#but i think it's kind of simply just like you don't have to like or relate to everyone in the community

[taliabhattwrites]

Here's a mini-version so I can go back to Sifu.

A lot of people have voiced confusion at the backlash against characters like Bridget being depicted as textually transfem, or the general drive to refuse to name the transfeminine body as a woman's body in erotic media. While my transhet friends have talked to me at length about how cis queer men's transmisogyny does manifest in this kind of degendering--and how they rationalize it by considering transition a sort of 'betrayal' of their community, as though trans women were simply trying to transition to greener pastures--I hope it's obvious to everyone that gay men alone cannot sustain this kind of pervasive cultural attitude. Especially when homophobia and transmisogyny are coterminous in patriarchal societies.

So why do men, in general, and even people of genders beyond 'man', insist on third-sexing the transfeminine body? Wouldn't it be preferable, more stable for a straight man and his identity to consume the eroticized transfem as a woman?

Well, if you don't have time to read the 10,000-word article I just linked--though you should, I worked quite hard on it--the shortest version possible I can give you is that the sexual consumption of third-sexed populations by men doesn't destabilize their gender or sexuality as much as you might think. Patriarchy has always had "fail-states", the faggotized, degendered, un-manned subject that cannot be allowed to consider itself a Woman, but is definitely something Lesser than a full-fledged Man.

Given that modern sexual mores are no less centered around penetration than they were in Roman times, men can freely engage in that form of intercourse with the third-sexed, transfeminized woman without having to name her as a woman, and without that being disruptive to his place in the gender heirarchy.

Once you understand that, you realize what the value of the transfeminized sexual object is to a man that wishes to use her as such. The un-womaned transfem is abject, highly precarious, vulnerable, disposable, a dehumanized creature whose entire purpose has been reduced to taking it, whether we mean "sex" or "violence" (and oftentimes, both). She has value in her utter devaluation, in her reduction to a place below the respectable, marriageable Woman that can be taken home, introduced to the parents, and exploited for reproductive labor. The third-sexed, degendered transfem is the Platonic ideal of a fuckable object that can be discarded.

And while some of you might be tempted to kinkpost about that, when we're not horny and are trying to navigate through the world as people, being seen in that way constantly is a very, very bad thing. It's what gets us hurled out of society and locked out of the formal economy, left to subsist or perish on the margins as we are able.

So people are very attached to the idea that their favorite porn category is just that--a 'shemale', a 'futa', a 'dickgirl', an 'otokonoko', a 'ladyboy'--any dehumanizing, degendering term that renders her neither man nor woman, but purely a sexual fantasy. The idea that this sex toy they wish to use could actually be considered a person, a woman, or even a trans woman, that horrid, 'woke', 'political' individual with multicolored hair and multivariate pronouns, feels existentially threatening.

"What do you mean, I've been fantasizing about exploiting a person this entire time? Fuck you!"

Anyway, this little piece has focused exclusively on men's relationship to transfemininity. Do people of other genders have similarly exploitative relationships to us, and a consequent desire to third-sex us?

In a word, yes, but you might have to wait for me to write more essays before I go into it. So look out for those in the future. Quick disclaimers: I've focused this writing on why transfeminine abjection is attractive to those who wish to consume us, but please do not misconstrue this me as saying that cis women are always considered 'people' or 'respectable' under patriarchy--this is very much not the case. I'm simply discussing this as a matter of degrees, where the transfem is more easily and utterly dehumanized due to her being constructed as both failed man, unable to sire, and failed woman, unable to gestate.

Furthermore, entire classes of cis women are also often reduced to this kind of degendered, exploitable state. Degendering is a broader force that is core to transmisogyny, but is not the entirety of transmisogyny, and more women than merely trans women are degendered.

Okay, NOW back to Sifu.

trap hentai now blatantly shows their "boys" with obvious hrt titties but still calls them boys whats up with that. back in my day they they were flat chested but now its "draw a trans woman and misgender her"

[lyvhie]

omg hiii, i’ve been in my haechan feels lately, especially with him looking unreal from the seoul shows. can we get possessive haechan?? like i swear that man loves his girl down bad, absolutely in love, and he’s so possessive of her like not in a toxic weird way, but like a hot cute endearing way like a way that would make me push him into the dressing room of a clothes store and give him the most best and deserved head he’s ever gotten bc if there’s anything i love, it’s a man who’s down baddd

── .✦ moments of appreciation

lee donghyuck x fem!reader

𓂃 ࣪˖ ࣪cw: smut, fluff (?), oral (m), deep throat, public sex. 𓂃 ࣪˖ a/n: hi anon... you're so right... i think about this everyday, i meed him in every ways possible, you dont get it... please, enjoy!!! (no, i have nothing for valentine's day, maybe next year, babes 😜😜)

Donghyuck never thought he could love someone the way he loves you. He couldn't quite put into words everything that made him love you, you were simply it for him, perfect in all the right ways.

Yes, you had your imperfections, but to him, love was never about perfection. It wasn't about logic or reason, it simply was. Anyone could love something for all the good it offered, but real love, the kind that mattered, was about embracing everything, even the flaws. And that's exactly how he loved you—completely, without hesitation, without conditions.

He had thought about this before. You could break his heart, shatter him beyond repair, or commit the worst sins imaginable, and he would still love you—helplessly, foolishly. It didn't matter if it sounded irrational, maybe even a little insane. The truth was simple: he would do anything for you, no matter the cost.

But the best part? You were his. No one else's, just his. The thought alone made his chest swell with something dangerously close to obsession. Out of everyone in the world, you had chosen him, and that was a privilege he would never take lightly. You were his, and he was just as much yours, bound to you in a way that felt absolute, unshakable.

And that’s why, even after what felt like days sitting on that little couch, watching you step out of the dressing room in a different outfit each time, he still felt like he was having the best day of his life. Then again, every day felt like the best as long as you were in it.

Really, was there any better way to spend his time than watching his pretty girl try on pretty clothes?

“What do you think about this one?” You asked again, the same question you’d been repeating since the first outfit change.

Donghyuck looked up from his phone, his eyes immediately locking onto you.

“I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life,” he said with a bright smile, letting his gaze travel up and down twice.

“Hyuck, come on,” you rolled your eyes. “You said that the last fifteen times. You’re being useless,” you huffed, crossing your arms.

“How is it my fault that you look stunning in everything?” he shot back, tilting his head with a smirk.

You sighed, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I need actual feedback, not just you being a flirt.”

Donghyuck leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he gave you a once-over, this time, with a more thoughtful expression. “Okay, fine. Turn around.”

You did as he said, giving him a little twirl before facing him again, an expectant look on your face.

He hummed, tapping his chin dramatically. “I mean… it is a really nice outfit,” he said slowly, making you narrow your eyes at him.

“But?”

“But I still think you are the best part of it,” he grinned, dodging the throw pillow you immediately launched at him.

He got up from his seat, laughing as he walked toward your grumpy figure, wrapping his arms around your waist. "Aw, don't look at me like that, gorgeous," he teased, pressing a kiss to your cheek and chuckling when you turned your face away. "Why are you so worried about this anyway?" he asked, tightening his grip slightly when you tried to pull away.

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "It's for the reunion," you admitted, avoiding his gaze.

Donghyuck blinked, then tilted his head. "The high school thing?"

"Yes, the high school thing," you huffed. "I don't know, I just... want to look good. It's been years, and I'll be seeing people I haven't seen since we were all awkward teenagers."

His lips curled into a teasing smirk. "Ohhh, I get it now," he cooed. "You wanna show off a little, huh?"

You shot him a glare. "It's not like that—”

"It is like that," he interrupted, grinning. "And honestly? You should. You're hot. Let them eat their hearts out."

Despite yourself, you couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head as he pinched your sides playfully.

"I'm serious, baby. You're stressing over nothing. Just look at you," he said, taking your hand and turning you toward the mirror. His arms wrapped around your waist again, and he rested his chin on your shoulder. "You're breathtaking, the most beautiful woman in the universe and beyond. You could show up in pajamas and still look like a goddess."

You thought you'd be used to his endless flattery by now, but somehow, you never were. It was always sweet, never failing to make your heart skip a beat.

You glanced at him through the mirror, your worries slowly fading as he pressed a soft kiss to your neck.

"You're so dramatic," your tone warm as you rolled your eyes but leaned back into him anyway.

"I'm just telling the truth," he murmured, pressing his nose against your neck. "It's not my fault my overthinking girlfriend needs constant reminders of how stunning she is."

You huffed, but the way your lips twitched betrayed you. "Well, maybe if someone gave me actual opinions instead of just approving everything i wear, I wouldn't have to overthink."

Donghyuck chuckled, swaying you gently in his arms. "Fine, fine. If you really want my expert opinion..." He paused, pretending to scrutinize your reflection in the mirror.

You raised an eyebrow, waiting. "And?”

“Don’t wear this dress.”

“What? Why?” You frowned, glancing at your reflection. “I actually liked this one the most. Does it really look that bad?”

“I never said that,” his hands trailing up and down your waist. “You look incredible, love, but it feels a little too formal for the occasion. The second one you tried fits the vibe better. Plus, it’ll probably be more comfortable… you know, in case we need to make a quick getaway.”

