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thesvnandthemooon · 2 days ago

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𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐝𝐢𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐝?

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

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

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

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

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

You're 12 when you meet her again.

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

Natasha's back. Again.

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

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

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

This is the moment where they part again.

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

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

Only a pair of green eyes meets yours.

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

I know her, you think before looking away.

Bedsheets rustle. Natasha climbs into the spot above yours.

. . .

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

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

But you never, ever hesitate.

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

The result?

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

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

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

Natasha.

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

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

Somehow, no one notices.

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

Why won't you sleep?

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

Another toss. Another turn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blue hair, green eyes.

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

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

"You were loud", she states.

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

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

"Because of me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Natasha?", you say.

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

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

"...Thanks."

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing seems to change, but somehow, everything does.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop apologizing.”

"I didn't mean to-"

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

No. You certainly don't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Stop moving."

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

"Quit that!"

"I'm cold", you whisper.

"News flash: so am I."

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

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

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

"Don't make this a habit."

You'll make it a habit.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Two years have passed. Maybe three.

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

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

What really shows you that time has passed is Natasha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you should've expected it.

You don't.

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

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

It's everything and nothing at the same time.

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

"Shit", she mumbles.

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

"You're counting this as a kiss?"

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

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

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

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

This time, it definitely is a kiss.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not your fault."

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

"We're not much older."

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

"I lost her."

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

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

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

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

We.

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

. . .

You feel the illness long before it really hits you.

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

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

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

"Y/N?"

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

Tough luck. You have to push through.

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

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

"Nat", you mumble dismissively, voice muffled.

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

"We have training-"

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

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

"Lay down", she murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

Black Widows don't have a future.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"More than this place?"

An unnecessary question, and you both know it.

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

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

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

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

"It works on me."

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you, you know."

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

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

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

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

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

"Where?"

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

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

"I mean it."

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

"What would we do?”

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

"Anything. Everything."

. . .

You're 18 when Natasha starts to slip away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Romanoff."

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

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

You don't see her for days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't feel real."

Some experiences haunt you for a lifetime.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how wrong she is.

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

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

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

"I know."

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

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

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

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

. . .

You're 31 when you get out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you kidding?!"

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

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

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

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

Yelena nudges your side. "Zoning out?"

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Blinds", she mutters.

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What, 'why'?"

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

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

"You...what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

"Don't."

"It's boring."

"Yelena."

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

"How much longer?"

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

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

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

You hesitate before following her inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Careful", she says.

"I'm not used to it."

"Might be for the better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Only 19 in 20."

"Yeah."

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

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

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

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

You tilt your head. I will?

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

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

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

Natasha manages a bitter smile. "And you?"

You hesitate and let go of the shoelaces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Your birthday."

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

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

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

Natasha shifts, arms crossed and expression guarded.

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

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

"I made Yelena distract you."

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

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

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

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

"They didn't have balloons."

"Candles?"

"No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take another bite.

"It's not so bad."

. . .

With the Red Room gone, you're free.

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

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

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

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

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

You do. Maybe you always will.

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

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

Examples?

The cost of homes has doubled.

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

Instagram has replaced MySpace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sometimes, they make glass shatter."

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

"Alright, Shakespeare", she mumbles.

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, exactly."

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

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

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

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

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

"You okay?", she eventually asks.

"Are you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe she misses it too. She probably does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Bad habit."

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

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

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

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

"You had a funny way of showing it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Natasha is a woman of her word.

. . .

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

You realize two things:

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

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

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

"Hey, wait-"

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

"Y/N, wait-"

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

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

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

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

"What's it about, then?"

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

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

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

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

"Y/N..."

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

A door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're wet, too."

"I'm fine."

"Join me."

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

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

“I’m sorry”, she says.

Your hands touch her face.

“I know.”

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

“You don’t have to forgive me.”

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

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

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

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

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sleepy girl", she mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It's not fair."

"It was never fair, either."

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

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

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

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

"I love you."

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

"I think we missed our shot there."

. . .

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

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

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

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

Still, there is a breaking point for everything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you talking about?"

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

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

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

"I want to shower", she suddenly says.

"I've seen you naked."

"Y/N."

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe. Not a conscious one, though.

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

(She would.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

. . .

It's been months since everything was somewhat normal.

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

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

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

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

You frown. Nobody said anything about a mission.

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

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

"No."

"Right.“

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

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

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

"Be careful", you say.

"I always am."

"Liar."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sugar?"

"Nope."

"I could scrape off what's burnt."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll be back."

"I know."

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

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

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

One truth, one lie.

. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're 34 when you lose her entirely.

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

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bratbarzal · 3 days ago

Note

Maggie you doing blurbs has made my whole week! Could I get “you celebrate this corny day?” “just say you’re lonely and have no one to spend it with, next time, ‘kay?” but with friends to lovers instead of enemies? With Quinn pleeeease <3

✩‧₊˚ bratbarzal's valentines event!˚₊‧✩

4. “you celebrate this corny day?” “just say you’re lonely and have no one to spend it with, next time, ‘kay?” with quinn (I took creative liberties with the exact phrasing of this but the essence is there lmao!! also love you for customising it, if anyone else is requesting feel free to jumble the tropes!!)

"You can't seriously be into all this stuff," Quinn huffs as he watches you pick up another heart shaped pillow down the seasonal aisle in the grocery store - your cart still empty despite being there almost 15 minutes, now - and the object in your hand having no conceivable difference to the one you picked up just before it. "It's so corny."

All he's heard for weeks now is Valentines this, and Valentines that, all his teammates going the extra mile for their significant others like it isn't just the same as any other Friday.

Dozens of roses, candlelit dinners, boxes of chocolates and God-forbid any of them forget a card, because how could you possibly ever show someone you love them without a folded bit of paper.

It's all so stupid.

"It's not corny, it's cute." You throw back over your shoulder, making a point of lifting the pillow higher just to show him, "Look, it's got ruffles!"

"What's the big deal about ruffles," he scowls, stepping past the cart and closer to the display that houses all the valentines themed garbage - pillows, keychains, water bottles and little plushies. He never thought you'd be into all this stuff - you barely even like Christmas - but here you are, fawning over anything you can find that's pink, or fluffy, or both. "You have like 90 pillows back in your apartment, I can barely fit on the couch anymore."

"There are 8 pillows max between both of my couches, Q, and they're decorative." You retort, rolling your eyes at your best friend as his face turns, nose scrunching in a petulant scowl. "I'm not taking interior design critique from someone with a sauna in his kitchen."

"It wouldn't fit anywhere else, you know that." he grumbles, snatching the pillow from your grip and throwing it back with the others.

"What's got you so annoyed about Valentines Day, huh?" you pick up the next item along, a fluffy keychain with cherries shaped like hearts - or hearts shaped like cherries, you're not quite sure - swinging the loop around your finger until you have enough momentum to launch it his way. "Did no one give Quinny a rose?"

He catches it, clumsily, against his chest, holding it in front of him to get a good look before he throws it straight back. "I'm not annoyed. You shouldn't have to buy any of this garbage to show somebody you love them. Just think it's a made up holiday set up to make money off of schmucks. "

"Hey, don't call me a schmuck," you jab a finger into his arm.

"Don't call me Quinny," he jabs back.

"If you don't have anybody to spend Valentines with and you're feeling lonely, you can just say that," You tell him, purposely bordering on condescending, picking up one of the stuffed animals - a bear, holding a heart that reads, I love you - and wiggling it his way. "See, we're all lovers, no one else here is gonna judge you."

He watches the way you pout down at the bear, tapping at its nose with your finger and hesitantly putting it back, like you don't quite want to.

"We're the only ones here, period," he scoffs, "No one else is weird enough to do their grocery shopping at 10pm."

"It was the only time you're free and I need you to haul the big bag of cat food into my car," you pout, remembering how much he had scolded you the last time you tried to do it on your own and hurt your back - promising that the next time you needed to top up, he'd come with and get his own shopping done at the same time.

"Whatever, you don't have anybody to spend Valentines with, either."

"I have Ziggy," you shrug, referring to your cat with the little white patch of fur around it's eye like a lightening bolt - the cat that Quinn had grumbled about when you first brought her home from the shelter, but who he always sought out whenever he came over to your place. "We're gonna watch Bake Off and eat dinner off of matching heart-shaped plates."

You hold up two red ceramic plates to him with a big smile before putting them in the cart, ignoring when he chuckles to himself, and edging past him to finally make your way off of the seasonal aisle.

"Hold on," he calls after you, appearing by your side with another plate in hand. "Ziggy already told me she'd be my Valentine, so we're gonna have to share."

"She's way too high maintenance for you." You snort, bumping your hip against his, "Especially if you think Valentines gifts are corny. She's not a cheap date, Q."

"Just like her mother," he sighs, dramatically, jumping back when you swing your leg out to kick him. "Hey, watch the shins, cat lady, you can't afford the damages on these things!"

He ignores the glare you give him as you watch him retreat, jogging back over to all the Valentines stuff and picking up two bears - the one you were just holding, and a smaller copy - one for you, and one for Ziggy.

"Here," he throws them into the cart, too. You pick the bear back up, twisting your lips as you look at the two of them side by side, and look back up to watch him walking backwards down the aisle, a glint in his eye as he watches you. "Don't check out without me, I need to go pick up some supplements."

"Big macho health-nut thinks I'm the corny one," you speak to the bear like it can even hear you, putting on a grumbly voice in an attempt to mimic Quinn.

"I'm sorry I called you corny!" He calls, further down the aisle, now.

"You called me a schmuck, too!" You call back, cheeks flushing at the lopsided grin he gives just before he rounds the corner at the bottom.

It's a smile he can't really shift as he makes a bee-line for the health aisle, content now that he actually has plans - isn't going to be sitting alone in his apartment with no one to spend his Valentines with, and doesn't need to fork out thousands just for it to mean something.

And when it rolls around a couple days later, and he's sprawled out on your couch, pillows tossed to the floor, and Bake Off flickering almost silently on your TV, he lays back with that same smile etched into his features.

You're asleep under one arm, and Ziggy is purring under the other, and for the first time ever, thanks to his best friend and your overly fluffy cat, he thinks that maybe the holiday isn't such a joke.

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #💌.valentinesevent #*writing #MY FIRST QUINN THING HALLELUJAH #why do I love them already #this is so fun #the ending is garbage but what can you do in another world I've written these two a whole series #.ve

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swytdoll · 7 hours ago

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(19)virgin!choso has the hots for his older neighbor(35):(

perverted. that’s how he felt as he watched you wash your car, in shorts so tiny they were practically underwear and a white tank top that was so soaked it was see through. the way the fabric clung to your breasts made his mouth water. he had been staring for at least 30 minutes and had gotten to see them from all angles. it was torture, sweet torture. he wanted to take you right then and there in the grass and hear his name on your lips over and over.

you were old enough to be his mom. in fact, he had had you as a teacher back when he was in high school and that made him feel guilty for looking at you like this. but he just couldn't stop. he couldn’t stop himself from fantasizing about being with an older woman, one that knew what she was doing and knew how to use him. you would make him feel like your toy and he wanted that.

you looked up and caught his eyes. he blushed bright red and quickly turned away. maybe if he had kept looking he would have noticed the smirk on your lips.

you were a teacher in more ways than one. you could teach him how to be a good boy and give you the pleasure you deserved. he wanted to sink into the ground when you began to approach him. you were smiling sweetly, but your eyes said something different.

you leaned against the fence separating your property and his, propping up one of your arms on it. you gave him a soft grin and he wanted to die. you’re so pretty to him. glowing eyes framed with thick wispy lashes, pretty plump lips. he can't look away, mesmerized, he watches the way your lips part and the tip of your tongue darts out to wet them. the sight makes his blood run hot and his shorts grow tighter.

