#Ohio is too far away | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyncherry · 3 months ago

Text

we never tell - joe burrow

summary who could blame you? the night before thanksgiving was never meant to be innocent — especially not when the boy you’ve known forever looks at you like he’s already decided to ruin you

content 18+, smut, language, alcohol

The bar is loud. Too loud. Voices crash over each other, music shaking the walls, laughter splintering through the chaos. The air swirls with spilled beer, sweat, and cheap perfume. A cocktail of regret already in the making. It all clings to you, settling within your skin.

The heat inside is nearly unbearable, a sharp contrast to the biting Ohio cold just beyond the fogged-up windows.

You push through the crowd, brushing past bodies pressed too close together, faces blurring under the neon glow. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. Ones you hoped you’d never see again.

Same bar, same people, same exhausting routine playing out like clockwork.

You don’t usually look forward to this night — this annual reunion of your hometown’s finest washed-up athletes, ex-prom queens, and guys who still bring up their glory days at state championships like they happened yesterday.

But it’s tradition.

And tradition says you show up, smile when people ask about the semester thus far, dodge questions about your major, sip overpriced drinks, and pretend you care about who got engaged or knocked up this year.

This is only your second Blackout Wednesday.

Sophomore year means you’re not a newbie anymore, but you’re not a regular either. You know the drill now. The way the bartenders barely glance at the fake IDs slid across the counter, even though they grew up with half the people using them.

You’ve watched guys you went to elementary school with order rounds of shots like they didn’t once throw up grape juice in the cafeteria. Girls who used to sneer at you in the hallways now drunkenly grabbing your hand in the bathroom, slurring about how much they "missed you soooo much."

It’s all fake. A well-rehearsed play where everyone pretends they aren’t counting down the minutes until they can escape this town again.

Still, you’re here.

Because what else is there to do?

You’re halfway through your first drink when you see Joe.

It shouldn’t be surprising, Thanksgiving means everyone comes home.

Home from his first year at LSU, taller and broader, shoulders filling out the long-sleeved black shirt stretched over his frame. He looks different, but not in a way that makes you stare, more in a way that makes you double-take.

You remember when he was deciding where to go after graduating OSU. The transfer talk had stretched through the beginnings of the year, the same names cycling through every conversation your brother and his friends had at the house. North Carolina? Nebraska? Alabama?

And then it happened:

Cincinnati.

Your head had perked up. Just slightly. Just enough for you to feel stupid about it later.

It wasn’t like it would’ve meant anything. It wasn’t like you would’ve seen him, not really. The University of Cincinnati was huge and you were wrapping up your freshman year. You weren’t sure why it even mattered. Why, for a brief second, the idea of your worlds overlapping for the first time beyond family ties, felt like something worth entertaining.

But then, suddenly, it wasn’t a thought at all.

Because LSU happened.

And when his family held that small going-away gathering, there was no red and black in sight. No UC decorations, no Bearcat colors bleeding into the napkins or tablecloths. Just purple and gold. Bold, glaring, almost mocking.

You remember standing in front of the dessert table, staring at royal frosting of all things like it had personally insulted you.

Some nights, when the dorm was too quiet and your phone screen was the only light in the room, you’d find yourself typing his name into Google. Just once. Just to check.

Never interest. Never anything more.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway.

It wasn’t hard to keep up. LSU was making noise, and so was he. His name started popping up in articles, on Twitter, tucked into game recaps with words like poised and potential thrown around like confetti. You’d skim them, half-engaged, never needing to look too hard because if you didn’t see his name online, you’d hear it from your mom.

"Robin says Joe’s adjusting well down there…" she’d mention casually, somewhere between asking if you needed more laundry detergent and updating you on which neighbors had finally sold their house.

Sometimes, she’d go on. He really likes Baton Rouge… Jimmy says the coaches are impressed… Robin says they miss having him around.

But sometimes, she wouldn’t.

And when enough time passed without a mention, without hearing his name tucked neatly into conversation like it had always been, you’d find yourself searching again.

Just to know.

And then you’d close the tab, lock your phone, roll over in bed, and never think about it again.

Until now.

Because now, he’s here, standing in the middle of your hometown bar like he isn’t creeping into conversations, like his name isn’t slipping into headlines, like he isn’t the reason some guy at the other end of the counter is repping purple and gold instead of Bengals orange.

He’s different. Or maybe it’s just that, for the first time, you’re seeing him as something other than the annoying older boy who was always there, easy to roll your eyes at and even easier to ignore.

You look away.

It doesn’t matter.

Or at least, it shouldn’t.

But something lingers. The kind of awareness that prickles along your skin, that makes your fingers tense around your drink, that keeps your shoulders squared even as you force yourself to focus on something else.

He’s not looking at you.

Not that you can tell.

But you can feel him.

Somewhere past the crush of people near the bar, past the bodies leaning against sticky tabletops, past the haze of smoke and too-loud music and bad decisions waiting to happen: he’s there.

And maybe it’s just in your head, it could be nothing. Maybe it’s that he’s familiar, but not in the way he used to be.

Because you know the set of his shoulders, the way he pushes his hand through his hair when he’s thinking, the way his jaw tenses when he’s listening but not speaking.

You know him without knowing him.

And yet, the weight of his presence is pressing into you like a hand at the small of your back.

You huff and try to shake it off.

"Bathroom?" one of your friends says beside you, looping her arm through yours before you can respond.

You let her pull you along, weaving through the throng of people, past someone attempting to order another round, past a couple making out against the wall like they’ve forgotten they’re in public.

The bathroom is a war zone, as expected.

Girls pressed together in front of the mirrors, smudging eyeliner with unsteady hands, fixing lipstick that’s already faded from stolen kisses and mixed drinks. Strangers throwing compliments like candy: oh my god, your hair looks amazing and I love your dress, where’d you get it? whispered between girls who wouldn’t acknowledge each other outside of tonight.

You slip into a stall, locking the door, leaning against it for just a second.

The bass vibrates through the walls. The distant hum of voices, the occasional burst of laughter. You inhale deeply, steadying yourself.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

And if you say it enough times, maybe you’ll believe it.

By the time you wash your hands and step back into the crowd, your drink is gone, condensation leaving a damp circle on the table where you left it. Your friends have drifted toward the dance floor, the blur of movement and music swallowing them whole.

You decide on another drink, pushing your way toward the bar and waiting your turn only for someone to shove past at the last second, slamming a twenty onto the counter and barking out their order over the noise.

Your eyes narrow. Brandon Wilkes.

Of course it’s him. Always cutting ahead, always acting like he was owed something. You roll your eyes and shoot him a glare, resisting the urge to call him out. Some things never change.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here."

The words slip through the noise — smooth like they belong there.

Your breath catches. A pause, just long enough for recognition to crawl up your spine.

Joe.

Closer than before, the sharp angles of his face softened by dim lighting, his eyes flickering with something unreadable as they settle on yours.

You swallow, tilting your chin slightly. "Didn’t think I’d see you either."

His lips twitch. Not quite a smile, but something close. "Guess we’re all bound to make a few questionable decisions tonight."

You nod, shifting your weight onto your other foot. "Wouldn’t be Blackout Wednesday without a little regret."

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Regret, huh?"

"Regret," you confirm.

His eyes flicker down to your empty hand, then back up, considering. "What are you drinking?"

It’s not a question, more like a next move.

You hesitate for a second before giving him the answer.

Before you can even think about ordering yourself, Joe lifts a hand, barely even a motion, and the bartender is there in an instant. Of course.

You bite back a scoff as she leans in, all too eager, but Joe doesn’t so much as glance at her. Just gives your order, smooth and easy, like it was never up for debate.

And just like that, the bartender slides a fresh drink across the counter, and Joe beats you to it, picking it up before you can reach for it.

Your fingers brush when he hands it to you.

And it’s nothing.

But it’s also not.

You take a sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. "Trying to get me drunk, Burrow?"

His smirk deepens. His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, quick, unconscious. He leans in just slightly, just enough to see if you’ll move. "Don’t think you need my help with that."

Your stomach flips and you hate that it does. You hate the way your body reacts before your mind can catch up. The way the bar suddenly feels too warm, the noise fading into something distant, like nothing else matters except the inches of space between you.

It’s reckless. It’s stupid.

It’s inevitable.

One drink turns into two.

Two turn into stolen glances, subtle but unmistakable. A slow, unraveling pull that neither of you acknowledge out loud.

The brush of his arm against yours, the warmth of his skin radiating through the fabric of your sleeves. The way your conversations slip into something easier than they should be, like you’ve done this before, like you’ve always known how to hold a conversation between each other.

And then a touch.

A simple thing, really.

It’s subtle at first, fingers grazing the fabric of your shirt like a passing thought, something fleeting and unintentional. But then he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand sticks, settling against your waist, his thumb brushing over your side in a way that feels effortless but also like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away.

He leans in, voice low, threading through the noise of the bar like it belongs there. His breath is warm against your skin, steady, even, completely at ease. The conversation around you dissolves into background static, something distant and irrelevant, because suddenly, this is the only thing you can focus on.

Your breath catches, you glance up, and that’s the moment everything shifts.

Because when you meet his gaze, when you catch the flicker of something dark, something hungry in his expression, you know.

And so does he.

All you can hear is the low thud of the bass and the shallow breath you take in when Joe shifts closer, when the heat of him presses into your side. His palm flexes just slightly, enough for you to feel it, enough to make your stomach tighten.

And then he leans in.

Slow. Unhurried. Like he’s savoring the moment before it happens.

His breath is warm against your skin when he speaks, just for you. "You gonna stop me?"

You should.

You know you should.

You should think about what happens after this, about how easy it would be to fall into something that was never meant to be.

But you don’t.

Your body betrays you first, tilting toward him, your fingers brushing his forearm where it rests against the bar. His jaw tenses at the contact, his fingers curling tighter against you, his head tipping down just slightly, just enough for his lips to hover above yours.

His eyes flicker, searching yours, asking a question without saying a word.

And you answer by not moving away.

It would be so easy.

So easy to close the gap. So easy to give in, to let this spiral into something neither of you can take back.

But then—

A sharp burst of laughter, too close, too jarring, snaps you back into reality. A body stumbles into Joe’s back, jostling both of you just enough to break the moment. The spell fractures, and you blink, breath catching in your throat as the bar crashes back into focus. It’s loud and crowded. Filled with too many people, too many eyes.

Joe’s gaze flicks past you, scanning the room. His fingers squeeze once more against your skin before he pulls back. "Come on," he murmurs, barely audible over the noise.

Your pulse pounds as he nods toward the door. You hesitate for less than a second before following behind him, glancing over your shoulder and realizing everyone is too busy to notice the two of you leaving together.

The air outside is crisp, sharp against your flushed skin, but it does nothing to cool you down. Joe walks ahead, his pace slow and measured like he’s thinking. Like he’s trying not to think.

The parking lot is mostly empty, just a few cars left. You recognize his truck instantly, parked toward the back under a flickering street lamp and distant from the other cars.

He stops beside the driver’s side, one hand gripping the handle, the other resting against his side. He exhales, his breath visible in the air and his head tips back slightly before he looks at you.

It’s different out here.

No music to drown out your thoughts. No crowd to get lost in. Just the sound of the wind, the distant hum of traffic, the weight of his stare. The space between you feels bigger now, stretched thin by the cold and the quiet. More time to think. More time to overthink.

His gaze locks onto you like he’s seeing something he can’t turn away from and that makes his jaw shift, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to move, to close the last bit of space between you.

But then he does.

A step forward. Then another.

His hand lifts, fingertips grazing your wrist first, barely there, before slowly sliding up the length of your arm. His palm finds your waist, the same way it had inside, only now there’s nothing stopping him.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but instead he dips his head, his nose brushing along your temple before his mouth finds your jaw. The first drag of his lips is barely a kiss, more of a test, a question traced against your skin to make sure this is real.

Like he needs you to know that this is happening.

"Tell me you want this."

The words come out against the soft skin beneath your ear. His lips linger, moving slowly, tracing a path down your jaw, stopping just at the corner of your mouth.

Your body answers before you do. Your fingers tighten into the fabric of his shirt, your breath hitching and head tilting slightly, giving him more. Giving into him.

"Tell me." His pulse hammers beneath your touch, a steady, thrumming beat against your palm as your hands slide higher, over his shoulders, curling around the back of his neck. Joe exhales sharply, the sound making it seem like he’s barely holding himself together.

You don’t answer him with words.

You tilt your chin up, closing the space between you, pressing into him until there’s nothing left but heat. Your lips part, hovering just close enough that you can feel his breath mix with yours, can feel the way he’s waiting, hanging onto the moment like he needs it just as badly as you do.

And then, he gives in.

His mouth crashes against yours, a searing pull that steals the breath from your lungs. His fingers tighten at your waist, flexing like he’s making sure you don’t slip away, like letting go isn’t an option.

The kiss starts slow, but it doesn’t stay that way. Not when your nails scrape lightly against the nape of his neck. Not when he groans against your lips, the sound low and raw, before his grip tightens, his other hand sliding to the small of your back, pulling you into him.

He pulls you closer and closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat and the undeniable weight of whatever this is. His tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes you, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

His hands are everywhere; on your waist, your back, your hips — all like he can’t decide where to touch you first, like he’s trying to memorize every curve of your body.

When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, chest rising and falling with each labored breath. His eyes search yours, "get in the truck."

You don’t hesitate. You climb into the backseat, the leather cold against your hands, but you barely notice. Joe follows, his movements quick and borderline impatient as he shuts the door behind him. The space is intimate, the windows already fogging up from the heat of your bodies.

Joe’s hands are on you again, laying you down gently while his fingers sliding underneath the hem of your top. His lips find yours once more, his kiss harder this time, more demanding. You can feel the need in him, the way he’s holding back, the way he’s trying to keep control.

