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atlabeth · 2 years ago

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tis the damn season part 4 - rafe cameron

part 3 | masterlist | part 5

a/n: okay so. first of all im so so SO sorry that it has literally been a year since the last part. i said it wasnt going to take a month for this to come out and i guess i was right because a year isn't a month lmao. it's not even christmas season anymore but i just could not stop thinking about this all of a sudden so here we are again. i hope you guys still want this lmao.

it was just really hard for me to get through the cameron family part, i love writing sarah but for some reason i just could not get a handle on ward and rose. not a surprise that yn and rafe meeting in the library was the part that i flew through

anyways enjoy. sorry for it being a year since the last part and it not being christmas anymore<3 im a great and responsible writer. also because it has been so long i completely understand if you dont want to be on the taglist anymore, so just lmk and ill take you off!

wc: 7k

warning(s): the dreaded parent dinner. rose and ward being judgmental and yn being insecure ya know the vibes. but also a lot of fluff too

“How drunk are you?”

“Sober enough to get through this night,” Rafe said. “How high is your bullshit tolerance?”

“High enough to get through this night,” you repeated, and he smiled.

“Alright.” Rafe took a deep breath then nodded, and the two of you got out of his car. You handed him his keys and he, after putting them in his pocket, slipped his hand into yours as you started walking towards the house. The motion was starting to feel more natural than it should. “Rose’ll probably want my help setting up for dinner as an excuse to talk to me about you, but my dad will most likely be in his office until we’re done, so you don’t have to worry about another one-on-one thing.”

“I can handle that,” you said. “It’ll be easier in front of the rest of your family. But before we go in—” you turned to look at him, a slightly teasing smile on your lips. “I think we should talk about all that stuff your friends said back there.”

Rafe sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry about that. I promise, they were just exaggerating to embarrass me.”

“No, it’s fine,” you chuckled. “I like your friends; they were a lot different than I was expecting, but they were actually really cool. I just… well, I wanted to make sure it wouldn’t change anything with this.”

“No, no—” Rafe laughed a little as well and brushed it off with his hand. “Okay — all cards on the table, I did have a crush on you freshman year. But that was just freshman year, and now it’s gone! We’re— we’re just friends. I feel nothing for you anymore.”

You gave him a look. “Nothing?”

Rafe rolled his eyes playfully. “You know what I mean.”

“Just teasing you,” you agreed with a smile. “But it’s good to know that there is absolutely nothing between us. I mean, you did promise not to fall in love with me.”

Rafe nodded seriously. “Of course. And you promised not to fall in love with me, so you can’t falter either.”

You placed your fist over your heart. “Hope to die.”

He snorted a laugh and tugged on your hand to get you walking again. “You’re so lame.”

“And you had a crush on me when I was even lamer,” you teased. But before you could do anymore, Rafe was saved by the bell as he opened the door and pulled you inside with a wink back at you.

“Rose, we’re home!” he called as he shut the door behind you. You heard the clatter of silverware in the distance followed by clicking heels on the tiled floor, and soon enough a blonde woman with an unnaturally bright smile came around the corner.

Her eyes lit up when she saw you and she said your name. “You must be the girlfriend!”

You offered a smile of your own and nodded. “In the flesh. It’s so nice to— oh!“

You didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence as she pulled you into a hug, and Rafe just gave you a knowing smile in response to your widened eyes.

“It‘s so nice to meet you too,” she gushed, and when she finally let go she kept her hands on your shoulders. “We’ve all tried to drill Rafe for information about you these past couple days, but he refused to open up — you can imagine how happy I am to finally get to meet ‘the girlfriend’.”

You laughed a bit at her mimed quotation, nodding along to her words. If only she knew how right she really was.

“I feel the same about meeting you all.” To drive home the point you reached for Rafe’s hand, and without hesitation he took it. “Rafe and I are really happy together, so I thought— we thought that it would be a good time for this to happen.”

Rose grinned and as she started walking, the two of you followed her. “Well, it is an absolute pleasure to have you here for the holidays. I’m sure Rafe has hardly been able to hold himself back from showing you everything Kildare has to offer.”

“Uh, yeah,” he piped in. “We just went to the country club and met up with Kelce and Topper, and we took the scenic route back. You liked it, right?”

You nodded. “It was great. Everything here is, really — your house, the beaches, the nature, the Outer Banks as a whole, it’s all beautiful. I can’t believe this is my first time visiting.”

Her eyebrows shot up as you all finally reached the kitchen, a mess of measuring cups, bowls, and a myriad of other kitchen supplies scattered around the island table. All it took was a gesture of her head for Rafe to let go of your hand and get to work with tidying up the area. You made a mental note to ask her how to acquire that kind of power.

“You’ve never been here?” she asked, and you shook your head. You didn’t know why that was so surprising to both his parents. “Well, that just means you have the chance to see everything with fresh eyes.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” you smiled.

Rafe gave you a warning look, one you knew very well that was telling you to stop talking, before he focused back on his stepmom with a smile. “We can handle the rest of this, right? Y/N can go relax a little in my room before dinner — uh, she didn’t sleep very well.”

Rose rolled her eyes, but the amusement was clear in her expression. “Fine. I’ll save the grilling for dinner.”

You gave her a polite nod as you turned to go, but when Rose wasn’t looking you mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Rafe that he answered with a smug smile. She was nicer than you had imagined, but you didn’t think you could handle all of her questions in addition to a family dinner. You had a feeling you were going to need every advantage you could get for tonight.

It just so happened though, that as soon as you turned the corner, you ran into Rafe’s younger sisters. You wondered if they always traveled as a pair.

“You guys are back already,” Sarah said with a pleasant smile, and you chuckled.

“Uh, yeah,” you nodded. “We just went out for lunch with his friends at the country club.”

Wheezie groaned as she leaned against the wall. “Kelce and Topper? God, they’re the worst.”

You frowned a bit. “I actually thought they were pretty nice. They like teasing Rafe just as much as I do, so it’s a plus.”

She shrugged. “I’m surprised they were so nice to you. A lot of people on this side of the island wouldn’t be that way towards you.”

“Wheezie!” Sarah scolded with a jab to her shoulder, but that only knit your brows further.

“What are you talking about?” you asked, and Sarah sighed.

“I’m guessing Rafe hasn’t really told you about the inner workings of the Outer Banks,” she said dryly, and you nodded. “Well…” she trailed off, and then shook her head. “It’s not the right time, and I don’t really think it should come from us. I don’t really want you to get all in your head right before the big dinner interrogation.”

“Are you always this mysterious with your brother’s girlfriends?” you asked after a beat of silence.

Sarah smiled as she started to back up. “How else am I supposed to keep my younger sister allure?”

“It’s not allure if you’re so open about it,” Wheezie said as she rolled her eyes. “I’m gonna go get some lemonade, want any?”

Sarah shook her head, and then she looked to you.

“Oh— uh, no. Thank you.”

Wheezie chuckled a bit. “Don’t act so surprised that we wanna get to know you. You’re pretty cool in terms of Rafe girlfriends.”

As she walked off, you turned to Sarah with an amused look. “Is she always like that?”

“It just means she likes you,” Sarah said with a smile. “And for the record, I do too.”

You stood there smiling at the ground for far too long after Sarah had already gone off on her own. They were charming in a very likable way, even if they did have their quirks.

At least your fake boyfriend’s sisters liked you — now, you just had to get his parents on your side.

“So…” Rose glanced over at Rafe with a smile as he mashed potatoes. “Are you gonna give me anything, or do I have to wait for dinner?”

He chuckled. “I think we can wait for dinner. She’ll be happy to tell you all about herself then.”

“You’ve been together for almost three years and we barely know anything about her!” she exclaimed. “What’s the reason for that kind of secrecy?”

Rafe bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly very interested in the potato masher. “We just wanted to make sure that we were solid before we started telling people outside of our friend group,” he said. “I… I really like her, so I wanted it all to go well.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You both wanted to keep it a secret, or just she did?”

He frowned. “We both did. Why does it matter?”

“She’s not like us,” Rose said after a moment of hesitation, and Rafe’s grip tightened against the handle. “How do you know she’s not just using you for your money?”

“Excuse me?” He turned to her with an incredulous expression, the thought so ridiculous to him that he could hardly even deal with it. “You’re not seriously calling my girlfriend a gold digger, are you?”

“It is a valid concern!” she defended, her voice becoming slightly higher from his reaction. “You’ve seen the way she looks at the house, the way she marvels at everything down here — for god’s sake Rafe, she’s never even been to the Outer Banks and she lives a couple hours away. Why else would she want to keep the two of you a secret?”

“Okay,” he said with a dry laugh, setting down the masher and walking over to the sink to wash his hands off. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Just because she’s not crazy rich like every other person on Figure Eight doesn’t mean she’s after me for money. We’ve been friends even longer than we’ve been dating— I was the one who asked her out first. She’s actually a good person, Rose—and no matter what, you can’t insult her like that. She’s,” he swallowed and turned away for a second, “she’s my girlfriend. So you can’t say this kinda stuff about her.”

Rose stared at him for a moment before she sighed. “Okay. At least you actually care about her.”

“Of course I do,” he scoffed.

“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” she said, once again on the defensive. “You’ve always been hasty—”

“Do you want my help with this or do you just want to keep talking shit about her?” Rafe interrupted, his voice rising out of frustration. “Because if you keep this up you’re gonna be doing it alone.”

“Watch your mouth, Rafe,” she said, though mostly for virtue’s sake. “You just can’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“There’s nothing to warn me about,” he said sharply. “She’s a great person, and she’s one of my best friends. So lay off.”

She raised her hands, finally conceding. “Okay. You win.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, but he still moved onto his next job. That didn’t change the fact that the rest of their preparations were done in silence.

You spent your time alone in Rafe’s room very valuably — after relaxing for a little, you found Topper and Kelce’s instagrams and immediately started stalking them.

It was valuable, to be fair — you got to see pictures of Rafe when he was in high school, and some videos of him being the idiot he’d warned you about when you went through their pinned stories. They made you smile, seeing him like that — just from the pictures you could tell that he was a frat boy in training, but he was charming in a boyish sort of way. You also knew you would’ve completely fallen for high school Rafe if the two of you met at that age.

You cleared your throat as you shut off your phone and put it face down on the bed. Thank god for the distance between you then, because thoughts like that were definitely off limits.

It was just in time, because you heard a knock on the door and Rafe saying your name.

“Uh, come in!” you responded, and he came in the door as you sat up.

“Dinner’s all ready, if you’re ready.”

“Yeah,” you nodded, and you stood up from his bed as you smoothed out your dress. “This is fine for the first dinner with your family, right? How do I look?”

Rafe looked you up and down, his eyes raking across your body in the most exaggerated way possible as he whistled. “Babe, you look great. Super hot.”

You burst out into laughter at that, and he even cracked a smile. “You are completely ridiculous, Rafe. You cannot act this way in front of your parents.”

He brushed his hand through the air. “They can deal with it. My fake girlfriend’s only getting the best.”

You shook your head, a smile of your own growing. “Like I said: completely ridiculous.”

“I try.” Rafe’s grin faded a bit as he looked back at the door, and after a moment he shut it. He then turned back to you, his expression completely sobered. “I’m gonna be completely honest with you. This might be rough.”

You frowned a bit. “Rough in what kind of way?”

“Rough in a ‘making you doubt everything about yourself’ kinda way,” he said, and he sighed as shook his head. “Rose and I—we talked while we were setting everything up, and she thinks you’re some kind of golddigger. And,” Rafe huffed a dry laugh, “my dad’ll probably think the same thing. He’ll be a lot more covert with it, though.”

“Great,” you muttered, and you suddenly felt very self-conscious as you wrapped your arms around yourself. A part of you itched to put Rafe’s sweatshirt back on, the familiarity of it a comfort you were suddenly aching for. But you remained in place, letting out a deep sigh instead. “I thought you said that both of them were from blue collars before they ended up with all this.”

“They were,” Rafe confirmed, “but they’ve gone full kook over the years. They look down on the very same people they used to be, and… they’re probably gonna look down on you too.”

“Great!” you repeated, and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks. You and Rafe weren’t together so it shouldn’t have bothered you, the thought of not having his parents’ approval, but it was just the opposite. “That’s— that’s just great, Rafe.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice softer, “hey, it’s okay. I don’t want you to worry about them. Just— just be yourself, and we will make them like you. And if they say any out of pocket shit, don’t just take it, call them out on it. And if you don’t want to, I will.” Rafe gave you a genuine look. “I won’t let them do what they do to everyone else.”

You recalled your conversation with Ward earlier in the morning, when he, out of nowhere, told you that he didn’t think you were a good fit in Rafe’s life. The man barely knew you and he was already trying to scare you out of it.

And for some reason, just the thought of that brought your resolve back. If there was one thing you had in spades, it was spite.

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded, offering a smile that you hoped was convincing. “Right. We got this.”

“We got this,” he agreed, and he offered his hand. “You ready, fake girlfriend?”

You nodded again and took his hand, reveling in the warmth it provided as he squeezed your hand. “Ready, fake boyfriend.”

“There you two are,” Rose joked as you and Rafe entered the dining room together. “I was beginning to think you decided to abandon us.”

“I wouldn’t let him do that,” you said with a smile. “I’m just sorry we didn’t get to do this last night.”

“Oh, I am too,” she agreed, and she finished setting the last platter on the table. “I’m sorry that it’s taken us three years to finally have a family dinner.”

“Me too,” Wheezie said, looking up at you as she finished setting down the silverware. “I still don’t know what you see in him, but whatever.”

“Louisa, be nice.” You instinctively tensed up as Ward walked in, and you returned the gesture when he smiled at you. “We’re all happy to have you here, and we’re all sorry it took so long.” He looked at Rafe pointedly. “You should’ve brought her down sooner, Rafe.”

“We’ve already talked about this, Dad,” Rafe said. “We weren’t ready before, but now we are. You guys have to deal with that.”

“He just didn’t want to scare her off with his crazy family,” Sarah said dryly as she walked in, a stack of plates in her hands that she placed on the table. “Probably a good decision with all this interrogating.”

“I don’t mind,” you said, and it wasn’t completely a lie. You and Rafe might not have been together, but you were best friends. It was probably a good thing you were meeting his family, even if it was under this sort of guise. You laughed a bit. “I’d want to know about my son’s secret girlfriend too if I were you.”

“Well, you’re welcome here anytime you want, sweetie,” Rose said. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for.” She set the final dish on the table and held her hands out. “Feel free to help yourself.”

“It all looks wonderful, honey,” Ward said, pecking his wife on the cheek as he took his seat at the head of the table.

Your nerves evaporated slightly as you sat down, reveling in the silence you probably wouldn’t get much of as everyone served themselves. You were immediately proven right as Rose looked at you with a smile.

“So,” she said your name, “Rafe tells me you’re looking to become a doctor?”

You nodded. “I’ve been working towards it since middle school. It’s hard to believe that I’m getting so close to med school.”

“Are you applying?” Ward asked.

“Not yet, but I’m looking,” you said, and you chuckled. “I thought I would get a break from all the medical stuff after I took the MCAT, but between school hunting and classes, I think it’s gotten even busier.”

“She’s amazing,” Rafe said, “seriously. She and Melanie are both on pre-med tracks, and I swear, all they do is study.”

“Mel parties sometimes,” you joked, “but… yeah. I’ve become really well acquainted with the library.”

“That was actually how we met,” he said, glancing at you, and a smile immediately broke out on your lips. “Freshman year, remember?”

“How could I ever forget?”

You let out a haggard sigh as you held your head in your hands, staring at the textbook beneath you. You had an entire spread around you—laptop and charger, nearly empty water bottle, a bag of goldfish, a whole mess of highlighters and pens, and your bio 252 textbook open in front of you. You had been trying to read the same sentence for the past ten minutes, and your brain was not cooperating.

You screwed your eyes shut as you leaned back in your chair, pressing your hands against your forehead. At this point, you wondered if you were losing brain cells.

“Hey, uh— is this seat open?”

You cracked your eyes open to see a guy in sweatpants and a UNC tee standing, a backpack slung over one shoulder and very pretty eyes.

“It’s 2:35 in the morning,” you said. “Half the library is open.”

“I know, but,” he chuckled, “you look smart. I feel like being around you will make me do my work.”

That got a dry laugh out of you, and you just shrugged. “Sit away, I guess. As long as you’re quiet.”

He nodded and took a seat on the other end of the table, leaving enough space to be polite. “I’m Rafe, by the way.”

You nodded as well. “Cool.”

“What,” he said, setting his backpack on the ground, “I don’t get a name?”

“If I survive these midterms, you can get my name,” you said wryly, and your focus fell back to your textbook.

Though you couldn’t see him, you heard the smile in his words, could feel his eyes on you. “Deal.”

“Never thought that you would be living the rom-com life, Rafe,” Sarah said, very tongue-in-cheek. “Makes sense that she was annoyed by you at first.”

