#based on that part where the two of them were dining together

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝?

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

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

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

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

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You're 12 when you meet her again.

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

Natasha's back. Again.

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

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

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

This is the moment where they part again.

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

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

Only a pair of green eyes meets yours.

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

I know her, you think before looking away.

Bedsheets rustle. Natasha climbs into the spot above yours.

. . .

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

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

But you never, ever hesitate.

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

The result?

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

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

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

Natasha.

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

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

Somehow, no one notices.

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

Why won't you sleep?

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

Another toss. Another turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue hair, green eyes.

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

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

"You were loud", she states.

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

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

"Because of me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Natasha?", you say.

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

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

"...Thanks."

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing seems to change, but somehow, everything does.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop apologizing.”

"I didn't mean to-"

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

No. You certainly don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop moving."

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

"Quit that!"

"I'm cold", you whisper.

"News flash: so am I."

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

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

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

"Don't make this a habit."

You'll make it a habit.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Two years have passed. Maybe three.

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

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

What really shows you that time has passed is Natasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you should've expected it.

You don't.

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

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

It's everything and nothing at the same time.

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

"Shit", she mumbles.

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

"You're counting this as a kiss?"

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

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

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

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

This time, it definitely is a kiss.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not your fault."

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

"We're not much older."

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

"I lost her."

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

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

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

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

We.

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

. . .

You feel the illness long before it really hits you.

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

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

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

"Y/N?"

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

Tough luck. You have to push through.

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

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

"Nat", you mumble dismissively, voice muffled.

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

"We have training-"

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

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

"Lay down", she murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Black Widows don't have a future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More than this place?"

An unnecessary question, and you both know it.

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

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

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

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

"It works on me."

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

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

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

"I mean it."

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

"What would we do?”

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

"Anything. Everything."

. . .

You're 18 when Natasha starts to slip away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Romanoff."

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

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

You don't see her for days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't feel real."

Some experiences haunt you for a lifetime.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how wrong she is.

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

. . .

You're 31 when you get out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you kidding?!"

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

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

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

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

Yelena nudges your side. "Zoning out?"

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blinds", she mutters.

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, 'why'?"

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

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

"You...what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

"It's boring."

"Yelena."

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

"How much longer?"

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

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

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

You hesitate before following her inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Careful", she says.

"I'm not used to it."

"Might be for the better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only 19 in 20."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. I will?

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

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

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

Natasha manages a bitter smile. "And you?"

You hesitate and let go of the shoelaces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your birthday."

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

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

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

Natasha shifts, arms crossed and expression guarded.

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

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

"I made Yelena distract you."

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

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

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

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

"They didn't have balloons."

"Candles?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take another bite.

"It's not so bad."

. . .

With the Red Room gone, you're free.

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Maybe you always will.

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

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

Examples?

The cost of homes has doubled.

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

Instagram has replaced MySpace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes, they make glass shatter."

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

"Alright, Shakespeare", she mumbles.

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?", she eventually asks.

"Are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she misses it too. She probably does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad habit."

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

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

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

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

"You had a funny way of showing it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha is a woman of her word.

. . .

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

You realize two things:

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

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

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

"Hey, wait-"

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

"Y/N, wait-"

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

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

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

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

"What's it about, then?"

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

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

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

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

"Y/N..."

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

A door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're wet, too."

"I'm fine."

"Join me."

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

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

“I’m sorry”, she says.

Your hands touch her face.

“I know.”

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

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sleepy girl", she mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not fair."

"It was never fair, either."

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

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

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

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

"I love you."

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

"I think we missed our shot there."

. . .

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

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

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

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

Still, there is a breaking point for everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

"I want to shower", she suddenly says.

"I've seen you naked."

"Y/N."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. Not a conscious one, though.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She would.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

It's been months since everything was somewhat normal.

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

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

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

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

You frown. Nobody said anything about a mission.

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

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

"No."

"Right.“

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

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

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

"Be careful", you say.

"I always am."

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sugar?"

"Nope."

"I could scrape off what's burnt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll be back."

"I know."

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

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

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

One truth, one lie.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're 34 when you lose her entirely.

[trippiexlove]

Care

Author Note: Based on the song Care by Sonder. Thank you @reigns-devotee for the song choice! If you would like to leave a request go comment on this post. Check out my master list for other one shots and my other stories.

Warning: A bit of Fluff & Smut mixed together. P in V. Oral (F receiving). Profanity, Praise.

Pairing: Jey Uso x Black OC

Word Count: 2,492

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Face Claim - SZA

You know I care...

'Bout everything you do...

The ambient red lighting in the recording booth set the mood for Solana. She nodded her head to the tempo of the beat flowing through her headphones. Once she got her cue from Ken her producer. She began singing in her soft voice. Once they were done she stopped, walking out into the main area so she could hear the song. 

"Maybe for that part you could drop your voice a little bit" Solana nodded, practicing the line again. "Yes just like that" 

"Alright let's run it back" she got up going back into the booth. She threw the headphones on waiting for cue before singing the line over again. "That was good?" she looked out the window to Ken who gave her a thumbs up. 

They spent another hour in the studio, cutting and mixing up the song. Her album was coming out soon and she felt the stress of not having enough time. She wanted this to be her best album yet, adding more pressure to herself. 

Ken yawned and looked at the time on his watch. Sitting up quickly "oh shit it's almost midnight," he started grabbing his things before taking a look at Solana "you leaving?"

Solana shook her head "nah Ima stay here and work on things you can go ahead"

Ken lifted his eyebrow, looking for reassurance "You sure?"

Solana waved him off with a smile "Yes now go, I'll see you tomorrow" Ken hesitantly nodded before saying bye, leaving out the door locking it behind him. 

Solana played a different song she had recorded earlier in the week. She was making edits to it before her phone dinged. When she read the name she instantly started smiling. She opened the thread reading over the message. 

Josh 🤍: Come home mama 

Lana 💍 : omw baby 

Solana made sure to save any edits she was making and grabbed all her things. She quickly made it out the recording studio hopping into her car. No sooner than she got into the car she pulled out the parking lot. 

The drive home was peaceful with nearly empty streets. It didn't take her long before she reached the home she shared with her husband and their two young kids. She pulled into the garage, shutting it before entering the house. 

As she walked pass the laundry room she immediately stopped in her tracks. She peered around the living room and kitchen that were dimly lit by candles. Her eyes focused on the large bouquet of roses that sat on the kitchen counter. 

Her attention was pulled away when she noticed Josh come into her view. Dressed in nothing but his 49ers pajama bottoms she got him last Christmas. 

Her eyes drifted down his exposed chest, taking in his tribal tattoos. She continued looking down til she stopped at the hem of his pajama pants, where his v-line was showing. She quickly looked up as he stood close in front of her. 

"Baby what is this" she took another scan of the room before looking back at him. 

"I just wanted to do somethin' for you. You've been workin' so hard lately" he grabbed one of her hands, leading her into the kitchen. He brought them over to the dining table where he had dinner plated. Solana smiled when she realized it was her favorite. 

She sat down at the table scanning over everything. "You really out did yourself"

"Well you know how I do" Solana laughed at the cocky grin he had on his face. 

She wasted no time, immediately taking the first bite. She closed her eyes letting out a soft hum of satisfaction. "You know I love it when you make this" 

Josh shrugged his shoulder a bit, taking a bite of his food as well. "We haven't been able to chill in a while, just the two of us."

Solana nodded in agreement, placing her fork down "I know baby," she sighed, starting to feel the slight guilt creep up on her. "it's just that- this album is really important to me. I just want it to be great" 

"And it will be," he stated with confidence as the both continued eating. "everything you set your heart to no doubt comes out fire"

Solana smiled. Thankful for the supportive husband she had. "Thank you baby. Your support means everything to me"

"You ain't got to thank me ma, that's what I'm supposed to do" they both finished their food, Josh taking their plates to the sink. "But enough about that." He walked over to her, pulling her up out the chair. "Tonight is about you. There's a bath with your name on it. Your mom got the kids for the night so we're kid free. Go relax and I'll meet you up there"

Solana smiled before nodding her head. She made her way upstairs to their bedroom. Solana let out a gasp as she looked around the bathroom. Rose pedals lead the way to the large jacuzzi tub. 

She stripped out of her clothes, throwing them in the nearby laundry basket. She slowly dipped her body in the water, the warmth instantly relaxing. 

She laid there, soaking for a while. The stress seeming to just melt away by the minute. After a while she washed up before getting out. She put on lotion, throwing on her silk robe before walking out into their bedroom at the same time as Josh.

They both stared at each other before he sauntered over to her. He pulled her close to him, his hands immediately finding their place along her backside. "I know you been working late, but tonight I want you here with me." He slowly caressed her side, each moment Solana melted into him more. "Can you do that for me ma?"

Solana nodded head. Josh smiled slightly, one of his hands found the tie of her robe, quickly unraveling it. The silk material fell to the floor, leaving Solana completely bare. His hand ran up her sides before slightly wrapping around the base of her neck. He pulled her into a kiss that quickly deepened. 

He slowly backed her into the bed, Solana fell backwards as the back of her knees hit the bed. Josh leaned over her, laying some of his body weight on top. Josh lips detached from hers, kissing along her jawline and neck. Solana hands caressed down Josh's back, as he continued leaving tender kisses down her shoulders til he stopped at her chest. 

He took one of her breasts into his mouth, his tongue circling around the sensitive peaks. Solana let out a low whimper. Once he felt satisfied, he continued moving down til he was positioned in-between her legs. He kissed down her inner thigh, each one sending flutters through her lower abdomen. 

He continued to kiss down her inner thigh til he reached her glistening intimacy. He didn't bother with the teasing, diving straight in, taking a long swipe of his tongue in-between her folds. Solana's breath hitched at the contact, her hands immediately finding their place within his curly hair. 

He entered two fingers into her, causing her gasp at the new sensation. Solana back arched as the strong wave of pleasure washed over her "J-josh" she let out a shaky moan. 

Josh knew exactly what she wanted and he was more than happy to give it to her. His lips wrapped around the sensitive bundle of nerves, slightly sucking on it harder. Solana felt the knot in her stomach come undone, letting out a long moan.

Josh didn't stop the strokes of his fingers, kissing up her stomach til he reached the side of her neck. Kissing the sensitive spot right by her ear. He could feel her clench around his fingers as she began to squirm. "W-wait baby it's too much" she moaned out "I c-can't-"

"Yes you can" Josh cut her off, speeding up the strokes of his fingers, Solana hand immediately latching on his wrist. "Give me another one, you can do it baby" Solana breathe caught in her throat as the second orgasm hit harder than the first one, letting out a loud moan. "That's my girl" he smirked, pulling his fingers out. 

Solana bit her bottom lip as she watched him licked her essence off his fingers, before he leaned down to kiss her. She moaned into kiss as she tasted herself on his tongue. 

During the kiss, Josh swiftly took off his pajama bottoms lining himself up with her entrance. He thrust his hips forward, earning a gasp from Solana. He stilled his hips to allow her time to adjust. Solana let out a low whimper. 

"What you need baby?" Solana shifted her hips, Josh immediately took one of his hands to keep her still. "Tell me what you need princess" 

"I need you" she let out almost whisper-like. Wrapping her legs around him tighter to pull him closer. 

"I gotchu' baby," He leaned down, beginning to kiss and suck on the sensitive spot along her neck. He quickly found a steady thrust, gripping her hips for support. It wasn't long before Solana's body began to shudder and that familiar knot began to form in her lower abdomen. 

"Josh" she whimpered out a moan. Josh groan as he felt her clench around him. He angled his hips slightly, hitting a new spot that made Solana wrap her legs tighter around his waist. "Baby I'm cumming"

Josh let out a deep groan "Hold it" he stated with authority. He turned them over, Solana now straddling his waist. This new angle allowing him to go deeper. Solana moaned at the new position, her nails leaving their mark along his fully tatted back and shoulders. 

"Baby I can't hold it" she moaned out throwing her head back. 

"Look at me," he commanded. When she didn't he placed underneath the base of her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Who takes better care of you than me?" Solana couldn't come up with any words to say, her mind clouded by the feeling of Josh repeatedly hitting her spot. 

He sent a smack to her backside, she moaned out at the stinging sensation. "I won't ask again Solana" his voice dropping an octave. 

"N-nobody takes better care of me than you" she let out a shaky moan. Feeling the knot in her stomach grow stronger. 

"That's right and don't you forget that" he pulled her into a searing kiss. The hand on her neck fell down to her waist. He moaned out as he felt his own release nearing. He felt her start to slow down her movements. He gripped her waist, repeatedly slamming her down onto his lap. 

Solana pulled away from the kiss "Baby I can't hold it any longer" she whined, desperate for a release.

"Let it out ma" They both came together, letting out long drawn out moans. Josh pulling her into a bear hug position. Breathing heavy as the came down from their climax. 

Josh kept her wrapped in his arms, laying back onto the pillows. Once they caught their breath, he felt Solana's labored breathing. Signaling she was knocked out. He slightly chuckled before slowly pulling out of her, going into the bathroom to get a warm rag. He leaned over Solana, careful to not wake her as he cleaned her off. He discarded the rag before getting back in bed, pulling her into his arms drifting off to sleep soon afterwards.

Solana walked around the packed out venue greeting and having conversations with different label executives and other music artists. Tonight was the party for her album, that was finally releasing tomorrow.

She was extremely happy to be able to put out this project that she been working on for so long. All those late nights in the studio was paying off. 

Though she was happy and excited for the release, she couldn't help but to feel a bit a sadness. Josh wasn't able to make it since he had to travel. Which she understood just how demanding his career was, just like hers. 

Solana ended her conversation with her label's president, going back up to the private section she had. She grabbed a drink before walking over to the balcony area looking over the sea of people, vibing out to one of her old songs. 

She was deep in thought until a familiar deep voice pulled her out her head. "There's the woman of the hour" Solana quickly turned around, her eyes widen at the sight of Josh. She nearly ran into his arms, hugging him tightly.

"Baby what are you doing here? I thought you had a show?" Solana smiled pulling back just a little, arms still wrapped around him. "I thought you had a title match?"

"You thought I was going to miss the most important night of my woman's career?" he raised his eyebrow playfully. "Title matches will come around, but I want to be here with you"

Solana slightly blushed "Thank you for coming. It really means a lot too me" 

Josh wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, "You know I care bout everything you do" he leaned in pecking her lips a few times. "Why don't we go enjoy your night" 

Solana nodded her head. She grabbed his hand leading him deeper into the private section. For the rest of the night her and Josh stayed near each other, occasionally dancing to the beats of her songs. 

Once the beat slowed down, Josh wrapped his arms Solana from behind. They swayed slowly to song, Solana resting her head on his chest. 

She was pulled out her trance when she heard someone calling her name. She looked over seeing her manager Angela. "Hey Solana you want to say a few words, it's almost midnight"

Solana nodded her head, taking Josh hands as she walked towards the stage. The DJ phased out the music before she began talking. 

"Hey everyone," she smiled as she sent a small wave. "I just want to take the time to thank each and everyone of you for coming out tonight. This album means so much to me and I am so excited for the world to hear it. I couldn't have done this without the support of my team, Ken for working late nights with me, and the support of my husband and family" she looked at Josh as he sent a wink towards her "Again thank you for coming out to support me. Y'all enjoy Lana"

Every cheered for her as she walked off the stage and the DJ began playing one of the new songs off the album. Solana walked right into Josh's awaiting arms, giving her a kiss on her forehead. 

"I'm proud of you" Josh peered down at her, giving her a slight smile. 

She leaned up giving him a kiss, savoring this little small moment "Thank you baby". Solana felt extremely grateful in this moment. For the rest of the night the couple enjoyed themselves, celebrating the success of her newest album. 

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Lanaofficial_ thank you to my supporters and the team that’s behind me. I am so excited for y’all to hear this album. Enjoy 🤍

If you would like to leave a request go comment on this post. Check out my master list for other one shots and my other stories.

[megalony]

Home Invasion

This is an Eddie x Buck x deaf! Reader imagine based on an anon request and I hope you will all like it. I will be doing a follow up part soon too. Feedback is always lovely.

Taglist: @lunaticspoem@sj-thefanthefan@hellsdragon@im-an-adult-ish@crazylittlethingg@allauraleigh@onceuponadetectivedemigod@ceres27@avyannadawn@noonenuts@sleepylunarwolf@coverupps@justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @topguncultleader @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream

911 Masterlist

Part 2

Summary: When Eddie and Evan are at work, someone breaks into their home and (Y/n) ends up being attacked.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When (Y/n) walked through the hallway towards the kitchen, a tender smile tugged at her lips and her footsteps slowed as she walked through the kitchen doorway.

Reaching her hand out, she dragged her fingertips delicately across the whiteboard pinned to the wall next to the door. The large whiteboard had many small, laminated squares of paper blue tacced to the top of the board in two rows. Each square had a diagram on with writing beneath it and there was a plastic pocket taped to the corner of the board with hundreds more squares stuffed inside.

The board was for Chris.

With his cerebal palsy, Chris was finding it hard to learn and perform sign language. He needed more ways to communicate with (Y/n) when his signs were shaky at best and it took him a long time to form one sentence using sign.

So they got a white board with hundreds of diagrams and words such as morning, hello, dinner, out, car and other vocabs so Chris could string a sentence together for (Y/n) to read. They also had a large laminate poster stuck next to the white board to help remind Chris of simple signs he could use.

Both Eddie and Evan had mastered their sign language courses the moment the three of them got into a relationship together.

(Y/n) could speak, but since she couldn't hear her own voice, she never knew if she was pronouncing words properly, if she was being too loud or too quiet or if she was muttering rather than speaking. Talking made her self-conscious and unsettled and she preferred to use sign language. But Chris was slowly coaxing her out of her shell because he was working on his words and pronouncing too so it was like they were learning together.

And if Chris spoke slowly and tried to keep his lips clear and fluent, (Y/n) was learning to read his lips. His cerebal palsy gave Chris a different way of moving his lips and pronouncing so for (Y/n) it was like learning a new language. But starting to understand Chris's speech meant he didn't always have to try and use sign language. As long as she could understand him and he could understand her signs, they would be able to communicate well together.

A twinkling smile lit up (Y/n)'s face when she looked down at the whiteboard and read the two words scribbled along the centre which was definitely Evan's handwriting.

'Love You!'

(Y/n) smiled to herself as she walked over towards the sink and grabbed herself a cup. She flicked the kettle on and leaned her forearms down on the counter, waiting for it to boil.

It always felt strange to be home alone without any of her boys. Both Evan and Eddie were at work and Chris was at school. (Y/n) never knew what to do with herself when the house work had all been done and she had nowhere to be and no work to be catching up on.

Watching movies weren't as fun without the boys fighting over popcorn and throwing it around the room. (Y/n) figured she could do some art while she had the house to herself with the tv on as a background image to keep her mind occupied.

She poured herself a cup of coffee and slowly trailed from the kitchen through to the dining room. Setting her cup down in the middle of the table, (Y/n) moved towards the cupboard at the far end where she and Chris had their craft boxes.

But just as she kneeled down and went to grab her dark blue plastic box, something caught her attention out the corner of her eye.

(Y/n) turned her head to the left and leaned forward, but she wasn't sure what she had seen, or what she thought she had seen for a fleeting moment.

Her brows narrowed but after a few seconds passed, (Y/n) let out the breath she had been keeping in and turned her sights back to the box in front of her. Maybe she had left the tv on in the living room and the changing colours caught her perceptive gaze. Maybe she had left a window open and the breeze was moving the curtains.

Box in hand, she stood up and moved back to the table and started to rummage through for her paints and a fresh canvas. Evan's birthday was coming up and (Y/n) wanted to make something to go along with the adventure course she and Eddie had booked for him to go on.

Terror ransacked (Y/n)'s body when, just as she had a bottle of paint in each hand, she felt something tangle in her hair.

A hand.

Sharp nails scratched into her scalp. Fingers curled tightly into her locks. Knuckles pressed harshly into her scalp and the force sent her head jolting forward. The movement sent a shockwave running down the base of (Y/n)'s spine and something burned at the back of her throat.

Tears burned in the corners of her eyes as her breaths started to run away without her.

Somebody was in the house.

Both her guys were at work and Chris was at school. No one else should be home except for (Y/n) and she had locked the door when she came home from taking Chris to school.

Someone had broken into their home. And (Y/n) hadn't heard them.

She wasn't sure whether she screamed or if she only made a whimpering sound but all the air pushed past her lips as her hands dropped the tubes of paint onto the table. She flung her arms out behind her and tried to scratch her assailant's arm and thrust her elbow behind her, aiming for whatever she could reach to unarm and hurt them.

Now (Y/n) was beginning to wish she had taken some kind of self defence class or at least joined Eddie and Evan when they went to the gym.

Her eyes snapped shut in panic and (Y/n) tried in the split second she had to brace herself when the hand tightened in her hair and she felt their arm pin down into her back. Whoever was behind her thrust her forward so hard and fast that her forehead bashed into the table, scattering the paints until they rolled onto the floor and (Y/n) could see stars twinkling behind her eyelids.

A roaring scream left her lips and she could feel her throat and lips vibrating from the action as her knees caved and she let go of the assailant to brace her hands on the table and hold herself up.

Tears burned down her face like acid rain and when she felt like he was going to smash her head into the table again, (Y/n) tried to push all her weight back and thrust her head back. She moved until the back of her head hit his chest and winded him enough for him to let go.

She needed to get her phone. She had to grab her phone and get out the house.

(Y/n) pushed herself up onto shaking legs and tried her best to bolt. Her hands grabbed one of the chairs and propelled herself forward while she tipped the chair behind her to try and trip him up and add some distance between them. She used the wall as leverage to push ahead and stop from falling when her knees started to buckle and her body felt desperate to collapse down to the floor.

Why couldn't she have been out when this happened? Why couldn't she be out for a walk or at the shops or even visiting her boys down at the station? Why did someone have to pick their house to rob and at the exact time that (Y/n) was home by herself?

She wasn't sure whether she said no or whether she just screamed something similar when the same rough hands clamped down on her arms and yanked her backwards.

She writhed from side to side, screaming as loudly as she thought she could just in case anyone walked past the house or the neighbours could hear her. It might make the burglar think she could hear him if she was screaming. (Y/n) had no idea if he would target her more if he found out she couldn't hear and could barely pronounce properly.

Her arms thwarted out but she couldn't block off the man's fist when he punched her in her lower chest, effectively knocking all the wind out of her and sending her down to the floor.

Where was her phone? Where had she left it? Surely it had to be close by now that she was in the living room.

Her heart plummeted down into her stomach when her eyes locked on the man as he reached out and grabbed the lamp from the side table. Was he going to try and hit her with that? With the right amount of force to her head he could kill her.

She rolled onto her stomach, scraped her feet against the floor and tried to push up again. Her body slumped over the arm of the sofa and she managed to curl her fingers around her phone before her eyes bulged in their sockets and her head started to thud.

He wrapped the lamp cord around her neck.

She couldn't breathe. The blow to her stomach had restarted her lungs which were gasping for air but now with a thin but strong white cord around her neck pressing into her trachea, she wasn't able to breathe at all. She scratched her nails into her neck deep enough to draw blood when she tried to pull the cord away from her throat and lean back into the man as much as she could to relieve the pressure.

Tears streamed down her face, her lower lip wobbled and her jaw clicked as she gasped. Every nerve ignited with terror and her head felt like it was swelling up with air and about to burst.

She wanted her boys. What would they do? Who was she kidding, Eddie and Evan were double her size and weight, they would have no problem fighting someone off and pinning down their assailant.

All (Y/n) could do was try and throw her head back enough to catch him off guard and keep pushing him back with her dwindling energy. She couldn't stop fighting, she had to keep moving. It didn't matter how much energy and oxygen she wasted. Moving was a better option than pretending to faint and hoping in vain that he might not choke her to death.

Her minimal force seemed to prove worthy when she knocked her attacker off balance and her fingers wormed in between her neck and the cord to allow her to pull it off her neck.