But when your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard lines of his body through the fabric of his shirt, he groans against your lips, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. "You’re driving me fucking crazy.” His hands slither up your thighs, fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

"Do something about it," you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he hears it. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening. Before you can say anything else, he’s pulling your jeans down, his hands rough but careful, like he’s afraid of breaking you.

A flicker of self-consciousness washes over you, but it disappears as quickly as the heat of his body sinks into you, settling himself between your legs. His hands caress your thighs, fingers pressing into your skin as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. "Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You can feel the hardness of him pressing against you, the sensation stealing the air from your lungs. You lift up to capture his lips, nipping at him, unable to stop the way your hips instinctively arch to meet him. Your body moves on its own, desperate for more.

Joe’s breath hitches, his lips trailing a path of fire as they move lower, scattering kisses across your collarbone. His hands, calloused yet gentle, slide up your sides, pushing the fabric of your top higher until your skin is exposed to the chill of the truck’s interior. But you can’t feel the cold, not when his touch burns hotter than anything else.

“So soft,” he murmurs, his voice almost reverent as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. His touch is slower now, as though he’s savoring every inch of you. His lips follow, kissing a line down your sternum, his breath warm against your skin.

You shiver, your hands tangling in his hair and urging him closer. His name escapes your lips in a whisper, a sound that seems to ignite something deep within him. He groans, the vibration of it sending a jolt through you.

His eyes flick up to yours, and for a moment he just watches. His chest rises and falls with the same urgency that’s coursing through your veins, and then, without a word, he lowers his head again, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your panties.

Your back arches, a soft gasp escaping you as his hands move up your thighs, his fingers hooking into the lace and sliding them down. His touch is teasing as if he’s testing your limits.

When his lips finally meet the heat between your legs, you nearly cry out. His mouth is warm, his tongue sliding against you in a slow, skilled motion that has your fingers tightening in his hair. He’s relentless, his movements measured yet unwavering as though he’s determined to unravel you completely.

“Jesus—” he chokes out your name, his voice muffled against you. “Taste so good,” the vibrations of his words send a shiver up your spine. His hands grip your hips and hold you in place as his tongue circles that one sensitive spot, driving you closer to the brink with every flick, every stroke.

You can feel the tension building, coiling tight in your core, but Joe doesn’t let up. His pace quickens, his tongue moving faster, more urgently, until you’re gasping for air, your hips bucking against him.

“Joe, I—I can’t—” you stammer, your voice breaking as the pleasure crests, threatening to overwhelm you.

But he doesn’t stop. His hand trails up, fingertips skimming over your stomach, teasing, exploring, until he reaches the lace of your bra. There’s no hesitation, just an easy push of the cup, baring you to him. His thumb grazes over your nipple before he pinches, rolling it between his fingers, his grip firm, possessive.

The sensation sends a shiver through you, heat pooling low in your belly as the sharp edge of pleasure tightens, unraveling the last threads of restraint. Your body tenses, a cry slipping from your lips as the wave builds, crests, and crashes over you, leaving you trembling beneath him.

Joe doesn’t stop — not yet. His mouth still moves against you, coaxing out every last shudder, every last breathless moan. His hands hold you steady, his grip firm, grounding, as if he’s keeping you tethered to him while you fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glisten and he watches you — really watches you. For a split second, something flickers in his eyes. Guilt? Hesitation? Regret?

But then it’s gone.

His gaze darkens, hands sliding up to frame your face, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles over your cheeks. Like he needs you to feel it, to feel him. To know he’s here.

And then he moves.

His body presses flush against yours, the heat of him searing through the layers still between you, his length hard and insistent against your thigh. The thought, the uncertainty, dissolves beneath the weight of him, beneath the way his mouth finds yours in another kiss, deeper this time, hungrier.

You taste yourself on his tongue, and the sound that leaves you is nothing short of desperate. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, gripping, pulling, needing more.

Joe groans, the sound reverberating between you as his hips roll forward, grinding against you, the friction sending a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you. His breath shudders against your lips, his hands tightening where they hold you, like he’s just as lost in this as you are.

“Please,” you beg, your voice trembling with need.

Joe hesitates, his eyes locked onto yours, something unreadable flickering in their depths. His jaw tenses, his breath uneven, and then he nods, his fingers curling around the waistband of his jeans. The sound of his zipper is deafening in the quiet of the truck, each metallic click sending another pulse of anticipation through you.

And then he’s there, guiding himself to you, his breath catching as he pushes inside.

A sharp gasp escapes you, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in as he stretches you, inch by excruciating inch. He goes slow, like he’s savoring every second, his forehead pressing against yours when he finally sinks all the way in. His body shudders against you, “you feel so fucking good,” he groans, his voice rough, almost pained.

Your fingers twitch against his skin, needing more, needing to feel him. You reach for his shirt, bunching the fabric, pushing it up just enough to reveal the solid warmth of his stomach, the defined ridges of his abdomen. Your palms slide over him, feeling the heat of his skin beneath your fingertips, the way his muscles tense under your touch.

He grunts at the contact, his body responding instantly. His hips shift, just slightly, but the movement is enough to have you whimpering, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper.

That’s all the encouragement he needs.

His grip on your hips tightens as he starts to move, slow at first, dragging every thrust out like he wants to commit this to memory. But it doesn’t last, his control frays too quickly and soon, he’s driving into you with a force that steals the air from your lungs.

The sounds between you; his breath, ragged and uneven, the wet slap of skin against skin, the soft creak of leather beneath you, fill the small space, drowning out the world beyond the truck.

Every thrust sends a jolt of pleasure through you, every noise he makes only fuels the fire burning inside you. His hands roam, gripping, teasing, pushing you closer to the edge until it’s too much, until the pleasure coils so tight you feel like you might snap.

“Joe, I’m—” The words are barely out before he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot that has your vision blurring, your body bowing into him, every thought dissolving into pure sensation.

He groans, his pace quickening, his thrusts turning rougher, more desperate, his breath hot against your skin. “C’mon,” he rasps, voice thick with need. “Let me feel it.”

And you do.

Your body tightens, your back arching as pleasure overtakes you, crashing through you in waves, leaving you breathless, trembling beneath him. The sound that escapes you is involuntary, raw, and it sets something off in him. Joe follows a second later, his hips stuttering, his movements turning jerky as he buries himself deep, a ragged groan ripping from his throat as he comes.

For a moment, the only thing that exists is the sound of your heavy breathing, tangled together, filling the confined space of the truck. His forehead presses against yours, his body still trembling with the aftershocks, and for just a second, everything else fades.

But then his grip on you loosens. The heat of his hands disappears, replaced by the cool air settling in the space between you. Reality creeps back in, slow but certain.

Joe exhales, shifting back against the seat, his chest rising and falling with the remnants of uneven breaths. He moves sluggishly, almost like he’s reluctant, lifting his hips just enough to drag his boxers and jeans back up. His fingers fumble with the button before securing it, and then he rakes a hand through his damp hair.

And just like that, the shift is instant.

The momentary haze shatters, and cold clarity rushes in.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, your skin still tingling where his hands had been, but the weight of what just happened slams into you all at once.

You move fast, scrambling to pull your pants up, to fix your shirt, to smooth down the mess of your hair — to piece yourself back together before it all slips too far out of reach. Your fingers shake as you fumble with the fabric, your breath still uneven, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

You need to leave.

Just for a second, your eyes lock with his. Joe doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t try to stop you. He just watches with an unreadable expression and parted lips, like he might speak.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t wait for him to. Your fingers wrap around the door handle and you push it open, stepping out into the night. The air is sobering, biting against your skin, but it does nothing to take away the feel of him.

You don’t look back, because no amount of distance can undo what’s already been done.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow smut #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you

629 notes · View notes

thesvnandthemooon · 3 months ago

Text

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.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel mcu #x reader #marvel #fanfic #lesbian #wlw #angst #fluff #oneshot #fanfiction #moon’s fics

485 notes · View notes

bengals-barnesbabe · 9 months ago

Text

There’s Something You Should Know

Pair: Dad!Joe Burrow x OC , Dad!Joe Burrow x ExFianćee!Reader

Desc: Joe’s new girlfriend is in for a big surprise when she drops by unexpectedly.

TW: Jealousy, Toxic Gf, talks of divorce, childhood trauma

a/n: just a little idea I had and worked on for 2 weeks :)

Main Masterlist

WC: 4.9k

┊┊┊┊ ➶ 𓆉｡˚ ✧

August weekends are some of Joe’s favorites, not because he goes out with friends or showers his girlfriend with the attention she desires. No, he loves days like this. Days where his living room doesn’t stay clean for more than a few hours, mornings filled with cute giggles and sticky-syrupy little fingers, and nights controlled by a little girl with beautiful hazel brown eyes and a head full of dark tight curls, who picks the same bedtime story every night. These are his favorite moments.

Like now as he picks up the pink and purple lego sets off his living room floor while his little girl is off playing with some other toys in her playroom. From down the hall, he can hear all the make-believe scenarios the stuffies are going through. Currently, Who Dey the tiger and Joey the kangaroo were shopping for skirts but there was only one pink sparkly one left, it was a heavy debacle that Joe couldn't help but chuckle at while putting away the rest of the legos.

Elliana, or Ellie for short, is the no doubt most important person (albeit little person) in his life. From the day she was born, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for his little girl. Now at 4 years old, the bubbly and charismatic girl is taking in some of his interests, hence the immense collection of Lego sets that decorate his home. Sure this hobby came back to bite him in the rear when he would fall to victim of said legos by stepping on them, but the time they spent together just playing around was worth all the lego injuries in the world. But they also have house slippers now, to protect both of their feet.

Joe moved to tidy up the kitchen after double checking that all legos were in their rightful spots, not that he was actually going to count every single lego. To prepare for his 4 day weekend with Ellie, he made sure to restock on all her favorite meals and snacks but also ingredients to make the Bengals-themed cookies that she hadn’t stop talking about since she saw them on a commercial for a grocery store they don’t even have in Ohio. Joe wasn’t much of a baker, he only began cooking real meals when Ellie started staying over for multiple nights. Give him a box of Kraft Mac N Cheese and some dino nuggets and he’d turn it gourmet for his daughter, but for now that’s as far as he could go. So he called in reinforcements for this mission.

*ding dong*

His saving grace, Ja’Marr Chase. Joe was forever grateful to have a best friend that loved and cared for his daughter like she was his own. Ja’Marr was a great uncle and Ellie thought so too.

“Daddy, daddy! It’s Uncle Marr, he’s here to make cookies!” He smiles as the squeaky voiced girl comes running down the hall. Before she passes the kitchen, he sneakily pulls her into his arms before she could notice him. “Daddy!”

“What did I say about running in the house? I know you’re excited but you might fall and hurt yourself and that would make daddy really sad.” He lightly scolds bending down to her height.

“I’m sorry daddy. No more running.” Ellie cutely nods and places her small hands on his cheeks to lift his faux frown. A grin quickly returns to his face and he kisses her forehead.

“That’s my good girl, how about you go wash your hands so you and Uncle Marr can get started?” Her face beams as she wraps her arms around his neck. He returns the hug almost as tightly to take in the warm sense of comfort that having her in his arms brings. His arms could probably wrap around the young girl twice, but the contentment of having her little ones squeezing onto him so tightly is a feelings he never wants to forget. When she finally lets go, she kisses his cheek then skips down the hall in her fluffy pink slippers.

The door bell ringing again brings Joe back to his full height, but his brows furrow when he doesn’t hear his friend do his usual call out. ‘He’s probably on the phone.’ He thinks walking over to front door. He opens the door wide with a smile to greet one of his best friends, but gets replaced with his eyes widening and mouth dropping in shock.

“Hi babe!”

Joe blinks then narrows the door’s opening to only fit half his body. “What are you doing here?” He asks the woman he’s been seeing for 6 months.

“I thought we could spend some time together. I know you said you’d be busy this weekend, but you’re busy every weekend. But since you’re actually home, we could watch a movie or something.” She smiles trying to peak inside. “Are you going to invite me in?”

Joe can hear the faucet in the first floor bathroom turn off and another car pull into his driveway. He looks behind him and zeroes in on every detail in his house that screams ‘this is my little princess’ castle’ then turns back to his curious girlfriend. “Um, now’s not a great time Kate.”

The short brunette’s jaw clenches and just as she’s about to respond, Ja’Marr walks up behind her. “Wow- so what, Saturdays are for the boys?” She barks. Actually they’re for the girls, little girls.

“Kate-

Loud giggles erupt from behind him. “UNCLE MARR! Daddy he’s right there I see him!”

His teammate breaks out in a smile and waves to Ellie. “Hey babygirl.” Ja’Marr excuses himself from behind the woman and Joe lets him in the house.

Kate stands in front of him now dumbfounded. “You have a daughter?”

When Joe met Katelyn, he hadn’t had a long term girlfriend in a while, not since you. So he didn’t have to introduce anyone to his daughter. His team already knew her, his friends were great with her and she had a mom and dad who would do anything for her. Joe didn’t even feel like dating after your engagement ended two years ago. He had some hookups here and there, but getting into a relationship was not on his mind. Funnily that’s how this ‘relationship’ started, she was just someone he could call and was cool about it. Then he took her out to dinner to test the waters and half a year later he’s here.

When you broke up, you and Joe agreed not introduce your daughter to anybody without the other’s consent. You both wanted to make sure that she was your priority and her safety always came first. Then Joe implemented the rule to not introduce Elliana to romantic interests until at least 9 months into the relationship, he said it was him being protective but it was also so he didn’t have to see you without anyone else until it was serious. You also didn’t broadcast your daughter to the world like other parents, so not many knew that he did have a daughter unless they watched his every move.

So long story short, Katelyn did not know.

“We should talk.” He said as she shoved his body to the side and stomped into his home. “I guess I deserve that.” He shook his head and shut the door.

Thankfully, the kitchen and the living room were a decent distance from each other so when she plopped down on the farthest end of the sofa, he could relax knowing Ellie wouldn’t hear any distinct words the woman might start throwing his way. Kate sat facing the blank tv screen, he took the spot in front of her so he could still see some of the movements in the kitchen through a wall cut out.