"hello mister kamo," you hummed, "where are your parents?"

"i-i'm sorry i-" had he been caught? were you gonna tell on him?

"what's the matter? are you nervous?" you cooed, "i just wanted to say hi to your mom, see if she needed anything for the barbecue later. is she around?"

"she's- um- out. getting groceries," he replied quietly, not daring to meet your eyes.

"oh? and what about your father?"

"he's...working late," choso said. he was sweating and the bulge in his shorts was now painfully obvious. he wanted to die, to disappear from embarrassment. you smiled and let out a giggle.

"are you okay mister kamo? you seem awfully nervous." you’re batting those lashes and he swears he could melt, he clears his throat. "yeah! yeah, i'm fine, totally fine!" he blurted out, "i'll- uh- tell them you said hi."

"okay," you quipped sweetly and began to walk back to your house, "if you need anything, just let me know, okay?"

he nodded, "okay."

his head was spinning and he couldn't think straight. he didn't want to be alone, didn't want to go inside, didn't want to leave and miss seeing you again. he could still smell the strawberry of your shampoo from where he was. it was intoxicating.

"choso," you called out and he snapped out of his daze.

"yes, miss?"

"can you come help me? i dropped my hose and it's really hard to pick up."

"o-okay."

you lead him around the side of your house and he saw the hose was indeed on the ground, the water running. his hands were shaking, but he bent down and picked it up anyway. the moment he stood, you grabbed his hand and placed it right on your chest. he squeaked and tried to pull away, but you held him tight.

"you can touch me," you hummed, "i don't mind. is that why you were watching me? do you like older women?"

"i- uh- well- you- you're-"

"use your words, choso," you chastised him and moved his hand lower, making him rub his fingers over your nipple, "good boys speak when spoken to. did i ever teach you that?"

"y-yes," he whined and his hips bucked into the air. you gave him a wicked smile and pushed him to the ground. he landed on his back, legs sprawled out. his cock was standing up, pressing against his shorts and there was a dark stain where his tip was.

"such a cute little thing," you giggled and knelt down in front of him. you grabbed his legs and pulled them apart before getting between them. he squirmed and you grabbed his hands, pinning them to the ground.

"please," he whimpered.

"please what? be a good boy and tell me what you want," you cooed, pressing his hands into the ground.

"i- um- please...touch me," he whispered.

"like this?" you hummed and reached down to rub his clothed erection. he bucked his hips into your hand and moaned.

"yes, please, miss," he gasped.

"good boy," you purred and kissed him, he was putty. "so good for me."

your hands moved to his hips and he lifted them so you could pull his shorts down. his cock was already leaking and twitching.

"you poor thing, did you get this hard just from looking at me?"

"y-yes, miss," he moaned, "i couldn't stop thinking about you, how pretty you were and how much i wanted you."

"oh, you're such a good boy, telling me exactly what you want," you cooed and gripped his cock, stroking it slowly, "i should give you a reward, hm?"

"please, please, please," he whined, his hips twitching up.

"okay," you replied and leaned forward. you pressed a soft kiss to his tip, smearing the pre-cum on your lips before wrapping them around him. his back arched and he let out a loud moan. he couldn’t believe this, anyone could see him and you. his parents could walk past the fence and catch you sucking off their son. but that was part of the fun. it was forbidden and he loved that.

the sounds of your gurgled chokes as you slurp his cock are like a siren's song to him, the way you so dutifully suckle him to the base and take his entire length in your mouth without a trace of resistance. your jaw is slack as he slides between your lips, his hand gently cradling the back of your head, urging you forward until your nose is pressed into his belly. he's so big that even though your eyes are rolled back, your vision is obscured by the sheer size of his erection. your throat feels like a fleshy sheath for him, your breath forced out in tiny, rapid huffs through your nostrils, and your tongue is pinned.

and you're not just sucking his cock, either. you're swallowing. and every time your esophagus clenches down around the head of his dick, it sends him hurtling closer and closer towards an orgasm that he's determined to wring out of you first. he can feel you starting to struggle for air, but the way you're still obediently sucking his cock even while your lungs burn from a lack of oxygen.

“god," he rumbles, his voice like the sound of boulders shifting together. his grip on the back of your head tightens, and he grinds against your face, your nose and lips mashed up against his skin.

your stomach growls and churns in a desperate plea for nourishment, but the way he fills your throat is a completely different hunger. you can taste his pre-cum, his magic thick and warm and tingling on your tongue, and you suck and swallow with more enthusiasm. even though you're struggling to breathe, the idea of drinking his cum makes you feel like a starving woman given the key to a buffet.

"j-just like that," he praises you, his words coming out in a hiss as you clench down on him, your throat tightening in a futile attempt to keep his cock from pushing so deep into your airway. he whines when you withdraw, a string of saliva connecting you two.

"you taste so good, choso," you murmured, "have you had many girls do this to you?"

"n-no, miss, never," he groaned, "only you."

"and do you want only me to do this to you? do you want me to be the only one that knows how good you taste and how cute you sound?"

"yes! yes, miss! i want it to be only you, please," he babbled. you smirked and kissed his hip.

"well then, i better take good care of my boy, huh?"

"please, please," he whined, pushing his hips toward you.

"okay, i'll make you feel really good, sweetie."

you took his cock back into your mouth, licking at the tip and stroking the rest. his head was spinning and he could hardly breathe. you felt too good, looked too good, sounded too good. your soft lips wrapped around him, sucking and licking, teasing and pleasing. it was too much and yet not enough. his body was on fire, burning and aching.

his knees buckle as your warm hand palms his balls and your tongue traces the veins of his cock. he lets out a whine and grips your hair. you pull off his dick, letting it fall against his stomach. you press a few soft kisses to his tip, watching as his cock twitches.

"miss," he whimpered, "it hurts, please."

"what does, sweetheart?" you asked.

"please, let me cum, miss," he begged.

"already? did i make you that horny?"

"please, miss," he whined and bucked his hips.

"alright," you hummed, taking him back into your mouth.

"thank you," he breathed.

you bobbed your head, taking him as deep as you could. his fingers tightened in your hair and he bucked his hips. your nose pressed against his pelvis and your throat clenched around him.

"i'm close," he moaned, "i can't, fuck, it's so good."

a few more thrusts, and his movements become erratic. you're dizzy from oxygen deprivation, the edges of your vision growing dark, when suddenly his cock twitches inside you, and his hot, sticky cum fills your stomach. there's so much of it that you're actually able to feel yourself swell a little with the volume of his release, and the sensation makes you whimper and whine.

"you did so well," you cooed, crawling up and laying next to him, "was that your first time?"

"yeah. . . s-sorry i finished so quick." he mumbled, cheeks tinted brightly.

"you did so good," you repeated, pressing a kiss to his temple, he felt like he was going to pass out.

“i’ll see you tonight at the barbecue, yeah?”

he nods, fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him.

*peeps around corner* dare i say part 2?

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aquamarine-oceanfront · 1 day ago

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An update: takemizu on Twitter has posted footage of the full animation! (Many thanks to her!)

Here's my rough, somewhat punched-up translation - I'm folding in the lines from my previous post so that everything's all in one place.

Pomni: Hello? Does anyone know if there's a way out of here? Jax: Don't listen to her. She's just trying to lure you in so she can finish you off. Pomni: What are you talking about??? Don't you want to get out of here?! Jax: Huh? She must've gone completely loco. Really needs to shut her trap, don'tcha think?* [This is followed by a montage of clips from the show with text pulled straight from the poster I previously translated. Some parts are omitted, but it's not different enough to warrant repeating.] Jax: ...You wanna take this somewhere else? Pomni: Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good... Captions below the logo: Come lose your mind with this psychological dark comedy. Check us out now on YouTube!

*I should mention that takemizu also provided her own translation in the replies of this tweet. Her version of this line - "Guess we’ll have to calm her down, huh?" - is pretty different than what I initially came up with. The original sentence ("大人しくさせないとね？") is rather short on context clues by itself, which is common in Japanese writing, but as far as I can tell it's essentially Jax saying that Pomni really ought to (more literally "must") be quiet/docile. I'm not an expert in the language by any means, so takemizu definitely has a leg up on me in that regard - however, after reviewing the grammar and mulling it over, I decided to reword my original interpretation and add this explanatory note so you have the proper context. There is a decent chance I'm in the wrong here - please keep that in mind!

In addition, ねくとえるどらう (@NCTELDRW) posted another angle of the animation, as well as a close-up of the smaller ones decorating the pillars(?) underneath.

In case you were wondering, that is dynamite he's holding!

New promo animations featured for The Amazing Digital Circus x GiGO Campaign

We also got a new promo render with Pomni and Caine:

Closer look at the lower promo:

#tadc #the amazing digital circus #amazing digital circus #digital circus

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artsninspo · 3 days ago

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005 | Richmond Inc.

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

「 ✦ aaron pierre & characters library ✦ 」

⇚ 004

♠ summary: Lorence's unexpected 'crashout' has unexpected consequences.

♠ warnings: there is some backstory for Lorence that may be triggering to readers.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~3K

⌖ - Various Locations

It’s been a week since I've been home or exercised, so I practice deep breaths as I slow my run to a jog and turn the corner into my cul-de-sac. Checking my watch I see my heart rate is higher than it needs to be. It’s one of the results of my recent unemployment. Random streaks where my heart races without due cause - like I’m under attack when my brain knows I’m safe and sound. I try to help my body out by walking when I see a cherry red Mercedes parked in front of my home. I take in more air to aid in the slowing of my heart rate. I take my phone from my vest and look over the outdoor surveillance, relief finds me the instant I recognize Cassandra.

“You haven't been poached already have you?” she asks getting out of her car, stilettos hit the pavement. I expect her to be holding a box of my things cleared out from my office but she’s only holding her briefcase.

“Hey” I smile and she does too.

“How are you? You look fantastic” she says like the last time we were in each other's presence it wasnt disastrous. That was a little over a week ago now.

“Thanks, so do you” I force a smile feeling awkward.

“Can I come in so we can talk?” she asks, walking up the front steps behind me. I nod until a bark sounds from inside. I turn to see she looks terrified.

Snickering, I shake my head. “Just give me a moment to let the dog out”

“Take your time” she nods, taking a step back.

“Back” I say before unlocking the door. I look down at Beau who pushes past me to look outside. “Outside Beau” I tell my four legged protector. He looks up at me before giving me an annoyed chuff and following me to the back door. I let him out to the backyard and he stays by the glass to observe my guest. I find Cassandra on the porch waiting patiently and let her in. She enters my home with wide eyes.

“Wow, this is not what I expected” she remarks looking up like most people do when they enter my home. The skylights are a distinctive feature of the entryway, as is the conversation pit in my living room. People usually don't expect this to be my style. I bet Cassandra’s home is something straight out of architecture's digest. There’s nothing sterile or outwardly luxurious about my space with the exception of the space itself. The more eclectic decor style is in direct contrast to my occupation which is what I need to stay balanced.

“Coffee?” I ask walking into the kitchen only to hear Beau bark again. Cassandra jumps.

“That's a bear” she comments and I smile glancing at Beau who stands at attention ready for duty.

“Teddy bear” I laugh looking at him. “You’re scared and he can be a bit of a bully” I explain withholding that Beau knows i’ve been off my game and has been more protective than ever lately. Cassandra casts the dog another look before placing her briefcase down onto the island. “Is this my release?” I ask.