Sucking in a deep breath clouded (Y/n)'s better judgement and stopped her from bolting forward. One step and she would have been able to reach for her phone. But with her eyes blocked by white spots and her lungs heaving, she stopped moving.

Hands grabbed at her arms and a body pushed against her back, sending her falling forward.

She knew she screamed that time. Her body fell through the air and her arms coiled into her chest, hands smothering her face for protection when she landed on the coffee table. (Y/n) couldn't tell whether he had fallen into her but managed to stay standing or if he simply pushed her with all his might. Either way, (Y/n)'s shuddering body broke clear through the glass coffee table.

Her whole right side burned and bounced back off the metal legs and frame of the table. Glass splintered into her skin and imbedded into every inch of her right arm, her neck, forehead and her exposed leg.

When her head smashed into one of the metal legs, everything turned black.

***

"Eddie, Buck, my office please."

Eddie's head turned to the right and his hand tightened around Evan's shoulder when Bobby's voice hit his ears.

What had they done?

He didn't like the look in Bobby's eyes or the way he didn't wait for them, he simply turned on his heels and steam-marched towards his office, knowing they would follow in his shadow.

They hadn't done anything to warrant a private chat in the Captain's office. They weren't messing about or not doing their share of the chores around the station and they had done everything as normal on shift today. Neither of them were being unprofessional either. It was in their agreement with Bobby that they were still able to work together and be on the same shifts together, as long as they remained professional. Their relationship couldn't interfere with their work and they both made sure it never did.

Unease rattled through Evan as he grabbed his shirt from the bench and hurriedly slipped it over his head, folding his arms through the sleeves while he jogged to keep pace with Eddie and follow Bobby.

"Everything okay Cap?" Evan finished up the buttons on his shirt before he settled his hands on his hips. Neither he nor Eddie went to sit down because Bobby wasn't sat behind his desk. He was stood to the side of his desk, one hip jutted out against the corner with his hands tense and stretching at his sides.

If Bobby wasn't sat down, he wasn't very comfortable and that meant this wasn't a friendly chat.

"I've had Athena on the phone, there's been a situation at your house. You both needed to go home."

The pair shared a panicked, nervous look between them before they looked back at Bobby. What the Hell did that mean? What kind of situation? Did they have a fire, a gas leak? A flood? (Y/n) was supposed to be home today, was she alright?

"Uh, what… what kind of situation?" Evan wasn't sure he really wanted to ask but they couldn't go home until they had all the details.

"You've had a break-in."

"But (Y/n)'s at home. Was she hurt?" All of Eddie's muscles tensed up until they felt like elastic bands that were going to snap. He could feel goosebumps prickling across his skin and all the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck stood up on end.

"She was attacked, Athena said she won't let the medics near her, you both have to go now."

Before Bobby could usher his hands towards the door, Eddie was out the door and halfway down the corridor. His shoulders squared and rose up, his jaw locked so tightly his teeth were grinding down together and his hands were curled up into fists at his sides, desperate to pummel into anything within range.

Someone had broken into their home and attacked their girlfriend. Whoever it was needed to be found and kept away from Eddie before he killed him. (Y/n) wasn't a threat by any means, she was deaf and that made her vulnerable. Someone had gone and attacked her and neither Eddie or Evan knew how badly she had been hurt. They were lucky she hadn't been taken hostage or rushed down to the emergency care unit.

Evan didn't know what to say when the pair of them stormed out into the parking lot and Eddie jumped in the driver's seat of the jeep. He wasn't in the right frame of mind to drive, but Evan didn't have the heart to tell him to switch. He wasn't so sure he would be much better, when his mind wasn't focused he didn't pay attention when he was driving and he could space out. At least Eddie would remained focused and alert.

Evan clenched his hands together and leaned forward, pressing his knuckles against his lips to try and give him something to focus on but he didn't know what to do with himself.

"Do you think she's okay?"

"Don't." Eddie dug his fingers into the back of his head and scrunched up the short hairs in his fist, tugging until his nails scratched into his scalp. He wasn't having this conversation, not until they saw (Y/n) for themselves and knew exactly what they were walking into.

"She might be-"

"Buck! Look, if they haven't managed to get her to the hospital then she's awake and alert. That's a good thing, focus on that." Suddenly Eddie felt like he had told Chris off rather than having a conversation with his partner and when he glanced over, he saw the stern expression on Evan's face. And the flames burning within his blue eyes.

He reached across after a second thought and curled his hand around Evan's thigh, trying to apologise and give him some comfort at the same time.

Neither of them felt good when they pulled up in the drive. Two police cars and an ambulance were parked out front and the front door was swung wide open.

"Athena!" Evan jumped down from the jeep and bolted across the lawn to reach the woman he classed as a motherly figure. She was stood in the doorway, clearly waiting for their arrival with apprehension in her eyes and her signature sunglasses perched on top of her head.

"What happened?" Eddie pressed a hand to Evan's shoulder and side stepped round him to push his way through the door. He didn't like the look of all these officers floating about his home. There was a gurney laid useless behind the armchair and when he stumbled forward, he noticed the two paramedics knelt down on the floor, getting no where near (Y/n) no matter what they tried to do.

"The perp broke in through the back window, from what I can gather, (Y/n) must have caught him in the act. She put up a good fight. Your neighbour called when she found the front door wide open… (Y/n) won't let any of us near her."

Panic bubbled up in Evan's chest when he took in the state of their home, following Eddie into the living room.

The lamp was broken on the floor next to the sofa, a large dint in the shade and the bulb fractured on the laminate floor. Pictures were knocked onto the floor, pens and paint bottles were scattered in the hallway. And the coffee table was a mess.

Only the dark metallic structure of the coffee table was left standing. The glass counter was blown into millions of tiny shards littered all around the floor. Along with a broken mug, a tub of pens, a magazine and the tv remotes all merged in with the glass. But what caught Evan's eye was the puddle of blood right in the centre of the coffee table. Little crimson raindrops scattered across the glass and led a trail across the floor towards the far window.

"Oh fuck, baby!" Eddie crouched down on the floor, trying to be mindful of the blood splatters and fractured pieces of glass surrounding them.

He held his hands out in front of him and waited until (Y/n) lifted her head so she could see he wasn't some stranger trying to hurt her or move her against her will. He could see the paramedics had given up trying. They were sat in front of the tv with their medic bags at their sides, unable to do anything because they couldn't treat (Y/n) against her will no matter what injuries she had.

Tears stained her face but even more flooded her face when she looked up and realised the two people she had been crying for were finally here in front of her.

When Evan knelt down on her right, (Y/n) dropped her knees down to the floor and let her body fall into him. Her head tucked into his chest, her arms stayed cocooned against her chest and a horrid scream left her lips as she started to hyperventilate.

"Shh, oh sweetheart, shhh." Evan wrapped his left arm around her waist and curled his right arm over her chest with his hand cupping her chin. This thumb smoothed across her jaw and lips and his fingers splayed out on her cheek as he tilted his head down and smothered his lips against the top of her head. He knew she would be able to feel his voice vibrate against her skin when he hushed her. He gently swayed them back and forth, brushing his thumb soothingly against her lip and chin.

Her eyes snapped open and for a second her body pushed back into Evan when a tender hand rested on her knee but she realised it was just Eddie trying to get her attention. He needed her eyes open and focused so they could talk.

Eddie waved his index finger in front of his eye before he pointed at his chest.

Eyes on me.

He curled his fingers into a fist except for his index fingers and held his hands in front of his chest, moving his hands together and back like magnets repelling each other before he pointed at (Y/n) and spoke as he signed. "Are you hurt?"

When she nodded, Eddie's chest tightened and he knelt up straighter while he tried to control his expression and remain calm as if he were on the job. But call outs were never this personal.

"Let me see." He pointed at his chest before he pointed at his eyes and moved his finger from his eye towards (Y/n). He had to see what injuries she had so he could help her. She wasn't going to let anyone else near her and for now, she was wrapped up in Evan's arms which would make her feel safer and calm. And if it was Eddie who was patching her up since he was a medic, she would let him help her.

(Y/n)'s chest shook and hitched with each breath before she uncurled her arms from her chest and held them out towards Eddie like she was waiting for him to slap handcuffs on her. She didn't like the way his shoulders slumped and how he bit his teeth deeply into his lower lip with a grimace.

Before Eddie could reach out for her hands, (Y/n) lifted her shaking hands up to sign.

She pointed her index finger out and waved it up and down before she held both her palms out and moved her hands from her chest out in front of her in a forward motion, then finally pointed her finger at her chest.

He pushed me.

When she started to point and shake her hand, Eddie jumped when he heard Evan growl like an animal. Eddie snapped his head round to see what she was pointing at, thinking for a moment that the assailant was somehow back in the room with them. But then it dawned on him. She was pointing and looking at the coffee table. He had pushed her into the table.

"Check her arm, she's bleeding onto my trousers." Evan's voice was an octave deeper than usual and his breaths were coming out harsh and forced.

He didn't lift his head from (Y/n)'s hair and spoke into the top of her head while he continued to rock back and forth, something Eddie guessed was to calm him down more than (Y/n).

Reaching out, Eddie gently cupped (Y/n)'s wrists and pulled them to rest her hands down on his thighs so he could examine her.

"I'm a medic, I need your equipment. Now." Eddie clicked his fingers behind him towards one of the medics and waited impatiently for them to set the bag down by his leg.

(Y/n) had a deep gash down her arm just below her elbow which stretched down towards her wrist and Eddie could see little pieces of glass imbedded into her skin. He needed to tie a turniquet around her arm to cut off the circulation because Evan was right, the blood was pooling down onto his trousers and had been bleeding out for a while. She might have nicked a big artery or vein in her arm and they couldn't have her bleeding out.

Rummaging through the medic bag, Eddie found a deep blue turniquet band that he laid out on his lap before he looked up at (Y/n). He held his left hand out and made a grabbing fist before he stretched his hands out, stuck his thumb and pinkies out on each hand and shook them side to side.

Hold still.

Eddie slipped the band an inch higher than (Y/n)'s elbow and popped the button into the pin hole as tight as he could until the band bit into her flesh and she winced. It had to be tight to cut off the circulation.

Once that was done, Eddie grabbed a pair of tweezers from the bag and began plucking small shards of glass from around the wound. He was relieved only a few little pieces had imbedded into her arm but he knew a doctor would have to take a closer look so they didn't stitch her up with glass still stuck in the wound.

Evan rolled his lips together and began smoothing his thumb up and down (Y/n)'s jaw when she pushed back into his chest and began to cry harder. Her body shook when Eddie poured saline over the wound and cleansed it with an anticeptic wipe.

"There we go," He mumbled quietly when he packed gauze against the wound and wrapped a roll of bandage around her forearm.

With a deep breath, Evan moved his head down to brush his nose against (Y/n)'s cheek and his eyes followed her right hand when she motioned her finger up and down near her waist. She'd hurt her leg. He moved his hands to cup (Y/n)'s hips and he gently eased her back into his chest while Eddie held the back of her knees and slowly straightened her legs out so he could assess them.

Shuffling forward beside (Y/n)'s legs, Eddie carefully cupped (Y/n)'s face and tilted her head down so he could check the cut on the right side of her temple. It didn't look to have any glass stuck in it and it wasn't deep enough to require stitches. But just as Eddie smile and kissed her cheek, his smile faded and he pressed his fingers beneath (Y/n)'s chin and tilted her head back until the back of her head was pressed against Evan's shoulder.

"Did he strange you?" Eddie's voice shook and he was glad (Y/n) couldn't hear the tremor in his tone while he hovered his right hand over his neck.

Pulling back, Evan leaned around to look down at (Y/n)'s neck and tears welled in his eyes when he noticed the thin, discoloured line around her neck. And his eyes followed (Y/n)'s hand as she held it up, pressed her fingertips against her thumb then flicked her fingers out.

Lamp.

He'd strangled her with the lamp wire.

"We're taking you to hospital." Eddie pressed his index and middle finger to his shoulder and swiped his fingertips down his arm in a straight line, then a sideways line across for the hospital symbol.

***

Evan pulled his shirt over his head and ran his fingers through his hair before he turned around to face the bed. A tender smile formed on his lips and he moved to stand near the end of the bed to face (Y/n) who was perched cross-legged in the middle of the bed.

"I have to go to work now, baby." He curled his hands into fists, held his left hand out and moved his right fist in a circular motion above his hand before he brought his fist down to rest on his left wrist. The sign for work.

He watched (Y/n) push up onto her knees and crawl across to the end of the bed where he was standing. His lips curved up when (Y/n) looped her arms around his neck and buried her face in the middle of his chest. The sudden affection was more than welcome and Evan buried his face in the top of her head, breathing in her scent as his palms pressed down on her lower back. His elbows bedded into her waist and he moved to press his cheek against her hair.

He could feel the bandage on her arm rubbing against his neck and it made him shiver. Eddie had wrapped a fresh bandage around her arm every day for the past four days since the incident because (Y/n) had started to scratch the stitches absentmindedly when they itched and she was at the point of tearing them out. A bandage was the only way to stop her from making the wound worse.

When (Y/n) pulled back and tilted her head up, Evan moved his hands from her waist to cup her neck, his thumbs brushing across her jaw before he leaned down to steal a kiss.

He sucked her lip between his teeth and gave a sharp tug, relishing in the way her fingers suddenly dug down into his back.

Evan pulled back when (Y/n) scratched her nails into his back and nuzzled her nose against his before she unravelled her arms from his neck. She shuffled back a small pace so she could hold her arms out in front of her and Evan's face softened as he went back to cupping her hips instead. Waiting patiently for her to sign something to him.

Her hands held out in front of her with her index fingers pointed out and she raised her arms up to her chest, and then tapped her chest. Her hands then curled into fists with her thumbs stuck up as she rubbed her clenched fingers together. Then finally tapped the end of her finger into Evan's chest.

Can I come with you.

Evan's brows creased and his smile started to fade. Why did she suddenly want to come down to the station with him? He was going on shift, not going out to see the team for a night out. And Eddie was still on shift, he would be finished in two hours and would be on his way home to her.

"Why?" Pressing his fingertips to his temple, Evan then pulled his hand down and curled his fingers, leaving his thumb and pinky sticking out.

(Y/n) gulped loudly, flitting her eyes around until they settled on staring at Evan's chest as her fingers curled and she rubbed her hand in a circular motion over her chest. 'Please.'

"Why, baby?" When she didn't answer, Evan's jaw tightened and his shoulders hunched. He stuck his thumb and pinky out again with the rest of his fingers curled up and pressed his curled fingers against his chin and then pulled his hand away. "What's wrong?"

Unease rattled through Evan when (Y/n) simply repeated the same thing again, without looking him in the eye. Deep down she had to know Evan wasn't going to say no to her but she also had to know that he needed to know what was wrong. He wasn't going to ignore this or pretend she was coming down to the station for a visit when he could see the panic bubbling up in her eyes.

Curling his thumb into his palm, Evan kept his hand straight with his fingers tense and waved his hand from his chin in an outward motion before he pointed at his chest. "Talk to me."

A trembling set in throughout (Y/n)'s body when Evan's hands went back to holding her hips and he tilted his chin down to look at her properly. He hated the panic in her eyes but not as much as (Y/n) hated what she was about to sign. She didn't want to admit what was rattling around in her head but the more she thought about it, the more her body started to shake and tears started to trace down the bridge of her nose.

Sticking her pinky out, she pressed her hand into her chest, then stuck her index and middle finger into a crooked position before bringing her arms up and crossing her wrists in front of her.

Tremors set in her body by the time she curled her ring finger beneath her middle finger, left her other fingers stretched out and rubbed her ring finger around her chest.

Tears burned in the corner of Evan's eyes when he watched his girl cross her arms over her chest with her hands on her shoulders, then uncrossed them and held her hands up by the sides of her head into clenched fists.

'I don't feel safe.'

(Y/n) let her arms flop across Evan's shoulders and wrap tightly around the back of his neck when he pulled her into his chest. His hand pressed tightly into her lower back and his other hand moved to cup the back of her thigh. In one swift motion, Evan lifted her up from the bed and hoisted her onto his hips. Pinching her thigh until she got the hint and wrapped her legs around his worso with her heels resting comfortably between his hips.

He pressed his lips to the side of her head, sighing against her skin before he peppered hundreds of kisses to her temple when she quivered and started to whimper into his neck.

He should have seen this coming.

He and Eddie had taken the last four days off work to be home with (Y/n), neither of them wanted to leave her when the moment they came home from the hospital, she had a panic attack on the doorstep.

They had spent the last few days calming her down, helping with the panic she felt whenever she caught something out the corner of her eye. They stopped her scratching her arm, held her when she cried and wedged her between them during the night so she wouldn't wake during the night feeling afraid.

But it didn't dawn on Evan that (Y/n) would be this panicked about being alone. Eddie would be home in just over two hours. They both thought that was a small amount of time and (Y/n) might be okay being alone until he came back. Clearly they had been wrong. They should have thought about this more and prepared for this situation happening.

Evan nudged his nose against (Y/n)'s cheek until she got the hint and lifted her head to look up at him.

"I'll keep you safe." He spoke slow enough that (Y/n) was able to read his lips so he didn't have to let go of her. He tightened his hand around her thigh and leaned forward, burying his face into her neck with his lips sucking a mark into her skin.

He would keep her safe. He and Eddie would look after her and make sure nothing bad ever happened to her again. They hadn't been here when she got hurt the first time, but they weren't making that mistake again. And Evan knew they couldn't stay with (Y/n) twenty-four seven no matter how hard they tried, but they would do their best.

For now, Evan would take her with him to work and she could wait at the station until Eddie's shift finished and she could go home with him.

[sweetbans29]

Thinking of You - CC

Pairing: Caitlin Clark x Reader

Summary: Thinking of You by Kate Perry (based on THIS request)

Warnings: Angst, will there be a happy ending?

Word Count: 2.5k

Sweetbans Masterlist

AN: Remember, you asked for this.

Comparisons are easily done Once you've had a taste of perfection

You and Caitlin were everything. The relationship the two of you shared was unmatched and anyone and everyone could see that. You were inseparable.

The two of you started at Iowa at the same time - both freshmen on the women's basketball team. The two of you clicked almost immediately and soon became each other's rocks during practice. It wasn't hard considering the two of you had very similar playing styles. The team quickly saw the connection the two of you had on and off the court.

If you weren't at practice, the two of you could be found doing literally everything together - studying, eating in the dining hall, chilling in each other's apartments. It wasn't to anyone's surprise when the two of you started to show signs that you were becoming a little more than friends.

If anyone were to ask you who asked out who - you wouldn't really know what to tell them. There was not one singular moment where Caitlin asked you out or vice versa. The two of you just woke up one morning and it was like you both knew being friends wasn't enough.

It came after a particularly hard loss your freshman year. She slept over at your apartment and the two of you replayed the events of the entire game trying to figure out where it all went so horribly wrong. The night ended with the two of you falling asleep side by side and waking up tangled in each other's arms. It was that morning that you knew things were different between the two of you.

You said move on, where do I go? I guess second best is all I will know

Everything changed going into the summer before senior year. Life changed. A lot was going on with your family that required you to move closer to home. With that - you entered the transfer portal.

Caitlin knew things were bad at home for you - your younger sister getting sick was not a part of anyone's plan but is what life threw at your family. She also knew how close you were to them and how much it was affecting you to be away from them.

So when you sat her down and told her you would be entering the transfer portal and moving back home, it didn't come as a shock to her.

"Caitlin, we need to talk," you say as you sit on the couch next to her. The tone in your voice already broken.

The two of you both knew where this conversation was going. When you first started dating Caitlin made it very clear she had no desire to do long distance and you didn't either. The reason the two of you worked so well is because of your proximity - your relationship grew with being as close as you were.

Cait knows where this is going - but even with the knowledge, it doesn't make it easier.

"I know you entered the transfer portal," she says, her eyes focused on her hands. You inhale deeply.

"I know I should have told you before I did it, I've just been dreading telling you," you say feeling ashamed that the one person you love the most outside of your family wasn't a part of this decision.

"I mean, knowing about your sister and how close your family is - it wasn't a huge surprise," she says trying to make it all feel okay.

"Cait, you know this doesn't change how I feel about you - nothing could ever change that," you say wanting to fight for the two of you. Wanting her to fight for the two of you.

She finally looks at you and takes one of your hands in hers.

"I know it doesn't," she says. She wants to continue but is at a loss for words. Caitlin wants to take back her stance on long-distance relationships but knows this is already hard enough for you.

"I'm so sorry," you say as you pull her into a hug. You can feel the tears quietly make their way down your face. You can hear her shaky breaths as she is trying to hold herself together.

"I will always love you," you say, letting the tears flow freely now as you hold your girl for the last time.

"Please don't go," she says in a last-ditch effort, knowing there is nothing she can say or do to get you to change your mind.

"You are going to do amazing things. I can't wait to see what life holds for you. I am just so glad I got to be a part of it for a little while," you rub her back as she lets out sobs.

This wasn't a part of the plan. Leaving her was never part of the plan but life is funny like that. Just when you thought it was the best it could be, it gets worse.

'Cause when I'm with him I am thinking of you

-

He kissed my lips, I taste your mouth He pulled me in, I was disgusted with myself

Senior year was a lot.

For you, it was quitting basketball to care for your family. You no longer had the time for anything except classes. It was a giant change in your day to day but being home and seeing how much you were doing, it provided a sense of comfort knowing it wasn't all for nothing.

For Caitlin, it was a hard adjustment. Losing you was also losing her best friend. She leaned into the team a lot which had been helpful. They began encouraging her to get out there again which is how she met her current boyfriend. He was cool and they had a good time together, but he wasn't you.

He's a year older than Cait and has a local job waiting for her to graduate. He's planning on moving to the city where she is drafted which leaves a bittersweet taste in Caitlin's mouth.

It's not that she didn't like him, but he wasn't you.

He did everything right, he was kind and supportive. He didn't suffocate her but when Cait was with him, you always made your way to her mind.

"Hey babe, you ready?" Caitlin's boyfriend asks as he walks into her room. She is just about ready and is putting on her Iowa necklace.

"Just about," she says as she struggles with getting the clasp to hook.

He comes behind her and takes the ends of the necklace from her to help her out. It is a sweet gesture but all it does is bring back memories of when you got her the necklace.

He kisses her shoulder and smiles, which Caitlin reciprocates. He spins her around and brings his lips to hers. She doesn't pull back but is instantly reminded how his lips aren't yours. When he pulls away, he is smiling down at her and brings her in for a hug. Caitlin lets him hold her but feels so uneasy. It has been months, almost a year at this point and you still consume her mind.

It wasn't uncommon for Caitlin to think of you when she was out with him. She had no idea how to get you out of her head but whenever she was with him, you were there too.

You're the best And yes, I do regret How I could let myself let you go

It's draft night. Caitlin had made her way down the orange carpet and is now sitting at her table with her family. She already knows where she will be going but tonight is the night it is all official.

She has some of her teammates in the crowd, along with her boyfriend. With all the people there supporting her, there is only one person she can think of wanting to celebrate with.

You are watching the draft - your heart deflates a little every time Catilin pops on the screen. You are beyond excited for her but wish you could be there in person to support her.

You have checked in a few times but have never gotten a response. It doesn't surprise you. Some of the girls would update you on how she was doing and it didn't sound great. They were all blowing up your phone when Caitlin started seeing someone. You knew they all had good intentions but it didn't make it any easier to hear.

Now watching her on one of the biggest days of her life - you couldn't help but bring up her contact in your phone. You stared at the new message for a few minutes before finally typing something out.

Right as you were about to send it, the camera panned over to Kate, Gabby, and Jade. You smiled a the girls watching their teammate at the draft. Your smile fell when you saw him there.

You were no longer the proud girlfriend and hadn't been for a while now. You deleted the message you had typed out and opted to stay out of this moment.

You watch Caitlin get drafted - she glowed even through the TV screen. You couldn't help but feel a sense of pride swell up inside of you. The countless nights the two of you spent talking about what it would be like to go pro and there she was doing it.

You watched the rest of the draft but you couldn't help by let your mind wander to the 'what ifs' of life. How different life would be life if you didn't have to leave Iowa, leave basketball? Would you still be with Caitlin? Would the two of you be at the draft together and moving to Indiana to start your life together? A million different scenarios raced through your head as you sat there.