“To be fair, I was kind of losing my mind,” you said with a laugh. “Word of advice for your freshman year, Sarah, learn the meaning of school-life balance, and learn it before you’re knee deep in midterms.”

She chuckled, nodding sagely. “You don’t have to worry about that. I won’t be in the library that late no matter what time of year it is.”

“Very studious of you, Rafe,” Rose said, and she smiled. “What were you doing in there anyways?”

He shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep, so I went to the library. Maybe it was fate.”

“I think it was just persistence,” you said dryly. “Because you came in every single night after that.”

“This seat open?”

You blinked at the voice, the words from your laptop screen swimming in the air as you looked back up. To your surprise, it was the same guy from the other day, with the same words. Rafe, if you remembered.

“Why are you here again?”

“Because I took my econ midterm yesterday afternoon and killed it,” he said, “and I think it’s because you’re good luck.”

You raised your eyebrows. “I’m good luck?”

Rafe nodded. “My hypothesis is that being around you is giving me good luck, so I’m testing it by hanging around you before each of my midterms.”

That actually got a laugh out of you. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not stupid if it works, is it?” He set down his bag and shot you a grin. “Besides— I gotta make sure you get through the season alive so I can get your name.”

You just shook your head, though you were unable to hide your own smile. “Fine. House rules still apply.”

Rafe held up his hands. “Absolute silence. You got it.”

Ten minutes passed in keyboard clacks and page turns before you couldn’t help yourself, and you looked back up at Rafe.

“Are you really going to come here every night?”

“As long as you’re here,” Rafe said, “I’m here.”

“And he did,” you said. “He came back every night that week, sat in the same spot in complete silence, and we did our work together. At 2AM, no less.”

“And I passed every single one of my midterms with flying colors,” he said. “I still think it’s because of you.”

“That is so sweet,” Rose crooned. “Who knew our Rafe was such a charmer?”

“Rose—” he started, his cheeks flushing, but you chuckled.

“He certainly was,” you said. “Anyone else, and I think I might’ve kicked them out. But I couldn’t say no to those eyes.”

And it’s not like you were lying—that really was how you met. It just wasn’t the love story that you were making it out to be. It was a week of the library, and then you didn’t see each other again until Melanie dragged you out to an end of the semester party—the party that Kelce mentioned, the party that you ran into Rafe again.

That was certainly a night. And not one you could really detail at a family dinner.

“If we have you to thank for Rafe’s performance in his freshman midterms, then I’m certainly in your debt,” Ward said with a slight smile.

“I don’t think it was because of me,” you said. “I think it’s because he actually sat down and studied for once in his life.”

Rafe rolled his eyes. “Say that all you want, but you’re my good luck charm. I know it.”

“I assume that you’ve always done well in school?” Ward asked.

“I have to,” you said honestly. “I’m on a huge scholarship at Chapel Hill, and if my grades drop below a certain point, it gets taken away. I literally can’t afford for that to happen,” you chuckled nervously, “not to mention the hit my career prospects would take.”

“You seem really serious about all of this,” Ward said, and he clasped his hands together. “Why do you want to be a doctor so badly?”

“It’s the only thing I can imagine myself doing,” you responded. “I’ve always loved science, and the human body has fascinated me even when I was a kid. Growing up, I’ve seen a lot of bad things happen to a lot of good people, and it’s… it’s just not fair. So I guess becoming a doctor would be my way of helping those people and putting some good back in the world.”

“Oh, that is so sweet,” Rose said, her eyes softening. “Rafe, honey, you really picked a good one.”

Wheezie snorted a laugh. “Yeah. Now I know for a fact she’s too good for you.”

“Louisa,” Ward admonished, and he looked back at you. “That’s a very noble goal. I can only imagine the hard work you’ve described is but a fraction of the full picture. I mean, my senior year was busy as all get-out, don’t get me wrong, but I was in business. Pre-med is a whole different thing to navigate.”

“It is,” you agreed. “Right now I’m juggling classes and labs, an internship, a part time job, and trying to have a social life all at the same time.” You laughed a bit. “It’s a lot, and sometimes it gets overwhelming. But when that happens, I take a step back and try to remember what I’m doing all this for, and that almost always gets me back on track. And when it doesn’t—” you glanced at Rafe with a smile— “he’s always there for me.”

Rafe returned your smile and took your hand under the table, and it filled you with some confidence. You certainly weren’t lying about the last part.

“She’s amazing all on her own,” Rafe said. “I’m only her cheerleader.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for you and Rafe to get together,” Sarah said, frowning. “You’re setting the bar way too high.” She looked at her parents. “I hope you don’t expect me to do all that when I get to college.”

“You’ll do whatever you have to do, sweetie,” Rose said with a smile. “I’m sure you had to work up to all of this.”

“Oh, definitely,” you nodded. “I applied to get into my high school’s health science specialty center in eighth grade, and it all went from there. It’s always busy, but it’s the most fulfilling work someone can do.”

“Are you sure you can handle it?” Ward asked. His tone was noncommittal, but you knew what he was after. You weren’t going to give it to him.

“Dad—” Rafe started, glancing at you for a second, but you spoke up.

“I’ve been working towards this since my freshman year of high school. Everything’s gone to plan up until now, and I don’t plan for that to change.” Both your smile and your grip on Rafe’s hand tightened. “I know I can handle it.”

“Well,” he said, his eyes far too calculating as he looked right at you, “I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” you said smoothly.

The tension at the table had been steadily rising ever since Ward looked in your direction, and it was starting to get to you. Rafe, as attentive as ever, immediately took over.

“Dad,” he said, drawing the attention back to him, “we did an investment project in my 407 course for the final. It was actually really interesting, and my professor said that my group had one of the best projects she’s seen in her career. Do you wanna hear about it?”

“Sure.” The smile he offered to his son was the same you’d seen since the moment of your arrival, and some of the pressure dissolved from your shoulders. You made a mental note to thank Rafe profusely at the end of the night. “Your professor was Dr. Waters, right?”

He nodded. “She said you know each other.”

“We do,” he said, and you felt like you could breathe again as he looked away from you. “I’d love to hear it, son.”

Rafe wasn’t lying when he said he was skilled at navigating the waters of his family, because he kept the limelight off of you for the entire rest of the dinner. He talked about his own classes and directed it towards his sisters, and though you chimed in to answer the occasional question or add to one of his stories, you didn’t feel like your entire life was on blast.

You and Rafe ended up helping Rose clean up, and she smiled at you as you handed her a plate.

“Tonight was lovely, sweetie,” she said. “I can’t wait to hear about everything you accomplish in the future.”

“You’re too kind,” you said, biting back a smile that was actually genuine. “I really enjoyed tonight.”

“I’m glad.” She started the dishwasher and sighed as she looked at you. “I know my husband can be heavy-handed sometimes, but it’s not personal, trust me. We want the best for Rafe—Ward just has his own way of showing it.”

“C’mon, Rose,” Rafe grumbled. “You saw what he was doing, and you went along with it. That’s not okay.”

“He wasn’t doing anything,” she said pointedly. “He wanted to know more about Y/N, so he asked her. That’s all.”

“You know that’s not—”

“Rafe,” you interrupted, and you held up your phone, “Mel’s calling. C’mon, let’s go catch her up on everything.”

He hesitated as he looked at you, but you just raised your eyebrows a little bit and gestured towards the hallway. Rafe sighed and nodded, glancing back at his step-mother.

“Rose—”

“You two enjoy yourself,” she said. “Cleanup’s already almost done—thank you for your help.”

“Of course,” you said. “Have a good night, Mrs. C— Rose.”

She smiled and nodded, waving the two of you off as you practically dragged Rafe into the hallway.

“What was that for?” he complained once you were in the safety of his room, door shut.

“You were about to get into a completely unnecessary argument.”

“I was defending your honor, babe,” he said austerely.

You laughed a bit, shaking your head as you sat down on the side of his bed, and Rafe leaned against the wall. “And I appreciate it, Sir Cameron, but I want this to be as drama-free as possible. Don’t get into arguments with your parents for me.”

“I get into arguments with my parents all the time,” he said. “Doing it for you makes it better.”

“Rafe.”

He sighed and shrugged. “Fine. Drama-free break.”

“Thank you.”

“But not if my dad starts coming for you like that again,” he added with a pointed finger.

You chuckled and nodded. “Fine.”

You then looked at the clock on his bedside table and blew out a loose sigh. “God, it’s way later than I thought. You, get on my phone and call Mel. I lied about her calling, but I actually do want to talk to her tonight, and she definitely wants to catch up with you. I’m showering and getting ready for the night.”

“Aye aye, captain,” he said, catching your phone as you tossed it to him. “But you know you don’t have to change in private. I have a very big room.”

You gave him a look as you grabbed your bag. “Very subtle, Rafe. Behave.”

He laughed and went back to your phone as you shut the door.

You went through your routine as usual, the warm water helping to relieve the tension that had built up in your muscles. It was nice to have some alone time after the rollercoaster that the day had been, from Kelce’s bombshell conversation to the choppy waters of Ward Cameron—you had no idea the Outer Banks were going to be so complicated.

It was only two weeks. Two weeks, and then you and Rafe were back to being nothing more than roommates and friends. Easy.

You dried yourself off when you were done and slipped into a pair of shorts and an old Raleigh tee. After finishing the rest of your night routine, you opened the door again, smiling a bit to see Rafe laying upside down on his bed on the phone.

His eyes flickered over to you and he smiled as well as he sat up. “You can ask her that yourself, actually—she just got out. You’re goin’ on speaker, Mel.”

She cheered your name and you laughed as you settled on the bed with Rafe, picking up the phone so you could look at the little Mel on your screen. “You already look great. The OBX air is good for you, I swear.”

“Better than city air,” you chuckled. “How have you been? Are you devastatingly bored without Rafe and I?”

“You know I am,” she said with mock austerity. “Ayden’s already gone back to Richmond, so I’m all on my lonesome. You guys are all the worst for leaving me.”

“Sorry,” Rafe said. “Should’ve asked you to be my girlfriend too—then we all could’ve had a great time with my parents.”

She snorted and shook her head. “I love you Rafe, but I prefer the empty apartment.”

He shook his head with a sigh. “So mean to me.”

“It’s for your own good,” she chided, and she looked back at you. “How’s he treating you? Like a queen, I hope.”

You laughed. “Mel, I am seriously living the life of luxury here. His room is the size of our freshman dorm. Honestly, it’s probably the size of my apartment back home. I would be Rafe’s permanent fake girlfriend if it meant a house like this.”

Rafe shrugged. “We do have a couple more holidays coming up.”

“Joking,” you said, and you sighed. “His family is… something.”

“I told you I would fight them for you!” he defended. “I am fully ready to argue with my dad for you, but someone said she doesn’t want me to defend her honor.”

Mel laughed, her eyes twinkling. “You beautiful knight. At least you’re trying to protect my girl.”

“Always,” Rafe said, and then he stood up from his bed. “I’m gonna get ready—don’t gossip about me.”

You gasped, scandalized. “We would never.”

“Perish the thought,” Mel said simultaneously.

Rafe rolled his eyes with a smile as he left, and you picked up the phone. “He sure is something.”

“Yeah,” Mel said, something in her voice, “he is. And now that we’re alone, we can gossip about him.”

You chuckled and shook your head. “There’s nothing to gossip about. What did he even talk to you about?”

“Just basic stuff,” she said. “Told me about Kelce and Topper, and said some very choice words about his dad. But he mostly just talked about you, which is why we get to talk about him.”

You frowned a bit—you couldn’t help but wonder what that entailed. “What did he say?”

“Nothing important,” she said, brushing it off. “So, how’s the gig? How’re you liking the Banks?”

“This honestly isn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” you admitted. “Sure, his dad can be a lot, but Rafe is great. He’s always making sure that I’m okay, and it’s really sweet. I think that I can maybe see what all those girls see in him.”

“Oh, wow,” she said. “You’re already in the falling in love with him stage?”

“No!” you exclaimed, maybe a little too hastily. “No, god— where did you get that from?”

“Someone’s a little defensive—”

“Mel,” you said, staring at the bathroom door hoping Rafe couldn’t hear the conversation, “I’m not in love with him. We’re friends that are fake-dating each other. There’s a very big difference.”

“If you say so,” she mused.

“You’ve been watching too many rom-coms,” you said dryly. “Enough about me—how’s holding down the fort?”

“I already told you that it’s boring,” Mel said. “I’m going back to Charlotte in a couple days, but that is also boring, which is why I want to talk about you!”

“And I already told you, there’s nothing to talk about!” you defended. “We had a chill night yesterday, I hung out with his friends this morning, and we had dinner tonight. Standard girlfriend stuff—nothing to worry about.”

“Fine,” she relented, and she laid back on the sofa. “But you have to keep me updated on everything.”

“Of course. Now, I know you were talking to some guy in November. How’s that going?”

Mel went on for a while about the guy—his name is Paolo, he’s an engineering major, he’s the hottest man she’s ever seen, but she’s definitely not interested in him, along with a lot of other things—and while you were about to ask something else in a rare pause, you lost your chance when Rafe came out of the bathroom.

Wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants with his hair still wet and messy in just the right way, you just stared at him. It was embarrassing how speechless you were.

“You good?” Mel asked, and that snapped you out of your reverie, but not before Rafe noticed you looking.

He just shook his head. “Can’t compliment you but you can objectify me. Your hypocrisy is insulting, babe.”

“I’m so sorry Rafe,” you said austerely. “I can hardly control myself around you, you’ve got to understand.”

He sighed as he pulled a shirt on. “It’s a burden I’ve got to bear, unfortunately. But I’m strong enough to do it.”

“Okay, you two are gross,” Mel said. “I would say get a room, but you have one, and I’m clearly overstaying my welcome. So I’m just gonna hang up. Have fun, lovebirds!”

“Mel—” you started, but she was gone before you could continue. You laughed as you turned your phone off, glancing at Rafe. “Uh, sorry. You didn’t miss much, just her talking about some guy.”

“Oh, Paolo!” Rafe nodded. “I introduced those two, actually. He was in my finance class last semester, and he talked about her a lot. I hope they work out.” He smiled a bit as he sat down next to you. “Mel and her dream guy aside, what d’you wanna do for the rest of the night? After the dinner you sat through, I think you deserve a break.”

“How do you feel about watching TV and doing nothing?” you asked.

“Sounds perfect.” Rafe leaned over and picked up the remote from the side table, flipping it over in his hands as he talked. “What are you feeling? Grey’s Anatomy?”

“God, no. It’s not accurate, and I need at least one second where I’m not thinking about school.”

He chuckled. “Then what d’you suggest?”

“Law and Order,” you said, “but we pick a random season and start halfway through it.”

“You know that’s not accurate either?”

“I haven’t spent years going over the law,” you said, “therefore it’s accurate to me.”

Rafe laughed and handed you the remote, shaking his head. “Sounds perfect. Want some popcorn?”

“Nothing I love more than lawyers and popcorn,” you said. “Except for you, fake boyfriend.”

Rafe pressed his hand to his heart as he went over to the door. “I feel the same way, fake girlfriend.”

You started cracking up, and Rafe’s small smile sent heat rushing to your cheeks. “Oh, and the second drawer on my dresser has a bunch of sweatshirts in case you want one.”

You frowned. “Why would I need one of your hoodies?”

He shrugged. “You’ve been shivering this whole time.”

And he walked off, wholly nonchalant, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

Apparently, Rafe paid more attention than you thought. Even when there wasn’t an audience.

You snapped yourself out of your reverie, wandering over to said drawer, and you rifled through until you found a suitable one. Nothing like being a walking advertisement for the Kenan-Flagler school.

You pulled it on then settled against the pillows as you picked up the remote again. After a bit of scrolling you decided on season 13, episode 11, and Rafe came back in with a big bowl of popcorn right when the title card played.

“Perfect timing,” you smiled.

“I try,” he said, and he shut the door behind him as he sat down next to you. His gaze moved to your sweatshirt and he grinned. “Nice choice. I’ll make a business major of you yet.”

“God, no,” you muttered, and he just laughed.

The two of you settled in and got comfortable for a night of lawyers and detectives and murder and popcorn, fought over through swatted hands and playful shoves, and maybe it was something about the day that just had you not thinking clearly.

Because you didn’t mind when your hands touched in the popcorn bowl, and you didn’t mind when he slung his arm over your shoulder, and you didn’t mind when you fell asleep on Rafe’s shoulder 23 minutes into episode 15.