“No,” she scoffs. “This is your contract.” Cassandra smiles, throwing me for a loop.

“But … I quit” I remind her and she shrugs.

“Those big ears never listen” she scoffs mocking my outburst and I feel blood rush into my cheeks, she heard that too. I shouldn't laugh but I do remember my insult to the Bos- Terry. “Don’t hate me because I didn't know. Take it up with Terry and Joel. It was all a test. Usually at the director level there’s a lot of bullshit that gets thrown your way. Your testing had almost no gaps - except for one. Dealing with dominant figures or confrontational men. It was fine but then Terry was gonna keep you out of certain circuit line ups. Joel didn’t want that and pushed for you to have your cull clearances. Believe me I had no idea Lorence. The assholes made a bet. Joel had faith in you standing your ground. Terry didn’t. It wasn’t supposed to go as far as it did - You passed with flying colours” Cassandra says and I sit. My head spins as I try to replay her words in an effort to make sense of what the fuck just came out of her mouth.

I raise an angry and judgemental brow. “So they send you here?”

“You were never supposed to quit. You were supposed to just either cave or hold out. Holding out would’ve meant you get full clearance, caving would mean it was limited. Terry was trying to be antagonistic but I think he was expecting sparks at best not a bomb.” Cassandra smiles like the memory of my crash out is a five star film.

“So they just decided to play with my head?” I ask.

“No, no things went too far. Every Director gets tested before they can be trusted with a full mission. It's Terry being overly cautious. It’s important to him that his company’s leadership is capable. Joel saw an opportunity to get you on the spring circuit with him and proposed it to Terry after you declined the promotion from my understanding.” Cassandra says with an eye roll.

“It’s so idiotic I know it made sense to them” I swallow a bitter taste knowing exactly why there’s a glaring gap in my testing. The idea that Richmond is aware of it gives me an instant headache.

“Well, they threw money at you first and it didn't sway you. Money is the biggest barrier to loyalty in our field since we’re all for hire. Glory doesn't usually sway us women - we aren't as ego driven. Love/sex/attraction whatever has never swayed you so the prospect of rubbing elbows with elite men and becoming compromised was no worries either. Richmond was content moving forward after that but apparently barred you from a few locations because of the personality types. Joel advocated for you apparently there's a weakness in your testing there. Richmond agreed. You were just supposed to stand your ground or leave - I don't think he expected you to blow up on him or to get so angry. He didn't think you had it in you. They’re assholes” Cassandra remarks and Richmonds smug smirk as the elevator doors closed returns to me. The reverie makes sense now as the puzzle pieces click into place. It hadn't been amusement born out of cruelty - he was impressed. I find myself pacing as the truth of the matter comes to me and I think of Joel. I look at Cassandra who’s eyes show remorse.

“So the contract stands and I can keep my job?” I ask and she nods.

“Yes” she responds.

“Would it be wrong to call bullshit, he said I overestimated my importance-”

“He didn't expect you to quit AT ALL or the insubordination. I mean the shit you pulled” Cassandra smiles shaking her head. “ Too Good! I don't even go that far with him. I honestly think he likes you, because that restraint was TOTALLY unlike him" she remarks.

“Likes me? He can't stand me! If that was restraint the man needs a tranquilizer!” I snap and she giggles in agreement.

“The only reason I didn't meet you at the lobby was because he was smiling and told me to let you cool off. The smile threw me and I made him explain. All this time he thought you were scared of him.”

“I AM!” I shout. “He’s NUTS!” I add.

“When none of us could get a hold of you he asked me to do a housecall personally and I’m nobody's gopher. He likes you.” she insists.

“Then I don't know if I want to be liked,” I confess.

“Fair enough. You can take another week off if you want but please don’t quit. I want you around for the summer circuit - it’s too much of a sausage fest.” she says making a face and I feel like the contract in front of me is an answered prayer.

“What if I failed?” I ask, still thrown by lifes new reality.

“Like I said, the Boss was willing to keep you on in a more limited role. It was Joel who knew you wouldn’t just sit there and take it” Cassandra explains and I sigh deeply. It makes sense. Joel’s meddling and willingness to be a third party negotiator on my behalf, his pushing for me to join his ranks. No one else knows my story better to exploit it. He always said I was a great operative - I should have believed him.

“So when am I scheduled back?” I ask.

“You can start Monday if that works for you.”

“It does” I agree, resigned to make it work.

“See you Monday,” she smiles, closing her briefcase.

“See you then” I mutter walking her out. When her car pulls off I head to let Beau in. My nerves are shot but I manage to make breakfast. After a day of looking over the contract sporadically I sign my name across the dotted line. Lorence Cole.

…

“So, how are you gonna swing it on Monday?” my cousin Sincere asks as we sit enjoying cocktails. I’ve told her everything I know to be true about the past few weeks and she's as disturbed by the games at hand as I am.

“I don’t know - I’m still not so sure all of that argument was acting on his part” I confess taking a long sip.

“Me neither but I mean if he’s never yelled at you before then maybe he’s a great actor” she says making a point. I think back to most of our discussions in the past month or so and most of them have been with his tablet handy with my file. He’d been looking into me so it’s hardly a stretch to consider my greatest weakness was used against me.

“It just sucks that my boss has to know my biological mother let her asshole boyfriend verbally abuse me as a toddler and then picked him over being a mother to me” I confess. Sin holds my gaze. It’s not something I bring up, ever. My grandparents stepped in the moment they found out what was going on. My mother gave me up without a second thought. My grandparents legally adopted me at five and they’ve done everything humanly possible to make up for the two years my mom had subjected me to mistreatment.

“It is,” Sin agrees, shifting in her seat. “But you stood up for yourself” she smiles, holding a hand out for me and I nod. Overwhelmed by the past.

“I didn't realize those wounds were still so raw” I sigh looking into my glass. The older I get the more angry the situation makes me. Sure my mother was a young mom but there’s nothing I can conceive of that would ever justify how she treated me. When her boyfriend started coming around I was two and I had to become silent and fend for myself. He’d slap her for not ‘training me’ right and rant for what felt like hours. The more I cried the angrier he got. He'd have me stand in the corner for what felt like hours if I made too much noise or asked my mother for something. By four the cost of needing my mother was too high and she started spitting his rhetoric back at me. His cheating, his absence, his abuse was all my fault. That Christmas my entire family knew something was wrong when I didn’t say a word unless spoken to and couldn't maintain eye contact. When I arranged my christmas presents in a line and smiled at them silently from far away instead of playing with my cousins. They knew something was seriously wrong, four year olds don’t have that kind of restraint. But I was far from alone in this world. My grandfather was madder than anything I've ever witnessed when he heard my mother tell him I was trained right - like a dog. My aunties, great aunts, uncles and cousins rallied around me. I’d never put it together that the reason Richmond rattled me as much as he does was because of my childhood.

“Lo, you’re human, don’t be hard on yourself” she says, giving me a hug and I sigh. “There’s nothing wrong with you, at ALL. You're the cutest, smartest, nicest, smartest, sexiest, bravest, badass I know - there’s too much to love” she says and her kind words mean a lot to me.

“Don’t tell mom and dad - I don't want them to worry” I sign.

“Worrying is our job - we’re family,” Sincere says. Though she may be right I don't want anyone to worry more than they already do. So I put on a brave face and we celebrate my promotion and I brace for monday.

_________

Monday, HQ

No one spares me any second glances as I head in after my week long leave. It’s business as usual as I cross the floor and head to my office. I don't even make it there before my coworkers are asking me for assistance with their upcoming projects. When I sit down I find myself thankful for the discretion employed by Richmond. Knowing no one knows what transpired in Switzerland is a relief. I look out my window after signing in and see my inbox has imploded with emails in my absence. I spent the first half an hour of my day organizing what I can and delegating the rest. I’m due for a break when Joel knocks on my office door. He’s lucky we’re at work because if we were anywhere else I'd swing on him for the circus he created in Switzerland. I scowl instead and he raises his hands.

“I come in peace” he says before taking a seat.

“You're a real jerk, you know that?” I snap.

“You were gonna get benched from all the good stuff, now you get to see the world. Monaco’s Grand Prix is coming up” he shrugs without apology. “Besides Richmond was impressed, didn't think you had it in you - he didn’t want to push”

“So Richmond cares about my feelings more than you do I see?” I comment and Joel sits forward. Now I've gone too far.

“I told you a hundred times I’ll put that fool out of his misery quick and easy or slow and cruel for you.” Joel whispers repeating the open ended offer he holds for my moms ex-boyfriend.

“You’re not just my mentor Joel, you're my friend so you can't just put me in that headspace because you think I can take it” I explain sticking to the issue at hand.

“Was I wrong?” Joel asks and I sigh because he’s missing the point. “You’re non confrontational and I love that you're always considering alternatives and collateral. You can fight but it’s your last resort and you act like it. You aren't a small fish anymore Lo. People have to know when they swing you're swinging back. I mean if I’m around i’ll swing for you too but some aggression is your friend - you don't want anyone mistaking your passivity for weakness. It’s dangerous at this level.” he says, ever the mentor.

“It was still mean.” I tell him and he sighs, shaking his head at my sensitivity.

“I’ll make it up to you” Joel promises.

“Swear?”

“Swear it” he says and I nod, conceding this round. He gives me a hug. “Congratulations” he smiles before heading off to whatever he has going on. I’m in the middle of taking notes on one of my team's presentations when Richmond knocks on the door. The team shuffles smiling and muttering greetings as they scatter without being asked. That’s the kind of impact Richmond has. Unfortunately now I can no longer leave too. His expression is typical as he closes the glass door behind him. He’s dressed down today, the glasses and black cashmere sweater somehow make him look less intimidating. He smirks, taking a seat at the table my team was just occupying in my office.

“You don't have to apologize,” he says, breaking the silence as he slides a tablet my way. “Get to know your team more intimately for the next few weeks then make your picks for upcoming assignments wisely.” he instructs in the same level tone as always. I take the tablet and it unlocks showing me my options.

“Sir” I nod like I always do and he nods.

“Any issues, questions, comments or concerns can be directed to Jameson or myself” he explains.

“Okay” I nod, maintaining eye contact for the first time.

“Cassandra has placed your acceptance of this post in tomorrow's newsletter - so if you have any reservations now’s the time to object” he says.

“I’m fine” I tell him not wanting a do over of our last discussion. The playing field between us seems more level now that he knows what I’m made of.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yes” I nod and he swallows.

“I’m clear on what you think of me but my anger and management of this company isn't to indulge self-importance. I know how people think and I understand the risks of carelessness. Everyone here has signed up to do the job, not to be the casualty of poor preparation, exhaustion or laziness.” Richmond explains calmly.

“I know and I always put my best foot forward.” I tell him.

“That’s why we’ve never had an issue and we aren't likely to. I’m excellent at self-regulation” he says, making my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I swallow feeling put on the spot. He gets up without forcing me to sit in it. “But if you have any feedback Cole, It’s welcome my big ears are quite receptive” he adds leaving and I place my head in my hands cursing my big mouth.

authors note: I hope you enjoyed this chapter and the little plot-twist I put in there. Let me know if you saw it coming. Now that Lorence can no longer run from Mr. Richmond things should get ... interesting. Let me know your thoughts on this chapter. Is Lorence ever gonna live the big ears comment down? Reblog, Comment and Like.

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre imagine #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron fics #terry richmond x black female reader #terry richmond x black oc #terry richmond imagine #terry richmond #terry richmond x you #rebel ridge fanfiction #rebel ridge

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lolkency · 3 days ago

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┊your boss mr. nanami asks you to stay at work overtime on valentine’s day

❥ nanami x reader

cw: vaginal fingering, sexual intercourse, praising, forbidden work romance

𝐍𝐨𝐰 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠. . .

JUJUTSU TECH INC.

You sat at your desk constantly checking the time on your computer, it was around an hour until it was time to clock out.

Working at one of the largest cyber security companies would be interesting if you actually did any work.

You were the assistant to CEO Kento Nanami, who was appointed the position when the old CEO passed.

Apparently he was one of his best workers, which made him the company's youngest CEO ever at 27, not that you kept up with stuff like that...

As his assistant, you didn't really do much, just answered calls, ran errands, and played solitaire on your computer when there was nothing to do. The only time your job was interesting was when Mr. Nanami went to meetings, since he always asked you to accompany him, even though you didn't do much at them.

Your friends often liked to joke that you were just eye candy for Mr. Nanami, and you would think that too, if he ever looked at you.

Although Mr. Nanami was a nice boss to everyone at the company, he for some reason rarely ever looked you in the eyes, and when he did it was only for a brief moment.

When you went into his office, he was always looking at anything but you, and when he did look up, he avoided your eyes.

So, he couldn't be keeping you around as eye candy, if he didn't even look AT you.

It wasn't like this was something you pondered about often, keeping you awake at night...nope you couldn't care less if your boss liked you or not.

*RINGGGG*

You snapped out of your daze, picking up the phone. "Hello Jujutsu Tech, how may I help you?" you answered with your corporate voice.

"Y/n" Mr.Nanami spoke on the other end.

"Sir?"

"Come to my office, please"

"Yes s-" he hung up before you could finish your response. He was very blunt with his calls, always getting straight to the point. You wondered what he could want, maybe he had some papers for you to run to Satoru again before you left.

You let out a sigh, and walked to his office, which was adjacent to yours. You gave his door a few knocks, waiting for a response.

"Come in y/n" his voice muffled behind the door.

"How do you know it’s me every time" you questioned, entering the office, closing the door behind you.

"You're the only one I called to my office" he replied matter of factly, his eyes on his computer.

"Oh duh" you let out a dry chuckle...tough crowd.

What you didn't know was that Nanami had memorized the sound of your heels on the epoxy flooring, he knew you were coming even before you knocked on his door. He liked to tell himself it was because you had to come into his office so often that he remembered your walking pattern.

"So, what did you need me to do?" You asked, smiling down at him, not that he could see it, his attention still on his screen.

"I just wanted to inform you that I'll need you to stay for a few hours longer tonight. I need to redo parts of the presentation before the meeting tomorrow" he sighed, bringing a hand to rub his eyes under his glasses.

He seemed tired, overworked. Mr. Nanami was the type of boss to do the work himself, he didn't like to burden the other workers with his job. Well, except for you, but even then you never really did much, but he'd never asked you to work overtime.

"Um Mr. Nanami, you do know it's Valentines Day, right?" You asked, hoping he would consider your personal life. Even though you didn't have serious plans, you didn't want to sit in the office for hours until he was finished. You doubted you would be any help anyways.

"Oh that must've slipped my mind, did you have any plans?” He asked, his eyes directed at the papers on his desk now.

"No, bu-"

"Good, then you can stay. You'll be paid for the extra time spent" he smiled, shifting through the papers.

"That's not the point, I don't care about the pay, it's the principle. And I doubt you even need me anyways" you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Y/n" he looked up at you, his eyes still not reaching yours, they were pointed towards your...chest.

"Sir?", the word barely escaping your lips.

"I need you...here" his eyes flickered up at yours above his glasses, before looking back at the documents. Well you couldn't say no to that. Now you were glad he barely looked you in the eye, he was very persuasive, or maybe it was the tone of his voice, almost pleading.

‘Or maybe it was because he was your boss and you needed to get a fucking grip’ you thought to yourself.

You cleared your throat, "yes of course, sorry sir. I'll be in my office if you need me" you turned to leave. Behind you, Nanami finally looked up again. His eyes roamed over your body, the way your dark gray pencil skirt road up your thighs as you walked, and how if he squinted he could see your red bra under your white button down.

Back in your office, you watched the clock again, it had been over an hour since everyone left. You sat at your desk playing with one of the fidget toys you stole from Ieiri.

Your fellow coworkers were probably off on dates, or getting wasted, which to be honest if you weren't at work you wouldn't be doing either of those things.

You had planned on binging romcoms and eating ice cream and not in a 'I'm so sad I don't have a partner' way but a 'why the hell not' way.

But you wouldn't be able to do any of that since you were cooped up in your office for god knows how long. All because Mr. Nanami "needed you" for whatever reason.

Maybe you could watch at least one movie before you went to bed, if this didn't take all night.

It had now been three hours since everyone went home, meaning it was eight o' fucking clock. And just as you thought, Mr. Nanami didn't need you because he hadn't ca-

*RINGGGG*

Speak of the devil and he shall appear or in your case, think of Mr. Nanami and he shall call. It was like he was reading your mind.

"Yes Mr. Nanami", you answered, a tad bit annoyed. You knew it was him, there were no other calls coming through at this time of night.

"Come to my office" he ordered, hanging up after.

You got up from your desk, straightening your skirt, it had wrinkled from sitting with your legs up in your chair. Slipping your heels back on, you walked in without knocking.

You were met with the same view as before, except you noticed he had loosened his tie a bit, part of his neck you'd never seen, peeked out at you. His muscles bulged out of his blue button down. 'Get a grip you're acting like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time'.

"What is it that you needed me for, Mr. Nanami?" you broke the silence, since it seemed he was waiting on you to speak first.

"I need you to replace these copies with the ones you gave to Satoru this morning" he nudged the papers to the edge of his desk.

"Yes sir, anything else?" you asked, grabbing the copies.

"Come back to my office once you're done" he ran a hand through his golden hair before returning it back to his keyboard. You nodded, even though you didn't think he'd see it.

You left his office, walking down the hall to the cubicles Satoru worked in. He was one of the company’s best workers, and he didn't let you forget. His cockiness and care free attitude was a bit much at first, but you'd come to love bringing him papers, since it meant you had something to do.

Arriving at his desk, you knew it was his by the framed picture of him and a dark haired man on the beach. You’d asked about it once, but he shooed you off, seemed to be something he wasn't into talking about.

The papers from the morning sat on his desk, you replaced them with the new copies.

You stopped by your office to shred the old documents and headed back to Mr. Nanami, your heels clacking on the floor with each step.

Back at his office, you walked in to a chair sitting directly in front of his desk, which hadn't been there before.

"What's with the chair?" You questioned.

"It's for you, there's no point in coming back and forth when I need you." he explained, his eyes on the chair.

"Makes sense" no it didn't but you were just ready to go home. You closed the door behind you, a force of habit, and sat in the chair directly across from him.

You sat in silence as he typed away, his slender fingers swiftly moving across his keyboard. He cracked his knuckles, using his thumb, he'd been at this for hours.

"Mr. Nanami?" you spoke, a newfound confidence coming over you or maybe it was just because you were bored out of your mind.

"Yes?" he sighed, not in an agitated way, but an almost appreciative or satisfied one.

"Why am I the only one you asked to call you Mr. Nanami? All of the other workers just call you Kento, and you never seem to have a problem with it" you questioned, sitting up in the chair, both hands on your lap. You'd always wondered why, but never saw a time fit to ask.

"Because you're my assistant and...do you wanna know the truth?" his eyes were locked on your lap.

"Yes?" your response coming out more as a question. He sighed, before glancing up at your mouth.

"It's because I like the way it sounds on your lips" he averted his gaze back to his computer, starting his typing again.

"Oh..." How else were you supposed to respond to that, but the thing was you felt a hint of satisfaction from his confession, like you’d done something right. He was appreciative of something you’d done.

"Can you talk to me more, while I work" he asked, eyes on his screen.

"Uh sure...about what?" you crossed your legs, telling yourself it was to get comfortable, and not because your hot boss just admitted he liked the sound of his name on your lips. No it definitely wasn't because of that.

"You..." he responded, you hated talking about yourself, but it beat sitting in silence.

"Okay...well I'm 21, but you probably already knew that since you're the one who hired me" you let out a shacky laugh.

"Anyways, I graduated in 3 years instead of 4 because according to my friends 'I don't have a life’. I majored in business and the only reason I applied for this job was to get money until I figured out what I wanted to do." you looked up at him for some sort of reasurance, his lips were turned up in a slight smile.

"Go on" he promted you.

"Well the listing on indeed for this position was only like 30k a year, which is like not the best but as I said I just needed a bit of cash to keep me up post grad. But then it raised to 80k once I was hired, which was better than the entry level jobs I would've gotten with my Bachelors. To be honest at first I thought it was a mistake, but I asked about it and it was true, the position's salary miracuously raised over 2x's more than it was before. Which I still don't understand why I am being paid so much when I don't do mu-"

"Y/n" Mr. Nanami called, his eyes directly on you.

"Yes?" Your eyes met his, it looked like he was in pain almost.

"Come here" he commanded, his voice hoarse.

You were confused, but assumed he wanted to show you something on his computer, or maybe he had something he wanted you to take to Satoru's desk again.

Raising from the chair and straightening your skirt again, you walked over to his side of the desk.

"Sit on my desk" he whispered.

"I'm sorry what?" You must've heard him wrong.

"Sit...please" he pleaded, his hazel eyes staring over his glasses.

"Okay..." you sat on the wooden desk, beside his chair. You squeezed your legs together, attempting not to flash him your panties.

Nanami rose from his seat, walking over to you, caging you in. He stared at you for a second, your expression was beautiful, your eyebrows knitted together, looking up at him in confusion. But he shouldn't, he ripped his eyes away from yours, turning away.

"Sorry, what am I doing. I shouldn't h-"

Before he could finish his sentence, you grabbed him by the tie, locking your lips with his. He braced himself, both hands now on either side of you, against the desk.

He instantly kissed you back, a moan escaping his mouth. His lips were soft and plump against yours, as your tongues danced against one another. His hands moved from his desk to your hips, gripping them roughly.

You let go of his tie and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Your hand cradled his head, fingers intertwining with his hair.

Lifting his head, his eyes locked with yours, his gaze filled with need.

"Are you sure about this? I don't want you to do anything you don't want to" his tone was serious, but the only thing you could think about was how his lips glistened above you.

"I want this" you lifted a hand from his neck, wiping his bottom lip. His mouth closed around your thumb, sucking it before he released it with a trail of saliva.

His hands immediately went to your shirt, unbuttoning it before ripping it off of you.

You shivered at the cold air of the office. He admired his view of you, sitting on his desk in a red laced bra. He moved to take it off and release your breasts, in a frantic motion, he was growing impatient, and so were you.

Once the barrier was gone, he cupped them both, his thumbs rubbing against your sensitive buds, giving them a pinch before taking one in his mouth.

Mr. Nanami suckled on one of your breasts while he fondled the other. "Mmm" he moaned against your skin, his tongue swirling around your areola.

Your hand moved back to his hair, pushing him against chest. "Fuck" you sighed, as he bit down onto your nipple, before planting a kiss on it to ease the pain.

He lifted himself from your breasts, pulling you to the edge of the desk. Attaching his hands to your skirt, he pushed it down your legs, revealing your matching red panties under your mesh stockings.

Nanami's hands dove down your panties, reveling in how wet you were for him. He always knew you felt the same way as he had for you.

From the second he locked eyes on you, he fantasized about this moment.

"So wet for me" he smirked down at you.

Two fingers slipped inside you with no warning.