There was no point in regretting a decision you made a year ago. You don't regret it. But a part of you will always burn remembering how you had to leave the best thing that had ever happened to you. Letting go of Caitlin was far from an easy task.

Oh, won't you walk through And bust in the door and take me away? Oh, no more mistakes 'Cause in your eyes, I'd like to stay, stay

You are walking around Indianapolis with a few friends when you spot her. It had been a few years since the two of you had seen each other in person but you kept up with everything she had been doing. You excuse yourself from your friends saying you are going to go check something out.

You moved to Indiana only a few months ago for work. At first, it felt like some sort of cruel joke but after getting there - life felt a lot lighter.

As you are walking over to the girl you once knew oh so well, you take in her appearance. She has filled out more - looking more fit than she did in college. With that, it seems like she holds herself more confidently. Less slouching. You see she is walking her dog who is absolutely adorable.

As you get closer to her your heart rate starts to pick up - the nervousness building by the second.

"Cute dog you have there, can I pet them?" You say - not really sure how to enter a conversation. She nods with an 'Of course'.

It takes Caitlin a few seconds to register your voice. At this point you are already bent down giving her dog all the pets.

You know she isn't seeing anyone (thanks to Kate for keeping you in the loop) but the media had a field day when it came out that she and her boyfriend were no longer together. You on the other hand hadn't dated since Caitlin.

You stand and look her in the eyes for the first time in 3 years. A soft smile plays in them as the corner of your lip follows.

"Hi," she says, breathless at how good you look. The only real update she got from you was whenever you posted on a social, which was practically never. She knew you moved to Indiana when you posted about your new apartment and tagged the city.

Caitlin would be lying if she said she hadn't gone out more with the knowledge of you there, hoping to bump into you. She had no idea exactly where you lived but was hopeful.

"Hi," you say back.

Your mind plays through a million different scenarios on where to go from here.

"You look familiar," you say teasingly. There is a hint of hurt in her eyes before she catches onto your tone. "Have we met before?"

Caitlin struggles to hide her smile.

"Well I am sort of well-known in this town," she says downplaying her fame as Indy's favorite star. She says playing along with you.

You pretend to think, bringing your hand up to your chin.

"Hmm, I can't put my finger on it," you say and she laughs.

"Might just have to invite you to one of my games to show you what you're missing," she says confidently.

You shake your head no.

"Oh I'm not really into sports," you say, both of you knowing that is the biggest lie ever. "But let me take you out for coffee and we can talk about getting me to come out and watch you."

Caitlin's smile grows even more.

"And what makes you think I want to go out to coffee with you," Caitlin teases.

You feign hurt as you bring your hands to your chest.

"Hmm, you're right," You begin, Caitlin not catching on to your teasing and immediately counters.

"Wait, no-" she begins to wave off what she just said. You put your hand on her arm to calm her down and she sees you are joking. Her body instantly relaxes.

"C, It's okay, I'm kidding," you say. You can see the rush of emotions play out in her eyes.

"I am not letting you walk away without a fight this time," she says just above a whisper. Your hand comes up to caress her cheek, and your eyes soften as they meet hers.

"Neither am I," you say reassuring her that you are on the same page.

"Neither am I," you say again as you bring her into a hug. She collapses into your body as she takes in your scent. It hasn't changed. The two of you stand there for longer than either of you expect - neither one of you wanting to release the other first.

As you stand there - both of your minds are on the same thought train.

You think about how even years later - the world somehow managed to give the two of you a second shot. You could have been relocated anywhere but it was here. Both of you in a place where you are able to commit to someone - and who better than the person who has held your heart every day since you had to take it back from them.

AN: Before you all ask, no. I do not plan on doing part 2. I'M SORRY, PLEASE DON'T COME FOR ME. I would on the other hand like to know what you thought about this. And as always, thank you for all your love and support 🤍

[futurecorps3]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

Masterlist<3

Summary: Sirius and reader plan a romantic dinner for a very tired Remus Pairing: Poly!wolfstar x reader Warnings: mentions of sex and that’s all, I think! It's fluff and post!war where absolutely nothing went wrong because Reggie was a spy for the Order just like in canon duh Word Count: 1.4K Requested: No

Sirius leaned against the kitchen counter, a playful twinkle in his eyes, and said, "You know, love, if our cooking skills don't impress Moony tonight, at least our charm will do the trick." Y/N laughed, adding a bit more salt to the pasta they had been working on for about an hour now.

"Bet your pretty smile and my dazzling gaze will be fit enough… I really hope he likes it though," she mumbled that last part, feeling a pair of arms round her from the back. "I'm sure he'll love it," Sirius whispered, kissing his girl's cheek and moving on to whisk the eggs for the brownies they were baking for dessert.

It was Remus' first year as a professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. He had started the charge right after the war ended, and the trio had settled into a lovely flat on Eaton Square—a two-story building bought with Black family money. ("One thing my mum and dad will be good for!" Sirius had said back when he bought it.) They were slowly transforming it into a home. During the war, they realized they had the power to turn even a cavern into a warm place, as long as the three of them were together.

For the past week, Remus had come home absolutely drained. When he jumped into bed or the couch with them, he'd fall asleep right away and still wake up tired. Sirius and Y/N were aware that he was struggling to adapt to new routines; going from spending all his time with the people he almost lost to teaching six classes a day with minimal breaks was becoming challenging for him.

He'd adjust eventually and would be back to his old self, but for now, their boy was tired, and all they wanted was to treat him with every ounce of love and care he deserved. So, when Remus told them that he'd be coming home earlier that Friday, they decided to go all out with a romantic home-cooked dinner.

"Can you try this? I-I think it's a bit insipid," she said, stirring the cream-based sauce that was ready to serve, pouring a bit onto the back of her hand for Sirius to lick. His tongue gathered the liquid, and his eyes opened in shock. "That's amazing! D-don't change anything; it's perfect, baby," he smiled, grabbing the spoon from his girlfriend and taking more of it into his mouth, directly from the spoon to then place it back inside the boiling pot.

He either didn't mind or didn't think about it; knowing him, it was probably the latter. "Sirius, no!" she half-scolded while laughing, slapping his shoulder playfully. "Wouldn't be the first time my saliva is in either yours or Moony's mou- oi!" he snickered as the girl assaulted him again, all tiny hands against his broad figure. "You're disgusting," Y/N smiled, walking over to the dining table where a white tablecloth was set.

While the noodles cooked and her boyfriend danced to Queen while baking their last course planned for the night, she set the table. Y/N knew her boys to perfection, and Remus had always appreciated neat and aesthetically pleasing settings for their dates, and while this was not exactly one, she wanted it all to be perfect. Before coming home from a job interview that day, she stopped by and bought some candles and a nice bottle of wine; red. He loved red wine.

As she picked the bottle, she wondered how many bottles they'd collect as time passed and their flat became truly theirs. She smiled.

"Love, the water's doing it again…" she heard Sirius warn in a quiet panic and almost giggled. "Just stir them for a bit and turn off the stove; they're almost done," the girl reassured as she placed the brand-new silverware Regulus and James had gotten them when they first moved in neatly over the tablecloth, right next to the plates and careful that no wax could reach them when the candles eventually melted.

When all places were set and ready to be occupied—a bouquet of red roses and baby's breath in Remus', courtesy of their boyfriend—she returned to the kitchen. Her pasta was done, and brownies were in the oven. She found Sirius cleaning his rings, which he hadn't bothered to take off and were now covered in flour, delicate fingers gently scrubbing off the white powder.

Y/N took in the sight of him. He was going on about something that happened to him on the way home, about how he fought a lady for Moony's bouquet or something. She really didn't care when he looked like that. His long, black hair was tied in a messy bun with his wand, with a few strands falling out, a Rolling Stones t-shirt he turned into a crop top let a glimpse of his v-line show, as if it was purposely teasing his girlfriend, jeans hanging low and covered in flour.

Fuck. She scored. "… and so I told he- what are you doing?" he questioned when approached. Y/N stepped between the sink and his body, looking up at him while biting her lip. He felt her fingers hook on the empty belt loops of his pants, making him press flush against her body. "You're too pretty for this world; did you know that? Who gave you permission, Sirius? Do you think it's okay to be this perfect and just… exist like you're not this gorgeous?" she asked in all seriousness, making him blush and snicker at her flirting.

They were always like that with each other. Always flirting. Always trying to make each other blush. That, until Remus stepped in and made them both blush, fluster, and giggle like twelve-year-olds who just pecked someone else's lips for the first time.

"Careful. My brownies are still in the oven, and Moony won't take long in getting home," he warned, his eyes darkening a bit. "And?" she teased, scratching the bit of stomach exposed he displayed. "And if I bend you over-the-counter right now, dessert will be ruined, Remus will get too distracted in punishing us, and dinner will never happen. Just be patient," he groaned, stroking her face and kissing the corner of her lips, turning to clean his hands once again.

She ran her hands through his chest and screamed into his back in frustration, making his chest bubble with laughter. Right after, keys jingled in the front door, and they were both quickly at the door, smiling at each other like they held some secret intel Remus could never know about, and in some sense, they did.

Their boyfriend walked through the door, looking at them like they had grown two heads as he discarded his coat and boots by the door. "Well, hello," he smirked, walking over them and kissing their lips gently. "Are you baking something? I thought we'd do that on Saturday when Harry came over," he asked, trying to peek over their heads before Y/N pulled his head down with both her hands on his cheeks.

"We've got a surprise. Go change into something more comfortable and meet us in the dining hall." She smiled. "Dining hall?" Remus laughed, shaking his head as he felt electricity running through him with the information. Sirius remained serious as he nodded at their girlfriend's statement. "Yes, the dining hall, dear. Now go, c'mon," he encouraged, patting his shoulders as he walked away.

They used the time he took in putting some joggers and a shirt on to serve the pasta and place it on the table. Pads took care of the wine and looked up giddily at their boy paddling through the floor in disbelief. "Come sit." Y/N smiled gently, having changed the record to The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars; Remus' favorite. "Oh, I absolutely despise you both," he said, running a scarred hand through his curls as he approached the table with a soft smile playing on his lips.

Remus eyed the food, the table, and the soft music playing in the background, somehow managing to keep it together. Until he saw the flowers. He picked them up and looked at his partners with utter adoration in his eyes. "Fuck you," he laughed as tears prickled his eyes, making his boyfriend and girlfriend walk over to him to engulf him in a tight hug.

He felt safe and protected, even when he was very clearly towering over both of them. "We know you've been having a hard time coping with change, so we wanted to do something special for you," Y/N mumbled against his chest, stroking his back comfortingly. "The things I cooked might be shit… know I made them with a lot of love though," Sirius joked, kissing Remus' cheeks, which left a salty taste in his mouth. Moony laughed airily.

Surrounded by the warmth of his partners, Remus felt a surge of emotion. It wasn't just relief; it was a profound sense of belonging. Y/N's lips pressed against his cheek, leaving a lingering warmth, while Sirius's hand ruffled his hair in a gesture that felt both affectionate and familiar. "Come on, or it'll get cold."

They sat at the table, humming to the tunes playing in the background as they rambled about their day, sharing minutes of comfortable silence accompanied by loving glances out of nowhere. After the war ended, this is what they longed for. The trio would never forget how they fantasized about simpler times while laying on icy surfaces or in the woods, praying to whoever was willing to listen for a crumb of grace and a bit of luck to find solace after all that was done with.

As their eyes locked, there was an unspoken promise of enjoying the one thing they dreamed of a few years ago lingering in the air. They were giving themselves and each other a gentler life, a kinder environment, and a safe haven they could always go to. A safe haven with great pasta.

"Shit, dove… this is amazing! Where's the recipe from?" Remus exclaimed, resisting the urge to lick the plate and limiting himself to only gathering the leftover sauce with his fork like a civilized person. "I called Effie.” "Bless her soul," Sirius groaned in a solemn tone, licking the plate. Moony chuckled and drank the last bit of his wine as Y/N playfully scolded him. How he loved them, he thought.

Y/N slipped off her shoes and started prancing around to the music with a glass of wine on her way to serve dessert, a pair of warm smiles beaming at her going unnoticed as she was too lost in the beats. She paid attention to the plating, so she grabbed the small plates they had with tiny flowers on them and sprinkled some powdered sugar on top of the brownies her boyfriend baked.

"Here you go." She smiled, kissing both Sirius' and Remus' cheeks as she put the plates in front of them after putting hers on the place, sitting back down the next second. They bit into the pastry at the same time Padfoot waited for their verdict. "So? How'd I do?" He asks, in a concerned state his partners found hilarious, seeing how seriously he was taking the whole situation.

Y/N's expression turned into a disgusted frown as she chewed but quickly replaced it with a smile, making the change obvious to Sirius. "What was that!?" the black-haired boy said with wide eyes, taking a bite off the dessert himself and frowning when he actually found it good. "Come on love, it can't be that bad," Remus said, biting into his piece and closing his eyes in disgust in a very exaggerated manner.

"The-they're good, baby." She smiles, leaving the large piece untouched in her plate as she looked at him with sympathetic eyes. "I tried them; I did a bloody great job, so don't co-". His partners erupted in laughter. Moony almost cried, and Y/N's tummy hurt as Sirius shook his head with an upset pout.

"You're so mean. I hate you both. I'll never bake for you again!" "No, love, come on! We're sorry I-I just saw where Y/N was going and played along," Remus laughed, reaching over to engulf him in a hug, but his boyfriend pulled away, back facing his smiling face. He couldn't avoid the love for too long, cornered between his girlfriend who also reached out to embrace him.

"They're really good, Sirius! Come here; I-I'm sorry." "Why do you keep laughing!?" He whined with a little smirk playing at his lips he tried hard to contain when he found himself sandwiched between his loves. "No, ge-get off!" he playfully fought in-between giggles, trying to squirm out of Moony's arms, failing miserably. Y/N jumped over to them and kissed Sirius' face repeatedly.

"I-I'm leaving this house! Stop, Y/N, there's no changing my mind." He laughed. "We won't let you go; hate to break it to ya'." "Yup, I'm kissing you until you forgive us." They collapsed in giggles with sore bellies, letting go and going back to their spots to finish their desserts. "You did a splendid job, darling." Remus smiles, biting happily into his brownie. "Yes, they're amazing." Y/N assured and presses one last kiss to Sirius' cheek.

After several stories, laughs, warm smiles, and kisses were shared, they all decided to call it a night. Y/N grabbed one of Padfoot's shirts and a pair of Moony's socks, throwing them on before brushing her teeth and washing her face as her boyfriends got ready as well.

They jumped into the two queen beds they had joined and covered only with a soft silk sheet Sirius had insisted on getting since it was spring; They liked to cuddle, and if for some reason they covered more, they'd be kicking away in their sleep so they could be fresher.

Usually, Y/N would sleep between them, but today Remus took her spot and they were all comfortable with that. He wrapped his arms around his partners and kissed both of their heads, feeling exhaustion wash over him as their limbs pressed against all of his body; engulfed by love and warmth he craved his whole life before they came into the picture. "Thank you," he sighed, "for everything."

"Anything for our Moony," was heard in a soft whisper in the dark room, and with that, they drifted off to sleep.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Marauders taglist (DM or answer to be added): @kquil

Oh I had so much fun writing this one!!! Hope you lovelies like<3 SIDE NOTE I JUST REALIZED I SAID NO WARNINGS BUT I LITERALLY HAVE A LINE WHERE SIRIUS MENTIONS BENDING R OVER THE COUNTER HELP 💀

Remember, the best way to support writer’s works on here is by REBLOGGING WITH TAGS. I’d very much appreciate it if you did!

Thanks again, stranger. Hope you have a nice day<3

NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO REPOST AS THEIR OWN/TRANSLATE/OR COPY MY WORK IN ANY PLATFORM OR SPACE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT CONSENT.

[cillianmurphysdimples]

A Female Y/N / Cillian fanfic (Part Fifty Seven)

Absolutely not based on anything real at all, all totally fictional, fanciful and is all total bollocks.

Warnings for sexual references and language. Adult themes. Not suitable for under 18s.

We Got Issues

Part Fifty Seven: Y/N finds an article online after their shopping trip and isn't impressed, but Cillian is distracted. When she finds out why he's so distracted, she's met with something life changing. [Fluff/Anxiety]

@cherrycilly @whatcjdidnext @aesthetic0cherryblossom @meister95 @vivianleighwishesshewasme @watermeezer @meadowshelby @strangeions @borntodiemp3 @lavender-haze-01

“Have you seen this?” You say, sitting on the edge of the bed. You don't wait for an answer, and you continue talking as you stare at your phone. “Peaky Blinders front man Cillian Murphy, who is expecting a baby with partner Y/N in the summer, was seen scoping out baby items at a local Dublin shopping centre. The couple were approached by eager fans, though the Tommy Shelby actor was less than willing to engage.” You shake your head, “Y/N was allegedly pushed by an all-too-eager fan which sparked a sharp reaction from Murphy, 48. The pair were then seen with shop staff as they loaded their car with baby items, before later being spotted enjoying lunch at Russino’s burger bar.” You scoff and finally look up. “It's bullshit, and it's not even fucking news.” You sigh. “Cillian?” You moan his name when you realise he isn't even listening. 

“Hand me that…fucking thing.” Cillian says, looking up at you. He's sat on the bedroom floor, legs spread wide, attempting to screw together the folding legs of the Moses basket you had settled on at Smyth's on Saturday. He had planned on getting Aran and Malachy involved yesterday, but when both boys turned down the usual dinner and asked for a weeknight instead, he had taken it a little to heart and moped around the house a little in their absence. But today he seemed past it, and had insisted he got on with the fairly simple job by himself. It's ten am, and so far he has been staring at the cross-over action of the legs for thirty minutes trying to work it out. 

“You know, I can do it if you're finding it impossible.” You say, standing up to hand him the small bag of screws, bolts and fixings. “Love?” You say when he doesn't respond. “You're terrible at this.” You add, smirking. 

He looks up at you again, where you're standing at the side of the bed, and the firmness in his eyes is hilarious. “I can do it.” He says, raising a single eyebrow. You want to laugh. His cheeks are flushed, he's clearly frustrated, but he's determined that he's building the stand. “He grunts as his hand slips, attempting to line the two holes up for the screw to be fixed, and he sighs with moan. “Fuck it.” He tuts. “Okay, I can't do it.” He does laugh at himself, though, as he groans and pushes himself up off the floor, but you can see he's annoyed at himself too. You don't know why, though - you both know he's terrible at this sort of thing. 

“I'll do it, Cill. Or, if you want, we can wait until the boys come on Wednesday evening and you can do it with them.” You suggest. 

“Ah, yeah I know, but…like, you said about wanting the place ready. If she decides she's coming, she needs this to be her home.” He says, looking at you with a strange frown. 

You give him a soft smile and set your palm down in the centre of his chest. Lifting your face, you kiss him softly. “I know.” You say quietly. “But we have the basket, so she has a place here now. And the dining room is full of boxes - her car seat, the pram, the steriliser, the bottles…” you smile softly. “She has a place here.” 

His eyes soften and he reaches up his hand, cupping it around the back of your head. “Yeah,” he inhales as he whispers the word, and it's still one of your favourite Irishisms. He smiles softly, and grants himself a kiss, kissing against your bottom lip with his mouth parted slightly. It's an insistent kiss, a needy kiss, a kiss that says ‘lets take this further’, and as his other hand settles around your back and quickly travels down against your arse, your inference is confirmed. He pulls your body as close as your bump will allow. But he pulls back his head, looking at you with wide pupils and a soft, alluring smile. 

“What?” You ask, brows twitching curiously. 

“I've to ask you something,” he says, and there's a nervous edge to his words. 

You laugh at him, “If it's for a threesome, then it's a definite no.” You tease. He smiles, but you can see he doesn't want to joke. You frown a little. “What is it?”

He takes a deep breath and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip. His eyes move side to side as he struggles to choose which of your eyes he'll settle on. “Will you marry me,” he says clearly. 

Your mouth bobs open and you struggle to find your breath, never mind words. “You…ma…w-what?” 

He smiles a little, “Marry me.” His hand against your backside moves up to the middle of your back, and he brings the hand on the back of your head around to your cheek. “There's so many reasons I would never want to do it again, Y/N, but you and this baby are the reason I do want to. I love you so fucking much. I want you to be my wife.” He raises his eyebrows slowly as you stare back at him, wonderfully dumbfounded. “Is that a no?” He smirks nervously. 

You shake your head quickly, “Of course it fucking isn't! Yes! Fuck, Cillian, yes! If course I'll fucking marry you!” you pull him closer and kiss him firmly, your hands cupping around his cheeks to hold him there until you've had your fill of snogs. “You're serious?” You ask him when you finally pull your lips from his. “You really want to get married?” 

He pulls a face, “No. I really want to marry you.” 

Somehow, that's an even better answer. You smile softly, but it soon broadens. “So I'm your fiancée now?” 

He smirks, “I suppose y’are, yeah.” He drops his arms from your and pushes his left hand into the front pocket of his jeans. “You'll need this then.” He says, drawing out a small blue box. 

Your jaw drops open, “Cillian…” 

He brings the box to his chest and slowly opens the lid. Inside, on the bed of black velvet, is a silver band with three emerald stones set side by side. He reaches his right hand into the box and picks up the ring. You hold your left hand out to him, your eyes beginning to fill with warm tears, and your fingers shake as he carefully slides the ring onto your finger. “You're definitely gonna marry me then?” He smiles at you, cupping your newly decorated hand in his. 

You nod your head, sniffling softly. “Name the fucking day,” you say, and you push yourself as close to him as you can. You kiss him tenderly, and his hand snakes around your back to hold you close. Waking up this morning, this would never have been on your bingo card. It takes mere seconds for your anxiety to hijack your happiness, and you feel the hard thud of your heart in your chest. Why is he asking now? He was against the idea before - look at your birthday gift! So why? Was it truly the cementing of his wants in the promise of the baby that had changed his mind? …or was this because Yvonne and Adam were getting married? You stare at his face as every thought passes through your mind, and you silently scream at every one of them to fuck off and stop ruining this. He wants you to be his wife, to give you the same surname your daughter will have… fuck off, every bad thought! 

“Will we take this to the bed, Mrs Murphy to be?” He grins at you. You smile at him, but you know your eyes must belie the gesture. His face settles into a concerned frown. “What's the matter?” 

You shake your head slowly, “Nothing, love.” You say quietly. You can't utter the silly thoughts - it'd ruin everything. “I'm happy.” 

“You are?” He asks, needing to be sure. 

You nod your head slowly and smile as convincingly as you can. “So happy.” 

[victoria-grimesss]

tear you apart - part IV

Shiny new Masterlist

->Pairing: König x fem!reader

->Words: 4.7k

->Warning: MDNI!, fluff, König spilling his heart out to his favorite girl, roadhead, car sex, outdoor oral, face sitting, overstimulation, pretty much porn with plot at this point. 

->A/N: A bit different that the other chapter but I wanted to do something a little sweeter.

Your dreams are luxurious and delicious these nights, a whirlwind of experiences ever since you transferred to the new base. You dream of luxuries far beyond your reach with a man who sure as hell should be out of your reach too. You dine on five star meals on the beach, sip champagne in a clawfoot tub overlooking waterfalls, have ravenous passionate love making sessions in silk sheets. 

König has rewired your brain and embedded himself within you.

You awake in his bed again as has been the same routine for a few weeks now, you’ve moved a stash of your stuff to his room at his request of course. You don't see each other too often during the day so night and early mornings are the times where you catch up and enjoy eachothers company.

Spending a few spare moments to soak in the smell of the sheets you roll out of bed and notice a flower in a tall glass of water sitting beside a note. 

Chicken scratch, yep written by König alright. You smile as you envision him scrawling it quickly before leaving for the day.

My love,

Clear your schedule this afternoon, I plan to take you somewhere very special.

-König, your one and only. (boyfriend)     :)

Boyfriend. 

