing, at least for most people, but you feel like you have bigger problems than accidentally keeping your bunk mate awake at night. Like the fact you have combat training early in the morning.

"Did any of the Madames notice?", you ask, voice muffled and tired.

Natasha hesitates and looks at the door. Locked, of course. A faint strip of light is visible through the narrow window at the top.

"No", she says. "Not that I saw."

You nod, body relaxing slightly with relief. If any of them had noticed, you'd be paying for it by now. Nightmares are seen as a weakness — which you, 12 years old and more reasonable than the adults in this place, realize doesn't make any sense. Not many people can control their dreams.

Natasha doesn't move right away. She stays crouched next to your bed, studying you. You peek at her through your fingers and her expression doesn't waver. After a moment, she exhales sharply through her nose and shakes her head.

"Go back to sleep", she whispers and gets up. She grabs the metal frame of the top bunk and steps on the ladder.

"Natasha?", you say.

Her shoulders stiffen. It's the first time you've said her name.

She doesn't respond or look at you, but she hesitates. For you, that's enough.

"...Thanks."

Again, no response. She swings herself up onto the top bunk and curls back into the sheets.

Your breaths slow down gradually. You fall asleep at the same time.

. . .

'Don't form bonds.' 'Don't get attached.' 'Don't let someone else make you soft.'

Those are rules you aren't sure you'll be able to follow.

Music pulses through the air, but your heartbeat is louder. It echoes in your ears like a drum as you struggle to keep your movements precise.

Ballet lessons in the Red Room aren't any less harsh than the other types of training you go through. It's intense, physically demanding, just as draining as everything else. There's no space for missteps — only perfection is tolerated.

Natasha is more tired than usual. She's skilled, more so than most of the girls who've ever stepped into this place, but above all, she's human.

Sweat over her eyebrows, movements stiff but practiced. Pirouettes that get shakier with each repetition. When she stumbles, it doesn't take much thinking for you to reach out and steady her. She freezes under your touch. Her eyes flicker to yours, in them a mixture of confusion and something else. It's only there for a split second, but you notice anyway.

You quickly pull your hand away from her back. The warmth of her lingers on your fingertips.

"Sorry", you mumble. "I just- I didn't mean to-"

You don't get much further, as one of the instructors grabs you and yanks you away from her. She barks something in Russian — no touching, no helping, do you want to get punished? This will have consequences.

You don't resist as she drags you away from the others.

Natasha doesn't move, doesn't react. She just stands there as you're pulled away, her expression carefully blank.

You know better than to look back at her, but you feel her eyes on you. Watching, calculating, trying to figure out something she isn't sure exists.

The punishments of the Red Room never happen immediately. They stretch across the next hours (and sometimes days), they linger, they let this feeling of imminent doom hover in the air like a silent threat.

Again, a dark room. Something spiky they make you kneel on. Later, a corner in the cafeteria. Your back faces the other girls, who are eating silently. Nobody dares to look at you. Nobody but Natasha.

When you return to the dormitory that night, exhaustion has settled in your bones like a weight. You don't expect anything from anyone. Certainly not from her, who still looked at you with that cold detachment in her eyes.

But when you lift your blanket, you find something wrapped into a napkin. Half an apple, turning brown around the edges already. Still, it's something.

Your fingers brush over the fruit, then you slip it under your pillow. You look up and see Natasha's back. She doesn't turn, doesn't speak, and you don't, either.

Eventually, you lie down and eat the apple in silence.

Nothing seems to change, but somehow, everything does.

. . .

A room that smells like sweat and metal. Your feet hit the ground, the sharp sound echoing through the room. The Madames and the other girls stand in a circle around you, watching you like hawks. If you falter, you get punished.

You've sparred against Natasha before, but it was never like this. There's a tension between you now, a silent understanding that's lead to a delicate truce.

You don't want to hurt anyone in this room, but you especially don't want to hurt the blue-haired girl in front of you. The bunk bed would feel utterly lonely without her, even if your interactions have been limited.

However, this is the Red Room. Any fight here is brutal.

Fists, kicks, blocks, dodges. She delivers a strike to your face, and you retaliate quickly. Movements become quicker and blur together. You block a punch, and the impact sends a jolt up your arm.

Another kick, which you dodge. But your feet slide across the floor and you lose a fraction of balance. Natasha's eyes flash — she's fast. The fight turns into blocking and countering, both of you trying to get the upper hand.

She steps forward again and you push back harder. Your movements are almost mindless at this point — that is, until a soft gasp makes you pause.

Natasha touches her bottom lip, which is now split in half. Blood drips down her chin.

You freeze for a moment. There it is. The line you crossed.

"Sorry", you immediately say, lifting your shaky hand. Panic starts to pulse through your veins. "Natasha, I didn't-"

But Natasha doesn't say anything. She doesn't look angry, either. She looks...resigned. She wipes her swollen lip with the back of her hand and glances at the smudge of blood.

She looks back up at you, eyes narrowed slightly as if she's expecting something else. You want to take a step closer, comfort her, apologize until your mouth goes numb, but one of the Madames' voices cuts through the air.

"Enough!"

Startled, you take a step back. It's just in time for the woman to grab both your arms and start dragging you out of the room. You stumble after her, not entirely sure where you'll end up.

"You will both learn", she hisses, pushing open a door, "that hesitation is a weakness."

Snow, freezing cold. The air immediately seeps through your clothes and into your skin. The woman pushes you both onto your knees and ties your hands together behind your back, then she leaves again.

After what feels like an eternity of silence, you dare glancing at Natasha.

Nothing. She stares at the brick wall in front of her, jaw set stubbornly, nose red from the icy air. Her lip keeps bleeding, the blood drying on her chin.

You turn away again and close your eyes. Your fingers turn numb within minutes. Your shins, buried in the snow, first burn before losing sensation as well. Your body goes stiff.

The Red Room teaches endurance, but that doesn't change the fact that your body — young, small — is not built to withstand this kind of extreme weather. The Russian winter has a way of humbling you.

You try to shift, but the rope cutting into your wrists makes it difficult. What's almost worse than all of this is the silence between you and Natasha.

You look at her again. She's always been a hardheaded thing. Tough shell, hard to break. You've seen cracks in it, but barely.

"You're bleeding", you murmur, eyes fixed on the clump of blood on her chin.

"Stop talking", she replies. She says it like it doesn't matter, like it isn't worth the effort. But you notice the way her fingers curl. She's cold, too. It's gnawing at her just like the pain and the never ending hunger.

You shift again and almost lose your balance. Natasha quickly moves her upper body to try and steady you with her shoulder.

"Careful. You don't want to lie in the snow, I can tell you that much."

You nod and exhale, the air making your lungs freeze. She's right. If you topple over, there will be no way for you to get back up. It'd be the quickest way to a lung infection or hypothermia, if that isn't happening already.

"About earlier", you say, struggling. Your breath comes out in puffs. "I'm sorry."

Natasha shakes her head. She knows the rules. She knows you need to follow them.

"Stop apologizing.”

"I didn't mean to-"

"I told you to stop", she says flatly. Her green eyes meet yours. The wind tousles her blue hair, the individual strands fluttering. "It's not like you have a choice, do you?"

No. You certainly don't.

By the time you make it back into the dormitory, you feel like a human snowman. Your skin is raw from the cold and your entire body is sore from the punishment.

No dinner for you tonight, which would usually mean an aching stomach. Tonight, however, you have different issues.

The room is dark and silent, save for the almost inaudible breaths of the other girls. They're curled up beneath the blankets already, getting what little rest this place provides.

You fumble with the ties around your wrists, your fingers stiff and useless. Your grasp keeps slipping, your mind is spinning. You're still freezing.

Next to you, Natasha pulls hers loose first. You glance at her and frown, determined to get the knots free. It's a difficult task, considering your hands are behind your back, but she managed to do it — why shouldn't you be able to, as well?

Another beat passes. You're still struggling when you feel her move closer. Then, a sharp tug and your wrists are free.

You turn around, but Natasha is climbing the ladder to the top bunk already. You don't thank her this time. You just lay down and close your eyes to try and fall asleep.

The blanket on your bed offers little comfort. The cold has settled in your bones, deep and unyielding, and you keep shivering. You shift, shiver, shift again. Your bedsheets rustle. Toss and turn. Shift again.

A long exhale from the bunk above yours. A pause.

"Stop moving."

You huff quietly and glare at the mattress above you, even if Natasha can't see it. You lift your foot and lightly kick the spot where you assume her back should be.

"Quit that!"

"I'm cold", you whisper.

"News flash: so am I."

You hesitate, then slide off the bed. Your joints protest as you make your way up the ladder. You reach the top and see Natasha, turned away from you so she's facing the wall. You hesitate again. Then, you move under the blanket with her.

Bodies curled inwards to preserve warmth, neither of you speak. You're still cold, but it's not as harsh and lonely now. What you're feeling is a sort of comfort you've been missing for years.

You bury your face against her bony shoulder. She sighs, barely audible, but shifts to be closer to you.

"Don't make this a habit."

You'll make it a habit.

. . .

Natasha glances at you during lunch. She listens to you breathe at night. She keeps an eye on you during training.

You go on missions together. You exchange looks and faint smiles. You let each other believe you aren't alone.

Maybe you actually aren't alone anymore, either. For the first time in years, it feels like you aren't.

Something like affection builds between the two of you, as childlike and innocent as the Red Room allows it to be. It's fragile, as everything that grows in this environment is, but it's there.

You don't talk much, but words aren't necessary. A glance across the table of the cafeteria. A nod before training. Watching each other's backs. She covers for your mistakes, and you cover for hers. If one of you gets punished, usually so does the other.

You learn the rhythm of each other's footsteps and the way you move when you fight. You learn how to make it look like you're not holding back, while simultaneously making sure never to hurt the other. You'd only end up splitting her lip one more time.

At night, she doesn't ask questions when you wake up from a nightmare. Instead she just scoots and makes space, anticipating your arrival. You climb the ladder without fail each time.

It's the same blanket as yours, the same pillow. Somehow, it feels warmer. You curl into her like a cat and tuck your face against her shoulder. It's beyond you how you never get caught, but you don't dare question this wonderful, reoccurring fluke.

Again, the Red Room is still a harsh environment. Beautiful things don't thrive here. Innocence doesn't thrive here. There's no room for softness, either — but somehow, you carve out a space for it anyway.

. . .

You're 15 when you realize that she means more to you than any person in this place should.

Two years have passed. Maybe three.

You're not really sure. The Red Room makes time seem like something fluid, something inconsistent.

When you look in the mirror in the shared bathroom, you can't pinpoint the exact differences. But something is different — you're taller, your hair longer (that is, before they cut it off again), your face still young but sharper.

What really shows you that time has passed is Natasha.

Before her, you never bothered to pay enough attention to someone to notice the changes that occur over the months and years. But with her? You can basically see her grow. It's a slow process, obviously, but it's there. It's graspable, real, how her hair is growing out and how she's suddenly grown — she's still smaller than you, but at least she's almost on eye level with you now.

Despite all that, time doesn't feel real in the Red Room. It slips through your fingers like sand, but it also stretches out endlessly. Days blur together, hours feel like they last an eternity. In the middle of it all, something shifts between you and Natasha.

The distance between you shrinks. It's barely perceptible at this point. There's no specific label for it, not yet at least. You're too young, too busy with other things to really think about it, but what you once had has turned into something sweeter.

At night, you climb into her bunk. It's routine by now, not something dictated by whether you have a nightmare or not. She scoots to make space, and when you're under the covers with her, she presses into you to seek out warmth just like you do.

And then, there are moments that catch you off-guard.

A glance that lingers. A knee that rests against yours, neither of you moving away. A hand brushing against your back during ballet.

The way her voice suddenly sounds softer when murmuring "goodnight". The way the detached look on her face disappears when looking at you. The way your heart rabbits in your chest.

Maybe you should've expected it.

You don't.

It happens at night, when everyone is asleep. You're wrapped into her blanket, the one that barely shields you from the cold. You both shift, though it's not clear why — maybe to adjust the blanket, or to get into a more comfortable position. Either way, it doesn't matter.

Natasha's head turns up the same moment you look at her. Her lips brush against yours.

It's everything and nothing at the same time.

A brief, clumsy contact, but an undeniable one. It awakens a swarm of butterflies in her stomach and makes your fingers tremble. You're both frozen for a moment. Face warm and red with something like shame and realization, you glance up at her.

"Shit", she mumbles.

"Yeah." You swallow, trying to catch her gaze. She keeps staring at whatever's right next to your shoulder. "I think that was my first kiss", you add dumbly.

"You're counting this as a kiss?"

You shrug, slightly confused. "What else could it be?"

No answer. Natasha chews on her bottom lip, trying to make the fluttery feeling in her stomach go away. It's annoying, how intense it is. She's never felt it before, and now that it's here, she can't get rid of it.

Her eyes meet yours again. Neither of you know what you're doing, but that's fine.

Her breath fans against your cheek when she exhales. It's almost a sigh. Then, she leans in again.

This time, it definitely is a kiss.

. . .

Cocooned in the warmth of her bed, the world around you suddenly doesn't seem to exist anymore.

You forget about the scars and bruises that litter both of your bodies (though that doesn't stop you from tracing each new bandage with your fingers, your eyebrows furrowed and your bottom lip between your teeth, even if Natasha keeps insisting she's fine). You forget about what waits for you in the mornings and what upset you in the evenings. You forget about the dried blood on your pillow, about the upcoming missions, about everything but her.

In the middle of pain and torture, you've found purpose.

At night, you climb into Natasha's bed. Sometimes, she climbs into yours.

You start to talk more. You find out things you can tell she kept secret until now.

Losing your family is something every girl in the Red Room has gone through. Natasha, however, lost two families.

She doesn't remember the first time, but the second time is burned into her mind. It haunts her when she's alone, when it's silent. When the lights turn off and she suddenly remembers being in that container again, when a girl crying sounds a little too much like her sister.

Yelena. She mumbles the name against your shoulder, her eyes closed. Unsure what to say, you lift your hand and brush her hair away from her face. Once blue, now red with blue ends.

"Younger than you?", you ask, your voice a whisper. You heard someone stir earlier, and you don't want to risk anyone waking up to you cuddled up like this. They probably wouldn't tell on you, but you're still cautious. You're young, but you know to protect what's close to your heart.

"She was six", she says, struggling. "I couldn't help her."

You close your eyes. You smell her scent, all soap and cotton, and nudge her forehead with your nose.

"Not your fault."

"She was a kid. A baby, basically."

"We're not much older."

Natasha stays quiet for a moment. She sounds helpless when she speaks again.

"I lost her."

There's not much you can say in that moment. Maybe you don't need to say anything, either. Maybe Natasha just needs you to be there — which you are.

You let your lips brush against her forehead. Your fingers ghost over her wrist, feeling the pulse beneath. Fast, steady. Most importantly: alive.

Her fingers curl around your hand, then squeeze gently. Barely there, but it means more than she could ever know.

"You didn't lose everything", you mumble, intertwining your fingers with hers. You're each other's anchor, even in a place like this. Especially in a place like this, maybe. "We'll find her."

We.

Natasha looks at you. Her chin tilts upward and she kisses you, lips warm and minty like toothpaste.

. . .

You feel the illness long before it really hits you.

It's nothing dramatic. A simple flu, complete with a fever, a cough, a runny nose. But your skull is pounding and your muscles aching, and when you open your eyes in the morning, you feel like you were hit by a truck.

It's still dark in the dormitory. Outside, the sun is barely peeking over the horizon, but you can't see it thanks to the lack of windows. You groan when a shiver racks through you, your throat sore and burning.

Natasha leans over the edge of her bunk bed. She left the feverish warmth of your bed as soon as she noticed your discomfort. It's the first time in two years that she didn't sleep by your side.

"Y/N?"

You look at her, then close your eyes again. This can't be happening. Being sick in the Red Room is one of the worst possible misfortunes that can happen. Rest is not an option here — not really, anyway. They grant you two days to get better, and if you still feel ill afterwards?

Tough luck. You have to push through.

Natasha doesn't say anything at first, but she watches. Her eyebrows furrow with worry when you sit up, clearly dizzy. With one, swift movement, she's jumped off the bed and landed on her feet silently.

Her hands grab your shoulders and steer you back to bed.

"Nat", you mumble dismissively, voice muffled.

"Sit down", she says, pushing you onto your butt. You sit and sneeze. "Bless you. Now stay in bed."

"We have training-"

"You get two days off", she reminds you. "You need to rest."

You scoff and cross your arms. Natasha leans in and presses the back of her hand against your forehead. You don't need her to tell you to know you're burning up, but the way her expression shifts tells you anyway.

"Lay down", she murmurs.

You look at her, sighing. "Come on."

Her face, for the first time ever, turns pleading. "Lay down. Rest. You can't push yourself too hard."

After another moment of hesitation, you lay down. Natasha tucks you in, her hands lingering.

At night, you drift in and out of sleep. Natasha is sitting next to you, legs crossed. You're too dazed to pay attention to your surroundings, but you hear the faint clicking of metal and her soft, muttered curses when her hand slips.

The hex nut is slippery and small between her sweaty fingers. She slides off the mattress and sits on the cold floor, where she uses the concrete floor to smooth the edges. She's completely focused, shutting everything else out. Tongue poking out between her teeth, eyes slightly narrowed to be able to see in the darkness. Behind her, you roll over and sniffle.

Natasha turns. You barely manage to make out her features in the pitch black of the room.

You want to say something, but sleep catches up again. Cheeks rosy and slick with sweat, baby hairs sticking to your forehead, you close your eyes. Almost lost in the haze of fever and half-sleep, you can feel her fingertips brush over your temple. When she pulls away, the absence of her touch nearly manages to wake you.

You let out a sleepy huff and relax into the sheets again. Natasha picks up the hex nut and keeps filing the sharp edges.

Every night, she sits with you like this. Working quietly, diligently, until you're feeling better again.

. . .

You're 17 when you realize you're in love.