"Mmm fuck" you cried out, your hands held his shoulders for support.

His fingers pumped into you at an agonizingly slow pace. His thumb moved up to your clit, pressing against it in a circular motion.

Your hips rocked against his hand, aching for more.

"Yes, that's good. Ride my fingers" he ordered, his voice soft.

"Mmm" you moaned, bucking your hips, his fingers hitting your sweet spot.

His pace sped up, eyes never leaving you, glasses now crooked on his face.

You could feel your climax building, and he noticed too. His other hand rose to your hips, pushing you even closer to him.

Your boss stood between your legs as his fingers pumped inside you.

"C’mon cum for me" his forehead connected with yours, watching you as you finished on his fingers. Your hips jerked from the overstimulation, as he continued to pump you through your orgasm.

You had to grab his wrist to stop him, he shook his head coming out of his haze, removing his fingers from you.

Your hands grabbed his tie, pulling it over his head, already loose from earlier.

You unbuttoned his shirt, ripping it off his shoulders. His chiseld body glistened with sweat under the office light. Your hands roamed over his chest, connecting with his nipples, he let out a shacky sigh.

"Get up and turn around" he ordered you.

You hopped down from the desk, kicking off your heels, and did as he ordered. Once your back was to him, he placed his hands on your bare shoulders. He slowly pushed you down, until your breasts were flush against the cold wood of his desk.

Nanami moved his hands down your spine, until they attached with your hips. He pressed his clothed length against your cunt.

Letting out another satisfied sigh, Mr. Nanami kneaded your ass with both of his hands, as his dick rubbed against your back side. The contact sending pleasure to your core, your pussy ached for another release.

You moved your hands back to touch his length, but he immediately swatted it away.

"Ah ah ah, you're being impatient" he cooed, grabbing his tie, you had placed on the desk. He took both of your hands behind your back, and tied them together.

"There, much better" you could feel him step away, no longer feeling the warmth of his body against you.

You strained your neck, attempting to see what he was doing, his pants along with his underwear dropped to the floor. He was long and achingly hard, like he had been that way all day.

He walked back to you, his hands attaching to your ass again, giving it a soft smack.

"I‘ll pay for a new pair" he reassured.

"Wh-" before you could question him. He had ripped your stockings, revealing your damp panties. His fingers hooked around the fabric, moving it to the side.

Nanami lined his length with your entrance.

"You ready" he asked, looking down at you.

"Yes" you pleaded, over your shoulder.

"Yes, what?" His voice stern.

"Yes, sir"

He slipped himself inside, a scream escaped your lips, as his length stretched your hole. His strokes started off slow, just as he had when fingering you. It was like he wanted to savor the moment forever.

Nanami pulled out agonizingly slow, just to harshly pound back into you, the desk rattled with each contact.

"Fuck, do you know how much I've thought about this. Fucking your little cunt until you came" he sighed.

"Ever since you walked into this office, I knew I'd have you eventually...mmh" he let out a loud groan, picking up his pace.

He grabbed your tied hands, pulling you up a bit. Your back arched, pushing you further against him. His tip brushed against your sweet spot, over, and over. You could have sworn he was growing even harder inside you.

Another groan escaped him, his large hand slapped your ass before giving it a tight squeeze.

"Mmm, baby you're so perfect, just like I knew you'd be. You're so obedient, such a good girl" he cooed, bringing you up against him, so that your back...and arms were flush against his chest. His arm wrapped around your midsection to hold you up. The position was slightly uncomfortable but you could care less.

With each praise your pussy begged for more, squeezing your walls around him. He continued his relentless pursuit on your cunt.

The sounds of him pounding into you echoed through out the office, maybe even the entire floor. Nanami's tip bruised your insides, edging your release.

"Fuck I'm gonna cum again" you cried out. He increased his pace even more.

"Cum for me baby" he whispered down in your ear and your body did just that, feeling yourself release around him. "That's my girl, doing so good for me"

Your legs trembled, as Mr. Nanami continued pounding his length into you. Tears streamed down your face from the overstimulation.

"Mmh, I wanna look in your eyes as I come" he groaned, pulling out of you, untying your hands.

"Lay down on the desk" he ordered and you followed, sitting down on the desk before laying on your back.

Mascara ran down your face, even then you looked so beautiful, maybe even better, Nanami thought.

"Good girl" he praised, before spreading your legs and pushing himself inside you once again. He bent his body down, holding himself up with his hands on either side of you, trusting into your overstimulated cunt.

His hazel eyes, never left yours. You wrapped your legs around him, pushing him deeper inside you. Your hands now free, moved up to cup his face, pulling him into a kiss. It was filled with passion, lust, and longing.

You felt like this was something you'd needed all along, your body craved more. You began bucking your hips up against him, following his pace. Pleasure built up in your core again, you moaned into his mouth. He pulled away, biting your bottom lip, before releasing it, his glasses crooked on his face.

"You're a little freak" he teased, growing harder by your need for a third orgasm, and he was gonna give it to you. Nanami's pace grew even faster, your hips unable to keep up.

He gazed down at you, your eyebrows knitted together just as they had when you were confused. He could tell you were almost there, and so was he.

Nanami sat up, grabbing your hips with both of his hands, his eyes never leaving yours. A third climax washed over you, your legs limply dropped from his waist.

His strokes became sporadic, he wrapped his arms around your thighs, slamming into you one more time, before he came. His cum painted your walls, filling your cunt. You squeezed yourself around his length as much as you could, milking every drop from him, eyes locked on his.

"One more round?" he asked, you let out a dry chuckle under him, but he wasn't joking.

✎ this did nawt come out as good as i wanted, but i really wanted to give you guys something for vday. sorry for any typos i will fix any mistakes when i get the time <3

-ciara💻

#nanmi kento #nanami smut #jujutsu kaisen nanami #jjk nanami #nanami x you #nanami x y/n #nanami x reader #anime #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk #jjk fanfic #office romance #valentines day #forbidden romance

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luvoooenha · 2 days ago

Text

Enhypen as Short n’ Sweet songs!

Warnings - clubs, slightly spicy scenes…? Idk - heartbreaks - crying - teasing - luv - fluff - anger - pls lmk if i missed some!

Word count - 2.4k

a/n! Loved sabrinas short n’ sweet deluxe album, i needed to do smth enha related to it I might start a serious of enha as different types of songs, artist, etc! if wanted pls lmk if you want to be apart of the taglist!

heeseung - juno

*Whole package, babe, I like the way you fit, God bless your dad's genetics*

The club was packed, neon lights casting a moody glow over the dance floor. Bodies moved in sync with the deep bass, but Y/N had eyes for only one person—Lee Heeseung.

He was leaning against the bar, one hand wrapped around a drink, the other resting casually in his pocket. He looked unfairly good, messy hair falling over sharp eyes, lips slightly parted as he took a slow sip. He wasn’t trying to stand out, but that only made him more magnetic.

Y/N smirked, stepping forward. She didn’t hesitate—she never did. Running her fingers lightly across his shoulder as she passed, she turned just enough to catch his attention.

“Dance with me.” Not a question. A demand.

Heeseung blinked, momentarily caught off guard, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in amusement. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

Y/N just raised an eyebrow. “Are you coming or not?”

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head as he followed her onto the dance floor.

The moment he stepped closer, Y/N turned, pressing herself against him, her hips rolling in a slow, deliberate rhythm. She felt him inhale sharply, his hands hovering for just a second before settling at her waist.

“Damn,” he murmured, voice already lower than before.

She smirked, tilting her head just enough for her lips to brush his jaw. “Whole package, babe,” she whispered, dragging her fingers down his chest. “I like the way you fit.”

Heeseung let out a breath, his grip tightening instinctively. His hands slid lower, fingertips pressing into her hips like he needed something to ground him.

Y/N trailed a hand up, fingertips grazing his jaw before tilting his chin so he was looking straight into her eyes. “God bless your dad’s genetics,” she teased, lips curving into a knowing smile.

Heeseung swallowed hard, eyes darkening. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered, almost like a warning.

Y/N laughed, slow and sultry. “You just figuring that out now?”

Leaning in, she brushed her lips over the shell of his ear. “Now tell me, Heeseung… are you taking me home, or do I have to keep making you suffer?”

His jaw clenched, exhaling sharply—then, without another word, he grabbed her hand and led her straight out of the club.

Tonight, he was all hers.

rest of the members below the cut!

Jay - please please please

*Don't bring me to tеars when I just did my makeup so nice Heartbreak is one thing, my ego's another I beg you, don't embarrass me, motherfucker*

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, tilting her head slightly as she admired her reflection. The blush sat just right on her cheeks, her eyeliner sharp enough to cut through whatever bullshit the night threw at her. If nothing else, she looked flawless. And tonight, that was all that mattered.

The second she stepped into the party, she spotted Jay across the room. Of course. He was always where she didn’t need him to be. Laughing with his friends, acting like everything between them hadn’t been unraveling for weeks. Acting like she wasn’t standing there, looking the best she ever had, for him to notice.

But then, he did notice.

Jay's gaze flickered to her, then down, like he couldn’t quite hold it. Like he knew what was coming.

"Y/N," he started, meeting her halfway across the room, voice just low enough for only her to hear. "Can we talk?"

She knew how these talks went. A carefully worded speech, a soft apology that felt more like an excuse. A way to let her down easy, as if she hadn't already braced for the fall.

"Make it quick," she said, arms crossed, voice steady despite the way her chest tightened.

Jay ran a hand through his hair. "I never wanted to hurt you."

That was it. The words that meant everything and nothing all at once.

Y/N exhaled sharply, her perfectly lined eyes stinging, but she refused to let the tears fall. Not now. Not when she'd spent an hour making sure her face told the world she was unbothered. Heartbreak was one thing—she could deal with that in private. But her pride? Her ego? That was a whole different battle.

She took a step back, chin high. "Jay, I swear, if you make me cry right now—" She let out a humorless laugh. "I just did my makeup so nice."

He opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. "Don’t. Just… don’t embarrass me."

And with that, she walked away, head high, heart aching, but not a single tear in sight.

Jake - bed chem

*Who's the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent?*

The party was alive with golden lights and pulsing bass, the kind that settled under your skin and made everything feel electric. Y/N wasn’t even sure why she had come—maybe for the distraction, maybe because she was tired of scrolling through her phone in bed, watching everyone else live their lives.

But now, standing near the entrance, drink in hand, she suddenly felt alert. Because of him.

A boy she didn’t recognize.

White jacket, dark hair, a presence that stood out even in the crowded loft. He was leaned against the counter, laughing at something someone had said, but it wasn’t the laugh that caught her—it was the way he carried himself. Effortless. Like he knew exactly who he was. Like he didn’t have to try.

And then he spoke.

Low, smooth, laced with something foreign, something that rolled off his tongue in a way that made her breath hitch.

Y/N nudged her friend, eyes still locked on him. “Who’s the cute boy with the white jacket and the thick accent?”

Her friend followed her gaze, then let out a knowing grin. “Jake. Just moved here a few months ago. Apparently, he’s trouble.”

Trouble.

The word clung to the air between them, stirring something inside her. She should probably walk away now. Find someone less trouble, less interesting. But she didn’t. Instead, she tilted her glass against her lips, letting the ice cool her throat, watching him over the rim.

As if sensing the attention, Jake glanced up.

Their eyes met.

And just like that, the whole party faded.

It wasn’t an accident—he knew exactly what he was doing. His gaze was steady, unreadable at first, then something shifted. A slow smirk, the kind that said, I see you staring. What are you gonna do about it?

Y/N held her ground, her heart picking up pace. She could look away, pretend she hadn’t been caught, but where was the fun in that?