Huh I guess that's really what the two of you are now. You both danced around the word for a while now. You suppose you were a couple in the grand view of it, slept in the same bed, ate dinner together, got ready for bed together, said goodmorning and goodnight to each other. You could get used to this. Off base dates are far and few too, sometimes you'll take walks around base, the views are amazing nearby and it makes you yearn for your own country-side cottage with a garden.

You ready yourself and go about your day, you’ve flowed into a nice routine as of late. Get up, sometimes with König, eat in the mess hall, workout, training, dinner with König sometimes, and usually not get a lot of sleep together because he's too busy having your eyes roll to the back of your head. 

You can’t complain.

The mess hall is loud and crawling with activity this morning, you enjoy it more than you thought you would. The activity is a welcome distraction from homesickness. You eat in silence, sitting with a few others you’ve somewhat befriended. Bennet hasn't been around lately, thinking of if now you can’t remember the last time you did see him.

You clear your throat,

“Have any of you seen Bennet around?”

One of the other guys laughed.

“Yea I saw him alright. Saw him on his way out. Guy got so scared of the colonel he transferred back to his home base. Guess the two of them clashed over something. But if you ask me, I just don't think the guy was cut out for this line of work.”

“Yeah, that's weird. Strange.” 

You continue eating, your question answered to your requirements. 

König is intimidating, sure he’s nice to you but you can’t imagine being an outsider, being on his bad side, or god forbid being his enemy. The stories you’ve heard about the things he’s done on the battlefield could make anyone uneasy. 

Breakfast finishes up and you head to the gym where you’re thankfully uninterrupted during your workout. Cleaning up you hit your next stop, the shooting range. It’s mostly empty, the weather is nice today so many people are using the outdoor range. 

You take your pistol, silencer equipped and a long range sniper down to the last stall and prep your gear.

You use the sniper first and take deep breaths before firing. 

The door opens and you assume it’s just someone else using the stalls until a voice makes you jump.

“Hold it higher liebling.” 

Your hand grips your heart, putting the gun down you turn fully around, being met with König standing tall with his hands behind his back.

“König, ever heard not to sneak up on someone with a gun?” You lean against the counter.

“Am I mistaken or is that your forte in the field? I’m simply a superior observing my team members, wouldn't want you using the tools the wrong way right?”

He's so quick with his quips, you smile then turn around bringing the gun up leaning your cheek on the side as to see through the scope.

You feel his hands on your hips and he kicks your feet further apart, you look down at his feet that are standing on the outside of yours. 

He brings his head down right next to your ear,

“Hold it back harshly into your shoulder, so the kickback won’t knock you down.”

“You’re making it hard to focus.” 

“I would assume you would be able to focus even with distractions yea? But I suppose our time in bed has proven otherwise.”

You blush but regain your composure quickly until one of his hands stays on your hips and the other brushes your cheek to move your hair slightly.

You shoot once, then twice, hitting the target both times.

His voice has gotten even lower, whisper dancing the line of soundwaves.

“You read my note yea?”

“I did, plan to tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope.”

He kisses the shell of your ear then your cheek through his mask. 

“I will see you later then, you’ll meet me in the lower garage at 1500 alright?”

“Oooh, meeting my big strong colonel in a dark garage, I certainly hope he doesn't take advantage of me.” You laugh and bat your lashes at him.

He squeezes your hip and scoffs playfully, 

“Keep talking to me this way and we certainly won’t even make it to the car. Busy yourself and meet me there, don't be late.”

He releases his grasp and you miss it already.

“Shall I pack a bag?” You ask.

“Don't bother, I’ve got everything handled. 

“Yes sir.” 

He steps away from you, walking to the door ignoring all others in the range and you watch him until the door closes. 

Taking a steadying breath you focus once more unto the range, feeling his phantom touch still.

—

You stop by your room before going to the garage, the lights flicker as you shut your door and you grow more and more excited for the evening to come. 

Opting for a simple two piece set underneath plain jeans, boots, a simple black shirt. 

The walk to the garage is straightforward, taking a dimly lit stairwell downwards and the garage smells of dust and you take it the electrical in this place could use an upgrade. Probably not high on the budget list.

There are rows of military vehicles and equipment, storage and the likes. An area sectioned off from the others hold what looks like personal vehicles, some nice and some looking decrepit. 

A door slams in that area and you make your way over,

“König? That you?” 

“Y/N, yes it is me! Just finishing up, go ahead and get in the doors unlocked.”

He drives a larger SUV, like the kind you see FBI agents driving, suiting you guess you never really pictured what car he drove but you can assume he drives whatever kind of car he can fit in so style types are probably very restricted.

You enter the car, the inside smelling like leather and the cologne he wears. It’s clean, damn near pristine the same as his room. The trunk closes and he gets in, his seat all the way back, he adjusts  and looks over to you, his eyes bright and he's buzzing with excitement. 

“Comfortable?” He smiles softly at you, he's wearing a black tactical long sleeve shirt, dark jeans, boots, and his usual hood of course. He looks good in black.

“Very. Can I ask where we're going yet?”

“Nope, just sit back and relax schatz.” 

He starts the car and pulls out of the garage, informing the guard of his time away.

The tall gray walls of the base and large fences you know melt away into a wonderful countryside with creeks, tall trees, and rounding hills. König has one hand on the steering wheel and the other on your knee, his thumb rubbing small patterns.

“This is nice.” You breathe a sigh of relief, adjusting in your seat and König’s hand on your knee slips higher. 

König looks relaxed, he deserves this. Always working so hard… he should definitely relax.

Your hand wanders from the center console to his arm, rubbing the tight muscles underneath his hoodie. He squeezes the inside of your thigh in thanks.

Trailing your hand down his arm to the outside of his thigh, holding your hand there and tipping your head to look over at him.

He laughs breathily, “What are you doing, liebling?” His eyes shift from the road, your hand, and your face. 

“I just want to show you how much I appreciate you, König.” He shutters hearing his name from your lips and your hand moves to the now hardening bulge in his pants, he readjusts his hips to get more comfortable.

“Scheiße, you’re going to get us killed, sit back down I’m serious.”

He’s not serious, there is not even one percent of serious inflection in his tone, he speaks with need, his mouth already being filled with cotton at your movements.

You’ve leaned over the center console, face next to his ear as you unbutton his pants and palm him through his briefs, he’s solid where he sits and your mouth is already watering.

He shutters and his eyes flutter for a second,

“Eyes ahead baby, I can’t do anything if you don’t keep us steady ok?”

He does not answer, the blood isn't in his head anymore anyway, well not the one on his shoulders at least.

The trees race by the window as fast as your thoughts race in your head, you lean down and kiss him over the cloth, you feel his abdomen grow tense.

“I can stop if you really want-”

“Stop right now and I'll turn the car around.” 

You grin, mumbling a yes sir before moving your hand under the band of his briefs and giving a kiss to the tip. He takes a steady, concentrated, painful breath in and the exhale is so shaky you feel him tremble.

You give small licks from top to bottom, he’s a big guy so there’s certainly more to love. 

“Scheiße, ficken, Liebling ja” 

You take him fully in your mouth and he's warm, and fits right in place. You hum and he moans in response, you don’t think you’ll ever tire of hearing him like that. You take what doesn't fit in your mouth within the grasp of your hand starting at a steady pace. The music playing in the car isn't even registering in your head, the heavy weight in your hand and mouth is all you focus on.

“Fuck my love, your mouth feels-feels spectacular, I do not deserve what you give me.” 

He groans and bucks his hips up into your mouth, one hand on the wheel and the other gently being placed onto your neck, moving to the back of your head where he gently caresses your hair.

You’re working on him until he begins to shudder and you pull away, he tries to chase you with your hips but you lean back and kiss him on his cheek. His eyes are dark and he glances from you and the road.

“You’re going to kill me, Mein Liebling. He's panting, hand now gripping your hair tighter, you’re far from dry down under and touch his hand that's in your hair and move it down your front and under your pantline. You both moan when his fingers make contact with your wetness, he draws uncoordinated shapes into you, from your clit all the way to your entrance. He presses your entrance through your panties and it’s like he’s knocking on a door asking for permission to grant you the pleasure you oh so want, no need.

“König, please. I need you, I know you need me too.”

You whine, looking down at where his cock sits exposed, leaking heavily with every swipe of his fingers on you.

“My love. liebling.” 

He grits through his teeth when you take his hand once more and more your panties to the side allowing him unrestricted access to where the flames burn the brightest.

“Scheiße, du gewinnst” He pulls the car over, sitting on the dirt shoulder of the road, heavy tree cover surrounding you and you hear his heavy breathing.

He puts the car in park, removing his seatbelt and since the seat was already set all the way back due to his size he leans back and pats his lap.

“Come take what you want.” 

Eyes dark and hungry he watches you remove your pants and move over the center console onto his lap, his cock sitting right in front of you so it brushes against your stomach, you get a visual of just how deep he will slip into you. 

You’re shaking with anticipation when you grasp him again, pumping a few times before raising yourself to tease the tip over your panties.

His eyes are focused on where you touch him, his hands on your hips gently, awaiting your move.

“Get on with it..” 

His voice is dark and shadowy, his patience growing thin as you tease and tease him again, he’s a patient man but only for so long.

You play with him until you hear him growl deep in his chest, taking your panties in his grasp and you hear them rip.

“König! You seem to have an affinity for destroying each pair of panties I own.” 

You try to quip back but your voice is so breathily and weak it holds no volume. 

“I’d rather you not wear them at all, when we have a place of our own you won’t.”

You both moan when he pushes your hips down harshly, he sits fully inside you and you feel euphoric, one because he fills you so deliciously it has your mouth watering again and two he mentioned the two of you having a place of your own. Perhaps it’s him being so drunk on lust he says things he does not mean but your head is already slipping on all sane thoughts so you file that away for later.

His head tips back when he’s fully sheathed within you savoring the warmth and wetness you provide. 

“König, fuck. You’re so big.” You whine on top of him and his eyes regain their focus on you, he’s already too sensitive from your mouth earlier you might actually kill him with how tightly you’re wrapped around him.

His grip on your hips is bruising as usual and you have no qualms with it, feeling his grip reminds you this is all real and you need to ground yourself as you begin to move up and down on him the noises amplified in the car.

“Yes, just like that darling, fuck! You’re so, so good, so tight.” 

You start to move faster, spurred on by his praises your breathing grows faster as does his. Your hands try to gain purchase on the wheel behind you as you gain more speed, knocking the horn you breathily laugh and he grabs your hands and puts them on his shoulders. You grip your nails into him and he growls, now thrusting up into you he meets you halfway and you’re moaning his name so loudly now your throat hurts. 

The windows are fogged and you’re sweaty, hair sticking to your forehead.

He moves one hand from your hip to play with your clit, moving smooth and quick circles into you and you bow inwards your hand slapping onto the cold window, leaving a handprint on the fog it slips down and you wrap both arms around his neck your legs growing shaky and weak from your approaching high.

“König, don’t stop don-don’t stop please please.” You’re whining, squirming, and writhing in his lap an utter and complete mess and he drinks you in. Your pleasure makes his throb and balls tighten as he continues rubbing your clit and thrusting up into you.

“I can feel you getting close, you want to cum yea?” 

He’s panting and sounds just as destroyed as you are.

“Yes, I can’t hold on much longer. I want it so bad.” You whine and he stops altogether.

You cry, hitting his chest and trying to move but he holds your hip still.

“König plea-.”

“Beg.”

“What?” 

“You want to cum? Beg.” He’s not joking, he’s all serious and you whine again before spewing the filthiest words that’s ever come from your mouth, begging and praising him like a God to be worshiped. 

“Please König, god please I can’t, I need it. You’re so big, I need you to make me cum, fuck.”

“Good girl, always listening and doing what I say, I think you deserve a reward.” 

Before you can say anything he begins his thrusting and rubbing ten-fold and you once again hold onto him like your life depends on it as you cum harder than ever before, your vision is spotty and he’s praising you through it. He follows you through the high seating you firmly on his lap, holding himself as deep and he can reach and flooding you thoroughly. 

You both sit together for a good while, panting growing into soft breaths and you pull away from his chest and look at him, smile on your face.

“You think you can make it the rest of the way now? Are you satisfied?” 

He cups both of your cheeks, kissing your nose through his mask.

“I think I'll be ok for a little bit. Maybe.” 

You move off of him, both of your least favorite part is when he has to leave your warmth, but he’s never gone for long. 

You put on your pants, no panties due to König but you would assume he packed you some more, although his previous words would assume he rather you never wear any.

“Ready?” He’s buckled his pants again and you can’t help but notice the sizable mess you made on his lap, the bottom of his shirt and top of his pants wet.

“König, made a bit of a mess on you, sorry.” You grow shy.

“I like it, it challenges me to make you cum harder the next time.” 

Oh God.

He turns back onto the road and you continue your trip down the road, you roll your window down, still warm from your session and the cool mountain air fills your lungs and you rest a hand out of the window. 

—

“Liebling, we’re here.”

“Huh.”

You shoot up in your seat, König standing on your right side, the passenger door open his hand gently on your shoulder as he shakes you awake.

“You passed out, I clearly tired you out.”

“Shut up, you’re full of yourself.”

He laughs, offering his hand to help you out, you take it and observe the scenery around you. It’s late afternoon now and you’re parked in the driveway of a small countryside home, it’s dark inside so you can assume you’re not staying with anyone. There’s a large field surrounding the home. Trees lining the meadow and plants that held out over the cold weather stand strong and the evening sun is even a bit warmer than it had been recently. 

“König this is beautiful, is this your place?”

“Yea, just somewhere small when I need to get away. Don’t come here often, don’t have many reasons to visit. But I wanted to share this with you.” 

He's unpacking the car, grabbing both of your bags. 

“Do you need help?”

He laughs.

“No, I do not need help.” 

The car is locked and you follow him up the path to the house, clovers dot the front path and a flower box on the window is untouched, dry soil packing the inside.

He opens the door and the ceilings are high, but it’s still cozy, lived in even if he says he doesnt come here often. Shoes are discarded at the door and you hang your jacket on the coat rack.

“This is beautiful König, didn't take you for an interior designer.”

He sets the bags down near the front door and you take in the room.

“I actually had my mother decorate it, I don’t have much of a sense for style like she does.”

“Do you see her often? Your mom.”

“Holidays, I try to call her often but when it’s busy it’s harder. She understands.”

“Well I’m sure she’s very proud to have such an accomplished son.”

He smiles, head tipping down, “I hope so.”

He claps his hands, ending the heartfelt moment.

“You look around, make yourself at home. I will start a fire and later we will go watch the sunset ok?”

“Very well.” 

Your heart is giddy and light. He’s so kind and nice and handsome and sweet and a million other words to describe him. The house is more spacious inside than it appears outside, a large archway leads to the kitchen, one bedroom and a nice bathroom. Everything is high up, the shower head is fit just for him, cabinets stacked high, large bed which looks enticingly comfortable.

“König!” You call for him as you look around.

“Yes, mein Liebling.”

“How long are we staying here?”

“Just for the night my love, couldn't get much time away approved.”

“Oh, ok. Will we come back here eventually?”

“If you wish to do so then we will.” 

You observe the view out of the window and König wraps his arms around your waist.

“Scared me.” You laugh, your hands tracing along his hands and up his arms.

“My apologies, shall we head outside to enjoy the view?” He kisses the top of your head and you melt once more.

“Lead the way.”

He brings a thick blanket with him outside and lays it down in the meadow, you lay with your head on his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you, watching the multitude of colors paint the sky as the sun descends another day, bringing a sweeping array of stars and cool breezes. 

“Thank you König. You’ve been so kind to me and bringing me here means a lot.”

“All that is mine is yours, if you’d allow me I’d like to show my appreciation again.”

You shiver in his grasp and he holds you tighter.

“Yes.”

That's all he needed to hear before he lifts up his mask and takes your lips in his, he trails his lips down to your neck and leaves new bright bruises and snakes a hand up your shirt to play with your breasts, nipples hard from the combination of the cold and his touch. 

“Pants off.” He tugs at your waistband and you comply, the cool air hitting your core.

His hand moves down and caresses your body thoroughly, missing no spot.

“Sit on my face Schatz.”

You pause and look at him.

“I don’t want to suffocate you.” 

He actually laughs now, a full laugh.

“I will die a happy man.” You push him back, he’s gleeful and you laugh as well.

“No really darling, you will not ‘suffocate me’ get up here.” He uses heavy quotation marks around his words and you carefully make your way up to his face, knees placed on each side of his head.

He lifts his mask right to above the peak of his nose and he licks his lips eagerly, eyes only focused on where you sit above him.

“Take your shirt off too.” He strokes your thighs slowly leaving goosebumps in his path.

“What if someone sees?!”

“No one is coming out here trust me. I wouldn't have you expose yourself if somewhere were to see what’s all mine right?” He bites his lip as you discard you shirt and bra

Completely exposed outside as you sit above a man you care about fills you with a fire once more.

“It is like I have died and gone to heaven, you are breathtaking.” He kisses the inside of your thighs as he talks, leaving small bites.

He truly feels he's undeserving. The setting sun casts a glow on your back where it illuminates your outline in soft light, it casts on the dips and curves of your body, the swell of your breasts softly lit.

He grows hard again in his pants but wants right now to be all about you.

“Now sit darling and relax.” You sit slowly onto his awaiting mouth, hovering over him as he kisses you first and licks from entrance to your clit. He has to lift his head to reach you which frustrates him.

“I said sit.” He grips your waist and forces you to sit fully on his face, his mouth latching tightly onto your clit and you gasp and he moans, eyes rolling back into his head as he tastes you once more. He can taste the both of you from the car ride and he licks feverishly at you making your head spin. The stubble on his face scratching the inside of your thighs so nicely.

You brace your hand on his head trying to make him slow but he won't relent from his work. He’s a thorough man and once he starts a job he won’t stop until it's finished. He works on you and your chest starts rising faster and faster, he sucks licks and ravages like he’s never eaten before. 

“König, don’t stop please.” 

You moan and tip your head back, he groans as you arch backwards hands bracing on his midsection and you moan freely into the air. His mumbled words vibrate your core and it makes you reach your peak that much quicker.

König doesn't stop, not after you cum and he won’t slow down, his face is soaked and his pupils dilated.

“König it’s too much, please.”

You try to move your hips away and he growls the hands on your waist gets tighter and you’re able to lift just a bit off his lips for reprieve, he whines.

“Please darling, give me another ok? Just a few more.” 

You can’t say no to him, he’s licking his lips again, your fluid soaking his face and nose, it glistens in the sunset glow and you can’t say no to him. So you lower yourself again, he smiles as his mouth meets you halfway. 

“Fuck, König.” It isn’t long before you cum on his mouth another two times, he’s quick to draw it out of you and he knows what buttons to push and ways to move to make you unravel.

By the end he’s kissing the inside of your thighs again and you pant down at him mind turned to sand by his actions.

“You look beautiful like this, we’ll have to do this more often.” His grip is light and his thumb makes patterns on your exposed skin and you shiver from the cold now, the sun fully set and the stars in full swing. 

“Here, let's get you inside, warm up yea?” He gives you his shirt to put on and carries, much to your protest, you back inside where you both shower and sit on the couch in front of the fire.

His arms are wrapped around you and your eyelids grow heavy as you rest on him.

“König.”

“Yes schatz?”

“Did you mean it earlier when you said we’d have a place of our own?”

He smiles, you can’t see it but he hums at the thought. The two of you retire from the force and he can come home to your awaiting gaze and warm touch.

“I would love it, more than anything. You complete me, relax me and ignite fire within me all the same. To live by your side would be eternal bliss.”

“I would love that too.” 

You smile and cozy yourself closer to him, your eyes grow heavy and you feel content giving yourself to sleep in his arms.

[escha-ashengrotto]

Deeply and Hopelessly In Love Part 1

Azul Ashengrotto x GN!Reader

Summary: You wonder about a lot of things, especially regarding Azul.

Notes: Happens at the end of Book 3 so there will be some spoilers! Also, Azul calls you sweetheart. Reader is not Yuu.

A repost from my old blog @escha-evenstar. Edited.

The sounds of abundant chatter from customers and the shuffle of footsteps from workers could be heard. It was a busy day at the Mostro Lounge. The point-card system you proposed was now being implemented and based on the large crowd inside the campus cafe, it certainly attracted a lot of students.

By reaching a certain number of points via orders, customers may redeem a free consultation with the manager — namely the one and only Azul Ashengrotto, Housewarden of Octavinelle known for his ability to make any wish or desire come true.

Who wouldn't be drawn to that kind of opportunity?

After hearing about the new promotional offer, your friends immediately placed in their orders to start collecting points which delighted Azul as he thanked them for their prompt orders. Your friends cheerily walked away to take a seat while Jade and Floyd went to where they were assigned and started to work. But you? You stayed right where you were. Azul then turned to you.

"What about you? Are you not going to order something?" He asked confusedly.

"Nope. I'm happy the place is packed but that means you'll have your work cut out for you, right? So let me help! The more hands to help, the better!" You said enthusiastically.

Azul protested, wanting for you to just relax and dine with your friends yet you insisted on helping around, showing him that bright smile of yours. You started to walk away to start taking someone's order when he suddenly held your hand and pulled you back to him, surprising you.

"Wait," Azul said, his cerulean eyes boring into your (e/c) ones. As you stared back, you took the chance to appreciate the beautiful shade of blue orbs looking at you.

"Yes?" You asked. "I still have some energy so I really don't mind helping out if that's what you're worried about. Oh! Or if it's money, you don't have to pay me back either."

"Nonsense! I can't have you work and not reimburse you," Azul retorted. He opened his mouth to continue speaking but a staff member was calling for his attention. Most probably matters related to the lounge.

"Just go. I'll be okay," you reassured him with a smile. "I've already worked here a few times before so it'll be fine. Let me help you."

Azul sighed. "You're not going to give up, are you? ...fine. But we'll talk later," he said, still speaking in a businessman-like manner, though you couldn't help but think that there was a hint of.. softness to it?

You nodded and hummed in agreement. You were about to start working but you couldn't leave yet.

You're still holding my hand. I wonder why. I wonder about a lot of things.

"Azul?" You called him softly.

Azul had a dazed look in his eyes and so you squeezed his hand once more. He then noticed he was still holding onto your hand. "Ah! Right, of course," he said before reluctantly letting go and clearing his throat. "Ehem. My apologies." You could see tinge of pink on his cheeks.

"It's alright. Don't worry," you giggled.

The two of you then set off to do some work. Fast forward the time and now Mostro Lounge is finally closed. After the last customers have left, you felt the tiredness seeping in. You sat down on the nearest couch and let out a sigh of relief, closing your eyes to rest. Your friends have already left together with your dorm mates, Yuu and Grim, who were called in by Headmage Crowley for whatever reason, unfortunately. You were thinking about today's events when a smooth, calm voice rang in your ears.

"I see the day has worn you out," someone said. Your eyes sprang open in surprise.

It was Azul. Still looking as handsome as always with that crisp dorm uniform. His confident aura that commands such power. Those lips that curve into a teasing smile. And the eyes. Oh, those ocean-hued eyes! You could stare at them all day long.

You're so charming. I find a lot of things about you attractive. I wonder.. what do you think of me? Am I attractive too?

It's only been a few hours but you honestly missed him already. Although you saw him while serving customers with their orders, stolen glances and subtle smiles were sadly not enough for you who craved his presence.

I wonder.. Did you miss me? I missed you. I'm sorry if I'm clingy. I just like being with you.

You couldn't muster a reply, too busy and lost in your thoughts as you stared at him.

Azul spoke again. "Too tired to even answer me, sweetheart?" He teased.

You blushed at his words. Particularly, that one word. Azul only addresses you by that nickname when the two of you are alone, or out of earshot from others. Even though he's been calling you that for some time now, you still blush every time he calls you by that term. He seemed to take delight in making your face flush pink. If only it meant more than just a teasing from a friend.

You let out a chuckle, trying to hide that feeling in your chest and ignoring the heat on your face. "Ehehe~ I guess I am feeling a bit tired. I've never seen the lounge have that many customers before."

