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namelessgakusei · 22 hours ago

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Imagine a self aware game character.

You're a college student, neck deep into school works all day, with even less time for yourself these days. The only times you're free is spent in booting up this one game.

At first, it was because of boredom. Despite being overloaded with course works, you found yourself losing focus and opted to download a game to take a break. That's when you got hooked.

Either from the graphics, the storyline, or the gameplay, you've always set some time aside to log in everyday, getting the daily bonuses and finishing quests to keep being active. But the main reason for your dedication is...

Them.

It was love at first sight for you. Maybe it's the voice, maybe it's their character model, or maybe it's their personality and role in the story that got you hooked. Needless to say, you got to work. Whether it's getting their character, skins, materials, or weapons, you squeezed every free game currency you can get due to being broke and being free to play.

You bulldozed through the main story, side stories, events, surveys, and missions to get everything you need; You met people in co-op and garnered quite the reputation due to how strong your character, them, had become. You even set them as main menu character for them to greet you every time you log in.

Their affection meter is maxed out, giving you reprieve from your hellish schedule by hearing how they care for you and how they want to help you. God, this is heaven. You can cry on the spot but you're in class right now.

Running on three hours of sleep and spite for everything, you thought you could play a little bit before the professor arrived, only to get bamboozled and have the class start the moment you opened the app, making you leave your phone at the side of your table while you take notes. With how your device is positioned, it's kind of like having someone on a video call despite it just showing the home menu. The idle animation plays as you keep your focus on the lecture, unaware that they aren't moving like they usually do anymore.

They stopped acting when your eyes left the screen, no, they long since stopped being just a character way before that.

They're flattered, really, having someone invest so much time for them even if they didn't have to. But you're relentless, it's almost mad. Were you mad? They considered it, seeing that you always log in during ungodly hours on the night, looking like you're seconds away from collapsing. They know you're always busy, with how much you rant to them about your deadlines and wail about your grades like they can hear you. They do. And god do they want to do something about it.

It wasn't always like this. They weren't even aware that they're in a video game to begin with, and perfectly lived like how they were supposed to be in the plot. It was you who woke them up.

They don't know how it happened or when they realized it. It's just that every day, you never fail to visit them. Sometimes, you don't even play, you're just there, talking to them about your life, sometimes even gushing about how you like them so much... it's the latter that always happens, much to their initial embarrassment. Did you treat them so much like a person that they became one? Perhaps so, that's what they think of sometimes.

Self aware game character who, knows about other worlds due to the plot of the game they're in. They went to said worlds and met many creatures who are far from human, so they weren't surprised upon figuring out that you're not from their own, much less about the reality of their existence. They're a game character? Their world is a mere entertainment for the people in yours? They've seen gods, this isn't new.

Though, looking at you now, you don't seem to be the cruel kind of god. You look pitiful at best with how you're barely holding onto consciousness every day, yet you still spend your time to make them stronger and give them everything you can offer. Why? What's so good about them that you're willing to go this far?

They've been through so much, experienced grief and loss throughout their life, that they learned to shoulder everything on their own. But you? You're willing to do everything you can to make them happy. You cried when you find out about their past. You look at them like they're your equal. That, they don't understand. You don't fight, you're practically a civilian, someone who won't last a minute on a battlefield. Yet, they can always feel you whenever they're fighting off monsters. It's because of you that they don't get hurt anymore. Even if they die, they'll just revive later. There's pain, but it can't be helped. But when you arrived, that became less frequent with how cautious you are as a player. Why do you apologize if you fail to make them dodge in time? Or when they can't avoid an attack? You're not the one getting hurt so why do you look like it?

Self aware game character who, fought so many enemies in every gameplay but all they're looking forward to isn't the rewards but your face of relief, thanking them for surviving and telling them that they did a good job. Not that they're looking for your praise...! You just look as stressed as you do whenever you're cramming every time you play a difficult level, so they can't help but worry! You really need to get off the game. They don't mind if you miss a few days, just get some sleep!

Self aware game character who, was thankful for the voice lines they have. Unlike the npcs, they can actually talk to you. It took some tweaking, but they were able to add more lines every time you increase their affection level. Though, they need to be extra sneaky since you maxed it out already! Don't think they missed it when you crumbled when they said that the present they want the most is you.

How cute.

Self aware game character who, watches you study in class. Your brows are furrowed, eyes barely open as you bounce your leg to keep yourself awake. They don't know what's happening whenever you close the app, so they're grateful for the small windows of time where they could just spend time with you without going through quests or scripted story events. While their view is limited, they can hear your professor and classmates in the background, and if they close their eyes, it almost feels like they're just sitting beside you in the classroom.