So instead, she let her lips curl into a smirk of her own. A challenge. A promise.

And just like that, the night had suddenly become a lot more interesting.

Sunghoon - slim pickins

*a boy who’s jacked and kind, can't find his ass to save my life*

Y/N sighed, crossing her arms as she stood in the middle of the store parking lot, watching Sunghoon spin in slow circles, utterly lost.

“It was right here,” he muttered, glancing around, as if the car would magically reappear if he stared hard enough.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You mean where every other car is parked except yours?”

Sunghoon huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I swear, I parked near the entrance.”

Y/N fought back a grin. He was tall, broad-shouldered, the kind of guy who looked like he could carry three grocery bags in each hand without breaking a sweat. Strong, athletic, surprisingly sweet. But apparently, completely incapable of remembering where he parked.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, shaking her head. “A boy who’s jacked and kind, but can’t find his ass to save his life.”

Sunghoon shot her a playful glare. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, really? Then where’s the car, genius?”

A beat of silence. He glanced around helplessly.

“…I have no idea.”

Y/N burst out laughing. “We’re gonna be here all night.”

Sunghoon groaned, but even he was smiling now. “You could help instead of roasting me.”

“Oh, but this is way more fun.”

Still chuckling, she pulled out her phone, tapping her screen. “Lucky for you, I did think ahead.” She flashed her screen at him, showing the location pin she’d dropped when they arrived.

Sunghoon blinked, then exhaled in relief. “I take back everything. You’re actually a genius.”

Y/N smirked. “I know. Now come on, let’s go find your car before I start thinking you actually Ubered here and forgot.”

Laughing, he slung an arm around her shoulders as they finally walked in the right direction—together.

Sunoo - espresso

*'Now he's thinkin' 'bout me every night, oh Is it that sweet? I guess so Say you can't sleep, baby, I know That's that me espresso'*

Y/N could feel the weight of the text before she even opened it. Sunoo had always been the type to send messages that made her smile even when she didn’t want to, but this one was different. The text, simple yet intriguing:

“Can’t sleep. I guess you’re on my mind again.”

She smirked, her fingers hovering over her phone. She knew exactly what he was doing. Sunoo had this effortless way of making her feel like she was the only person in his thoughts, even when he was probably busy with a million other things.

She couldn’t help it. She typed back, her response teasing yet playful:

“That’s funny. I guess I’m your personal espresso now?”

It didn’t take long before he replied.

“More like the best shot of caffeine I could ever have.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped her. She should’ve been asleep too, but she couldn’t fight the way Sunoo always seemed to slip under her skin. No one else could make her feel like this, like she was the center of his universe, even in a simple text at 2 a.m.

She leaned back on her bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how he always seemed to find a way into her thoughts too.

“So, you can't sleep?” she sent back, letting her voice drop playfully. “Guess that’s my fault now, huh?”

It took him a few moments before his response popped up.

“Yeah, you’ve been running through my mind all night. I don’t know whether to blame you or just admit it’s pretty sweet.”

Y/N smiled at her phone, warmth spreading through her chest. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something about Sunoo's words that made her feel all kinds of special. The way he thought about her—like she was the shot of espresso in his day.

Maybe she couldn’t sleep either, but tonight, that didn’t seem to matter.

Jungwon - don’t smile

*Don't smile because it happened, baby Cry because it's over Oh, you're supposed to think about me Every time you hold her*

Y/N hadn’t expected it to hurt this much.

She stood on the edge of the park, watching Jungwon laugh with someone else. It wasn’t just anyone—it was her. The girl he’d started seeing just weeks after they called it quits. The girl who wore his favorite color, who could make him smile the way Y/N used to.

She had always told herself she would be okay. That they were better off apart, that maybe time would heal everything. But watching them now, the way his eyes lit up when she spoke, made something inside her twist.

They didn’t see her, too wrapped up in their own world.

Y/N swallowed, forcing herself to turn away, but the words, those lyrics, rang in her head as she walked away:

“Don’t smile because it happened, baby. Cry because it’s over.”

She hated how right they felt. How she could still feel every moment with Jungwon—the late-night talks, the laughter, the way his hand would find hers in a crowd. And now, it felt like those memories were slowly being buried beneath the weight of her own sadness.

But what hurt even more was the thought of him holding her and forgetting about the way it used to be with them.

“You’re supposed to think about me every time you hold her,” she whispered to herself, voice barely audible in the cool evening air.

Jungwon had always been the one to remember the little things. The way she liked her coffee, the exact way she laughed when she was nervous. And now... he had someone else to remember all those details for.

Y/N took a shaky breath, wiping away the tear that threatened to fall. It was over. But the hurt? That would take longer to fade.

Ni-ki - bad reviews

*Been alone for so long, I've got somethin' to prove If I close an eye, it's almost like your red flags are blue So still I choose to be in love with you*

Y/N sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through her phone, her mind wandering. It had been so long since she let herself feel this way—this tangled mess of emotions she couldn’t make sense of.

Ni-ki had always been there, in his own way. Quiet, serious, but with moments of warmth that made her heart skip. But lately, it felt like there were more cracks in their relationship than ever before. Red flags she couldn’t ignore—late-night texts that didn’t feel like his usual self, the way he would pull back when she got too close.

It wasn’t like she didn’t see it. She did. She saw the warning signs, the places where it wasn’t all perfect, the way his words sometimes didn’t match his actions.

But then there were moments like tonight.

Ni-ki had shown up unannounced at her door, a rare smile on his face, and everything seemed right again. She hadn’t even realized how much she missed him until she saw him standing there, looking at her with those soft, dark eyes. And for a moment, all the doubts—every little red flag—seemed to fade into the background.

She closed her eyes and thought of him.

“If I close an eye, it’s almost like your red flags are blue,” she murmured to herself. It sounded silly, but it was true. Every time she convinced herself she shouldn’t care, that maybe she was wasting her time, he’d show up with one smile, one word, and it was enough to make her forget all the signs.

She loved him. And no matter how much her heart tried to warn her otherwise, she kept choosing him.

Y/N picked up her phone and typed a message.

“I choose you, even if it’s crazy.”

She hit send, her heart racing. Would he reply? Would he understand?

Seconds later, the text bubble appeared.

“I choose you too. Always.”

And for tonight, that was all that mattered.

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squiddyfics · 2 days ago

Text

get gone

namgyu x f!reader

description: namgyu’s long hours spent at the club, wasting his life away, have gotten to you. you finally decide to leave him, but it doesn’t hurt to say goodbye first.

18+ minors dni

warnings: nsfw, angst, drugs mentioned, unprotected piv, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation

a/n: happy valentine's day hehe

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

He broke his promise.

Namgyu's shift at the club always ends at two in the morning, but he's never home when he's supposed to be. Whenever he does finally return, his eyes are bloodshot and his mood is sour.

You couldn't stand by and watch him ruin his life, destroying his physical and mental health each weekend as he delves into a world of illicit substances and people who don't give a fuck about whether he lives or dies.

That's why you made him swear to stop staying at the club past his shift. You respect that he has a job to do, but beyond that, there's no reason for him to stay out and slowly kill himself.

Last week, he actually stuck to his word, which was a pleasant surprise. It made you hopeful that he was finally turning things around, for once prioritizing his life with you over cheap thrills.

But now it's three a.m., and he's nowhere to be seen. You run your hands over your face, attempting to stay awake. You won't be set at ease until you see him walk through the door. Each night he doesn't come home on time is a night you spend worrying that he's finally succumbed to the consequences of his actions, leaving you alone in the world.

He never texts you back on these nights, either. You open your phone and click on your text thread with him, fruitlessly hoping that things might be different tonight. Of course not; your messages remain unanswered.

You can't keep doing this anymore, can't keep caring about a man who doesn't care about himself. Up until now, you've stuck by his side, scared that if you left him he'd spiral even further. Enough is enough, though. You have a life to live, and without spending so much of your time stressing about Namgyu's well-being, you'd be much freer.

These are your last thoughts before you pass out on the couch, unable to force yourself to stay awake any longer.

The sound of keys in the door wakes you back up. When you open your eyes, it's lighter in the apartment; the sun is beginning to rise. You check the time on your phone.

6:09.

Namgyu opens the door and looks surprised to see you in the living room. You meet his eyes with a glare.

"Thanks for finally gracing me with your presence," you snap.

"Chill," he says, and the word sends a surge of anger coursing through you. "I just spent a few extra hours networking."

"Networking?" you scoff. "Is that what you call getting fucked up and partying with junkies?"

"I made hella tips," he says. "This group of super-rich dudes said they'd keep giving me money as long as I could convince the bottle-service girl to sit with them."

"Oh, okay, so now you're pimping out your coworkers. That makes me feel so much better."

He throws his keys down on the table much harder than necessary. "Are you seriously mad that I'm making money? Would you rather we get fucking evicted?"

"I'm mad that you broke my trust!" you shout back. "You were supposed to leave at two, Namgyu. You promised."

He kicks off his shoes and storms toward you. "You think I want to be out for twelve hours straight? I'm doing this for us. I would've thought you'd be grateful, but I guess that's expecting too much of you."

"Oh, fuck you." You laugh, but there's no humor behind it. "Don't try to spin this as if doing lines in the club bathroom is somehow for my sake."

"I'm playing the game," he says. "This is the world I work in; this is what you signed up for when you started dating me."

"Well, I'm done now. I'm done."

He pulls the sleeves of his slightly oversized dress shirt over his hands. Normally you'd find this cute, but right now it's just pissing you off.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm telling you I can't do this anymore," you say. "This isn't how I want to live."

"You don't mean that." He shakes his head. "You haven't slept. Let's go to bed and talk about this in the morning."

"Motherfucker, it is the morning," you spit, gesturing to the sunrise outside your window. "And I mean every word of what I'm saying to you right now. I can't stay with you; not when this is the path you're choosing for yourself."

Suddenly Namgyu's apathetic expression morphs into one of concern, and he's on his knees in front of you, grabbing your hands. "No, baby. You don't need to leave. This was the last time, I swear."

"You swore the same thing the other week, but that didn't seem to mean much to you."

"It's different this time," he says, rubbing his thumbs over your hands as if that will fix anything. "I understand now. I know you don't really want to go, so let's just talk this through, yeah?"

"You didn't even have the decency to send me a text." Your voice is smaller now. "I can't spend my nights wondering if you'll make it home in one piece. It's killing me."

"I'll change."

"It's too late," you say. "I've made up my mind."

Still kneeling in front of you, Namgyu hugs your waist, pressing his cheek against your stomach. "You can't leave me. You can't."

God, he's so fucking pathetic.

“Get off of me,” you say, but he only squeezes you tighter.

“You’re not leaving. You’re not leaving.” He says it like a prayer.

“Get the fuck up,” you tell him. “This is just sad.”

He does get up, but instead of walking away, he leans over you, pressing a desperate kiss to your lips. Despite how angry you are, you kiss him back.

He puts his hands on your waist and pulls you up so you're standing too. Your own hands find his face, fingers tracing over the features you've come to know so well, the features you'll be saying goodbye to.

As he guides you to the bedroom, still kissing you, you break apart just enough to say, "This doesn't change anything."

Namgyu throws you down on the bed and climbs on top of you, his lips and hands laying claim to every part of your body. He’s always been physically affectionate, but he’s touching you even more now, with the ravenous passion of someone who knows this could be the last time.

He kisses your neck in just the right spot, and grips your breasts with just the right amount of pressure, perfectly riding the line between pain and pleasure. You don't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how good he makes you feel, but you can't help the moan that escapes your lips.