Yeah, he wouldn't admit it, but he wanted you to wear it just for him. You looked too beautiful in it, almost unfairly so, the idea of anyone else seeing you like this, soaking in the sight of you, were a big no-no. Unwanted attention (read: any attention that wasn’t exclusively his) was simply not an option.

“Oh, so you’re already planning our escape before we even get there?” You raised your brows, crossing your arms. “Really?”

Donghyuck chuckled, tightening his grip on your waist as he leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Baby, please. I know you," his voice laced with amusement. "You won't last more than an hour before you start getting annoyed at half the people there. You'll smile, nod, pretend to listen, and then, you'll be counting the minutes until we leave."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze in the mirror, a smug grin on his lips. "So, yeah, I'm already planning our escape. Just being a good boyfriend and thinking ahead.”

"Okay, maybe you have a point," you teased, rolling your eyes as you turned to face him, looping your arms around his neck. "Guess I should thank my thoughtful boyfriend for planning ahead."

"Just doing the bare minimum for my girl," he smiled, leaning in to steal a quick kiss. "Now that we've finally settled on an outfit and I’ve reminded you how perfect you are, can I spoil you and pay for everything you liked?"

You held his gaze, your heart doing that little flutter it always did when he looked at you like that, like you were his entire universe. It was almost overwhelming, the way his eyes softened, filled with something so pure, so consuming.

If love had a shape, a form, a physical presence, you were sure it lived in the way Haechan looked at you. The same way a loyal pet would gaze at their favorite person, full of unconditional adoration, unwavering and endless. His pupils were blown wide, his expression a mix of devotion and something deeper, something you couldn't quite put into words.

“Baby, please, don’t tell me you’re going to refuse again,” he whined at your silence, pouting a little. “Why do you love to ruin my happiness? It's my duty to—”

“I love you, Lee Donghyuck,” you said softly, cupping his face and pulling him into a kiss.

He was surprise by the sudden words and actions, but his shoulders instantly relaxed as he melted into your embrace. He kissed you back with equal passion, murmuring between the kisses, “I love you too,” before peppering your lips with more soft kisses as you pulled away, only for him to chase after you, craving more of your touch.

You couldn't help but giggle at the way he whined in protest when you pulled away for good, placing your hands on his chest to stop him. Biting your lip, you glanced around before tugging his hand, a playful glint in your eyes as you whispered, "Come with me." And just like that, you pulled him into the dressing room.

"What are you doing?" he asked, slightly confused, though he wasn't exactly opposed to whatever you had in mind.

"Just saying thank you for being the sweetest boyfriend ever," you murmured, sinking to your knees in front of him, your hands sliding up his thighs as you looked up at him.

Oh, he knew exactly what was happening. God, he couldn't believe it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips as his heart pounded, the sight of you like this making his pants uncomfortably tight.

"Are you sure, love?" his voice softer now, laced with anticipation. His eyes flickered to the curtain, hesitant for only a second as you unbuttoned his pants. "This isn't really the best place to—"

A low groan slipped from his lips as your hand firmly cupped his growing hardness, cutting off whatever weak protest he was about to make.

"Be quiet, Hyuck," you scolded, palming him again. He sucked in a sharp breath, biting his bottom lip to stifle any sound as a dark spot began to form on his underwear.

“Fuck, hurry up,” he hissed, any previous hesitation now completely forgotten.

You smirked at his impatience but didn’t tease him, at least, not too much. Slipping your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, you tugged them down just enough to free his cock, standing hard and eager, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

You wrapped your fingers around his length, stroking him slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched with each movement. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm as he leaned back against the wall, his gaze locked onto you, dark with need. His cock twitched in your grip, another bead of precum spilling from the tip, proof of just how desperate he already was for you.

You merely smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his tip before running your tongue along his length, savoring the way he tensed under your touch. His head fell back against the wall, his breathing growing heavier, his thighs trembling slightly as you took him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking him in deeper.

"Shit—" He bit down on his fist to muffle the groan that nearly slipped, his other hand instinctively threading through your hair, not to control your pace but just to feel you closer, to ground himself in the pleasure you were giving him.

The muffled sounds of the store outside felt like a distant hum, completely drowned out by the way your tongue moved so perfectly against him. His not-so-soft moans filled the small space, each one making your core tighten with satisfaction. You sucked on the tip of his cock before slowly pulling away, letting it slip from your lips with a sinful pop, but your hand never stopped stroking him.

"Hyuck, you're being too loud," you scolded in a hushed tone, glancing up at him with a mix of amusement and warning.

“Don't stop,” he whined, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with desperation. His hips jerked forward instinctively, chasing your warmth. Even the slightest brush of your lips against his tip had his knees trembling.

You let out a soft chuckle, watching the way he was falling apart just from your touch. His fingers tightened in your hair, his knuckles turning white as he fought the urge to push you down onto him the way he so desperately wanted.

“You’re so needy,” you teased, your breath ghosting over his sensitive tip, making him shudder.

“And whose fault is that?” he shot back, his voice strained, breathing heavily.

Instead of answering, you wrapped your lips around him once more, taking him in deeper this time. His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, a broken moan escaping his lips as his grip in your hair loosened for a moment, only to tighten again when your tongue flicked over his slit.

Was he dead, and this was paradise? If not, it had to be the closest thing to it. His legs nearly gave out when he felt your throat tighten around him, the sudden sensation ripping a loud moan from his lips. Your nails dug into his thighs in warning, silently telling him to keep quiet. He bit down hard on his lower lip, his breathing ragged as he fought to control himself, but with the way your mouth worked on him, it was becoming nearly impossible.

He looked down at you, and what a sight. The way your lips stretched around him, the glint in your eyes as you took him deeper—it was enough to make his head spin. The pleasure was overwhelming, pushing him closer to the edge. His hips moved on their own, chasing that high, silently begging you to go faster, to take him there.

You gave in to his desires, quickening your pace, sucking with more intensity, while your hand skillfully massaged his balls, each movement pushing him closer to the edge. The rhythm of your actions seemed to drive him wild, his breath ragged as he struggled to hold on.

His body tensed, his head spinning as he reached his peak, hot spurts of cum filling your mouth. His fingers tightened in your hair, urging you closer as his hips jerked forward, riding out the last tremors of his climax, unwilling to let go.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth, knowing he would have kept you there if he had his way. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, glancing up to see his face in pure satisfaction, eyes shut and head leaning against the wall. His hand now gently ran through your hair, his breath still heavy as he mumbled how good you were, the words dripping with praise.

You let out a soft giggle, adjusting his clothes as you noticed how disoriented he looked. As you stood up, he finally met your gaze, his eyes dark with desire. Without warning, he leaned in, pulling you into a kiss that was intense yet tender. “God, I love you so much, baby,” he whispered against your lips.

“Me too,” you replied, a playful smile on your face. “I think the whole store heard you,” you teased, gently biting his lower lip before pulling away to meet his gaze.

“Then I guess they know how much I love you now,” he shrugged, a mischievous grin spreading across his face, making you laugh. “Maybe I’ll be quieter next time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Next time? I think this one was enough, don’t you? We could have gotten caught.”

“But we didn’t,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. “Next time, I’ll make sure you're the one making all the noise.”

↝ taglist: @yizhrt, @sinisxtea, @peterm4rker.

[seat-safety-switch]

Where I live, it's hard to go out for a run in the middle of a bitterly cold winter. You still need to getyoursteps though. Or you'll die. Two kinds of people emerge from this necessity: treadmill people, and mall people. Unfortunately, the habitat for the latter types is quickly becoming extinct, and the remaining malls are bursting at the seams with joggers, walkers, strollers, and stroller-pushers. That's why the government hired me.

My project? To design the ultimate mall for people who were only at the mall in order to gettheirsteps. As a species, we've evolved past the requirement to go to a retail store and interact with another human being in order to buy things. So instantly we thought: just make a giant loop, put some furnaces in it, and good to go. No. The mind, it turns out, craves the artifice of a shopping mall.

There's precedent for this. One of the interns dug up this picture from the 4th century where a bunch of peasant children had drawn in the dirt a very realistic floorplan of the Mall of America, despite it not actually being built for nearly a couple thousand years. Come to think of it, it's a little weird there's a photograph of this. Maybe we'll have to talk to the boys down in Time Dilation Central. It's a good walk to that office. I can getmysteps.

Anyway, the project evolved at that point. We installed a bunch of mall stores selling tchotchkes that nobody would ever want. Sixteen cell phone stores. Three different places selling memory-foam mattresses. At one point, we even added a food court, but this made the health department really upset. Explaining to them that this was all artifice didn't dissuade them. Don't they know we're trying to make a place where we can getoursteps and don't have time to satisfy every little requirement about a "vent hood?" Nobody would be stupid enough to actually eat at any of these places if they were trying to stay healthy. Turns out, our first week, some dude rolled up to the New York Fries and bought a poutine for after his walk. When our scientists (in disguise: wearing hoodies over their lab coats) asked him about it, he said simply that he was "bulking."

Now, we all know what happened near the end of the project. When they heard that we had a viable place for legal human experimentation, these guys from the CIA moved right in. Started all these crazy experiments, like giving monkeys a pedometer to see if they'd want to gettheirsteps too. Adding a button where you could shock people who were walking too slowly in front of you. Turning the loop into a figure-eight so you had to dodge incoming joggers while you were trying to jog. I'd deny any responsibility for it, except those spy bastards hit a vein of gold. The Great Plains Mall is now the most successful indoor running track in history. They're gonna have the Olympics there next week. And I'll be there, getting my steps.