“Listen Kate.”

“No me first.” She cuts him off with a hand in front of his face. He just nods and allows her to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me? Is she actually yours? Where’s her mother? How come no one knows about her? Why didn’t you fucking tell me? I thought I was your girlfriend, do I mean nothing to you? Who keeps this kind of giant fucking secret? Fucking talk!” She huffs.

“I was letting you go off- whatever. Yes, Elliana is mine. She just looks exactly like her mother” He mumbles the last part, combing his fingers through his hair, a nervous tick he’s had since he was little.

“She’s 4 and I have dual custody over her, so I mostly get her during the weekends. I didn’t tell you because her mother and I have an arrangement and I would have to talk to her about it first. Her mom lives here- well not here here, she lives in the city. You know I don’t like the attention the spotlight gives so it was easy for us to decide to leave her out of it as much as possible. I guess was going to tell you at some point.”

“What do you mean, you guess? I’m your girlfriend! Don’t you think I have the right to know that the guy I’m seeing has a kid?” She crosses her arms red faced.

“Calm down, we haven’t been seeing each other that long. We were never that serious.”

“Of course not, every time I want to spend time with you there’s a new excuse. Oh you have a game, or practice that evidently takes all fucking day. Maybe you’re hiding me because there’s someone else.”

“I promise the only other girl in my life right now is my daughter. And everything you just said is a valid excuse, I have a job and child that require all my attention.”

“Why can’t she just stay with her mother? Do you have this stupid arrangement so she can come by and give you what you’ve been missing? I bet you’ve been fucking her this whole time.”

Joe scoffs, her words starting to make his blood boil. “Katelyn, what do you not understand about us co-parenting our daughter? I barely have time to spend with you, so what makes you think I have time to cheat? If you have a problem with me being a father, then you should leave.”

“I don’t have a problem with you being a dad, I have a problem with you not talking about your ex. What, was she so special that it hurts to talk about her? Was she the one, Joe? What exactly is your relationship like with her now?”

“I told you, we co parent. There’s nothing going on with me and her mother, that’s all in the past. Can we stop talking about her now, she’s not going to just pop up out of nowhere?” He rolls his eyes.

“I’m not convinced, you’d only hide her if there was still something between you.”

“Yea her name is Elliana, the four year old making cookies in my kitchen right now.”

Before Katelyn can come back with another complaint, the doorbell rings, again. Joe sighs and looks out the window to see another very familiar car. Spoke too soon Joe.

He opens the door to see another one of his close teammates and the very woman he was just talking about.

“Tee, Y/n what are you doing here?” His eyes lazily flicker between the pair and you send him a sheepish smile.

“Oh you know, we were just in the neighborhood.” Tee nods very nonchalantly. You nudge his side with a chuckle.

“I got a 911 call from Ellie, she said there was an emergency.”

“Really?” He starts to pat down his pockets and realizes his phone is missing. He turns around and spots a smiling little girl with two long braids neatly done with purple bows in her hair. “Ellie…”

“Yes daddy.”

“Did you call mommy with my phone without telling me?”

“Yep!”

You stop the laugh from bursting out your mouth when he sends you a pointed look. Taking that as a sign to go ‘confront’ your daughter. “Elliana why did you call me saying there was an emergency?

“There is an emergency momma! Uncle Jay is eating all the cookies!” Ja’Marr turns around shocked at his little partner.

“Ellie, what did I tell you about snitches?”

“Snitches get stitches.” She relays matter factly. Joe shakes his head in confusion because clearly he wasn’t aware she knew about snitches yet. While you chuckle and run in to snatch up your girl.

“Ellie what did I tell you about taking advice from Uncle J?” You ask placing her on the counter.

“You said to tell you when he teaches me something new. He just did momma, see I told you!”

“Wow, Joe see what your friends have done to my sweet little girl.” She giggles wrapping her arms around your neck.

“They’re your friends too. How is it my fault, I had no idea?”

“There’s your answer.” You smirk. “Now Ms. Ellie Dae Burrow, is there any other emergency I need to know about?”

Freeing herself from your grasp she nods her head. “We don’t know how to ice cookies mommy.” Then takes your face in her hands and turns you towards the powdered sugar mess next to her baking buddy.

“Ellie, did you touch the cookies before touching mommy’s face?”

“Um yes?”

“Did you wash your hands after touching the cookies?” The young girl looks at her flour caked hands curiously.

“No mommy.”

“Remember what I said about touching your toys with dirty hands?” Ellie nods her head. “Well that goes for people too, cause now I’m covered in flour.”

“Oh, sorry mommy. I’ll go wash my hands now.”

You go off to get washed up then Ellie returns to the kitchen to continue helping with the cookies while you join Joe in the living room.

“I hope you guys didn’t have anything planned, Ellie clearly has a mind of her own.” Joe jokes with the couple.

“Not much, we were just going to pick up some lunch and maybe catch a movie.” Tee shrugs.

“That’s what we were going to do, how funny.” Kate perks up with hidden mischief in her eyes. This is when you realize you have no clue where this woman came from nor who she is.

“Joe?”

“Oh how rude of me. I’m Katelyn, Joe’s girlfriend and I assume you’re his baby mama.” She fake smiles holding her hand out.

The eyes of the men in the room widen at her bold choice of words. You smirk and shake the woman’s hand. “Yep, that’s me. The mother of his only child, you must know how great of a dad he is right? Whenever he has any time off, he’s always picking her up or coming over to see her. Truly father of the decade and she isn’t even 5 yet.”

Tee sits next the father hiding his face in his hands and chuckles. “I bet this isn’t how you wanted this to go.” He whispers to him. Joe just groans in his hands.

“Well, you should have a seat.” Kate invites.

“Oh I will, thank you for the hospitality in the house that my ex fiance asked me my opinion on over a year ago.” You grin and sit on the other side of Tee.

Katelyn’s kind demeanor shifts with a fake smile wide on her cheeks as she sits next to Joe. “So why’d you break up?”

“We are not starting here!” Joe’s eyes go wide and he straightens up. “Ask anything else please.”

“Joseph, your girlfriend wants to know why we’re not married right now. Why don’t you tell her?” You say forgetting how the whole thing happened for a bit. Thankfully those cherished memories come floating back to your mind and you hoped he decided to change the subject to cover your mishap.

“You just met, aren’t you supposed to be doing the making sure she’s safe for Ellie to be around thing?” You let out a muted sigh before replying.

“Oh please, and you haven’t?”

“No.” He mutters.

Your face hardens as you kiss your teth. “You let this woman around my daughter without screening her first? Joseph what the hell?”

He throws his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t think it was going to last this long, I wasn’t thinking about it.”

“Then why is she here?” You question turning your body completely towards him.

“Your guess is as good as mine!”

Katelyn scoffs, “excuse me, I’m sitting right here!”

“Unfortunately we see that too. How long have you been together anyway?” You hope that their explanation has to do with the restrictions you came up with to keep your daughter safe.

“7 mont-

“6 months- They say at the same time.

“Damn, this is awkward. I’m gonna go.” Tee announces. “I’ll text you.” Then he leaves.

“Looks like that didn’t last, maybe that’s why Joe left you. You attract drama everywhere you go.” Joe grimaces at her just wanting her to stop talking.

“Oh no hun, I left him. Not like it’s any of your damn business cause you don’t know me or him that well either. But let me guess, he told you he was busy but you showed up anyway hoping he’d let you in and give you whatever you want. I wouldn’t stress about him not making enough time for you, there’s a lot of worst ways he could be treating you. Just remember that at the end of the day, I’m that little girl’s mom and he’s her dad. I’ll always have a key in the door, when you won’t even get to see the open house.” Then you got up and went to the kitchen. Joe watched in amusement as Katelyn seethed. Then peaked behind him to catch a glimpse of you and your daughter baking together.

“You need to talk to her, she needs to know that I’m your future and she needs to make room.” Joe rolls his eyes.

“She’s right. They’re my past, present and my future. You were just a distraction and now I don’t need you anymore. I’m going to have to ask you need to leave my daughter’s house.”

She shakes her head. “Joe, we can have our own family. You don’t need them. I can do that for you.”

“Katelyn I want them, not you. It’s time for you to go.” He stands and walks over to the door.

“You’re going to miss me and regret this, but I wont open the door for you. When you want me back I’ll have someone way better than you. Please don’t do this, don’t break up with me.” Rolling his eyes at the quick change in behavior he unlocks the door for her.

“Joey, I thought we were having fun. You don’t want to throw that away do you?” She asks as a final strand of hope glistens in her eyes.

Joe sighs, “it was fun, but I’d rather play with flower shop legos and bake cookies.”

“Fuck you Joe!” She stomps out with expletives shooting from her mouth.

⍣ ೋ

“Daddy was your friend crying because you hurt her feelings?” Ellie asks with frosting covering her mouth when he arrives in the kitchen. He picks her up and kisses her sugary cheeks.

“No bub, she hurt her own feelings.”

“Joey hurt my feelings when left to join the circus.” She pouts talking about her stuffie and licking her sticky fingers.

“Are you eating the icing before we can put it on the cookies?” He asks the orange dye covered girl.

“Nyooo.” She chuckles.

“What are we going to do with you?”

“Mommy said we’re all going to the park to feed the ducks.” She smiles. You turn around with wide eyes and an amused smirk, halting your current task of making more orange frosting.

“I did not say that. Ellie Dae why are you telling your father stories?”

“I think she wants to go feed the ducks.” Ja’Marr snorts while eating some of the cookie dough.

“Uncle Marrrr, you can’t eat more cookies! It’s for the ducks.”

“Ellie ducks don’t eat cookies.” Joe chuckles putting her on a part of the counter that’s not covered in sugar.

“Kaia said they do.” Your daughter yawns mentioning your next door neighbor’s teenage daughter that likes to babysit her.

“Well you’re going to have to ask Kaia where she found the cookies made for ducks.” Glancing over at the oven clock you hum realizing its 2pm. Naptime. Looking back over at your ex, you watch him wrap his arms around your daughter as her eyelids struggle to stay open. “Joe.” You whisper. He looks up at you then the time and nods.

“Come on babygirl, let’s go upstairs.” She whines as he lifts her, but still wraps her arms around his neck.

“But daddy, I’m not tired. Cookies.” She yawns laying her head on his chest. He smiles and kisses her head.

“I promise the cookies will be there when you wake up, and maybe we’ll even take some to the ducks.” You can’t help but smile as the pair climb the staircase up to her room. You always knew Joe would be a great father, especially when the you were surprised by the idea of having a baby so young and so early in your relationship. But he only stepped up in ways you couldn't have imagined, watching him become a father felt like one of life’s greatest privileges. It’s one of the things you love loved about him. Joe’s caring nature was unlike any other, in those 4 years together you’d never felt so loved and cherished by anyone like him.

Turning around to go back to your icing duties, you’re faced with a smirking Ja’Marr Chase. “What?”

“You’re ridiculous.” He chuckles setting a timer for the cookies that you now notice are in the oven.

“I don’t understand.”

“You look at him the same way he looks at you, which is the exact same way when you were engaged. You just need to put the ring back on and plan the damn wedding at this point. I mean he broke up with his fling for you.”

You just shake your head at his nonsense, there was no way you and Joe would ever get back together after how it ended- after how you ended it. “No, I’m with Tee. They just had a mild disagreement, the second Ellie comes home with me he’ll be calling her back over.”

“You’re fucking with me right?” He scoffs. “You and Tee are not together.”

“How would you know?”

“He texted me the minute you got here. The only reason you two were out together was because we’re all still friends. Don’t try and bullshit me. You’ve been trying to make Joe jealous for weeks.”

“I have not, lower your voice. If you think he would ever take me back after the shit I said that night, then you’re delusional. I already fucked up with Joe.”

“But you want him to though.” He tilts his head with a soft smile. “I bet you still have the ring on you.” Your eyes go straight to the floor.

“You didn’t give it back because he wouldn’t take it. You can’t put it away because of who it reminds you of and you won’t sell it because you still care. In fact Ellie said you put it on a necklace and kept it in the smallest pocket of your purse.” When you look up, he’s somehow produced the same ring Joe proposed to you with on that beach date when Ellie was 8 months old.

“She really is a little blabber mouth.” You sniffle taking the chain.

“She’s smart and a thief. She showed it to me after you went to go clean your face. She knows how much it means to you and whether she understands it or not, she wants her mom and dad back together.”

“Oh please, this is the same little girl that wants to feed ducks sugar cookies.”

“All I’m saying is you should think about why you’re still carrying that nice ass ring around and talk to him. Alright I’m gonna head out, you got this right?” You nod and share a friendly hug.

“Remember what I said.” He says as the front door opens then shuts.

You lean over the counter with your hands on your face and let out a groan. There’s no possible way for Joe to ever take you back. You don’t even know why you still carry the ring around, but somehow leaving the house without it makes you feel untethered to reality.

“I doubt the cookies are that bad.” You gasp startled by the man leaning on the entryway to the kitchen.

“Goodness, Joe.” Your right hand covers your eyes while still clutching the gold chain.

“Wow,” you drop your hand remembering what you were holding. “That’s something I haven’t seen in a while.”

“Yea- um. I was having it cleaned.” You bite the inside of your lip, then replace it with a pout when his face tells you he knows the full story. “Joe-

“Put it on.”

“Listen- wait what?”

You want to believe he’s joking, but the look in his eyes is all seriousness. “I want you to put the ring back on.”

“I can’t, not after the way I ended things. It wouldn’t be right.”

“You can, because I want you to. I need you to put the ring on.”

“Joe there’s something you should know.”

He sighs and takes the chain from you. “I know you and Tee hooked up once, I’m still debating on if I need to sucker punch him for it.” Then unclasps the chain and releases the 7 karat diamond into his hand. “I know that we spent the last 2 years trying to forget everything that went down between us only to remind each other every weekend when Ellie is dropped off.” He begins to fiddle with the ring between his fingers. “I also know that nothing you said that night was true.”