Black Widows don't have a future.

At least not the kind of future other people expect for themselves. Normal people. The ones with nine to five jobs and two kids, dogs and cats, cars in suburbs and nights out in the city. The ones who have a choice. The ones who aren't completely, utterly messed up.

It's nice to fantasize, anyway. Whether it's empty beaches or bustling cities, small cottages or mansions so big they make the Red Room seem tiny — you like escaping from reality now and then. You like allowing yourself to be delusional, to pretend you actually have an influence on how your life will go.

How will it end? You can't know that yet. But you hope it'll be at least a little more like the outcomes your mind produces late at night, when you have Natasha tucked against your chest.

She fantasizes with you. You like her fantasies, her dreams and desires, more than your own.

Though, there isn't a particular thing she wishes for. She only wants to get out of this hellhole with you.

"We will", you assure her. You're on your back, eyes glued to the ceiling you can barely see. Natasha is a warm, grounding weight on your chest you don't ever want to miss. "Even if the outside world scares me."

"More than this place?"

An unnecessary question, and you both know it.

"No." You feel her lips brush against your collarbone. "I suppose it scares me in a good way."

"Idiot", she mumbles. The affection in her voice is louder than what she said. "I suppose. Who talks like that?"

"You're mean, you know", you mutter and pinch her side. She bites your collarbone to stop herself from letting out a noise. "Ow!"

"You pinched me!", she says, her words a whisper. You scoff and lean in to kiss the grin off her face. "That doesn't work on me."

"It works on me."

"You're just looking for an excuse to kiss me."

"I wouldn't be me if I didn't."

Natasha's lips quirk into a smile. You know that because you feel it against your mouth — the subtle curve of her lips, the way her breath puffs out in amusement, her nose brushing against yours. You taste her happiness and crave more.

"I'm glad you're you", she whispers, "but I don't need your crab claws all over my skin."

You don't say anything. You huff softly, your hand reaching up to brush some hair out of her face. Natasha stills, her eyes studying you in the dead of night. You can feel the thoughts form in her brain and radiate from her, and you swallow. Her full lips part. Her voice is the only sound in the room, the only sound that ever mattered.

"I love you, you know."

Simple, quiet, to the point. For a moment, you don't respond. Not because you don't feel anything, but because you feel too much.

"I love you too", you then whisper back. Words you haven't said that many times, but the second you utter them, you know you mean it. You've meant it for a while.

She smiles and leans in, forehead pressed against yours cheek. Her breath is hot on your skin. Then she shifts to adjust herself, and you feel her face buried against your neck. You wrap your arms around her and roll over so she's tucked between you and the wall.

"Now go to sleep before you start crying or something", she mumbles. You scoff and kiss her temple. "I mean it."

"I'm not going to cry." You run your hand under her top and feel her warm skin. You feel the scars, the little bumps and ridges, the imperfections marring her skin, and quietly decide that with Natasha, imperfections don't exist. "You know, we'll get there one day."

"Where?"

"There. We'll get out, and- and we'll do everything we're told we can't."

Her eyelashes brush against your skin. Her hand fists the back of your tank top. "You're talking nonsense."

"I mean it."

A pause. The room is silent and dark, save for the quiet breathing of the other girls. When she speaks again, her voice is soft and hesitant.

"What would we do?”

You're not really sure. All you know is that, somewhere in this picture of possibilities and risks and fears, Natasha is there as well.

"Anything. Everything."

. . .

You're 18 when Natasha starts to slip away.

There is a day that all girls in the Red Room fear. Nobody really knows what happens. There is no announcement, no explanation.

The girls who leave seldomly return. If they do, they're different — sharper, but also sadder. Like even that little bit of light they had got drained out of them.

It's lunchtime. You're all gathered at the long tables, with trays in front of you.

You've had a bad feeling all morning long. From the moment you untangled yourself from Natasha, to the second you stepped into the cafeteria. It's heavy, nauseating, resting in your stomach like a weight you can't get rid of.

She seems different, too. Withdrawn, defeated. You watch her fingers trace the edge of her tray, her mind elsewhere.

You aren't sure what's going on until her name is suddenly called.

"Romanoff."

The entire room goes silent. She hesitates for what can only be a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Her chair screeches as she pushes it back. Your hand reaches out automatically, then you retract it as if you got burned. Part of you wants to jump in and stop her, tell her to stay, but you can't. No one can.

She doesn't look at you as she turns around and leaves.

You don't see her for days.

It's late in the evening when she returns. Nothing is the same anymore.

She doesn't speak, doesn't look at you. She curls into your side and puts her head on your chest. Her eyes stay open.

Concern washes over you. You dare looking down at her, at her top that has ridden up, and you feel something sour rise in your throat.

There's a bandage around her lower stomach, stained with dried blood.

You've seen many injuries in your life before — cuts, bruises, gunshot wounds — but this is different. This is deliberate, meant to keep her under control. You don't have to ask what it is.

The Red Room doesn't take kindness into account. It doesn't care about pain, grief, trauma. It doesn't care about futures stolen before they could even begin. Futures that may have never happened in the first place.

You wrap your arms around her and carefully pull her closer. You feel something warm and wet against your neck, slowly soaking into the fabric of your tank top. You don't say anything, because what are you supposed to say, anyway? That you're sorry? That you wish you could take her pain away? That this doesn't change who she is?

It doesn't change who she is. She's Natasha. But it still changes so much.

The damp area of your shirt grows warmer and larger. Her nose presses against your collarbone. You want to reassure her, comfort her, but you're not sure how. Nothing is going to give her back what was taken.

You bury your face in her hair and breathe in her scent. Soap, metal, something unmistakably her.

Her breath hitches. You can feel her suppress her sobs, making herself smaller. Her fingers twitch against your ribs, restless, not sure what to do. You're not sure, either.

Then, a sound. Small, pained, somewhere between a sob and a sigh.

"I don't feel real."

Some experiences haunt you for a lifetime.

. . .

You aren't aware of your lasts when they happen — your last kiss, your last 'I love you'. It isn't something you get to cherish, because you foolishly assume it'd happen again.

It won't. You just don't know yet.

The night before, she's in your bed. The scar on her lower stomach has healed by now. The next morning, she'll leave for a mission. Budapest, Hungary.

She doesn't want to go. It's always the same — violent, bloody, scary. At least she'll get out of the Red Room's confinements for a few days, which is the only upside she can think of.

You don't sleep much that night. Neither does she.

Her hands slide under your shirt, up to your ribcage. Fingertips trace your skin repeatedly, mapping out scars and ribs and birthmarks. She memorized the feel of you years ago. At this point, doing this is mere comfort. It's a quiet assurance that, no matter what, some things don't change.

Oh, how wrong she is.

"It's just a few days", you murmur. You can sense the anxiety radiating from her. It's not funny — obviously not —, but there's something ironic about someone as strong and resilient as Natasha being nervous about a mission. You both know that being in the Red Room is worse in many ways.

Maybe it's returning to the Red Room that worries her. Or not returning. Or always having to return. A never-ending cycle, perhaps.

"It's not about how long I'll be gone."

"I know."

Natasha looks up. Her eyes are exhausted, full of that same resignation you've been carrying for years.

"Then why'd you say it?", she asks.

You don't have an answer to that. Instead, you cup her face and kiss her. Not urgently, not desperately. Soft, slow, familiar like the feeling of your heartbeat under her fingertips.

By the time you wake up, she's gone. You won't see her again for years.

. . .

You're 31 when you get out.

Morocco's air is hot and full of dust. Yelena and you jump out of the window and land next to a woman. She turns and spots you, immediately going for an attack. You dodge her and wrap your arm around her neck. As she starts gasping, you see the vial, filled with red gas, in her hand.

"No!", she wheezes as you tighten your grip. Somehow, she manages to break the glass open right when Yelena stabs her. The powder spreads in the air and enters your airways and eyes, so you start coughing and let go of her — and the control that Dreykov had over you starts to fade.

For the first time in an eternity, you're yourself again. Or a version of yourself. You're not too sure. All you know is that the grip on your mind, your body, has disappeared. The thick haze through which you've been seeing life gets thinner and weaker.

Next to you, Yelena sneezes. You're too overwhelmed to react to that.

"What- what happened?", you stammer, letting go of the woman. Her limp body drops to the floor. "Fuck, did we kill her?"

"That...was that an antidote?" Yelena scrubs her hand down her dust-caked face. "Shit."

Confused, you start turning around to look at your surroundings. Right, Morocco. The mission. You remember getting here, but you also don't remember anything. Your memories don't seem to be your own. But they have to be, right?

Probably. You're not sure, though. Being freed from the Red Room's mind control is an odd sensation, and there are way too many things you're supposed to focus on.

You feel freedom. But it doesn't feel like you thought it would. You're...you. Just you. Suddenly, other parts of you have disappeared — parts that weren't yours in the first place, parts that they implemented in you.

Implement. They also implemented a gps-tracker. You grab a small blade and slice open your thighs to remove the small chips. You wipe your hands on your suit and get up, eyes scanning the area. For now, you're alone.

"We need to leave", Yelena says, throwing the trackers on the ground and crushing them with the sole of her boot.

"But Oksana..." You swallow as you glance at the woman lying on the dirty ground. "She helped us."

"She won't make it, Y/N", she says. "Seriously. If we don't leave now, they'll find us."

You give her a hesitant look, but Yelena looks resolute. She's about as stubborn as her older sister.

"Come on", she urges you, grabbing your arm. Her touch burns — you don't know how long it's been since you consciously felt another person's touch. You want to protest, to stay and see if Oksana's case really is as hopeless as Yelena is saying, but she keeps tugging you through the streets and into a dark alley.

A motorbike, flying down Morocco's roads. No idea where Yelena got that thing from — she suddenly made you sit on it without offering much of an explanation —, but you assume she stole it.

Wind that stings your face, whipping against your skin like punishment. You take a breath and taste dust. You cough and tighten your arms around her waist, quietly praying you won't fall and break your neck. Dying right after escaping from the Red Room would have to be the most embarrassing thing to happen in your life so far.

About an hour passes. The city flies past you, blurring like the thoughts in your head.

Yelena grips the handlebars harder and takes a sharp turn. You let out an undignified noise and bury your face against her shoulder.

"сука!", she curses when a guy, also on a motorbike, almost crashes into you. "Ah, fuck. They drive like lunatics around here."

"Are you kidding?!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" She cackles and stops in front of a gas station. You both hop off the motorbike, your legs shaking like jelly. You lean against the gas pump and groan. "Come on, that was nothing!"

"Screw you." You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand and sigh, glancing at your surroundings.

A gas station, tucked between two buildings with flickering neon signs. You smell gasoline, sweat (probably stemming from you and Yelena — you really need a shower), grilled meat coming from the stall across the street. A stray cat slinks past you, briefly looking up before losing interest. The only noise comes from a few cars passing by and a group of men loitering by their cars, laughing and talking rapidly.

Beyond the station, the road stretches into darkness. No Red Room agents, no looming threats—just empty space. It's peaceful out here, at least judging by what you can see and hear. But the paranoia lingers. You glance over your shoulder, waiting for something — someone — to come after you.

Yelena nudges your side. "Zoning out?"

"What?...no, I'm fine."

"Well, good. We still need to get some supplies." She jerks her chin toward the station and starts walking. "Chop chop!"

You sigh again, but ultimately follow her inside. Your days in the Red Room seem to be over, but peace isn't something you'll get acquainted with soon.

. . .

You awaken with a pained groan. Sunlight blinds you, so you turn your head only to be met with the sight of Yelena. She's not the most graceful sleeper — mouth agape, one leg hanging off the bed, her hand twitching in her sleep. But you're happy she's here, that you're not alone in this unfamiliar place.

You get up and stretch. The wound on your thigh stings as you step toward the window and look outside.

Early morning in Budapest is quiet but not silent. It's calm in a way you aren't used to. You still haven't gotten used to the fact you can sleep in (other than the woman snoring like a freight train), or that you can just go outside and buy bread. Or walk around the block. Maybe step into the park.

Because you're not used to it, you also don't do it. You're inside most of the time, only leaving the safe house when it's necessary. And even then you carry a gun with you, loaded and hidden under your jacket. It's a steady weight, providing you with a sense of safety. You're telling yourself it's a precaution, but deep down, you know better. The Red Room still has a grip on you.

Behind you, Yelena shifts and mumbles something in her sleep. Then, a sigh. A grunt.

You turn around and look at her. She peeks at you and rolls over so the sun isn't shining on her face anymore.

"Blinds", she mutters.

"Sorry", you say, closing the blinds. "Not going to get up?"

"I'm not crazy like you. But if you're up, you might as well make coffee."

You roll your eyes, but nod and put on your sweatshirt before padding into the kitchen. Right as you're grabbing a bottle of milk from the fridge, you hear someone fiddle with the lock of the apartment's front door.

You freeze.

Yelena may be lazy in the mornings, but she's not careless. Only you and her have access to this apartment.

The lock clicks. The door creaks open. Your hand instinctively touches your side, but you left your gun in the bedroom.

Steps, almost silent. Whoever it is, they're moving with the stealth of a cat. Only one person springs to mind, but your brain quickly pushes the thought away. Instead, you press yourself against the fridge.

You didn't expect them to find you yet. You found a spot that's well hidden, secure, thinking it'd grant you at least a few weeks to figure out what comes next. In the end, it's someone you never expected to see again.

A shadow appears in the doorway. When you look up, your eyes meet the ones you used to know like your own reflection.

They're the same. Time has had an impact on both of you, but her eyes? They never changed.

The bottle drops from your hand. Glass shatters, milk spills everywhere. But Natasha doesn't flinch. In fact, neither of you move.

You stare at her, trying to convince yourself this isn't real. That this is a dream, or she's a ghost, or maybe both. When you realize that's not the case, you silently start begging for her to leave again. Leave like she did last time, and never return.

She abandoned you in the Red Room. There's no room for sympathy here — but she stays anyway. It feels like no time has passed, even if that's definitely not the case. Time has passed. Years, decades.

Finally, her eyes flick down to the milk seeping across the floor, curling around the shards of glass.

"What a waste", she says, almost quietly. Her voice is soft enough to infuriate you.

"What the fuck are you doing here?", you snap, stepping away from the fridge. She doesn't react, doesn't budge. Truthfully, you didn't expect anything else from a woman that's able to stay calm even while defusing bombs and hunting literal aliens.

"I could ask you the same thing", she says, reaching into the pocket of her jeans. You back away and bump against the fridge again, but it's just a few pictures. On them? Two little girls, one blonde and the other blue-haired. "You sent me this."

You let out a humorless laugh, but it's tinged with pain. Your eyes stay glued to the simple images that managed to revive decades old feelings. Feelings that should be long buried.

"I didn't send you shit. You thought I'd contact you?"

"Someone", she says sharply, "sent me this. It led me here. So it was either you, or-"

"Morning", Yelena says, yawning and stretching as she enters the kitchen. She steps over the puddle. "Who the fuck is yelling this early in the morning? Also, someone dropped milk." She looks at Natasha and raises her eyebrows. "Oh, finally. Took you long enough. You're slacking."

"You sent those?", she asks, crossing her arms.

"Huh?" Yelena leans over to peek at the pictures. "Oh, yes. Right."

"Why?", you snap. Yelena gives you a surprised look.

"What, 'why'?"

"Why'd you send those", Natasha says, sliding the pictures toward her. Then, she grabs a bundle of vials and puts them on the table. "This, too."

"Oh, right", she says, sitting on the counter. She stirs the cup of coffee in her hand and takes a careful sip. "Because of the Red Room, you know. So we'll go take it down."

"You...what?"

"What are you talking about?", Natasha says, frowning. "The Red Room is gone."

Two heads whip around at the same time to stare at her. Her words, simple as they may be, make your heart pound. But she truly seems to believe what she just said.

"Are you kidding?", you say, your voice rising. "Gone? Don't tell me you really believe that."

"Dreykov's dead", she says, frowning. "I killed him years ago."

"Ha! She really believes that." Yelena jumps up and avoids the shards to reach for the vials. "This is an antidote, you know. For mind control."

Natasha shakes her head. She didn't expect to find you here; she thought it'd be just Yelena. It'd be easier if it was just her sister. She knows how to deal with her. But you? God, it's hard when it comes to you.

When she ran from her past, she ran from you. Now she has to confront the one person who, at some point in time, wasn't only her past — but her entire future.

"Dreykov is alive", you say quietly, looking away from her. You saw the expression on her face, and it's too much to handle in that moment. "You really think he'd let anyone kill him?"

"Killing him was part of my defection to SHIELD", Natasha says stubbornly. She still sounds convinced. "It took destroying almost the entire city to get to him."

Yelena pours some vodka into her coffee. When you glance at her, she shrugs. "We don't have any milk left." She turns to Natasha. "Did you confirm the kill? Check the body?"

Natasha takes a shot of vodka, her eyes tearing up slightly. You see the faint redness in them, the moisture that matches the one in your own eyes. You're both tearing up, but for different reasons. She bites the insides of her cheeks and lifts her chin in a defensive manner. "There was no body left to check.”

"He's not dead", she repeats. "Ask me, ask Y/N. We'd know."

They look at you. You shake your head, the heels of your hands pressed against your eyes, and blindly take a step forward. Glass cuts into your sole, but you ignore the sudden pain, the blood mixing with the spilled milk.

You need to get out of this room. You need to get away from Natasha, just like she got away from you.

. . .

In the morning, you leave. All three of you.

You're in the back of the car, refusing to do anything other than sit there and stare out the window. The tension in the small space is thick enough to be cut with a knife, but Yelena doesn't seem to notice that. She's never been particularly good at reading social cues, which is something she has in common with her sister.

"You two are so dramatic", she says after an eternity of silence. "I should've brought popcorn, you know."

At her words, Natasha makes a sharp turn. You brace yourself against the door and bite back a retort. Instead, neither of you reply.

Yelena yawns and stretches. She rolls her shoulders until her joints pop, then reaches over to turn on the radio. Natasha bats her hand away.