And Rafe didn’t really mind either.

rafe does mind that it took a year for him to be seen again though. sorry man

perm tags: @dv0412 @siriuslyslyslytherin @maruchan77 @simonsbluee @kwyloz @masteroperator

obx tags: @milkiane @lilgoddesshines @sexytholland

ttds tags: @aaleksmorozova @everyonesannoyedwithme @sunnysidee-up @onlygetaway @itsalexwin @hanniebee33 @grimesrheee @lurkymurker

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x you #rafe x reader #rafe cameron obx #rafe cameron fic #rafe fic #outer banks x reader #obx x reader #rafe cameron series #sadie writes #AGAIN I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG #like how many times do you apologize for ghosting your readers #because ill do it

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quixoticprince · 2 months ago

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When your medic leaves to go pocket another man or something

#god I’m sorry the quality is so SHOT I could not figure how to fix it- you must take him as is 😔#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 heavy #high effort shitpost once again #I had this idea for forever but was too scared to open up Vegas after so long #it only took me a few hours it turns out #most of it spent trying to trouble shoot things ugh #I am not meant for the editing world 😔#they don’t love you like I love you #wait 🖐️#they don’t love you like I I love youuuuuu #heavymedic #kinda- implied

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cobaltfluff · 2 months ago

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suuuuper late pocky day akeshus ;w;

#akeshu #p5r #persona #art tag #i have been sooo tired for the past two weeks #this took so long akiren's hair changes partway through LOL #anyway he had it coming yanno #curiosity almost killed the cat :3c #is there even a way to win or lose ??#idk but these two dorks will make it competitive #anyway i think they both won :)))#can you guys tell which frame i put the most effort into HAHA #please pause to read the text as you need... it is... fast #there's not really a proper ending and i kinda messed up the timing to hold the last frame #but i am not remaking this again #but i DID learn that blender is goated #in my first draft i had a kabedon but that was taking too much effort to work out LOL #also sorry for magic pocky that changes sizes every frame

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steppin-on-the-last-train · 6 days ago

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The End of Love

Natasha Romanoff x Taskmaster!Reader

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

Synopsis:

“You think too much,” she says.

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

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

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

Word Count: 43,000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knows you. And it’s terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You left without saying anything.

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

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

“You think too much,” she says.

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

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

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

It is spring and something has shifted.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

“I’m not under threat.”

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

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

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

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

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

Traitor.

And she’s dragged you to hell with her.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she won’t tell you who she is.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t,” you say. “I promise.”

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

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

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

“Yes I will.”

“No you won’t.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

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

“I’m too good for you,” she says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can’t see you.”

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

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

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

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

“No,” she says. “Scoot over.”

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

You point to it. “What’s this?”

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

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

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

“So those are teeth?”

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

“What are those?”

“Your katanas.”

“Why are there five of them?”

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

“Anger lines?”

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

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

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

“And you kept it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Really?”

“This surprises you.”

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

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

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

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

“Watch it,” he says.

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

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

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

“Touchy, touchy,” you say.

“Get out.”

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

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

“Shut up and sit down,” he says.

You mock pout but sit anyway.

“How old are you?” He asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then you’re a fool.”

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

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

And after that he dismisses you, just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Too flat or too sharp?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s hear it then, champ.”

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

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

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

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

“No.”

“Unbelievable.”

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

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

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

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

“She’s ex-military too, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She was?”

“Pardon?”

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

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

“But you said she’s your wife.”

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

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

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

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

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

“And she didn’t accept it.”

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

“So you could get yourself a shrink.”

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Matt,” Natalia says, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course. And I like you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They say they do not care about your accent that you wear like a scarlet flag. And sometimes, you join them when they go out to drink. Ward and Rumlow are outspoken. Rollins is not. But they all share the same cynical view of the world. And so do you. Maybe that’s why you get along.

There is control and there is chaos. You are all agents of the former.

After word about your squadron placement gets around, no one eyes you in the hall like they want to fight. No one questions your–albeit minimal–authority. At least not to your face.

Missions with them are quick and bloody. You use a rifle most of the time now. One that is bulky and can fire an unnecessary amount of rounds per second. You are a strike unit, so you creep up to the outside of an office or warehouse or home and when everyone is crouched like predators in the shadows you jump out with blazing muzzles. You can’t really call what you do fighting.

It is one day you are out with them that you run into an old friend. She is one of the ones you are hunting. S.H.I.E.L.D. likes doing that, you’ve figured out. Sending you out on missions to destroy what you’ve spent your life building. What you were supposed to sit at the head of the table of one day.

They want to see when you might snap. They want you to cut and run. They do not believe you can change. You don’t believe it either.

But she tells you, and oh is it nice to speak Russian again, that Dreykov wants your head. You cannot go back. You hadn’t wanted to be a traitor, but you’d lit the torch when you let the Americans take you in. And now when you look back, the bridge is engulfed in flames.

She says rumor of your defection has grown and spread like a tumor on Dreykov’s name. You’ve humiliated him by turning your back, and now he is losing power.

“But,” you say. “I didn’t. I don’t want–I’m not loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.”

She stops you. “It doesn’t matter.”

“But I’m still–”

“You’re not listening to me.” She grabs you by the arm. “If you go back there you will die. Apparently Dreykov was kind of a black sheep. They were all looking for a reason to strip him of his rank, and now that he’s lost his two best weapons no one will listen to him. The entire Red Room is on alert, looking for a way to capture you.” She stabs a finger to your chest.

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. “But there must be some way to clear this up. If I could talk to him I know I could explain. Or if I could get back. If I talked to the Headmistress.” You know she would understand and she would not be mad. Because she was stern but she never hit you. You used to talk every week in her office, just the two of you. You missed her.

Your friend shakes her head. It’s a “no,” but it’s also full of admonishment.

“What?” You ask.

“Always so eager to please.”

“It’s called having honor.”

There are footsteps outside the office you’ve pulled her into. She tugs on your arm and you retreat around the corner.

“We don’t have much time,” you say.

She’s silent for a moment, then, “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I’m leaving. It won’t be hard. No one will be looking for me as long as you have that S.H.I.E.L.D. emblem on your chest. I’m saying you should leave too.” She puts a hand on your cheek, makes you look her in the eye. “We could be extraordinary.”

“I can’t,” you whisper.

“Why not?” There is disbelief, there is frustration. “You just said it yourself. You’re not loyal to them. And these brutes have nothing on us. We can disappear.”

“You should go. I really think you should. It’s what you’ve always wanted, right?”

“I wanted it with you.”

“Goodbye, Svetlana,” you say, kissing her on the cheek. She is still.

On your way out, she speaks up. “It’s because of her, isn’t it? It’s funny. You’ve always been so blind when it comes to her. You think anyone can know the Black Widow? She will drain the life from you.”

She leaves you with a note with an address on it.

“In case you change your mind.”

When you get back you hide the slip of paper in the nightstand with Dreykov’s watch.

—

You pull on the hideous shirt with the too large sleeves and try not to think about how ridiculous wearing tights is. You grab your shoes and head down the hall to the other dressing room.

When you enter the dancers that are actually a part of this company stare at you. The four widows–excluding Natalia–don’t bat an eye. Modesty was a long lost concept for all of you. Especially around each other. Nastya looks over and smiles at you. You wink back.

The understudy for the lead part–who like the rest of you earned the role after members of the main cast suddenly became ill the night before–finds you like a heat-seeking missile. Her blood red hair is pulled back tight in a bun, and the fluorescent lights pale her skin to a moonlight shade. She looks like she has come from another world to ravage war upon this one. She is muscle and sinew and bone. She is magnificent.

She snakes an arm around the back of your neck and kisses you on the jaw. She wants them all to see. You are hers in this show and hers backstage. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You go out and perform on auto pilot because you watched a recording of the show once and now the movements are ingrained in the memory of your muscles. You focus on the crowd, try to spot your targets. There is a war going on in the shadows. You’ve all been sent to end it. To show them the Red Room is superior. They won’t even know what hit them.

You have a break to watch Natalia perform her solo. You stand in the right wing and watch her under the spotlight, dazzling the crowd. Even here she is dangerous. She is like a panther getting upwind of its prey. Every move is measured, every step beaten into submission because of how many times she practiced. She makes herself delicate, but you know better.

There is a part where she almost rushes off stage as if reaching for something, but an invisible force drags her back to the center. You are standing in the spot she reaches for. Maybe you knew she would end up here, maybe you didn’t. It doesn’t matter because her eyes snap open and for a half second you lock eyes. The audience members aren’t the only ones she’s made believe in her desperation.

After the first act ends Anastasia and Yeva leave for the targets’ hotel where they will be waiting. The four of you who are left finish the show and keep eyes on your targets. When you take your bow you are holding Natalia’s hand. Then you slink into the shadows, ditch the outfit, and put on your mask and hood.

You leave as a unit out a back door and climb to the roof. It is raining outside. Not more than a drizzle, but the brick underfoot is slick and your targets will be hiding under coats and umbrellas. Stefanya kneels to assemble a rifle that had been packed into a violin case. You crouch in the shadows, feel the rain begin to soak through your pants.

The crack of the rifle is loud like lightning and the crowd parts around the dead man. An ambulance is called but you know it is too late. The four of you split there. You will find each other later in an apartment building across town.

You know Natalia will beat the ambulance to the hospital and an accident will befall the entourage of the dead. Nowhere is safe.

You follow a fleeing family of four to their car. The father is a high-ranking official of your enemy, the mother a scientist. They both know tonight is no accident. They run into the dark, down an alleyway instead of along the main road. Smart. You watch them go. You know where they will end up.

You get in a vehicle which has been left for you and follow them out of the city. You drive until the houses have become sparse and so has the light. The rain is pouring down in sheets now. You step on the gas and flip the car’s brights on. The front of your car rams into the back of theirs. The sedan spins out of control, tires squealing against the wet asphalt. The car drifts into a ditch and you pull up beside it.

You step out of your car and draw your swords. Because this is a message, not an accident. Two shots are fired your way. You duck behind the car and let the guy shout insults at you. But you hear the fear in his voice. He saw who they’d sent for him.

You rush through the dark, cape heavy and soaking behind you. You ram your fist into the passenger window and slide the end of one sword through the woman’s mouth. There are more shots but you have already disappeared again into the night.

The children in the backseat scream. Their anguish refuses to be drowned out by the storm. You hear them as if they are crying right into your ears. The man gets out and slams the door shut. You see him in the flashes brought by the lightning. He yells for you to come out. So you oblige. You launch yourself onto the car roof and stare down at him. Here I am, you say. He points the pistol at you and you slice his hand off. He goes down, still cursing. The last thing he does is ask you to leave the kids out of this.

You go up to the backdoor. Didn’t he know? This was a family affair.

You tell yourself what you have done tonight is for the greater good. Many more will live off the blood of this sacrifice.

When you get back to the rendezvous point you find only Stefanya and Marina. You were supposed to be the last one back. Where are they, you ask. They are quiet. Stefanya looks you in the eye and says none of them ever showed. You know she is lying. You take a breath and step closer so you may look down on them. They are not intimidated by you. Even in the dark, even with the rain outside, even with your face behind a mask they know you will not hurt them.

Because you all grew up together. And that means something.

So you draw back your hood and remove the mask. You let them see the worry in your eyes. Come on, you say. What happened.

They are quiet for a moment longer. Then, Marina whispers. Yeva and Nastya never returned. Natalia went after them. She told us not to tell you.

You put your gear back on and rush out the door. Stay here, you call over your shoulder. You fly through the night to the hotel they were supposed to be at and find Anastasia sitting against the wall bleeding. She raises her gun at you when you barrel through the window. You take off your mask and rush to her. Nastya, you say. She is shot and she should be dead but widows are not ordinary humans. You ask if she is all right and she laughs. Clearly, I am not. She already has a shirt tied around her stomach and she is holding another tight to staunch the bleeding.

Natalia has been here, you say. Yes. You ask where she has gone and where Yeva is. She tells you she doesn’t know. That Yeva and she were ambushed and overwhelmed. The room is trashed. Bullet holes in the walls and broken furniture. There are bodies littering the floor. They must have had two dozen men up here to overpower just the two of them.

You ask if she will be all right if you go. She tells you yes she thinks so. Then you hold a hand out. She takes it. Her hand is clammy and cool to the touch. Are you sure, you ask. Because Katya might actually kill me if you die on my watch. Go, she tells you. Find Yeva.

So you leave out the window and try not to think about it all being too late. If they had the chance to drive off they could be out of the city by now. You weren’t even supposed to be out hunting for them. You should’ve taken Stefanya and Marina and gone back to base. The others’ failure was theirs alone to bear. So you stand in the dark collecting raindrops, wondering why this has come as an afterthought. You realize in your haste you’d left your mask back in the hotel room. Water drips down your face as you stare up at the sky. Maybe the stars know.

Then, through the stench of the storm and the dirt and oil the rain has sloughed from the ground you smell blood. It is sharp and metallic and unmistakable. You trot down the near pitch black alley in search of the source. There are a number of irregular shapes down a perpendicular alleyway. You can barely see they are there. You stop, your boots splashing in a puddle.

With measured steps you stalk forward, unsheathing the swords on your back. The shapes are bodies of men in ruined suits with ruined faces. One’s eyes have been gouged inward, pushed deep in toward his brain. Belly-up he stares unseeing into some void. And as if he hadn’t suffered enough he is also eviscerated. Guts and blood leak from him onto the dirty ground as if from an overfilled trash bin. No wonder you were able to smell it.

There is another with his throat slit and his head bashed in. Another with his jaw ripped wide open. He has been shot, but only in the leg. None of these men went out with a clean death. All of them suffered.

You find Natalia in the middle of the carnage, holding another body. Yeva is limp in her arms, eyes closed. You kneel beside both of them. She’s gone, Natalia whispers. You try to ignore the awful pang in your chest. Because she died in the service of her country. She died a soldier’s death. It is an honor.

But alone in the rain in a struggle is no way to die. Dark blood is still seeping from the hole in her forehead to stain her blonde hair. She looks so young.

There are footsteps at the entrance to the alleyway. Stefanya and Marina have Anastasia supported in between them. Stefanya is taller than them both which makes it an awkward position but they have made it. You’re not surprised they didn’t stay at the rendezvous either.

The cops are here, Marina says. We need to go.

Natalia stands, Yeva in her arms. You pull your hood deeper over your face and lead them away. In a stolen car you drive out of the city. There’s a field and it’s on its way to being flooded but it will have to do. You have no tools so you dig with your hands and you try to ignore how familiar the action is. Even Nastya insists she helps.

Dawn has already broken when the grave is finally dug. You lower Yeva’s body in and replace the dirt under the young sunlight. None of you care about the consequences the day will surely bring.

Very few will ever know that she lived. And only you will know about her death, about this gravesite. It’s only fair you take a moment. They tell you you are nameless, faceless, inconsequential and that it is selfish to believe otherwise.

But dammit Yeva was a person. They refused to give her a place in the world. So you suppose that’s what the four of you have done now. What a shame it could only be given after her last breath.

—

The next time you’re being briefed on a mission there are forty agents in the room. You go to the side of the room where your squad along with the rest of the platoon are standing. Rumlow tells you there must be a big fucking fish to fry.

Crowded on the other side of the conference table are members of STRIKE Team: Delta, including Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff. You lock eyes with her for a moment but you turn away because Agent Matthew Hunter is right there next to her. Rumor has it they’ve been “going out.” Last week Ward asked you how it felt to have some tool like Hunter steal your girl. You told him she wasn’t your girl. That she’d be fucking a new guy in another week. You don’t know why you said that last part.

Then everyone is quiet because Fury is here and the Director never bothers with things as trivial as mission briefs.

Turns out there’s a huge freaking terrorist compound in Iraq and you’ve been authorized to take it out. Agent Barton is in charge of tagging the leader. Everyone else, don’t get killed.

So you fly out in three separate jets and you’re on the one holding a mix of both teams. Everyone’s keeping to their own side but Natalia comes over to stand by you.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” you say back. You hadn’t realized how much you’d been missing her. But now that you’ve heard her voice and she’s so close your shoulders are almost brushing it hits you like a bucket of ice water. “How’ve you been?”

“Good. It’s odd though, you know.”

“What is?”

“Not speaking with you.” she says. “I mean we’re in the same building most of the time now. It’s just been too long.”

“I agree,” you say. And because you cannot bring yourself to admit you feel less alive when she’s not around, that now that she’s here you have to stop yourself from grinning like a moron, you say, “I don’t think we’ve been on a mission together yet. Not since coming here.”

She’s looking at you and now you’re thinking about the furrow in her brow and the shine in her eye when she’s thinking hard. The little things you’re sure only you know because you’re the only person she’s shown them to. “You’re right,” she says. “We haven’t.”

“Kremer was probably scared shitless about the potential the two of us have together.”

“Kremer?”

“My handler. He’s an absolute asshat. I feel like he had one look at me and has already sentenced me. Nothing I do can change his mind.”

“That’s too bad for him,” she says. “He’s missing out on a great agent.”

You finally allow a smile to crack through. “How’s Barton?”

“He’s good. I think the two of you would get along.”

“Why is that?”

“Because you both know how to be a huge pain in my ass.” She smirks and you shove her lightly on the shoulder.

“Oh you don’t know what you’ve got yourself into Romanova.”

She takes your hand and traces circles on the inside of your palm. “You’re the only one who calls me that anymore,” she murmurs.