You gulp locking eyes with the man you’ve always wanted to call your husband. “Joe.”

“On April 10th, your mom called you and said ‘never get married’ because she had finalized her divorce with your father after spending 25 years in an unhappy marriage, that without a doubt gave you enough trauma in itself. April 11th, I came home from a night out where I drank way too much and reminded you of a part of your childhood you tried to run away from, which is something I’m extremely sorry for. April 12th, we spent the entire day arguing about the dumbest shit because I couldn’t see the pain you were harboring. Then you said ‘I can’t spend the rest of my life with a man that doesn’t care how he comes home to his family. I won’t let you run me into the mud like he did to her, I want to be happy. I can’t marry you.’ And took your ring off.” You couldn’t stop the tears from falling down your face as he recalls the last night you spent together as a couple. A night you’ve regretted since it happened.

“Joey, don’t let me do this to you. You don’t deserve this, you could do so much better better than a damaged bitch with trust issues.” With one hand he wipes your tears and with the other he takes your left hand. “Joe think about this.”

“I think there’s something you should know.” He repeats your words with a more lighthearted tone, then gets down on one knee.

‘There’s no way, no way. Nope, he’s not doing this.’ You echo to yourself while shaking your head.

“I spent two years thinking about this. Two years driving back and forth so we could have equal time with our little girl. Two years of wondering if I’d ever have you back in my arms the way I dream of at night. Even spent one in this house thinking about how hollow it feels without you living in it. I bought it for you, so we could raise our family here together. I know this probably won’t top the first one and I don’t have a new ring yet.” He winks causing another wave of tears to fall, this time happy tears.

“I can’t see myself happier with anyone except this damaged woman in front of me with trust issues. Shit I’m not that happy now, cause every time I look in our little girl’s eyes all I see is her beautiful mother. She’s a constant reminder of the woman I miss more than anything. I thought we could do this co-parenting thing and stay friends so Ellie could have a happy childhood, but I spend more time with you than I do without you. I don’t want to wake up with anyone else in my bed that isn’t the woman right in front of me. And I’m thanking Elliana for bringing you here, because I need you. I want you back more than anything in the world.”

His voice starts to tremble. “I’d step on a million legos for you, bake and burn a thousand dinners for you, miss hundreds of games for you- fucking anything. Anything you want, it’s yours. Just say yes.”

You can feel the way your heart breaks for him, just proving how much you don’t deserve him. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

You can’t look him in the eye and break him again. You try to suck in the sob but there’s no use.

“I’m pregnant with Tee’s baby.”

SIKE

i'm sorry that was childish, don’t hate me lol here’s the real ending

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ꕥ

“I can’t,” You giggle when his pout deepens. “You haven’t asked the question yet.”

A bright smile breaks out on his face as he sighs in relief. “You need to stop scaring me. Y/n Y/l/n, will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes I’ll marry you, Joey. I'll marry you a hundred times if I have to.” You beam as he slips the ring back in its rightful spot then stands and pulls you into the most passionate kiss.

After two years, you’re back in the arms you love, felt the most comfortable and cherished in. You feel so lucky to have found a man, a fiance so caring, thoughtful, and understanding. Lucky that every time you pushed him away, he just pulled you in harder. And you can’t wait to finally marry him and give him everything he’s ever wanted. Including a bigger family.

♡.﹀﹀﹀﹀.♡

so any critiques, comments, concerns. i'm open to any and everything🫶🏾 oh and don't forget to reblog for more :)

618 notes · View notes

starsinthesky5 · 1 month ago

Note

not sure if you’ve answered this ask before but how did joe’s hometown friends react to joe telling them about him and songbird? cause i can totally see them not believing anything he says and teasing him about it! like they think there is no way introverted joe got with miss popstar

a/n: not using joe's hometown friends real names for this because well...yeah :)

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

it’s one of those classic athens summer nights—warm, quiet, and humid and sticky in that way that clings to your skin. the kind where the air smells like grass, smoke, and beer, and it feels like time’s slowed down just for a while. trevor’s backyard hasn’t changed since high school—same patchy grass, same rusted grill, same half-broken lawn chairs arranged in a lazy circle around the fire pit. the fire crackles low, casting orange glow over their faces, and a bluetooth speaker hums quietly with old blink-182.

“you been quiet, man,” trevor says, turning from the fire to squint at joe, who’s leaning back in his chair, hood low, sipping from a can of some cheap seltzer. “what’s going on with you lately. haven't seen you out much this off-season?”.

joe shrugs like it’s nothing, like the reason behind his absence on trips with the friend group isn’t a big deal, late replies to their text messages aren't unusual, and the abnormal amount of times he's checked his phone in their presence isn't strange for him. but there’s something about the little curve of his mouth—just the tiniest hint of a smile—that immediately sets off alarm bells.

“nothing,” he says, too casually. “just…been busy,”.

“busy,” quinn echoes, already grinning. “okay, define busy. like, football busy? or…someone busy?”.

joe doesn’t answer right away. just lifts his can, takes a slow sip like he’s got all the time in the world. there’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, smug and unbothered, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “mm,” he hums, setting the can down with a soft clink. “bit of both, ya know,”.

“oh shit,” ryland says, sitting forward in his chair, now fully paying attention to what joe was saying. the drunken haze in his brain vanishes in a second. “you’re seeing someone. like actually?”.

max drops his beer can dramatically into the cooler. “i knew it. bro’s been off the grid since the beginning of last month...ever since that trip to the hamptons for the white party,”.

“okay, who is she?” trevor asks, pulling his chair next to joe and nudging his leg with a sock-covered foot. “do we know her? is she from around here?”.

joe shrugs again, infuriatingly vague. “maybe,”.

“maybe?! maybe?!” quinn groans. “you can’t drop that and go back to sipping your fuckass high noon like you didn’t just cause a national emergency. your fan girls are about to freak bro. i hope you know that,”.

ryland narrows his eyes. “all right. twenty questions. is she blonde?”.

joe shakes his head.

“brunette?” quinn asks.

joe nods softly, smirking as he thinks about her her hair, thick and soft and everywhere when she sleeps, tangled in his fingers and fanned across his pillow. it always smells like coconut and something sweet he can never name. in the sun, it turns golden at the ends, almost honey-like, and in the mornings, it’s a mess he loves combing through with slow, lazy hands. he thinks about how it tickles his neck when she leans into him, how it always ends up tied in a claw clip or falling over her eyes when she’s baking, how he’s stolen at least three hair ties off her wrist just to keep one in his bag, one in his car, one around his water bottle.

“college girl? someone from lsu or ohio state?” max questions.

but then before joe can respond, quinn jumps in, “cheerleader? actress? oh my god is it hailee—,”.

“no, no, and...no?” joe scoffs, cutting in and shutting it down before they go to far. “she's a...singer,” he says casually, as if he didn't just cause a bomb to go off inside his friend's drunken little brains.

the fire cracks. the boys go still.

max blinks. “…like, hobby singer? or, like…real singer?”.

joe lifts a brow, amused at the question before he replies, “real,”.

“wait,” ryland says slowly. “wait. wait. are you talking like…local bar gigs, or like…spotify verified?”.

joe’s smiling now. not saying anything. just letting it build.

“dude. don’t,” ryland rolls his eyes.

trevor leans forward, squinting at joe through the firelight like he’s trying to read his mind. “okay. give us something. initials. a lyric. a song title. anything,” he says, motioning dramatically with his beer can like it’s a lie detector test.

joe lifts his own can to his lips, sips slow, eyes glinting with mischief over the rim. then, deadpan, without even blinking, he recites,

“didn't they tell us don’t rush into things, didn’t you flash your green eyes at—”.

“NO FUCKING WAY,” max screeches, nearly choking on his drink. he slaps a hand over his mouth like the words burned coming out.

of course they recognized it. of course.

those lyrics...that album. they were everywhere. stores. the radio. social media. hell, quinn’s sister cried to the song wonderland after prom.

“shut up,” quinn yells, leaping to his feet and launching his trucker hat across the yard like it personally betrayed him. “you’re lying. you’re a lying little bitch, dude,”.

joe shrugs, calm as ever, like he’s not sitting on the biggest bombshell of the summer. his lips twitch, the ghost of a grin threatening to break. “i’m not lying,” he says, tone maddeningly casual. “just didn’t think y’all could handle it,”.

“you're telling me you—joseph lee burrow—are dating her. the grammy-winning, international pop sensation, women want to be her, men want to marry her, princess of the music industry? man, please. we're not stupid,”.

joe’s smile grows at the mention of all her titles and how she's portrayed to the public. “yeah, i am,”.

trevor’s jaw drops. “how,”.

“you don’t even talk that much!” quinn yells. “all you do is sit their with your shades on and people watch,”.

“what did you do, just stare at her until she fell for you?” max asks, skeptical of the entire situation..

“pretty much,” joe says with a small laugh.

ryland puts his hands on his knees and breathes. “i need a minute,”.

“when did this even start?!” trevor asks, practically shouting. “how long has this been happening?”.

joe finally pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolls for a second, and then flips it around. it’s a photo—simple and oh so special. she's in his hoodie, makeup-free, curled into his lap on the couch. she’s kissing his jaw and smiling with her eyes shut. joe’s looking straight into the camera, pink-cheeked and happy in that soft, lovesick way that only happens when someone knows they’re home.

the boys lose it.

max collapses to the grass. “that’s a real picture. that’s not even a paparazzi photo. she’s got her feet up. she’s snuggled. this is domestic,”.

“oh my god,” quinn moans. “he’s so far gone,”.

“bro,” ryland says, pointing. “she’s got the hoodie. she’s got the sleepy smile. you love her,”.

joe freezes for half a second—just enough for the guys to catch it. the slight shift in his posture, the way his fingers flex around his drink. he doesn’t say anything right away, just stares into the fire, watching the embers crackle like they might spell out the answer for him.

because no, the L word hasn’t come up yet. not out loud. not between them. but god, he feels it. in the way she looks at him when she’s half-asleep in his hoodie, humming along to some soft melody she hasn’t released yet. in the way she traces lazy circles over his chest with her fingers while he talks about nothing. in the way she laughs like he’s her favorite sound.

his throat bobs, swallowing something quiet and terrifying and real.“yeah,” he murmurs eventually, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “i’m getting there,”.

trevor clutches his chest. “nah, i’m sick. our introverted hermit crab bagged the pop princess. i feel like i’m dreaming right now,”.

“he skipped all the levels,” max mutters. “went from ‘barely talks to girls without stumbling over his words’ to dating someone like her? unbelievable,”.

“when do we get to meet her?” quinn asks. “do you think she’d let us hear some unreleased shit?”.

joe chuckles, knowing he was the only one that was allowed to listen to what she'd been working on as of late. it was about him, so it was only for him. that was her precious logic. “probably not,”.

“what’s she like?” ryland asks, more curious now than anything. “like, actually. behind the flashing lights and headlines,”.

joe softens, like physically softens as he starts rambling. “she’s…so funny. extremely smart. especially football smart. kind of like a shot of espresso. but she can also be a nice warm glass of milk when you need her to, you know? she sings around the house. leaves her jewelry everywhere. keeps stealing my hoodies. she bakes. even taught me how to cook a little bit. she's so pretty, and like not just superficially. she has such a pretty heart and i know that makes no fucking sense but...she's just such a great person. and she's real. you wouldn't even think she's famous if you spent one whole day with her. she's so...normal. and she just brings out that side of me that i thought was dead the second i came into the league. she's like a breath of fresh air after years of breathing in smoke,”.

“oh my god,” trevor whispers. “you’re in love love,”.

“you guys are insufferable,” joe says while he rolls his eyes, but he’s beaming at the same time. you know why? because it's true. even if he won't admit it out loud or to himself.

it's so fucking true.

he glances down at his phone again and fires off a quick text, they found out. they’re freaking out. they love you but don't think you're real. (oh, joe. so to the point. what happened to hi? hello? did you burn my kitchen down yet?) and a minute later, her reply pops up, tell them i said hi. and yes, i am real. and i also can't wait to meet them :)

and when joe shows them the texts?

yeah. they lose it.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #yail #yail asks #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fic #joe burrow blurb #cincinnati bengals #nfl fan fic #nfl imagine #joeburrow #joe burrow fan fic #joe burrow fluff

216 notes · View notes

bimbofantasia · 2 months ago

Text

Introduction

Hi!!!! Im Reagan - you can call me Raerae or Diamond (my ponygirl/puppygirl name!)

Im a 31 yo trans girlie living in Ohio, love being here for all the fun kink and like spirals 🔥

I am a far left wing girl too: pro-LGBTQIA+, pro womens rights (including abortion and full bodily automony), pro vax, universal healthcare, ubi, pro BLM, acab, anti facist, anti right wing/Trumpism, expand voting rights and public transportation, and disability rights, plus so many more. If you know political spectrums, I fall between full socialism and true communism on the leftist scale, and just a little more left of center between anarchy and order - I believe in less power strutures than we currently have, but prefer some form of government. Ask me about it!

My kinks are:

Bimbofication (lotsa it) ✨️

My current body is: 36/30/34, wanna get huger tiddies (34C -> H, J cups lyk 1750/2500ccs!), short to mid blonde hair (want extensions/super long!), and just had my first ever lip filler! Loved it, wanna keep getting more 💋💋💋 ask away with your questions 💗💋

Dumbification 💦

Dollification 🌀

Degradation

Objectification

Latex 🔥🔥🔥

Bondage, specially with like metal and chains and heavy weights

Service 🧹 (maid or slave)

Petplay (puppy 🐕🐾 and pony 🐎)

Hypnosis

Chastity/orgasm control

Orgasm overload

Sensory deprivation/sensory play

Probs like more 2 💗💕

Exploring CNC more here ✨️

Limits:

Scat

Lack of consent - i love free use, but just ask about things first 💕💋

Blood play

Needles

Sissification/sissy play/gender identity play

Permanent harm (but tats and permanent marks like brands are negotiable!)