"This is good news, of course," Azul exclaimed. "We made three times our usual profit. All in but a day's work! Your suggestion has definitely made Mostro Lounge even more successful. Now, shall we continue our conversation from earlier?"

You and Azul were now seated side by side on a comfortable leather couch inside a different room. Lots of books were propped on bookshelves and his desk was neatly piled with contracts and other paperworks. Behind his desk stood the entrance to his private vault. Soft, wavering lights from the aquarium gleamed across the room. This was Azul's office, also known as the VIP Room. You've been here a number of times before so it provided a sense of familiarity and tranquility to you. This place was also witness to some small but special moments you had with the cecaelia.

I wonder.. Did you think those moments were special too?

As you were reliving some memories, Azul's voice pulled you out of your trance as he offered you some tea. You thanked him and sipped on the warm beverage, he discussed what he was offering in exchange for the work you did for the lounge. You reasoned out that he didn't have to but Azul insisted that he give something back to you in return. In the end, you just accepted his "payment". Seeing as he's still in the give-and-take mindset.

You then enjoyed a scrumptious meal together with Azul and the Leech brothers. It was a delightful dinner, to be honest. Although most people probably thought the trio to be.. Suspicious? Shady? Terrifying, even? They could also be very nice and fun to be with. You enjoyed their company.

After finishing, you decided it was time to leave since it was starting to get late. You bid them your thanks and farewell. "I'll see you guys tomorrow! Goodnight!"

You were now heading back to Ramshackle Dorm. The peace of the night made you recall today's memories. The trip to the museum. Your heart-to-heart talk with Azul. Helping out at the lounge. Dinner with friends. It was really a nice day, and as you strolled along the path, your mind couldn't help but think. You did wonder a lot, after all.

I wonder.. do you feel the same way as I do?

Part 2 here! Masterlist here!

If you enjoyed this: likes, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated. Thank you for reading!

[fili-urzudel]

From Afar - Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Part 3 to Second and Girl in Calico

Summary: Thorin must live with the reality that he has created, and despite everything, is determined to do so with some degree of joy. Based on the song From Afar by Vance Joy.

Warnings: heartache (to be expected from this series), angst, closure!!

Word count: 1.1 k

Your family accepted Thorin's invitation. Later, you also accepted an invitation of Bard's: to settle in Dale. After that, your visits only became more frequent. It took a year or so—though you would say only a few months—for your daughters to warm up to it all, Asa in particular. The girl had her father's black hair and your eyes, and a will that could move mountains. It was no wonder she had charmed Fíli like she had. 

Naturally, your families had to come closer together after that. You or Symir were usually there at least once a week, acting as chaperones. Dwalin was forced to enter Dale once in a while to do the same. Kíli and Lena had a good deal of fun making fun of their older siblings, but the lovebirds bore it all with grace. 

It was you and Thorin chaperoning—from a respectful distance—in the gardens of the Erebor Conservatory when Fíli formally decided to propose marriage. You couldn't help yourself—you covered your mouth with your hand and grabbed his upper arm to avoid expressing your joy too loudly. Thorin laughed and smiled and let you cut off his circulation as he watched the happy blush on his nephew's face. And pretended not to notice the strands of hair beneath your fingers.

The engagement ball was... an event. But we need not consider that at the moment. Before the two kingdoms were to know anything of the happy news, the two families gathered in the private dining room of the Durins to celebrate among themselves.

As the fathers—or at the very least, father-like figures—of the couple, Thorin and Symir once again found themselves in each other's company. Neither minded. They had struck up a friendship, finding that there was no reason for ill-will between them, and had they met under different circumstances, they would almost certainly be friends. There was no harm in being friends under these circumstances as well.

Thorin could hardly deny the similarities between Symir and himself. The dark hair was a start. Both were quiet, dedicated to their families. Loyal and passionate. Hardworking. The race, the height, the build, the eyes, the social standings were all different. Of course, those didn't really matter. The most important difference was that Symir stayed.

Thorin tamped down that persistent ache in his chest once more. There was no use in dwelling upon something he could not change. It would only serve to keep him up at night. Not that he slept much anyway.

"I'm going to go see if they need any help in the kitchen," you said, picking yourself up to your tiptoes to peck Symir on the lips. He graciously stooped to make it a bit easier. 

"I'll miss you," he said jestingly, warmth in his tone and a smile on his face. "Don't be gone too long."

"I'll be back before you know it," you promised.

Thorin never knew quite where to look.

Symir took another drink, allowing his smile to comfortably fade and letting himself listen to the music before speaking. "You're still in love with her, aren't you?"

Thorin took a long, steady breath, not sure how Symir wanted him to answer. He is your friend. Despite everything, he is truly your friend. "I still love her," he finally corrected. There was a difference. Both he and Symir knew there was a difference. "From afar. I would... I would never dream of disrupting the happiness she's found with you."

"From afar, hm?"

Thorin took a breath. "It can be farther, if you need it to be."

Symir's mouth twisted for a moment. He took another drink. "Not necessary," he finally delivered. "I don't see the danger in it. As long as you're comfortable as well."

Thorin let his hands hang at his sides. He wasn't. He never really was. He was gripped with guilt every time he looked at you, but he knew that if you weren't around, it would only be worse.

"I am glad that you will be family soon," he said instead. "I am glad that my nephews will have people like the two of you in their lives."

You were happy. Fíli was happy. Asa was happy. That was what mattered.

Symir looked down at him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "You are a good man, Thorin Oakenshield. I am glad that we have met."

The king got a feeling inside that Symir knew what he was thinking, and yet allowed him the dignity of ignoring it. Allowed him to learn to cope with it on his own. Trusted him to do so.

Fíli caught him leaving, running to catch up to him before he reached their wing. "Uncle!"

Thorin turned. 

"May I speak to you?"

They sat on a settee in the hall.

"I can't help but notice your hesitance," Fíli said honestly. "You seem happy, but... there's just... something, I'm not sure what. Do you have concerns? Do you disapprove of our union? I value your insight, uncle. Please, tell me."

"No!" Thorin answered quickly. "No, I do not disapprove of your union. It brings me the greatest joy, to see you so happy, and I know that Asa's family are the good sort of people."

Fíli watched him carefully. "Then what is this," the word dawned upon Fíli visibly. "sadness I see about you?"

"It is what every dwarf wishes for," Thorin said softly. "To overcome the trials of his time so that those who follow are not plagued by them. So they are happy... when it was more difficult for him to do."

Fíli sat back, digesting his words. "You regret not marrying?" He asked. The words had not dared to leave his mouth in years past.

Thorin looked at him, but said nothing.

"Uncle, it is not yet too late, you know," Fíli tried to be helpful. "You are king of Erebor, the most powerful and most beloved ruler of—"

"For the one who my heart belongs to, it is," Thorin admitted. "It is too late."

Fíli whispered your name as a surety. The silence from his uncle was all the answer he needed. "Why did you not say anything?"

"I feared it would influence your decisions, and that would be the last thing I wished," Thorin said earnestly. "I still hope it does not."

"This causes you pain, uncle."

"No," Thorin insisted. "Nothing that I cannot bear."

Fíli sighed. Thorin could see the battle in his young nephew's mind and hoped that he lost. "Very well."

"Be happy, gamzûn," Thorin advised, pressing his forehead to his nephew's.

They stood in front of multitudes at the engagement ball. And they laughed, and they smiled, and for all the world, they were as happy as any new family could be.

Thorin supposed it was better to have you in his life in this way than not at all.

[mania-sama]

if you need me, dear, i'm the same as i was

Everywhere, Everything - Noah Kahan

➼ 01 - i wanna love you 'til we're food for the worms to eat ❧ Information (Summary, Tags, Chapters) ❧ Next Chapter ❧ Word Count: 7,742 ❧ Cross-posted from Archive of Our Own

Iwaizumi Hajime stumbles into the shower at three-thirty in the morning, attempting to yank the vivid memory of his dream out of his brain by pulling vainly at his hair. He succeeds only in inducing a pounding headache. Perfect. This is exactly what he needs on arguably one of the most important days of his career. Dread pools in the pit of his stomach, and he steps out feeling worse than when he got in.

Unable to fall back asleep, he spends the next two hours doom-scrolling on Tiktok. He mostly gets stupid clips and gym videos, but that doesn’t come without its pitfalls. Every time he sees a girl and guy lifting weights together or playing around on the machines, Iwaizumi has the urge to throw up his dinner and sling his phone across the room.

The video where two best friends created a montage of their time spent traveling South America does make him curse out loud, sending him into a ten-minute spiral that he sincerely regrets.

The second the time hits six o’clock, he clicks his phone off with more force than necessary and dresses with equal parts aggression and perturbation. His fingers tremble, and his vision blur at the edges. 

He can still smell the airport, can still feel the throng of people moving around him with their suitcases rolling loudly on the ground. They all had a destination in mind: a place to be or a person to meet, setting out on a new adventure or returning home to their old comforts.

But not Iwaizumi. Iwaizumi was losing everything.

He shakes his hands vigorously as if he’s somehow shedding away his dream. His job demands the utmost attention and patience from him. He can’t risk fraying his nerves on the shit going on in his own head. His team needs him at his functional best, all prevailing circumstances considered.

He meets the Men’s National Volleyball Team in their main dining hall, determined to keep them on a proper eating schedule to help with both their diets and his own. Nobody commented on his admittedly picky eating and slightly shorter temper, for a bundle of anxiety is circulating through the players themselves. After two days’ rest from participating in competitive games, they have the most important match to play against one of the strongest teams in this year’s Olympics:

Argentina.

The Japanese National Team is good. The whole world recognizes their player powerhouses, and their ability to strategize and adapt has helped them immensely in the games they’d already played. But they aren’t going against the weaker teams anymore. This is the Olympic gold game. Everything is on the line.¹

And somehow, they hadn’t been seeded against Argentina yet.²

It’s been by pure luck and happenstance. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and it likely won’t be the last. But still. It would’ve been nice to have played against them at least once before they had to fight for a shiny piece of metal. Their strategy is formed based solely on the games they’ve watched both in-person and on television instead of the lived experience of coming toe-to-toe with the unrelenting Argentinian players.

These facts are what the players are worried about, anyway. 

Iwaizumi Hajime is not a player.

No one on the team has mentioned it to him yet, and he prefers to keep it that way. They likely don’t remember that he and Oikawa Tooru, #13 of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team, played on the same team in high school. And even if they do, they certainly wouldn’t know that they were closer than just the ace and his setter.

Except for Kageyama and Hinata, maybe. But Kageyama is still far too awkward and anti-social to say something like that, nor does Iwaizumi believe he cares enough to antagonize him. As for Hinata, he’d mentioned playing beach volleyball with Oikawa a couple of times with a few unsubtle side glances at Iwaizumi. However, Hinata had never talked to him about it, and Iwaizumi had never pushed for him to do so. Iwaizumi thinks that if the opposite hitter wants to say something, he would’ve done it by now.

If God truly loves him, his team will stay both ignorant and away from him.

When Miya Atsumu sits down next to him, propping his chin on the heel of his hand and staring at him with an unnervingly knowledgeable gaze, Iwaizumi knows that God has forsaken him.

“You ate fast. You’re going to give yourself a stomach ache,” Iwaizumi comments before Miya can say anything. Letting him take control of the conversation from the get-go is a quick way for Iwaizumi to lose his goddamn mind.

“No, you’re eating slow,” Miya points out. Iwaizumi pointedly takes a large bite from his banana, trying very hard not to bare his teeth crudely. “Got a headache?”

Iwaizumi spares him a mean side-eye. “I’m getting there. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah,” Miya says, smiling, and fuck, Iwaizumi just let him take the reins so easily, didn’t he? His attempts at politeness always seem to blow up in his face. “Any advice you can give me about Argentina’s number thirteen? Setter versus setter beef, you know. I need all the help I can get.”

Iwaizumi considers his answer carefully. “You spend enough time alone analyzing their games, plus however long the team spends reviewing together. There’s nothing I can tell you that you don’t already know.”

And he believes this. They probably know Oikawa Tooru better than Iwaizumi does at this point. They see him from an angle that Iwaizumi never could and never will. He doesn’t have anything to add to their observations.

“Uh-huh,” Miya muses. Iwaizumi would punch him in the jaw if he thought that was something he could get away with. “No weaknesses? Nothing? I mean, you knew the guy for what, eleven years? You’re saying there’s nothing you can add?”

Iwaizumi’s food tastes like ash on his tongue. “Fifteen years,” he corrects despite himself. “He’s probably changed a lot since high school. I don’t know anything special about him.”

His bitterness is impossible to mask. He wants to wrap his hands around Miya’s throat and strangle the daylights out of him, but that would be unprofessional.

“Damn,” Miya says. Damn indeed, Iwaizumi thinks, stabbing his egg yolk. “Are you excited to be on the same court as him again? I know you don’t exactly keep in contact, so it’s been a while.”

“Have you been prying into my personal life?”

“I didn’t!” He exclaims, waving his hands lightly. “I know a guy who knows a guy who knew you two in high school. The rest is everything you’ve already told us, I swear!”

Iwaizumi doesn’t mention that in order to get that information, Miya had to have personally asked for it in detail. He’s far too wired to get into a debate about logistics with Miya Atsumu of all people.

“Sure,” he dismisses, stuffing the rest of his now-bland food down his throat. He gets up to put away his tray, nodding to the rest of the team as he passes with Miya trailing behind him. “I don’t feel any particular way. We haven’t talked in, like, eight years. He’s just like any other player on the Argentina team.”

“Wow,” Miya breathes, wide-eyed and very clearly holding back a laugh. Iwaizumi escapes into the throng of athletes and staff before he does something that will get him both fired and arrested.

He meets with them again in the Japanese-designated exercise room after he’s splashed water on his face and cooled down. Iwaizumi knows that Miya was riling him up because he was on edge himself. Miya thrived off of provocation, so when they were all fraying from anxiety, he automatically latched onto the first thing that he thought would make him feel better. It doesn’t make what he did right or okay, but Iwaizumi understands the reasonings behind his actions.

Luckily, Iwaizumi has fifteen years of experience in dealing dickheads like Miya. 

Fifteen years he can never get back. Might as well make good use of them.

His veins pulse with excitement and unease, watching the players carefully to make sure they don’t accidentally injure themselves. Bokuto Koutarou tries his very best to kill himself on the elliptical every time he’s on it, so he keeps a special eye on him.

He spends most of his time with Sakusa Kiyoomi, though, and not the trouble-makers who give him a migraine. Sakusa knows the routine by now: careful calf stretches with resistance bands and weights, then ten minutes on the Stairmaster. They talk through the exercises, and the outside hitter, thankfully, does not mention any significant pain or weakness. Iwaizumi doesn’t question the silence; he would’ve been able to spot if his muscles started convulsing on their own or if Sakusa started to favor a leg.

At the end of their session, Sakusa wipes off his sweat with his towel and turns to Iwaizumi. “Sorry for what Miya said. He can be a bitch.”

Iwaizumi squints at him. “Don’t apologize on his behalf.”

“I know,” he shrugs, “but he’s always trying to start something, and he’s not going to apologize himself. Truth is, he’s kind of excited to see Oikawa-san. He’s admired him for pretty much his whole life, and now that they’re facing off for the first time since high school, he doesn’t know what to do with all his… feelings.”

Sakusa’s face scrunches up at that last word, and it almost makes Iwaizumi laugh. Then he remembers that he’s going through the same thing tenfold with no one to console but himself. He still talks with Hanamaki and Matsukawa, but it’s not the same when they aren’t there with him. Since Iwaizumi took this job for the national team, it’s been much harder to get together for drinks or simply be in their presence. Thus, all this excitement and “feelings”, as Sakusa puts it, have been left to be deciphered by his lonesome.

And he is certainly not going to Miya about his problems. Distant admiration and a close bond are two very, very different beasts. Most days, he’s not even sure Hanamaki and Matsukawa understand the depth of his old, broken unrequited love. He’s not sure anyone can.

“I get it,” is all Iwaizumi says.

The outside hitter eyes him up and down for a moment, his gaze burning and scrutinizing. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then aborts it abruptly by turning away to join the rest of the team heading out of the gym. Iwaizumi hears them say something about reviewing matches, but he doesn’t join them. Instead, he spends his time meditating, watching an old episode of Kitchen Nightmares³, and trying — failing — not to think about airports, blocked numbers, or unsaid confessions.

Then he meets up with the team again, and the thirty-minute warm-up session is over quicker than he hoped it would be. They file into Team Japan’s entrance to the Olympic court.

Iwaizumi thinks he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. He doesn’t have a mental breakdown. His heart is beating at a normal rate. He doesn’t pace around the tight corridor. His thoughts are clearer than the jumbled, anxious mutters of the players.

A horn blows, the gates open, and a stream of light hits his fattened pupils. His world goes white and blurry as he walks behind the players with the coaches and staff. When his vision clears, all he can see is the white and dark blue jerseys of the opposing team.

He doesn't know how he manages it, but he finds Oikawa’s brown hair and stupidly long limbs and jersey number immediately. Oikawa isn’t looking his way. His head whips around to view the crowd cheering in their seats, finds the drones in the air and the volleyball net in the middle of the court, and Iwaizumi thinks that in the last eight years of radio silence, nothing has changed.

Oikawa is right in his element, with the world watching him stand in the middle of their flashing lights. He looks confident in the way he never could’ve been in Japan.

Some things have changed.

“I couldn’t be prouder to have you as a partner, and you’re the absolute best setter. Even if we end up on different teams, those facts will never change.”

Iwaizumi joins the rest of the staff on the sidelines, clasps his hands behind his back, and waits patiently for the national anthems to start playing.

His feelings aside, this is the Olympic gold medal game. He is happy to be here. And by God, they will come away with their necks decorated in gold. They’ve trained hard enough. He’s trained hard enough, with so many years of schooling, interning, and working tirelessly to improve his reputation and status in the world of sports medicine. He deserves this as much as the players on the court.

“But I’ll still give my all to defeat you.”

Except the one person who has given up everything — his family, his friends, his nationality — to chase his dreams. Maybe he deserves it a little more than everyone else.

Iwaizumi tears up at his country’s national anthem, swaying slightly back and forth as if he hasn’t gone through this ritual half a dozen times before in these past two weeks. He watches from his peripheral for Oikawa, who stands stock-still during both the Japanese and Argentinian songs. Not once does he catch Oikawa looking back for him.

It shouldn’t hurt after eight fucking years, but bile crawls up his throat anyway and his legs try to give out from under him.

Nobody mentions it. Miya and Sakusa give him a discerning look, but he ignores them hard enough for his silent message to get across. He will not talk about it, and he will not let it affect the game.

Oikawa serves first.

“Bring it on.”

His form is perfect, the same as when Iwaizumi has admired it time and time again from his phone, laptop, and apartment television. He’s seen Oikawa Tooru on the large projector screens during strategy debriefs, both learning from Oikawa’s strengths and breaking down his weaknesses. It was torture to see him everywhere at all times. Close enough to idolize, but never to breathe the same air, share a cup of coffee, or feel the sweat dripping off his body.

Their suns set at different times. Their days were out of alignment. Their lives moved on separate planes. They survived eight years without a single word confirming if they were dead or alive; if they were doing alright or suffering from addiction; if they were married or still searching for a place to call home; if Oikawa missed Iwaizumi as much as Iwaizumi missed him.

Now, here they are, on the same court so many years after graduating high school, and his heart still races with that old, painful adrenaline of watching Oikawa’s power rattle the morale of the opposing team.

Hinata Shouyou receives the bowl with some difficulty, and they are unable to get a spike off before the ball has to go over the net. Oikawa flicks his tongue over his lips. Iwaizumi’s heart sputters.

He shouldn’t be so satisfied to see his own team struggle to set a tempo against Oikawa.

At twenty-seven to twenty-five, Team Japan takes the first set of five.

The brief intermission between sets allows the respective teams to cool off and regroup in preparation for the second set. Iwaizumi hovers over the players as they drink from their water bottles and catch their breaths. He doesn’t need any of them dropping from exhaustion or dehydration, nor does he need impromptu cramps or asthma attacks.

Before he has a chance to ask, Sakusa tells him that he feels fine. Iwaizumi accepts the answer without argument — no muscle twitching, no favoring, and honestly, Sakusa appears less worn out than the other on-court players.

His mind warns him against it, but his head moves on its own accord. He spots Oikawa on the Argentinian bench, wiping sweat from his forehead and drinking from his bottle while talking to his teammate. He seems fine, too. Healthy. Happy. Not giving a damn about the person he knew for fifteen years across the net.

Oikawa rubs his chest, right over his heart, in a contained circular motion. Iwaizuimi twitches and the edges of his mouth involuntarily fall into a frown.

“Head in the game,” Miya says loudly, slapping him on the back with far more force than strictly necessary. Iwaizumi glares at him, and Miya returns it in kind with a cruel grin. “Got anything for us now?”

“Nothing you haven’t seen,” Iwaizumi says. People press their hands to their chests all the time. He knows Oikawa is fine. Iwaizumi needs to keep his eyes focused on his own team. “Feeling okay?”

“Better than ever,” the setter responds. “Let’s win this bitch.”

The team laughs and repeats similar phrases before setting out on the court for the start of the second set. Oikawa enters with a confident, fierce stride on the Argentinian side of the net. Miya rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue rather childishly.

Argentina takes the second set, twenty-five to eighteen.

“Wow,” Iwaizumi echoes, not intending to be mean but succeeding in gaining a few glares nonetheless. “How’s everyone doing?”

Kageyama, who’d subbed in for Miya halfway through the set, answers first. “Like I need the gold medal in between my teeth.”

Iwaizumi stares at him, remembering the kid he was so long ago and the vitriol Oikawa harbored for him for being born with innate talent. They have both come so far to compete on the world stage, facing each other once again in a battle of control and mind games, serves and sets.

He can’t tell what either of them are thinking. Does Kageyama feel the need to prove himself as Oikawa had for the years that Iwaizumi had known him? What does Oikawa feel, now, on his bench with people Iwaizumi has never met?

Instinctively, he glances over at Oikawa, trying to gauge his reactions like he hadn’t been keeping one eye on him the entire match. His hand is gliding from the middle of his chest to his collarbone, then back again. He’s halfway draped onto the teammate closest to him, #6.

He doesn’t seem perturbed, but Iwaizumi reads Oikawa like they were still kids. Oikawa never settles for anything less than perfection. Iwaizumi sees it in the way his jaw tightens when he shakes the receive or his serve doesn’t land the pinpoint he wants it to. He sees it in the subtle side-eyes and glances at Japan’s #9 and #1 when he thinks no one is paying much attention.

And he knows that in fifteen years of being by his side, and in observing several years’ worth of recorded San Juan matches, Oikawa Tooru does not have a nervous habit of rubbing his chest. It’s always been below the hips where he slides his fingers back-and-forth, back-and-forth, creating a sandpaper-like sound that is honestly louder than it should be. It had annoyed Iwaizumi to death in their classes, since he usually sat behind Oikawa and therefore heard everything better than his peers. He had gained a habit of pinching Oikawa’s fingers together when he was physically able.

#13 of the Argentinian National Team sets down his water bottle and drops his hand to the side. The pads of his fingers start sliding, and Iwaizumi barely restrains himself from walking under the net and pinching him.

His other hand keeps working on his chest and collarbone, and one of his legs starts idly moving side-to-side.

“Hinata,” he calls, forcing himself to turn around and talk to his actual team. Oikawa Tooru should not, is not, his priority. That much is clear, for Iwaizumi has a wonderful career, players he cares about, and a match he really wants to win. “Let me see your arm.”

As his reply, Hinata coughs haggardly. He hasn’t been subbed once in the entire game yet. Iwaizumi figures he needs a little more time than the rest to catch his breath. Sticking his forearms out, Iwaizumi examines the spot where Hinata had received a strong spike at a backward angle; it elicited a pained reaction out of him, and Iwaizumi has to be sure it was nothing serious.

He pats Hinata’s elbow in approval. “You’re fine. Try receiving the ball like a normal person next time.”

The short man flashes him a grin and a thumbs-up before eagerly trodding off to consume what has to be a gallon of water. An objectively terrible idea to follow through with, but Iwaizumi fears he is far too late to correct that behavior.