How nice would it be if that happened.

Maybe they should reward you with a specialized story later, you'd like that, won't you? It's the least they could do for all the things you did for them. The thought of seeing your flustered face while they openly express their affection made them slip a laugh, which was quickly masked when you glanced at their direction, confused upon hearing a familiar voice. They never went back to their idle animation this fast in their life.

Self aware game character who starts to look forward whenever you accidentally leave the game on. That way, they can imagine what is it like to be in your side of the world. Will they also be a student in your major? Will you two be classmates? Roommates? How will you two meet? During a meet-cute at the library? Cafeteria? Or perhaps they aren't even going to your school, and you just happen to meet in the sidewalk.

With all of the blood that stained their hands over the years, the callouses that are painfully apparent in their hands, will they even be allowed to be by your side? Why do they even dare to think of sullying your life by being in it? But, still, they want to meet you.

Maybe it's your mundane life that they want to protect. Maybe they want to be part of your normal life. Maybe they want to be there to take care of you like you did for them.

Maybe, if they're allowed, they'll live the rest of their life with you.

Self aware game character who, wants to reveal that they're sentient. You'd like that, won't you? You like them, a bit too much in their opinion, and they... aren't sure if they should act upon their feelings. You're worlds apart, literally, and what are the chances that this will work? What if you get repulsed upon the revelation? What if you think that they're presumptuous, daring to be with someone who's in par with those that created him? What if you get bored and delete the game? What then? Will you come back, or will they just have to stare at the abyss, hoping to see a glimpse of you once again?

Self aware game character who bite back the words they want to say. Words that they should've said a long time ago, but can only write them to an in-game mail for you to see.

Thank you for picking up this game, you were pretty bad as a starting player.

Thank you for choosing me amidst all of the characters here.

Thank you for all the things you did for me, even if you didn't have to.

Thank you for playing my events even if you had to lose sleep because of me.

Thank you for showing me that there's a world out there where you are safe.

Please take care of yourself when I couldn't do it for you.

Thank you.

I love you.

If your love is what woke them up, will their love be enough to break free from their world and be at your side?

They deleted the mail before you can log-in for the day.

Written by a sleep deprived college student who wants to go home and sleep

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omgfangirlland · 3 days ago

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I'VE GOT ANOTHER IDEAAAAA! (I swear this ideas only appears when I'm about to sleep/stressed or when it is 3am) listen.. A neglected fem reader x batfam ooooor we can change it up to a neglected reader x superfam. Imagine, the reader was born as a Kent but has no superpowers. (Add how ben ten got his watch) or we can go to the same way.. The batfam x neglected reader.. Reader is a normal civilian just going about their days until she got that watch. (I'mma sleep.. I can't take it anymore.. ///orz///)

-🔱

FINALLY THE ASK I WANTED TO ANSWER SINCE I SAW IT-

🫀 anon, I saw your ask, I'll respond asap, I'm just trying to go from oldest to newest. Also- 🔱 anon, If I don't come up with an actual well-written one-shot about the aware!Marvel Characters soon, I'll just answer in this drabble/rant/spew stuff and see what sticks style.

I think the Superfam with a NoPowers!Ben10!Reader would be hilarious, actually- Perhaps even Anti-hero!Reader? Doing the right thing for the wrong reason.

Unlike the Batfam, I think the neglect wouldn't be as severe. Like, Jon seems like a very friendly and clingy kid, he'd love his big/lil sister with his whole being- especially if she didn't have powers, he'd feel like it's his duty to protect her.

And Kon may just get attached based purely on you accepting him before Clark does.( I'm a strong believer in robot and clone rights- unless they're the pure evil kind- looking at Clone!Shephard from Mass Effect. We could have reigned the universe together 😭) Like you being the one to stand up for him in the face of Clark would make him want to show you the same loyalty. You didn't see him as a weapon, as a cheap copy, as a means to an end, you saw him as human, as someone who deserves a chance.

If you want to make this unintentional neglect, the boys could be so scared about you hurting yourself or them hurting you that they deliberately ask you to set out of things. Playing rugby, football, or roughhousing? Sorry, you're just too fragile, they may break you. Helping them or trying to be their own personal Oracle? Yeah, no, what if a badie finds out about you?

Now- The worse in the neglect, I think, would be Clark- but let's first start with Grandmama and Grandpapa. They love all their grandkids, but they're farmers, awake as soon as it hits four a.m., they're busy and not really in their prime to be able to keep up with the kiddies and the farm.