"Don't."

"It's boring."

"Yelena."

"I'll start singing." She clears her throat and then begins belting out an off-key rendition of some song. Natasha white-knuckles the steering wheel when Yelena's voice fills the car. She's doing this on purpose.

"Get her to shut up", you mutter, kicking the back of Natasha's seat.

She grits her teeth, not replying to you. Then, suddenly, she presses the small button on the radio. Static fills the car before settling on some station playing a song from the 90's you vaguely remember.

A mission in rural Russia. You and Natasha, 16 years old and curled together behind the dumpster of a bar. Soaking up the minutes left before returning to the place you're now about to go take down.

Natasha's gaze meets yours in the rear view mirror. It's just for a split second, but you both seem to soften.

. . .

You leave the city behind. Winding roads and open stretches of land replace it, the world eerily quiet in the dead of night. The car is silent, but only because Yelena has fallen asleep — head resting against the glass and mouth open, you're surprised she hasn't started drooling yet.

"How much longer?"

"A few more hours", Natasha mumbles, glancing at the fuel gauge. "We need gas."

She pulls up in front of a gas station and gets out. You stay in the back for a moment, watching her refuel the car, then unbuckle. It's cold outside, so much so that goosebumps form on your arms. You lean against the car and wait.

Natasha keeps a close eye on the fuel display, watching the numbers climb. She lets go of the handle as soon as it hits the right amount, shaking the nozzle to remove any excess fuel. She steps around the car and looks at you.

You hesitate before following her inside.

It's a typical gas station, with a bored looking clerk leaning against the counter and shelves half-stocked with dusty snack bags. Refrigerators full of soda and water bottles, some porn magazines, newspapers, souvenirs. You glance at a stuffed teddy bear that's wearing a shirt with the word 'Hungary' printed on the front.

Natasha grabs a bottle of water. When she notices you eyeing the shelves, she pauses before grabbing a second bottle and a protein bar. She holds them out to you and you hesitate once more, but then you take them.

Yelena is still asleep in the car. You sit on the curb and unscrew the bottle to take a few sips. You feel her presence as she sits next to you, see how she plucks a cigarette from her pocket, how she lights it but doesn't take a drag.

Silence used to be comfortable between the two of you. Now, it feels like an eternity of discomfort.

Plumes of smoke curl into the air as she finally takes a hit. You glance at her, briefly, but manage to catch her gaze. Wordlessly, she holds out the cigarette.

You inhale a lungful and stifle a choked cough. Natasha's lips twitch.

"Careful", she says.

"I'm not used to it."

"Might be for the better."

Natasha flicks ash off the tip before taking another puff. You glance at her and see everything that wasn't there the last time you saw her.

"You're an Avenger now", you state. She looks at you, but doesn't say anything. "Was it worth it? Leaving, I mean?"

She averts her eyes again. The cigarette falls to the ground and she presses it out with her boot.

"We're adults now", she says carefully. "There's no point in pretending. Y/N, I didn't have a choice. It was either leaving or dying in there."

You nod, fingers fiddling with the loose cap in your hands. "You left us to die instead."

No reply, no arguing back. Just silence and the hum of the cars as they pass by.

Finally, she turns around. Her fingers brush against yours, cold yet familiar, as she takes the cap from you. You look up only for the ache in your chest to increase.

"I would've come back", she says. "I didn't think you'd made it."

"Only 19 in 20."

"Yeah."

You study her in the dim light that's cast by the neon signs above you. Green, lighter than her eyes but not nearly as mesmerizing.

"I wanted to come back", she starts, glancing at the cap between her fingers. "I couldn't. Clint, he- he told me it'd be too risky. I couldn't afford going back there. Not after making it out."

"Clint?" It sounds like a question, but really, you know that name. Another Avenger.

She shakes her head in dismissal. "You'll meet him."

You tilt your head. I will?

"Point is", she says, glancing away again, "I didn't have a choice. Not really. By the time I did, it seemed like it was too late. I tried to find you, but I couldn't. It seemed impossible without directly confronting Dreykov, or someone close to him."

You nod, exhaling slowly. Trusting her still seems impossible, no matter how plausible her story may be. Being left behind like that leaves scars. Most of them haven't healed.

"The others were impressed", you mumble, tugging at your loose shoelaces until they come undone. "Jealous, but also impressed."

Natasha manages a bitter smile. "And you?"

You hesitate and let go of the shoelaces.

"I hated you for it", you admit. "At first. Now I get it, I guess. Which doesn't make it right. But you were trying to survive. We all were."

"It never stopped being about survival", she mumbles. "Not without you."

You swallow, eyes squeezing shut. You try to find an answer beneath all the layers of pain and anger, but you find nothing. Her words cut deeper than anything else she's said tonight.

You're pulled back to reality by Yelena stirring in the car. You turn around right as she lowers the window. Her tired voice cuts through the silent night, through the tension.

"You two better not be making out back there."

"We're not", Natasha calls. Despite the irritation in her voice, her lips curl into a tentative half-smile as she looks at you.

"Good. Let me know if you need a room or something."

"I'll kick you out of the car", Natasha says, unimpressed, and gets up. She holds out her hand and you take it, letting her pull you to your feet. The simple contact of skin on skin sends a familiar flurry of electricity through you. You ignore it as best as you can.

. . .

You're 32 when you take down the Red Room.

Somewhere between those moments in Hungary and the day you finally watch the place that stole your life go up in flames, you celebrate your birthday.

Truthfully, you have no idea what your actual birthday is — which is the case for most girls in the Red Room. It's a piece of information that's deliberately withheld from you, for whatever reason that may be. It's not that it'd be of importance, either. They don't celebrate your birthday. All you know is that you were born somewhere in the late days of summer.

Natasha used to celebrate with you. Handing you a piece of fruit or bread wrapped in a tissue, kissing your cheek, scooting closer. It only happened a handful of times, but every second of those nights is ingrained in your brain.

The motel you're at is rundown and small. It's unlike the ones you've seen so far, but it's not the worst, either. Considering your circumstances, you're happy with mold-free bathrooms and a somewhat clean bed.

You plop down on the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging, and untie your boots. Yelena is in the shower, leaving you alone with Natasha. She hasn't said a word since you got here.

When you're about to toe off your second boot, a rounded something wrapped in a paper napkin lands in your lap. You look up and are met with the sight of Natasha watching you.

"You know what day it is?", she asks.

You stare at her, caught off guard. "No?"

"Your birthday."

You hesitate and unwrap whatever she handed you. It's a small cupcake, crushed from being carried around. Vanilla, judging by the color of the frosting. "I don't have a birthday."

"Not true", she says, sitting on the bed next to you. The mattress dips, reminding you of nights in the Red Room. How the thin mattress would sink under her weight, announcing her arrival. How the first thing she'd do is press closer and seek the warmth you both craved. "Everyone has a birthday."

Touché. You brush your finger against the bottom of the cupcake, unsure what to say.

Natasha shifts, arms crossed and expression guarded.

"I didn't bake it", she states the obvious. "I found it at a gas station."

You let out a sound that's dangerously close to a laugh, inspecting the cupcake. "How did I not notice?"

"I made Yelena distract you."

This time, you let out an actual laugh. You peel back the wrapper and take a small bite. Dry, but yummy. A bit too sweet. Nice vanilla flavor, though. "Thank you."

You look at each other. Natasha hums, tentatively reaching out to brush a crumb from the corner of your mouth. It's a brief, light touch, but it makes you freeze. Silence suddenly fills the room.

"Happy birthday", she mumbles. She pulls back, arms crossed over her middle. You swallow and look at the cupcake again.

"Doesn't feel like much of a celebration."

"They didn't have balloons."

"Candles?"

"No."

You crack a smile and poke at the cupcake. "A song, maybe?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "Not even for you. Sorry."

Something flickers in her expression, mirroring your own. Before you can address it, the bathroom door swings open. Yelena walks into the room, towel-drying her hair and humming to herself. When she sees you sitting so close on the bed, she stops and squints.

"What's going on?" Her gaze falls to the cupcake in your hand. "Hey, nobody told me we had cake!"

"It's not cake", you say. "It's-"

"A birthday cake?", she cuts in. "Oh my god. Whose birthday is it?"

"Cupcake", Natasha says, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

"My birthday", you add, glancing at the woman next to you. "According to her."

"Oh. Well then..." Yelena saunters over and inspects the sweet treat. "That's pathetic. I could've stolen something way better for your birthday."

"You did steal something", Natasha reminds her. "Lollipops. A handful of them."

"Yes, but those were for me." Yelena lets out a long-suffering sigh and plops onto the second bed. She stretches her arms and legs and yawns. "Worst birthday ever."

You smile to yourself and lick some frosting off your finger. Everything else seems to fade, at least for a moment — your past, your history with Natasha, the Red Room. It's just you, a small motel room and people that maybe do care.

You take another bite.

"It's not so bad."

. . .

With the Red Room gone, you're free.

Yelena leaves with Melina and Alexei (who she, embarrassingly, introduced you as Natasha's Любовница to — it took you ten minutes to assure them you definitely aren't lovers); they're about to be useful and help the girls you freed from the Red Room.

Natasha lingers by your side as the three drive away. You glance at her, allowing yourself to study the facial features that have changed so much yet are still the same.

"So", she finally says, suddenly twirling a set of keys around her finger, "Любовница?"

You roll your eyes. "God, I hate you."

"Come on." She nudges you with her shoulder, then starts to walk without waiting to see if you'll follow.

You do. Maybe you always will.

You have no clue what to expect, following Natasha blindly like this.

It's been 14 years. A lot can change in over a decade of time.

Examples?

The cost of homes has doubled.

Gas prices have gone from $1.36 per gallon to $2.10 per gallon.

Instagram has replaced MySpace.

Somehow, Natasha stayed the same. Even the way she walks — long strides that you can barely keep up with — is familiar. Her little smile as she glances at you, the glint in her eyes that remained from her so-called childhood.

"You're always the same", you say as she sits in the driver's seat. "Everything's different, except you."

The engine roars to life, and the black SUV pulls out of the parking lot. Natasha focuses on the road, so much so that you start to believe she didn't hear you.

"Yeah?", she finally says, absently, and glances at you. "Is that a good thing?"

"I haven't decided yet", you mumble, tilting your head. She smiles faintly.

"I think it's good", she says. "If you're as perfect as me, why bother changing?"

You know she isn't being serious, but a part of you knows very well that, once upon a time, you'd have agreed with the sentiment. Natasha was the closest thing to perfection you knew. She exceeded whatever it is you two had back then. A foolish, naive thought only a teenager in love can have.

She didn't change. She's still brash, self-assured, always pretending she's got everything under control. But there's a weight to her now, something that's been there ever since her graduation ceremony in the Red Room.

"You're not invincible", you say quietly. "Even you've got your cracks."

Natasha hums, her gaze briefly flitting over to meet yours. "Cracks aren't always bad", she says. "Sometimes, they let light in."

"Sometimes, they make glass shatter."

For a long few seconds, she goes quiet. Then she sighs, and you hear the exasperation in her voice.

"Alright, Shakespeare", she mumbles.

You laugh, but it's an unconvincing sound. You're tired, exhausted actually. You want to sleep. You want to rest. You want answers, but you also want to drown the whole world out. You want to cling to the one familiar feeling you know, but you're also scared that the same feeling — the same person — will suddenly leave again.

You don't voice your thoughts, your fears. You stay quiet and let the darkness of the night swallow you.

. . .

It takes an actual jet for you to get wherever the hell Natasha is bringing you.

In the end, it's all the way in New York City. Here, everything is alive — the bustling crowds, the neon signs, the cars. Music and chaos and hopes and dreams, all crushed into one place.

You can tell Natasha likes it here. You can tell it's become a home to her. It's so different from the Red Room, which is probably why she likes it so much.

This place is huge. From the city to the building, everything is ten times bigger. Nothing encloses you, nothing keeps you back. Freedom seems like an achievable goal out here.

She parks in front of the building. It's late at night, so there are barely any lights greeting you from the windows of the compound. Just silence and the lighting coming from the logo beaming above you — a big A, as in Avengers.

"Not too shabby", you mumble, closing the car door behind you. Natasha follows, her eyes holding something you can't quite place. "Must've costed a fortune."

"Probably", she says. She keeps pace with you, hands tucked into the pockets of her jeans. "I'm not the one who paid for it, though."

"Tony Stark", you say. She opens the front door using a keycard, her fingerprint, and a password. Something beeps and the door opens automatically. Inside, it smells like citrus.

"Yes, exactly."

You can barely hear her footsteps as she walks upstairs. You follow behind her, briefly studying her back. Her legs, the braided red hair, the leather jacket. You smell her perfume and avert your eyes.

Natasha walks you all the way to the end of a hallway and unlocks a door there, then she pushes it open. The room you enter is spartan, minimally furnished — a bed, a closet, a desk. Clean towels, folded and stacked, lay on a chair.

"I assume you don't have any clothes in your nonexistent suitcase", she mutters, disappearing into the hallway again. She returns moments later. "Here."

Pajamas, underwear, a bottle of water. Her fingers brush against yours. You curse your heart for doing that fluttery thing again.

You swallow, cradling the clothes to your chest. Natasha, leaning against the doorframe, watches you.

"You okay?", she eventually asks.

"Are you?"

Her lips twitch into a ghost of a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She nods at the bed.

"Get some sleep", is all she says. You listen to her leave down the hall, retreating to her own room. The door closes with the gentlest of clicks.

Being alone again, you allow yourself to relax. Or, in your case, try to relax. You sit down on the bed and take a whiff of the clothes in your arms. Laundry detergent and something distinctly not Natasha. Probably for the better.

The bedsheets are softer than anything you've ever felt before. You curl into them, letting them warm you up, but sleep doesn't come. Everything else seems to be more interesting in that moment — the moon outside, the crystal clear windows, the fact that, somewhere in this big building, Natasha is going to bed as well.

You find yourself wishing for the bunk beds again. She was much closer then. Now, she seems so far away.

You roll onto your side, fingers curling into the sheets. You miss the sound of her breathing. You miss how her cold feet would press against your legs, how she'd tuck her hand under your back.

Maybe she misses it too. She probably does.

You use that as an excuse to pad down the hallway and look for her room.

She didn't tell you which one it is. She didn't have to — the pair of black boots in front of the door tell you where to go. Your hand lingers on the doorknob before you turn it.

You don't need to look at her to know she isn't asleep. Her breathing is a telltale sign that she's wide awake.

You walk on cold floor until your feet step on a rug made of wool. Your breathing hitches ever so slightly when your eyes meet in the near darkness of her room.

She stares at you for a moment. Then, without a word, she moves the comforter aside so you can lay down. You make sure to leave some space between you when you do.

You both roll onto your sides. You put your head on her pillow and smell the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. The fabric feels soft against your skin when you turn your head to bury your face in it.

"Reminds me of something", she murmurs. You can't stop the corners of your mouth from twitching into a faint smile.

"Bad habit."

Natasha's eyes trace your features. Beneath the sheets, her fingers brush against yours. Barely, just enough for your heart to start hammering. A test, maybe. Or a reminder.

Your first instinct is to scoot closer, so you do.

Your second instinct is to stay away, but this one, you ignore.

"I missed you", she says. "I really did."

"You had a funny way of showing it."

"I was selfish", she says. You scoot closer again. "I didn't want to be reminded of that place. Not even by the person who was there with me."

You give a small, bitter smile. Your fingers touch hers, and after a split second, you take her hand.

"Sometimes, I thought you were dead", you say. "Sometimes, I preferred that idea."

"Can't blame you for that, can I?"

Not letting go of her hand, you shake your head. You can hear the rain outside, but it's a sound you barely focus on. Her breathing is much more interesting than the pitter patter of the water droplets against the window.

Her thumb brushes over your knuckles. You look up and feel the impending kiss like a bad omen.

Before anything can happen, you turn your head. Ever so slightly, just enough for the tension to turn into confusion and hurt.

"Get some sleep", she says, after a long moment of silence. "I'll be here in the morning."

Natasha is a woman of her word.

. . .

You wake up at the same time. Her eyes linger on your face, then you catch them flit down.

You realize two things:

1) Your shirt has ridden up while you were asleep.

2) The faint scar, stretching along your lower belly, is on full display.

You pull down your shirt and sit up abruptly. Natasha frowns and follows in suit, scrambling out of bed.

"Hey, wait-"

"Coffee", you say, hurrying down the stairs. You hear her footsteps right behind you. "I just- I need coffee."

"Y/N, wait-"

You shake your head, round the corner — and suddenly see a group of people sitting around a table. The strong coffee smell tells you you're right here, but the amount of eyes that are watching you unsettle you.

Natasha comes to a halt next to you. She gently grabs your wrist and leads you away before anyone can say anything. As soon as you've left their field of view, their conversation continues. You don't hear it, though. You're shaking too hard to notice.

"It's okay", she starts, furrowing her eyebrows. She doesn't know what to say, either. "They're friends."

"It's not about them", you say, running your hands through your hair frantically.

"What's it about, then?"

You try taking a deep breath, but it fails. Shaking your head, you start pacing. Natasha stays still.

"Y/N", she says slowly. "Tell me."

Tell me. The way she said it makes it sound so easy — like you wouldn't be ripping open old wounds, wounds that haven't even properly healed yet. You almost laugh at the absurdity, but you're too focused on not losing that last bit of sanity you have left to do so.

"No", you snap, whirling around. Her eyes widen, but your brain doesn't register it. You're too focused on trying to breathe, which seems impossible in that moment. "No, I- fuck."

"Y/N..."

"No!" You step backwards, eyes darting across the room. Paintings, plants, polished marble floors.

A door.

Without reconsidering what you're even doing, you turn and bolt. Natasha freezes before following, but you're outside before she does.

The rain is louder than your thoughts, louder than her voice. It soaks into your clothes and hair, biting and unrelenting, weighing down your clothes and chilling you to the bone. Not nearly as bad as the Russian winter, but cold enough to make your teeth clatter.