[mischievousmoony]

𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚜

⟢ frat boy!james potter x fem!reader ⟢ as president of a fraternity, your boyfriend has pledges at his beck and call. so naturally, he tasks them with handing you valentines roses throughout the day ⊹ 1.1k ⟢ warnings/tags: fluff, american!james (not that it's explicitly stated)

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

It starts with a knock at your door early in the morning. You let your roommate answer it while you continue to enjoy your yogurt and granola at the kitchen counter. You don't think anything of the hushed whispers between your roommate and the visitor until she swings the door wide open, revealing a stranger in a suit and tie.

He's looking right at you, holding out a single red rose in your direction. "M'lady," he says simply.

You hesitantly slide off your stool, wrapping your arms around yourself as you shuffle forward in your fuzzy slippers.

"Thanks," you say, accepting the rose. Just as soon as you do, the boy scurries away.

Your roommate shuts the door as you stand idly by, twirling the flower between your fingertips. "Weird. I wonder what that was about," she muses, but you have an inkling. This has your boyfriend written all over it.

The next well-dressed mystery man finds you in line at your favorite cafe on campus.

He hands you the rose with a slight bow, the same practiced "M'lady" you've heard before, then turns on his heel and walks away without another word.

When one of them shows up in your lecture hall, you sort of want to die on the spot. The sight of a man in a suit at ten in the morning catches almost everyone's attention. Their eyes follow him as he makes his way across the large room and down your row, finally dropping the rose on the desk in front of you with a bow of his head and the familiar greeting.

By lunchtime, you’ve collected a dozen roses. But apparently, that was just the warm-up.

In the dining hall, they come in an endless stream, one after another, only minutes apart. They come while you wait in line to order. While your food is being made. The entire time you eat. Each boy, a stranger. Each one handing you a rose with the same solemn "M'lady" before disappearing.

You try to ask what’s going on, but they never answer. Just a nod, a rose, and then they’re gone.

"Sirius," you huff, placing the bundle of flowers on the desk you share with him in your next class. "What is this?"

If the flower delivery boys won't tell you, you hope your boyfriend's best friend might be kind enough to give you some insight.

Sirius snickers as he plucks up one of the roses, bringing it to his nose to inhale the sweet scent with exaggerated appreciation.

"What pretty flowers you have. Where ever did you get them?" he teases, clearly finding enjoyment in your situation.

"Come on," you complain, swiping the rose from his hands and neatly setting it back with the others.

He chuckles, finding it sweet that you're so careful with the flowers even as you mock annoyance. "What do you think? It's Valentine's Day. Does he need another excuse to shower you with flowers?"

You chew your lip to hide your grin. "They're pledges, aren't they?" you ask, even though you're pretty sure you know the answer.

"Who else would they be?"

By the end of the day, you have an armful of roses. You had to grab a brown paper bag from one of the dining halls just to carry them all, and the flowers are packed in so tightly that the bag barely contains them, the petals peeking over the top and spilling over the edges.

Much to your dismay, a handful of the roses have shed a few petals due to the less than ideal setup. With a determined stride, you make your way to your car, intent on getting the delicate gifts home and into water.

As you near your car, you notice someone leaning against it. He looks just like the others, dressed just as formally as the rest—except this time, there’s a bouquet of flowers in his arm instead of a single rose. And, of course, you recognize him by the back of his head.

You press the button on your key fob, unlocking the car with a beep. James flinches slightly at the sound, then turns quickly—his eyes searching until they find yours. The moment he sees you, his expression softens, a radiant smile spreading across his face.

"Hey, baby," James says, his voice warm with affection.

"James," you greet back with a sparkling smile to match his own.

He holds his arms open for you, and after setting the grocery bag of flowers on the hood of your car, you happily step into his embrace.

"Happy Valentines Day," he murmurs into your hair.

You return the sentiment, giggling as you lean back from the hug to see his face, keeping your arms around him. "It was certainly and interesting one."

"You didn't like my flowers?" he teases. The wind picks up, sending a loose strand of hair into your face, and he gently lifts one of his hands from your waist to tuck it behind your ear. His touch lingers, his hand settling on the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw.

"I love them," you say, your voice earnest as you instinctively lean into his touch. "Though I will admit it was a little embarrassing when one of them came into my lecture hall."

"What? When? They were supposed to catch you before you went into any of your classes." James pouts slightly. Even if you are just teasing, he didn't mean to embarrass you with his stunt.

"It's okay." You lean in and give him a quick peck on the lips, an effort to smooth the pout from his face. "I don't want to tattle on any of the pledges."

A quick peck isn’t enough for James, as evidenced by the way he pulls you back in almost immediately, pressing his lips to yours for a real kiss. It's gentle at first, but James can never get enough of you. His arm tightens around you as he deepens the kiss, the cellophane wrapped bouquet in his hand crinkling behind your back.

"Don't crush my flowers," you mumble against his lips. "I only have so many."

James pulls away, a laugh escaping him. "So, you liked them? All the flowers?" he asks, his voice betraying a hint of vulnerability as he asks for reassurance.

"I really love them," you promise. "Although, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with all of them."

"We'll find a vase for most of them." James smirks, his voice carrying a hint of mischief as he continues, "As for the rest... I'm picturing candles and a bed covered in rose petals."

"Oh, are you?" you tease, leaning back in and brushing your lips against his. "I think that can be arranged," you murmur, before locking your lips together again.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

[finchsflight]

The most important thing, that a lot of people who want this kind of job don't get, is that you have to have an explanation.

And not some namby-pamby 'oh, you see, it was simply up my sleeve, ha ha let's all pretend this didn't happen!'. No, you need a proper, actual, well-thought-through explanation.

(At least, for the kids I show off for. If the parent didn't ever bother getting their kid into the business, or explaining tricks -- eh, you're probably fine. But if they didn't explain the tricks, well, they wouldn't need us, would they?)

The kids -- usually, at least, that I see -- want magic. But half the time they're too smart for their own good, and there's no one who'll think you're a real wizard like a little kid. They want you to be a real wizard. But you need them to think you're just really, really good.

(Y'know. On account of how we don't endanger kids. And if that's an issue for you, then I've got a big stick and you have some fun places I can shove it.)

So that's the first thing. Explanation. Every trick you've got, you better be good and prepared for them to ask you about it, in detail, at the end of the show, and if you don't have good answers, it breaks. Yeah, yeah, a magician never reveals their secrets, but little kids hate being condescended to and they'll have a great time if you show them the props and the 'real magic' behind the magic. Yes, yes, I know, it sounds stupid.

The second thing is, you're showing off, but you're not showing off. Big elemental stuff? Usually a no-no, even if you've got a good and sciency explanation. Partially because, like... if you're doing a science show, you don't need a wand. You can just go buy some liquid nitrogen. World's neat enough as is. And partially because -- look, you're a delight. But listen. You are never as good at lying to small children as you think you are, okay?

If you're gonna need an explanation, well, that means you need explainable stuff. Me, I like kinda theming things off human magicians -- you know, cards, ribbons, vanishing boxes, sleight-of-hand style stuff. A few flashy lights. That sorta thing. They love seeing a card trick that's just impossible enough to be amazing and just possible enough to be explained.

Works to add some things they can actually recognize, too; then they get a little moment where they get to feel like they've got one over on you.

And that leads pretty well to my last one.

Eventually, a kid's gonna ask you how you did something, and you're gonna give your made-up bullshit explanation that you will have gotten really good at delivering, and then either they're gonna say "That's not possible," or they're gonna ask you if you can teach them.

And you're gonna not be able to dismiss it, or you're not gonna be able to say 'sorry, I need to go', and there's gonna be a little kid who figures out that you're a wizard.

Remember what I said? How we don't endanger kids?

This is the part where that gets important.

Feel free to remember them, bookmark their name for when they grow up 'cause you think they might be a good apprentice, whatever. But you do not recruit kids.

And you already know that. So you're not gonna like what I'm about to say, because yes, it's gonna feel icky and terrible and it is, technically, about as illegal as anything can be when you're behind the -- what's the word for it these days?

Masquerade? Oh, man, that's so much better than it used to be. Nice.

Anyway.

Learn how to muddle a kid's memories.

Yeah. I know.

No, I don't like it either.

Only a few times. Thank God.

There's a trick I use, though -- and also makes it a lot less icky -- build a time limiter. Make a spell up, on your own, that is inextricably tied to a time limiter. Make it so it breaks when they're... remind me, what's, like, an age where kids are allowed to make bad choices?

Jesus. That's too young.

Well, let's say, uh... twice that? Twice that. That seems fine.

Don't make it something flashy. Just... let the memories fade back in. And after that, if they find you, it's not a kid, and they can make their own bad choices.

Yeah, I know.

I said it wasn't always a fun job. Wasn't just talking about the bodily fluids -- oh, yeah, that too. They're totally gonna get things on you. Snot, vomit, blood... small children end up bleeding a surprising amount, honestly?

Sure, yeah, I can teach you some cleaning cantrips.