"How could you give this up?" he mutters against your skin. "No one knows your body like I do. It'll never be this good with anyone else."

You know it's true, but you don't want to think about that right now. Instead, you decide to show him what he'll be missing out on, everything he lost due to the consequences of his own reckless actions. You reach down and wrap your hand around the bulge in his pants, squeezing lightly.

He reacts to your touch instantly, rocking into you as curses fall from his lips. He grasps at the hem of your shirt, urging it off of you. "I need you."

One by one, each piece of clothing separating you and Namgyu from one another is tossed aside, until there's no barrier between you. He grinds against you, sliding his shaft along your wet slit. His cock twitches at the moan he elicits from you.

Given his obvious desperation, you expect him to fuck you without hesitation. You're surprised when he lowers his face between your legs, kissing your inner thighs.

You tangle your fingers in his hair as he licks up your slit, taunting you. You attempt to push his head to the right spot, but he's taking his sweet time. By the time his lips encircle your clit, you're already bucking and moaning like a madwoman.

"Fuck, Namgyu," you breathe.

Your reaction spurs him on, and he pushes two fingers inside you, fucking you with his hand while he continues to suck on your clit. There's no warning; you're climaxing in record time, falling apart beneath him as your high racks your body in violent waves.

Namgyu doesn't give you even a second to recover. You're still panting, your walls still clenching as he pulls his fingers out of you, licking them clean before raising himself back up and slamming into you.

You cry out, but he silences you with a kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, all your senses in overdrive as he fucks you mercilessly.

"Oh god, Namgyu, hold on, I'm—" but you're cut short as another orgasm rips through your body.

You grip his hips, attempting to still him, to ease the pressure on your sensitive core, but he's relentless. He pounds into you at a shocking pace, and the overstimulation causes tears to well up in your eyes.

"Who else is gonna do this for you?" he asks through gritted teeth. "Who else is gonna fuck you until you can't think straight?"

You shake your head, unable to respond; the pleasure is overwhelming.

"Fucking answer me."

Between moans, you manage to gasp out, "No one."

Your words send him over the edge, and he finishes deep inside you with a guttural growl.

A moment later, he’s collapsing on the bed beside you. He drapes an arm and leg over you in one final weary effort to keep you by his side.

After taking a minute to catch your breath, you slip out from under his grasp and stand up. You clean yourself up quickly, then start getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” Namgyu asks, pulling on his boxers.

“I told you, I’m leaving.”

You grab a suitcase and open up the drawers of your wardrobe, stuffing clothes inside. Namgyu shoots up and rushes to your side frantically. Each time you move to grab a handful of clothes, he takes a pile of them back out of your suitcase, shoving them haphazardly back into the drawer.

“Stop it!” you shout, but he continues to unpack your suitcase, trapping you in an endless cycle. “You’re acting like a child. Let me leave or I’m calling the fucking police.”

He ceases for a moment to laugh. “You can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

He steps back then, finally seeming to understand the gravity of the situation. He sits down on the bed, watching as you gather up your belongings.

You grab a smaller bag and take it to the bathroom, throwing your toiletries inside. Once you’ve gotten all the necessities together, you take what’s left of your life and head down the hallway.

You hear his quick footsteps on the floor behind you, but you don’t turn around.

“Wait,” he says, his voice cracking. “Wait, please. Don’t leave me. I love you.”

You swallow hard, but you still don’t look at him. Seeing his face will only make it harder to go, and you know this is what you need to do. Without another word, you open the door and shut it behind you.

Maybe one day Namgyu will pull himself together, and maybe then a life with him will be possible. Until then, you can’t keep putting yourself through the torture of loving him.

#squid game #mine #nam gyu #namgyu #player 124 #squid game oneshot #squid game smut #squid game x reader #namgyu x reader #namgyu smut

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queen-of-the-avengers · 2 days ago

Text

Don't Stop Being You

Pairing: Bartender!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~4k

Warnings: fluff

Summary: You have always seen the good in people, and the landlord is no exception. The guys are afraid of him but you’re going to prove to Bucky that no matter what, people are generally good. You just didn’t expect the night to backfire on you.

One in a Million Series

Square Filled: experience (2024) for @buckybarnesbingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

“Tell me again why you wanted me to come to the store with you.”

“We have a budget and I don’t trust the guys to stick to it.”

You look at Bucky. “So, I’m here for moral support?”

“Yeah.”

You chuckle and look back at your phone. He pulls into the store’s parking lot and looks for a spot, seeing one close to the entrance. He even puts his blinker on for good measure and starts to pull into the spot. However, a car on the other side decides he wants the spot and rushes to get it instead. Bucky and the man slam on their breaks, and you look up to see the man cursing at Bucky.

“I was here first! Go around!” Bucky yells back.

“This is my spot!”

“Go around!”

“Come on, Bucky. He’s probably a really nice guy. Maybe he’s having a bad day.”

“Don’t defend him.”

“I’m not!”

“You always do this. He’s in the wrong!”

The man honks the horn, and you two look at him. “Ge that piece of shit out of my space!”

“Why don’t you come over here and say that to my face!”

The man takes out a gun from his coat pocket and shows it off, and you gasp and duck down. Bucky would have gotten out and beaten the man’s ass. However, you’re with him and he doesn’t want to put you in any danger.

“God, that’s a gun!” you gasp.

“Do you still think he’s nice?”

“Maybe no one has ever been nice to him before. Maybe violence is his only tool to express himself.” You pop your head up and smile at the man. “Hi!”

“Stop! What are you doing? Get down!”

“Don’t use the gun. Sorry about this guy,” you say and point to Bucky.

“What are you--Don’t apologize for me!”

“Just put the gun away, okay? No need for that,” you smile. The man nods and puts his gun away, and you wave nicely at him. “Thank you so much.”

“I can’t believe that worked,” Bucky whispers.

The man backs up and puts his hands up apologetically.

“Have a good day!” You wave. “See? You always see the worst in people.”

The shopping trip is now ruined so instead of taking the spot, Bucky pulls away and heads straight home. Grocery shopping can be saved for another day. Maybe this time without you. Sam and Steve are at the kitchen table eating when you get back home, and Steve is on a ramble about his job.

“Disney has been working my butt off. I’m the illustrator for two movies, and they need at least five strips of film before Friday. For both films. That’s three days. Not to mention Natasha. She’s sending me mixed signals. Are we a thing? Does she like me back? Women are hard.” Steve looks up and spots you. “Oh, hey Y/N.”

“Why do you always have to start fights with everyone, Bucky? Not everyone is out to get you.”

“He had a gun, Y/N. I was more worried about you than me. I was ready to beat his ass.”

“See? That’s your problem. Your immediate response is to fight.” You look at Sam and Steve. “Isn’t Bucky one of the most negative people you’ve ever met?”

“Yes,” Sam and Steve agree. “All he does is stare at people. It’s like he’s murdering them in his mind.”

“See? They agree with me,” you smirk.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I guess I don’t live in a world where I can smile and people do whatever I want them to do.”

“You don’t smile. Ever.”

You turn the faucet on to wash your hands only to get a face full of water. You shriek and try turning the water off but to no avail. Bucky jumps in and jerks the faucet to the right before turning off the water. You cough from the water that gets into your mouth, and Steve hands you a dish towel.

“What the fuck was that?” you shiver.

“Don’t feel bad. We’ve all had a face full of water once or twice.”

“There shouldn’t have been any time when you get a face full of water. I’m calling the landlord.” Bucky, Steve, and Sam all protest, and you step back in shock from the outcry. “What?”

“You’re not calling the landlord,” Bucky says.

“He’s a terrible man,” Steve informs.

“Don’t call the landlord,” Sam warns.

“Okay, I won’t call the landlord.”

You really thought you could listen to them when they told you not to go to the landlord, but you can’t help yourself. It doesn’t matter if he’s a terrible man or if the guys are afraid of him, he’s a landlord. If something is broken, he has the responsibility to fix it. Bucky takes the guys on a shopping trip since you couldn’t go earlier despite them never following the budget. You’re all alone which is perfect for what you plan to do.

Desserts are a great way to break the ice, so you whip up a quick batch of delicious chocolate chip cookies. These cookies are universally liked so you don’t think there will be an issue. The landlord lives in the basement of the building, so you use the elevator and head down there. It’s pretty nice for a basement. Why live somewhere else when you can live in your own building?

“Excuse me? Mr. Landlord?”

“Back here.”

You follow the voice to the back of the basement and see a rough and burly man sitting by a table whittling something.

“Hi. I hope you like cookies. I made too many and decided to come down here to see if you could take them off my hands.” He looks up and just stares at you, and you put the plate of cookies on the table. “I’m just gonna leave this right here.”

“What do you want?”

“Okay, I’m one of the people living in apartment 4D, and there is a laundry list of things that are considered a safety hazard. I was just wondering if you could come upstairs and see about getting them fixed.”

The man pretends to think about his answer even though you already know he has it.

“No.”

You nod and look around the place to see what else you can talk about with him. There is a picture hanging on the wall of two stick figures. It looks like it was drawn by a child.

“Oh, that’s neat. How old are your kids?”

“I did that. That’s me and my ex-wife.”

A shiver runs through your spine. “Okay. Listen, my roommates are scared of you, but I can tell you’re not as bad as they say you are. I’m sure you wouldn’t want the four of us living in such a dangerous place.”

“Four?” You freeze. “There should only be three.”

“Did I say four?” You start to stutter. “I’m sorry, I always seem to count myself… twice. Okay, bye.”

You quickly leave before the landlord can say anything else about your situation. By the time you get back to your apartment, the boys are back from shopping.

“Hey, you guys are back,” you smile. “Listen, we should try playing a game. I want you to think of a time when you did something stupid, how you were treated, and how you wish you were treated.”

“What did you do?” Bucky asks.

“I talked to the landlord.”

“What?” All three men stand up in a panic. “Alright, it’s happening. Do we have enough time for Escape Plan 1?”

“What’s going on?”

“Only three people are supposed to be living here. Not four.”

“Why didn't you tell me this? Why did you let me move in?”

“We needed the money!”

Someone knocks on the door, and all four of you seem frozen in fear. No one can move from their spot, but you’re the first one to shake this off. You walk to the front door and open it to reveal the landlord.

“Someone told me four people were living here instead of three?”

Bucky looks at you. “That idiot doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Come on,” you whisper to him.

The landlord pushes his way in and observes the place with judgemental eyes. He walks toward Steve’s room that’s located next to the kitchen, and everyone follows him like sheep. He moves to the bathroom, your room, Bucky’s room, and Sam’s room. Apart from a fourth person living here, the place isn’t as bad as it could be.

“This could have been worse. Four people living here are fine. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.”

“Mr. Landlord? I’m sorry for lying about how many people were living here--”

“Stop reminding him,” Bucky whispers.

“--but since you’re here, why not fix a few things?” The landlord has tattoos running down both of his arms, and you notice a particular one that stands out. “Please, Remy?”

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s tattooed on your skin. I took a leap of faith. Look, Remy, I can tell you’re a good guy.”

He sighs and looks around the place before settling his eyes on you. “Fine. What do you need fixed?”

“Close your eyes and point to something,” Bucky says.

“Her. Not you.”

You turn and give Bucky a smug smile to which he gives a mocking one back. The most pressing items on the list is your closet door that’s stuck, a leaking faucet in the bathroom, and the faucet in the kitchen. There are other things but you’ll start with those things first and see where Remy is at.

Remy decides to start with your closet door, and you sit on the bed to keep him company. To make him feel more comfortable, you bring up a conversation about his ex wife.