You almost slip on the wet grass while trying to get away from Natasha. She runs after you, breathing heavily despite the fact her stamina is as good as ever.

"Y/N!", she yells. "You'll get hypothermia, you idiot!"

You don't hear her. All you hear is the pounding of your heart, the sobs ripping through your chest, the ringing in your ears. Your hand grazes against your shirt, right where the scar is.

Then, someone grabs your wrist. Pulls you closer. Another sob, your hands pressing against her chest to keep her away. But, as unrelenting and stubborn as you may be — this is a fight you can't win.

Natasha shushes you, her arms wrapping around your body. She's as drenched as you are. Your head drops against her shoulder, body still shaking and shivering.

She doesn't tell you that it's okay, because she knows it isn't. So she leads you inside, up the stairs, into the bathroom. You lean against the wall as she starts the shower, eyes slipping closed. Steam fills the room and warms it up.

You feel her fingers brush against your wrist. When you open your eyes again, she's rolled up her soaked shirt to reveal the scar that matches yours.

You've seen it before, of course. Back in the Red Room, after she disappeared for days. When she slipped into your bed and cried. The bloodied bandage, her sobs, the way something between you shifted.

You blink, looking at her for a moment, then you reach out and trace the line with your fingers. Natasha tenses, then relaxes. You slowly pull your hand away again.

"You should shower", she says, adjusting her shirt. "You need to warm up."

"You're wet, too."

"I'm fine."

"Join me."

She looks at the shower, hesitating. Then, her eyes meet yours again. She pulls her shirt over her head, the sound of wet clothes against skin louder than ever. Your hands tug your clothes off blindly.

It's warm in the shower. Not nearly as warm as her body, though. You feel it against yours.

“I’m sorry”, she says.

Your hands touch her face.

“I know.”

She kisses the side of your thumb. You push her against the tiled wall.

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

You press your lips to hers. Water fills the space around you, between you, replacing the emptiness that’s been growing for more than a decade now.

“This isn’t me forgiving you”, you say, then kiss her again. Her hands run down your back, her head tilts so she can deepen the kiss.

In the Red Room, you were never granted the freedom to go this far. Displays of affection were kept to a minimum — kisses, cuddles, fingers trailing underneath clothes but never quite reaching their destination.

Somehow, you know your way around each other's bodies anyway. It's a language in itself, one you didn't have to learn to be able to speak it fluently.

. . .

There is a reason why you always stayed in Natasha's bed. Even in a place like the Red Room, where doing so was risky, dangerous — a death sentence if anyone found out, basically —, you did it anyway.

Back then, you were both kids. You were nameless soldiers, no future or family in sight, but you were kids. Teenagers at most. Raised in a world of lies and betrayal, finding something real seemed impossible. Then, you found Natasha. Natasha, who was so human despite claiming not to be, who was more real than the hunger you felt or the prickling pain of snow on bare skin. Natasha, who was a constant, a fragile thread that connected you to life itself.

You were in a place that saw emotions as a weakness, a place in which connection was reason enough to get killed. In each other, you found something that wasn't just a weapon, or a tool, or something to be broken.

Things have changed since then, but the feelings remain. The safety, the comfort, the simplicity of it are still very real.

You used to slip into her bed every night. Suddenly, you find yourself doing the same thing all over again — but this time, there's no fear of being caught looming over you. No one's going to kill you for sharing a bed.

The other Avengers don't notice, or don't care. Either way — they don't bring it up, for whatever reason that may be. They're polite enough, possibly because Natasha threatened them to be. You find yourself getting along with them quite well. Despite that, you spend most of your time latching onto the one person whose every breath seems familiar.

You don't talk when you get under the covers at night. You feel her roll over, her cold feet against your legs and her hand under your back. You see glimpses of what could've been if you had met in a place other than the Red Room.

Sometimes, you wonder what would be different. Whether you'd be married, maybe with kids. Or maybe you would've broken up after a few years. Maybe you never would've fallen in love in the first place.

So many possibilities, and you can't decide which is the least painful.

You feel that she's still awake without her having to say anything. You aren't able to fall asleep, either. Something in your body is protesting the idea of sleep.

Instead, you roll over. You curl into her and feel the kisses she places on your face.

"Sleepy girl", she mumbles.

"Can't fall asleep, so not really."

"You can be sleepy without being asleep." Natasha wraps her arms around you and pulls you into her bare chest. You nuzzle her warm skin with your nose, her scent surrounding you. "Something on your mind?"

"Please", you mutter. Ever since you were a little kid, there's always been something on your mind. Not a day goes by where your brain isn't flooded with (sometimes irrational) fears and worries. She should know that because she can relate. She does know that.

Natasha realizes her mistake and runs her hand down your back. Her fingernails gently scrape along your spine. "Fair enough."

You hum and close your eyes, lips brushing against the side of her breast. Your lips part slightly, tongue flicking against her skin. She exhales, a nearly silent sound you should've missed.

"I just..." You sigh, turning your head again. Your voice is muffled. "None of this is easy."

"Y/N, it was never easy in the first place."

That's true. It's only gotten easier over the years, but somehow, it feels like the opposite occurred.

"It's not fair."

"It was never fair, either."

You look up, eyes squinting and lips forming a thin line. "You really do have an answer for everything."

"Years of dealing with the bullshit of five different men help", she replies. Her fingertips brush against your ribs, tickling you, coaxing a small laugh from your mouth. The sound makes her feel a fluttery something in the pit of her stomach. "It's not about fairness. If it was, you'd leave."

You go silent for a moment. Slowly, you lay down on her chest again. Her heart thumps against your ear.

Natasha knows she should shut up. Not enough time has passed for her to say things like this. Wounds haven't healed, scars haven't faded. But the words lie on the tip of her tongue like you do on her chest, so she lets them tumble out.

"I love you."

You close your eyes. Her fingertips draw shapes on your back.

"I think we missed our shot there."

. . .

You're 33 when you do something you'd regret for the rest of your life.

Your relationship is a push and pull. You find that, even in the Red Room, knowing what you want was easier. Now, the decision seems unnecessarily difficult.

You may stay in her bed, but you don't join her before the hallways are dark. You kiss her, but not where anyone can see. You feel that you love her, but a part of you protests the mere idea.

Natasha notices the pattern, but she chooses not to comment on it. At least not at first — too big is the relief of having you back, of feeling something that comes close to what she last felt more than a decade ago. Things are hard, but they’re harder for you.

Still, there is a breaking point for everything.

You know she's back home without having to see her. You hear the Quinjet landing, the footsteps, the muffled voices. The Avengers are returning from a mission you didn't go on.

You glance at the live feed display of the security cameras and see a bunch of now-familiar people — among them, Natasha. Her suit is a bit torn, there's dirt on her cheeks, her hair is a mess, but she looks like she's fine. You get up anyway and open the door for them. They spot you from about 40 feet away, but your eyes are on her. When you realize they're all looking at you, you turn your head and step aside to let them in.

Natasha lingers by the door. Tentatively, she puts her hand on your side. You don't pull away from the contact, but don't lean in, either.

"Hurt?", you ask, searching her face.

"I'm good", she says, squeezing your waist. "Nothing a few painkillers can't fix."

You hum, still staring at her. She smiles faintly and kisses your cheek, but you unconsciously slip out of her embrace. You realize what you've done as soon her smile, small to begin with, fades.

"Am I doing something wrong?", she mumbles.

"No, I just..." You hesitate, unsure how honest you're allowed to be. "No. You're not doing anything wrong. This is about me, not you."

"No", she says. "It's about both of us."

You frown at her. Steve, who has been crouching in the hallway and cleaning his shoes, glances up before slowly leaving the room.

"What are you talking about?"

"In case you haven't noticed", she says, starting to unzip her suit and walk up the stairs, "there's two of us here."

You follow her, hand sliding along the railing and eyebrows furrowed. "Wow, newsflash."

She doesn't say anything. She walks into the bathroom, door almost closed, and doesn't react when you enter after her. She peels her suit off and reveals skin covered in scars, most of them healed, and dirt mixed with blood. You lean against the wall, trying not to stare.

"I want to shower", she suddenly says.

"I've seen you naked."

"Y/N."

You ignore her, and she ignores you. Her back is turned to you as she begins doing mundane things — test the water temperature, prepare a rug to put in front of the shower, pick which body lotion to use. The muscles on her back flex, on full display thanks to the sports bra she's wearing, but even that doesn't snap you out of your thoughts.

You don't know what to tell her because you don't know what you're feeling, either.

It's not that you don't feel anything — it's the opposite. After so many years, you still feel too much.

Her bra comes off, then her underwear. She takes her hair out of the braid. Stepping forward, you run your fingers through the tangled strands. She freezes before her shoulders slump.

"Are you going to keep punishing me for the rest of- of whatever this is?"

You stop, fingers still buried in the red locks. Is it a punishment?

Maybe. Not a conscious one, though.

Water flows, steam rises, hearts pound. Neither of you dare to move for a moment that lasts way too long.

"I'm not punishing you", you say, slowly moving your hand away. She exhales.

"Then what the hell are you doing?", she asks, stepping into the shower. You almost follow before realizing you're still fully clothed. Letting out a noise of frustration, you take off your shirt. "No, don't."

"No, we're talking." You let your sweatpants pool around your ankles and step out of them. Natasha swallows when she sees you half naked. "This is bullshit."

"What?"

"It's bullshit that we were better at figuring stuff out at 17 than we are now."

You join her under the water. She bites back a quiet whine.

"It's bullshit that we can't just pick up where we left off", you add. "It's bullshit that everything feels the same when it clearly isn't."

"It feels the same to me", she says defensively.

"It's not. It hasn't been since you left."

"Y/N", she says, voice low. "I know it isn't. I know what I did. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

(She would.)

"You can't make up for some things", you reply. Her sides, her breasts, her arms are warm and slick to the touch from the water. You feel the slight roughness of her scars, the contrast of smooth and scarred. You feel the muscles beneath, the gentle thump of her heartbeat. You wish you could take it all in and not have the weight of your past press down on you.

Natasha leans in, forehead resting against yours. The water falls in a steady cascade, enveloping your entwined bodies, blurring the space between you. Scents of sea salt and orange, the tiles slippery beneath your feet. You've never been closer, but you've never felt further away. Her lips brush against yours, promise and plea at once.

"Let me try", she mumbles before kissing you again. You feel the tears form in your eyes. Her lips travel to the corner of your mouth, along your jaw, down your neck. "We got out of the Red Room. We can do everything else, too."

You want nothing more than to believe her. But her words can’t undo the years of separation and silence.

"Natasha." A soft sob rips from your throat.

She kisses your collarbone, your chest. You run your fingers into her red strands of hair and grab them for purchase. Her head tilts up so she can look at you. "Please, Y/N."

Breathing ragged, you can do nothing but stare at her. Natasha gets on her knees, her lips finding the scar stretching along your lower stomach. The faded line feels hot when she litters it with slow kisses.

"No", you whisper, voice thick and shaky. "No, Nat. It doesn't work like that."

Her kisses stop. She buries her face against yours stomach. You feel her unsteady breaths against your skin, her fingers curling into the soft skin on the back of your thighs. Your thumbs brush against her temples.

"Get up", you plead. Natasha hesitates. For a second, you think she might fight for this moment with you.

But then gets to her feet. Once she's on eye level with you, you cup her face and kiss her. Firmly, deeply, apologetically. You step away, out of the shower, wrapping yourself into a towel and leaving without looking back.

There is both a first and a last time for everything.

. . .

It's been months since everything was somewhat normal.

Conversations are short, clipped, impersonal. Eyes don't linger. Her bed is a place you don't visit anymore, not even at night, when the silence is suffocating.

She doesn't initiate anything. She doesn't try to change your mind, doesn't try to fix things. She thinks it's better this way, that maybe the space will allow you to heal.

She's still making up for what happened years ago, but it's small, quiet, and you find it hard to notice it when the walls between you are this thick.

One morning, as you pad into the shared space downstairs, you see Natasha in the living room. She's wearing her suit, her hair pulled back into a braid again, and there's a backpack on the coffee table. Next to it lie guns and her Widow's Bite.

You frown. Nobody said anything about a mission.

"What?", she asks, not having to look up to know you're watching her.

"Nothing." You glance at the weapons that are neatly arranged in front of her. "You didn't...“

"No."

"Right.“

Natasha looks at you. She puts the taser aside. "Won't take long. A few days."

"Okay." You hum, briefly sinking your teeth into your bottom lip. "Not that it concerns me."

"It doesn't", she just says. Her eyes don't look away from yours. You shift under her gaze, the history between you like a weight in the air you can't escape.

"Be careful", you say.

"I always am."

"Liar."

There it is — the subtlest twitching of her lips, the almost-smile you've been dying to see. Amusement glints in her eyes, and she blinks it away.

"Go eat something", she says, focusing on her weapons again. "I made waffles. ...They're a bit burnt, though."

You want to tell her it's fine, that you'll eat them anyway. But nothing is fine. It hasn't been for a while.

"I'll pass", you say, briefly shaking your head. Natasha hums and glances at you, then she puts the weapons aside before walking into the kitchen. You follow her without needing to be told to.

A plate of — indeed burnt — waffles is handed to you. You inspect them, smelling the slight char, and look up at Natasha. The helplessness in her eyes is unfamiliar, and your chest tightens.

She's trying. She's always trying, even when you make it hard for her.

"Thank you", you manage to say, looking at the plate of food again. "I'm sure some syrup will help."

"It won't", she says, leaning against the counter. "I tried it, too."

"Sugar?"

"Nope."

"I could scrape off what's burnt."

She laughs, but the sound isn't as genuine as you hoped it'd be.

"Don't bother", she says, walking to the freezer. She pulls out a box of Eggo waffles. "Just heat these up. They'll taste better."

You glance at the yellow box. Not a bad brand — you've eaten them for breakfast a few times since getting here.

"No", you say, sitting at the kitchen table and ripping one of Natasha's waffles into two pieces. "I prefer these."

She watches you for a moment, a bunch of unsaid words lying on the tip of her tongue. Then she turns around and puts the Eggo waffles into the freezer again.

You watch her grab her stuff. She returns to the kitchen, her backpack slung over her shoulder, and studies you.

"I'll be back."

"I know."

"You can call me. If you need anything."

You smile faintly and reach for her hand. You squeeze, feeling the fabric of her fingerless gloves. "I'll be fine."

"Good." Her lips brush against your hair. "I love you. Be back soon."

One truth, one lie.

. . .

Hours after Natasha's death, Clint knocks on the door to your room. You wipe your eyes and look up, glancing at the little velvet sachet he's carrying. You two look at each other for a long moment. You see the redness in his eyes, how swollen they are. You know his pain because you feel it too.

He walks up to your bed and puts the sachet in your open palm. It's light, which doesn't make it any less confusing. Your fingers wrap around it.

"For you", he eventually says. "From her."

You frown and look at the sachet again, brushing your finger over the soft fabric. "I'm supposed to open it?"

"It'd defeat its whole purpose if you didn't."

You nod, opening the sachet and taking a look inside. What you see doesn't give you the explanation you desperately crave. What could be important enough for Natasha to give it to you from the afterlife? Not a hex nut, certainly.

"Try it on", he says. "If you want."

You put the hex nut into your palm and inspect it, then glance at Clint. "What are you talking about?"

"Y/N, just...give me your hand. Left one."

He grabs the hex nut and slides it onto your ring finger. When you realize what it is, you nearly break down. The edges, almost smooth. The shape. His explanation almost falls on deaf ears, that's how distraught you are, but you manage to catch the most important details.

How she made it in the Red Room, the nights you were sick. How she polished it using the floor. How a screwdriver she stole allowed her to hollow out the center. How she kept it in her nightstand, for years, and how a tiny part of her believed she might be able to put it to use someday.

It's not perfect. Even after all her hard work, it still resembles a hex nut more than it does an engagement ring. Natasha didn't care — it was the result that mattered, the future it may have lead to. The day you maybe do say yes, despite everything that happened.

That day wouldn't come. Nobody would ever say it out loud, but you know it's because of you.

She was your first kiss, and you're her last.

You're 34 when you lose her entirely.

[flawseer]

What's your opinion of what everyone did after the sealing of Darkstalker in the legends book? It just seemed way too quick with how they just moved on from the horrors, as Fathom and Indigo had kids and Clearsight flew off to a new continent to have kids with and create a whole new tribe. On another note, considering how Fathom was kind of banished (from what I remember) and had kids split off from the Royal Family, do you think there may be a descendant of Fathom somewhere hiding with Animus powers? Or do you think they just ended up being adopted back into the royal family after being discovered?

I personally consider Legends: Darkstalker the best book in the series, in part because I believe Sutherland's writing shines when she is not binding herself to the 5 books arc structure.

That said, the ending does have a bit of that one particular prequel problem. You know, the one where the characters are confirmed to be at a certain location in the future, so they absolutely HAVE to end the prequel story getting to that location IMMEDIATELY.

That's what I was thinking with regards to Clearsight's ending. Now, everyone deals with trauma differently, so I can only comment on her actions from my own limited point of view. I don't think I could have done what she did, at least not so suddenly. She had relationships beyond Darkstalker, with Listener and her parents, whom she presumably was still on good terms with. Like, especially her parents I think never actually learned what happened to her. They might have continued living thinking their only daughter died in the evacuation.

When I think of that part of the book, I personally like to envision an epilogue where Clearsight returns to her parents and lives with the Nightwings for a while (a couple years maybe). Her parents are supportive and Listener is grateful and admires her friend for saving her family. So much so that she reverses her stance on futuresight and authors a scroll about it, crediting Clearsight as a master prophet (this is the scroll that Moonwatcher later reads).

But the other Nightwings still fear Darkstalker, and they remember his girlfriend who stood on stage with him and looked at him adoringly as Darkstalker massacred his own father (they don't know she was tricking Darkstalker). So there is public tension building at Clearsight living with them, and it begins to negatively impact the people who support her. In the end, Clearsight decides to leave the tribe, both to protect her loved ones from getting caught up in her fallout and to separate herself from all that trauma and find her fortune on the new continent.