When normal people throw a birthday party for their child, they call in a magician. When magicians throw a birthday party for their child, they call you.

[jjmbbg]

"His Valentine"

cw: fluff, suggestive content at the end, dean being a little softie , i feel shitty i want him.

The flickering neon light of the diner casts a warm glow on the Impala as you slide into the booth across from Dean. He smirks, green eyes twinkling with something playful, but there’s a softness beneath it —a kind of affection he rarely shows in words. Only for you.

"Figured we could do somethin’ nice tonight" he says, reaching for the menu. "Y'know, since it's Valentine's Day and all"

Your lips curl into a grin. "Oh, so you do care about Valentine's"

Dean scoffs, but the corner of his mouth betrays him. "Nah, but you do. And I like seein' you happy"

Warmth spreads through your chest. It’s not the kind of over-the-top romance you see in movies or cheesy romcoms, but that's not what you ever wanted. Dean shows love in his own way —late-night drives with your hand in his, slipping his jacket over your shoulders when he thinks you're cold, fighting monsters so you don't have to.

And that was simply perfect for you.

You lean forward on your elbows, your knee brushing his under the table, a small and subtle token of love, typical of the two of you. "You’re sweet when you try"

Dean huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he flips open the menu. "Yeah, yeah, just don't go spreadin' that around. Ruins my reputation, y'know"

"Alright, tough guy" you teasee him, smiling softly.

The meal is simple— greasy burgers, a shared slice of cherry pie, fingers occasionally brushing as you both reach for the fork. It's comfortable, easy, and so damn you two.

Afterward, Dean drives you back to the motel, his free hand resting on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles through your jeans. The classic rock hums low from the radio, and the road stretches dark and endless ahead of you. When he pulls into the parking lot, he doesn't move to get out immediately. Instead, he turns toward you, his expression softer than before.

"Got you somethin'" he mutters, reaching into his jacket. He pulls out a small, slightly crumpled box and hands it over, watching your reaction carefully.

Curious, you open it to find a simple silver ring—nothing flashy, nothing extravagant, just something unmistakably Dean.

Your breath catches. "Dean—"

"'S not a proposal or any of that crap" he interrupts, rubbing the back of his neck, a sheepish grin on his absurdly beautiful face. His cheeks blushed violently, he was just thankful that the dim light from the streetlights in the parking lot didn't allow you to see it. "Just... somethin’ to keep on you. So you know I’m always with you"

Emotion swells in your chest as you slip the ring onto your finger. It's a perfect fit. You don’t need grand gestures, not with him. Because this? This means everything.

You lean over, fingers curling around the collar of his flannel, pulling him into a kiss that's slow, lingering, and filled with everything words can't say. When you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm against your lips.

"Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart" he murmurs, voice low and rough.

You smile, fingers brushing over the ring. "Happy Valentine's Day, Dean" your voice soft, filled with love. "Now, I guess I can give you my gift"

"Oh, yeah? And what's that, huh?" Dean asks, hand squeezing tightly your thigh, brushing his lips against yours.

"It's under my clothes"

"Now we're talking" he smirked, kissing you again, pushing you gently against the back of the passenger seat, your hands holding on to his shoulders, his on the seat and the window.

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝?

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

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

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

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

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

You're 12 when you meet her again.

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

Natasha's back. Again.

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

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

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

This is the moment where they part again.

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

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

Only a pair of green eyes meets yours.

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

I know her, you think before looking away.

Bedsheets rustle. Natasha climbs into the spot above yours.

. . .

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

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

But you never, ever hesitate.

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

The result?

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

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

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

Natasha.

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

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

Somehow, no one notices.

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

Why won't you sleep?

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

Another toss. Another turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue hair, green eyes.

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

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

"You were loud", she states.

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

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

"Because of me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Natasha?", you say.

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

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

"...Thanks."

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing seems to change, but somehow, everything does.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop apologizing.”

"I didn't mean to-"

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

No. You certainly don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop moving."

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

"Quit that!"

"I'm cold", you whisper.

"News flash: so am I."

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

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

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

"Don't make this a habit."

You'll make it a habit.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Two years have passed. Maybe three.

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

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

What really shows you that time has passed is Natasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you should've expected it.

You don't.

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

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

It's everything and nothing at the same time.

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

"Shit", she mumbles.

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

"You're counting this as a kiss?"

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

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

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

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

This time, it definitely is a kiss.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not your fault."

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

"We're not much older."

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

"I lost her."

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

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

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

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

We.

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

. . .

You feel the illness long before it really hits you.

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

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

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

"Y/N?"

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

Tough luck. You have to push through.

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

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

"Nat", you mumble dismissively, voice muffled.

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

"We have training-"

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

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

"Lay down", she murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Black Widows don't have a future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More than this place?"

An unnecessary question, and you both know it.

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

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

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

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

"It works on me."

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

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

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

"I mean it."

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

"What would we do?”

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

"Anything. Everything."

. . .

You're 18 when Natasha starts to slip away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Romanoff."

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

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

You don't see her for days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't feel real."

Some experiences haunt you for a lifetime.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how wrong she is.

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

. . .

You're 31 when you get out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you kidding?!"

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

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

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

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

Yelena nudges your side. "Zoning out?"

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blinds", she mutters.

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, 'why'?"

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

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

"You...what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

"It's boring."

"Yelena."

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

"How much longer?"

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

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

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

You hesitate before following her inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Careful", she says.

"I'm not used to it."

"Might be for the better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only 19 in 20."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. I will?

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

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

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

Natasha manages a bitter smile. "And you?"

You hesitate and let go of the shoelaces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your birthday."

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

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

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

Natasha shifts, arms crossed and expression guarded.

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

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

"I made Yelena distract you."

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

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

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

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

"They didn't have balloons."

"Candles?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take another bite.

"It's not so bad."

. . .

With the Red Room gone, you're free.

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Maybe you always will.

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

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

Examples?

The cost of homes has doubled.

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

Instagram has replaced MySpace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes, they make glass shatter."

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

"Alright, Shakespeare", she mumbles.

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?", she eventually asks.

"Are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she misses it too. She probably does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad habit."

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

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

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

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

"You had a funny way of showing it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha is a woman of her word.

. . .

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

You realize two things:

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

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

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

"Hey, wait-"

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

"Y/N, wait-"

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

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

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

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

"What's it about, then?"

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

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

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

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

"Y/N..."

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

A door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're wet, too."

"I'm fine."

"Join me."

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

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

“I’m sorry”, she says.

Your hands touch her face.

“I know.”

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

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sleepy girl", she mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not fair."

"It was never fair, either."

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

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

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

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

"I love you."

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

"I think we missed our shot there."

. . .

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

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

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

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

Still, there is a breaking point for everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

"I want to shower", she suddenly says.

"I've seen you naked."

"Y/N."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. Not a conscious one, though.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She would.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

It's been months since everything was somewhat normal.

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

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

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

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

You frown. Nobody said anything about a mission.

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

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

"No."

"Right.“

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

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

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

"Be careful", you say.

"I always am."

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sugar?"

"Nope."

"I could scrape off what's burnt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll be back."

"I know."

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

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

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

One truth, one lie.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're 34 when you lose her entirely.

[squiddy-god]

♡Will you be my valentine?♡

lads x reader

Hehehehe ok ok so i would like to say, keep in mind this is mostly based in american valentines day and not valentines/white day so i tried to mix them, but i'll do white day too. I might make some more spicy hcs later  

Cw ; fluff, gn reader (still mc but written to be inclusive), use of pet names, jealousy, possessiveness. Use of the word “bride” but in a gn way? If you know you know. Use of y/n because what else am i supposed to use?? Caleb slander in zayne’s part vice versa. Xavier, zayne, rafayel, sylus, caleb 

Xavier 

No 

He is not asking to be your valentine, you ARE his valentine and he makes that known so immediately 

The month of february hits and he sees you watching those videos of people sad their partner hasnt asked them to be their valentine and he just goes “good thing you are my valentine” 

Don't correct him and say he hasn't asked

You. are.

I can absolutely see him getting you one of those teddybears with a heart or some other stuffed animal for the holiday but he is immediately beefing

He has beef with the STUFFY HE GOT YOU. 

On a side note i think he 100% is the type to get jealous over your plushies “why do you get to sleep in their bed and i don't?” those snuggles are HIS and he won't share 

If you make him chocolate he is on cloud 9, not only does he get a snack but also its from you and means he's special~

Now if you receive chocolates from someone? Some secret admirer? He is melting those sweets with his gaze- he wants them in the trash 5 seconds ago 

I think he would get you one of those softer springtime bouquets, i feel like it just fits him more 

Zayne 

He is STRUGGLING 

I think he would ask the night before, asking if you'd like to go on a date since it is a special occasion

Based on his 100 days texts he seems like the type who even if it doesn't seem like it holds holidays like this in a surprisingly high regard. So i think he would ask if you would like to be his valentine 

Hehe milkshake date with zayne, one of the cute cheesy ones with the heart straws 

Big fan of the sweets, usually rejects any attempts to give him chocolates but for you he feels himself almost anticipating it, and when it happens he savors them throughout the day 

I think he'd be the type to give you those elegant single roses 

I can also see that he REALLY wanted to be your valentine as a kid, with those chalky candy hearts and little kid cards, he always got one frome you and he kept all of them. Unfortunately there was a dirty mutt preventing him from actually being your childhood valentine 

If you receive chocolate from some kind of admirer he is a little put off, something about it simmers under his skin just a little bit, fortunately this is an easily curd ailment- the prescription of course being 20 doses of kisses. 