Your face flushes because you hadn’t even realized what you’d said. “I can stop. I just, I forget sometimes. And besides.” You lean in and switch to Russian because someone is always listening in. “Natalia Romanova is the strongest person I know. I don’t think you should be ashamed of her.”

She turns her face toward yours and responds in kind. “You don’t have to stop. I like what it means when you say it.” You can feel her breath on your cheek and you wonder if she might kiss you. But she pulls away to smile at you again. “And you’re the only one who can pronounce it right anyway.”

You touchdown and by some force of habit you and Natalia pull away from the others and slink into the shadows. You pull your pistol out and shoot a figure with his gun out before Natalia can get to him.

She turns back to you. “Since when do you use a gun?”

You shrug. “Since I became American.”

“You don’t have your swords?”

“No. Those are still confiscated. But,” you take a retractable blade from your belt and unsheath it. “I’ve got this.”

“Can you use it?”

“Well enough,” you say. You could use a sharp stick if you needed to. “Actually, it’s quite different from using my katanas. First of all there’s only one of whatever this is. It’s pretty terrible. Americans have no idea about blades. Whoever made this shaped it like a toothpick.” You thrust it forward into the empty air. “You can’t slash with it, which is what you want to do,” you say, drawing an arc this time.

“Easy, tiger. I can’t believe I almost forgot how much of a nerd you are.” You’re about to retort but she stops before a corner and gives you a look. Down the hall there’s an open door and a light on. You edge up to it and count four guys smoking and playing cards. As one you jump out, Natalia covering you as you barrel into the thick of it. There are two guys with bullet holes in them and one writhing on the ground from one of her taser discs.

You’ve plunged your sword through the last one and are still trying to wrench it free when she kicks the one getting shocked in the head. Finally you get it free, his ribs cracking from how hard you had to pull it out.

“That’s disgusting,” she says.

“Oh please,” you respond, wiping the blade off on your sleeve. There’s blood on your hands and face and more spreading over the concrete floor. “You’re the one who likes making messes on purpose. I told you this sword is atrocious.”

She shrugs. “I only do that if they really deserve it.”

“So that’s like everyone, right?” You turn away from her, shaking your head hard enough you know she must see. “It’s appalling really. I mean have some decorum Natalia. Twenty-three times is a lot to stab someone, you know.”

Silence is the only answer you receive. But the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and in a flash she’s on your shoulders trying to bring you down.

You keep talking in between the short bursts of laughter rising from your chest. “At that point it’s disrespectful.” She covers your eyes with one hand and your mouth with the other. Then she twists with just enough force to signal she wants you down and you get to your knees to soften the blow before you completely collapse on your back.

“The cops can’t even recognize the poor bastards.” She’s on top of you with a glint in her eye like she’s hungry. You put your hands up. “Please don’t, oh no I have an ounce of cocaine I still need to snort tonight.” She puts the handle end of a knife against your cheek and drags it down toward your chest. “I have so much to live for,” you say, suddenly putting on an American accent.

She cracks, a little smile emerging on her face. She stands before she thinks you’ve seen and leaves the room. “Get up. We’ve got a job to do.”

“I saw that,” you say, jogging after her.

“Saw what?”

“You think I’m hilarious.”

“No, I think you’re dumb.”

“I can be both. It’s called having range.”

You wouldn’t say you enjoy what you do, but it’s all you know. At some point you had to become numb to it or you’d drown in the guilt. But you have missed working with Natalia. Your team is fine. But it’s different when she’s had your back in the field since you were ten years old. When you could pass out right now and know she’d keep you safe. When you know exactly what move she’s going to make next.

The end of the hall splits off and you go left while she goes right.

You pass a couple of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and give them a nod before turning down another hall. You check another room and there’s a woman in there with a gun.

You raise yours, and you don’t know why but something makes you hesitate. Maybe it’s because you don’t think she’ll shoot. Maybe it’s because there’s been this bug in your ear nagging about innocence until proven guilty.

But she doesn’t and there’s a shot and a bullet in your side. You don’t waste time before you fire a return shot that shatters her kneecap. She drops her gun and goes down screaming.

Rage explodes hot in your chest. At her, for shooting you. But mostly at yourself for slipping. “You bitch,” you seethe in Russian. The pain in your side is mixing with the anger in your chest and the storm is deafening.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me,” she sobs, laying on the ground. “I didn’t mean to. I’m not with them. I won’t fight anymore. Just don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” But you’ve seen this act before. You won’t underestimate her twice.

“Shut up,” you say in English. You put your foot on her broken knee and stand on it. She wails even harder. You’re looming over her as you unsheathe your sword. Her sobs are the only sound left in the room. You seethe in silence. Like you always have.

You raise the blade above your head like an executioner with his axe and bring it down over her neck. Her head comes apart from her body. There’s a thud as she settles on her back. The sword snaps as it strikes the concrete from the weight of your full strength. You stumble forward. Sometimes you forget how strong the serum has made you.

For a moment, it’s quiet. Just the sound of your ragged breathing. You can’t tell if you can’t catch your breath because you’ve been shot or because of something else.

Then, “Holy shit.”

You whip around and aim your gun at the voice by the doorway.

“Woah, woah, woah. Don’t shoot me, partner,” says Agent Hunter.

Блядь.

You put your weapon away but don’t say anything.

He looks at the blood on your face and the broken sword you’re holding onto like a lifeline and the body at your feet. The woman’s eyes are still open. Locked in a panicked gaze. Then he blanches and turns away. The sound of him throwing up almost makes you hurl too.

“Hunter,” you pant, finding your voice.

But he’s backing away with his hands out like you’ll get him next. “You’re sick.”

More footsteps come down the hall and a group of agents checks on him. It’s over for you as soon as the first new arrival sees the body and the blood on your hands. Oh my god, he says. The judgement rolls through the crowd that’s begun to amass.

Agent Hunter is out of your sight now but you can hear him. “He fucking killed her. She was on the ground begging for her life and he fucking chopped her head off.”

Your face heats up and your heart is pounding something crazy in your chest because you still haven’t caught your breath. There’s too many people in the room. Too many eyes on you. You can hear every gasp, every hitch in their breathing, every whisper. It’s driving you nuts. Why can’t they just mind their own fucking business.

They’re going to kill you for this. You’re injured and vulnerable. There’s a dozen of them now and they’ve all got guns.

“What the fuck are you all looking at?” You yell. “Get out!”

They stare at you for another moment before shuffling away.

You think you see a glimpse of fire-red hair in the crowd. There one second, then gone. Like the flicker of a flame.

Rumlow is the first one to approach you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t come too close. “Come on, man,” he says in the same rough voice he always uses. The familiarity is good. “It’s time to go.”

—

The girl with the blood red hair stops at a small grove of trees. She tells the boy it is time. She cannot go further.

The boy stops because the girl is the strongest person he knows. If she says she cannot go on she must mean her feet have fallen off. But he is also confused because there are supposed to be weeks and weeks left. This is not right.

The girl curses and curls into a ball at the base of a skinny, bare tree. Because she knows this too. Stupidly, she thinks if she makes the area around her stomach just a little warmer everything will be okay. She is desperate.

But their luck has run out. The girl was good at keeping secrets and when the secret could not be kept any longer a man named Ivan put her on a long-term espionage mission. The boy has always disliked this man whom the girl looks to like a father but he owes him for this.

But things went sour as things happen to go and when the girl sent the message from the cabin the boy should not have come. But this was a thing worth running for.

Miracles do not exist.

The boy sinks into the snowy ground next to the girl. She turns her face toward his and they press their foreheads together Like a kiss, but with the tenderness that can only be born from the innocent. I love you, the girl tells him.

The boy tries to be brave even though he is scared. I love you too, he says. No matter what happens.

—

They make you go to medical when you get back because everyone was watching you on the plane and it was obvious you had a bullet in your side.

You sit in a private room that’s got a door instead of just curtains between beds. But it’s not really private because there’s a doctor and two armed guards at the door. All three of them stare at you. They haven’t gone so far as to handcuff you but you know you’ve taken a huge step back.

The doctor introduces herself as Helen Cho and asks, “Are you able to remove your shirt?”

You don’t want to take your shirt off. It leaves you too vulnerable. And you don’t want them to see your back.

“Agent, there’s a bullet in your torso. Remarkably it hasn’t hit anything vital. And by some miracle you’re sitting up like nothing’s wrong. But I still need to take it out. It’s not supposed to be in there.” She is direct but still somehow soft-spoken. You don’t like being in this white room with these strange people but you suppose she could be worse.

You fidget with your hands. You’ve washed them but there’s still red on your palms, dried flakes under your fingernails. Finally, you say, “I can get it out myself. I’m sure you’ve got better things to do.”

“I would be more comfortable if you would let me do it. Have you ever extracted a bullet before?” You shake your head. “It’s tricky, it requires precision, and it hurts the person it’s in. It’s hard to keep your hand steady when you’re in pain.”

You glance up at the agents keeping guard. “Sure I know.”

Doctor Cho notices and waves at them. “Would you mind giving us some privacy?”

“Ma’am, we have orders to keep him under supervision.”

“He’s injured. You can stay right outside the exam room. Nobody is going to disappear into thin air.”

“But–”

“I’m the doctor. And this is my patient. You can wait outside,” she says sternly.

And this time they listen. “We’ll be right outside.”

She turns back to you. “Better?”

You nod slowly, finally drawing in a larger breath. Your side ignites in fire and you gasp, which only makes it hurt worse. Your hand flies to the wound, hovering over it.

“Getting shot isn’t fun, is it?” She asks, not waiting for an answer. “Now there’s two ways we can do this. You can lay here and let me help you or I can have you sedated.”

“No,” you wave a hand at her. “No, don't do that.”

“Okay I won’t,” she assures. “But I’ve been at this long enough to know some people need a little extra help. It’s all right.” She pauses. “I still need to see the wound site. I’ll walk you through it every step of the way,” she offers.

“You will?”

“Of course.”

You hesitate. Maybe it’s to stall a little longer. Maybe because you actually care. “You’re not worried about being in here alone with me?”

“Why would I be? You’re not going to attack me, are you?”

“No,” you say. “But you have to be wondering why I’ve got a couple of angry looking sitters.”

“Sure,” she shrugs. “‘I’m curious. But I don’t make a habit of judging people I don’t know. And besides. I’m a doctor. I’d treat you no matter what.”

“So there’s no limit?”

“No, I’ve got a limit.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“It’s for people who think they can talk their way out of treatment,” she says, looking you in the eye. “Come on.”

Slowly, you maneuver your right arm out of the t-shirt. The movement stretches your side and it hurts but you grit your teeth and push through the pain. You leave your shirt on around your neck and left side. The wound is still oozing blood just above your right hip. You figure she has enough room to work.

Doctor Cho sighs. She takes a once-over glance at your body. Her attention locks on the bullet wound then flickers to your back then refocuses again.

“You’re probably going to want to lay down.”

You oblige and she comes over with gloves on her hands but no mask on her face. You’re grateful for this. The doctors in the Red Room always wore masks and headgear that made them look less human. They also didn’t talk. Not to you anyway. And their notes always had the word “Subject 094” instead of your name.

You swallow as she sits on a stool by your side with a pair of forceps and a pen light. You don’t know when you'd gotten so sweaty.

“I’m going to locate the bullet and extract it. Sound good?”

You nod and she waits. “Yes,” you say.

She clicks on the flashlight and puts a cool hand on your stomach. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to go under for this?”

“I’m sure.”

She presses down lightly with two fingers around the entry site. It hurts but it doesn’t really hurt until the fourth spot she touches. You suck in air through your teeth and clench your fists.

“I started working in the medical field because I wanted to cure cancer,” she says. “My passion was research, but my parents wanted me to get my M.D. They said there’s no success in research. So I did both. I have an M.D. for them and a Ph.D. in biomedical research for myself.”

You focus on her words, imagining a younger Doctor Cho in your mind. She can’t be much older than you. “You must be some kind of genius,” you grit around a clenched jaw.

She blushes, and even though there’s a pair of forceps lodged way too deep inside your torso the pain eases a little. “Nothing like that. I just worked hard. And you know the crazy part? I ended up loving the patient work almost as much as I loved running tests in a lab. So my parents had the right idea after all, just for the wrong reasons.”

You’re looking at her face now instead of her hands and trying to memorize the slight purse in her lips and the brightness in her eyes. This is her arena, her fight.

“Сука!” You curse and jolt a little.

“Steady,” she says. “I’ve got it. Just have to pull it out.”

You try to draw in deep, steady breaths through your nose and out your mouth. “Great.” You can’t watch anymore so you squeeze your eyes shut and tell yourself pain is only a mental construct even though it really doesn’t feel that way right now.

There’s a clink and a rattle and Doctor Cho says, “The hard part is done. I’m going to clean, stitch, and bandage you now.”

“So you’ve given up on curing cancer to take bullets out of idiots instead?”

“No. Actually, I work in research almost full time now. They’ve got a pretty nice lab here. You should stop by, if you’re not too busy catching more bullets.” She doesn’t look you in the eye as she says this.

“This is my first time getting shot.”

“There shouldn’t be a first time,” she counters.

“You said you do research almost full time now. Should I feel special, then?” You smile.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’re a disturbance to my day off, actually.” She takes a bottle of water and flushes it through your wound.

You hiss. “Please remind me never to get shot again.”

“If you come through here injured again I’ll kick you out,” she says, smiling. “I thought you all had armor for this type of thing. What’s it called, again? Oh, yeah. A bulletproof vest.” She wipes the rest of the blood from your skin.

“I don't wear those. Too much of a restriction on movement. Agility is the most important thing out there.”

“I don’t know about that. Sounds like I’d want this thing that keeps me from ending up on the wrong side of this bed.”

You shrug. Because she’s running thread through your skin and it hurts more than you try to let on. Maybe she has a point.

Doctor Cho retrieves a roll of bandages from a cabinet in the corner. “This part will be easier if you stand up.”

You stand and stumble. You have to catch yourself on her shoulder. “Sorry,” you say. “Might have lost a little bit of blood recently.”

“You don’t say.”

You fix her nametag, the picture smiling shyly back at you.

She wraps the bandage taught around your stomach. “No strenuous activity until I clear you, understand? Nothing that raises your heart rate too much. And I want to see you back in three days. Think you can manage?”

You shrug back into your shirt. “Does that mean I can’t go to my underground fighting club tonight?”

She makes an overexaggerated frown. “I’m afraid so.”

“Thank you, Doctor Cho,” you say earnestly.

“Don’t mention it.” And as you put your hand on the door knob, she adds, “Call me Helen.”

You smile over your shoulder. “See you in a few days Helen.”

Your personal guards march you down to Kremer’s office. You tell them you’re sure you can get there on your own but they’re not in all that talkative of a mood.

Kremer is standing over his desk, arms braced against the wood like he’s trying to ground himself. He has his glasses on but removes them when you enter. He makes a dismissive motion with his hand and the guards disappear, shutting the door behind them.

“Sit down,” he says. When you don’t move he says it again, louder. “Sit down! That’s an order.”

You sit but he doesn’t. He stands, hovering over you like some angry buzzard.

“What the fuck was that? I’ve got a dozen eyewitness reports saying you beheaded some defenseless woman. You want to tell me something different happened?”

“Sir,” you start, cautiously. Because even though a plan is already in your mind to bolt you would rather not have to sleep with one eye open tonight. “I don’t know how you have a dozen eyewitness reports. Agent Hunter was the only one present for the moment of death.”

“I don’t care,” he says. “I don’t fucking care if it was one person or fifty people or just God himself as witness. Did you do it?” “She shot me first. She wasn’t exactly defenseless.”

Kremer mutters to himself under his breath. “But you didn’t need to chop her goddamn head off! I’ve seen the pictures. Looks like an excessive use of force to me. Was she threatening you when you did it?”

“She could’ve had another weapon under her shirt or in her waistband. I made a call.”

“Hunter said she was sobbing, begging you not to kill her.”

“That doesn’t mean anything! She could have been acting. I’ve seen it done a hundred times.”

“You Reds and your excuses,” he shakes his head. “It’s my ass when you pull some stunt like this, do you understand? I don’t know how you did it back in Russia but here we don’t go around beheading people like barbarians. And if you don’t want to end up in some hellhole I suggest you get yourself up to our bar, quickly.”

“You think I did that just because? The bitch shot me first! I just spent twenty minutes having a bullet dug out of my stomach because of her.”

“Yeah, I think you did,” he points a finger at you. “I think you’re a fucking animal who was just waiting for some excuse to make another person suffer. I know your type. You get off on this kind of violence. If it was up to me you’d be rotting out in the middle of the ocean right now.”

“What the fuck?” You sputter. “I don’t–”

“We’re done here. You’re on a month’s suspension.” He sighs, putting his glasses on and sitting down. “But if you step one toe out of line you’re out of here.”

You stand up far too quickly. The ache in your side flares like you’ve ripped it open again.

“And I think you should know,” he adds. “Fury has given me complete authority over this matter. Whether you stay or go is my call.”