“Sorry about your divorce. I can’t imagine it’s easy.”

Remy gets on his knees and looks at the track your closet door is on. He takes out two of his tools and starts to tinker with it.

“Thanks. I’d say it was sudden but I should have seen it coming. We stopped talking, you know? We stopped doing things we loved. I’d come home and all I’d want to do is crack a beer.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“Oh, God, no. She never wanted any. Claimed that she wanted all my attention on her. Just as well, who would want a landlord as a father?”

“Don’t do that to yourself, Remy. I’d bet you’d make a great father.”

You could have sworn you saw him blush, but you move past it.

“It must have been really hard.”

He shrugs. “It is what it is.” He stands and looks at you. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes. “It was hard.” He drops his tools and steps back from your closet. “Alright. Give her a whirl.”

You get up from your bed and walk over to your sliding closet door. You grab the handle and pull to open it the rest of the way but it’s stuck. You yank a bit harder but again, nothing happens.

“Here, let me try.”

Remy walks up behind you and grabs the closet door. Even with both your strengths, it’s not enough to make the closet door move. Bucky’s in the kitchen when he hears grunting coming from your room. He is about to pass it off when he remembers Remy is in there with you. He scrambles out of his chair and approaches your room not knowing what he is going to see. He scoffs when he sees Remy behind you. He’s so close that your ass is practically touching his dick.

“Okay, that’s enough.” You and Remy part ways. “Can I talk to you alone, please?”

You leave Remy in your room and join Bucky in the kitchen with a smug smile.

“Ready to admit you were wrong?”

“That man wants to sleep with you.”

“No, he doesn’t. He was just showing me how to open the closet door.”

“Anytime a man shows a woman how to do something from behind, it’s just an excuse to make her heart race and get her all nervous in the cute way women get when they’re nervous. Here, let me show you.” He spots a mug on the table. “Pick up that mug.” You shake your head and pick up the mug. “Oh, no, Doll, you’re doing it all wrong. Here, let me show you.”

Bucky walks behind you and wraps his thick arms around you. For a split second, you allow yourself to feel what it feels like to have Bucky’s arms around you. You close your eyes and relax into his embrace, feeling your heart race. He moves his head closer to your neck so his nose brushes against your jaw. A shiver runs down your spine; and no, you’re not cold. Despite Bucky’s metal arm, he makes you feel warm.

Is this what love feels like? No. You can’t be doing this to yourself. Your eyes pop open and you shove Bucky away from you before you start to confess your feelings for him.

“He was not doing that!”

“That’s exactly what he was doing to you!”

“You always see the worst in people!”

“That’s because people are the worst.” He holds up his metal arm. “How do you think I got this arm?”

You sigh and look away from him. “People can be good, Bucky. You just have to give them a chance. Why can’t you just admit you were wrong? I was nice and now he’s fixing stuff in our apartment.”

Remy walks out of your bedroom without his shirt on. He has an undershirt on but it covers even less than what his shirt was covering.

“Man, I am working up a sweat. I hope you don’t mind the smell of a real man in your room.” He grabs a cup from the cabinet and pours himself a glass of water. “Let me know when you want to get started on that bed.”

When Bucky can’t see him anymore, he looks at you with a disgusted look.

“Don’t give me that look. He’s turning my mattress.”

“Yeah, sure he is.”

You roll your eyes and leave Bucky standing in the kitchen all alone. The things in your bedroom don’t take a lot of time, but the leaky faucet in the bathroom does. In fact, it takes all day. During which you got soaked from the faucet spraying all over your shirt. Bucky hears your squeal and sees you coming out of the bathroom in laughter.

He, Sam, Steve, and Natasha are in the living room just watching you and Remy walk out with water all over you.

“Oh, hey, Nat. You guys would not believe what just happened. I was watching Remy fixing the sink when water sprayed all over me. I was totally soaked.”

“You were so wet,” Remy smirks.

Bucky has to stop himself from going to Remy and beating the shit out of him.

“Man overboard! So, to thank Remy for the work he’s been doing, I invited him to dinner. Who’s in?”

“Um, Steve and I have something planned,” Natasha mumbles.

“Yeah, I have a… thing to do,” Sam follows.

“No, thanks,” Bucky straight-out says.

“So, it’s just me and Y/N, huh?” Remy asks.

“Oh, no,” Bucky immediately says. “I change my mind. I’ll be there.”

Bucky crosses his arms to make them look bigger, and you have to look away before he catches you staring at him. Natasha smirks when she sees the slight blush on your cheeks but thankfully, doesn’t comment on it. Everyone but you, Remy, and Bucky leave the apartment, and you start making something light for dinner. Salad, a little bit of chicken, and a nice bottle of wine. It’s nothing fancy, just whatever you had leftover in the fridge. Remy, after getting ready in the basement, brought his own bottle of wine… that he made himself.

“Remy brought over… whatever this is.”

“I ferment things in the basement.”

You pour yourself a glass of the homemade wine, but Bucky has other plans for you.

“You’re not drinking that, Y/N.”

“Yes, I am.” You grab the cup before he can and take a huge sip. That was a mistake. It’s fucking disgusting. You spit out most of it and swallow the rest, but you give Bucky a wounded smile. “See? Yum.”

“Would you like some?” Remy asks.

“Oh, no, thank you. Someone needs to stay sober to fight you later.”

“Bucky,” you hiss. “Stop it. You and Remy actually have a lot in common.” You look at Remy. “Bucky got out of a really bad relationship last year. I heard it was really bad.”

“In the end, we all go through the same issues,” Remy says.

“Okay,” Bucky whispers.

Dinner was mostly awkward but by the end of it, Remy and Bucky were in a much better mood. You three take the small party to the couch. Remy takes a sip of his fermented wine and laughs.

“Man, I didn’t think I’d ever get to enjoy myself again. Thank you for what you did here tonight.” You give him a kind smile. “I’ll be right back.”

When Remy leaves the living room, you move closer to Bucky.

“See? I was right.”

“What do you mean? Did you see the way he was buttering me up so he could move in on you?”

“Why can't you just admit you were wrong?”

“How can you live this long on your own?”

“There is no part of that man that wants to sleep with me.”

“He’s been creeping on you all night!”

“No, he hasn’t!”

Bucky is about to answer when Remy walks back into the living room. Only this time, he’s not wearing any pants. The look on Bucky’s face is enough for you to turn and notice Remy.

“Hey, Remy, what happened to your pants?” you stutter.

“I’ve never had a threesome before.” Your mouth drops several inches in shock. “That’s what we’re doing, right?”

“Okay, I never expected this,” Bucky mutters.

“I’ll be in the bedroom.”

He turns and leaves, and it takes several long seconds before you can find your voice.

“What the fuck?” you whisper.

You get off the couch and approach your bedroom slowly. Remy is inside doing leg stretches. You chuckle and close the bedroom door before turning to Bucky.

“I love watching you be wrong, Y/N,” Bucky smirks.

“Okay, I admit. Tonight is a bad night, but people are generally good. I’m not wrong about that.”

“People are jerks.”

“He is hurting from his divorce--”

“You’re seriously making excuses for this man?” Bucky smirks. “If you feel so bad then get in there.” You open the door and see Remy doing lunges to get himself warmed up. You chuckle nervously and shut the door again. “I’m so turned on right now.”

“You would seriously have a threesome with him just to get me to admit that I’m wrong?”

“We could do a lot worse than Remy. He’s got strong arms,” he says sarcastically.

Okay, now he’s making it into a game. There’s no way in hell you’re backing out now. Like hell, you’re going to be the one to admit that you were wrong. You’re going to get Bucky to admit that he was wrong even if takes you all night. You kick your shoes off and Bucky’s eyes widen slightly.

“Let’s have a threesome.”

You turn and head inside your room. Remy grins at the thought of doing this with you two, and he grabs your wrist to pull you in closer.

“So, a menage a trois is about three people… a trois… menaging fully.”

“Got it,” you nod.

“This is happening right now,” Bucky says. “We’re doing this.”

“Yeah,” you nod.

“Okay, this is going to get uncomfortable, but as long as we keep communicating, we will get through this. Let’s get some relaxing music going on in here.”

“Great idea,” Bucky says. Remy walks over to the small radio on your desk, and Bucky turns to you with panicked eyes. “Why can’t you admit that you’re wrong?”

“Why can’t you admit that he’s a good guy?” you whisper back

“We are about to have a menage a trois with this guy because you can’t admit that you’re wrong.”

“You are out of your mind. All I’m saying is that he’s a good guy.”

Music starts playing and Remy dances over to you and Bucky. You and Bucky stop whisper-fighting to dance along to the music.

“Yeah, get into it,” Remy grins.

“Oh, I am so into this. Are you into this, Y/N?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Admit that you were wrong and this will stop.”

“Nope. I love this song. Turn it up.”

Remy walks up behind Bucky and starts massaging his shoulder. His first instinct is to turn and deck the bitch in the face, but he won’t result to violence. He tries to shrink away from Remy but the older man won’t let Bucky go anywhere. Bucky’s face contorts in panic because he knows that Remy can’t see him. He glares at you but you refuse to back down. Honestly, you want to know what Bucky will do if you refuse to back down. Will he let things go too far?

“I know this is awkward but the more you loosen up, the better it will be. Right now, I’m just massaging your shoulders, but then I will be unbuttoning your pants.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, his voice cracking.

Honestly, this is kind of funny. At this point, it’s about how far you can push Bucky. How far is he willing to go if you’re willing to go all the way? Bucky hates when people touch him so it’s a miracle that Remy is getting as far as he can with him now. Remy slides one of his hands in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky looks at you with fire in his eyes.

“Then I’m going to unbutton my shirt, but I’m going to keep my underpants on.” Remy pulls away from Bucky but the relief is short-lived. Remy takes one of Bucky’s hands and one of your hands, bringing them together. “Right now, you two get us started.”

Oh, fuck. You don’t know if you can do this.

“You want Y/N and I to get it started?” Bucky looks at you and his grip on both your hands gets tighter. “Are you doing this?”

“Yes, are you doing this?”

“I will do this, Y/N,” Bucky says seriously.

“Good because so will I.”

“Say you’re wrong and this is over.”

“I’m not wrong. You admit that you’re wrong and then this can end.”

“Fine, let’s do this.”

Bucky grabs both sides of your face and leans in. No, this isn’t how you want this to happen. This isn’t how you imagined your first kiss with Bucky. You imagine it’s after you tell him how much you like him. Love, if it even gets there. You imagine doing it in private with no one else around. You imagine sparks to fly, like you two are meant to be.

No, this is all wrong. You are… wrong. Before Bucky’s lips can touch yours, you push him away in anger. Not at him but at yourself.

“Fine! I admit it! I’m wrong!”

“Yes!”

“Sorry, Remy,” you sigh.

“What is going on here?”

You, Remy, and Bucky look at the door to see Sam standing there with a confused look on his face.

“I’m not ready for a four-way. I’m out,” Remy says before leaving.

“Get out,” you sigh. “Please.”

Bucky looks at you and immediately feels bad for the entire evening. Still, he and Sam leave you alone in your room. A few hours pass before someone knocks on your door, and you open it to see Bucky standing there.

“Listen, Y/N--”

“Whatever you have to say, don’t. I’m not in the mood.”

You turn and walk to your bed but leave the door open for him to either come in or close it.

“Just because I see the worst in people, that doesn’t mean you should stop seeing the good in them. I admire that about you.”

You look at him with a smile. “Were you really going to kiss me?”

Bucky returns the smile and grabs the doorknob. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Guess you’ll never know, but deep down, you know the answer.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

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