Notably, she actually tells her friends and parents about that plan this time, and they don't spend the rest of their lives wondering what happened.

As for Fathom and any potential descendants, there is a 'realistic but boring' answer, and one that is a bit more interesting narratively.

The boring answer is that, yes, there are descendants of Fathom around. Lots of them. It is inevitable. If you take an individual and step back one generation, you find they will have 2 parents. Above that they have 4 grandparents. Then 8 great-grandparents, 16 great-great-grandparents. At 10 generations back we are looking at 1024 theoretical ancestors. Now as these numbers get bigger, some of these lines will cross-breed with each other again, so the math isn't entirely clean, but just trust me that these numbers balloon really fast the more generations you go back.

Fathom was alive 2000 years ago. If we lean conservatively and say the average dragon has eggs at age 20, that means 100 generations have come and gone from then to today. The number of ancestors over this many generations is so high, you might pick any Seawing currently alive in present day and there will be a very decent chance of them having Fathom somewhere in their bloodline.

You go back far enough and everyone starts to be related to everyone else. Ancestry is funny like that.

For the more narratively interesting answer: I do believe Fathom re-integrated into the royal family again. One thing that needs to be kept in mind is that Pearl, like her brother, also had her entire life uprooted by the Royal Seawing Massacre. She was all at once dealing with the shock of losing her parents and the stress of having to now run the entire kingdom without being prepared for it at all. There was no time to process any grief, or the lingering fear. When she sent her brother away and forbade him to have children, that wasn't an act of malice, it was the only solution she could think of to keep everyone safe from the future threat of magic without also having to execute the last part of her family.

Neither of them ever had any ill will against the other. Pearl was dealt the shittiest of hands and she tried to make the best play she could at the time, while desperately trying to keep herself together. That is what I think.

As Pearl and Fathom got older and the situation in the Sea Kingdom stabilized, Pearl might have finally been able to reflect upon what happened and to process some of her neglected emotional turmoil. I believe Fathom eventually reached out again and they both found a way to reconcile, mending their fractured relationship. I don't know if Fathom moved back into the palace; perhaps he chose to stay away to keep the rest of the populace at ease. But I think his children or grand-children would eventually re-integrate into the royal family.

This turned out a bit wordy and the question was sitting in my inbox for a good while. But I hope this provides an interesting answer.

[hypnonerd1095]

Contract

"Wake up Amanda"

Amanda blinked, confusion and drowsiness washing over her as she stumbled a bit, thankfully the man who had spoken to her was quick to catch her and steady her back on her feet.

"Easy there Amanda, I know it's disorienting, just take it slow. Good girl" the man said reassuringly

She shook her head a bit, trying to regain her bearings. She hadn't responded to the name Amanda for over a month now, it took a moment to even recognize the man was speaking to her, but being called a good girl sent a wave of calm and contentment through her that helped slow her thoughts enough to focus. That was right, she was Amanda, and this man had been her employer for the past month... what was his name again? The memory of that was fuzzy, the only name she could come up with was Master...

"Ngh... is it always this bothersome when we wake up?" Amanda grumbled, letting Master guide her to a chair as she rubbed her temples "no offense Master, but you should really work on this... also why can't I remember your name?"

Master chuckled "it gets easier the more used to it you become. This was your first time so it makes sense your thoughts are jumbled. As for my name, that's a bit of a safety precaution. Can't have you spreading word about this position around after your employment ends, everything is technically above board, but you never know what kind of protesters might show up on principle" he explained

"Right... the position... " Amanda mumbled "so I've seriously been your slave for a month? I can only remember bits and pieces. Guess that's part of it huh?"

"Yes, we can negotiate how much you do or don't want to remember. Some of my girls enjoy knowing exactly what is being done to them in their waking lives, some wish to leave their work lives separate. For trial runs like this we default to partial remembrance, in case you decide not to renew" Master said with a nod, providing her a laptop "feel free to confirm your payment was received and anything else you like. I'll have a servant bring you something to drink that should help. We can talk more when your head is fully clear"

Amanda nodded, logging into her bank account, wow, that was a lot more zeroes at the end of her balance than she was used to. Checking the transaction history, it was legit. Exactly the amount he'd promised, and a little more to boot for "extraordinary performance." She didn't know what that referred to but she blushed at the words, she had a decent idea.

A woman "dressed" in what one might classify as "underwear" if they were feeling generous came in with a plate of food and a fizzy drink. Amanda couldn't help but steal glances at the woman as she stood at attention, smiling down at Amanda blissfully.

"T-thanks" Amanda murmured, focusing on her meal. Is that what she'd looked like? The woman seemed so happy and content, didn't even seem cold from the lack of clothing.

It was hard to believe this job was real. Voluntarily be turned into a hypnotized slave for a predetermined length of time, all living expenses covered, and get paid a generous wage to use as she saw fit during her time off. She could even set limits on what tasks she'd be used for... though the less restrictions she placed on her service the more she was paid.

When Master had approached her with his offer she'd almost called the cops on him to have him carted away to an asylum. Only a sizable up front deposit had convinced her to humor him... but there was no denying it was real now.

When Master returned, he carried with him several different contracts. "Now that you've had time to clear your head, I've brought you options to review going forward. You can, of course, decide this job isn't for you. But you did quite well here, I'm prepared to offer you quite a generous starting wage." he said, putting the various contracts down in front of her.

Amanda looked over the contracts, various lengths, with varying amounts of time on and off duty. With what she'd made already she could easily walk away, this nest egg would carry her a long time. She could go back to her old boring job, serving customers with a fake smile, following inane orders from bosses who either didn't know or didn't care how impossible their expectations were. All for a pitiful wage that wasn't remotely worth it. It'd be better now, with these savings she had... but...

Amanda glanced at the slave next to her, that blissful expression mixed with arousal now that Master was here. Was being a hypnotized slave really worse than being a wage slave? She could feel like THAT all day, and live in luxury on her weeks off. Work this job for a few years and she could even retire!

She barely needed to think about it as she took the longest-term contract on offer, filled out her choice of restrictions, and signed her name. Probably the last time she'd be using her name for quite a while. Her Master smiled.

"Glad to have you with us, my Good Girl. Now then, slave A-42 activate"

Amanda smiled as the trigger took hold, she was going to enjoy this new job.

[hazelcuttlefish]

On Protestants and the Bible -and much more this got long idk what happened. The Evangelicals and Fundies especially like the King James above all others yeah. Some of their churches will have bible studies and even groups that are dedicated to read the Bible, so it’s not like all are discouraging reading the Bible. In my experience though it’s more of an aspiration than something viewed as necessary.

However they also often have what they consider the “correct” and therefore definitive interpretation of the Bible overall and will twist themselves up -aka use cognitive dissonance- to support it. You can take personal meaning to a certain point but you might find issues if it contradicts the churches consensus. I’ve also had a lot of experience with literalists. Now, this is not exclusive to Christianity or abrahamic religions I’m sure but idk a such about those so here I’m just talking about Christian biblical literalism and infallibility.

Worth mentioning most religions interpret their texts in a variety of ways. This is normal for religions. What gets me is when one school of thought adamantly believes theirs is the most correct most special interpretation and everyone else is misled or ignoring “the truth” as stubbornly refuses to consider any other opinions.*1 Again, I’m focusing on Evangelical Christianity here lightly touching on fundies too.

Evangelical Literalist Beliefs, based on my observations. -

The Bible is infallible -as long as it is the “right” one.

The Bible should be taken literal -as long as it is the “right” interpretation of what a particular verse literally means.

Obey the law of the Bible “literally” because it is the infallible word of God -often with “BTW we only promote the King James Version” but this is not exclusively so among Evangelicals.

Now literalism can get wild because they will say they are being literalist, and then have a bunch of wild interpretations beside the literal that… don’t make sense under that professed belief! For instance, the Old Testament, few Christian sects follow the rules of the Old Testament with the explanation that Jesus made a new law that supersedes it. This despite -or based on interpretation traditions?- ex. Mathew 5:17 “Do not think I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I have not come to abolish them, but to fulfill them.” Jesus’ words. So that can be interpreted a) keep following the old law. B) Jesus has fulfilled the old law we don’t need to follow it anymore. C) Jesus sided on the cross for our sins so we don’t need to worry about the old law anymore. Sometimes it’s one or two. More often? It’s not any one of those, it’s a random mix of all of them. You follow *some* of the rules in the Old Testament, the big ones. 10 commandments, don’t be/do gay, don’t cross dress, a random smattering of others. Why not the others? Eh. They don’t apply anymore/are not as important/other nebulous reason.

Or that evolution is not real and the earth -and maybe universe- are literally 5,000 year old. The most ridiculous examples of this is when I got dragged on a family trip to the Ark Encounter in Kentucky which…

a) features dinosaurs which weren’t allowed on the Ark?

b) claims that evolution is not real but that the Ark needed only 2 of each “kind” -type- of animal and in the past 4 thousand years they have changed -somehow differently from evolution- to be the animals of today. So there was one type of bear that became all the types of bear today. Note, as far as I could tell that “kind” of the animal doesn’t exist anymore because it’s become all the others. How is that not evolution? (I mean aside from the fact that the timescale is way too fast for every land animal in the world, and other technical issues). Who tf knows?

c) Noah and his family were vegetarians. This one was pretty mid but I was surprised to see it there.

d) that this giant boat might be able to float but they weren’t allowed to test it and don’t rely on it if the area floods -state mandated sign. Also that the state made them use metal nails and support and concrete to allow people in. (Ok that’s not very relevant but it’s funny and I’m including it)

e) all the animals were kept in very small crates and maybe god just made them stay calm? (This despite the horrifying screeching animal sounds throughout the first floor.)

f) I think they do some attempt to explain why people then could live 600 years but I was pretty hungry and zoned out by then so I don’t really remember what it was.

I mention that because the attraction is pretty popular amongst the evangelicals. Including the Amish*1.

So they make a lot of claims, some of them are based on the Bible and then the extrapolations from there do vary in logic and even biblical source quite a bit. So there’s very much a willingness to go outside the Bible IF they feel it is supporting their arguments.

Now to be clear I’m sure some groups think that the Ark Encounter is tantamount to heresy. Even perhaps blasphemy or sacrilege. Personally, I became an agnostic when I was a teen from the thought “hey maybe everyone doesn’t deserve to burn in hell if they don’t accept Jesus. I don’t think I believe that actually”, and for other reasons after I thought my Christian faith was pretty well dead and buried. Somehow. Sitting in this monument to antireason, I did find some vestige remnants of that faith, and had all those thoughts -that this all looks to me like potential idolatry, blasphemy, heresy, sacrilege of the highest order, take your pick. Of course, I don’t really believe any of that should be actionable. If these people want to build an amusement park based on a Bible story about how the people of the world became so disconnected and awful God decided to wipe them all out and start over. If this is what they want to build they should have every right too.

To be clear. I want to an Independent Baptist not quite megachurch which wasn’t strictly fundamental, was certainly Evangelical, and had many of these ideas emerging into the services and ideas people had as time went on. I remember at one point during Wednesday service they did -or started to do- a segment on Biblical History, which to me as a preteen seemed pretty reasonable researched and interested in exploring the historical context of the Bible. I took notes! And people laughed at me for it! Not cruelly, more like they thought it was quaintly pious, like it was cute that I was interested in the history of my own religion. That did last a few weeks at least but tbh. I do recall really missing it when it was over, and it was back to business with a weird combination of condemnation, fluffy god is loving and forgiving feel good sermons, and mild homophobia. Also a lot of modern hymns. A lot.

My main point. Often a great deal of what Evangelicals and fundies are basing everything is just their own feelings. Whatever makes them most comfortable at the time and also whatever has been fed to them. Even if they are encouraged to read the Bible, that’s a secondary thing. They are there to feel good, to feel like they’d re good holy people. Probably too many of them want to feel it is correct do them to feel superior and oppress others too but idk if that’s the main reason. I think they just want comfort, they don’t want to think, they don’t want to try or accept new things. They aren’t seeking deeper meaning, they just want to feel better. And Evangelicals are very good at feeding people feel good fluff mixed between the bs.

*1- I’m sure other religions beside Christianity have this but I don’t have experience with them and have far less information on them so I’m not talking about them.

*2- Amish or conservative Mennonite’s possibly. Apparently some of them built it and some are allowed to visit. Related, they try to get everyone who comes to take a photo, so they can sell you pics later. Uh. Idk if they make the Amish none were in line with us.

other notes below.

for some reason they had a unrolled Torah scroll on display. Idk what was happening with that or what Jewish folk think about that so let me know. I’m really curious to know.

Also they’ve got their artistic renditions of Noah’s family, who are all different races. So I guess diversity win for the Ark Encounter?

Diversity loss for the evil reporter woman who they have in their little film. I guess artistic license but the plot of this film is roughly-

- During Noah’s time he gets interviewed by a reporter who is a woman with red face tats and thinks that him building this boat and his reasons for it are ridiculous and she’s very rude and flippant.

- The style is 100% presented as modern news crew except they have like an artist drawing him and a scribe and etc.

- Then they all leave and Noah’s like “So sad she will soon drown to death with everyone else”.

- Part 2- it’s modern day and the woman’s doppelgänger -without face tats- is interviewing the builder of the Ark Encounter. She is being forced to by her job, think it’s beneath her and ridiculous, tried to call out some of the ridiculous claims -very much in the straw man argument style.

- this time tho the builder actually appears to change her mind. Somehow. So at the end she gives her dad a hat from the Ark Encounter to indicate this time her souls might be saved.

The End. It’s a very short movie. It’s also very bad -to the point it is kinda funny.

Since posting that "how many mass graves and extinct cultures" post last month, I've had multiple Christians in the notes whining that there isn't a "specific instruction of belief that Christianity needs to wipe out every other religion in the world" in Christianity's teachings, and that it's all just The Church/King James/etc.

And every time, I point to the literal text of the passages of The Great Commission.

And nearly every time, that shuts them up; the only time it didn't, it was to engage in some disgusting semantical goalpost moving.

But it's like...

Why do Christians not know the content of their own texts? Is your faith really so tribalistic and totemic around the concept of "Jesus" that you all don't bother to actually read the religious texts?

It feels like it must be--I've heard of too many instances of Christians walking out of readings of The Sermon On The Mount because they think it's "liberal nonsense" and the like, but I just find it baffling and more than a little sad that I, a Jew, apparently knows the New Testament's text better than the people who swear by it and ostensibly believe and follow it.

[s4svnn]

Out of bounds . JJK

↳ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬; his love subjected you to the true extent of deception, a merciless lie wrapped in the illusion of paradise, until the truth tore it apart - he was always out of bounds.

↳ Jungkook x reader

↳ 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬: ongoing

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

Chapter Forty Four

Aylah’s POV:

I sat on my bed, staring at the floor, my arms wrapped around my knees as if holding myself together would stop me from falling apart. The room was dimly lit, just the glow of my bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls. I hadn't moved in what felt like hours. I didn't want to. I couldn't.

“AJ, talk to me.” Kayla’s voice was gentle, pleading.

I stayed quiet, my throat tight, my body frozen in place.

Silence stretched between us, thick and suffocating.

“I know the situation is horrible,” she said after a moment, her voice laced with that mix of pain and forced optimism. “But all we can do is sit here and hope for the best. Don’t do this to yourself.”

I buried my face in my hands, hot tears spilling onto my palms, but I made no sound. I couldn’t let see me like this. I didn’t want her to know just how broken I felt.

Kayla sighed softly on the other side of the door. “I’ll be in the living room if you want to talk.”

She paused for a moment and then spoke again.

“Just hang in there, babe,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s going to be okay.”

I clenched my fists, pressing them against my forehead, trying to steady my breathing. The weight in my chest was unbearable, pressing down like a vice, making every breath feel forced. I lifted my head, blinking through the haze of my tears, staring at the closed door. The room felt colder, emptier now that Kayla had walked away. But I still couldn’t bring myself to open that door.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me, but it did nothing to stop the cold sinking into my bones. My mind wouldn’t shut off, no matter how much I wanted it to. No matter how much I tried to push the thoughts away, they came crashing back—louder, heavier.

Jade’s voice echoed in my head, sharp and unforgiving. I squeezed my eyes shut, my nails digging into my palms. The memory of her words sent a fresh wave of fear through me, making my stomach twist painfully. She wasn’t bluffing. I knew that.

Jade wasn’t the kind of person to make empty threats. She had looked me dead in the eye when she spoke, her expression unreadable, her voice eerily calm—like she was stating a fact rather than threatening my life.

And the worst part? I believed her. Every word.

I should’ve listened. I should’ve walked away, done what she wanted the first time, and put as much distance between myself and Jungkook as possible.

But I hadn’t. I couldn’t.

And now, he was paying the price.

I was deep in thought when a loud noise from outside echoed in my room causing me to flinch at the suddeness. It was the sound of a car engine. My body tensed, as it grew louder and louder. Slowly, I lifted my head, my ears straining for any sign of what—who—it could be. My heartbeat thudded against my ribs, but I forced myself to move. Slipping off the bed, I crept toward my window, pushing the curtain aside just enough to peek through.

A black car idled across the street, its headlights cutting through the darkness. I swallowed hard. It wasn’t familiar. The engine hummed for a moment longer before, finally, the car pulled away, disappearing down the road.

I let out a shaky breath, but the unease didn’t leave me. Was I being paranoid? Was it her? Or was it someone else?

I stepped back from the window, my arms wrapping around myself. The house felt too quiet now, the kind of quiet that made my skin crawl. Forcing myself to move, I opened my door just enough to hear Kayla’s soft movements in the living room—the faint rustle of a blanket, the occasional click of her phone. She was still here.

I wasn’t alone. But then why did I feel like I was being watched?