You salute him before you go, pretending your eyes could burn holes through his skull.

The agents turned guards aren’t waiting for you when you leave Kremer’s office so you head back to your room. Your side hurts even worse now. The adrenaline has worn off. Every step you take makes you want to sink to the floor.

By the time you make it across campus to the barracks you’re sweating a little and breathing hard. You’ll have to tell Helen you broke her rule.

Natalia is in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed in her mission suit. Her hair is still braided back, little flyaways sticking to the back of her neck.

“How did you get in here?” You ask.

“You’re all right,” she says in relief. She crosses the room, one hand on the side of your neck, the other on your cheek.

“Yeah,” you breathe, putting a hand on her arm. “Can I sit? I’m not exactly totally good.” You don’t wait for her to answer before almost collapsing into the chair at the desk in the corner.

“What happened?” You look up at her, thinking about how you saw her in the crowd. How she didn’t come up to you. Didn’t defend you.

“I was shot,” you say. You lift the edge of your shirt up, just enough to reveal the bandage.

She sits on the bed again. “And?” She prompts, head tilted slightly.

“And I got it patched. But it still hurts,” you say. Because you’re not going to give her what she wants to know yet. She has to play her hand first.

“I heard what happened. On the jet. People were talking.”

“People were talking,” you say, looking away and nodding your head.

“They were,” she answers. “And I thought maybe you weren’t coming back. You know how people like to talk. Things get embellished. But you’re okay. They let you off. Right?”

“I don’t know,” you say flatly. You look right at her so she can’t hide. “Were they embellishing? You can cut the shit Natalia. I know you were there.”

She is quiet, but she doesn’t look away. “I saw the aftermath. That doesn’t mean I know what happened. Only you can know that.”

“Why don’t you ask your buddy Matt?” You spit his name like it is a curse. “He saw most of it. And I’m sure he wasn’t shy about telling everyone.”

She stands, says your name. She is already close, but takes two steps to completely close the distance anyhow. “I don’t care about what happened. I just care that you’re okay.”

You look up at her. She is frowning down at you like you are some wounded dog. You want to ask her why she did not ask this thing when you were standing alone, a dozen pairs of eyes on you. But you know. Oh you know. She did not want their judgement to pass to her, did not want to be seen with the outsider with blood on their hands.

And maybe, part of her was scared of him too.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you say, “And if I told you they were outside the door waiting to take me away?” You come back to a way she has already disappointed you.

She takes a breath. You search her face. She searches yours. “Then you would need to disappear.” You wait for the second part. About how she would let you go but in a month’s or year’s time it would be her sent to hunt you down. It would be her with the gun to your head. Because she was the only one smart enough to find you, ruthless enough to betray you. She was the only one you would ever lose to.

You lower your head. You need to stop pulling open this wound. Things are hard enough.

But then. She rakes a hand through your hair. “And I would need to disappear too. I’d kill everyone in here for you, you know that. If it came down to it, I would leave with you too.”

This is new. She has not yet chosen you over them. You feel an opening.

Your head snaps back up. “We can go.”

“But they’re not coming. They’re giving you a chance.”

“I don’t want a chance,” you say.

“Don’t say that,” she shakes her head. “You can’t say that.”

“Why are you so adamant about staying here?” You are getting frustrated. “You left the Red Room because you were a pawn but now you want to serve some other cause. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Because I’m not going to spend my life on the run, in the shadows. Not when I can do something with it.” She sighs, her gaze turning melancholic. “I need. I need to make up for all the pain I’ve caused.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” you argue. She was already perfect. “The world needs a little pain. Humanity will never go in the right direction without it.”

She shakes her head. “We can’t control everything.” She puts her hand on your cheek. You hate yourself for leaning into it. You hate her because she knows how to make you pliant.

You think of all the other times she’s touched you like this, the times she’s made you feel chosen only to turn away the next moment with apathy in her eyes. Because she is a mask of indifference, a one-night flirt. But for you she’s made an exception. You’ve seen her come apart, seen her struggle to be human. But still. Some part of you whispers, “trap.” She is just using you to keep herself afloat. After all, she is first and foremost a survivor. If anyone was going to make it out alive it would be her.

“But we could,” you say.

“No,” is her only answer. She says it like she is watching you drift away and she cannot follow.

Maybe you are. Or maybe she is the one leaving you.

—

You dread having to talk to Willem after the incident. You know what he is going to ask about before he opens his mouth.

“I heard you had an eventful last week.”

“Are you going to lecture me too?”

“Maybe,” he smiles. It’s a cheeky smile without teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle all the same. “I heard you got yourself on some kind of double probation. I didn’t know that was possible.”

“You hear what I did?” You ask. Part of you hopes he hasn’t. You’d never admit it, but you don’t mind him. Whatever this was was weird. But it would be a shame for it to change now.

“No,” he says. “And I don’t care to. I want to know what you think. I’ve known Kremer for a long time. He’s a hard ass.”

“You’re telling me,” you scoff. “He needs to come in here.”

Willem laughs. It’s a nice, hearty sound. But he keeps whatever he had found funny to himself. He steadies himself with a hand on his knee. “You think he’s unfair.”

“I mean, yeah. He doesn’t give me the time of day. It’s like he’s out to get me.”

“Do you think he was wrong to suspend you?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know,” you shrug.

“Oh, come on, you can do better than that.”

You hated Kremer but you also hadn’t lost control like that in a long time. But that wasn’t exactly your fault either. She was dead the moment she pointed a gun at you. What did it matter how you’d done her in? And she’d only shot you because you’d hesitated. That was Kremer’s fault for yelling at you so much about restraint. You pivot instead. “Have you ever killed anybody?”

Willem frowns at that. You think it’s not so much at the content of the question, but at your lack of answer for his. “Yes,” he replies.

You wave your hand in a vague gesture. “Then you know.”

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific.”

“The feeling,” you wave again. “I don’t know. That rush when you, you know.”

“The bloodlust,” he supplies.

“Sure,” you say. “That seems a little extreme.”

“That’s the name we had for it in the army. Everyone had a similar story. Some guy in their platoon you wouldn’t have thought would make it a week. He’s too skinny or he wets the bed or he cries at night. Whatever. But by some miracle he survives. And one day he’s toe-to-toe with some enemy combatant. Everyone thinks he’s a goner. But he gets his first kill. And it’s not from some machine gun a few hundred yards away or a mine he rigged up. No. This is personal, it’s bloody. From then on the guy’s an animal. Nobody makes fun of him anymore cause he might claw your eyes out. The bloodlust.”

You shake your head. “Not like that. Just in the moment. When it’s you or them. Everything else fades out. You get this urge. Like something has to break. And it can’t be you.”

“Sure,” he says. “In the moment. But you can’t go on living like that all the time. Or you end up like that batshit private.”

“That’s all it was,” you say. “I don’t get why it’s not acceptable for me to blow off a little steam.”

“Because it’s dangerous. If you can’t control yourself you shouldn’t be out there.”

“So you’re taking Kremer’s side, now?”

“It’s not about sides. But you have a job to do. And there’s standards you have to abide by. You think I could do this if I flew off the handle with every client?”

“You’ve yelled at me,” you point out.

“You’re the exception.”

You roll your eyes.

“Do you feel good about what you do?” He asks.

“I don’t feel bad about it,” you say, although it’s only a half-truth. You used to feel terrible when you had to hurt someone. You didn’t want to do that. But time went by and you got used to it. You had to. There’s only a twinge left now. You call it respect for the dead.

“Let me rephrase. Do you like what you do?”

“Define ‘like.’”

He ponders for a second. “If you were free to do anything you wanted, would you still be here?”

“That’s a stupid hypothetical. No one is free to just do as they please.”

“I think we are. Or at least we should be.”

“So walk up out of here right now,” you say, gesturing at the door. “Try your luck begging for money on the street. See how you like your freedom then.”

“I’ve walked away once before. That’s how I ended up here.” Of course he’s got a story for everything. “My first job after I left the military was private security. Ex-military means a lot more to civilians than it does to anyone who actually served. It was nice. I never once pulled out my gun. I had to babysit these assholes who thought way too much of themselves but it paid. About two-and-a-half times what I’m doing here. And all I needed was my high school degree.

I worked awful hours. Wasn’t at home much. But it didn’t matter because I was supporting them. Giving them the life my father couldn’t give me.

Then I got this gig. Full-time bodyguard for some idiot who was going to pay half a million a year. I took it and realized I wasn’t happy. My family wasn’t happy. So one night I don’t show up. They called and I said I couldn’t make it. My kid had a ball game.”

“You just left?” You ask.

“Yes. I realized life is short, and you only get one. I needed to reprioritize, so I did.” Willem pauses to give you that look he always does. As if you can’t hear him if he doesn’t stare you down “It can be done. So let me ask you again.You’ve been given a second chance. What the hell are you going to do with it?”

“Of course that’s what this is about,” you say, throwing yourself into the chair back. “You just want to make sure I’m on the right side. You and Kremer playing ‘good cop, bad cop.’”

“Cut the crap,” he retorts. “I couldn’t care less about that. You’ve been given a fresh start. You have a world of opportunity ahead of you and you’re throwing it away. Do you know how many people would kill to have a re-do like this?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you say, throwing your hands up.

“Then why are you still here?” He asks, his voice flat. “Someone like you, the prodigy you are doesn’t just get taken in by the enemy without a fight. And he certainly doesn’t stick around for no reason.”

You are silent. You can’t admit that you came here for Natalia. And you definitely can’t admit you’ve stayed because this place hasn’t been so bad after all.

“Nothing to say?” He taunts.

You don’t answer.

“Then we’re done here.” He stands and walks to the door.

“What?” You ask, incredulous. Because he can’t just quit. That’s not how this works. You jump up and follow him.

“You think you’re some martyr,” he says, opening the door. “You’re crucifying yourself for things you’ve been given a real chance to overcome. I’m not here to watch you jump into an early grave.”

“Fuck off,” you yell, slamming the door shut. “You want to talk about martyrdom? Why haven’t you made amends with your wife?”

“Because I did a terrible thing,” he says in that annoyingly calm voice of his.

“You fucked up!” You pace a few steps away. “But you don’t want to put in the work to fix yourself. So much for all the love you have for your family.”

“That’s my call to make.”

“That’s right. It’s your fucking call and you’re making the wrong one. Some people they fuck up and they own up to it! What are you doing? Coming in here and hiding behind someone else’s problems so you don’t have to look at what a mess your own life is!” You’re shouting and you can’t keep your hands still.

He stands across from you, hands in his pockets. He says your name, tells you to look at him. “Why are you here?”

You stop and put your arms down. Because he is calm, and you are not. It’s like nothing you’ve said has stuck.

“Look at you, tough guy. You’ve got a smart remark for everything but you won’t answer this simple question. Because you can’t face the truth.”

He opens the door again. And this time, you walk through it.

—

You wake tied to a chair. It is because your eyelids are heavy like lead that you jerk and try to escape without reason first. You breathe from your nose because when you tried to take a panicked inhale through your mouth there was something gagging you out.

Look who’s awake, a deep voice says. Looks like you won the bet.

You settle because the rope wrapping over the entire length of both your forearms and your ankles gives you no other choice. You are stripped down to your underwear but still you sweat. You are in what looks like an office with the furniture removed. There is a man you do not recognize and a woman you do.

Evgenia looks nothing like the woman you have been working on and off with for six years. Nothing like the woman who scolded you but not for the same reason as anyone in the Red Room. She told you you had to stop hiding your injuries because you are a kid and not a dog and showed you the real world was not as intense of a picture as you believed.

She showed you new foods and taught you the songs her grandma taught her even though she could not sing. And one night after a particularly gruelling mission she told you you had to draw lines between what was okay and what was not. That nobody could tell you what those were except yourself. You have to listen in here, she said, pointing to your heart. And don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

There is more to life than just the fight. You just need to look up.

Her face was also the one you saw as you felt a prick in your neck and a tiredness began to consume your body.

You look at her now, at her cold gaze and think what a glorious trick she has pulled on you. You challenge her to be the first to look away as you search for an ounce of guilt in her posture and find none. In the end it is you who breaks away first.

The man, who is dressed in a black shirt and black pants approaches you and takes the gag from your mouth. He tells you he has a few questions about Dreykov and the Red Room. He tells you you all are an outdated parasite on modern Russia and need to be excised. Let me demonstrate, he says, picking up a thin knife. He grabs your bicep and you try to jerk away but the rest of your arm is tied down and even though you are awake the world still feels out of focus.

Everything becomes clear real fast when he starts sawing at your arm. You don’t scream, managing to minimize your agony into a series of gasps and grunts. This is a yet undiscovered pain. He comes away with a little piece of your skin. He holds it in front of your face and flaps it like it is some sort of banner. Like this, he says. You know the air is not burning even if your arm is trying to tell you it is.

You look at Evgenia. She is standing back a few paces, arms crossed.

Where is the Red Room? The man asks.

I’m not telling shit, you say, even though it feels a little like your brain is having trouble connecting to your mouth. You think I’m some traitor? You would all be lost without us. Dreykov is going to–

He slices at you again, this time on your shoulder and you can’t stifle the yell that emerges. You clench your fists and fight to get away but it's no use.

You can’t help but look at Zhenya like she is a source of comfort. Like she might help you. She says your name. Just tell him and this can end. Please, you don’t have to do this to yourself.

Go to hell, you grit. The man grips you by the hair and takes a large patch of skin from your neck. You scream. You had never thought there could be this much pain without a single drop of blood.

He steps back. Where is the Red Room? You stare at him, breathing hard. The rope digs into your skin. You ache to put your hands around his throat. You are going to regret this, you say. You should know who you’re messing with.

Oh, he says, cocky. He waves the knife at you. But no one will know it was us, you see.

Kill me, go ahead.

I’m not going to kill you, no. You’re very valuable property. Very marketable. You are only the second man in history to get Russian version of super serum and not go batshit insane. Did you know this? Yes, there are powerful people who would pay a lot to have you in their arsenal. And they already have. You’ll be someone else’s little hound soon. And guessing at who our buyer is, you won’t even remember this conversation after they do what they do.

He holds the knife to your cheek. Too bad keeping this pretty face intact was not a part of the deal.

Wait, Evgenia speaks up. Let me.

He backs off and shrugs. All right.

She takes the scalpel and kneels before you. Hey, she says. Hey, hey, look at me. You must still be pretty out of it because you thought you were looking at her. Just tell us what we want to know and this can end. Don’t make me do this.

You are looking into her eyes and you think you see a little bit of the woman you thought she was. I trusted you, you whisper.

I know, she frowns, mocking. I’m sorry. She starts to cut at the skin on your thigh. It feels more painful than any of the other times because she is the one doing it. You watch the strip of skin come loose and then think you must be dreaming because she turns away and rushes at the man.

She stabs him in the stomach with the scalpel and throws a punch at his head. He is caught off guard and stumbles back. Without hesitation he rips out the blade and swipes at Zhenya. She takes a couple of quick steps back.

You strain anew at the rope holding you down but it is thick and unforgiving and wrapped around your arms and legs like a python.

He presses forward with the blade out, forcing her to work around him. She takes a step too close and he slices her across the stomach. Blood begins to bloom and stain her shirt a shade darker. But she is quick, she cuts at his wrist and forces him to drop the knife. Then, without missing a beat, she tackles him to the ground.

But he is bigger than her, stronger. He shoves her into the wall and dives for the scalpel. It lies just outside of his reach. Evgenia seizes the opportunity. She kicks it farther from his grasp and scoops it up.

She turns around just as he tries to get her from behind. The scalpel cuts deep through his throat. Blood sprays from his neck onto her face as if from a fountain. His hands raise and try to staunch the bleeding but it is already too late. He falls first to his knees and then flat on the floor. He gurgles as he tries to draw his final breaths and then it is quiet.

Zhenya stumbles backward, holding the wound on her stomach. You are still trying in vain to break free from your bonds. She curses and comes to you with the knife. You flinch a little when she points it at you. She apologizes. I didn’t know what to do, she says. This was the only way. I didn’t want to hurt you.

It’s okay, you tell her as she saws through the coils and coils of rope. You forgive her easily, instantly. You don’t think you could have been mad even if she truly had betrayed you. Because you will always be that twelve year old kid with fists aching from the weight of your anger. And she will always be the one to catch your wrists and demand you let go.

She gets your clothes for you and you try to ignore how the fabric sets your raw skin aflame. Then, you stare down at the body of the other SVR agent. Zhenya has made herself a traitor because of you. She has ruined her life. You are not worth that sort of action. You shouldn’t have done that, you say. You should’ve let him have me.

No, she says. You are where I draw my line.

Her words make your heart pound and your face heat up. You will not cry because you haven’t for years and it would be ridiculous to now. You have recently turned eighteen after all. You are a proper adult now with proper responsibilities. That’s why they came after you.

You’re going to have to disappear, you say.

I know.

I can’t know where you go.