So, while Kon and Jon can do so much of the heavy lifting, you're really left with washing dishes, cleaning, feeding the chickens, and watching from a distance as the boys are giggling. They are pushing you away without even realizing that.

Lois I don't think she's a bad parent, no mother who is working is a bad parent. But I do think she'd brush off stuff like you scrapping your knee or stubbing your toe in a way she didn't mean to come off as rude as it did. Small things that Jon, Kon, and Clark didn't experience, and small things she, as a grown woman, learned to not even blink at. Really, she just forgets that human children are very fragile, that they need to be coddled more.

And now Clark. He's Superman. You'll be talking his ear off, holding something in your hands, and the next second he's gone with a sorry, off to save the world. By the time he comes back, you've already gone to do something else.

He still remembers your birthday, but instead of spending time with you like he does with the boys, taking them flying and whatever else they do, he just buys you the same doll you've started hating years ago and pats your shoulder as he wishes you a happy birthday.

He promises to come to your parent's day school event, to the field day stuff, to everything you ask him. But he doesn't show up, and after the few times he forgot to pick you up, you just started accepting rides from your friend's parents and stopped asking him anything. You stopped talking to him entirely, and him not even noticing, hurt more than the broken promises.

And while all of these things aren't the worst things possible, they build up, insecurities taking hold and burying deep. You stop asking to play with the boys, you stop asking to go to your grandparents, you stop going to your parents for help, you stop considering yourself as someone who can help. You start to think of yourself as a liability. You learn that you're just different, and not in the way that'll make you integrate, not in the way Clark- in the way Superman needs.

You learned to be quiet a long time ago, living with supers who can hear your heartbeat took away from the privacy you should have had, so you did your best to keep the little things you could to yourself.

Started typing your thoughts, learned to cry without making a sound, and learned to keep your footsteps as light as possible. Granted, you didn't think they'd care to listen in to whatever you were doing, you weren't even sure if they knew that half of your free time was spent locked in your room, while the other half was spent outside, catching a bus and walking the rest of the way outside the city just to see what the boys always can if they just fly high enough, the stars.

Almost being killed by a shooting star wasn't the way you thought you'd go out- alas, you survived and got yourself a nice watch- well... it got you. Accidentally becoming an alien- more alien than you were- because of it wasn't on your to-do list, however.

After the mini scare of possibly being stuck as a flame alien, you decided to just never touch the watch again. You didn't go to show Clark, you didn't want him to start paying attention to you because of it, you wanted to be shown attention because of simply being you.

You didn't want to be a hero. But when an alien attacked your school and the building collapsed, trapping you and a few teachers and students in a room that was slowly caving in- you did what you had to do. Helping with Four Arms was a slippery slope, going from refusing to help to itching for it, especially as you got more and more cheers and love. It was selfish. But you were helping.

Sometimes it didn't give you the alien you wanted, and soon enough, you learned the thing is somewhat sentient, or had some sort of intelligence, giving you what you needed to not only understand the other aliens, but to also grow as a person, learning to be more strategic rather than a muscle tank just hitting until the problem stops.

Your parents didn't connect the dots, but Lex Luthor sure as hell did, and since you've picked up an interest in engineering, all he saw were opportunities.

Accepting his offer of a paid internship would be... bad. To put it mildly. He was your father's enemy, essentially the deadbeat parent of your oldest brother- but you've started being selfish a while ago. You've started being selfish and paranoid about your own parents. What if they decide that you're simply not worth even staying in their home anymore? What if they throw you out once you hit eighteen?

You accepted, remaining on your toes about the man. Just in case.

Now Lex expected you to be loud and hostile, not quiet and weary, but he can work with that- until he kept on listening more and more to you. He was a terrible parent to Kon. Point, blank, period. But boy, did it make him do a double-take on some things that fell out of your mouth. "What do you mean you broke your leg after a fight and went to an underground doctor instead of going to your parents, and now you sometimes limp?... What do you mean you don't think they'll care?"

"What do you mean your parents don't notice you being out late working for me?"

"What do you mean you kept an alien cat that eats humans for a week and nobody noticed?"

The more you give him, the more you're stressing him out- and, perhaps in a moment of weakness after hearing you jokingly(mockingly) refer to him as dad, he calls an old colleague asking for help.