Rafayel 

He's lowkey waiting for YOU to ask HIM to be your valentine.

 And he will be pouting about it 

Feel like we don't talk enough about how the little fishie is lowkey a bit scary?? He sees this as the inevitable, you are his, his valentine, his love, his bride 

His fishie <3

When one of you finally cracks and asks the other to be your valentine he is very pleased with himself. 

Long walk on the beach, picnic by the shore where the salty air can kiss your skin 

If you give him chocolate he is scarfing it down high key. Probably plays the weak frail card complaining about how his wrist hurts so clearly you have to feed him 

I can see him getting you those rainbow rose bouquets or one with lots of different colored roses to make a soft but colorful bouquet. 

Now if you received chocolate from an admirer he is pouting 

Whining frfr 

Type to go “oh why don't you go eat THEIR chocolate?” this will either last all of 5 seconds before he is switching it up and demanding kisses as repayment for emotional damages or until you don't give in (5 second max) and he's back to being dramatic 

Don't be shocked if they go missing tho 

Sylus 

Sylus does not simply ask for you to be his valentine, he woos you 

The month of february is his month to shine truly, because it starts small, subtle. 

A flower here and there, a single rose or a little heart 

It's a few days before valentines day and he's thoroughly romanced you when he pulls you close using his evol to ask if you'd like to be his valentine 

The day itself consists of you waking up, bed? Covered in rose petals. Sylus? Holding one of those really big heart shaped rose bouquets made of the glitter roses everyone went crazy for. Then dinner followed by a joyride 

Cough cough the biggest teddy bear he could find in white. 

If you give him chocolates he's sooooooo pleased. Savors them throughout the day and next day thinking about you 

Like i mentioned the rose bouquet game is top tier, his whole house is full of them, every vase full of those deep red roses because he wasn't you to look over and think of him.

Drives you to some obscure far out location to watch the stars for a while, the ride obviously enjoyable but even more so is being in his arms for such a tender moment. 

Now if you receive chocolate from someone he is so so smug, sylus gives off the vibes of like “hmm yes i know my kitten is the best, obviously they cant help but be charmed”  

Caleb 

Hs been your valentine every year since childhood (the dirty mutt in question)  

But this year is the first year he's really going to be your valentine, where he doesn't have to pretend like he doesn't mean it with his whole chest 

That isn't stopping him from teasing you, he wants to get you to admit that you want him to be your valentine

But he is a weak man, and he crumbles at the slightest hint of puppy eyes or pouting 

He is asking you on feb 1st 12:02am to be his valentine  

On the day itself he wakes you up with breakfast, heart shaped pancakes, eggs and your preferred protein 

Definitely writing something like “be mine?” on those pancakes 

I think the bouquet he gives you is a very classic one, roses and baby's breath tied with a silky red ribbon 

If you give him chocolate he is like a excited puppy, he's always given you the chocolate he gets from others, and he's always gotten chocolate from you but this time is special this time it's real 

A cute little day date around the city so he can show off that he won. And it includes those matching built a bear with the voice box. “I love you” “Miss me pipsqueak?” “i'll be home soon, love you” “*smooch smooch smooch smooch noise*” “i miss you so much y/n” for your bear and his has “i love you” “miss you so much caleb” “waiting for you at home, love you” “*smooch smooch smooch smooch*” “we’ll be together soon” and you best believe he is going to be taking that bear with him and playing those lines again and again 

If you get chocolate from someone else he is laughing on the outside but internally it's just “bomb them, keep bombing them-” if he's there when you get them he is absolutely standing behind you ominously to glare down the poor soul trying to shoot their shot. He spent your childhood puppy guarding you from elsa he is not losing now

[milunalupin]

❤️ with the prompt “c’mon, like i need an excuse to spend time with you.” please!! thank you nicole ily <3

my lovely lovely san happy valentine's day !! thank you for the request ily so much <3

— do you wanna know a secret ?

remus lupin x reader ♥︎ 845 words

The air in the common room was thick with the excitement of Valentine’s Day. Some students were exchanging notes, others were planning for the dance that night, and a few were simply enjoying the sugary sweets scattered across the tables. You, however, found yourself hiding in a corner with your textbook, trying to focus on your charms homework. It wasn’t that you disliked the holiday—it just felt like a reminder of what you didn’t have: someone to share it with.

Of course, there was someone you'd like to spend it with. Remus, your best friend who always seemed to know exactly what you needed, whether it was a laugh, a kind word, or just a quiet moment together.

As if summoned by your thoughts, Remus appeared in the doorway of the common room, his messy hair falling over his eyes, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his cardigan. He caught sight of you almost immediately, and that familiar, warm smile spread across his face. It was the kind of smile that made your heart beat a little faster, but you pushed the feeling away. He was your best friend, and that’s all he could ever be, right?

“Hey,” he said, his voice soft. “What are you doing all the way over here?”

You looked up from your book and tried to smile. “Just, uh, trying to get some work done. You know, not everyone is celebrating Valentine’s Day with a dance or chocolates. I’m just not in the mood for all the… fuss.”

Remus nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “I get it. The whole day just feels like a lot of pressure, doesn’t it?” He sat down next to you, shifting a few of your books to the side. “But, you know… if you want, we could just skip all that and hang out. Maybe take a walk around the lake, or—”

You blinked in surprise, cutting him off. “Wait, Sirius isnt forcing you into another double date?"

Remus chuckled softly, shaking his head. “I wasn't really interested in her, it wouldn't have been fun for either of us."

Your heart skipped a beat, and you suddenly felt self-conscious. “Oh,” you said, awkwardly fiddling with a pencil. “Well, you don't have to just sit here with me. I mean, you could always ask someone else…”

“C'mon,” He scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “like I need an excuse to spend time with you. Besides, I don’t need anyone else.” His voice softened at the last part, and his eyes lingered on yours just a moment longer than usual.

For a brief moment, the world felt very still. There was something in the way he said it, something in the way he was looking at you, that made your chest tighten. You’d always known Remus as your closest friend, the person who could make you laugh without even trying, the person who always seemed to understand you in ways no one else could. But hearing those words took you by surprise.

You cleared your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “Yeah,” you said softly. “A walk sounds nice.”

The two of you left the common room, walking through the nearly empty corridors. The castle seemed quieter than usual, many couples having gone to Hogsmeade to celebrate the holiday. As you reached the entrance hall, Remus turned toward you, his face more serious now, as though he were gathering the courage to say something.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, his voice hesitant. “Maybe I haven't been as obvious as I thought, but.. I care about you, more than I probably let on. And I guess I’ve been wondering if you.. feel the same?”

Your heart raced at his words, the question hanging in the air between you. It was all so sudden, but somehow, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

You looked up at him, feeling the warmth of the moment in your chest. “Remus,” you said softly, “I’ve always cared about you. You’re my best friend.”

There was a pause, and then, almost as if he couldn’t help himself, Remus reached out, gently taking your hand in his. His touch was warm, and you could feel the weight of everything unsaid between you.

“I think I want to be more than that,” he murmured, his thumb lightly brushing over your knuckles.

You felt your breath catch. For a long moment, you just stood there, looking at him, trying to reconcile the feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. And then, with a soft laugh, you squeezed his hand.

“I think I want that too,” you said quietly.

Remus smiled, a mixture of relief and happiness in his expression. And just as the first snowflake of the evening drifted down from the sky, he leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead in a tender, quiet kiss—an unspoken promise.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You smiled back, feeling more content than you had in a long time. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Remus.”

[yimpysdiner]

Ridiculously long analysis of Jimmy's dialogue

Jimmy is one of the most fascinating characters that's ever caught my eye, which is why I think the watering down of his character to "comically evil villain whose always snappy and overtly aggressive" is a little lame. Not only is it lame, it misses the point of his character entirely. I enjoy delving into him so what did I do? I went back through the game and took a screenshot of every single word he's ever spoken

Here I just wanna highlight some key character traits I think are often overlooked, his speech patterns, etc. This isn't gonna be some grand important theory thing or whatever, just looking at key points of his personality that I think often get lost when people are writing him. It's important to my lil hyperfixated mind, alright? Alright. I'm gonna be breaking this down into a few sections.

Speech Patterns Humor Observant Mimicking? Lashing out Hopelessness Remorse I won't be going over a few obvious things that have been pointed out time and time again like him talking down to Anya so much, being a major asshole, etc, we all know already.

General Speech :

Jimmy's speech is almost always blunt and to the point, he doesn't spend a lot of time rambling like Daisuke, isn't quite as outwardly analytical like Anya, doesn't throw in a lot of sarcastic little jokes like Swansea. Funny enough, his speech is most comparable to Curly's. I'll get to that later. When irritated he starts making little jabs, gets all passive aggressive. It's only when he's really pissed or pressured does he start swearing excessively. A lot of his dialogue hinges on passive aggression, things you could maybe brush off but still makes you feel a little... off. I don't really have screenshots for this little portion, you'll see it as we go on.