Im very open to chatting anytime, just hit me up on the DMs 💗💗💗 talk to ya soon 💗

Here's a kofi link if anyone is like, totally wanting to support my bimbo journey 🤭✨️💋:

https://ko-fi.com/raerae01

103 notes · View notes

probablyasocialecologist · 7 months ago

Text

Many of Harris’s mistakes were similar to those Hillary Clinton made in 2016. Like Clinton, Harris cozied up to billionaire donors. Mark Cuban, for instance, said he was delighted that Harris was abandoning Democrats’ commitments to progressive principles and letting the business community propose the policies it wanted. Like Clinton, Harris and Tim Walz made hubristic campaign stops in solidly red states like Texas and Kentucky rather than spending the final days laser-focused on crucial battlegrounds. Like Clinton, Harris emphasized celebrity endorsements while failing to successfully court unions. (Most notably, the Teamsters declined to endorse her after she refused to pledge that she wouldn’t break a national railway strike.) Like Clinton, Harris focused too much on the danger of Donald Trump (which is very real) and not enough on the reasons why she would be good at being president herself. Most importantly, like Clinton, Harris ultimately decided upon a strategy of trying to woo moderate Republican voters away from Trump, reasoning that it didn’t matter if doing so alienated progressive voters and the Democratic base. Chuck Schumer, speaking of Hillary’s 2016 strategy, infamously promised: "For every blue-collar Democrat we lose in western Pennsylvania, we will pick up two moderate Republicans in the suburbs in Philadelphia. And you can repeat that in Ohio and Illinois and Wisconsin." In fact, they just lost the blue-collar Democrats and didn’t pick up the Republicans! In 2024, Harris, too, aggressively touted endorsements from Republicans, promised to put a Republican in her cabinet (she even cited that as the answer to what she would have done differently from Biden!), and went so far as to praise and embrace Dick and Liz Cheney! The strategy was an abject failure. Because she wanted to appease both Republicans and progressive voters, Harris had to further indulge her weakness for speaking in meaningless word salads, since taking stances that were meaningful could have alienated one of these constituencies. Trump, who is canny about portraying himself as more anti-war than Democrats, correctly pointed out that an endorsement from the hawkish Cheneys should be a badge of shame, not honor. (Specifically he said Cheney is “"the King of Endless, Nonsensical Wars, wasting Lives and Trillions of Dollars, just like Comrade Kamala Harris. I am the Peace President, and only I will stop World War III!")

[...]

The lesson to Democratic leaders in 2016 should have been that Bernie Sanders had been right, that the party had betrayed working-class voters and would be doomed if it could not effectively counter Trump’s pseudo-populist appeal with a visionary alternative. (See the excellent analysis in Thomas Frank’s Listen, Liberal.) Unfortunately, the lessons weren’t learned then, and it doesn’t seem like they’re going to be learned now, either! MSNBC anchor Joy Reid is already insisting that Kamala Harris’s campaign was “flawless” (because she got “every prominent celebrity voice”), and pundits like Jill Filipovic are saying things like, “this election was not an indictment of Kamala Harris. It was an indictment of America.” (Good luck ever winning with the slogan “You’re the problem, America!”) USAToday’s Michael Stern says that instead of talking about “where the Harris campaign went wrong” we should talk about “where the American people went wrong.” The Harris campaign itself is blaming unspecified “obstacles that were largely out of our control.”

6 November 2024

#kamala harris #democrats #us elections #us election 2024 #liberalism

137 notes · View notes

sc0tters · 2 years ago

Text

All Bark No Bite | Ethan Edwards

summary: you and Ethan have disliked each other from the moment you met. so what happens when you connect with some old friends from high school that just so happen to be on the other team that send Ethan the wrong idea?

request: yes/no

warnings: sexual themes, p in v, thigh riding, minor mention of spanking, use of a Polaroid camera whilst having sex, swearing, use of the nickname brat and princess once or twice, use of y/n once too.

word count: 2.6k

authors note: wrote this last night after a rugby game, was running on three hours of sleep and pure excitement after the all blacks won… very much did love writing about Ethan and this was actually meant to be up yesterday but I literally got home at 1 in the morning. this request was highly detailed so I hope I did it justice!

You hated him.

Your and Ethan's little rivalry went back all the way to the first day of freshman year when he took your drink order at the coffee shop on campus because he had the same order and was late.

From that day on you hoped that he would rot in hell.

The hockey team were put in the middle of it all though when you joined the team as the new photographer. When you saw his face you were ready to quit, but you needed Coach Naurato's signature at the end of the season in order to pass the first year of your degree thus you stayed.

But that didn't mean that it was all cordial. The screaming matches you two would have were so frequent to the point where you two were not allowed in the same room together alone, not that either of you were ever going to complain about that.

So when you two hadn't said a single thing to each other in over two weeks, you were practically on cloud nine. You were at the top in all of your classes, you had a fuck buddy in Mark, and Ethan hadn't done anything to screw either of those two things up.

Ethan hated what you and Mark were, not only because of the fact that he said a wall with your bed buddy but also because the sounds of your moans had quickly become the only material he could use to jack-off to.

Just last night after hearing you leave the sophomore house when he dozed off to sleep Ethan was met with a harsh surprise, that was a dream about you.

He had to admit that he knew most of the image of you was true, he had seen your lacy thong that landed up in Marks washing and one time when you were in your office at the Yost you accidentally spilt a smoothie down your white shirt. Despite shutting the door, you had forgotten to shut the blinds by the window you had inside the office. That meant when Ethan walked past he was giving a front row seat to watch you get semi undressed. He knew it was wrong how his mouth watered at the sight of your blue bra but it just looked like it was made for your breasts.

Even though it was game day at the Yost, Ethan avoided you like the plague as he attempted to get that image out of his mind.

That's why it was so confusing to you when the conversation you were having with two of the Ohio state players was cut short by the Canadian. He had been glaring at the two boys unaware that you were catching up with them because the three of you went to high school together.

You wanted to slap that glare off of Ethan's face but as the players from Ohio were scattered around you knew that you would get in trouble if you did indeed hit him.

So instead when you saw he had his bag ready to go you dragged him to your office. It was far away enough from the main parts of the players areas so that nobody would hear you two.

You shut the door behind you and was ready to unleash your full fury at him "what the hell was that?" You both spoke at the same time.

Ethan was quicker to let out a scoff "you wanna tell me?" He asked taking a step towards you "fucking touching them like that." The boy added as you were now against your table as you tried to avoid being too close to him.

Yeah you had hugged both boys but that was because you hadn't seen them since the previous year "green is not a good colour for you," you pointed out with a laugh as he was acting rather jealous.

The comment made him roll his eyes "could you maybe not be a little brat for one second?" He cocked his head as he had now pushed you onto the table.

You knew that you were teetering on a fine line with him "what are you going to do if I don't?" The smirk was clear on your face and it only became more evident when his own facial expressions hardened.

He wanted to do it, he wanted to show you but Mark was acting like a mental blocker. Sure it was stupid but Ethan was a man of bro code "knew you'd be all bark and no bite." You mumbled shaking your head as you moved your hand to his chest to move past him.

That seemed to press the on button in the boys head as his hand cupped your cheek, and before you both knew it he was now kissing you.

It took you a second before you kissed him back causing what quickly became a fight between your tongues that you lost when Ethan placed a slap on your ass. The gesture was small but it brought a moan out of you and he felt it in his shorts.

The sounds that he had heard so much from the room next door was now right in front of him.

The Canadian pulled you towards the couch as he sat down letting you land on top of him "let's get this off of you," he motioned to the strings of your sweatpants as you nodded quickly pulling the gray pants off.

The boy looked at the sight as he released out a groan "look at you in these pretty little panties," he mumbled as he rested his hand on hip as he wanted to move your hoodie that was hiding the fabric.

As his fingers dug in that bone it caused you to grind against his thigh, eliciting another moan from you.

It caught Ethan off guard as he looked up at you "you like that?" He asked as he brushed the loose strands of your hair behind your ear.

You placed your hands on his shoulders "yeah," you moaned as you leaned forward to kiss him again.

His hands didn't let up as he continued to help you reach what you both hoped was your high "god you’re wet,” Ethan’s head fell back as the fabric on his thigh was quickly becoming soaked.

When his head dropped you took the opportunity to kiss his neck making the effort to draw hickeys on the area.

He squeezed your thighs as he moved his hand back to your ass to place another smack on it “been waiting to have you like this.” The hockey player confessed as he watched you smile.

It was a shit eating grin “you must have been so jealous of Mark then pretty boy.” You cooed letting out a sigh as your mouth formed an o shape.

Ethan scoffed at the mention of his housemate “that mouth of yours is going to get you in some hot water,” he warned as he pushed his lips into a thin line.

In the best of times you said some things that you probably weren’t meant to “it’s not like you’re going to do anything about it.” You teased, reminding him of what you had said earlier “all bark. No bite,” you pecked his lips between the two sentences as you bit the inside of your cheek trying your best to suppress a moan when the boy forced your hips into his thigh.

He knew he shouldn’t have reacted because you were simply trying to get under his skin “up,” Ethan placed you next to him on the couch as he began to unbuckle his pants.

You furrowed your eyebrows as you were left speechless “you got condoms princess?” The Canadian asked as he as he knew that he had none in his bag.

The sound of your laughter could be heard as you nodded getting up to grab the box that was in a drawer. Ethan thought that you had kept them because you and Mark had slept together before on this couch. When in fact one of the freshmen asked you to get him some once, not wanting to know what size Rutger was you just told him to grab what he needed from the drawer.

Ethan had kicked his pants off and had now caught the attention of your camera that was sat on the table next to the couch.

He met you in the middle of the room in nothing more than his boxers “let’s get this off of you,” the hockey player muttered as he tugged at the end of your hoodie. You lifted up your arms in an attempt to help his efforts “you knew you were gonna get fucked today didn’t ya?” He groaned seeing that you were in a matching set.

A smirk was evident on your face, “Mark usually fucks me real good after a big win,” that was the honest truth, Mark always landed up back in your dorm after a powerful team performance “lay down pretty boy,” your voice was soft as you sent him a smile.

The Canadian scoffed “what makes you think that you’re in charge?” He asked still listening to you.

He watched as you rolled the condom over his cock “thought brats always get what they want?” You showed him that you weren’t going to let him forget about what he called you.

You smiled as you straddled over his thighs using his cock to tease your clit before you slid onto it “fuck,” you groaned as his hands found their familiar home on your hips “taking me so well,” his breath was hot against the shell of your neck as he helped you fuck yourself on him.

The sound of skin slapping could have been heard from anyone in that hallway but thankfully all of the umich players were far too focused on celebrating the big win.

Ethan was bigger than Mark which was honestly really surprising to you because you always thought that the Canadian screamed small dick energy.

But as he managed to hit spots that Mark could only ever scratch “so good,” your eyes screwed shut as Ethan wrapped his lips around your nipple.

He sucked at your breast letting his hand massage the other one “E,” you moaned as your fingers raked through his hair slightly pulling at it “wanna take a picture of you,” you confessed letting your thoughts be voiced.

You were honestly surprised that you were able to form that coherent sentence as you could feel the coil in your stomach that was getting tighter by the second.

It was weird, usually your camera was only something that you used for the team on the ice or during funny moments. This was fitting under neither category “here I was thinking that I was the one with no bite.” Ethan watched as you reached over to grab the Polaroid camera that was next to your big camera. The boy was able to use this moment to fuck you at a different angle almost causing you to land flat on your face by the surprise movement “it’s my job to be the little shit,” you mumbled sending him a glare.

Ethan let out a laugh “sorry princess,” he apologised and attempted to make it up to your by leaving a trail of kisses from your jaw back down to your breasts.

As his face was nuzzled between the two you took the moment to take that picture letting out a whimper as he looked back up at you “my turn,” the hockey player reached out with one hand to grab the camera and used his other to rub his thumb over your clit.

Your head fell back and it caused him to get the perfect picture. As the piece of film came out he knew that the image of your scrunched up face trailing down to your breasts that were quickly becoming more visibly marked by the second was you to be one that was going to live in his wallet.

For safe keeping’s of course but also for a little bit of material that he could use as he pleased.

He liked how he was pulling moans out of your mouth quicker than he had ever heard Mark do it.

Ethan knew that it was wrong but subconsciously he had made a competition within himself to outcompete the boy that he had heard you with so many times already.

It was like if the Canadian could make you feel better than his Michigan born teammate then maybe you’d cut things out with Mark then.

Maybe even you’d pick Ethan up as a fuck buddy instead.

But he was pulled from his thoughts as you clenched around him practically sucking the life out of his cock as he was brought back to reality “you’re so good to me,” you cooed as the attention to your clit was bringing you ever so closer to your high.

He placed a soft kiss to your collar bone “you wanna be a good girl and come for me?” He asked just increasing the rate of which his thumb rubbed the sensitive nub as you began to bounce your hips against him.

The coil in your stomach was so tight that it almost hurt “fuck me wow!” You yelled as your whole body shook as you even felt the orgasm in your toes.

Thankfully for you the boy was right behind you as you throbbing and clenching around him spurred on his orgasm, causing him to mumble a string of so good as he helped you ride out your high.

You found the energy in yourself to move off of him as your body collapsed on the couch next to him but thankfully on the side that didn’t have the now fully processed photos.

Because we can’t have those getting damaged now can we?

Ethan smiled as he ran his fingers through your hair “we should go that again some other time,” he proposed causing you to let out a giggle as it was the first thing that he had said to you after sex.

You looked at him leaning in to peck his lips as you were still in that fucked out state “my pretty little brat,” the Canadian mumbled as he brushed your hair out of your face.