Finding their #15 player, Iwaziumi gives Sakusa a hard once-over. Outwardly, he appears perfectly fine. They’d worked through all of the precautionary measures to prevent pain or injuries, but his cramps could strike at any moment regardless of how much effort was put in to stop them.

Sakusa catches his gaze and nods to him reassuringly. Iwaizumi warns the head coach, Hibarida Fuki, that Sakusa needs to be subbed out the moment Iwaizumi asks for him. The coach looks like he wants to argue, but Iwaizumi was born with a face that makes people listen to him if he glares at them hard enough. Hibarida acquiesces his demand without further complaint.

Sakusa works hard in the first few points of the match set, as if he knows, deep down, that this is the last he’ll play of the game. When Oikawa jumps for a set, his body piked in the air and muscles taut, Iwaizumi feels his gut twist with simple, innate intuition.

It catches the team off-guard when the setter dumps it instead of setting it off to either the outside or opposite hitter that had lined up to spike. Sakusa dives for the ball, missing it by the smallest centimeter from his pointer finger, and Iwaizumi calls for him to come in with only the smallest twinge of guilt.

The dump was amazing. The way Sakusa’s leg twitched on the ground for the smallest fraction of a second was decidedly not amazing, and neither was the way Oikawa stumbled when his feet hit the floor.

Sakusa sits close to Iwaizumi on the bench, his face contorted into something remarkable like a pout. “I feel fine,” he grumbles.

“You come from a family of doctors. I’ve worked with you for months. You know to trust me on this,” Iwaizumi says. “When your leg cramps, it’s better it happens here than sacrifice a play out there.”

The outside hitter rolls his eyes but says nothing. Iwaizumi is well aware of how frustrating it is for him to be forced from a game like this. He’d had his own bad days in high school volleyball, and he has no shortage of memories of dealing with Oikawa’s rages and breakdowns over his old knee injury.

Surgery does wonders, he reminisces. Due to the careful and precise timing that they had agonized over for quite some time, Oikawa didn’t even have to miss any of his high school matches from recovery and rehabilitation.

“I’m not playing collegiate. I can’t. I want to study sports medicine.”

“Why? Why is that so important to you when… If I promise to stay, will you play?”

“Nothing you do will get me to play again.”

He shakes his head and trains his eyes on the volleyball leaving Kageyama’s fingertips, only for it to be slammed to the ground by Bokuto. Impressively, the spike is received low by Argentina’s libero, and the game continues.

Iwaizumi is checking on Oikawa more often than he isn’t, he realizes about halfway through the set. Oikawa isn’t in the game at the moment, having been subbed out by another setter who is doing remarkably well. He doesn’t sit near his athletic trainer, so he obviously wasn’t pulled for a health concern.

Perhaps their trainer isn’t concerned, but Iwaizumi is done lying to himself. He is concerned, and it’s going to drive him to insanity before the game is over. There are all these little habits that Oikawa has never presented before. They couldn’t have developed overnight from his last match to this one. And then there is his breathing. The Argentina setter’s breathing is off-set — weirdly irregular in the rises and falls of his chest. Unless he’s having a panic attack, which Iwaizumi is quite certain he isn’t because Oikawa is showing none of his other overstimulated symptoms aside from his sliding fingers, then there is something physically wrong with Oikawa.

Or maybe Iwaizumi’s mind is simply looking for something to worry over. He’s never grown out of it. Of the twenty-seven years of his lived life, he has spent twenty-four of them concerned for Oikawa. He didn’t stop when they were deep in arguments about the future. He didn’t stop when they were thousands of miles apart, separated by an ocean and a twelve-hour time difference (and for two years, a four-hour difference and one long car ride away if need be). He certainly isn’t stopping now when Team Japan needs his watchful eye more than ever.

Besides, he thinks a little desperately. I’m too far away to see him clearly. It’s all a trick of the eye.

Argentina takes the third set at twenty-six to twenty-four. Oikawa set and served the last point, and Iwaizumi was well aware he had stared long enough for people to notice.

“Omi-kun,” Miya calls, making his way over to the benched player. “Here, water.”

Sakusa stands to meet him halfway, only to promptly collapse into Miya’s arms in an honestly skilled save. His fingers scrap at Miya’s elbows, and the panicked setter drags him back to the bench. Immediately, Iwaizumi gets to work stretching out Sakusa’s leg and rolling his calf muscles.

“Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck .” Sakusa gasps intermittently. With Miya at his side and the crowd falling into a hushed silence at the display, the whole scene kind of looks like he’s giving birth, and Iwaizumi is the poor midwife. “I didn’t— I didn’t even feel it coming. Shit. ”

Iwaizumi glances up at Miya. God, he even looks like the worried father who’s wondering what more he can do to support his laboring wife. 

Sakusa shrugs Miya’s hand off his shoulder, hissing: “Quit touching me.”

The rest of the team piles onto Sakusa to give him their strength and condolences. Sakusa, for his part, seethes from their pity and the overstimulation they’re causing. Iwaizumi barks for them to leave. Someone must have flashed an okay sign to the audience because soon the dome is overtaken by a sudden, thundering applause.

From the other side of the court, the Argentinian team gets up from their kneeling position and claps politely. Sakusa gives them little acknowledgment, so Iwaizumi half-bows for him.

Oikawa pointedly stares at the floor, one hand pressing against his chest while the other rests limply at his side after he finishes clapping. His back is now turned, away from Iwaizumi, and he can see the hunched shoulders and the uneven pacing of his breathing. It’s not exhaustion. He knows exhaustion like the back of his eyelids and can compare his players’ fatigued panting to Oikawa’s struggle for air.

It’s not the same. It’s not the same.

If Oikawa has a problem, Iwaizumi reminds himself, he has his own athletic trainer to attend to him. He hasn’t needed Iwaziumi’s support for eight years; he certainly isn’t going to randomly start now.

Sakusa is the one who needs him, because Sakusa is his player, and his player is gripping the bench with white knuckles and an expression of pain and frustration. This is something Iwaizumi can help with. This is the job he has spent his entire adult life training for.

As with all things in life, sometimes what someone needs isn’t physical. Sometimes what they need is a distraction.

“Help me with something,” Iwaizumi says, succeeding in capturing Sakusa��s attention. “Akaashi’s in the stands somewhere. We need to find him before Bokuto loses his head.”

Even though some of the team members have never met Akaashi Keiji in person (which Iwaizumi has, since they attended the same university and remained friends after), they all know what he looks like based on the astonishing amount of pictures of him Bokuto shows them every week. Iwaizumi has been watching the players closely, as per his job description, and has taken note of the wild swiveling of Bokuto’s head whenever there is even the slightest attention break from the game. While seated, his near-erratic behavior worsens tenfold. Instead of supporting his team from the sidelines, his wide eyes roam the crowd fervently.

If he doesn’t spot Akaashi soon, Iwaizumi is one hundred percent sure they are going to have a very dramatic meltdown. Which would be both embarrassing for their home country and an extreme hindrance to the team’s functionality.

Sakusa grimaces, looking rather oddly at him before turning his head to the audience.

“You’re attentive,” he says after a brief hesitation. “I hate it.”

“You hate a lot of things,” Iwaizumi responds neutrally.

The distraction does work, though. The outside hitter settles down into his normal state of being: slightly disgusted and irritated with everyone around him, as opposed to being extremely disgusted and irritated with everyone around him. While they are going through a round of dynamic stretches in the middle of the fourth set, Sakusa stops dead in his tracks and stares intently at one spot in the stands. “Found him.”

Iwaizumi sighs in relief. “Finally.” From where he is on the sideline, Bokuto looks about five minutes away from a predicted, total meltdown. “When we’re done with this, tell him the good news. I need to get Komori off the court before he passes out.”

The libero in question runs a hand through his hair, no doubt coming away with an exorbitant amount of grime and sweat. “Too attentive,” Sakusa says again, this time with more forced agitation to mask the layer of distress in his tone.

Iwaizumi is pretty sure he knows what that’s about, too, but doesn’t say anything to spare Sakusa the embarrassment and probable heart attack. They don’t really need a player dropping like that, even if said player is already sidelined.

He manages to get Komori off the court without incident, and the ruckus Bokuto makes after Sakusa points out Akaashi to him is far better than the other outcome should they have failed in their mission to locate Bokuto’s favorite human being.

His gaze slides back onto the court, finding Oikawa’s body immediately. He hates his heart. It twists in his chest with longing and unsubstantiated concern. The near-decade they’ve spent apart means nothing to his pulsing organ, as though it thinks he’s a child again and walking to Oikawa’s house to beat his ass at Mortal Kombat.

Although, the clogging in his throat reminds him more of when he rode the subway back from the hospital after his best friend’s knee gave out, or when he started prodding Oikawa to eat every day because teenage athletes are the most prone to eating disorders and Iwaizumi hadn’t seen him eat lunch once in the past week.

Twenty-five to twenty-three. Japan wins the fourth set.

The fifth set will determine it all, and it won’t be easy. His players look ready to drop. They’ve pushed themselves harder than they have this entire Olympic tournament. However, their morale and adrenaline are through the roof. If they can keep their spirits up through the next fifteen required points, they can win.

The last set starts, and despite everything — the trepidation making it hard to breathe, his whirling thoughts, the desperation to convince himself that he is hallucinating symptoms — Oikawa Tooru is still the best goddamn setter he’s ever seen.

Now that Sakusa has nothing better to do with the anxiety and pressure of the last set that will determine the winner, he speaks to Iwaizumi. “What is it?”

“What is what?” Iwaizumi asks somewhat absently, intently focused on the game in front of him. He never stopped loving volleyball despite the change in the profession. A part of him still wants to run out and hit the ball with every last bit of his strength.

Argentina calls a time-out to stifle the flow of the game. Oikawa sways, but they don’t take him off the court. They need him.

Sakusa grunts. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been staring at Oikawa-san this entire game. What’s wrong?”

Iwaizumi has half a mind to bite back with “ Why do you care?”, but doesn’t because that would be unprofessional. He knows Sakusa is restless, agitated, and worst of all, starting to perceive Iwaizumi as a threat to his personal security. According to him, Iwaizumi is too attentive, which means that he can reveal the secrets Sakusa wants to keep buried.

He isn’t that type of person. He hasn’t gone out of his way to find out anything about his players that doesn’t specifically pertain to their medical records, and even if he does find out the things Sakusa doesn’t want him to know, Iwaizumi wouldn’t spill it to the world. It isn’t his story to tell.

So, he answers with a little honesty no matter the insensitivity of the question, because that is the only way to make Sakusa cool down — to make him think that he’s gotten Iwaizumi to crack. “I keep thinking there’s something wrong with him. Medically, I mean. I’m sure it’s nothing. His trainer would’ve spoken to him by now if there was a problem.”

I’m sure it’s the eight years where I never got to check up on him coming back to haunt me, he doesn’t say. That’s a little more honesty than Sakusa deserves.

The game continues. Fourteen to fourteen. They are down to the last wire.

“Bullshit,” Sakusa says, surprising Iwaizumi. “How long did you say you knew him?”

He’s certain that Miya has already told him, but he responds anyway.⁴ “Fifteen years.”

“Iwaizumi-sensei⁵, you’ve been with this team for a couple of months and you already know each of us like the back of your hand. I’ve never met someone as hypervigilant as you. You know I’m going to cramp before I know I’m going to cramp,” he says. “You’re really doubting yourself about someone you’ve spent half your life with?”

Iwaizumi looks at the player, who’s giving him an open expression that conveys, plainly, you’re being an idiot.

Fifteen to fourteen.

Sakusa rolls his eyes at Iwaizumi’s dumbfounded face. “Trust your instincts, because from what I’ve seen, they’ve never led you astray. Hell, I’d let you perform open heart surgery on me, and you’re not even a surgeon.”

He’s pretty sure that’s the nicest thing Sakusa has said in his life. Ever.

Iwaizumi swivels back to Oikawa. He’s jumping in the air to set the ball for a spike, or a dump, or something that will bring his team to victory. Looking down, Iwaizumi finds his ankles swollen beyond normal. 

Open heart surgery.

“Holy shit,” Iwaizumi whispers, all of the air leaving his lungs.

Sixteen to fourteen. Team Argentina wins Olympic gold.

He’s on the court before Sakusa is. He’s across the net before Argentina can celebrate their victory. He’s grabbing Oikawa’s shoulders tightly before anybody else can get to him. Iwaizumi stares into his estranged best friend’s glassy, confused, uncomprehending eyes. 

He’s shaking Tooru’s shoulders, desperate as he yells: “You are having a heart attack!”

Tooru’s voice is strangled and hoarse between his gasping breaths in mangled Spanish Iwaizumi doesn’t understand. Not a second later his dilated pupils, distorted from his eye contacts, roll back to expose solid white sclera and red veins. He keels over, limp, and Iwaizumi starts screaming for a stretcher and an ambulance. Laying him on the ground, he puts his palms over Tooru’s chest to start compressions.

And suddenly, Hajime is fifteen again, hovering over Tooru as he sobs on the boards of the gym they use to practice volleyball during the off-season. “It hurts,” he’s crying, clutching his knee. “It hurts!” Hajime doesn’t know what to do aside from calling one-one-nine. He tells the operator their location and the details of their situation while he lets Tooru claw his forearm into welts, knowing that whatever pain Iwaizumi feels is being felt a thousandfold by his best friend.

And Hajime is fifteen and three-quarters, learning emergency CPR for his new part-time job as a lifeguard. He thinks that it could come in useful. He thinks that saving people isn’t a job he would mind.

And Hajime is sixteen, watching Tooru recover from his surgery, and he realizes he will never play professional volleyball. He wants to help people like Tooru forever — people who want to dedicate their whole life to a sport but have a body that strives to prevent their goal every step of the way. He can’t do that as a player on the court.

And Hajime is seventeen, trying to convince Tooru to eat a sandwich even though he is adamantly insisting he isn’t hungry. He discovers sports medicine isn’t just about the physical ills and pains. To be a good athletic trainer, he has to see every aspect of a player’s well-being, and that includes their mental health.

And Hajime is eighteen, standing alone in the airport and experiencing loss for the first time. In order for Oikawa to grow as an athlete, he has to cut away the weed strangling his roots. Hajime lets him without complaint. This is part of his new career, after all; if he helps athletes succeed, they would all, one day, leave his medical care.

And Hajime is twenty-seven, losing his best friend for a second time at the end of the first set of chest compressions. At least three ribs have cracked under his pace and pressure. He pinches Tooru’s nose, pries his jaw open, and breathes air into his lungs twice. His ring and pinky finger automatically find his pulse point.

Nothing.

Seeing that no medical equipment has arrived, he starts the second set of chest compressions. Oikawa’s bones creak and give way under his desperation. He knows CPR like the back of his hand; if the ribs are breaking, that means it’s working. It doesn’t get rid of the panic and pain at the thought of how much damage he’s doing to Oikawa’s body.

The paramedics are a second too late with their LUCAS device at the end of the last compression. He dives down for another round of mouth-to-mouth, recognizing, faintly yet viscerally at the same time, that Oikawa’s soft skin is pale and rapidly cooling.

At the junction between his neck and jaw, Iwaizumi searches for a heartbeat.

Breathe. Nothing.

Breathe. Nothing.

Then, the faint brush of life against Iwaizumi’s fingertips.

He helps the paramedics load Oikawa onto the stretcher. They roll him away from the court, leaving behind Iwaizumi in a daze. That wasn’t how he wanted to meet Oikawa again. That wasn’t how he wanted to talk to him, feel him, or see him; wasn’t how he’d wanted to have Oikawa’s lips on his like he’d dreamt about so many times in his teenage years and again, occasionally, in his adult life when he’s had too much to drink. 

The head coach of the Argentina team, Jose Blanco, Oikawa’s long-term idol, steps in front of him. “English?” He asks in said language, and Iwaizumi nods automatically. Blanco etches a small smile onto his face. “Thank you for your help. You saved his life.”

Iwaizumi stares at Blanco, all of the English he’s ever learned and spoken suddenly fleeing from his memory. How does he say that they aren’t out of the woods yet, that Oikawa’s heart could still fail at any moment and refuse to start beating again? How does he say that this may be the problem that finally kills the life Oikawa has sacrificed everything for? How does he say that he honestly fears the day that Oikawa can’t play volleyball anymore because he’s an absolute fucking maniac and would rather take his own life than let the universe sweep the rug out from under him?

How does he say that he’s currently living in a reality that is dancing too close to his worst nightmare?

“It was no problem,” he settles for.

“You are Iwa-chan, yes?”

Iwaizumi freezes. He hasn’t heard that nickname in nearly a decade. His high school friends never called him that unless they were teasing him, which faded a week or so after Oikawa left because while he was never the first to bring Oikawa up, he was always the first to cut the topic short. Takeru grew out of it in a couple of months. Nobody else in the right, sane mind would ever call the stoic, mean-looking, and too-attentive Iwaziumi Hajime Iwa-chan.

Except, of course, Oikawa Tooru, who always had a deep and utter hatred for giving his peers a modicum of respect.

It’s somewhat funny hearing the name come from a large Argentinian who lacks both the lightness in which Oikawa would say it and a Japanese accent to make the honorific sound natural. He almost laughs. He thinks that it must make Oikawa laugh, too.

Having rehearsed it in the mirror a thousand times and put it to real use a dozen more, his English introduction rolls off his tongue easily. “Iwaizumi Hajime, athletic trainer for the Japan National Team.” He sticks out his hand, which the head coach uses to bring him into a tight hug. And he doesn’t want to ask when they pull apart, because Blanco is chuckling lightly and he no doubt wants to celebrate his victory, but the words are tumbling out of his mouth anyway. “He… calls me that?”

“Oh, kid—” Iwaizumi is twenty-seven years old “—he never stops talking about you. Last night was horrible. He went on and on. I thought you were, uh, a woman. Guess not.”

Oh. Oh, God.

He doesn’t have time to process… everything since Blanco starts waving over his team. Iwaizumi tries to escape, but they all grab onto his hands or his shoulders or pat him on the back. He’s hearing a lot of Spanish and English, with the occasional horrifically pronounced Japanese word passing through their mouths. He gets the jist of it, though, as the captain of the team presses an object into his right palm.

Tómas Gallo pulls him in and presses a kiss into both of his cheeks. “Thank you, Iwa-chan. He would be honored if you took the gold medal in his place.”

Overwhelmed, he pushes away and returns to his team, who are huddled on the other side of the net. The world starts coming back to him in fractured pieces. He eyes the audience, who seem to all have their gazes trained on him.

It doesn’t really occur to him that he’s just saved the world’s best setter (not just by Iwaizumi’s standards. Not anymore. The whole world recognizes now what he’s sensed since they were seven years old on the city’s little league team). In the heat of the moment, and even still, with the lingering feeling of Oikawa’s bones creaking and snapping under his palms, of his still heartbeat and rolled-back eyes repeating in his after-vision, it’d only been him saving his best friend, just like he always has.

He looks down at his hand, finally registering that he’s holding something. Slowly unraveling his fingers, he stares down at the small keychain. It’s a miniature Japanese flag with Iwaizumi’s faded signature scribbled over it in black Sharpie ink. He’d slipped it unknowingly into Oikawa’s backpack just before he’d disappeared to the security checkpoint, leaving his entire childhood behind.

After several attempts to message him a day later asking about the flight, he had found out his phone number was blocked. He couldn’t view any of Oikawa’s social accounts when he had checked. When he had gone to Hanamaki and Matsukawa, they had shrugged and said they didn’t know anything, either.

Iwaizumi lets himself drop the keychain into his pocket. Setting his shoulders and calming his expression, he rejoins the team with an apologetic wave.

He thinks that he’s holding himself together well, all things considered. His heart isn’t failing. He doesn’t pace around the large gymnasium. His face is emotionless when everyone else seems to be looking at him with worry. His knees are pressing against the court boards. His fingernails are digging into his skin. Someone is wrapping their arms around his shoulders.

He breaks down on live television.

—

Tómas Gallo hands him Oikawa Tooru’s gold medal in a quiet hallway after the adornment ceremony.

On a count of three, Iwaizumi bites the gold medal with the captain of the Argentinian Men’s National Volleyball Team. His tongue accidentally scrapes the edge of the medallion. The cold metal tastes indistinguishable from blood.

It checks out, really. Iwaizumi has always believed that Oikawa's veins pulse with ichor. 

Gallo’s hand comes to squeeze Iwaizumi’s shoulder. He says: “Tooru says he could not have made it without you. We thank you for letting us have him.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t tell him that before he became Iwaizumi Hajime, twenty-seven years old and well-known among the most important people in the world of sports medicine, he was first and foremost Iwaizumi Hajime, three years old and playing in the sandbox when a boy wearing an alien-themed shirt dumped squirming worms all over him. He doesn’t remember it, exactly, since he was three and hadn’t developed that part of his brain yet, but his mother told him that he had tried his best to beat Oikawa to death with a plastic shovel.

He doesn’t tell Gallo that he could never have made it, either, if it hadn’t been for that little asshole and his handful of dirt-covered earthworms. Oikawa had stolen a piece of soul and shaped his future that day with his grubby hands, insufferable personality, and heart of pure gold.

Gallo doesn’t say anything more when the athletic trainer chokes down a sob.

—

“Oikawa-san is recovering from emergency surgery, Iwaizumi-sensei. He’s in good hands,” someone tells him. Their voice disintegrates like sand falling between his fingertips.

Iwaizumi breathes.

¹ In the real 2020 Tokyo Olympics, Argentina won bronze and Japan came in seventh. However, the real Argentina did not have THE Oikawa Tooru, and the real Japan didn’t have… everyone. Clearly, this is not the real Olympics. I will take my creative liberties where I can get them.

² Here, you can start to see my complete and utter lack of knowledge about volleyball. And the Olympics.

³ His roommate at UC-Irvine put him on Kitchen Nightmares and he hasn’t been the same since.

⁴ They will never admit it, partly because they think they are subtle, but everyone knows that Atsumu and Sakusa gossip with each other like the main characters of Mean Girls.

⁵ —Sensei, because that seemed like the most accurate honorific to use in relation to his job as a medical professional but not a medical doctor. If you believe this to be horrifically inaccurate, let me know and I’ll change it. I am obviously not Japanese. Usually I don’t even use honorifics in fics, but I decided to this time so I could empasize Iwa-chan.

[simplydnp]

idk. To me it just seems more likely that they have separate rooms. Bc why would Phil put his closet and bathroom in a a different room than the one he sleeps in? He'd have to go to the green room to shower and get ready. That's such an inconvenience. I think the green room is probably just Phil's room. There's no trace of Phil in the other room either, whereas the green room seems to be more his style. Idt the picture or phil's books being on the shelf confirms anything bc they'd just moved in and might have put whatever they had unpacked on the shelf to make it seem less empty. That bed also seems way too small for two people over 6'. I'm not saying that them potentially not sharing a room/sleeping in the same bed means they're not together. There are numerous reasons why a couple might want to have separate rooms or not share a bed. I just wouldn't take it as a foregone conclusion that they share a room when there's quite a bit of evidence to the contrary.

my haunches go up when i detect a patronizing tone. so forgive me if this comes off as harsh.

'quite a bit of evidence to the contrary' is a very strong claim to make when the pictures we have feature both of their things intertwined; phil's phlonde selfie is in that room; dan says if phil fills this room with cardboard boxes, he'll poo on the floor (if it wasn't his room, why would phil leave boxes in it); they had to have a discussion on putting carpet on the floor vs hardwood (separate bedrooms they couldve done whatever they liked); and dan only ever calls it 'the bedroom'--missing the possessive adjective.