I’ll find you, she says. When it’s safe. I promise.

You want to say it will never be safe. But you cannot entertain the notion you will never see her again. When it’s time you walk out first. So when they ask you where she went you can look them in the eye and say you don’t know.

—

Two months later and you have been carving room out for yourself. There is no back so you look forward. You tell yourself you can leave anytime you want.

The hole in your side has healed, thanks to Doctor Cho. You went and saw her three days later like she’d asked. You checked the medical wing first, asking after her. Most of the staff avoided looking at you, but one nurse told you she didn’t work around here anymore and that you should check the laboratory building.

You thanked her and apologized for the disturbance. Perhaps your reputation was getting a little too out of hand after all.

The scientists in the research building weren’t much better either. They all stared at you when you entered, but that might just have been because they’re not used to talking to a huge circle of people.

“I’m looking for Doctor Helen Cho,” you said.

You were directed down a hall and into a different room. She was there, black hair tied up in a bun, talking to another person in a white coat.

“Doctor Cho,” you said, feeling somewhat off-put in this place. You couldn’t even name half of the equipment in here.

She turned around, a smile lighting up her face when she saw you. That was nice. It didn’t happen with a lot of other people. She greeted you. “Let me wash my hands,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”

She discarded her gloves and safety glasses and the two of you walked down the hall into a small office.

“How are you feeling?” She asked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

“Okay,” you replied. “All things considered.”

“Can I take a look?”

You shrugged. “What am I here for?”

She unwrapped the bandage and stared down at your side. You could see the gears turning in her head. “Well this isn’t right,” she said.

You couldn’t help but smile, just the edge of your mouth turning up. “Am I going to die, doc? Don’t tell me it’s too late.”

She shook her head, still unable to look away from the wound. “No,” she replied, so enraptured she’d missed your joking tone. “This is. This is incredible. It looks like a graze wound. Are you sure you got shot?”

“I didn’t let you take a bullet out of me for kicks.”

Now she looked up at you, eyes wide. You were smiling because her awe was infectious. You’d never impressed someone like this before. You were never good enough. They always wanted you to be faster, stronger, more durable. But the way she was looking at you said this was more than enough.

“How?” She breathed.

“I heal fast,” you said.

She laughed and you found yourself thinking of more ways to draw the sound out of her. “No shit,” she said. “But I mean, this should be impossible. It won’t even scar.”

“You’re the genius scientist,” you said. “I don’t know how it works either, to tell you the truth.”

“I’ve never heard of anybody having genetics like this. But I suppose it’s possible. People have different heights and intellectual traits. Your cells must be able to process energy at triple the rate of anyone else.”

You tilted your head. “Eh, not exactly.” Then you paused because you’ve never talked to anyone about this before. And it was sensitive information. You eyed the woman in front of you. If you told her about the serum they’d stuck in your veins maybe she’d tell someone else, and then you’d be a rat in a cage. You couldn’t. So you smiled and said, “I should get back.”

For a second you thought she might press for more. She looked like she had a million more questions. “Do you think you have time for me to show you the lab?” Was all she said.

You sighed in relief. You decided you liked her. So you let her take you into the lab and explain all the things you’d never understand. She was excited because they were on the edge of a breakthrough, she could feel it. She told you she was working on growing tissue so they wouldn’t have to rely so much on transplants. She hoped their work would save a lot of lives some day. She would be happy if she lived to the day it would save just one.

She was almost winded when she’d finished speaking. “Sorry,” she shook her head bashfully. “I’m not usually so talkative.”

“It’s all right,” you said. And it was. Because you’d had more attention on you in the last week than you thought you could handle. “The world needs more people like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re good. You’re not doing this for yourself. You’re going to help a lot of people.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I hope so.” When she looked back up at you her cheeks were a little red. “We should talk again. Outside of work.”

“That sounds nice,” you agreed.

Now you have come back from a mission gone slightly awry. The intelligence had been perfect, the lab waiting for you like a glowing jewel hidden beneath depths of concrete maze. There was nowhere to run when you broke the doors down and aired the place out.

The lead scientist put his hands up as soon as the bodies of his colleagues hit the floor. You were supposed to bring him in for questioning. You are looking right at the man and his empty hands when there is shouting and a single gunshot.

The target is dead, his head all exploded like rotten fruit. Ward holsters his gun. He says he thought the man had been reaching for a weapon. And that’s what all four of you report when Agent Hill asks you about it later.

It’s a problem because you are supposed to be the most seasoned strike team there is. It’s a problem because that scientist also functioned as an administrator and he could have led you to more cells.

It’s a problem because it’s not the first time something like this has happened.

It’s the third one since you’ve been here. There was the neo-Nazi who claimed he was part of a huge underground organization and the Russian politician who swore he would tell all in exchange for asylum. Both of them had become suddenly violent at the moment you tried to bring them in. Both are now dead.

The first time you had been confused. Then Rumlow looked you dead on and smiled, holding his index finger over his lips. Then you understood why they wanted you on their team.

Because they are imperfect, and so are you.

So you don’t tell your superiors the target had been subdued at the time of death. And they believe you because strikers are always like this, a little jumpy and a little imprecise. Consequences of pulling from ex-military and ex-police force pools.

But now you’re getting back from a long flight and an even longer debrief and Natalia is in your room with her arms crossed and an indecipherable look on her face. You’ve been on good terms. But you haven’t done that thing which is not a thing because it’s nothing where you lay with each other in the dark and communicate without speaking.

So you find it odd that she’s in your room.

“Hi,” you say, like a question.

“What are you up to?” She’s not asking what your plans are for the day. It’s dark out, and you’re exhausted.

You shake your head. “What are you talking about?”

“Maria is pissed. About the mission. And so is Fury.”

“So? It’s a shame the mission went bad but the target was hostile. He might’ve shot one of us. We’ll get the next guy.”

“Except this is the third time something like this has happened in as many months,” she says, slowly. “And you don’t make mistakes.”

You aren’t alarmed. She’s smart, smarter than you maybe. So you keep your face and body still like you’ve been taught and say, “I don’t. But they do. You must know I was never the one to pull the trigger.”

She huffs because you’re right. On paper nothing is afoot. But you know she has a feeling. You’re stubborn but so is she. “If something is going on you can tell me.”

“Nothing is going on,” you lie. Something definitely is. But you don’t care.

“I’m trying to help you,” she says. “Those agents you work with, you can’t trust them.”

“And how would you know that?”

“Because Clint,” she pauses to rub at her temple, “he doesn’t like them.”

“And that’s the end of the conversation?” You scoff. “Your new buddy says one bad thing and my team is suddenly suspicious.”

“It’s not just him. Your ‘team,’ is made up of a bunch of assholes. Everyone knows it.”

“I didn’t know you held such high moral standards. Tell me, what is your squad up to, huh? You go out and you spy on people so you can throw them a big party?” You don’t want to be angry, not with her, but she is different now. She is jumping on you when she always used to give you the benefit of the doubt, when she always used to be on your side.

She has become a stranger and now she thinks she can barge back in and make you behave as she sees fit. Perhaps you never knew her in the first place.

“I never said that,” she says.

“No, but you think you’re better than everyone else. You always have. And now you’re acting all righteous because the director has made you his pet project.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What does that mean?”

She scoffs. “Really? Dreykov Junior?”

“I’m not his son.”

“No, you just wish you were.”

You turn away and take a deep breath.

Her voice is closer and softer the next time she speaks. “I didn’t mean for this to get so out of hand.”

You shake your head as if the motion would fling all the anger away like it was some pesky bug. “Me neither.” “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t in trouble. That’s all. I wanted to help you.”

You turn back to face her. “I don’t need help.”

“But you do.” Her face is a stone wall, a chiseled mask of indifference.

You blink at her. It is dark outside, and you are exhausted. Your quarters which have always felt a little like a jail cell shrink in on you. “What?”

She sighs, like you are a child who doesn’t understand. “They think you’re a spy,” she hisses, like she’s not supposed to be telling you this. “They think you are a spy and that you are trying to find a way to bring them down.”

“I’m not.” They have it all wrong, you want to say. You’ve been exiled, but you can’t tell them that. Because then they’d know you’re cornered, and there’s nothing more vulnerable than being caught with your back to the wall.

“Then why are you here?” She asks. And you feel like she’s pushed you off the top of the building. Because she is truly asking this question. She thinks you are working against them too. Working against her. “You came here to retrieve me, right? And I said I’m not going back to that hellhole. So you have a new mission.”

You must have some sort of surprise on your face because something clicks in her eyes, like she’s solved a mystery. But you can’t tell her that no, no one sent you here after her, because she’d ask you why you had jumped ship like an idiot and you’d have to tell her you were scared. You don’t have the words to describe how panic had seized you by the throat when news of her capture reached you. How even the daydream of her death made you want to die too.

Because you are not a savior. And she is not supposed to be worth saving anyway. Everyone is expendable. No one is special. And she was just a warm body all those years.

And because you cannot say all this, cannot accept that you ruined your life like some emotion-poisoned whore, you say, “You don’t understand.”

She is quicker with her response, because she has the power. She has always had the power between the two of you. “Then help me understand.”

You shake your head more furiously and back away. “Why do you even care, huh?”

“Because I want to understand you! You have to give me something. You have to show them you’re trying.”

“I am trying.” Could she not see that? How you were killing yourself everyday you woke up in the name of S.H.I.E.L.D.? You shake out the wrist you normally wear your watch on.

“But they don’t think so. You can do better.” She approaches you a little too quickly. You can’t tell if her outstretched hands are trying to support you or strangle you.

You seize her by the shoulders before she can touch you. “That’s what this is about? You’re worried I might be a stain on your reputation?” You are loud but you don’t care because you are furious.

“No. No, I never said that. I don’t care about my reputation. I want to help you, but I can’t because I don’t recognize you anymore!”

Her face is flushed red like it’s never been before and it scares you so you let her go. “You think I need help?” You throw your arms up because she is ridiculous and so are you. “You think I can’t handle this?” And she is shaking her head and getting redder and the corners of her mouth are turned down in the shape of a frown. She is saying no but you aren’t hearing her. “My whole life I’ve been handling everything just fine! And guess what. I have never needed you.” You’re pointing at her and every time you shake your fist it feels like pulling the trigger of a gun.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been through? I was there too. I get it but it is no excuse to keep protecting them!”

“It’s not that simple.” Because you had fought and you had suffered and you had had a role to fill. You still do. No, you weren’t just going to accept that you’d lost and roll over for the enemy. You can’t.

“It is!” She says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is not perfect, but it is a fucking haven compared to back there. Why can’t you see that?”

“Because I’m not willing to turn my back on things so easily. I can’t just run from one thing to the next, changing who I am to fit in. I’m not like you.”

“Well then you are an idiot and a coward. And I see right through you.” You believe her. You feel so exposed under her gaze. “I’m not pretending to be someone else to fit in. I’m trying to be more than them, to be better. Fuck you.”

“Yeah? At least I’m not a spineless traitor. How could you leave? What has S.H.I.E.L.D. ever done for you?”

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Yes! The Red Room gave us everything.”

“The Red Room didn’t give us anything. It took our choices and our lives and it’s taking still. Look at yourself!” She thrusts her arms out at you and you flinch. Just a little, but you know she sees. Because you thought she didn’t care about all the ways in which you are ruined.

“I am better for all they put me through. It wasn’t easy, sure, but I’m not crying about it. They saved me!” You eye her, up and down, pretending you hate her. “And where would you be without them? Starving and pregnant by some guy you married who spends all his money on booze?”

“You’re fucking unbelieveable. I am not who I am because of them. I made myself.” She glares at you. You can’t look away. You hate this intimacy. She speaks slowly, making sure you hear every letter. “But they broke you.”

“I’m not broken,” you say, low, like the warning of thunder. You’ve been made in their image.

“You are! It’s not normal to beat children because they do not act like soldiers. It’s not normal to think of sex as a means to an end at twelve years old. But you still think it is! You think it’s all okay when it’s not! You are stuck with what they have told us and you’re too scared to break out.”

“I’m the scared one? You’re the one who ran away because she couldn’t handle it!”

“Maybe you’re not scared. But you should be. You should be terrified of the person you’ve become. Because the boy I knew, the boy who would take a slap over having to slap someone else wouldn’t be okay with this. But they told you you were the chosen one and suddenly it’s okay to let others suffer because you’re on top, right? You’ve forgotten what it was like to be treated like a slave.

Things changed for you. You got your uniform and they told you your name meant something. But things didn’t change for me, or for any of the other widows. They are still trapped like the dirt under someone’s shoe. Their names don’t matter because they are called ‘whore’ and ‘weapon.’ Just like mine didn’t. Until I forced people to see me.”

Her words scare you because there is a truth in them you’ve pretended like you could manage. It’s why Svetlana always dreamed of running off. Why Ekaterina tried to kill you after you’d accidently walked in on her and Anastasia.

But you can’t let go. There is fear and pain when you submit. But there is so much more if you dare to go against them.

You scowl. “Well who had a hand in making me ashamed of that kid? I changed because I was chasing after you.” You point at her. “Perfect little Natasha.”

“You think I wasn’t scared too?” She retorts.

“Fine,” you say. “I’m evil then, is that what you want to hear? If I’m so bad, why don’t you just kill me for it?” Your heart is racing like you’ve been in a fist fight and your muscles keep flexing like you’re about to hit something.

“I don’t want you dead. I don’t. You придурок, I never said that.” Her eyes are shiny like she might cry and it spooks you because you can count on one hand how many times she’s looked like that. “I want to help you. But I can’t when you don’t talk to me.”

“And I don’t need help. I’m not some victim! You want some explanation for why I’m not good like you? You want to hear how they used to take me downstairs and whip me until I passed out and that’s why I’m so messed up? How I got into an argument with Dreykov once and he broke my jaw? You don’t want to know that shit!”

She is shaking her head and speaking calmer now, but you don’t hear her. You are somewhere else, lost in the storm of all those nights you can’t quite remember right. You are drowning in anger. Yours and Dreykov’s and the Widows’ and the Madames’ and the guards’. Building and building in your chest because you cannot let it go, it is not in your nature to not feel, to not care.

She is coming at you again and she looks a little like Marina did that one night you slept together only because you had never been taught to say no.

“Get off!” You yell. She is blocking the door so you make a fist and pound it into the drywall next to her head.

She grabs your wrists and tells you to calm down. She says your name. “Look at me. Look at me.”

“I am looking at you!”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. But this is what I’m talking about. These are the things you have to say. The things I don’t know about you.”

You sneer back at her because she is strong and you are not and it’s the only way to protect yourself. “Don’t act like you don’t have your secrets too. But you wouldn’t tell me because you have to be so perfect all the time.”

“I couldn’t, you’re right. But I will now. I will. Trust me.”

“But you’re a widow,” you say, cold and sober. “How could I ever trust you?”

“You don’t mean that,” she says. Because what she hears you say is that she is not human. That all she’s ever been and ever could be is a weapon. “Look me in the eye and say you don’t trust me.”

So you do. You look her square in the eye and say, “I don’t trust you.”

Then there is fire in her eyes as she stands there and stares. “I hope you’re proud of yourself. You really are just like him.”

You almost slap her. She is standing tall with her chin up like she is waiting for it and you think you should knock her down a peg.

But you don’t. You just walk around her and leave. Because she isn’t worth it.

Continue

#natasha romanoff x reader #black widow x reader #fandom is dead #especially marvel #but the art of storytelling is not #thank you to the five people #who will read this entire thing #and see the vision #and maybe understand #not beta read #this thing is too long for that #took me long enough to write #also #r is kind of an asshole for awhile sorry #not really canon compliant with anything #it’s mostly mcu #but also comics when I want #plus my own imagination #so yeah it’s an inconsistent mess #and so is the timeline #because i wanted this to feel sort of coming of ageish #sorry about ultra long form on tumblr #but i am not promoting and managing a series #this is it #mature themes duh #also ignore the lack of plot #i dont have enough time to write a whole novel #also in my mind this isnt the end of their story #more like act I #they have met again in my world

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doomedclockworkdotmp3 · 3 months ago

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heeyyy gaaanggg

the pose and the background of the album version (left) are based on oingo boingos only a lad album art. not cause i think he has anything to do with it but just cause ive been wantin to draw that pose for like. weeks and i didnt know who to put there. so why not my latest bug man.