As you leaned forward to grab your hoodie his phone went off with a string of notifications “someone’s popular,” you teased sending him a smile.

Ethan let out a laugh “I could say the same thing to you,” he had a giant smirk on his face as he flipped his phone around to you.

Mark 🛑 you know where y/n is? saw you with her earlier

Your face turned red as you had totally forgotten about the fact that you and Mark were actually meant to do some work for a class after the game.

So you let out a groan as you tried to get up “I gotta go,” you announced as you pulled your sweatpants over your legs not bothering to find your panties as you figured that you could leave them as a memento for the Canadian.

You were grateful that you had a spare pair of slides in the office as you didn’t feel like putting on your airforces “you can let yourself out right?” You asked as you grabbed the photo of him and your phone.

Speechless all Ethan could do was nod.

He clearly thought that your evening went down worse than his did.

Maybe this wasn’t meant to happen again.

#ethan edwards #ethan edwards smut #ethan edwards imagine #imagines #hockey imagine #nhl imagine #nhl oneshot #oneshots #hockey imagines #umich smut #umich imagine #umich x reader #ethan edwards x reader #ethan edwards x y/n #amber writes fics

905 notes · View notes

lemotmo · 1 month ago

Note

Let my man dance with his man!

Q. Not gonna lie the ballroom dancing thing was a little too on the nose, I'm not sure why they felt the need to do that. His baseball and Martial arts backgrounds were both right there.

A. So this is going to sound mean but I'm an American, unfortunately, so I can say it. Sometimes the average viewer needs it spelled out for them in a very obvious, in your face kind of way. Twitter proves daily that people will believe anything you say so long as you make it short and easy to follow (stay away from Twitter). The ballroom dancing thing was a nice stereotype that the audience could easily follow. That's it. That's why they didn't use baseball or martial arts. If you're talking to Linda in Youngstown, Ohio, or Barbara in Tulsa, Oklahoma and you say 14 year old Eddie loves to ballroom dance, it conjures up a very particular image of that little boy in their head. It's ignorant, stereotypical, and incorrect but it's their truth (gag me). They're not writing this Eddie storyline for the fandom. They're writing it for the general audience. How a fan consumes this show is not nearly the same as how a typical average viewer consumes this show. This storyline is being written for them to follow. Two episodes ago they had the gay character insinuate that Eddie is not straight, and that Buck might have feelings for him (he absolutely does). In the two episodes that followed, the audience has seen four FaceTime calls, all of them paralleled to the actual canon couples that were shown in those episodes, one included the two of them cooking together, and all dealt with Christopher and parenthood. Now the audience also knows that Eddie used to ballroom dance and loved it. It's a nonsensical little information nugget in the grand scheme of things, but to certain viewers it was one more check in the 'yep he's a gay man' column. It was on the nose because it was supposed to be on the nose. They wanted people to get the implication it makes. I hate that it's effective because people need a better understanding of things, but I also get why the show did it that way. It was a very quick way to tick another box for the average viewer. And all the show cares about is getting the average viewer from point A to point B. People are wilfully ignorant and stupid sometimes, anon. Occasionally the show has to take that into account when telling a story.

Thank you Nonny. 🤗

I absolutely hate that Ali had to make this point, but the most horrible thing is that she is right. 🤢

This isn't purely an American issue though. I know plenty of people in my own life who would draw the same conclusions from this.

When my son was little, his favourite Lego sets were all from 'Lego and friends'. They come in purple boxes and the characters are mainly girls. They're really fun sets to make. Very intricate and beautiful.

But yeah... once in a while someone felt the need to comment on him having made the choice to play with a "girl's toy" *insert huge eye roll here* and how that might somehow be linked to his future sexuality. He was four years old at the time.🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️ The idiocy of stereotyping people. 🙄

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

#anonymous blog I love #nonnies galore #eddie diaz #buddie #911 8x13

46 notes · View notes

afternath · 4 months ago

Text

𝙏𝙃𝙍𝙊𝙐𝙂𝙃 𝙁𝙍𝙄𝙂𝙄𝘿 𝘼𝙄𝙍 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘽𝙐𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂 𝙁𝙇𝘼𝙈𝙀𝙎 chapter 1!

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

The sky is dark. Natalia can’t see it, but she knows. It’s by the ticking clock on the wall, the way the shadows had grown to their largest within the dreary room. Bunks line these walls, the stagnant smell of mould lingering in the air. It no longer stings her lungs; she’s been here far too long for it to faze her. The girls have never been able to pinpoint where exactly the smell comes from, and the instructors don’t care enough to fix it. After all, if you can’t tolerate a little bit of mould, how can you be an assassin? Those who succumb to the sickness that comes from such a dirty environment are left to rot, forgotten.

Natalia is sixteen.

It’s been years since she had first come here, remembering the day that she had woken up, her body still mostly frozen with sedatives, and later, forced to shoot a gun for the first time. That was before Ohio, before Yelena. The second time was incomparable to the first, guilt constantly beating at her heart. She should have stopped it, she should have shot the man who wished to take them away from America. Yelena had once been the person closest to her, but unfortunately, the Red Room cares not for those who are breakable.

It’s unfair, she thinks to herself, We’re only human. All of us are breakable if you apply enough force.

Yelena had died two years ago. Not by choice, but by a cruel system designed to cut all ties, to bring extreme isolation–until the girls’ only focus was fighting and efficiency. Natalia flinches at the taste of metal on her tongue, the fine taste of grief, though she knows that it’s not. Maybe, over time, she had grown to associate the taste of blood with grief, though the taste of blood on her tongue is from the piece of metal sitting in her mouth, which she’d accidentally stabbed into her gums.

Weeks before, Natalia had snuck one of the keys used to open the cuffs. Each instructor had one, and after no escape attempts had been made yet, they simply assumed that the person Natalia had stolen from had lost it.

The person who had lost it had gotten off with a knife to the throat and their body in the morgue.

The key had been stashed in a space between one of the bricks and the door to the living quarters, and before the instructors had conducted the ‘lights out’, promptly at 8:30, she had placed it in her mouth, the key sitting on the inside of her cheek; the source of the metallic taste.

Natalia rarely let people close to her. Those that she did were people who she knew she could trust, ones that she was sure would not tell her secrets, and ones that could hide her relationship with them. Too many touches, too many glances, too many hushed whispers, and you’ll end up sparring to the death. Only the strongest survive, she recalled from a speech which had been made by Dreykov on her second year here, designed to motivate the girls to try harder. It was unfair. All of this was unfair.

The one person she had let close to her during this time was a girl the same age as her, surrounded by a strange hopefulness that Natalia felt herself being attracted to. You were anything but the sombre feeling that surrounded the rest of the girls, but rather a careful hopefulness. You had fantasised, whispered to Natalia in the night about how you would escape, how you’d leave and find a nice home somewhere in the foothills of some beautiful mountain. How you’d get a cat, and you’d name it something cute–you had spent an entire night telling her what you might name it.

You had always been quiet, a silent observer to the activities and to those around you, but you always had so many ideas, so many thoughts in your brain–Natalia was drawn to it. After the death of her sister, Natalia had begun to think about killing herself. She had nothing to lose, and freedom to gain, so why not? You, however, had noticed the changes in her behaviour, how she had slowly grown sloppy during training. You were the first person to initiate conversation with her, nearly two months after her sister’s death.

Natalia had vowed to make your dreams a reality, one night when, before bed, the instructor had left briefly, giving her time to sneak you a soft kiss as you leaned against the wall on the security camera’s blind spot. You spoke together in English, when Russian was too widely known. Most girls here did not speak the language, though they were learning–it was mandatory for all of the girls to know many languages.

Now, the faint clinking of cuffs can be heard, as some girls shift in their sleep, though she recognises the soft grunt in the bunk beside her as belonging to you. She had promised, and she would deliver–today was the day that she would break the two of you out of here. You’d go to a nearby village, if you could find one, or you’d survive off the land–she wasn’t sure, but the first step was getting out. “Love?” she inquires, in the softest tone possible, a small attempt to get your attention. One of her hands is cuffed to the bed, stopping her from moving away from the stiff mattress.

“Mm,” you give her a light hum of acknowledgement.

“Are you okay? Are you ready? Up for it? We can always–we can do it another day, if you need,” she added the last part rather quickly, a part of her clinging to the Red Room–though it was terrible, she at least knew how to survive in here. She had no idea what was waiting for her outside these four walls.

“No. Today is good, we’re going to get out of here,” your firm voice tugged her from her slight doubts–if you were sure, she would follow you to the ends of the Earth.

“Okay,” she murmured, her voice coming out a little more muffled as she spat out the key, guiding it to the cuff that held her to the bedpost. A small clink followed, Natalia catching the metal before it hit the ground. Any unnecessary noise was a risk. Stepping onto the cold, concrete floor, she moved to your bedside, leaning over your hunched body.

“Hey,” you gave her a small grin. Her hair was messy, red hair spilling down her cheeks, and as she leaned in, it tickled your neck. You smile softly, lightly blowing some of her hair from your face. Your own cuff clicks open when she twists the key, the metal falling to the mattress. Now free, you pull your wrist away from the bedpost, rubbing your sore wrist. Leaning up, you sneak a kiss from her lips, causing her to wrinkle her nose in feigned distaste.

“Ew,” she whispers, sticking her tongue out at you. She grabs your combat suit from underneath your bed, and her own as well; the girls always have their suits beneath their beds, since training takes place promptly at six in the morning, and if you’re late, you’re guaranteed a punishment.

She helps you into your suit, giving you a chaste kiss on your cheek once you’ve slid into the skin-tight material. She moves deftly, dressing herself on her own. Once she’s done, she looks at you, giving you a reassuring smile, “Trust me?” While she speaks, she makes for two guns, handing you one, and keeping the other to herself. You slide it into your thigh holster quietly. Your suits also both come with a built in watch, for missions that take a particularly long time, especially when based in a different location where the timezone is different. Checking your watch, you note the time, five past eleven.

You give her a dopey smile, “Where to?”

“I know a route.” As quickly as her playful demeanour had come, it vanished, buried under that stare of concentration she always seemed to have. Her eyebrows furrowed, her head tilting slightly in the direction of where she wanted you to come with. “Follow.”

You would have been wary of the other girls waking up, but most of them screamed during their sleep, so small whispers were in no way loud enough to wake them. Most of them were exhausted from hours of training, and needed as much sleep as they could get before the next day would inevitably start.

You nodded, following her as she motioned towards a vent. Crawling inside, it was nothing short of disgusting. The mouldy smell now filled the air around you, the vents obviously not well-maintained. The smell clung to your skin, your hair, and it stuck in your lungs, though you shook it off, ignoring the pungent scent. Natalia went first, having barely enough room for the two of you to crawl side-by-side, so you stuck behind her, following her movements which were slowly becoming more and more obscured by the darkness. Natalia seemed to notice this, murmuring quietly, “Don’t get lost.”

“I won’t,” you state, making sure to follow closely.

The vents take a sharp left. You wince as you hit your shoulder against the metal, Natalia turning her head to check on you–though you can’t see each other. The dark of the night had fully swamped the vents, the scarce moonlight nowhere to be found.

The both of you needed to be fast; it would be soon that someone would notice the two of you missing from your beds, and they would come for you the moment it was noticed. As you pass, a grate allows for small slits of light to filter into the ventilation system. You take a quick peek, and then immediately wince away. The room appears to be what looks like a morgue, cold air emanating from the sterilised room. Both of you move with a sense of a little more urgency now, slipping through the vents quickly.

“Just a little more,” Natalia murmurs, a small attempt to reassure you.

“Okay,” you mutter, still inching along. Your face contorts into a grimace as you pass over what must be the showers, the dense smell of mould wafting through the vents. The showers are rarely ever completely dry, the source of the disgusting smell that now radiates through this section of the ventilation system. Natalia seems to hate the smell as well, now speeding up to get away from the scent of mould and the even worse, smell of bodily fluids. The showers are frequently used for sex, leaving a sick feeling in your stomach.

For a minute, everything is okay. The metal creaks as you scooch through the vents, but for the most part, it is silent. That is, until the vents become alight with a gleaming red, a siren blaring into your ears from nearly every crevice. You cast Natalia a panicked glance, her face illuminated with red as she turns back to look at you in alarm.

“They don’t know we’re in here, we have time,” she states, before crawling faster.

“The girls can cover ground faster than the guards can,” you remind, your breath coming out heavier as you keep her pace. “They’ll kill us if they see us.”

“That’s why they won’t see us.”

The vents end at a small hallway, where Natalia wastes no time in forcing it open, hitting her shoulder as she tumbles out of the wall vent. She stands up quickly, crouching to grab your hand and pull you out from the wall. Your thumb runs over her knuckles reassuringly, noting the anxious blaze in her eyes. She gives you a half-smile, tugging you out of the vent.

Then, you were running again, almost stumbling as Natalia yanks you through the hallway.

This particular hallway was rather odd–you’d never seen it before, and in comparison to the usual training room and living quarters, this hallway was clean. Unnervingly so, you thought. You paid it no mind, however, more focused on sprinting through the hallways.

There’s a shout behind you, and then a gunshot goes off, though Natalia shoves you downwards, forcing you into a roll–the bullet whipping by where you were just standing. You grunt, standing up quickly to follow in her footsteps. Natalia takes off, you on her heels. She makes a sharp turn into a dimly lit room, lit only by the red colour of the blaring alarms.

This room is filled with equipment, several gurneys, IV bags–anything you could think of that might be needed to perform a surgery. Your eyes darken, noting a few rather dystopian-looking pictures, of girls lying on the gurneys, anaesthetised and prepped for surgery.

You don’t have much time to look, but you nearly vomit at the sight of one particular one, a girl splayed out over the gurney, asleep as a man tinkers with her insides. Blood is coating his silicone gloves, a bloody mass on the tray beside him. ‘Unsuccessful hysterectomy,’ the picture–an old polaroid, is captioned with. You don’t need to look any longer to understand that the girl is dead.