Humor

Jimmy isn't entirely a drag. Sure, he never really seems like the "life of the party," but he has his moments. This is kind of a nothingburger section but I often see Jimmy written as just some miserable grimacing guy in the corner

There's one more where you close utility when Daisuke is trapped in the foam and he says "much better." I couldn't find a playthrough where the player does this to get the screenshots but I have seen it be done before. It may be me over analyzing, but I think his sense of humor and general way of expressing happiness is very dry. It's not that he doesn't, it's simply that he's just not a very excitable person. He likes the little tradition of parties on Tulpar and jokes around with karaoke getting "violent." The sort of jokes he makes are probably all the sort of jokes you might just take seriously because he says it in such a flat tone, it's the kind of thing where you have to really *know* how he is to get.

So he's not exactly the person you're gonna see moping in the corner of a party because he hates it, he's moping because he's just not outwardly expressive in that respect, but he does seem to enjoy festivities and fooling around

Observant

Something I commonly see in writing is Jimmy not being able to read people's emotions or understand *how* exactly to get under people's skin. Jimmy's actually incredibly in tune with how people feel, what their intentions are, and how to use that to his advantage. He's very aware of what people may think of him, what they think of others and what they may even think of themselves. This also sort of ties in to people thinking he's dumb, while he's throwing out lines like this almost completely unprompted :

The cockpit scene is incredibly important to understand him as a character. Rewatching it I was quite shocked *how* much of this was immediately taken and used against Curly in later scenes. A teensie bit of context is cut as to not make this post far longer than it already is, but I'll do my best to fill in gaps.

Just this line here is interesting to me, while he senses Curly is unhappy in his position, he can't quite grasp why yet. This is after he says he enjoys where he is, he feels they are in control in this position.

In this calmer environment, Jimmy is able to understand why Curly feels like this without much pushback, even able to open up to Curly a little saying he feels he's still climbing up that ladder after him, to which Curly provides comfort and encouragement. I think a lot is told about their relationship here but that's a story for another day.

Later on, every bit of this information Curly confided in him is flipped over on him in a fit of rage. Where he was once understanding and sympathetic, he's now twisted those words to make Curly seem like a villain in everyone else's eyes, which he continues to do over and over until judgement day. Every bit of info you give Jimmy is ammunition.

It's crazy to put this side by side and see when given the chance, Jimmy will take whats a perfectly good fear and throw it right back at you and really twist the knife while he's at it.

Other examples of this is his paranoia over what the crew thinks of him, especially after seeing Swansea and Anya talking. This one's pretty self explanatory

Next one I find pretty interesting, after Jimmy finds Daisuke on the floor crying about being a screw up and after seeing Swansea scold him for not being great at his job, he decides to turn that around on him as well.

He is not only very aware Daisuke looks up to people in power but looks up to Swansea in specific. I dunno, I just thought that was interesting when I was looking back through everything. I know Jimmy's manipulation of Daisuke is super obvious and in your face but it just helps add to the whole point of Jimmy knows how to wriggle his way into people's minds, especially when they're vulnerable.

I've hit the image limit and I'm not even half way done, so, PART 2

[littelovelunette]

could you do one where reader feels bad about themselves, and starts to struggle with eating, and after weeks go by it’s a problem, they’re skipping meals and feeling sick a lot, and vi noticed and keeps an eye out and then confronts reader and helps them get better, maybe having meals together? maybe she confronts reader by making dinner one night and reader refuses to eat it or something

Pretty As The Sunrise (2)

Contains mentions of eating disorder

You were watching the stretch marks on your stomach and thighs, you had really gained weight this time.

Some of your tops didn't fit you even, that made you feel really sad. You remained there seated on the floor for a while admist clothes and pants that didn't fit you anymore.

You looked at the mirror, hand coming to cup your stomach as your lips formed a little pout, you hated looking like this.

You sighed and decided to wear a loose t shirt and some baggy pajamas, you didn't wanna see the imprint of your figure through your clothes that's how disgusting you felt.

It's been weeks you've been skipping out on lunch, having just a toast for breakfast and barely eating anything for dinner yet somehow you felt like you were the fattest whale to exist on the planet.

"Gosh, I pity Vi," you murmured, pulling your hair down to frame your face in an attempt of making it look smaller, maybe the weight gain wouldn't show then.

"Hey baby, what's with the mess?" Vi asked as she opened the door to the bedroom, brow raised at the clothes scattered around the floor.

"Oh nothing I just couldn't find something comfortable you wear," you lied through your teeth, it was only partially the truth.

"Baby have you been crying?" Vi asked closing the door behind herself and walking upto you, cupping your face in her hands. Vi tucked your hair behind your ear but you quickly pulled them back down to frame your face.

"I'm fine I just need a moment can you give me that?" You asked softly and Vi sighed before nodding, "I'm only a room away, call for me okay? Don't suffer alone whatever it is." Vi reluctantly walked out of the bedroom to give you some space.

"Eat, babe," Vi's voice was gentle whenever she tried to coerce you to eat but you didn't want to, sometimes smiling and telling her you weren't hungry and sometimes simply behaving like you were full.

You didn’t think she noticed.

The way you pushed food around on your plate, always claiming you “weren’t that hungry.” The way your clothes started fitting differently, a little looser. How you sighed when you looked in the mirror, eyes scanning yourself with something too sharp, too cruel.

Vi wasn’t the kind of person to push when you weren’t ready to talk, but she wasn’t stupid.

She saw you. And she wasn’t about to sit back and let you wither away.

So that’s how you ended up in your tiny kitchen, standing at the threshold in nothing but Vi’s old shirt, watching her cook.

It was an unexpected sight—Vi, of all people, focused, brow furrowed as she worked at the stove.

She wasn’t a chef, not by a long shot, but the woman could cook when she needed to. And right now, she was cooking for you and what's what mattered to her.

“Take a seat,” Vi said without turning around, her voice casual but firm.

You hesitated, rubbing your arm. “Vi, I’m not really—”

“—Hungry?” She shot you a glance over her shoulder, an amused smirk tugging at her lips. “Yeah, I figured you’d say that. Sit your ass down anyway.”

With a sigh, you did as you were told, perching at the small, worn-out table. The smell in the air was good—savory, rich, something warm that made your stomach twist with a hunger you’d been ignoring.

“What are you even making?” you asked trying to peer around and get a peek, watching as she plated up.

Vi turned, holding out a dish. “Noodles with grilled chicken. It’s good shit.”

You stared at the plate as she set it down in front of you.

Steaming noodles, coated in a thick, spicy sauce, mixed with crisped-up vegetables and tender slices of grilled chicken. It smelled amazing.

Vi took a seat across from you, arms crossed, gaze unwavering. “Eat, babe.”

You swallowed, fingers twitching on the table. “Vi—”

“Listen.” Vi's voice softened, but her eyes never left yours. “I know what you’re doing. I’ve seen it before—hell, I’ve done it before. You start thinking you’re not enough, that if you just shrink a little more, you’ll feel better. That it’ll fix whatever’s in your head.”

Your throat tightened. She saw right through you. There was no more hiding.

Vi leaned forward, resting her muscly forearms on the table. “But that’s not how it works, sweetheart. You deserve to eat. You deserve to be strong. You deserve to feel good in your own skin, not punish yourself.”

You exhaled shakily, looking down at your plate.

“Just try,” Vi murmured. “For me?”

Your fingers curled around the chopsticks. You picked up a bite, hesitating before finally tasting it.

It was good—spicy, rich, the kind of food that warmed you from the inside out. Your body reacted instantly, the hunger you’d been denying making itself known.

Vi grinned as you took another bite, then another. “That’s my girl.”

A warmth that had nothing to do with the food spread through you.

Maybe, just maybe, she was right.

[spr1ngtweaks]

🛝 Imagining Higher-Up Tunnels with you and Harley

/ Note: most of this is just my headcanon of Harley before the "event" happened, it won't be 100% canon and might be ooc. I'm just writing for fun, please don't come to me. ;-; My grammar pretty shitty bc Eng is not my first language

I remember in the game and even on the wiki, there is mention of at least the "Senior Staff Access Hall" or also known as the "Higher-Up Tunnels": a very small area but quite important for its purpose blah blah.... So I just want to imagine that if you and Harley Sawyer had your own slide, then- well, I think when you have free time, you would invite him to slide every day just for fun, like reliving childhood, lmao. /

At first, Harley would definitely hate this idea. He wasn't the kind of person who wasted time on pointless things like "tubing" in the factory. For him, these tunnels are simply an efficient means of transportation—not a game.

But you are different. Every day when you have free time, you try to persuade him, saying, "Just try it, just once, to see if it's fun!" And of course, he would frown, cross his arms, and glance at you with a look that was half disdain, half helplessness at your stubbornness.

"Do I look like a child?" He asked, his voice dry, but you could see a hint of fatigue mixed with something... almost resignation.

Then one day, somehow, you succeed. Maybe it's because you keep clinging like a leech day after day, or maybe he just wants to shut you up. But when he truly slips down—no matter how reluctant, no matter how irritable—you know he enjoys it a bit.

Harley didn't shout or laugh like you, but there was a very brief moment when he landed, stood up straight, adjusted his coat with his usual frown... and something flickered in his eyes. A bit of excitement, a bit of nostalgia?