#my art #digital art #digital painting #fanart #resident evil 7 #ethan winters #goddd PLEAAASEEEE #i havent known if i was gonna post this or not multiple times in the process of drawin this. but ultimately i spent too much time on it to #NOT post it. embarrassment be damned #but at the same time what am i even doin yknow. what is this what is goin on pleaaseee PLEASEEEEE #I DONT KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT RESIDENT EVIL!!! I DONT KNOW N O T H I NG I KNOW LESS THAN NOTHING #HOW?? HOW DID I GET HERE??? WHY DID THIS HAPPEN???? i know exactly the answer to all those questions but it still boggles me how fast this #happened. usually it takes WEEKS if not MONTHS for me to start makin fanart. this was faaasttttt TOO FAST and im like. genuinely constantly #thinkin about this game. im ALWAYS thinkin about this game. part of why this took me so long to do is cause i always wanna play re7 or thin #about re7 in a strange and deranged way. ive actually genuinely been SICK WHAT HAPPENEDDDDDD #im losing it!! anyways this took me a looonggg ass time and i redrew it soo many timmmessss #i did like. 3 lineart passes. the album version i did 3 shading passes. i really struggled!! and ultimately i dont know how i feel about it #like i kinda resent it. for takin so long and makin me suffer so much #never again. never again will i spend that much time on a drawing. i HATE when drawins take a long time. i HATE that. it makes me madddd #ive been insane. ive been so insane. and im not gettin better like i cant sleep sometimes cause im thinkin about this game and this guy and #that gal like i think about them!! so! so much!! oh my god!!#in the time it took me to finish this ive done like 10 sketches for other pieces like. and ive had like 3 ideas ive written down.#and like 50 that i havent written or sketched.#IVE WRITTEN POETRY!! P O E T R Y !!!#i write the occasional poem when im feelin some kinda profound emotion but i NEVER write poetry about media SOBBING #anyways thats the post i think this is the beginnin of the end so lets hold hands and pray. ugh sorry if i get sick. im shakin.

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bowserbowser29 · 1 month ago

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I honestly believe seeing Trip turn into a dragon would be the gayest moment of Surge and Blaze's lives.

Honey’s too

#trip the sungazer #the amycule #amy rose #blaze the cat #surge the tenrec #honey the cat #my art #I am once again sorry this took me so long to finally do

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rox-of-iu · 1 year ago

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my old blorbos are back in my brain

heart pirates my absolute beloved. shame theyre chillin somewhere in the ocean lol (do not mention the pre-time skip hats of penguin and shachi I'm still attached even tho its already been a million years since then)

anyway every time i remember that Law and Kid are assigned german and Scottish by Oda i gain one hundred years

#one piece #trafalgar law #heart pirates #penguin #shachi #kidlaw #weary sigh- i am never getting out of this place #OP has been in my brain since -checks watch- like 2016 I think? and there is no escape #like every few months this stupidass anime/manga just grabs my brain again for a month or so hdjkhkd #its terminal #anyway as a long time enjoyer of heart pirates-crys-hjdsfhkdhfk #i come back after a long time and this is the status update i get??? anyway fly high polar tang o7 #btw if theres any mistakes in the german bits I'm sorry i did study german for a few years as my third language of choice but #im not super confident in it so hdsjfhk sorry #but the first bit with vergo is partly a reference to a meme that i saw some time ago and that completely took me out #and should translate i think into 'yea yea whatever. you wanker' and 'sorry. you(formal) wanker'#hajsdhkd #and the one with kid hopefully says 'oh yeah mirrors can be scary'#oh well and thats about it cheers #id say read one piece but actually dont its at 1088 chapters now #and just the catching up that i did in the past few days absolutely took me out lmao #but hey this is prolly my oldest going-on fandom that i still feel the need to come back from time to time lol o7

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robinniko · 5 months ago

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Have you done a follow forever? If not can you make a list? I am totally curious now after your tags. Also love that your blog is a mix of everything.

I have not done a follow forever!!! I am so excited you sent this bc I really wanted to do one!!!!!

@h-isforhome @coffeeisaritual @28cum @cantchangemypast @lamefights @bloodonthedrums @amsterdamlouie @louisarmpits @tommos @kieumy @officialghost @tryhoney @stoned-styles @ashleyyroses @munsonsuccubus @anchorandrope @crimsonfated @goldplated-disaster @stripesysheaven @dahliaaz @graveyarrdshift @srldesigns6277 @theeliampayne @nouies @enigmaticpink @enchantedlandcoffee @muppet4muppett @loverrrrrr17 @superscut @goodriddancegracie @maryoliveoil @taylorswiftaylor @aintmyjewelry @columbusswift @verdantsecretgardens @auswiftic @runwayblues @louisthiccsexyglitteryass @frolencewelch @whenyouvequitefinished @matrixrry @the-girl-almighty @abba-enthusiast @nicogayngelo @hazlouquitefinished @notsomeholylight @slutdick @sunflowerwemadeit @cuzimablogger @bloodmoonlich

i'm very sorry because I definitely forgot people but i love all my mutuals very much!!!! <3

#im so sorry this took me so long !!#i have so many favorite blogs it was hard to make a list #but thank you sososo much for the ask!!#again i am so sorry i feel like i missed certain mutuals #asks #mine #it also glitched on me so i lost a couple mentions #there’s apparently a limit??? had nonidea

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fernifox · 7 months ago

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Could you sum up each of the strawhats' characters in one picture? Not symbolism or anything, just one frame of them being their glorious goofy selves, pretty please?

Hi! Sorry this took so long! They all care for each other so much, luffy causing problems by jumping on Zoro, Zoro and Sanji arguing, Sanji bringing snacks to the girls, Nami and Robin chatting away about whatever comes to mind, Usopp and franky tinkering on new tools for the crew, chopper tending to everyone’s health and playing with them, Brook playing soothing songs as they all enjoy the warmth of the sun, and Jinbe still learning the dynamics of the crew, watching over everyone like a doting dad.

I wanna color this eventually,,, I finished the background ages ago but it burnt me out so it took a bit before I got everyone lined properly.

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our-blood-is-our-ink · 2 years ago

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if your still doing the prompt thing how about 17, 23, 25, 29 with power!bottom claire being stressed and intern!reader offering to help but don't have any sexual experience so claire teaches them

Thank you so much for sending this in! I'm so sorry it took so long to complete, life got very hectic, but I have it for you now! I hope I've done this request justice <3

Afterhours

Ship: Claire Debella x Reader

Summary: When you, an intern working at the governor's office, offer to stay with the governor while she works late into the night, you find yourself in a situation you have only ever fantasized of.

Word Count: 5.8k

Disclaimer: 18+ ONLY, minors dni

Warnings: smut, hints at dark!Claire, pet-names, praise kink, degradation kink, fingering, oral, first time, virgin reader, legal age gap, power imbalance, mommy kink, begging, implied subspace

It's an open secret at the office that Governor Debella is paranoid.

If the extreme vetting process to just simply become an intern is anything to go by, the woman could use some relaxation time.

After all, a single intern hardly would have the ability to take down the political powerhouse that Governor Debella is.

Or, that's what you think anyhow.

You knew you had been lucky to land the job, the experience and credentials that will pad up your resume and qualifications that will come from working here, but some days, all you can think about is how stressed the top boss constantly is.

Being a people pleaser, being a people fixer, you started to stay late, wanting to get as much work done as possible.

Sure, you're only a low level entry personnel, but what you do helps free up time for those above you to focus on more important things.

After a few weeks of being the last one in the office, Governor Debella notices.

“Don't you have someone to get home to? A boyfriend, or a pet, or something?”

You nearly topple back in your seat, startled by your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss (seriously there's a chain of command here, and you're merely a bottom feeder) not having heard her approach from behind.

“Governor!” You gasp, trying to recover. “Uh- I don't- I live with a few roommates, but they never care if I'm there or not. We're all very busy.”

Governor Debella frowns, and crosses her arms.

“There's no reason for you to be staying so late. You're an intern. You don't get paid overtime.”

You shrug.

“I don't have much else to do. Call it volunteer hours.”

(And god, doesn't that sound pathetic, especially because it's true.)

Her frown deepens.

“It's illegal for you to stay and work without pay.”

“Are you telling me I need to start going home at quitting time?”

The words spill from your mouth before you can think them through.

There's a moment of silence, and for a second you could swear it's hesitation on Governor Debella’s face.

“No.” She says, after a beat too long.

There's another, much longer silence.

You hate the quiet, and you find yourself breaking it.

“Then, er, what do you want me to do?”

Governor Debella blinks, and it draws your attention to the dark bags underneath her tired silvery-blue eyes, her makeup must having had rubbed off enough for it to begin to show.

You suddenly realize that perhaps it's just as exhausting for her as it is for everyone else to deal with her stress and paranoia.

“Would you like some company while you work?” You offer, a gentleness in your tone that you hadn't made the decision to speak with. “I could clock out and then just… Sit in your office with you if you'd like. I know how empty the building feels when everyone has left.”

This time, you know you haven't imagined her hesitation.

“I'm under contract, anyhow, Governor. If there's an additional paper you need me to sign, for security reasons, well.” You shrug. “What's one more?”

Again, there's silence, and then…

“Call me Claire, if you're really willing to sit and do nothing for hours besides for staring at my office walls.”

You're a bit shocked she's accepted your offer, and you stumble over your response.

“I- oh. Uh… Okay, um. Claire.”

The governor’s lips twitch, as if she's hiding a smile.

“But not tonight. I was just about to head out, which means you definitely should too. Security won't stick around once I leave, and the night shift…” Claire scowls. “I need to remember to get them replaced.”

It's the most you've ever heard her talk without snapping at someone to do something, let alone to you.

“Isn't that what your assistant is for? To remind you or to arrange that on your behalf?”

“That's only if I remember to tell him.” Claire mutters, before shaking her head. “Shut your computer down, you're not staying if I'm not in the building.”

She waits, hovering over your shoulder as you listen, and she walks with you out to the front of the building.

“You didn't park in the lot?” She asks, when you start to head towards home.

You can feel your face flush.

“I uh… I don't exactly get paid enough to own a car.” You refuse to look at the older woman. “Usually I just walk back.”

“It's two in the morning.” Claire sounds incredulous.

“I have pepper spray.”

“No. You're not walking home anymore.”

Claire has her arms crossed again, and an all too familiar glare is being leveled at you.

Before now, you always thought it was an angry expression.

You're beginning to wonder if maybe it's a stubborn one instead.

You sigh.

“Well short of driving me home yoursel-”

“That's exactly what I'm going to do.”

You barely manage to keep your jaw from dropping as Claire turns, clearly expecting you to follow her.

You suppose if you don't, you won't get too far before she can find you walking.

Or if not, possibly fire you over it tomorrow.

You push down your anxiety.

Don't worse case scenario. You scold yourself.

Claire drives a nondescript silver minivan.

“I have custody every other month.” She explains your unanswered question.

Ah, right.

Sometimes you forget that Claire just recently went through divorce, that she has two little ones to care for.

You remember how the media had dug it all up, how they aired her very private life for the public.

For a minivan, it's pretty nice.

When Claire turns on the car, a few loud notes play, before she quickly slams her palm against the knob that turns the car music on and off.

You raise an eyebrow, but don't say anything about it.

Instead you ask, “how are they?”

“My kids?”

She sounds mildly surprised as she reaches for her seatbelt.

“Yeah.”

You click yours in as she replies.

“They're… They're okay, all things considered.”

She puts the car in reverse, and you rattle off your address so she knows where she's headed.

Her nose wrinkles, and you're willing to bet it's because you don't live in a particularly nice area.

“You had to hire shadows- uh, bodyguards for them, right?”

Claire's hands clench the wheel, turning her knuckles white.

“I don't know of any other governor who's had their children's lives threatened.” She practically growls. “It scares them, but they won't say anything.”

“I'm sorry.” You murmur.

Claire glances at your pale face, and she takes a breath, forcing her body to relax.

“It's not your fault.” She shakes her head. “They're my kids. I'm their mother. I'm bound to be a bit overprotective.”

You choke back an unamused laugh.

“You would hope.”

Claire gives you a quick look, before returning her full attention to the road.

“What makes you say that?”

Oh crap, you didn't mean to invite Claire to dig into your life.

“Er… My parents… They weren't the best.” You mumble.

Claire frowns, eyes still looking forward.

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty-three.”

Claire hums.

“And how much are we paying you again?”

You rattle off the salary.

Claire hums again, and then there's silence for the rest of the short drive.

When she pulls up in front of your apartment, you say, “this is it.”

You undo your seatbelt and open the door, moving to leave.

“I'll have the paperwork ready for you on your desk by lunch.” Claire says.

At your confused look she huffs.

“For your extended night hours.”

Oh!

“Right, thank you. And thank you for the lift.”

Claire nods.

“If you don't have those papers past lunch break, hound my assistant. Don't take no for an answer, I might not remember to let Brian know to expect you to be a bother.”

The word bother echoes around your head, and you swallow down sudden anxiety.

“Sure thing. Good night, Governor-er- Claire.”

“Good night.” The other woman says, and you shut the passenger door firmly behind you as you sprint into your building.

—»•«—

You do have to bother her assistant the next day, and the stack of papers Claire presents you with is frankly ridiculous, but you pull out a notepad, read them through, and write bullet points of what you're agreeing to.

You sign, and initial, and date.

And then you binder clip it all together and drop it with a fairly solid thud onto Brian’s desk.

“Governor Debella will want these to be scanned and filed.” You say, even as an intern knowing the procedure for important documentation.

The man frowns at you.

“You're not done.” Brain says, and then seemingly out of nowhere, produces another stack of papers.

You groan, but your impatience quickly disappears as you stare at the sheet of paper, towards the end of the stack, that says how much of a raise you're receiving for signing on to be Claire’s personal intern.

Claire's personal intern.

$47,000

That was $15k more than what you had been making.

What the fuck.

You sign the papers, and don't say a word.

Slowly, as the day progresses, people trickle out, until you're the last one in the main office.

Brain looks at you as he leaves, and nearly walks into a wall trying to maintain his stare.

You head towards Claire's office and knock on her door.

“Come in.”

She sounds frazzled, and you realize you haven't seen her flying around the office today as you normally do.

“Everything alright?” You ask, taking note of Claire's disheveled state.

“No.” Is the simple answer you get, and you don't push as Claire continues to frantically scribble something out.

You glance around, familiarizing yourself with the private office you so rarely see the inside of, and take notice of a little seating area, with two arm chairs and a very comfortable looking couch.

In addition, there's what appears to be a bar cart, but it's filled with bottled water and sports drinks instead of alcohol, as well as a giant TV screen and what looks like a game console hooked up to it.

Somehow, you can't quite picture Claire playing video games while at work, and you have to wonder if perhaps she has ever been forced to watch one or both of her kids while working.

You don't want to become an annoyance, so instead of pacing the space, you choose to settle into one of the armchairs, curling up with one knee to your chest, the other dangling off the side of the chair.

You stare at the ceiling and let your mind wander as you examine the embedded ceiling lights.

“This is fucking bullshit.” Claire suddenly growls, and the sound of a pen clattering against the plastic wood of her desk sounds through the room.

“What is?” You ask.

Claire’s head jerks up, and for a moment, she looks surprised.

“You're so quiet.” She says. “I forgot you were here.”

You shrug, and don't say I’m good at that, I've had a lot of practice growing up.

You do say, “I didn't want to be a distraction.”

Claire hums.

She does that a lot, you realize.

“Well, maybe instead I can bounce this off of you.”

She gestures for you to come around to her side of the desk, and you quickly skim over what appears to be a proposal for a bill.

“Is it even legal for me to be doing this?” You ask.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Claire shrugging.

“You work for the government office this will be coming out from. It's not illegal, just out of the norm.”

You make a noise of understanding, going over the contents of it, frowning.

“What’s the problem with this?” You ask once you're finished giving the proposal a once-over.

Claire viciously stabs a single digit at some handwritten notes laying next to her keyboard.

“This section, this sentence, this paragraph, this fucking word is wrong, but the thesaurus is being useless-”

“Whoa, whoa.” You slow down what was sure to be Claire spiraling into more stress. “What's the most important thing to fix here?”

Claire blinks, pauses, frowns, then flips through her notes.

“Here.” She finally decides. “This entire section needs to be completely rewritten.”

You scroll to the right place on the computer screen and read it over more carefully.

“I'm pretty sure we can bullshit what you want to say here.” You murmur half to yourself. “It shouldn't be too difficult, most of the framework is here, it's just about closing the loopholes and rewording things to be less polarizing.”

“You make it sound so simple.” Claire grumps, leaning back in her chair and frowning as she crosses her arms.

You shrug.

“I bullshitted my fair share of essays, the difficult part to it is having a decent outline, which you already have.”

The other woman grumbles something under her breath before sitting up, shooing you away with a flick of her hand.

“Alright, well if it's that easy.” Her tone is disgruntled, but her fingers are already clacking against the keyboard, and you take that as your signal to return to the armchair you had been lazing about in.

At the end of the night, she drives you home again.

It becomes a routine.

For the next few months, Claire uses you as a sound board during the late hours, and you've taken to bringing either a book to read or an adult coloring book to do while you sit with her.

And then something big must have happened in her private life, because Claire is an absolute menace even to you one Monday, tearing through the office morale like a hot knife to butter.

You don't dare say a thing, even when she snaps at you later that night for being incompetent, and you just sit and take it.

She doesn't mean it personally.

You know that.

But by the time Thursday rolls around, her attitude hasn't changed, and you've found yourself retreating, becoming as small and invisible as possible in an attempt to spare yourself from Claire’s wrath.