You take off after Natalia, who stops at a back exit, starting to rummage frantically through drawers. You join her, though you’re not quite sure what you’re looking for. “What’re you looking for?” you verbalise your queries. The stench of the room sinks in, and you doubt this room is anything close to sterile. It smells like old decaying people, despite it being clearly used for surgery. How could anyone survive surgery in this?

She replies curtly, quickly to conserve breath. “Keys,” she grunts, scraping the back of her hand against the edge of a drawer, “for the door.” Blood drips down her hand, the cut superficial–she simply frowns, ignoring it.

“How’d you know this existed?” you press for answers, only having known that she had a plan, though she was tight-lipped enough to not tell you. You respected that decision, despite really wanting to know–you understood that if she told you, she could potentially be putting the two of you in danger as well as having her escape route sealed forever.

She stops finally, yanking a key which was attached to a lanyard from the bottom left drawer of an old desk. “Here,” she announces, halting your search efforts. You scramble to the door as she unlocks it. Natalia locks the door quickly, throwing the key into the snow.

You’re greeted by a cold gust of wind, blowing your hair into your face. Almost immediately, you shiver–it is cold, unbearably so, and both of you definitely don’t have the appropriate winter clothing. The back entrance leads to a series of dumpsters, most likely trash from the kitchen.

Natalia moves over to a gate, kicking the lock once–twice, and then it falls apart, the metal worn from the bitter cold. She looks back at you, gesturing at you to come quickly. You do so, ignoring the biting cold which eats at your skin. Natalia sprints through the snow, only slightly slowed by the clumpy stretch of white.

There’s a loud crunch of footsteps behind you.

#natasha romanoff x you #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanova #wlw #femslash #fic #marvel fic

48 notes · View notes

whencartoonsruletheworld · 2 months ago

Text

Shauna closes her eyes sometimes and sees the 25th reunion again. Coming in for the quarter-of-a-century celebration of being a state champion. She hasn't played soccer since then. Not that anybody cares. The world moved on.

Taissa drives her there– she lives somewhere else, of course, somewhere far away, but Tai paid for her plane ticket over because she wanted her to be there with the rest of the team. Even Allie, who didn't make it, but gets to be in the photos with them anyway. Tai is still married to Simone here, but when Van shows up to the reunion, still talking about VHS tapes and muttering about the insane Ohio weather, there's lingering gazes and wonders of what could have been if she'd just been a little braver a little sooner. Shauna wonders if she'd have the same look when she sees Jeff, but when she does, she's just happy that he found someone nice, smiles politely at the pictures of his kids on his phone. So, no, there's no regrets there. After all, it was never about him.

Tai and Van weren't the only lesbians on the team, of course. Turns out the gay jock sterotype was right about most of them, she thinks with a snort. Crystal– or, Kristin, apparently– actually ended up married to Misty fucking Quigley of all people. Apparently they'd ended up at the same college, Kristin had gotten her into the theatre department, and now she performs for a community Shakespeare company while Misty works ER and does some "reddit investigations" on the side. Shauna wonders if she should apologize to Misty for how they all treated her as kids– yeah, she was a bit awkward and liked to peel wings off of bugs while waiting for practice to be over, but they'd been a bit cruel. Misty doesn't seem to remember, though, instead hugging her instantly as if they'd just seen each other yesterday, instead of spending twenty-five years apart.

Then there's Natalie. While they all liked Natalie and thought of her as a friend, they'd all kind of expected her to burn out. She hadn't had any college plans, and was already getting high off her ass at parties and drunk inbetween classes. But here she was, smiling and chatting with Mari. She told Shauna that she'd gone through two stints in rehab before reuniting with Lottie, who'd become a psychiatrist instead of the business major her parents had expected. Lottie had let her move into her house while she recovered, and now here they were, married with a daughter, while Natalie coached the soccer team at the same High School they'd used to play at. Lottie was in an intense discussion with Laura Lee when Shauna found her that night; apparently Laura Lee had become the head of a charity to help queer religious people, and Lottie thought the clinic she worked for might want to keep them in mind.

Coach Martinez's son was there– Travis, she thinks? Yeah, that was right. Apparently he'd gone through a few career paths, and now worked on a farm and was dating a waitress from nearest coffee shop. He trades information with Akilah, who's a vet who lives on her own farm with her extended family. She has horses and kids and a few books on animal care that've done well-enough. She goes to sit by Natalie and Mari, the latter of whom jokes that she's technically a vet, too, as humans are a type of animal. "You probably shouldn't call your kids animals," Natalie quips at the pediatrician, who laughs brightly. Her, Gen, and Laura Lee had all become professional soccer players for a while, but she'd gone back to school after a bad fall, and was now one of the best doctors in her field.

Shauna didn't know the Junior Varsity team as well as the others, but it's nice to see they're doing well. Melissa has a wife, daughters, and a bundle of cats. She's insisting to Gen right now that Buttercup was named after the princess, not the powerpuff girl, while Gen laughs at how insistent she seems about this. She's a coach now, too, though across the country from them– she says that Natalie should be lucky that their teams don't clash, and Natalie says the same, a competitive gleam in both their eyes. Rachel Goldman was a secretary until her daughters convinced her to post some of her fluting videos on YouTube, and now she made enough money off of cover songs and guest appearances that she was able to quit her job and focus on her music. Britt is a video game designer, and Robin's a science fiction author. Allie Stevens is a journalist, which Shauna thinks is perfect. She was pretty nosy in high school.

Then she sees Jackie. Jackie, her hair still perfectly-styled, her dress immaculate. She makes her way over to Shauna, and Shauna doesn't know what to say. They haven't spoken since their blow-up after the match. When Shauna told Jackie she was going to a different college. When neither of them were able to acknowledge how they actually felt about each other. They'd figured it out by now, of course, with a rainbow pin stuck to Jackie's bag since she'd found herself alone at college and a ring on her finger for some woman who faded into the crowd behind them.

"Well?" Jackie asks, tilting her head. "What's my job, then? Do I still play soccer? I wasn't very good at it, though. Just at getting people to work together. Maybe I'm an HR manager. Something boring like that. You knew I'd be boring, didn't you? How about you? What do you do?"

Shauna thinks of a million responses, none of which she can imagine herself saying.

"How about you? What's your job in this wonderful, perfect future? Did you ever have a plan for what you'd be in this world? Any ideas? You wanted to go to Brown and be successful, but in what? What was your plan? Or did you just want to get away from me?"

Shauna thinks about when she'd applied to Brown. Thinks about telling Jackie at a celebration of their win, or at a graduation party, or just some random teenage get-together. She never imagines Jackie taking it well.

"Did you ever have any idea who you'd be without me?" Jackie leans close, and whispers in her ear, "Or do you think the woods would always be calling to you?"

Shauna feels a chill in the air, and they're not standing in a high school gymnasium anymore. They're where they were always meant to be, in the deep snow, surrounded by trees.

"It was always the wilderness, wasn't it? This was always it for you. You didn't have any other choice."

#yellowjackets #yj spoilers #yellowjackets fanfic #yj fanfic #shauna shipman #mine #connie writes

33 notes · View notes

sapphic-coded · 1 year ago

Text

I Swear That I Don't Have A Gun

You grew up in Ohio with your father, brother, and sister. Your family was small and strange. Because of that, you were picked on relentlessly at school. Until another weird kid showed up. Her family moved in across the street from you. It wasn't long until the two of you became friends. Your friendship became the light in your life. Until it ended suddenly. Rumors followed your friend's disappearance. Russian spies. You didn't see her again until you crossed paths at work.

Series Masterlist

Natasha Romanoff x fem Reader

Warnings: Violence. Reader is a messed up assassin and misses her gun home. Childhood trauma hanging out in the background. Hunted animals. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 4.6k

Author's Note: Life has been crazy. It still is. But this series is so much fun to write. Please know that your comments and love have kept my days bright. I read all your comments. Your likes and reblogs make me do my happy dance. It makes me happy that you guys are enjoying this series as much as I am. I apologize for the wait. I hope this new chapter makes up for it!

Taglist: @natsxwife @iliketozoneout @newawakening9 @natasha-1million @ilovemcuff @taliiiaasteria @alowint @yerisdumbass @natashasilverfox @fxckmiup

Chapter Eight: You Can't Raise Hell With A Saint

Mount Vernon, Ohio – 1993

You watched the station wagon slowly back out of your driveway from your bedroom window. As you watched, you folded and then unfolded the piece of paper in your hand several times. Your father’s departing words echoed in the back of your mind.

“This is vital to maintaining our relationship with our allies. Remember. When the time comes, we must position ourselves on the correct side.”

You waited until the station wagon disappeared from view before your attention shifted onto the snowman across the street. Your father is gone for the weekend. Your assigned homework is already completed and buried in your backpack. You had hoped for two uninterrupted days with your friend. You two had discovered a perfect hill for sledding not too far away. You had hoped you could return to it this weekend with Nat. But before your father had left, he had given you an assignment. One you were not allowed to ignore.

But if you finish it quickly like your homework…

You turned away from the window and got dressed. The house was quiet as you descended the stairs and hunted through the kitchen for breakfast. Your father had given both your brother and sister assignments. You figured your siblings were already out doing them. You found an opened pack of pop-tarts hidden behind the jar of two dead mating frogs. You ate the delicious blueberry pop-tart and washed it down with tap water from the sink. Once breakfast was done, you pulled on your snow boots and put on your heavy winter coat. You unfolded your father’s note once more to reread the words hastily scribbled in fine black ink. Then, you refolded up the note and shoved it into your coat’s pocket.

You left out the back door and pulled on your gloves as the morning winter air scratched at your face. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you headed towards the treeline. The woods behind your house stretched onwards for roughly two miles. It was one of the reasons why your father had chosen to settle here. He could disappear into this patch of quiet woodland and no one but you and your siblings would know.

For a while, the only noise was the steady rhythm of your footsteps and the chirping of birdsong as you left your house behind and walked deep into the woods. The sunlight shone brightly off the surface of the snow and made your eyes water if you stared at it for too long. You felt the wind beginning to pick up and blow against your back as you walked. Your pace did not slow until you reached the base of a tree with a dead hare hanging from a snare.

You knelt down into the cold snow and pulled your hunting knife from your coat pocket. You cut the rope and lifted the dead animal up by the rope’s lead. Its dark lifeless eyes stared at you and you searched for any ounce of pity. When you didn’t find any, you stood up and continued walking. The weight of the hare hanging from the small noose made you feel less alone. You kept walking until you spotted a smooth, round rock. You picked it up and it nearly covered your whole palm.

You tied the end of the rope around the rock as you continued further into the woods. The light of the sun had started to dim when you finally reached a large pond. Your feet carried you to a narrow dock that stretched out over the water. The wooden boards groaned beneath your feet as you came to the end of the dock. You looked down into the dark water. It hadn’t frozen over yet which made your assignment easier. The wind continued to blow at your back as you tossed the dead hare into the water. The lifeless animal hit the cold water with a splash and floated on the pond’s surface for a moment. Then the dark water pulled the dead hare down into its depths. You waited for some kind of response. A sign that your assignment was complete. But nothing happened. So you turned and started the trek home.

Your thoughts returned to your friend as you began following your footprints back the way you came. You would have the whole rest of the day to do whatever you wanted. And tomorrow you wouldn’t have to waste any time with another assignment. Your immediate future was bright and that fueled your quick pace.

But your pace started to slow when you lost sight of your footprints in the snow. The wind that had been blowing must have covered them up. You ignored the first sour taste of fear and kept going. You had planned to just follow your tracks back home, but you could make it back without them. You had only gone in one direction. It wouldn’t be difficult to find your way back home. You shoved your gloved hands into the pockets of your heavy coat as the wind now blew against your face.

The light of the sun continued to fade as you made new tracks in the snow. You were going in the right direction. You had to be. But you spotted new bushes and weird leaning trees that you hadn’t seen before. You felt yourself shivering against the cold as the light faded into the coming dark. You kept walking until you finally leaned against a tree and sank towards the freezing ground. You closed your eyes and tried to curl yourself up as much as you could within the fading warmth of your coat.

You don’t know how you messed up your assignment. You thought you knew your way back. You thought this would be so easy. Your father had dragged you and your siblings out here plenty of times. Yet you’re lost and you don’t know what to do other than sit here and–

“Y/N!”

Nat.

Triskelion, Washington D.C. – 2012

You miss your little piece of woodland paradise. You had discovered the small cabin during your fourth job. You had been posing as a realtor for your target. The cabin had caught your eye because of its remoteness. It was tucked away along the mountainside and far enough away from all the main roads that all you heard when you stepped outside was birdsong and the wind brushing through the trees. It was the perfect spot to kill your target. The cabin had been left on the market for years and only maintained by a vendor who came out once a season to keep the place from falling apart. You would have no interruptions to deal with. If your target tried to flee, it would be a long run back to a main road. And even if your target got that far, they would need to run from there back to the nearest town. This spot was an open playground. You could kill your target however you wanted. Chase them around if you were feeling energetic. Sever their head with an axe like a lumberjack cutting up wood.

But when you had pulled up to the cabin for the first time, you realized that you couldn’t do any of that here. Sure, you had plenty of space. The cabin was remote. The main road lightly traveled. When you let out a scream to test if anyone would come running, no one did. It wasn’t until you walked through the cabin and into each of the small, cozy rooms that you understood why you couldn’t bring your target here. The cabin felt too much like a home.

The pictures that hung on the walls were snapshots of the owner’s life. Frames full of smiling faces and captured happy moments. You saw the lives of their children begin with innocent, small, round confused faces and stop at handsome young faces decorated in medals and gowns. The furniture bore the nicks and marks of a life used. You could even see the spots of soot left behind in the fireplace where the vendor failed to clean.