But right after that, he brushed it off, looking at you as if you were the one who dragged him into this ridiculous mess (which you actually did).

"There won't be a second time." He declared firmly.

And then, a week later, you see him using the slide again without anyone forcing him.

[plumpybread]

Now that you've drawn Ororon for the first time I believe, do you have any ideas about how the weight ties into his tribe's culture? Just like you've analysed the other tribes before, are you going to do the same with Masters of The Night Wind and/or Flower Feather Clan?

I plan on talking about the other 3 Natlan tribes in the future, yeah :]! I think I'm just gonna wait for when the next version drops with Varesa and Iansan so we get the final tribe to make it one cohesive post and avoid fragmentation of information since I understand it can be hard to keep up with the AU from all the dozens of posts (especially for people who aren't familiar with the game)

As for why Ororon is so obese, I had two possible explanations I was juggling in my mind to choose from:

The first one was the idea that the Masters of The Night Wind tend to purposefully gain weight as it might improve their spiritual senses, and Ororon was simply part of this cultural aspect of the tribe. The idea kind of fell flat when I thought about it for more than a second, though, since we know Ororon is very retracted from society and I don't think he'd be that influenced by the tribe. Also, I didn't want to have too many obese cultures, since Meztli/People of the Springs was meant to be the very fat one of them all, so I ended up scrapping the whole idea.

The reason as to why Ororon is so obese is because of Citlaltonac's influence.

When the idea of genderbending female characters was brought up, I put Citlaltonac (the closest male counterpart to the name Citlali) at the top of the tierlist alongside Ganyu at over 2,500+ pounds. Citlal (just as a way to abbreviate the name) is over two hundred years old, and with his character and a personality like his, I can easily see him progressively grow fatter and fatter as decades went by, now being completely immobile under all that lard, but still eating himself further into extreme obesity.

Ororon, having been raised and mentored by the immobile shaman all his life, would've definitely developed the same eating habits as him, so it was no shock to anyone in the tribe when he just did not seem to stop getting more and more obese.

He's now almost at 800 pounds of pure fat, and he's showing no signs of slowing down. He's starting to struggle pretty hard with basically anything at this point, his low-hanging stomach always getting in the way, but he's just accepted it as part of his life, unbothered by the reality of his incoming immobility if he doesn't stop growing.

[kiyo-cant-write]

Imagine octavinelle with a shrimp merman ? I don't remember if they are actually called that 😭😭

octavinelle with shrimp merman ✧･ﾟ

Thank you for requesting! I am sorry this took so long. Uni makes me literally want to cry sometimes when it keeps me from finishing things. Also happy Valentine's Day!! 💕 🍫 🍬 Lol, it's 1:30am in the morning for me! I'm sleeping now! Enjoy~!

If I made a mistake, please do request again btw!

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Summary: The reader is a shrimp merman. What does Octavinelle think of their classmate?

TW/CW: Just some tweel-typical implied violence/bothering

Notes: pre-relationship, male reader, he/him pronouns for the reader, the reader is NOT Yuu/Ramshackle Prefect, the reader is explicitly in Octavinelle and a first-year at NRC

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

[Name] is a shrimp merman, not an uncommon species but not a common one either. Growing up in the Coral Sea, he is now among the students at NRC who attended "land camp" to learn how to walk among humans in a form gained by taking a special potion.

Once he arrived at Night Raven College, he was promptly sorted into the dorm of the benevolent Sea Witch, Octavinelle. It was there that he met the housewarden and his... assistants? Associates?

Just what kind of place is this??

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✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul doesn't feel any which way about [Name] being a shrimp merman though he does note there aren't many of them.

Even back home, he had only heard of a handful (maybe)

The real annoyance sets in when the twins decide this is a perfect reason to pick on or otherwise bother [Name].

While Azul tolerates it to a degree, Floyd takes it too far.

Azul ends up having to step in and that is where the friendship begins between [Name] and Azul.

Meet cute where boss saves you from his minions-

Azul is a surprisingly caring friend when he genuinely likes someone. He might seem a bit detached at times but the boy is just scared of getting hurt again like when he was younger.

Azul sometimes forgets [Name] is a shrimp merman.

Azul tries not to think about being an octomer.

He may or may not be projecting this onto [Name] as well.

All in all, Azul doesn't mind [Name].

[Name]'s species doesn't affect how he sees him.

He would only worry if the other merman seemed to know of his past. Then he would force him to sign an NDA.

Azul was not expecting to find a shrimp merman in his lounge before opening and being just about harassed by not one eel but two. Floyd, he could ignore. When was Floyd not doing something vastly inappropriate for the situation because it seemed "fun"? But Jade knew better. Or, in Azul's mind, he did. However, the octomer was reconsidering that sentiment as he watched the shrimpmer get tossed between Jade and Floyd.

Right, left. Right, left. Right...

"Jade, Floyd," Azul spoke in a firm tone of voice as he walked over to the twins, "What exactly are you doing to this person?"

He saw Floyd let out a sigh at being caught whereas Jade simply smirked a closed-mouth smile that made Azul vaguely uneasy (a natural response to Jade Leech in these situations). Both of them, however, made no moves to let go of the other boy.

"The two of you have work to be doing," Azul reminded, teeth gritted as he wanted to smack at least one of them (probably Floyd).

"We do, but this seems like such fun," Jade responded.

"Yeah! You never let us do anything fun, Azul," Floyd added.

The octomer sighed this time, shooting them a glare. They knew he might do something they didn't like if they pushed him enough. And that wasn't something either twin would risk just for a few minutes of fun, maybe for something more worthwhile, but not just throwing an underclassman around. That would never be "worth it" to them.

"Jade, Floyd, get back to work," Azul told them once more.

"Of course, understood," Jade offered, releasing the grip he had had on the shrimpmer's shoulder at last, "I will do so right away."

Jade seemed keen on pretending he hadn't misbehaved. Azul didn't even want to say anything. He ignored the look of relief that crossed the shrimpmer's face at being let go by at least one of the eels.

"Maa, fine," Floyd agreed a few seconds after Jade, pushing the shrimpmer toward Azul as he spoke, "You play with him, then."

With that, Floyd turned to walk away, not realizing what he had done.

[Name], not expecting to be pushed, went flying toward Azul, who had to reach out at the last minute to catch them. [Name]'s arm got caught in Azul's scarf, and Azul's cane tripped [Name] again... And the two fell to the floor with [Name] having his palms against the cool floor of the lounge and Azul's head pinned between them.

"Ehhh?" Azul managed to let out a sound between surprise and horror as he realized the kind of position they were in.

He could hear the twins snickering, watching instead of returning to their posts before the rush began. He would get them or this later.

"I'm sorry, senpai!" [Name] began, shifting to move away from him and only complicating the position the two were in, "Ah, sorry again..."

"Just..." Azul began, "Just stop it."

He tried to ignore the heat on his cheeks, the deep color his face probably was at this point. He could pretend it wasn't happening if he just waited it out. But he also couldn't. He was in the middle of the floor and customers would arrive soon.

Slowly, he moved to take the other boy's forearms in his gloved hands and push him away from him in the least awkward way possible, all the while hearing the shrimpmer apologize some more.

Once they were disentangled, all the while Floyd and Jade just watched in amusement instead of helping (really, Azul wanted to punch one of them so badly), Azul glanced awkwardly at the shrimpmer before he sighed in defeat and spoke again.

"You may have whatever drink you like for free today," Azul told him.

"Really?" he asked Azul, surprised by the offer.

"It was my employees who did this to you, it's an apology and an offer to buy your silence for what just happened."

It was only the right thing to do, Azul told himself.

"Oh... Oh! I won't tell anyone," [Name] promised, offering a slight smile, "Thank you for the drink, senpai."

"Of course," he told them, still sounding winded and a bit tired.

Oh, yes. Azul would be thankful to head back to his office after this.

"I'm [Full Name] by the way," the shrimpmer added before he found a table and began ordering his drink from one of the twins (Azul really couldn't care less which one was doing it as long as they were working and not harassing random students that wouldn't benefit the lounge in some way-).

But that name stuck in his mind as he returned to his office.

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Jade Leech

Jade is intrigued to an extent but it's nothing special.

Even if they are not common, they are still merpeople. Right?

Jade is far too captivated by the land (though he denies it) to be captivated by something that is so similar to his homeland.

He speaks politely to [Name] and teases him along with Floyd.

But this is normal tweel behavior and not because [Name] is a shrimp merman. Jade doesn't really care about that.

What matters to Jade is [Name]'s interest.

He will be happy if the other boy expresses interest in his club.

Jade's interests are intense and specific.

Something will need to fit into them to have his full attention.

Otherwise, he only focuses on things that apply to "work."

Azul asks him to research so many things.

Being a Vice Housewarden is tiring, you know!

As he gets more comfortable he may mention these sentiments to [Name] but it's unclear if those are real or crocodile tears.

Jade is forever shrouded in mystery as someone very guarded.

"Floyd-senpai called me a snack in the potentially cannibalistic way today," [Name] told Jade as he walked up to him wearing the best kind of outdoor clothes he could muster from his closet (which ended up being PE clothes).