A sudden, piercing ring shattered the heavy silence of my room, making me gasp as my heart jolted violently against my ribs. The unexpected sound sent a ripple of unease through me, my body tensing instinctively. My eyes snapped toward the phone resting beside me, its screen glowing in the dim light. For a split second, I hesitated before glancing at the name displayed on the screen.

Adam.

I froze. It had been ages since we last spoke. Ages since everything between us shifted. The last conversation we had was anything but pleasant—his voice had been laced with anger, his words cutting and filled with disappointment when he found out about me and Jungkook. I still remembered the bitterness in his tone, the frustration that practically radiated from him.

So why was he calling me now? And more importantly, why at this hour?

My thumb hovered uncertainly over the answer button, hesitation tightening my chest. A part of me wanted to ignore it, let the call ring out until it eventually stopped. Avoiding this conversation seemed like the easier choice. But at the same time, curiosity gnawed at me, a restless pull in my gut that wouldn’t let me ignore the strange timing of it all.

After a brief internal battle, I inhaled deeply, steadying myself before finally pressing the button.

Bringing the phone to my ear, I forced my voice to stay neutral. “Hello?”

“Hey, AJ.” His voice came through smooth, casual—too casual. “You home?”

I frowned, confusion settling into my expression. That wasn’t the question I expected. My grip on the phone tightened slightly as I hesitated before answering.

“Yeah…” I trailed off, my tone cautious. “Why?”

Adam didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was light, almost too nonchalant. “Just wanted to know how you were doing. I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

I swallowed, my fingers gripping the edge of my blanket as I shifted uncomfortably.

“Yeah… sorry about that,” I muttered, my voice quieter now. “I haven’t been feeling my best lately.”

“What’s wrong?” His tone changed slightly, the curiosity giving way to what sounded like genuine concern.

I parted my lips, ready to say it—to tell him the truth. That Jungkook had been in an accident. That I had barely been able to function, weighed down by the fear and guilt pressing heavily on my chest. That I felt like my world was crumbling, and I didn’t know how to stop it.

But then, just as quickly as the words formed, I swallowed them back down. Something held me back. I didn’t know what it was—maybe instinct, maybe hesitation, or maybe just the simple fact that I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear Adam’s reaction if I did tell him.

So instead, I forced out a shallow exhale and settled for something vague. “You know… just life.”

Adam let out a small chuckle on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I get what you mean. The world’s a cruel place.”

I rubbed my temple, my voice quieter when I replied. “It really is.”

“I guess only the rich get to be happy,” he continued, his tone almost reflective. “Peasants like us have to deal with the harsh realities of the world.”

I let out a forced laugh, hoping to smooth over the awkwardness that had started to settle into the conversation. “Yeah…”

There was a brief pause before Adam spoke again, his voice almost thoughtful now. “If I was rich, I’d have no problems at all. After all, money is power.”

I stilled. Something about that phrase sent a sharp, unexpected wave of unease rolling through me. It wasn’t just the words themselves—it was the way they sounded, the way they rang in my ears as if I had heard them before, spoken in a different voice, in a different moment.

For a second, I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. The feeling of recognition was there, hovering just beneath the surface, but I couldn’t quite grasp where it was coming from.

“…What did you just say?” I asked, my voice quieter this time, cautious.

There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, and when Adam finally responded, he sounded slightly confused, as if he wasn’t sure why I was reacting this way.

“Uh… money is power?” he repeated, his tone uncertain.

The moment he said it again, the uneasy feeling in my chest intensified. I knew I had heard that phrase before. Not just in passing, not in some generic conversation about wealth and status—but somewhere specific, somewhere important. My mind raced, sifting through my memories, trying to find the missing piece that would explain why those three words sent a chill down my spine.

I couldn’t let Adam pick up on the shift in my tone, though. If I kept dwelling on it, he’d notice something was off. So I forced a small laugh, trying to make my voice sound lighthearted, as if I hadn’t just been thrown into a spiral of deep thought.

“You’re right,” I said, gripping the phone a little tighter. “The rich can throw money at their problems to make them disappear, while the rest of us actually have to work through them to overcome anything.”

Adam let out a short laugh in response. “Exactly. Anyways, hang in there, AJ. I hope to see you on Monday.”

“Yeah…” I murmured, still distracted. “See you.”

The call ended, but the tension in my body remained. I sat there for a long moment, staring blankly at my phone screen, my thumb hovering over the home button. Money is power. Those words refused to leave my mind, circling like a vulture, picking apart every other thought I tried to focus on. Why did that phrase feel so significant? Why did it feel like a warning rather than just an observation?

Slowly, I pushed myself off my bed and began pacing the room, my bare feet moving in small, controlled circles against the hardwood floor. I ran my fingers through my hair, my brows furrowed as I dug deeper, searching for the connection my brain was trying to make.

And then it hit me.

Jade.

She had said that.

I stopped pacing, my breath catching in my throat as the realization crashed down on me.

The last time I had seen her, when she warned me to stay away from Jungkook—she had looked me dead in the eye, her voice smooth yet laced with something dark, and she had said it. Money is power.

I slowly sat back on my bed, my mind now spinning with an entirely different kind of confusion. Why would Adam say something like that out of nowhere? We had been talking about problems, about how unfair life was, and then suddenly, he brought up wealth and power as if it was the most natural transition in the world. But it wasn’t. It didn’t fit.

There was no reason for him to be talking about something like that. Unless it wasn’t just a passing thought, some random musing about wealth and privilege. Unless, somehow, Adam knew more than he was letting on. A lump formed in my throat as I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around my phone. A creeping sense of unease slithered through me, my thoughts racing in circles. I hadn’t told him about Jungkook’s accident. He had no way of knowing, no reason to bring up the idea that the rich could easily overcome their problems, and yet… it almost felt like he was referencing it directly.

As if, in his mind, Jungkook’s wealth meant his injuries didn’t matter. As if money would guarantee his survival, rendering the accident insignificant. As if the pain, the fear, the uncertainty I had been drowning in was nothing more than an inconvenience that could be bought away.

The realization sent a cold shiver down my spine. Adam had caused the accident.

My fingers trembled as I frantically scrolled through my phone contacts, my pulse pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Damian, Damian, Damian—where the hell is Damian? My breath was uneven, coming in sharp, ragged gasps as my vision blurred with panic. My hands felt unsteady, almost disconnected from my body as I finally landed on his name and pressed Call, shoving the phone against my ear with so much force it nearly hurt.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Three times.

Come on. Pick up. Please, pick up.

The ringing continued, each second stretching longer than the last, my heart hammering so violently I thought it might burst out of my chest.

"Come on, come on," I muttered under my breath, my other hand curling into a fist at my side, nails digging into my palm.

The call went to voicemail.

"No, no, no," I whispered, barely able to process the rejection as I yanked the phone away from my ear and stared down at the screen in disbelief. My chest tightened, frustration and fear tangling together into a suffocating knot. I didn't have time for this. I couldn't afford to wait.

Without another second of hesitation, I bolted toward my bedroom door, yanking it open so violently that it slammed against the wall with a deafening bang. "Kayla, we need to go. Now!" I shouted, my voice sharp and urgent as I rushed into the living room, my heart threatening to beat out of my ribcage.

Kayla, who had been curled up on the couch, nearly jumped out of her skin. Her phone slipped from her hands onto the cushion beside her as she shot up, her wide, startled eyes locking onto mine. "W-What? Go where? What’s happening?" she stammered, her voice thick with confusion.

“The hospital! Quickly—grab your jacket!” The words flew out of my mouth so fast they barely sounded coherent, but I didn’t have time to explain. My hands were already fumbling with my sneakers, fingers shaking so badly I could barely shove my feet inside.

Kayla didn’t waste a second pressing for details. Something in my tone must have told her this was serious, because she immediately grabbed her jacket, threw it over her shoulders, and rushed after me as I flung the front door open. The cold night air hit my skin like a slap, but I barely registered it.

We practically threw ourselves into Kayla’s car, and as she jammed the key into the ignition with slightly unsteady hands, she turned to me, her brows furrowed with concern. “AJ, you still haven’t told me what’s going on. Did something happen to Jungkook?”

“There’s no time,” I said, my voice clipped, my stomach twisting into a mess of nerves. “Just drive. Get there as fast as you can.”

Kayla’s lips parted like she wanted to argue, but she must have sensed the sheer urgency rolling off of me because she didn't push it. Instead, she slammed her foot onto the gas pedal, and the tires screeched against the pavement as we lurched forward.

The city blurred past us in a chaotic mess of streetlights and neon signs, the roads almost empty at this hour. Kayla didn’t hold back. She weaved through the streets at a reckless speed, pushing past the limits, her hands gripping the wheel so tightly her knuckles turned white. The highway stretched before us in a tunnel of glowing lights, the colors blending together as we shot past them.

I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My mind was racing too fast, tangled in a million possibilities, each one worse than the last. Twenty agonizing minutes later, Kayla swerved into the hospital parking lot, barely bothering to park properly before I was already throwing open the door and sprinting toward the entrance.

I shoved past the front desk without so much as a glance, my only focus on one thing—finding Damian. The waiting room was dimly lit, eerily quiet except for the occasional cough or the low murmur of voices. My frantic gaze darted across the chairs, scanning each figure until—

There. Damian was slumped over in the farthest corner, his arms crossed, head tilted back, fast asleep. I rushed toward him and grabbed his shoulders, shaking him so hard his head snapped forward. “Damian! Wake up!”

He jolted upright with a startled gasp, blinking rapidly as his unfocused eyes darted around. “W-What? What happened?” he mumbled, still groggy.

I barely gave him a second to reorient himself before leaning in, my breath still ragged. “Where’s Jungkook’s room?”

Damian rubbed his eyes, still half-asleep. “What? Why—”

“Just tell me where it is!” My voice cracked, raw with desperation.

His grogginess instantly vanished, replaced by concern. “I’ll take you—what’s going on? Is something wrong?”

“Yes! We need to go now!”

At the sheer panic in my voice, Damian didn’t hesitate. He shot up from his seat and bolted down the hallway, and I followed, my legs burning from the effort of keeping up.

When we reached Jungkook’s room, I nearly slammed into him as he stopped abruptly. I grabbed the door handle and twisted. Locked. My stomach dropped. I pressed my forehead against the door’s small window, trying to peer inside, but the dim lighting and drawn curtains made it impossible to see anything clearly.

“We need to get inside,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper, my throat tightening with fear.

Damian hesitated. “AJ… we can’t. The doctors won’t let us in. His condition—”

I turned on him so fast he flinched. “Damian, if we don’t get this door open right now, Jungkook isn’t going to make it.”

His face paled. “What? What do you mean—”

I sucked in a shaky breath, my voice barely holding steady. “I think I know who caused the accident… and if I’m right, they’re going to make sure Jungkook never makes it out of this hospital alive.”

For a moment, Damian just stared at me, his face frozen in shock. Then, as if breaking out of a trance, he stammered, “O-Okay! I’ll go get a doctor—stay here!”

He turned and ran. But I wasn’t waiting. My eyes darted around the hall before landing on a heavy wooden chair against the wall. Without thinking, I grabbed it, lifted it, and swung it full force into the glass panel of the door.

A deafening CRASH echoed through the corridor as shards exploded onto the floor. Ignoring the sharp sting of glass cutting my hands, I reached through the jagged hole, twisted the handle from the inside, and pushed the door open.

I rushed inside—and froze. Jungkook lay motionless on the hospital bed. His body was wrapped in thick, bloodied bandages, deep gashes slashing across his face, his lips cracked and bruised beyond recognition. His arm was hooked up to an IV, his chest rising and falling so weakly it was almost imperceptible.

Then, out of nowhere, a cold breeze ghosted across my skin, sending an involuntary shudder through my body. My breath hitched as a deep, uneasy feeling settled in my chest.I turned sharply, my pulse spiking. The window was open. My stomach twisted. Slowly, I stepped toward it, each movement careful, my heartbeat hammering louder with every inch I closed between myself and the dark abyss beyond the glass. When I reached it, I hesitated, then leaned forward, peering outside.

Nothing. No figures lurking in the shadows. No signs of movement. Just the eerie silence of the night. And yet, the question clawed at the edges of my mind, relentless and suffocating.

Who opened it?

Damian’s panting breaths filled the tense silence as he finally reached the door. 

"I couldn’t find any doctors—oh, you opened the door," he said, his voice still uneven from running.

I didn’t waste a second. "Did the doctor open the window of this room?"

Damian’s brows knitted together in confusion. "No. As far as I’m concerned, all the windows were closed when I was last here."

A shaky exhale left my lips, my thoughts spiraling as dread settled deep in my chest.

Damian stepped closer, concern etching itself onto his face. "What’s wrong?"

I swallowed hard before answering. "The window was open… wide enough for someone to get in."

His expression shifted instantly, his body tensing. "What? But there’s no way the doctors would’ve done that. And even if they had they always make sure to shut them at night—just in case something happens to the patient." He paused, his mind catching up to what I was implying. His lips parted slightly before he hesitantly asked, "Do you think—"

"Yeah," I cut him off, my voice low but firm. "Someone was trying to get in."

Damian’s jaw clenched. "You said you knew who caused the accident, do you think it was them?"

I hesitated, the weight of my own suspicions pressing down on me. I had a name. But was I truly ready to say it?

"I'm not sure yet," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "But… I think it was Adam."

Damian’s entire body stiffened. "Adam? As in your boss, Adam?"

I nodded. "Yeah. He said some weird things on the phone earlier. Things that didn’t sit right with me."

Damian’s frown deepened. "What did he say?"

I hesitated again, my thoughts flickering back to her—to Jade. To the threat she had made.

For a moment, I considered keeping quiet, shielding Damian from the truth like I had been trying to shield myself. But then I thought of Jungkook, battered and broken in that hospital bed, completely vulnerable. If I had to risk my own life to protect him, then so be it. I refused to cower any longer.

Taking a steadying breath, I finally spoke. "I saw Jade."

Damian’s entire demeanor shifted. His eyes darkened, his shoulders tensing.

"Wait, jade’s in London?"

"Yeah, I saw her in the car park of the hospital earlier rtoday and she admitted it. She said she orchestrated the crash. She wanted to bring him back to her, and this was her way of doing it." My fingers curled into fists at my sides. "But she also hinted at something—something I didn’t catch at first. It wasn’t her who was driving, it was someone else."

Damian inhaled sharply, realization beginning to dawn on him.

I pushed forward. "Then I got that call from Adam. And at first, it just seemed like a normal conversation. But then… he said something that stuck with me. Something Jade said to me just hours before."

Damian stared at me, waiting.

"Money is power," I whispered.

Damian’s eyes widened slightly.

"Adam’s always hated Jungkook," I said. "He never liked that I was around him, and when he found out I was giving him a chance, he was furious. But tonight, when he called me, he started talking about how the rich can overcome their problems easily—how money solidifies their power." I clenched my jaw. "It was the exact same thing Jade said to me. Almost word for word."

Damian let out a sharp exhale, rubbing a hand over his face. "So you think it’s them? That they worked together?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. I think so."

A tense silence filled the room before Damian muttered, "Fuck. This is worse than I thought."

I turned to look at him, my vision blurring with unshed tears. My voice wavered as I asked, "What do we do? We can’t just leave him here."

Damian placed a firm hand on my shoulder, grounding me. "We won’t. Don’t worry. I’ll hire a private doctor, get them to tend to him in his hotel room so we can stay with him."

I nodded, watching as Damian pulled out his phone and made the call. He spoke quickly, his tone sharp with urgency. When he finally ended the call, his expression hardened.

"We need to put an end to this," he said, his voice filled with a quiet rage. "Jade’s made us all suffer far too much. That bitch deserves to rot in hell for what she did to you, me and Jungkook."

I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at him, my heart pounding. "You told me that Jungkook would tell me whatever it was that Jade did to him—that thing that tore you two apart. But now look at him." My voice broke. "I don’t even know if he’s going to make it out of this alive. So, Damian, I need you to tell me what happened. I need to know what that bitch did to him so we can put her down once and for all."

Damian’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his hesitation palpable. He shifted on his feet, as if debating whether to say the words aloud.

"I—I…"

"Damian, please," I pleaded, my voice trembling. "I spent so long hating him. So long blaming him for everything that happened. And now I’m finally seeing the truth. But I can’t see all of it unless you tell me what happened. I need to know that he’s the person I think he is. That this time, I’m seeing the real him—not some version I convinced myself was real. So please, tell me."

Damian inhaled deeply, his hands running through his hair in frustration before he finally exhaled.

And then, in a hushed voice, he said, "The contract she put you into, she’s had him in the same one since he was fourteen."

The world around me tilted.

My lips parted, but no words came out. My throat was tight, my breathing shallow. The room around me blurred, my body swaying slightly as if the air had been knocked out of me.

No. No, that couldn’t be right.

I stumbled back, gripping the edge of the hospital bed to steady myself. Jungkook lay there, motionless, his face bruised and cut beyond recognition. He had been through hell, and now I was beginning to understand why.

How had I not known? How had I spent all this time thinking he was the villain—believing he was just another selfish, power-hungry bastard—when all this time, he had been just as trapped as I was?

"AJ." Damian’s voice was softer now, but it barely registered in my ears.

I forced myself to speak, but my voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Why… why didn’t he tell me?"

Damian sighed, his expression dark. "Because he couldn’t."

I shook my head. "No. He could’ve. He—" My voice broke, and I swallowed hard, trying to keep the storm raging inside me from completely unraveling. "He should’ve told me. He should’ve told me!"

Damian clenched his jaw. "And what would you have done, AJ? You think you could’ve saved him when you couldn’t even save yourself?"

His words stung, but he wasn’t wrong.

I had barely escaped Jade’s grasp myself. I had spent months completely unaware that I was under her control, manipulated and used, my life dictated by her twisted rules. And if Jungkook had been suffering too—if he had been living the same nightmare since he was fourteen—then how much had he endured?

How many times had he tried to fight back? How many times had he failed?