You had only ever been in a home like this once before. You had sat down onto the couch in the cabin’s small family room and looked over at the kitchen. You imagined the smell of Nat’s home. You imagined Nat’s mother standing in the kitchen. It was the only thing you could think of. You sat there for a long time. It had been the first time in years that you thought about your friend without all the other stories hanging onto the memory. You thought about Nat. You thought about how happy you had been around her. You tried to imagine her as an adult, but you couldn’t. She was dead, and you were no longer the kid she met back in Ohio.

You ended up killing your target during a private tour of a much larger home far away from the cabin you found. By the time you had bought and moved into the cabin, the new owners of the other much larger home had only finished finding all your target’s missing fingers. The cabin had become your home. Your place to unwind after your jobs. You had filled it with everything you knew that belonged in a home. You loved the feeling of walking through the front door after a long job and just breathing in the smell of your home.

Your bunk is nothing like your cabin. You are buried beneath all the important floors. Your room has no windows. Your room has four white walls, harsh overhead lights, and a white tiled floor. The brightness of the room often gives you a headache which is why your favorite time to be in your bunk is when you are sleeping. All the lights are off and you can listen to the hum of the air conditioner. The best part is that you don’t have to wear that stupid suit when you are in here. You are even allowed to speak, however the only person you ever talk to is Rumlow.

You miss your cabin so much.

The lights in your room come on when the door opens. The twin sized mattress you lay on offers the bare minimum of comfort, yet you don’t bother to sit up. Instead, as you wake and hear familiar footsteps, you drape your arm over your eyes. It successfully blocks out the harsh light, but does nothing to stop the approaching footsteps.

“The bosses up top were impressed with your Bardstown mission,” Rumlow says.

You can’t fight back the small laugh that works its way past your curling lips. With your arm draped over your eyes you can see Sikora’s bent neck clearly. You can still hear each crunch as his body collided down each step. “I killed one person and they weren’t even my target.”

“Which worked out in your favor,” Rumlow says as his approaching footsteps stop. “You played your part. The mission was a success, and no one will look deeper than that.”

You lift your arm away from your eyes and let it flop down to your side. The harsh lights already make your eyes water, but you focus on Rumlow who stands beside your bunk looking down at you. “Do you find your work fulfilling?” Instead of answering you, he turns and steps away from your bunk. You sit up. “Satisfaction is very important to me.”

Rumlow causally makes his way over to a small table. He picks up the half finished bottle of bourbon Nat gave you before leaving Bardstown. You couldn’t drink it then. Removing your helmet around her would go against everything Rumlow has been drilling into your head. But you had ripped your helmet off the moment you returned to your bunk. You had brought the bottle to your lips, and you had drunk so much while thinking of her.

“What are you asking for?” he asks.

“Let me work,” you reply. “Without the suit and the rules. Tell me who the bosses want dead, give me back my gun, and let me kill them.”

Rumlow sets the bottle down. “That’s not how this works.”

You roll your eyes and flop back down onto your bunk.

“I also don’t have your gun,” he adds.

You close your eyes and swallow back the urge to yell. You hate this role so much. If you were impressing these bosses so much, why wouldn’t they let you show them how good you really were? What was the point of all the secrets if most of SHIELD was really HYDRA anyways? Or at least, most of the important people. Or whatever Rumlow had told you during those first few days.

“The bosses were also pleased with how you handled Romanoff,” Rumlow says.

Your eyes open and you stare up at the bland white ceiling. You fight back the smile you know is coming when you think back to the best day of your life. You hope you end up on another mission like that. Just the two of you. The one little new piece of your life that made tolerating this role just a bit more manageable.

“How do you feel?” Rumlow asks.

Like you want to pour over the office directory until you find her office. You’d race up there and sneak in when she isn’t around. You’d sit in the comfortable office chair that you hope she has up there. You’d take your helmet off and wait. And when she finally enters you’d spin around in her chair for a proper dramatic entrance.

You turn your head to look at Rumlow. “Depressed. My favorite gun is lost.”

Rumlow holds your stare. You know what he’s looking for. Perhaps if he could read minds then he would have found it. Instead, you hide all your fantasies and memories behind your little lie. It’s easy. You do the same trick your father always did. String together a story from bits and pieces of truth and mold it into what you need. You know it worked when Rumlow finally breaks your little staring contest. You don’t move when he turns away from you. You don’t want to give away your victory.

“You have training with Rollins in twenty,” Rumlow says before he leaves.

You wait until the door to your room shuts behind him before you get up. You move towards the table and grab the half empty bottle of bourbon. You bring it to your lips and take a sip. The smooth amber liquid washes across your tongue and burns down your throat. You think of when she handed you this bottle. You remember the way her hands briefly brushed across your gloved ones.

You set the bottle down and change while your mind lingers in that memory. Rollins is already waiting for you when you arrive at one of the training rooms a few floors up. Bright sunlight pours through the windows that run along the far side of the training room. You feel uncomfortably hot underneath your suit, and you already miss the cool kiss of the air conditioning that hums in your bunk. When you see Rollins in the training room, your interior visor screen lights up with data you already knew. Except for the healing ribs. That part is new.

Rollins leads you over to a bunch of blue mats. The hand to hand combat drills still feel weird. You know what you are supposed to do. You had learned back when Rumlow first shoved you into this stupid suit that going for kill strikes was not in compliance. You had to work your way up to kill strikes to make everything more believable.

“You’re not an assassin anymore. You’re a SHIELD agent.”

Which wasn’t even the truth. You found that this dance they forced you to do felt awkward. Your movements felt sloppy as you fought not to go for the opening that would put your target down permanently. And when a kill strike was considered acceptable, it always came far too late. It never felt right. These lessons pressed up against the memories of your training back in Ohio, and it often left you feeling more frustrated than anything else.

Your training with Rollins is quickly following the same trend as all the others. Your punches feel sluggish and off. Every time Rollins dodges your hit or counters, you know exactly what you should have done instead. Your frustration grows as you hold back. Your thoughts scream at you in the roar of your father’s voice. You want to give in. Why trade blows when it can easily be only you hitting your target? But you’ve already tried giving in. You had managed to bloody your knuckles a bit before Rumlow had started talking to you about compliance. Everything had stopped despite your urge to keep going. Then you were back at the beginning as if your outburst hadn’t happened.

Rollins dodges one of your punches and delivers a blow to your torso that pushes you back a step. He doesn’t advance. He stands there and waits as you swallow back all the foul words that usually tumble out of your mouth whenever something hurts. It’s hard not to say anything. Especially when he stands there looking bored. But you aren’t eager for them to start fucking with your mind again, so you keep quiet. The sound of your heavy breaths fills up your helmet as you return to your spot in front of Rollins. You duck under his right arm as it swings out. Your fist slams into his healing ribs and the noise he makes is exactly what you needed to hear. His cry is short-lived as he quickly masks it with a grunt. He retreats from you, and you let him. You watch as his breaths become more labored as his hands press against the very spot you hit. You don’t know if you just broke one of his healing ribs. It hadn’t been your intention, but you certainly didn’t pull that punch.

“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”

Her voice steals your attention. She stands by the door dressed in a dark gray sweatshirt and black joggers. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest, and her head tilts slightly as her question is first met with silence. Well, more like your silence and Rollins’ heavy breaths. You could shatter this stretch of quiet in a heartbeat, and you want to. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as you bury the urge. Your eyes greedily take in the sight of your friend. You are grateful for your stupid helmet as your eyes run down the length of her legs and stop at the black sneakers that cover her feet.

“I thought you were heading back up to New York with Rogers,” Rollins finally says.

“Eventually,” she replies with a slight shrug and walks further into the training room. “But I have some stuff I need to take care of first.” She uncrosses her arms as she casually approaches the mats. “You should head back before anyone from medical catches you here.”

“I’m a bit busy training the quiet one,” Rollins says.

You should have tried to break his ribs. He’d be too busy dealing with that pain to put a premature end to this wonderful moment.

“I can take over,” she offers.

Your helmet conceals the wide smile that cuts across your face. You don’t know what you have done to deserve so much alone time with your friend, but you will happily do whatever it takes to keep ending up in these wonderful moments. You don’t hear Rollins leave, and when you look over at the man, you can tell that he is unsure if he should leave. The questions he cannot voice are written plainly across his face and your smile falters. Is he…is he not going to leave? Is he really going to ruin this for you? You want to tell him that his concerns are unnecessary. If you were going to spill the beans, you would have done it the moment you and Nat were alone on the quinjet. Or sometime in Bardstown. Not in some fancy building secretly full of HYDRA agents ready to put you down with just a couple of random words.

“Don’t worry,” her voice pulls your attention back to her. Despite the fact that she is addressing Rollins, her focus is on you. You spot the beginnings of a smirk that stirs up something inside you. Something exciting and warm. “I won’t break her.”

You hear Rollins sigh and you feel the buzz of your excitement grow.

“If you do, you’re the one having that conversation with Rumlow,” Rollins replies. “Not me.” Rollins gives you one last warning look before leaving. You watch the man’s retreating form and feel at ease when you see his hand come up to gingerly touch the spot where you hit him.

When you look back over at Nat, you find her pulling her dark gray sweatshirt over her head. The uncomfortable heat that sticks to your skin beneath your suit returns as you feel your hands begin to sweat inside your gloves. You ignore the information that attempts to clog up your visor. Your focus is first on the black sleeveless shirt she wears. The hem of the shirt gets caught briefly on her sweatshirt and lifts to reveal the barest hint of a firm ab. You blink when the shirt falls back down.

Nat sets her sweatshirt aside and steps onto the mats. “Are they always that serious around you?”

You nod, but you are not thinking about Rollins, or Rumlow, or how painfully serious both tend to be at all times. You are too consumed by the realization that you have never seen this much of your friend before. No. That wasn’t it. You can recall several old memories of warm summer days and cool lake water. But you hadn’t felt like this back then. You are staring at her lean biceps and you just want to touch her.

She steps forward. “Your missions with them must be fun.” She shifts into a fighting stance and raises her fists. “Let’s see what you can do.”

You raise your fists and shift your stance. Your smirk at your friend’s earlier sarcasm falls away as your visor’s screen identifies multiple places to strike first. You know what you want to do, but that option isn’t listed anywhere on the screen. If it wasn’t for Nat standing in front of you, you would have quickly returned to your sour, frustrated mood. But instead, you wait for her to strike first. A few moments pass and all you two do is slowly circle the mats. You realize that she’s waiting for you to strike first. A hint of your concealed smile returns. You happily oblige.

Your fist swings towards her, and you feel her arm quickly block your strike. Your focus is on her face, and you can tell that she barely had to think about her reaction. You continue to move in a slow circle and she does the same. You fall back into the training that Rumlow has been drilling into you since they freed you from that chair. You move in and strike. You frown slightly as she blocks or dodges every one of your strikes. It makes you feel like she’s in your mind. That she knew what you planned to do the exact same time you did. You retreat back a step when your fifth punch doesn’t land.

You wait for her to move in with her attack, but it doesn’t come. You know she can’t see your face, but it feels like she can when she offers a small shrug and that small smile creeps back in.

“I’m guessing that was your warm-up?”

You know it’s bait, but you take it anyway. You move in with another series of attacks. Every single one of your punches feels just as sluggish as before. The rhythm feels off. You feel like each attack is wrong. Your strikes aren’t landing and just as you are about to sink into the seething grip of your frustration, you see Nat’s fist coming towards you. Your hand catches her wrist before her fist can make contact with your helmet.

You watch as her brow arches in a silent question. You ignore the data that races across your visor’s screen and focus on the weight of her wrist in your hand. The familiarity of it lures out pieces of warmer memories. The touch of her hand taking yours. How her touch would melt the rigid cold left after early summer mornings with your father. You abandon the awkward dance you have been following. You can hear whispers of your father’s voice in the back of your mind as you take a breath and move.

Her wrist slips free before you can pull her towards you. She goes on the offensive and the attacks you block send you back a few steps. You spy her foot moving to hook behind yours and you maneuver away from that pitfall only to feel her fist connect with your side. The pain is barely there. You two are sparring. But it lights a very familiar fire inside of you.

You press forward with an onslaught of strikes that feel more natural. She continues to block most of them until you manage to slip past her defenses and successfully hook your foot behind hers. As you sweep her foot out from underneath her, her hands come up to latch onto the fabric of your stupid suit. She lets her falling body pull you down, and you both land on your side. Your one hand reaches to dislodge the grip she has on your suit while your other instinctively reaches out towards her neck. You feel her legs wrap around your waist and in one quick movement, you are on your back. Her hand stops yours from reaching her throat and pins it against the mat. She quickly pins your other hand to the mat, and you stare up at her as your heavy breaths fog up your interior visor.

She doesn’t let go of your hands as she looks down at you. You know all she can see is her own reflection staring back at her, and you want her to pull the stupid helmet off your head. You wouldn’t be breaking the rules if she exposed this game. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans down just an inch or two closer and asks, “How do you feel about opera?”

You shrug.

Her smile returns as she finally lets go of your hands. She gets up and you instantly miss her warm weight on top of you. You sit up as she returns to where she left her sweatshirt. She digs into her sweatshirt’s pocket, pulls something out, and tosses it towards you. You catch it. You can feel another burst of excitement rush through you as you stare at the phone in your hand.

“That’s yours,” Nat says as she pulls her sweatshirt back on. “I thought it might be easier for us to communicate. I already loaded my number into your phone.”

You have her phone number. You don’t move from your spot on the mats as your fingers wrap tenderly around the phone. Direct access to your friend without needing to go through anyone else or jump through any additional hoops. It feels like you’re back in Ohio. All you need to do is cross the street, and she’s there waiting for you.

“I’ll be in contact soon,” she says as she moves towards the door. “Don’t put Rollins back in medical while I’m away.”

You watch her leave. You wait until she’s gone before you lean backwards onto the mat and let out a quiet, short laugh.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #black widow x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow fanfiction #natasha romanoff fanfic #my fanfic #fic: i swear that i don't have a gun

267 notes · View notes