"Oya?" Jade offered, feigning a worried expression for a moment before posing a question, "And what did you say to my brother?"

[Name] shrugged.

"I said I had to meet you for a hike and left," he told Jade, "I was already running late. Sorry about that!"

He laughed slightly, unsure if Jade would be upset or not. They weren't super close friends. [Name] asked Jade if he knew anything about the local flora on the island and Jade had gone on a twenty-minute rant about a local variety of mushrooms. Now they were going on a hike in the mountains near campus to explore.

[Name] didn't know what to expect but Jade was often polite and didn't call him "shrimp" (derogatory) and "snack" (cannibalistic) all the time like his unpredictable brother so this would be alright. Or [Name] thought it would be. Jade wasn't as startling as Floyd was.

The only time that Jade had startled him was when they first met and Jade seemed to know everything about him from age to hobbies. It wasn't the kind of information he was used to people knowing.

Still, it was less scary than Floyd. So he moved on.

Was that a mistake? Maybe.

But now they were on this hike.

"So, senpai," [Name] offered, "Do you do this often?"

It was a genuine question. [Name] had little experience hiking as he lived under the sea until land camp and now school and Night Raven.

"Hiking? I like to," Jade told him, "It's a part of my club at school."

"Your club? One you made?"

[Name] had not heard of this before.

"Something like that. I run the Mountain Lovers Club."

As Jade said the name, [Name] could have sworn he sparkled.

"Mountain lovers... So you must really like mountains?" he asked.

Jade nodded slightly with a grin.

"Something like that, it is more of an appreciation for what nature has to offer us," he explained, leading [Name] along the trail.

Seeing him like this, [Name] wondered what else about this strange island he could learn from Jade-senpai and if this was what Jade was truly like. He seemed much happier and chattier in his club uniform and out walking in the mountains.

Or maybe that was just [Name]'s imagination.

"Senpai! Wait for me!"

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Floyd Leech

Floyd thinks it's funny that [Name] is a shrimp.

They meet at the lounge when Floyd decides "This one looks fun."

He discusses with the Prefect about changing his nicknames around since [Name] is much more a shrimp than Yuu is.

This is a first in Floyd's history. Jade is impressed.

Floyd teases and makes fun of [Name].

Sometimes he will bite them just to scare them, not hard enough to leave a mark or draw blood but enough to startle them.

His excuse is always that he seemed "tasty" looking.

He gets into mock fights with Jade over [Name].

Sometimes the fights become actual scuffles when Floyd decides, "No, actually I do care that you're too close to Shrimpy."

Floyd is so unpredictable it's hard to say if he likes [Name], wants to eat him, or is just messing with everyone.

If [Name] wants to romance this eel, he will have to try harder to get his attention. Floyd can be a little dense at times.

Chaos does that to people.

Floyd is having fun with Shrimpy.

[Name] wasn't sure how it happened. It all happened so quickly. he had just wanted to buy something from the lounge that his dorm apparently ran and now there was a tall teal-haired boy attached to him and not letting go. What was happening? He was so lost.

The whole school was big and he was new! He barely remembered things from orientation and now there was this... this guy! All he wanted was to have a nice drink or a snack at this lounge. That was it. Was he asking for too much? Honestly! Maybe!

"Um... Can you let me go?" the shrimpmer asked, trying to break free and failing once more, "I need to find a table if I can."

He also would like to be able to move freely again.

The toothy smile on the teal-haired boy's face drooped slightly as he pouted at [Name] and whined in an albeit childish way.

"You're no fun! I just wanted to come investigate," the boy told [Name], "You seem like you're merfolk, you know."

[Name]'s face flushed. He had been doing a good job at being human, he thought? Was he not being land-y enough? He was doing exactly what they were taught at camp.

"How did you know?" he asked him.

"You seem like one," was all the boy said.

That didn't answer his question but [Name] didn't want to press for more information, especially in the position that he was in.

He sighed as he gave up struggling against him.

"I'm [Name]. And I'm a shrimp merman... Though I'm still not sure how you knew that," [Name] introduced himself as best he could.

The boy's eyes sparkled to the point [Name] was a bit unnerved.

"Ooh! I'm gonna call you Shrimpy instead of Shrimpy... But then what will I call them instead? Huhh..."

He seemed to think about it and [Name] wondered who the original "Shrimpy" might have been and why they were called that to begin with. Were they shrimp merfolk too? It didn't add up.

"And you are?" [Name] asked after a moment of silence between them, still in the boy's arms even though his grip had loosened.

"Floyd Leech," he said with another grin, still refusing to let go completely.

"Nice to meet you then..." [Name] told him.

Would he really be able to get away from this Floyd guy?

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Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

[triptychcryptid]

Dear god. Just watched Heretic with Hugh Grant in it as a psycho who traps two Mormon Missionaries in his house under the pretense of wanting to hear more about the religion, but proceeds to ask them questions and present them with evidence and choices that make them challenge their beliefs and try to prove a point about people only believing in things because they've been TOLD to believe these things. They BELIEVE they have choices or they BELIEVE in a higher power. Classic Free Will vs Influence stuff. This brought me back to my college philosophy classes that I absolutely LOVED, but also got me thinking:

That AU Idea where Ford believes in Bill as a god and he and Stanley both end up in the portal, and Ford betrays Stanley to get back to Bill: Given the chance, Ford could absolutely use a religious arguement to fuck someone up mentally. Challenging their beliefs but in the OPPOSITE direction.

Like what if you pitted Ford the Religious Zealot who continues to be influenced by a cult leader and Stan with a more atheist, philosophical mindset against each other?

And in Stan's case, philosophy wouldn't be used in the way that like I BELIEVE it was Henry David Thoreaux said "wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants" which is to say that man should live simply and with few possessions, because wanting many possessions is selfish. Not that kind of rhetoric, but more of "Are you actually thinking for yourself, or are you being influenced by this giant space dorito with a CLEAR ulterior motive?" And Stan may not even realize he's taking a philosophical stance, but would absolutely be the only other person quick-witted enough to match Ford's "I have been shown the way to salvation by my Muse. I know he has a plan for all of us and I am acting under that plan" arguments.

I don't know, this movie got the philosophical part of my brain going and made me realize Ford could be really dangerous on either side of that. But so could Stanley on the Philosophical side with his belief in moral gray areas and situational variables.

[cheesycatz]

Parasitic worm pretends to be your valentine so you don't notice that they're the reason you have 24 days left to live

Wormton AU fic is 190k words now! : )

Nothing crazy new plot wise, more bonding and found family stuff. Obligatory fluff after how much these guys had to go through. I like describing all the sounds he makes when isn't trying to suppress them; chirps, warbles, trills, chirrs, chitters, screeches, snarls, and that weird computer whirring sound he makes that may or may not have the same connotations as purring (sorry I couldn't resist)

I'm excited to go through revisions! It's been so long since I wrote some of this stuff that I don't remember the fine details, so it's genuinely fun for me to read through. Also, I had fun making disguised wormton seem as cursed as possible without actually describing his real form until post-reveal. Blue was probably the only one who didn't think he was some deranged serial killer at first sight, which, fair enough. I was kind of worried about a few very minor original characters I added not being accepted, but then I remembered that Trashy the trash can probably has more speaking lines than any one of them and it probably isn't that big of a deal. I hope you enjoy the one chapter with these three kids putting their LPS animal dolls through the most traumatizing, heart-wrenching, dark story as we all did as children (I promise it's plot relevant and contains symbolism).

Drew some non-canon wormton stuff for Valentine’s Day. I mean, I don't know how you would send a valentine to an elusive homeless man with no official documentation of his existence. The asexually reproducing computer worm guy can't feel anything romantic, but he would love to take advantage of you—gladly accept your lovely gifts. Bro’s just teasing haha he would never inject parasitic worm larvae into your abdomen just don't go to the doctor in the next 24 days please he definitely loves you and not the worms hypothetically eating your organs

“worm.vbs” is a reference to the file type used by the ILOVEYOU worm and other old malware. I only know this because I realized that one of the official spamton valentines from last year contains its exact file name “LOVE-LETTER-FOR-YOU.TXT.vbs”. sharing this trivia because it was like the one reference in those valentines that I didn't see anyone mention back then and because it makes me feel smart

Food for thought:

Honestly, he'd be pretty scary if it weren't for his justified fear of the antivirus forces. Malworm safety is all about avoiding disembodied voices trying to lure you into alleys, so the fact that you can physically see his relatively humanoid disguised form would make him seem dangerously trustworthy. I was thinking about what would've happened if he would've gotten help from the person on the phone (probably gaster I guess? idk). He could've totally been like a cult leader manipulating people into willingly becoming hosts because it was honorable or whatever. And that could combine with the fact that their venom slightly influences the brain. And the followers would've thought he was simply dressing up as a malworm and his fall from grace would've been when they realized he was just a malworm in disguise infecting them and prolonging the invasion. I prefer what I have now; lonely hypothetically-murderous wormton is a lot more redeemable than very-murderous cult leader wormton would be. The addisons, or anyone really, would want nothing to do with him. Fun to think about! And only to think about; I'd rather focus on the version I have now.

See you next time at the big 200k 👀 chapter 3 might actually come out before my multi-book-length spamton fanfiction but don't worry I would never abandon my favorite freak of nature

yappin complete B)