'theres no trace of phil in the other room either' - it'd hard to tell which room you mean here, so i'll cover both. his stuff is in there, firstly. the 'maybe they needed to fill it for a picture' excuse is based off of nothing. next, consider the rest of the house: is there anything in the office that screams phil? what about the kitchen? or the dining room? or the lounge? i think dnp have much more compatible styles than people realize--he even says in the keep or yeet video that he doesnt wear super bright colours anymore. his rooms used to embody 'geek core'--and remember, we haven't seen phil's actual room since their first london apartment. and not that people can't keep their style while they grow up, but maybe his tastes changed. especially when his bedroom was no longer his video background. yknow, the one that was supposed to compliment his online persona and be the main part of his branding?

and the 'green room seems more his style' because the wall is green? there's literally nothing else in that room. no art on the walls, beyond the japan trip bamboo paintings from his dad, nothing on tables, no chairs--we haven't even seen the bed. what in that room seems more phil? not to mention them saying the green towels were in the guest bathroom.

re: the bed. we haven't seen a full picture of the bed. we've gotten the catboy pictures, and it looks to me like there's room for 2 people in it. like maybe they don't own a king bed, but i don't know how a queen mattress wouldn't be able to fit them. (i say this as someone with a double--there's no fucking way it's a double) sure they're long, but be fr.

in terms of the convenience of getting ready--they didn't used to have an en suite bathroom. he can walk, he'll be fine. again, we don't know where the closet is. phil seems like the kind of guy to just hang out in his pjs if he doesnt have to get ready for something. so putting his clothes near the shower/bathroom would be convenient, instead of both of them wrestling over one. and it kind of has to be by a bathroom, as why else would dan need clothes when he had to borrow some when the builders had blocked off his closet?

you're saying this isn't you claiming they aren't together, which, okay fine, but to me it sounds like another person overcomplicating their relationship. why are you so adamant they don't share one? genuinely, all you've presented is theories and opinions supported by no evidence. if they do share one, cool! if they don't, cool!

i don't enjoy being talked down to, and if that wasn't your intention, i apologize, but the way this was presented is very antagonizing.

[riddles-n-games]

If anyone watched Liv and Maddie, do you remember the episode where the girls and their brothers have a competition of  who could eat the most disgusting leftovers found in the fridge aka Refrigerator Roulette? Well, anyways, I was thinking about it, given the fact that there’s four siblings who have  competitive streaks, I immediately was like, why does that sound familiar and who do I know like that? Well, who do we know ladies? That’s when it hit me; in TIG, we have the Hawthorne brothers who are notorious for their competitions because they were raised on games and pitted against each other constantly and conveniently, there’s four of them, too. So, here’s another childhood thing they did but when the kitchen was empty.

Like with Liv and Maddie and their brothers, they split into groups of two and the spin on this here is that the boys would go through a cycle of who they teamed up with; oldest vs youngest (Nash and Gray v. Jamie and Xander), middles vs youngest and oldest (Gray and Jamie v. Xander and Nash), and favorite sibling duo (Nash and Jamie v. Gray and Xander). Now, the ironic thing is that many times Grayson and Jameson got paired together but halfway through the competition they would start competing against each other to see who would last in the more disgusting leftover rounds. By then, Nash would be clutching the Bowl of Shame with clammy hands as he watched for signs of hurling to come from either (Gray would usually succumb first). 

They would have categories like lunch from last week, dinner frozen at the last second after staying out too long, Mrs. Laughlin’s insufferables, worst desserts from a gala etc. However, that also didn’t just involve leftovers but the extremes would be set based on what kind of food it was.  Oh, and even though technically I’m sure leftovers are very unlikely an occurrence at the Hawthorne House, usually Jameson or Xander purposefully saved them in a hidden part of the fridge for this exact game. 

Now, the way this became another household ritual for the boys is that Nash actually initiated this (sort of) when he was trying to get his younger brothers to finish their meals. Each one would have trouble eating something because they didn’t like a certain food; Jameson disliked peas, Xander hated most greens and advocated strongly against them, and Grayson (yes, even him) wasn’t the biggest fan of eggs (now he loves them and dines on them like he never disliked the classic all American breakfast). To get around this, Nash made a game where if they ate their remainders, they would get a prize (cookies) or they could forfeit and one of the others could finish for them and get two cookies instead. Of course, the boys took this as well as their competitive egos could take and it was going well,  working  for two straight years, surprising. But low and behold how quickly that backfired on him because Jameson and Grayson hated to lose to each other and so they got really competitive. Eventually, the game evolved into what it is now and every time, Jameson or Xander adds a new twist to it, especially if they’re playing Drink or Dare, that’s when things get real crazy.

[fr3sh-tragedies]

Shielded Dedication

[Resident Evil: Village] Bela Dimitrescu x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Proofread: Yes

Content Warnings: Mentions of torture and death, soft angst, past trauma (based on the first part of this short series), and anxiety.

[A/N]: Here's Bela's part for the continuation of Shielded! I'm working on the stories for Cassandra and Daniela, so expect those sometime soon!

Enjoy!

//////////

Sharp, repeated pains shot their way through [Y/N]’s skull, prompting her to clench her jaw and grind her teeth together. She pinched the bridge of her nose with a sigh, her eyes screwed tightly shut. “We’re running out of maids, Cass! We can’t keep killing them for any little inconvenience!” Daniela shouted as she stepped forward to look her sister in the eyes. “We can get more! It’s not like any of them matter anyway!”

Cassandra seemed to regret her words immediately after yelling them. Her gaze had flickered over to a maid–[Y/N]--and remembered all the girl had done for her and her family. She had saved them two weeks prior from an intruder, killing off the man and bringing them to safety. She had provided warmth and blood for them to heal and regain their strength.

“Cassandra, please,” her mother warned. Her expression mirrored [Y/N]’s as she sighed. “We need to avoid punishing these maids too severely, as your sister said. There aren’t many left, and the women still left in the village are far too young or ill. Take her down to the cellars and carry out a reasonable punishment. If she’s found dead, you will never hear the end of it from me.” Cassandra parted her lips to retort something, but bit back her response with a groan. “Yes, mother,” she murmured in a much softer tone. “Daniela,” the matriarch added just as the youngest daughter began to taunt her older sister. The redhead straightened up, ignoring Cassandra, who stuck her tongue out at her and grabbed the maid nearby by the wrist. “Go with her to ensure she doesn’t take things too far, will you?” “Of course, mother.” Alcina smiled warmly at her and watched as the two pulled the maid out of the room and into the kitchen. Faintly, she heard the two beginning to bicker in hushed voices, even as they walked further away.

She turned, expecting to find her eldest daughter waiting patiently in her seat, but instead found herself alone at the table. She glanced around, eventually turning to another maid who stood anxiously by the door to the courtyard. “Did you happen to see where Bela went?” After the events that took place two weeks beforehand, Alcina grew anxious when any of her daughters disappeared without letting her know where they were headed. “I-I saw her follow [Y/N] out of the room, but I’m not sure where the two of them went. I apologize, my lady,” she said with a bow of her head. A soft sigh slipped past Alcina’s lips. “It’s alright. As long as they are together, I’m sure they’ll be fine. They seem to do a fantastic job at defending each other.”

//////////

Bela had left the room relatively quickly once she realized her family was distracted. She saw [Y/N] slip through the main doors to the dining room after hissing in pain, sparking a sense of concern which she had never felt for another person before–especially a maid. She waited a moment before swarming out of the room and following [Y/N]’s scent all the way to a hallway she often found the girl wandering in. She shifted into her solid form right before turning around a corner, allowing her to peer out from behind it and watch as an expression she adored crossed over [Y/N]’s features. This hallway held the majority of her mother’s paintings, all of which seemed to fascinate anyone who stumbled across them. But with [Y/N], it seemed to Bela that she took more interest in the pieces than any of the other maids.

She always wore a smile as her gentle gaze studied the brushstrokes and smaller details that even Bela herself had never noticed before. The blonde couldn’t help the smile that made its way across her own lips. She sucked in a deep breath, glancing down at herself to smooth out her dress and cloak, trying her best to stall for time to steel her nerves.

Softly, Bela stepped forward and strolled over to stand beside [Y/N]. She cleared her throat quietly. Her gaze flickered to the girl’s face before locking into a random spot on the canvas in front of them. “It’s extraordinary, isn’t it?” Startled by the sudden voice, [Y/N] jumped rather visibly and twirled her head to face her. “O-Oh, I’m…” She cleared her throat. “I apologize, Lady Bela, I didn’t know you were here. I figured I was alone.” Bela smiled kindly at her. “You’re quite alright, [Y/N]. I suppose I did sort of sneak up on you. I just wanted to see if you’re okay. You left the dining room in quite a hurry after all,” she explained.

“Ah, well, I promise I’m alright.” [Y/N] scratched the back of her neck with an anxious giggle, turning back to the painting to avoid eye contact. “I’ve just got a bit of a headache is all.” Bela tilted her head, her words laced with concern. “Headache? Are you falling ill?” Her question was answered with a dismissive wave of [Y/N]’s hand. “No, no, I’m alright. I just got overwhelmed with all of the noise. Plus,” she bit her tongue to stop herself from continuing. An anxious look crossed her face and she cleared her throat. “Never mind.” Bela raised a brow.

“I’m assuming your headache is also caused by my sisters and I constantly trailing after you since what happened a couple of weeks ago?”

“Ah, no, I–!”

Bela chuckled. “It’s alright, you don’t have to lie.” [Y/N] studied her gaze, terrified she might find some sign of a lie, but sighed in relief when she found none. “Well, I wouldn’t say it was a cause, but it certainly didn’t help, if I’m being honest.” The blonde delicately placed her hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I figured as much. I apologize for not doing a better job at giving you space of your own. I’ve never seen them so attached to someone before–not even our mother.”

“And I’m sure they haven’t ever barged into a maid’s bedroom asking to bundle up together before?” They both laughed quietly together as Bela shook her head. “No, of course not. I believe I can say I was just as surprised as you were to see them try that,” she responded. They shared another smile, and while [Y/N] turned back to stare absentmindedly at the painting only a few feet in front of her, Bela continued to stare, getting lost in her thoughts as she fought with herself on whether or not she should ask the question that had been burning on her tongue for over a week now.

Feeling the eldest daughter’s soft gaze still on her, [Y/N]’s attention was brought back to the woman beside her. “Are you alright?” Bela blinked, surprised to find herself zoning out. “Oh, yes, I’m fine! S-Sorry, I just…” she trailed off and fumbled with her own hands after hiding them behind her torso. “I’ve been—I want to—there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a while now, but I’m afraid you’ll find me too clingy or desperately annoying.”

“Bela, I could never think of you that way. As I said before, you and your family mean the world to me. I’ll do anything and everything I can to protect you all and make you happy. Please don’t feel ashamed to ask me something.”

Bela was taken aback by her words. She hadn’t expected to ever find someone so kind and selfless in her lifetime. It felt nice to be seen and welcomed and understood by someone aside from herself. That was what had drawn her to this girl in the first place: she always put others’ needs before her own, and she knew it was wrong to do so at times, but she understood because she did the same for her family. Her nerves calmed, allowing her to breathe normally and smile. “Well, I’m sure by now you know my sisters and I all crave a source of warmth, especially considering our only weakness is the frigid air.” [Y/N] beamed, nodding to show she was listening intently.

“Ever since you saved us that day and let us huddle up against you to warm up again–to let us rest and regain our strength–I’ve been finding it…very difficult to sleep soundly. My bed and its covers provide enough warmth to keep me content, but they aren’t warm enough to lull me into sleep the way you did. I-I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true. You really do bring me a sense of comfort that I’ve never experienced before, and I…

“I want to ask if we could possibly do that again? Without my sisters?” Once she processed her words, her face flustered and she began to ramble. “Oh god, that’s not how I meant for that to come across at all–I apologize! I-I just meant could we sleep together,” another gasp fell from her lips, cutting her off. “N-No, that’s not what I meant either!”

She groaned and planted her red face in her palms when [Y/N] began to giggle at her stuttering. She sighed and felt her shoulders droop in defeat. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make this so awkward. I had this all planned out. I wrote a letter and everything to avoid this.” [Y/N] laughed again, though she gently laid her hand on Bela’s arm. “You don’t have to apologize, hun. I won’t lie to you—that is an awkward question to try to phrase. I’m sure I wouldn’t have done any better.” Bela blushed at the nickname, but grinned at the reassurance. She rubbed her arm anxiously once [Y/N]’s hand fell back to her side.

“So, what do you say?” [Y/N] hummed in thought, staring off into space like she did when she examined Alcina’s portraits. “I don’t know. What if your sisters or your mother find us? Won’t they be upset? I mean, they’d be for completely different reasons, but I still don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.” Bela felt herself internally swooning again at the girl’s selflessness.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. My mother knows not to come into my room without permission, and even though my sisters aren’t the same, I don’t see why they’d come up. I’m usually the first to wake up each morning, so I get them up for breakfast.” [Y/N] smiled at her, and Bela wished she could kiss her right then and there. She knew, however, that she had to take things slow. If tonight went well, then she could work up the courage to confess her feelings. She failed to notice that what she was asking to do was considered more intimate than simply sharing words of pure admiration, even with how intelligent others deemed her to be. She was blissfully oblivious to how love worked–that’s something her youngest sister Daniela was more experienced with.

Her attention was brought back to the present as [Y/N] tilted her head and tapped her shoulder. She blinked, irritated with herself for losing focus so quickly when she was the one who initiated the conversation. “Are you alright?” Bela nodded. “Yes!” Her face went red and she cleared her throat, waving her hands anxiously. “Ah, sorry! I didn’t mean to raise my voice or zone out like that,” she stammered out as she mentally slapped herself. She was worried that [Y/N] would make fun of her or think she was annoying, but instead, the girl laughed softly. Bela looked back over at her with a surprised expression. Something in the back of her mind was screaming at her to stop talking because she had already caused enough of a scene. “Sorry, Bela, I’ve just never seen you like this before.”

The noble woman’s ears perked up a bit. Her eyebrows furrowed together slightly in concern. “Is that a bad thing? I’m–I’m not annoying you, am I?” [Y/N] giggled again and shook her head. “Oh, no, not at all! It’s nice to see that side of you. It makes you seem more human.” Bela found herself smiling sheepishly. “Oh, well…I’m glad.” The two women gazed comfortably at each other for a moment, though it was short-lived. A look of pure panic crossed over [Y/N]’s features, and oh, how desperately Bela hated seeing her like that.

“Oh, I just realized I called you Bela! Have I been doing that every time? I’m so sorry for stepping out of line, my lady!” She lowered her head. Bela, though [Y/N] couldn’t see it, was hurt. Why should calling her by her name be so upsetting? Did she feel like she was obligated to do as she said merely because of her status? Bela felt herself fighting back her guilt and tears. She stepped forward, her thumb and index finger coming down to gently hook themselves under [Y/N]’s chin. She tilted her head up to look her in the eye. “Darling, I can promise you, it doesn’t bother me. Please don’t worry about formality. You can call me Bela, okay? I won’t get upset. I mean, I’m asking you to stay with me tonight for god’s sake. If I still expected you to call me by my titles, then I wouldn’t be so kind to you. You’d join the other maids in my sisters’ endless and torturous games.”

Bela then cupped her face and tugged gently enough to wordlessly ask [Y/N] to stand up properly. “You are so special to me. And not just to me for that matter–all of House Dimitrescu adores you. I can’t speak for my sisters, but I want you to drop the formality towards me. Aside from status, you are in no way inferior to me–not in importance, not in value or worth, and not in your right to be your own being. If it helps you feel any more comfortable with me, I want you to know that I actually see you as being–” she paused, a groan escaping her lips. “Ah, what did Dani describe it as when I spoke to her about this?” She wracked her brain. Her eyes visibly lit up when it clicked.

“Out of my league! That’s what it was.” She finally came to the end of her speech and fixed her gaze on [Y/N]’s. The girl still held a mix of emotions in her eyes, the same eyes that Bela had fallen so in love with, and the eldest Dimitrescu daughter was relieved to find that fear wasn’t one of them. Hoping to lighten the mood, Bela came up with a quick question. “Uh, by the way,” she started, forcing herself to look anxious. “Is that, like, something people normally say? Is it a sports thing or something? I never really know whether to take Dani’s love advice or not after reading some of the stories she reads.”

[Y/N] blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change of tone and subject. She laughed softly as Bela had hoped, allowing Bela to smile triumphantly. “No, it’s not a sports thing, but it is something people say as a form of endearment. Lady Daniela was right about that part,” [Y/N] replied, her tensed muscles relaxing. Her change in demeanor was immediately noticeable. She felt comfortable again as the casual atmosphere from before had resurfaced.

She rubbed her forearm and averted her gaze to the side. “Do you really view me as being “out of your league?”” Her gaze flew back to Bela and stared expectantly. Bela beamed warmly and nodded. “Of course I do. And I meant what I said when I want you to drop the titles. Just call me Bela, alright?” [Y/N] mirrored her smile. The movement of her nodding her head forced Bela to realize that she was still cradling the girl’s face in her hands. They flew back, driving themselves to the woman’s cloak to pick at the hem. “Ah, sorry about that!”

Even though she had told [Y/N] mere moments ago that she wanted her to be comfortable around her and be viewed as her equal, Bela couldn’t help but feel on-edge herself at how close they were. She chuckled uneasily and finally managed to force herself to glance back at the girl in front of her. “Actually,” [Y/N] started. She stepped forward and delicately took Bela’s hands into her own. She brought them up to return to where they were before. “I don’t mind. It felt really nice.” Bela felt her voice hitch in her throat. Other than when she had clung to her for warmth after the attack, Bela had never figured she’d be able to be so close to [Y/N]. It made her heart hammer against her ribs, which only worsened once she remembered the two of them were likely going to share the same bed in a short amount of time.

[Y/N] certainly didn’t help the foreign feeling as she leaned into Bela’s palms and closed her eyes. Had anyone come by at that very moment, they would’ve seen just how red the cold, stone-faced, sophisticated daughter’s face had gotten. The crimson blush flustered itself all the way up to her ears. This girl made her go weak in the knees. She had always imagined she’d despise the feeling, but after realizing her feelings, Bela couldn’t be happier to feel so smitten.

She felt herself falling harder for the girl each time she even crossed her mind. Around [Y/N], Bela never felt as though she had to be proper and hard on herself all the time. It was never hard for her to find comfort in [Y/N]’s presence and finally give herself a break she knew she deserved.

Finally, after taking a moment to regain her composure and clear her throat, Bela spoke up again. “So,” her voice cracked. She cleared her throat more aggressively and followed it up with a hum to ensure it wouldn’t break again. “Shall we–ah, I don’t want to phrase it horribly again. Should we–” “Retire for the night?” Too worried she’d say the wrong thing again, Bela simply nodded. [Y/N] giggled, bringing another smile to the blonde’s face, and nodded. “Yes, that sounds great right now. My head is still killing me.” “I won’t let it kill you. I’ll fight it off until it leaves you alone, even if it’s to the death.” “Bela, hun, it’s just a headache.” They laughed together softly. After a few moments passed, [Y/N] tugged on Bela’s hands and led them down to wrap themselves around her waist. Bela stiffened. [Y/N] placed her hands on the taller woman’s shoulders, closing her eyes and letting her forehead rest against her own.

“I know what you were trying to say though. I think it’s sweet.” Bela felt herself relax after a moment of processing. She couldn’t bite back the smile that made its way to her lips. She leaned into [Y/N] and the embrace, closing her eyes as well and allowing herself to focus on her senses: the sound of the light breathing they shared, combined with their heartbeats, the smell of [Y/N]’s scent, and the feeling of being held by the one she cherishes most. [Y/N]’s skin felt like clouds beneath Bela’s fingertips. The warmth radiating from [Y/N]’s body lulled her into a state of bliss that she had felt each time she had the chance to hug the girl.

Oh, how she wanted this feeling to last forever. She promised herself that she would find a way to gather her confidence and confess how she felt in an attempt to secure this feeling.

“Bela?” Her eyes shot open to find [Y/N] gazing up at her tiredly. “Are you ready to head up for bed?” She smiled yet again, realizing, as she steadied the two of them, that they had been swaying. “Yeah, I am.” She leaned forward and fully hugged [Y/N], squeezing her tight before leaning back. “But you look exhausted, and I don’t want you to have to climb up the stairs. I don’t want my sisters to bother us either, so–” She leaned back even further before crouching down swiftly. Her left arm hooked itself behind [Y/N]’s knees and pushed them forward, allowing her other arm to catch her. She swept her up off of her feet and tossed her up high enough to carry her in her arms.

[Y/N] yelped at the sudden motion. Her arms flew up in a panic to wrap themselves around Bela’s shoulders, desperate to stop herself from falling. She looked up at the woman now holding her and blushed as Bela laughed softly at her expression. “I’ll just fly us up there, alright?” [Y/N] nodded, watching and listening as the lower half of Bela’s form dissolved into a swarm of flies. She whimpered as they began to rise off of the ground.

Bela squeezed her gently against her torso, prompting her to look up at the woman who was now inching forward. “Don’t worry. Like I said, I won’t let anything hurt you. You’re safe.”

After moving a bit further to gauge [Y/N]’s reaction, Bela picked up her speed hastily. Before the frightened girl could even take a moment to fear the action of flying through the air for the first time, the two of them had already made it up to the second floor. They continued down the seemingly endless hallways until they landed a few feet in front of Bela’s door. [Y/N] had figured she was going to be put down before entering the room, but she was proven wrong when Bela had opened the door and placed her down on the bed. She turned just long enough to close and lock the door before turning back to [Y/N]. “We should be fine. I just had to hurry so my sisters wouldn’t stop us and pester you.”

Still trying to comprehend the fact they were now all the way upstairs, [Y/N] could only nod with a bewildered expression on her face. Bela grinned nervously. “Ah, sorry. I forgot you haven’t moved that quickly before. I didn’t even ask if there was something you’d like to change into.” She flew herself over to her wardrobe and picked out two different outfits, hiding in the closet for a moment. She emerged with a pair of white silk pants on, accompanied by a dull crimson red tank top that had been readjusted into more of a crop-top or bra. She placed down a set of black cotton shorts and a gray long-sleeved shirt that was clearly going to be oversized on the girl.

“I don’t really have anything that’ll fit you, I apologize. I hope these will work. They’re the smallest ones I could find.” [Y/N] nodded and smiled. She picked up the clothes as she stood. “It’s alright. I think it’d be weird if you had clothes that would fit me, considering how much smaller I am compared to you.” Only a few feet away from the closet door, [Y/N] froze and quickly spun around on her heel. “That’s n-not what I meant! I’m sorry–I really hope that didn’t come across in the wrong way!”

Reminded of how she was just moments ago, Bela couldn’t help but find herself chuckling quietly. “No, it’s alright. I know what you meant, I promise.” A sigh of relief sounded from [Y/N], who then turned around again and momentarily disappeared into the closet. Bela blew out the candles that were lighting up the room and climbed into her bed. She snuggled up underneath her covers, being sure to be the one closest to the door. Flipping onto her back, she sighed and stared up at the ceiling, completely unaware of the smitten, dorky grin she had.

The thoughts and realizations already beginning to swarm her mind were short-lived, interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open, followed by the soft whisper of her name. “Bela?” She sat up. Her breath was taken away by the sight of [Y/N]’s soft skin being illuminated by the moonlight seeping in through the window.

Standing there bashfully, [Y/N] donned the pair of shorts that Bela had provided for her, though she wasn’t wearing the shirt. The blonde’s golden eyes spotted it tucked in the crook of her elbow. She had no shirt on, only wearing a bra, which revealed so much of the body that Bela was so desperate to hold. Unable to speak, she could only stare. “I-I couldn’t really wear the shirt. It was really uncomfortable since it kept slipping off of my shoulders. I hope you don’t mind if I sleep like this.”

When she was met with absolute silence, [Y/N] swallowed the lump in her throat and began to back away. “I-If it makes you uncomfortable, I can go change–” “No!” She jumped at the blunt volume. Bela seemed just as surprised with herself. “S-Sorry, I didn’t mean to yell! I just,” she rose from her bed and walked to stand in front of the smaller woman. “You look perfect like this. It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” Her hands found themselves picking at each other in front of her torso, itching to hold [Y/N]’s.