I looked back at Jungkook, at the blood seeping through his bandages, at the deep gash along his cheek, at his hands—hands that had once held me with warmth but were now limp and lifeless at his sides.

I had spent so long hating him. So long blaming him. And now I realized—I had been blind.

I clenched my fists. "What else do you know?"

Damian hesitated. "AJ, maybe we should—"

"No," I cut him off sharply, my voice steadier now. Stronger. "No more secrets. No more half-truths. Tell me everything."

Damian exhaled, running a hand through his hair before nodding. "Fine." His eyes locked onto mine, his expression unreadable.

Damian took a deep breath, his jaw tightening as he ran a hand through his already disheveled hair. His hesitation only made my stomach churn harder. Whatever he was about to tell me—I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear it. But I had to.

I needed to. I glanced back at Jungkook’s unconscious body, at the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital sheets. I needed to know the truth, his truth—because for far too long, I had only seen him through the lies and manipulation that Jade had wrapped around us both.

Damian exhaled slowly. "She owned him, AJ." His voice was quiet but sharp, slicing through the thick tension in the room. 

I swallowed, my throat dry. "What do you mean?"

Damian looked away for a second, as if the memories alone were too much for him to handle. Then he met my gaze again, his expression unreadable. "You already know what she does to people like us—how she traps us, controls us. But with Jungkook… it wasn’t just a contract. It was his whole damn life."

A shiver ran through me.

"What?" I whispered.

"He didn’t have a choice, AJ. She made sure of that." Damian let out a humorless chuckle, but there was something dark in his eyes, something bitter. "You and I… we had lives before Jade. We had choices, even if they were limited. But Jungkook? He had nothing before her. No family. No home. He was just some kid scraping by on his own, fighting to survive. And she knew that. She took him in, gave him everything he never had—but at a cost."

My chest tightened, a sick feeling twisting in my gut.

Jungkook had always been reckless. Always cold. Always impossible to read. But if this was true, if he had been under Jade’s control since he was fourteen, then maybe it wasn’t recklessness at all. Maybe it was desperation. Maybe he had never truly been free.

"She built him into what she wanted—trained him, conditioned him. And by the time he was old enough to fight back, it was too late. He belonged to her."

I felt like I was going to be sick.

But Damian kept going, his voice lower now, as if saying the words out loud made them more dangerous. "Jade always knew how to break people, but with Jungkook… she made sure he never even knew what it was like to not be broken, s-she had sex with him to solidify the terms of the contract, s-she made him think that the only person he could ever rely on was her and t-that her sexual advances on him was love."

I shook my head, my mind refusing to accept the weight of Damian’s words. My pulse pounded against my skull, each beat drumming louder than the last. "She couldn’t have," I whispered, my voice breaking under the sheer disbelief clawing its way through me. "Damian, he was just a kid. He was fourteen. She couldn’t have done that—"

But even as I said it, the words felt hollow. A weak attempt to deny the undeniable.

Damian exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face as if trying to wipe away the memories. His jaw was tight, his expression dark with something dangerously close to rage. "She did, AJ. That fucking bitch didn’t just manipulate him—she rewired him. She took a lonely, desperate kid and made him believe that the only way to survive was to belong to her."

My stomach twisted.

"She distorted his understanding of love," Damian continued, his voice laced with barely contained fury. "Made him think that what she was doing was okay. That an older woman acting like that with him was normal.Because she was the only one who ‘cared’ about him. The only one who ‘understood’ him." He spat the words like poison. "She groomed him, AJ."

A sickening wave of nausea crashed over me.

Jungkook never talked about his past. Not in detail. I had always thought it was just his nature—his unwillingness to open up, his need to keep people at a distance. But what if it wasn’t that at all? What if he had spent so long under Jade’s control that he didn’t even know how to talk about it?

What if he thought there was nothing wrong with it?

I felt my chest tighten, my breaths coming quicker. "He never told me." The words barely made it past my lips. "He never said—"

"Because he didn’t see it the way we do," Damian cut in, shaking his head. "Jade didn’t just use him, AJ. She created him. Made sure he never even questioned it. She made herself his entire world before he ever got the chance to build one of his own, that’s why he didnt think twice when she told him to do the same with you, he thought it was normal."

My hands clenched into fists at my sides.

A cold shiver ran down my spine as Damian’s words settled deep into my bones. My nails dug into my palms, the sting barely registering against the storm raging inside me.

"She told him to do the same with me."

The realization sent a sharp pang through my chest, twisting something inside me that I wasn’t ready to confront.

Jungkook hadn’t just hurt me because he was reckless. He hadn’t just manipulated me because he was cruel. He had done it because he had been taught to. Because, to him, it wasn’t manipulation—it was just the way things were.

That’s what Jade had done to him. She had broken him so thoroughly that he couldn’t even see the cracks.

My breath hitched as memories flooded in, ones I had buried under layers of anger and resentment. The way Jungkook had reeled me in, the way he had made me feel like the only person in the world—only to push me away just as easily. The way he had controlled every situation, how he had known exactly what to say to keep me tethered to him, even when I swore I wouldn’t fall for it again.

It had all been learned behavior. A survival instinct, ingrained into him since he was fourteen.

I took a shaky breath, my voice barely above a whisper. "He didn’t know any different."

Damian nodded, his expression grim. "He thought that was what love was supposed to be. Because that’s what Jade made him believe."

The weight of it all was suffocating. I had spent so long hating Jungkook. Hating him for everything he had put me through, for every scar he had left behind. But now… now I wasn’t sure who I was supposed to be angry at anymore.

"I should have seen it," I muttered, my throat tightening. "I should have realized—"

"No," Damian interrupted, stepping closer. "AJ, listen to me. None of us saw it. Not you, not me. Not even him. Because that’s how she wanted it. That’s how she’s always worked. She made sure we were too caught up in the damage to ever question where it was coming from."

I bit my lip, my chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

Jungkook never stood a chance.

My hands trembled at my sides as I turned back to Damian. "She won’t stop," I whispered, my voice hollow. "Not until she has him back under her control. Or until he’s dead."

Damian nodded. "I know."

The realization was suffocating. Jade had nearly destroyed me. But Jungkook? She had built him from the ground up. He wasn’t just another pawn to her—he was her creation.

And she wasn’t going to let that go. My mind reeled, thoughts racing too fast to hold onto. Adam. The accident. The open window. It was all starting to connect in a way that made my skin crawl. If I was right—if Adam was working with Jade—then she wasn’t just trying to control Jungkook.

She was trying to finish him.

I inhaled shakily, pushing down the fear clawing at my throat. "We need to get him out of here. Now."

Damian nodded. "The private doctor’s on his way. We’ll move him as soon as he gets here. But AJ…" He hesitated, his voice dropping lower. "If we do this, if we take Jungkook out of here… we’ll be making ourselves targets. You realize that, right?"

I looked down at Jungkook, at the way his fingers twitched slightly in his sleep, as if even unconscious, his body was still fighting against something. I reached out, hesitating for a brief second before carefully wrapping my fingers around his hand. It was cold. Too cold.

I squeezed gently, my voice steady.

"I don’t care what happens to me," I said. "As long as we keep him alive."

Damian exhaled, then gave a short nod. "Then let’s end this."

[astralazuli]

So there's that D&D class quiz going around, & I took it & was so deeply offended I got Paladin.

& so I have had conversations with both Bestie & Birdfriend about this grave insult & they both were like, "Well... They have a point?" & informed me that my desire to absorb hits meant for others & deep drive to help whenever I actually can & strong convictions make me a bit Paladin-coded.

& I am just so... Idk. It's just interesting to get glimpses of yourself from other people's POVs. To be told that my defining characteristics are protecting & healing others & being incredibly fighty about the things I care about... Especially as someone whose brain specifically fixates on whether I care enough, do enough, give enough... Yeah. It's just kinda wild.

Anyway, I'm now adjusting my self-perception to include the fact that if I were a D&D character, I would be an Oath of the Ancients Paladin & not a wizard & that actually that's okay.

[mc-critical]

Bonus:

2.22 (46) / 2.24 (48) / 2.25 (49) / 2.35 (59) / 2.39 (63)

[orcelito]

Don't know whether it's a product of my upbringing or just part of who I am, but I really do tend to shrug off things that seem to send others into massive guilt spirals. Like, what's the point? Either you meant to do it or you didn't. If you meant to do it but regret it now, make what amends you can & resolve to do better, then move on. If you didn't mean to, be honest about it, apologize if need be, & try to do better. Then move on.

Beating yourself up truly serves no purpose. What are we, catholic? If there is a god, I truly don't think they'd care, anyways

[cheryap]

ive gotten well damnginto this song

[enigmaris]

If Lois Lane had a nickle for every time she had to help an overpowered boy from the midwest with the power of journalism, she'd have two nickles. Which isn't a lot but its weird that its happened twice.

Danny watched as Lois pulled out her phone and pulled up a recording app.

“What are you doing?”

“You came to a journalist and are surprised to get an interview?” She asked him, her tone clearly joking. “What you’ve given me here is great kid, but newspaper clippings and copies of federal laws don’t get the public’s attention. I need a story, Phantom’s the story.”

“I’m not Phantom.”

Lois looked at him, less than impressed. Slowly, she turned the screen of her computer until it was visible to both of them. There, in full clarity, was a front-page story from his hometown newspaper. ‘Danny Phantom saves Bus Full of Children!’ and there was a picture of him in his ghost form, his face crystal clear on her screen.

"Phantom’s a ghost. I’m just a dumb kid.” Danny tried again.

Lois pinched the bridge of her nose with her right hand and muttered to herself.

“Why do all you midwestern boys have the same schtick?”

“I’m sorry?” Danny said, unsure if he should be apologizing or not.

“Changing your last name from Fenton to Phantom does not a secret identity make kid. It might work for most civilians, but anyone familiar with the hero game will clock you from a mile away.”

“I’m not Phantom.”

“Sure, kid. But I’m sure you have a way for me to interview him, right? Because I want to talk to him before I do anything else about your town.”

Danny hugged himself and looked down at his knees.

“Is it really that bad?”

“Not the worst I’ve seen. Wonder Woman’s is paper thin. I'm pretty sure most people in DC know who she is outside of the cape and just don’t say anything because she scares them.”

Danny snorted involuntarily at that, looking back up at the woman.

“What’s going on in your town, Phantom? Why come to a journalist and not the Justice League?”

“The Anti-Ecto Acts got passed like a year ago. They state that only being that produces or contains ectoplasm above a certain amount is considered non-sapient and is to be turned over to the government for disposal.” Danny said. “I put the whole thing in there for you to read, but it's long. Amity Park has a lot of ectoplasm in it. It's seeped into the air and water. Normal human people have it in them now. At first, those agents were just firing at me whenever I finished a ghost fight. I could deal with that. Their aim is terrible anyway. But then they figured out that humans can become contaminated with ectoplasm. They decided that meant the entire town was under their jurisdiction. They've decided that means that no one in town counts as human anymore, that we don’t have rights, that they’re doing us a favor by not just exterminating the entire town like the law says.”

Danny leaned forward, putting his hands on the desk in front of Lois Lane. He looked right into her bright eyes and spoke seriously.

“When it was just ghosts under attack, I didn’t think anyone would care. I’ve tried calling the Justice League for help, but they’ve brushed me off. People need to know what’s happening. Anyone can become ecto-contaminated. You just have to be in the right place at the wrong time. It’s not right what’s happening to Amity, Miss Lane. I came to you because if anyone could get the world to listen, to believe, then it's got to be you.”

And Lois Lane smiled. It was a proud, eager smile. The kind of smile Danny had seen on Sam right after she convinced the school to serve a vegan lunch. He barely held back from shivering.

“Well then, Mr. Phantom.” Lois said, before tapping onto the recording app on her phone and starting a recording. “Let’s begin.”

[reality-shitting]

General realizations ab shifting that helped me

The void is not a realm or a place- it is YOU. You ARE the Void. The Void is solely the awareness of being, fully.

You are not ONE being. Think of the consciousness in you as being interconnected with all other infinite versions of you. These interconnections converge into your full consciousness, the true YOU. It's almost Eldritch to think about.

Something I'm just now thinking of, perhaps this means the subconscious is all other versions of you- you're separated and cut off from experiencing the entirety of being, but that entirety is still there, guiding you from behind the scenes.

No matter what the assumption, "I am" is true. I am kind, as my actions and thoughts show, but I'm also cruel and cold-hearted, as may be the perception of another. I think I'm funny, but someone else may think I'm cheesy- therefore, I am both. And this also goes for the personas of myself in other realities. I am everything. Simultaneously, this also means I am Nothing. I simply am.

To add to the points above, I believe this "Eldritch" conglomerate is what we call the Void state, and would explain why every manifestation happens instantly once we reach this state. Think of it like accessing the files in an infinite data base- all you need to do is find the files you're looking for and download them.

As much as people will try to stress things like "you need to let go" or realizing that shifting is easy, you won't truly be able to understand what they're saying until you experience it.

All things exist at once and every inconceivably small action creates a new reality. As small as "this single cell from 7000 years ago died .000000001 seconds prematurely", and smaller.

Shifting IS easy- in the same way that gleeking or stretching is easy. Some people are able to do it on command or go further than others with no training whatsoever. Others may do it accidentally and sporadically. This does not mean the latter are unable to do these things at will, but they simply need a bit of help learning to do it on command.

Question stressing you out? "But what about this plot hole?", "How does XYZ work??", "What will happen back in my OR???"- STOP. No need to stress yourself over that, this by itself I feel cost me years on my journey. Everything will work out. It doesn't matter how, but it will, and it will either even itself out or be in your favor. Don't even think about those things. Relax.

Another one that held me back MASSIVELY. Struggling to visualize your DR? "I know it has THIS SPECIFIC TABLE in this SPECIFIC place and everything has to be perfect"! No. Your visualization does Not need to be perfect. Nor does it have to be "accurate", really. Once you just let your mind wander and let your subconscious make up it's own layout, it'll help you slip in much more easily. I put so much pressure on myself to make sure I was visualizing my specific reality, and it became so much easier when I just trusted myself to build it up from my subconscious instead of "forcing" a look

They say once it's in the 4D (imagination), it's already real. That's why you're encouraged to embody, think, act, feel as your DR self. Like playing pretend as a kid, you'll be so focused on your imagination, you don't even realize you're in your OR. If you don't shift through that alone, it certainly helps make you feel far more connected. This is also why I came up with the Furina method (although I suppose it's debatable if I really "came up" with it)

Methods/Advice are like pants. Some are too itchy, some are too tight, some you like the feel of but there's just some small flaw. When you find what you were missing, what you needed to hear, it'll be a perfect fit.

[multific]

Of Dog Tags and Love Letters

Simon Riley x Reader

Summary: Simon Riley never says “I love you” out loud. Instead, he writes letters, letters you were never meant to find.

Simon wasn’t the kind of man who said “I love you” easily.

He showed it instead.

He showed it in the way he pulled you close at night, in the way his hand always rested on the small of your back in public, in the way he made sure you always walked on the safer inside of the sidewalk.

His love wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was steady, always there.

Still, you wanted to hear it.

Just once.

Just once you wanted to hear him say it.

Simon had been gone on a mission for a few weeks.

You missed him, missed the way the house felt different when he was home.

Tonight, the quiet felt heavier than usual.

That’s what led you to the room, sitting on the bed, fidgeting with his dog tags.

That’s when you found them.

A small metal box, tucked away beneath an old shirt. You were trying to find a shirt which still smelled like him.

Inside the box, there were letters.

Dozens of them, all folded neatly, your name written on each one.

Your stomach flipped as you picked one up, your fingers shaking slightly as you unfolded the paper.

The handwriting was rough and rushed.

But it was undeniably his.

If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t make it back.

Your breathing stopped, but you kept reading.

I don’t say things the way I should. Never have. But you should know… you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You’re the reason I want to come back in one piece. If I don’t... just know that I love you. Always have, always will.

Your chest ached as you grabbed another letter.

It was the same.

So was the next.

You looked at the dates. Every letter is written before a mission.

Every single one, carrying the words he never said to your face.

I love you.

All of them, filled with meaning and care. All of them are written from the heart.

You pressed them to your chest, blinking back tears.

Three days later, he was home.

The second he walked through the door, you didn’t wait. You crashed into him, arms wrapped tight around his middle.

He let out a small grunt of surprise. “What’s all this then?”

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shoulder.

He huffed a quiet laugh, arms circling around you. “Good to see you too, Love.”

You pulled back, searching his tired eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Simon’s body tensed. “Tell you what?”

You lifted your chin. “About the letters.”

His whole body went still.

“…You found them.” His voice was quiet.

You nodded. “Yeah. And I had to find out from some scraps of paper that you truly love me?”

His jaw flexed like he was bracing for something. “I didn’t think I’d ever—” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not easy for me.”

“I don’t care if it’s easy,” you shot back, stepping closer to him. “Do you think this is easy for me? Waiting? Wondering if you’ll come home?” Your voice cracked. “Wondering if I’ll ever get to tell you—”

You stopped yourself, swallowing hard.

Simon’s eyes softened. “Tell me what?”

You exhaled. “That I love you too, you idiot.”

His breath hitched.

Then, before you could say anything else, he cupped your face in his hands, pressing his forehead to yours. His touch was warm, and grounding.

“Say it again,” he whispered, begged.

A smile tugged at your lips. You rested your hands on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I love you.”

His eyes closed, and he let out a slow breath like he was letting himself believe it. When he spoke again, his voice was deep, barely above a whisper.

“I love you too.”

And this time, he didn’t need a letter to say it.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[jade-curtiss]

Thing is I'm waiting for a call for something, but now I look at the time, and know what it is for and...do I have to pick you up???

[deebris]

From annoying to beloved

Homelander x fem!Reader

Synopsis: The new member of the Seven annoys Captain Patria with their habit of doodling in the corners all the time, but he didn't expect to end up liking it.

During the fourth season, it can be read as both romantic and platonic.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of murder, the reader has the power to control plasma, fluffy.