You hear shuffling from where you're curled up on the couch, and you look up, and find Claire downing a shot, a bottle of amber liquid sitting on her desk.

“I know I've been an ass.” She says when she catches your eye.

“You've been stressed.” You excuse.

Claire shakes her head.

“There are better ways of releasing steam.”

“Well what do you usually do?”

You think this must be the first conversation all week that Claire is having civilly.

“Get high. Or have sex.”

Your mouth drops open at her blasé answer.

“And I haven't been able to do either.” She complains.

“Well, er. I could- I could help. If you wanted. To- um. To destress, I- I mean.”

You don't know why those words left your mouth, and the moment they do, you can feel your face heat up.

Sure, you've begun to have the occasional fantasy or wet dream about your boss, but that wasn't the same thing as implying you'd have sex with her.

HR is going to have a field day with you.

You're going to be fired.

You bury your face into your hands, and when Claire gently brushes her fingers against your back, you jump.

You hadn't heard her move.

“Look at me.” She softly says, and you shiver at how low her voice is pitched.

“There's a good girl.” She smiles as you listen, and the pulse of heat that shoots down your spine makes you feel dizzy.

Her hand comes up to cup your face, angling it upwards and forcing you to meet her eyes.

“Do you mean it, baby?” She asks, and you shiver at the pet-name, biting your lip as you grow more aroused. “You'll help mommy destress?”

Your eyes widen at the title Claire has bestowed upon herself, and you flush with embarrassment as the whine you've been fighting to keep down slips out through your mouth and escapes.

Your boss chuckles.

“Such a sweet thing. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into, offering to stay so late with me, did you?”

You frown, confused, despite your ever growing arousal.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

Claire smiles, but it's a sharp thing that causes gooseflesh to erupt along your arms.

“Please, doll. I've seen the way you look at me. And we both know how aware you are of how… Lonely, I have been.”

Her hand reaches out, and she brushes her knuckles gently against your cheek.

“Say yes.”

Her voice is pitched low, and it makes you shiver.

“Say yes to mommy, and I promise, you'll never have to worry about a thing again.”

Perhaps it should be your sign to leave right now, the possessiveness that practically drips from the governor's tone, but all it does is empty your head of thought.

“Yes.” You breathlessly say. “Yes, I'll help mommy destress.”

“Good girl.” She purrs, and when your lips part to allow a moan to tumble out, Claire gently presses against your tongue with two fingers.

When you stay still, frozen and unsure of what the older woman wants you to do, she furrows her brow and withdraws her fingers.

“Have you ever had sex before, honey?”

Immediately you can feel heat rise to your cheeks as you shake your head, shame rising in your throat.

“I- I'm a virgin.” You whisper, tripping over your words. “This is my first time…”

You trail off, embarrassed.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Claire coos, her eyes sparking with something that makes you feel a bit like her prey. “Budge over.” She says.

Mindlessly, you obey, scooting all the way down, and Claire settles back against the arm of the couch, and she lazily smiles at you as she slowly, tantalizingly spreads her legs.

You had no idea a suit skirt could stretch so much.

You had no idea how well it could hide the fact that Claire wasn't wearing any underwear either.

“Teach me how to make you feel good.” You're flooded by a sudden need to please this woman spread out before you, a sudden desire to watch her come undone because of you. “Show me how to touch you.” You beg. “Please.”

Claire chuckles deeply.

“You're going to be so perfect for me, baby.” She husks out, and you can feel how your pussy pulses, leaking wetness against the material of your underwear.

Unlike Claire, you're wearing a pair.

A niggling feeling of regret bothers you.

You wish you were easily accessible for your boss.

You want her to ruin you.

“Come here, honey.” Claire beckons you with a single finger, and you're obedient, crawling until you hover over her.

She reaches her hands up, and oh so gently cups your face with her hands, guiding your head downwards until your lips are just millimeters apart.

One of her thumbs softly brushes over your cheek, moving back and forth in a soothing sweeping motion, and her silvery-blue eyes gaze deep into your own.

The moment stretches, and you grow impatient of waiting, and despite your heart hammering against your ribcage, you close the miniscule gap between your lips and hers.

They're so fucking soft.

Claire isn't your first kiss by any means, but you deeply wish it were.

You're moaning into her mouth like you're a slut, and when Claire enters your own with her tongue, it's all you can do to keep yourself from falling atop of her as your limbs go weak.

Languidly, you make out with your boss, and as you do so, one of her knees makes its way between the apex of your thighs.

When you instinctively buck into the touch, Claire pulls away, and breathlessly laughs at you.

“Remember, doll. This is about mommy, not about you.”

Your head is spinning from the lack of oxygen.

You whimper, and bite your lip.

Her expression softens, and she reaches up to tuck an errant strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn't mommy say that as long as you're with me, I'll see to all your needs? Make me feel good, and I promise, you'll get a reward, sweet thing.”

You drop your head against her shoulder, and the whine that escapes you causes Claire to reach up and stroke at your hair.

“Let me show you how to touch mommy, baby. Let me show you how she likes to be pleasured.”

It's not fair, you think. No one woman should have the right to say things like that in such a husky sounding voice.

Your pussy throbs.

You lift your head up, and shift your weight, settling back so that you're straddling Claire.

“Please mommy, teach me.” You beg, and the older woman groans at the plain desperation that drips from your tone. “Teach me how to make you scream for your baby.”

At the word ‘scream’, Claire's eyes light up, something that simultaneously sends a shiver of fear through your body, but also a shiver of anticipation.

“You want to make mommy scream, doll? Get off, and I'll show you how.”

Gracelessly you tumble off of Claire and onto the floor, and she shakes her head as she laughs.

“You’re adorable, sweetheart.”

She stands, and as she walks back to her desk, she strips, carelessly leaving her clothes crumbled on the floor.

As she settles back into her leather seat, she spreads her legs wide in a clear order.

Her gaze feels intense as she watches you wobble over to her, before you collapse, dropping to your knees, your legs unable to continue to support your weight.

Your head spins as the scent of Claire’s arousal overwhelms you, and you look up at your boss with wide, pleading eyes.

She chuckles, and her hand comes down to pet your hair, before they tangle and tug at you.

“M-mommy!” You protest. “I still don't know what to do!”

Claire groans, but she doesn't stop guiding you forward.

“You're smart, doll. I'm sure you can figure it out.”

You whimper, but don't protest further, and then the older woman's cunt is directly in your face, and you're powerless as you stick your tongue out hesitantly.

You give her a taste test.

The wetness that is slowly dripping from Claire is a bit salty, but mostly, it just tastes musky.

It isn't bad.

It's just… New.

You give Claire’s pussy a few more tiny little licks, trying to acclimate to her taste, and she tightens her hold on your hair.

“I thought you wanted to make mommy scream.” She bites out, yanking you flush against her pulsing center. “So do it. Mommy needs to relax, and you're going to help.”

Helplessly, you do as Claire commands, and you start lapping at her earnestly.

When she lets out an unrestrained moan above you, you can't help but moan in return, and Claire gasps.

She yanks your head back, her chest heaving slightly, pupils blown wide.

“I never thought you could make such sweet noises, baby.” She breathlessly says.

You feel heat rushing to your face, and Claire's free hand grips your chin when you try to look away.

“Neither did I.” You whisper, ashamed.

Claire tsks.

“None of that now, honey, mommy wants to hear you again. Moan for me.”

Your mouth drops open, and your mind goes blank as you try to process your boss’s demand.

Her grip tightens.

“I said moan for me, bitch.”

It tumbles involuntarily from your mouth, loud and uncontrolled, and Claire's grip on your chin turns painfully.

“Does that turn you on? For mommy to degrade you like the little fucking slut you are?”

The noise you make in response causes Claire’s eyes to glint as she smirks.

“Who knew beneath all that innocence was a whore.” She coos, before jerking your head forward in a clear demand.

You eat her out for what feels like ages, the taste of Claire filling your senses, and you grow progressively lightheaded.

You find your thoughts slipping away as you become utterly focused on not letting one drop of your boss’s wetness to escape your tongue, and you find your hands keeping her legs spread apart as you become more eager in your ministrations.

You feel drunk as Claire begins to make higher and higher pitched noises until finally, she goes so high, it's a shrill thing that your ears can barely withstand, and there's a wetness soaking your face that isn't from how vigorously you had been pleasuring her.

She hasn't told you to stop, though, and you find yourself not wanting to regardless, so you continue to lap at her until she harshly jerks your head away.

“Enough.” She pants, eyes closed, chest heaving. “Enough.”

Your head spins, and you feel dizzy as you stare, memorized by the woman above you.

You open your mouth, aware there's something you want to ask, but you can't seem to conjure enough words in your mind to even speak them aloud.

Silvery-blue eyes open, and the most self satisfied smirk you have ever seen curls at the edges of Claire’s lips.

“How precious.” She murmurs, before sticking her heeled foot out.

You hadn't noticed that despite shedding her clothes, the older woman had kept her shoewear on.

“Why don't you make yourself feel good, and put on a pretty show for mommy, hm?”

You slowly close your mouth, becoming aware it's been hanging open, and give your boss a confused look.

Claire sighs.

“That's right, you really don't have any experience. Could have fooled me, with how well you've made me cum, doll.”

You flush, uncertain if it's from the praise or from the degradation.

You watch as Claire carefully stands, and you're startled when she hisses, her left leg buckling from how loose and relaxed her muscles have become.

“Strip.” Claire orders, her knuckles white from how hard she's clutching at her desk. “And then lay back on the couch.”

You scramble, tugging your shirt off as you simultaneously attempt to undo the button of your pants, and you wind up tripping, falling to the floor.

Claire's laughter causes your face to heat up.

“Looks like my baby needs my help, hm?” She giggles, toeing off her heels so that she can walk properly.

You whine, and can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes with embarrassment.

“Aw, sweetheart.” Claire pouts. “Mommy thinks you're cute for being so eager. No need to be so sad over it.”

You whine again, but slowly force yourself to sit up.

“Mommy.” You whimper. “Jus’ wanted to feel good.”

The older woman’s amused expression visibly softens, and warm hands reach for you.

You stand with Claire's help, and she almost reverently helps you undress, gently kissing each newly revealed piece of skin.

“Look at this beautiful body, honey. Just so perfect for me.”

Unable to bear the compliment, you choose instead to bury your head against the upper part of Claire's chest.

She coos, and runs her fingers through your hair.

“Oh, sweet thing. Is my baby feeling shy?”

You nod against her, noticing the soft smell of vanilla.

You've never noticed it before.

You had thought it was maybe the air refresher in Claire's office, but no.

It's her.

Your head spins.

And you're so wet.

Claire's laugh rumbles against you, and she easily guides you towards the couch.

You only grow steadily redder as she pulls your legs apart, kissing her way up from one ankle, and then kisses her way back down the other, over and over until you're squirming with your need.

“Mommy, please!” You cry.

Claire groans, eyes fluttering shut for a few moments, before she pulls you close, hooking your legs over her shoulders.

When she noses at your clit, your hands find her hair, and she tsks.

“No, doll. I won't reward you if you pull at my hair.”

Reluctantly, you release your grip, and bury your fingers against the cushion of the couch instead.

“Good girl.” Claire praises, and you moan softly in response.

When her tongue presses against you, you shudder at the new sensation.

It's wet and warm and slightly rough, and–

“Oh, fuck!” You cry out. “Fuck, mommy!”

Claire's hands harshly grip at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, making you whimper, but she continues to lavish her tongue over your clit, and you begin to squirm in earnest.

You've masterbated plenty of times, and have a few toys in your bedside drawer, but that is nothing compared to the older woman’s touch.

Within a few minutes, you're already near orgasm, and you chase the release, fighting the urge to bring your hands back up to tangle into Claire's hair.

And then right when you're about to reach that high, the moment before the waves of pleasure can overwhelm you, she pulls away, and you loudly sob.

“No, please.” You gasp.

Claire smirks, and you whimper at how lustful her gaze is, at how your wetness glistens on the bottom half of her face.

“You want to cum, baby?” She mocks you, pouting. “You want mommy to let you feel good? Then beg for it. I need to hear my cute little doll ask for permission first.”

You whimper.

“Please, mommy.” You can feel tears start to gather with how badly you want this. “Please let your baby cum, I wanna cum for you, I wanna feel good, please, please, please!”

“Hm…” Claire hums.

“Please.” The tears start to roll down your cheeks. “I wanna to cum, mommy. I want you to make me cum, please.”

You let out a sob of desperation when a single digit finds your swollen clit, and lightly begins to circle it.

“Please.” You whisper, your voice getting caught in your throat.

For a moment, you think your boss is going to deny you, and you open your mouth to continue to beg, when instead you gasp, two of Claire’s fingers suddenly stretching you open.

You let out a high pitch noise when she curls the digits, pleasure burning through you, and you buck your hips.

“Mommy, mommy, mommy!” You chant, unable to form any other thought, let alone words.

“Cum for me, princess.” Claire softly orders, and as if your body was designed to obey her every desire, you convulse, a scream tearing it's way from your throat as she continues to finger fuck you, the gushing wetness weeping from your pussy causing a squelching noise, and you writhe as you ride the high.

“Fuck, baby.” Claire groans. “I want you to come for me again.”

You squirm desperately, the aftershocks still pulsing through you, but Claire is stronger than your now limp body, and she thumbs at your clit, sending electric waves up your spine, causing your back to arch painfully.

“FUCK!” You cry out, unable to control your volume, and you can barely hear Claire's responding moan over the static in your ears as a new wave of ecstasy crashes over you.

You're gasping for air with how it steals your breath away, and when Claire collapses on top of you, you gladly welcome it, despite how it further suffocates your lungs of oxygen.

She smells so good. You think as you start to come back to your senses.

The scent of vanilla is still prominent, but it's now mixed with the smell of Claire’s sweat.

Somehow, it's more appealing.

The smell of sex still hangs heavy in the air, and you throb as your body unfairly grows more aroused again.

“Mommy.” You whisper.

Claire groans, burying her head further against your neck.

“You smell so good, princess.” She says. “And you look so beautiful when I fuck your brains out.”

A whimper catches in the back of your throat.

Claire finally moves, shifting until she's sitting upright, and you don't think she's ever looked as enthralling as does now.

Her cheeks are flushed, and you can clearly see faint freckles that are usually hidden under a layer of makeup that Claire must have sweated off, and her hair has gone from stick straight to gentle waves, a halo of frizz framing her face.

You lose yourself in her eyes, at how she smiles so tenderly as she helps you up and to the private attached bathroom in her office.

“Let's get cleaned up, doll.” She says, and you grin goofily at her.

Your head is still spinning.

She giggles, a light sound that makes you join in once a light snort causes her to double over.

“You're so cute.” She smiles, and you obediently spread your legs when she taps your thigh.

She gently runs the wash cloth in her hand over the sticky residue of your arousal, and you flinch every time she passes over your clit.

“You’re still so sensitive.” She breathes out. “Did mommy not satisfy you, doll? Do you want mommy to keep going until it hurts for me to?”

“I- ah!” You cry out when Claire firmly swipes the cloth over your swollen bud. “I just want to be good.”

Claire peers up at you, and you hold your breath as she weighs your words.

“Next time then, maybe.” She decides, and you aren't sure if your shoulders slump with relief or disappointment.

She finishes cleaning you up, before moving on to herself, telling you to wait as she does so.

You watch as her back muscles move with her motions, and you can't resist the urge to kiss them, to nip at them.

Who knew the governor would have such fairly well defined muscles?

“Baby.” Claire warns.

“Mmm… Mommy.” You reply, before darting the tip of your tongue out against her warm skin.

“Baby, if you want to go home, you'll stop.”

“But you're so pretty. I can't help it.”

Claire turns around, shaking her head.

“You're adorable, honey. Come on, let's get dressed so we can head home.”

Claire has to help you into your shirt and pants, and you don't notice when she pockets your underwear instead of giving it back to you when she spots it under the couch.

Before you leave, your boss insists on watching you drink a glass of water, predicting you'll be too tired to do so once she drops you off at home, expressing how important it is to her that you take care of yourself.

By the time you get to her car, you're stumbling with exhaustion, beginning to crash as the endorphin high wears off.

You can't keep your eyes open once she starts driving, and when you let out a huge yawn, Claire glances at you.

“Go to sleep, baby.” She soothingly says. “I'll wake you up when we get home.”

You're used to listening when she asks you of something, and so you don't think twice as you finally allow your eyes to stay close, and you drift off, Claire's warm hand on your thigh.

#sky's inbox #sky's stolen ask games #sky writes #sky's anons #sky answers #sky replies #sky's fics #c: claire #claire debella #claire debella x reader #again I am so so sorry this took so long!#also I'm lazy af and refuse to reread this before hitting post so please ignore any errors -- I'll probably go back and fix them #once I have the energy to reread this for the billionth time #also also I might've forgotten Claire was supposed to be a power bottom whoops

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