“You really think so?” “Of course I do. Then again, you look perfect in everything.” [Y/N] blushed. Her free hand trailed up to pick at the shirt tucked under her arm. “O-Oh, um…thank you,” she whispered almost inaudibly in response. Bela fought a war in her mind to find something to say to lower the tension, but was brought back to her senses as [Y/N] took her hand and tugged her over to the bed. She crawled onto her side–the side that had been left undisturbed–and slid under the covers. She stuffed the shirt underneath her pillow. “Could we go to bed? I’m exhausted.”

Bela grinned and nodded as she joined her. “Of course.”

Once the two of them were settled, the tension returned–for Bela, anyway. She readjusted herself so she could lie on her side and face [Y/N], whose back was facing her. She studied her for a moment, watching her breathe in and out. She wondered if she would ever have the luxury of getting to wake up to [Y/N]’s peaceful face. She often found herself fantasizing about seeing her features so tranquil, partially highlighted by the light of the morning sun to emphasize the parts of her that Bela adored most–her gentle eyes, perfect nose, soft lips that she ached to one day kiss–

“Are you alright?”

Bela jolted and felt her eyes shoot back up to focus her sight again. “Huh?” [Y/N] was now twisted in a way that let her glance back at Bela comfortably. “I felt like someone was watching me, so I looked around, but it was you staring at me. Is everything alright?” Embarrassment overwhelmed Bela. She internally scolded herself for losing focus yet again.

“Oh,” she began. “Yes, I’m alright. I just…have a question is all.” Piqued with interest, [Y/N] rolled over onto her other side so she fully faced the blushing woman beside her. “Oh? What is it?” She had known she was going to have to ask sooner or later, even though she had hoped her recollection of the night of the attack would get the question across without being so blunt, but Bela was still terrified that she’d ruin this moment by asking what she wanted to.

Not allowing a single moment for herself to back away in fear, Bela blurted out her question. She was thankful that her fatigue was helping her feel too tired to be as anxious as before.

“Could you hold me while we sleep?” [Y/N] was quick to smile. She didn't seem bothered in the slightest. “Of course. C’mere,” she whispered as she held out her arms. Bela instantly buried herself into [Y/N]’s chest. She tucked her arms between the two of their bodies and let her face nuzzle into the girl’s partially bare breasts. If she hadn’t been so numb from her exhaustion, [Y/N] would have found this embarrassing. Bela would have as well. The two of them didn’t mind, however, and instead found comfort in the close contact. [Y/N]’s arms wrapped themselves around the blonde. Her left hand slid up and began to stroke the soft blonde locks that were sprawled out across the pillow.

A low hum rumbled in the back of Bela’s throat and chest as she began to drift in and out of consciousness. As far back as she could remember, Bela had never felt this safe and comfortable before. It was heavenly to feel so secure.

The feeling of fingernails softly scratching her scalp and the spots behind her ears would have been enough to make Bela’s eyes roll into the back of her head if they had been open. She couldn’t quite explain why it felt so good, but she certainly didn’t have a problem with it. Somewhere deep inside of her, she had the hidden craving for physical affection. She wanted to be held and cherished, caressed and comforted. She longed for someone who would welcome her when she needed someone to lean on, someone who would remind her to take breaks and take care of herself when she was too busy buried up in paperwork to remember, someone who wouldn’t use her for her status, someone who wouldn’t find her clinginess an inconvenience. She wanted someone who could prove they were dedicated as much to her as she was to them.

Her eyes fluttered open as she pondered whether or not [Y/N] was that someone.

“By the way, I think you look perfect in everything as well. I meant to say it earlier, but I was worried I’d make you uncomfortable. You’re perfect in my eyes, inside and out, and I really do want you to know that. I love you, Bela.”

Her heart flipped as she beamed ear to ear. She closed her eyes again and wriggled her face further into [Y/N]’s soft, warm skin. [Y/N] was that someone, she was sure of that after reflecting on the past two weeks. It just needed to be confirmed by those three words she had been dreaming of hearing for centuries–the ones she wanted to utter in reply to the woman she loved most.

“I love you too.”

[toomanyrobins2]

Our Manhattan

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part //��series masterlist // next part

Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!

24th March, maybe the 25th

Dear Batman,

I don't believe I can be going to Heaven—I am getting such a lot of good things here; it wouldn't be fair to get them hereafter too. Listen to what has happened.

Y/N Abbott has won the short-story contest (a twenty-five dollar prize) that the Monthly holds every year. And she's a Sophomore! The contestants are mostly Seniors. When I saw my name posted, I couldn't quite believe it was true. Maybe I am going to be an author after all. I wish Mrs. Lippett hadn't given me such a silly name—it sounds like an author-ess, doesn't it?

Also I have been chosen for the spring dramatics—As You Like It out of doors. I am going to be Celia, own cousin to Rosalind.

And lastly: Harriet and Barbara and I are going to New York next Friday to do some spring shopping and stay all night and go to the theatre the next day with 'Master Brucie.' He invited us. Harriet is going to stay at home with her family, but Barbara and I are going to stop at the Martha Washington Hotel. Did you ever hear of anything so exciting? I've never been in a hotel in my life, nor in a theatre; except once when the Catholic Church had a festival and invited the orphans, but that wasn't a real play and it doesn't count.

And what do you think we're going to see? Hamlet. Think of that! We studied it for four weeks in Shakespeare class and I know it by heart.

I am so excited over all these prospects that I can scarcely sleep.

Goodbye, Bats.

This is a very entertaining world.

Yours ever,

Judy

PS. I've just looked at the calendar. It's the 28th.

Another postscript.

I saw a street car conductor today with one brown eye and one blue. Wouldn't he make a nice villain for a detective story?

 

7th April

Dear Batman,

Mercy! Isn't New York big? Worcester is nothing to it. Do you mean to tell me that you actually lived in all that confusion? I don't believe that I shall recover for months from the bewildering effect of two days of it. I can't begin to tell you all the amazing things I've seen; I suppose you know, though, since you live there yourself.

But aren't the streets entertaining? And the people? And the shops? I never saw such lovely things as there are in the windows. It makes you want to devote your life to wearing clothes.

Barbara and Harriet and I went shopping together Saturday morning. Harriet went into the very most gorgeous place I ever saw, white and gold walls and blue carpets and blue silk curtains and gilt chairs. A perfectly beautiful lady with yellow hair and a long black silk trailing gown came to meet us with a welcoming smile. I thought we were paying a social call, and started to shake hands, but it seems we were only buying hats—at least Harriet was. She sat down in “front of a mirror and tried on a dozen, each lovelier than the last, and bought the two loveliest of all.

I can't imagine any joy in life greater than sitting down in front of a mirror and buying any hat you choose without having first to consider the price! There's no doubt about it, Bats; New York would rapidly undermine this fine stoical character which the Bowery Home so patiently built up.

And after we'd finished our shopping, we met Master Bruce at Sherry's. I suppose you've been in Sherry's? Picture that, then picture the dining room of the Bowery Home with its oilcloth-covered tables, and white crockery that you can't break, and wooden-handled knives and forks; and fancy the way I felt!

I ate my fish with the wrong fork, but the waiter very kindly gave me another so that nobody noticed.

And after luncheon we went to the theatre—it was dazzling, marvellous, unbelievable—I dream about it every night.

Isn't Shakespeare wonderful?

Hamlet is so much better on the stage than when we analyze it in class; I “appreciated it before, but now, dear me!

I think, if you don't mind, that I'd rather be an actress than a writer. Wouldn't you like me to leave college and go into a dramatic school? And then I'll send you a box for all my performances, and smile at you across the footlights. Only wear a red rose in your buttonhole, please, so I'll surely smile at the right man. It would be an awfully embarrassing mistake if I picked out the wrong one.

We came back Saturday night and had our dinner in the train, at little tables with pink lamps. I never heard of meals being served in trains before, and I inadvertently said so.

'Where on earth were you brought up?' said Harriet to me.

'In a village,' said I meekly, to Harriet.

'But didn't you ever travel?' said she to me.

'Not till I came to college, and then it was only a hundred and sixty miles and we didn't eat,' said I to her.

She's getting quite interested in me, because I say such funny things. I try hard not to, but they do pop out when I'm surprised—and I'm surprised most “of the time. It's a dizzying experience, to pass eighteen years in the Bowery Home, and then suddenly to be plunged into the WORLD.

But I'm getting acclimated. I don't make such awful mistakes as I did; and I don't feel uncomfortable anymore with the other girls. I used to squirm whenever people looked at me. I felt as though they saw right through my sham new clothes to the checked ginghams underneath. But I'm not letting the ginghams bother me anymore. Sufficient unto yesterday is the evil thereof.

I forgot to tell you about our flowers. Master Bruce gave us each a big bunch of violets and lilies-of-the-valley. Wasn't that sweet of him? I never used to care much for men—judging by Trustees—but I'm changing my mind.

Yours always,

Y/N 

 

10th April

Dear Mr. Rich-Man,

Here's your cheque for fifty dollars. Thank you very much, but I do not feel that I can keep it. My allowance is sufficient to afford all of the hats that I need. I am sorry that I wrote all that silly stuff about the millinery shop; it's just that I had never seen anything like it before.

However, I wasn't begging! And I would rather not accept any more charity than I have to.

Sincerely yours,

Y/N Abbott

Bruce stared down at the check. He had barely thought about it when they had been out in the city and once Y/n had sent the letter, he’d dispatched the check without a second thought. 

Clark Kent, who had been present during the discussion about Y/N's shopping woes, entered the study with a knowing expression. "Having trouble with the whole 'helping' thing?" Clark quipped, a  smile playing on his lips.

Bruce sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to make things a bit easier for her. She didn't have to return the check."

Clark leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. "Bruce, you know Y/N at this point. She's independent and proud. Accepting help might not come naturally to her, especially from someone like you."

Bruce frowned, the frustration evident in his eyes. "But I want to help. She shouldn't have to feel lesser than her peers."

Clark nodded, understanding Bruce's genuine concern. "Maybe it's not about the help itself, but how it's offered. Try sending her a letter with a short note explaining why you sent the check. Make it personal. Sometimes, a few carefully chosen words can make a big difference."

Bruce considered Clark's suggestion, recognizing the wisdom in his friend's advice. "You think that might work?"

"Y/N's a writer, Bruce. Words matter to her. A thoughtful note can make the gesture feel less like charity and more like a friend looking out for another," Clark explained.

Taking a deep breath, Bruce reached for a pen and paper. 

Miss Abbott, I go against my rules by penning this letter but I find myself unable to let this matter go. This check is not charity but a gift from a friend who wishes to see you excel in all matters. I wish you to be able to experience all that your peers are able to. I have never sponsored a woman before and I confess that I lack the knowledge to ensure that you are equal to your peers.  I kindly request that you keep this cheque as an apology for my own failings as your patron.  Mr. Smith

As Bruce sealed the letter, he handed it to Alfred, who was passing by. "Alfred, make sure this gets to Miss Abbott. And let's hope this time, she accepts it."

[ansel-rae562]

Together Forever

[part 2 of Sparks of love

-Childe x Reader-]

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You woke up to see the beautifully decorated room that you share with Childe back in Snezhnaya, you removed the blanket over your body and stood up...you were wearing a different outfit than the last one you remembered....you were in Sumeru right?...then what happened..you don't remember as if your brain was all fuzzy so you just went to get dressed up.

Going down the stairs you smelled a familiar scent coming from the kitchen, walking over to the kitchen there you saw Childe cooking a soup with seafood in them, it's a prize catch the one that he likes to cook and also your favorite

"Good morning Милая....I see you're awake now, how about you go sit in the dining room? your favorite dish is almost ready"

he chuckled at you and kissed your forehead which you returned the favor by kissing him on his cheek.

After your breakfast with Childe he insisted that you both go to the plaza as a date this noon, walking around Snezhnaya with the 11th fatui harbinger is something normal now ever since he was a fatui agent some even say that you were both childhood friends.. which was true.

Back then when you were 13 and he was 14, you both were playing hide and seek in the forest but when you were looking for him you couldn't find him so you rushed back to their house and informed his parents and it made them worry, even though he was a troublemaker his parents are worried for him so they searched the forest yet still no sign of him anywhere.

You spent two days feeling guilty till you went to the forest yourself to look for him, you spent all day till noon roaming the forest not even eating...that's how worried you are of him. Still walking through the harsh cold weather when suddenly you missed a step rolling down a hill then your back hit something very harshly till it was replaced by a freezing feeling throughout your body...it took you awhile to register...you were sinking...you couldn't move as if your energy doesn't exist anymore....

{7 years ago}

Ajax was training with Skirk when something in the skies of the abyss appeared... it was a person falling, Skirk immediately rushed to the person before they could hit the ground Just then Ajax came up to Skirk as well and saw the person on her arms

"...(Y/N)!..."

He screamed he tried to hold you but Skirk prevented him

"They're injured... Quick back to the base"

She said rushing back to where they are staying and immediately treating their wounds.

After you were all bandaged up Ajax stayed by your side holding your hand

"Their back is damaged, probably from an impact of the ice since they were also very wet and cold, I don't know how long they'll stay asleep but here in the abyss they'll surely heal faster than in the overworld"

Skirk said to Ajax who was just looking at you worriedly.....

Childe knocked on your bedroom door as you told him he can come in, when he saw you in an outfit he brought you... It was enough to keep you warm but also very stunning on you

"You look.... Very beautiful Любовь моя..."

he said approaching you admiring your figure

"T-thank you...Ajax.."

even after all the years of both of you being together, he still manages to make you flusttered. He led you outside with your hand on his as then you both walked together to the plaza, you both spent the noon roaming around the plaza sometimes buying you things that you take interest in overall just spoiling you till night.

He walked you to the very center of the plaza and you noticed a few fatui soldiers around which is a bit more than usual so you brushed it off thinking that it's because Ajax is with you, You then suddenly heard a music from behind you that made your head turn towards it...they were playing a quite romantic song

"(Y/N)!!"

someone screamed from behind you once again you recognize their voices, it was Ajax's little siblings as you then turned around you were met with your family and his family all holding together a big sign that says

'WILL YOU MARRY ME?'

Ajax then got down on his one knee and held out a beautiful ring to you

"(Y/N).....we have been together since wee were children and growing up with also made my feelings grow for you into something more...and now here I am kneeling on one knee for you...to ask for your hand in marriage and will you...make me the happiest man alive??..."

he said his words making you tear up as you nod and said yes.

Months have passed since you've been engaged with Ajax so far everything is great, he's been very caring and loving towards you and now today is the day....You're finally getting married to Ajax isn't it very exciting?... you asked yourself, though there is a feeling in you screaming to run...run away..escape before it's far more too late.......Ŗ̸̛̦̰̱̻͉̼̬͙̝̯͕̤͈̥͂́̇̂̍́̅̾̊̋̌̚͝Ư̷̡̢̡̪̜̦̥̖̩̻̮̝̦̤̤̐Ñ̷͈̹̦͓̱͍̻̰͛̏̈̀͛͒̈́͂̇͌̉̒̈́̏̿̕͘͝͠.̷̛͎͍̹͕̺̬͙̰̽́̋͗̽̂̑͐̀̂̒̃͐̇̄̚͠ͅ ̷̼̙̮̈́͋͝ ̶͖̺̳̏͒̌̀͋͋̀́͑͊̀̔̒́̍̊̚͘͠͝N̶̰͔̰̜̟͎͕͈̂̍̒̽̎̋̌̌̒͒̈́̒̂͒͂̄̕͠Ŏ̷̧̭͚͖̫̱̬̪͙̮̟͍͉̰͓͔́̿̏͊̊̾̄̊͜͝W̷��̛̱͔̮̯̱͕͙͎̫͔͈͈̯̦̗͔͔̉̎̋̍̈́͂̏̿̀͆̇͑͆̈́͜͝.̸̨̢̨̯̤̫̪̟̪͎̪͓̺͓̾̀͠.̸̡̛̟̝̀.̵̡̞͕̺̰͍̊͒̆̊͘.̸̢̙̯̻͇̜̜͔͋̽̇́̑͒̽̀͂̾́̐͑̋̀͘͘̕̕.̴̢̢̧̛̹̻̼̘̮͔̪̪͕̣͕͕̞͙̺̞̓̀̇̈̄͑͑̾̇̄̔̕͘ͅ.̸̧̧͈͕̦̪̯̳͓̘̭̓͑̀͆Ę̵͚͈̮̱̥͕̗̝̩̙̩͙̟̻͛̈́̊̿̒͋͐̽̋̾̔͑̚͜͠S̷͈͓̐̃͗̓̉̐̒͝͝C̸̨̛̬̜̩͓̫̞̤̘͚͛̈́͋̎̿͌̀̓͝͝Ą̴̹͉̞͖̹͓͈̪̺̠̭͖̦͓̗̅̃̈́̽͗̆̃̄́͛͆̓P̶̧̝̼͙͖̼̪̥̖̻͇̮̓̈́̾ͅÉ̷̡̤͖̤̗̙͔̰̩̠͙̞̀̏́̍̀͜͠ͅ.̴̡̧̖̳̣̱̱̪̝̱̙̯̮̻̗͒̔̒̓͂̊̉͌̋̕.̴̧̗̱͎̺̖͓̠̫͈͖͋̌̽̐̇͊̉̓̎̋̚̕͘͝͠.̸̭͚͖̻̫̞̌̍͋̾͛͝

A knock suddenly sounded at the door

"(Y/N)?...It's almost time for you to walk down the aisle..."

your father said as you quickly put on the veil and went out of the room you're staying in, your father looked at you with teary eyes and kissed you forehead

"My child is all grown up now....come on let's get you to your husband...."

he said.

there at the altar you and Ajax stood hand on hand while looking at eachother's eyes

"Do you (Y/N) (L/N) take this man to be your husband for life?"

"Yes!..."

"And now Ajax, do you take this person to be your partner for life?"

"mhm..Yes!..."

"You may now then kiss"

Ajax wasted no time and kissed you immediately as then everyone celebrated your union with one another, He took your hands once again and looked at you with obsessive Loving eyes

"We are now Together Forever my love.... Even after death I'll follow be with you forever...."

[myloveforhergoeson]

October 2nd

Prompt: Apparition

Having the Palm Woods Hotel right smack dab in the middle of Los Angeles afforded the band, their assistant, and friends no shortage of things to do and places to explore. For instance, Big Time Rush had recently discovered a discount movie theater a few blocks from their apartment building, where on Wednesday nights, it was practically cheaper than dirt to catch some old out-of-traditional-theater classics.

Since the air in LA was growing cooler, the chill of October beginning to seep into every little crack of the city, the discount theater had begun a run of older, spookier films; The band and their friends had decided to take advantage of this fact, snagging some last-minute tickets to The Sixth Sense.

As someone with the actual sixth sense, it was hard for Roxy not to take the movie as a comedy. She had to remember to snuggle into her boyfriend's arm at all the scary twists and turns, instead of laughing so hard soda squirted out her nose. But, seeing a movie with James as her boyfriend for the first time was nice - There were plenty of excuses to be all up in his personal space, and the darkness of the theater provided some nice coverage for covert kisses... Until James actually grew interested in the later half of the film.

Judging by the claminess of his hand as she clasped it in hers, he'd been sufficiently spooked by the end. This trait seemed to have affected a few of the other boys and Camille as well, leaving Jo, Kendall, Stephanie, and Roxy to criticize the cheesiness of the film as they made their way home that evening.

Smog hanging thick over the city skyline made it hard to see both the stars and moon as the teens headed down Hollywood Boulevard. Normally, this street was full of hustle and bustle as tourists took a walk down the Hollywood Walk of Fame, dined in the dozens of both chain and local restaurants, and took advantage of all the tourist attractions lining both sides of the street, but it was getting to be almost midnight now, so most of the businesses were either closed or on track to very soon.

That left the band of teenagers mostly to their own devices, chatting about this and that as they passed the darkened shop windows and the last stragglers trying to find somewhere to hunker down for the night.

James' jacket and arm were wrapped around Roxy's shoulders as she listened to her friends chatter on, so grateful for an evening where they got to hang out all together, forget about the stresses of their unconventional jobs, and feel like "normal" teenagers for the first time in quite a while. She pressed into his side as they rounded the corner to take them off the main road and back to the Palm Woods, stealing as much of his body heat as possible.

Crash!

The sound of a glass bottle being smashed against the rocky asphalt underfoot rang out from an alleyway they walked past; All of the hair on Roxy's arms stood. Not a good sign at all.

"What was that?" Carlos wondered aloud, the first of the group to stop and peer down the dimly lit space. Though the entrance seemed to be quite wide between two taller buildings, as they all paused to look, the lines of walls seemed to go on forever and ever, narrowing but never-ending.

It took everything Roxy had in her not to shout, "Back!" the moment Kendall took a step forward, squinting as his eyes scanned the area, attempting to figure out where the sound came from. She was beginning to grow nauseous, needing to hold onto her boyfriend a bit tighter to keep her balance.

"Probably nothing..." The blond replied, hand still clasped in Jo's before she pointed to a dumpster on the side of the alleyway.

"No, look there!"

As everyone followed her finger, they all noticed a large, black dog clawing into one of the trash bags at its base. Its growls were loud enough to be heard even though they were quite far from the animal.

Every part of Roxy's brain was screaming at her to flee immediately, but there was no way to communicate this to her friends without raising suspicion of both herself and the creature.

Camille's arm fell from where she was hugging Logan's waist, facial features drooping. "Aww, poor thing. It must be so hungry."

"We can call animal control when we get home," Roxy tried, tugging on James' arm to try and get her friends moving again. She had no idea what they could be up against, but her mind was fluttering somewhere between the scale of werewolf and hellhound. Neither were good options, nor were nay of the ones in the middle, if they were to get caught with the hungry creature. "They can come take care of it."

If James sensed her unease, he didn't show it. "And just take it to lock it up in the pound? That's horrible!"

"Well, we can't take it home with us! No pets at the Palm Woods," Stephanie reminded them, gripping the straps of her cross-body bag.

"Yeah, but is it worse to leave it here where it can run out on the road and get hit by a car or something?" Logan asked, genuinely, turning to his friends with wide eyes.

Oh, that thing is definitely making it out of a car crash... The person behind the wheel... Not as likely...

The witch needed to do something, and fast before the dog noticed them, but there were too many eyes on the creature for her to make any kind of move. Silently, she racked her brain for anything she could think of to drive the beast away from them covertly, without adding to the strangeness of the situation.

As she looked to the sky for help, it was just her luck the fall clouds had parted, granting her full view of the gorgeous, bright crescent moon above them.

Bingo.

"Woah... Check out the moon!"

Though she couldn't think of any astrological phenomenon that would explain why the sliver of the visible satellite planet was so cool, she saw her friend's heads snap up at her words, pulling their attention from the dog-like creature for a second. With a wave of her hand, a conjuration of amber-colored sparkles shot down the alley, lighting its path like the flame of a candle, before stopping in front of the creature, and forming in the shape of a large man.

Had she traded enough of her energy to make it look like a real man, she'd probably pass out on the spot, so she'd settled for a shadow-like figure appearing by the dumpster to spook the animal.

Her figure raised its arms above its head, lunging in toward the dog and it let out a nasty bark before tucking its tail and running in the opposite direction from the teens down the alley.

It was just her luck Carlos chose that exact moment to return his attention to the dog, trading his view of the moon for a view of the shadowed apparition in the middle of the alley.

"Uh... Guys.." He started and Roxy hurriedly waved her hand again, heart pounding in her chest as the figure disappeared. "Did anyone else see the shadow figure or was it just me?"

Now everyone was looking at Carlos, trying and failing to contain their laughter at his question. Though she felt bad for contributing to the teasing, Roxy needed to blend in despite the blood rushing to her ears, and he was perfect to toss the attention to at this point in time. How had he sensed the figure was there so quickly? It was only present for a few split seconds...

It seemed as though the creature was all but forgotten by the other teens in a matter of moments.

"Don't tell me the movie got into your head that much," Stephanie grinned. Tucking her arm into his, the director was the first to start moving in the direction of the Palm Woods. "There's no such thing as ghosts!"

"No, Steph, I swear-" The boy tried to defend himself, but his friends' amusement only grew. "Something was right there-"

Carlos didn't get another chance to defend himself as the group continued on, vowing they wouldn't take him to a scary movie so late at night ever again.