The reader is also kind of anxious.

Word count: 2.9k

"You gotta be fucking kidding with me." Homelander interrupted abruptly upon hearing snores in the room. "Is Noir sleeping?"

"Mmhmm," Firecracker murmured in agreement, but the masked superhero jolted awake when The Deep kicked his chair.

"Oh, shit! Sorry, guys." Black Noir straightened up, while the Captain shook his head in disbelief, unable to fathom what he had just witnessed.

"Ah, what the fuck." The blonde furrowed his brows, eyes darting around the room quickly, then fixing on a specific point when something else caught his attention. He had noticed you earlier with a notebook and pencil, but now you're not writing but drawing. The irritating sound of the graphite scraping against the paper had been bothering him for some time, but he had tried to ignore it, assuming as a newcomer you were taking notes.

He wouldn't lie. Though he found taking notes utterly stupid, he liked to think someone was that focused on what he said. Not that he needed it, just opening his lips and everyone would be watching him. But as if that weren't enough, he finally realized you were dressed in regular civilian clothes.

"Radiance, where's your suit?" He asked slowly, but angrily. "Can't anyone do anything right around here?"

You finally tore your attention from the paper, meeting Homelander gaze directly. It's not that you weren't paying attention—in fact, you were, maybe more than anyone else there. It was easier to absorb things while doodling, a way to calm your nerves. Well, that or rubbing your sweaty fingers together until they hurt.

No one ever understood. Even back in school, your parents used to receive complaints about you drawing during class, no matter how high your grades were or the fact that you were the top student.

This was your first meeting with the Seven, and the last thing you wanted was to give the impression of being careless or not caring about being there. It could be said that one of the best days of your life was yesterday when Vought sent you a notice, letting you know that the greatest superhero of all had personally chosen you to join the team. After so many "retarded" - in his words - he had been forced to accept into the Seven, Homelander saw in you, above all, the opportunity to make up for Firecracker's ridiculous weakness.

When Ashley began talking about your powers, he had no doubt the last spot was yours. It was simply brilliant. Who the hell would have imagined someone would have powers to control a state of matter? You could maneuver fire, generate electrical discharges, disrupt magnetic fields, and damn it, you could split atoms as if slicing butter.

Vought's scientists said they didn't know if it was possible, but you could destroy the damn out of a star one day. Homelander wasn't a science guy, but in one of his moments of boredom, he got curious and did some research. He didn't even know that plasma crap was all that, he thought it was a cell thing or whatever.

He always thought someone with a power as peculiar as yours, and at your age, would be arrogant or just plain dumb. But you were actually the complete opposite. You didn't speak unnecessarily, and while you seemed very aware of your own actions, you had no clue how powerful you were, or perhaps ignored that fact. The blonde thought you were an idiot for it, but he appreciated the inferiority you submitted to, especially in relation to himself.

"I don't have one, sir," you replied to his question, feeling small with everyone looking.

"What the hell?" He continued, focusing on you with incredulous voice, he couldn't believe it. How did someone end up here without even having a superhero suit?

The truth was, you had never been part of any team before, nor had you received any sponsorship during your life, or even attended Godolkin University. The only thing you had were your powers, which were indeed impressive. You never chased after any position, nor were you ever obsessed with being a famous superheroine, but lately you thought it would be a good adventure to radicalize your life. That's when you applied to join the Seven.

"How do you have a name and not have a fucking suit?" He asked, boiling with anger, fists clenching tightly behind his back.

"They gave me a name when I filled out the application," you answered honestly. That day, after they chose to call you Radiance, a random and easily commercial name, you couldn't complain much and didn't want to bother, so you left it at that.

"You'll be introduced as an official member of the Seven tomorrow, how do you not have a suit?" He took his hands off his back, moving them as he spoke to express his confusion, and for a few moments you followed it movement like a child who can't keep their attention on anything for long. "Who's handling your marketing?"

You couldn't answer, so you stayed silent and no one else dared to say a word either. You had no idea who was handling your marketing, not knowing you should even have that. You glanced quickly around the table, perhaps seeking some kind of help for the situation, but everyone looked down when they realized you were staring at them. They were enjoying themselves, and that made you exhale through your nose in embarrassment.

"You know what? Fuck it, doesn't matter." Homelander brought his fingers to his furrowed forehead, letting out a loud sigh as he calmed down. "Just... don't show up like this in public until someone gives you a suit."

"Yes, sir," you replied tensely, relieved that he had resolved the matter.

Sister Sage widened her eyes in relief when she finally saw the superhero sitting beside her. She opened her mouth to begin speaking, as she had intended from the beginning, but when some sound was about to come out of her mouth, Homelander spoke to you again, this time pointing an accusatory finger at you:

"And stop drawing, damn it," he ordered, causing you to slowly drop the pencil on the table, as if caught doing something wrong with the weapon of the crime in hand. You stared at your lap throughout the entire meeting, embarrassed for messing everything up on your first day.

When the meeting ended, you followed most people out of the room, but stopped nearby in one of the hallways. You slid down the wall, crouching in a hidden corner, and lightly tapped the sketchbook against your forehead in annoyance.

"Stupid," you murmured softly to yourself. It was so ridiculous, yet it embarrassed you so much. Maybe this first day wasn't so bad after all. You would have plenty of time to prove your worth to everyone, no need to dwell on this situation. Even though you had been corrected in front of some of the most iconic supers by Homelander himself, this situation could be overcome. It was thinking about it that kept you from letting the burning tears fall.

"I can hear you whining," Homelander voice made you jump to your feet, startled to be caught once again doing something you shouldn't. He didn't seem happy, and his expression was so intimidating that you felt like Mariah Carey performing for a crowd of Eminem fans.

He approached you in slow steps and you held the sketchtebook protectively to your chest, as if that could protect you from something. He glanced down to briefly see the object in your hands and looked at you with disgust.

"If you don't straighten up, I'll kick you out. Got it?" Everything about him exuded threat. Maybe if he weren't so imposing and powerful, that sentence would have sounded a bit like the janitor from your old school scolding you for spending too much time in the bathroom during class.

You were paralyzed standing there and all you could do was a nod. But your gesture made him more aggressive.

"Answer with your mouth. Are you mute or something?" And there he was, hands behind his back again. He seemed to enjoy that pose.

"I won't mess up, sir," you said, swallowing your saliva.

"And get rid of that. Or burn it, do whatever, just get rid of it. And I better not see you with that again," he said referring to your notebook, walking away faster than before. "These kids..." you heard him mutter distantly.

After that happened, you didn't destroy the sketchtebook, but you were afraid of being caught and kept it safely tucked away in the back of a drawer in your room. What the eyes don't see, the heart doesn't feel, right? You mentally made a promise to yourself not to use it anywhere else but here, to avoid causing more trouble.

It's been a week since you've been with the Seven, and several strange things have happened. You quickly realized that Homelander wasn't the pristine and merciful hero everyone believed him to be. But the truth was that deep down you already expected that. Everything about heroes always seemed too perfect and pure, there had to be a catch. Despite everything, you still remained yourself, never intentionally hurting anyone or getting involved in murders and conspiracies.

You were comfortable helping out with some minor crimes that Vought sent you to solve, but by now you suspected that sooner or later Homelander would ask you to do some of his atrocities. It was still hard to think about how to feel about it, but you weren't naive, you were already mentally preparing to submit to it or else be killed.

During that time, as you adjusted and interacted with the team, it didn't go unnoticed by Homelander that you were drawing on your own hand, or on napkins and on random sheets you found lying around, even though you hadn't shown up with your sketchtebook again. This was starting to wear on his last nerve, but he tried to ignore it. As long stayed as you were, without asking too many questions and obedient, he made an effort to continue overlooking your makeshift drawings.

"Meeting's over," the blond suddenly declared, interrupting another of the Seven's weekly gatherings while cutting off The Deep's rambling about his ideas.

"But I haven't even talked about the flying shark yet," he tried to defend himself.

"Shut up," Homelander's voice rang out sternly in the room, issuing a warning that the man promptly obeyed.

"Right. Meeting's over." Ashley nervously moved to gather the portfolios on the new soda advertisement she had come to present, but as soon as she touched the first folder, specifically the A-Train one, the superhero exploded in rage:

"Ashley! Get out!" She immediately dropped the folder in place and hurried out in her heels, unable to run in them. "All of you! Get out of here."

Everyone got up from their chairs, even you, and filed out through the front door, leaving the folders on the table. Sister Sage hesitated, thinking she might be an exception, but when his scowl deepened, she understood she should leave too.

With the room empty, Captain Patria took a few minutes to admire the view from the tower. He enjoyed staring at it sometimes, even when bored.

"Bunch of idiots," he muttered to himself, shaking his head in denial, indignant. If he had to spend one more minute with these morons, he would have a heart attack, even though that was technically impossible for him.

He threw his cape back as he turned to leave, looking down and not focusing on anything in particular. But his eyes caught something different from the other folders. It was obviously yours, with a huge drawing covering the text and images printed on it.

That was the first time he actually saw something you had scribbled. And damn, it was perfect. It was a drawing of everyone in the room, with him in the center looking angry. Just as he was. His ego flared up as he noticed that his figure was more detailed than the others'. You must have started drawing him first, hence had more time to detail him. The idea of you making him the main focus of this particular drawing made his pupils dilate. He used his super hearing to check if anyone else was around and secretly took that sheet for himself.

The next time he saw you drawing in the Seven's room, he couldn't help but wonder if you were drawing him again. As soon as he noticed you sneakily reaching for a pen that belonged to Ashley, he looked in your direction. The noise that used to annoy him now sparked curiosity. And after staring at you for so long, it didn't take long for you to look back at him too. The blond thought you would be embarrassed, like most people, but you just grinned as if you were used to being caught looking. And indeed, you were.

You began drawing Homelander more frequently when you realized he never caught you watching him. It was easier and avoided awkward situations with other people. After two whole weeks of drawing him continuously while taking advantage of this freedom, you felt capable of drawing his face without even needing to see a photo, having memorized most of his distinctive features.

Well, it seems he's finally noticed you.

Sometimes, when alone in your room, you took out your sketchbook and started practicing the memory of his facial features you had developed. Just like every other time, you became absorbed in the drawing, focusing only on the voices around you to understand what was being said. This was also a way to keep yourself engaged during conversations, so you wouldn't get restless from being still while being a mere spectator of everything. After all, you never participated much or gave opinions; Deep already did enough for two.

The meeting had already ended, but you stayed in your chair, even as everyone else left, to finish just a part of the hair. You thought no one would mind, and then you would leave as usual, but a voice caught you by surprise:

"Can I take a look?" Homelander asked, for the first time, using a gentle voice beside you. His expression was enigmatic, somewhat relaxed, and shy at the same time.

You turned the stack of post-it notes, also taken from Ashley, for him to see what you had drawn, fearing what he would say. You weren't ashamed of drawing people, much less of them catching you doing it. You feared because he found your habit annoying.

He observed the drawing, seeing his posture from the side, upright and imposing. He wondered if you drew him exactly as you saw him, or if it was just another caricature of reality, like those Photoshopped pictures spread around. He looked much better than he imagined, though he had that superiority complex that made him see himself as a god.

For a moment, he was offended to see his image stamped on such despicable things as scraps of paper and these damn post-it notes. Your fingerprints were also visible stains, and the paper was slightly wrinkled from his sweat. He had noticed that sometimes you drew calmly, as if you had all the time in the world, and other times it was like drawing on a boat in a storm. Today seemed to be the latter situation.

"Do you like drawing me?" He glanced at you.

"I do," you shrugged. That was the simplest and most truthful answer you could give. "Sorry, I won't do it anymore," you said, thinking he was bothered by it.

"Why?" He ignored your apology.

"You're drawable... I guess," you stared at the table, not understanding the flow of the conversation.

"And what the fuck does that mean?" He asked in a louder voice, turning to face you, obviously confused. "Is this some artistic shit?"

"It's just that you're easy to draw because you have unusual characteristics. It's a good thing," was your answer, and it inflated his chest with narcissistic pride. Unusual, that's what you said, but to him, it was like being called extraordinary.

"Next time you draw me, try using a sketchbook," he said sternly, pretending to reject your work, but deep down, he just didn't want to show that he really liked it. That statement was his way of encouraging you to continue, but at the same time, it was so ironic, considering he got mad at you just when you were drawing him in the sketchtebook that day.

"But you asked me to get rid of mine," you said simply, your voice dwindling with each word of the sentence, not wanting him to find out that you had never thrown it away.

"I'll get you a new one," he said dismissively, taking the entire stack of post-it notes with him, including the drawing, as if you wouldn't notice.

[mostly-imagines]

answering a question nobody asked: what are jason's love languages ranked?

giving:

5 ) gift giving is bottom tier for him. i just dont see how he could value that more than any of the above because of the way he grew up. like material things and money seem like something he’d reject more than anything to me. but he does still give you presents, of course. he’ll buy you flowers randomly and jewelry and little things he’d noticed you admiring. but i dont think he really does it as a method of expressing his love for you so much as just like a little nice thing to do for you. its not his preferred method of communication, at least.

4 ) a little lower on the list comes words of affirmation because i don’t think it comes as naturally to him. he’s a man of few words and those chosen are caked in sarcasm and dry in a way that attempts to push people away, even if he doesn’t mean to. i just think his words can be rough around the edges even if his meaning isn’t. when he can work through it though, his words are very gentle and genuine. not one for hyperbole but really truly means what he says. he hears that you’re insecure about how a dress looks on you and he’s telling you to ‘shut up, you look good.’ or you’re nervous and he’ll say “you’re fine, don’t worry about it.” to someone else’s ears it might sound dismissive but you know that not how he means it. there’s a lot of unsaid words with him that are more significant than whats coming out of his mouth. like i said though, only like level 10 acquaintances and you will ever know him well enough to decipher those secret meanings.

3 ) he tends to treat himself like a loner, pulling away from people like second nature, but after he met you he found himself wanting to be around you all the time. he’s not the best with words or romantic gestures so quality time is an easier way of reminding you he loves you. he likes just sitting with you and letting you ramble about your day—listening to your voice is a big part of his calming down process every night. but sitting in comfortable silence with you is probably his favorite. he doesn’t get that with a lot of people. silence—sure; comfortable—not so much. he loves the implied intimacy and trust of quietly cooking, napping together, or doing your own things in the same space.

2 ) physical touch is another big one for him. only unlockable after entering a relationship with him. he does it for a lot of reasons, common ones include: as a reminder that he’s there, to ease anxiety (yours or his own), as a sort of fidget, or if he’s feeling a little possessive. its honestly going to shock his family how much he initiates touch with you. he’ll shove them off of him when they try to hug him and is likely to throw hands if they get too touchy. so when they meet you for the first time and he’s squeezing your hand in his the whole night, shoulder to shoulder with you—they’re surprised, to say the least. as time goes on they start to notice that he looks borderline uncomfortable when he’s not touching you—like he doesn’t know what to do with his body. his favorite ways to touch you (non sexually) include: keeping you pressed back to his chest, having your leg hooked atop his when you’re sitting hanging out, hand on the back of your neck, and hands on your hips are a must.

1 ) jason's prime method of communication is through acts of service. he fully believes it’s his responsibility to take care of you and doing things for you comes very naturally to him anyways. he’s known to refuse to let you carry things, let you have the comfortable chair, give you the last of his snack, that kind of thing. he also wants to make your life easier as much as possible—he’ll insist on you telling him about things you need, especially things you aren’t able to do yourself. you never ever have to hire a guy to come look at anything broken in your apartment, jason’s got that shit under wraps. he’d honestly be a little hurt if you did. he’s got a wide array of skills under his belt, he can fix leaky pipes, install locks, build furniture, repair cars, you name it.

receiving:

5 ) he always appreciates getting gifts from you but it’s not necessarily his preferred way of receiving your love. gift giving and acts of service are bottom tier because they’re the only ones that he feels like are taking away from you. costing you money or energy, wasting it on him—he doesn’t want you to do that. he can’t feel loved by the gesture when he’s busy concerning himself with the idea that he’s putting you out for it. when you do give him gifts he likes it most when they’re little things, especially things that you made. make him a friendship bracelet, a simple painting, a fucking paper crane—he’ll love it. with things like that, it makes him really happy to see how excited you are to show him and that’s when he feels the love from you.

4 ) it’s always a little hit or miss with acts of service. he has a hard time accepting help, especially from you. he tends to feel like its his job to take care of you and if you have to help him, he’s doing something wrong. the best way to perform acts of service for him is through littler things. cooking his favorite dinner, checking up on how his stitches are healing, covering him up when its cold and he’s too busy/stubborn to go get a blanket. don’t make a whole thing about it, just do it and he’ll notice and he’ll be thinking about it for a while.

3 ) for the same reasons as mentioned earlier, he loves quality time with you. he prefers being on the receiving end of it though because he is a little insecure and absolutely loves when you go out of your way to spend time with him. tell him you want to be around him, tell him you miss him, tell him you’re happy he’s here. warning: he might cry.

2 ) you’ll notice this one because his breath will literally hitch. physical touch is one of the most prominent methods of affection in your relationship and he never gets used to it. the presence of just your head on his shoulder or your hand in his provides such a noticeable release of tension for him. he’s a huge huge fan of you tracing patterns anywhere on his skin, playing with his hair, and wrapping your arms around his middle so you can hold him close. climb on his lap unexpectedly and his heart will skip a few beats.

1 ) he won't ever admit it, but words of affirmation are his absolute biggest weakness. your boy has a praise kink, but i also think it's difficult for him to accept that so you have to be subtle about it and work up. it gets him really blushy and if you can manage to get him talking, he’s stammering. he can’t hold eye contact for shit when you call him pretty and it’s very amusing to you to see such a quick and drastic shift in his disposition. things that have straight up put him out of commission include: calling him “my pretty boy,” or “sweet boy,” “you always take such good care of me,” “you’re so strong,” “you’re the love of my life.” “i’m proud of you” will literally put him on his knees.