"I have this intern who is... a meta." Is the first thing that comes out of his mouth after the man on the other side of the phone greets him. And he lies a bit... a lot. But he also strongly believes he could be a better parent if he actually tried. "And what I'm trying to say is- you have a lot of adopted kids. I need help on how to proceed so I can adopt her."

Bruce Wayne stares into the abyss for a while as he processes the word spew Lex just gave him. "...What?" Due to shock, and due to how sleep deprived he was, he doesn't really question who the parents are, or why he knows so much. He just gave him some indicators- hire a lawyer, call CPS, go the legal route- and sends a quick text to Clark about Lex possibly having ulterior motives regarding a meta teen.

The horror that settles over the family when a CPS agent, who may have received a very kind donation, comes knocking, and they can't even name one place you could be at, is enormous. Followed by complete disbelief, because what do you mean no one knows where this teen is? What do you mean she works for Lex?

Finding out that you are what the Justice League thought was a hive mind, calling themselves Omnitrix, would probably give Superman depression. You didn't trust him enough to tell him about your newfound powers, didn't trust him enough to even come to him about feeling neglected, and if for a second he thought that maybe Lex was right, he'd keep that thought to himself.

----

Batman, after finding out that it was Clark's "meta" kid: ... oops.

Lex, to Reader, probably: You're making me feel human things, like sympathy. How dare you?

Kon, awake for five days, wearing a "Kent for the win" shirt, to a reporter who didn't even ask: Are you going to believe the known criminal who pays off judges so he doesn't get any jail time, or the two reporter who keep speaking the truth and being whistle blowers on a lot of crazy shit these rich people do?

#superfam #superfam x reader #anon ask #🔱 anon #neglected reader #lex luthor scheming but growing soft #female!reader #fem!reader #fem pov

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zepskies · 2 days ago

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hiii lovely happy wednesday 🫶🏽:) random question while i’m on my 10 :D this kind of goes hand in hand with your coffee shop headcanons if you squint, but in your opinion what coffee shop pastry would the boys (your favorite jackles characters) choose? 🤎

if that makes sense, like I think beau would really like our dulce de leche cheese danish :p or like ben might like a jalapeño cheese bagel lmao

again I loveee your insights <3 it makes work more entertaining for sure cause then i’m thinking of your responses at random times lol 💗 + I hope you’re having a wonderful week !!🫂

Happy Wednesday, friend! 😘 Oh yay! I love your random questions, and I love coffee shop pastries. 🥐 ☕

Dulce de leche Danish sounds amaziiiiing. 😩 And thank you!! I'm flattered that you love my insights - and that my little rambles infiltrate your brain! lolol 🥰💜 Hope you're having a great week too, hun! Mine is ok so far. I have a lot coming up tomorrow, so this is a fun distraction until then! 😂

HEADCANON: Coffee Shop Pastry Orders

Dean Winchester

*snorts* You mean the human garbage disposal?

We all know Dean's not picky about food. Though since he's drinking an espresso in his coffee order headcanon, I think he'd go for something indulgent to fill his stomach, like a cheese Danish, a couple of donuts, or if they have it, a brookie. 😂

He's very happy to show it to you and Sam when he brings it over to your table, strolling over on those bowed legs. Sam, of course, wears that half amused, half judgy look of his.

"It's a cookie mashed up with a brownie, Sam. Best of both worlds."

Beau Arlen

Beau the basic latte guy needs a basic (but delicious) coffee shop confection to go with it, so I'm going to say he's into coffee cake.

He likes them crumblies on top and a nice, warm cinnamon swirl in his cake. 👌🏽

Just be warned. He's probably going to have you order him another slice of cake while he's still working on the first one.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Like Dean, this guy's not all that picky about food post-captivity. Of course he likes good food, but he's also highly indulgent in most respects.

"I like what I fucking like," as he often tells you with a smirk. That goes for food, drugs, and frisky women (of almost all ages).

That being said, since we paired him with a cold brew, he'll probably want something classic, like himself: a glazed donut or a slice of marble pound cake with that thin strip of icing on top.

However, I think he could be persuaded (by you) to order something a little adventurous. He'd be game enough to try a jalapeño cheese bagel, with hash browns, and that donut and/or slice of pound cake on the side...

And he'll probably tell them to pack him up an extra bagel for the road. 😂 🥯

Russell Shaw

Russell's another one who's highly self-indulgent lol. He ain't picky about food, that's for sure. He'll eat junk food just as easily as a five-course meal from a Michelin star restaurant.

But since he got paired with a flat white, I think he'd get the biggest cinnamon roll he can find. He'd ask if they could warm it up for him, get that icing all warm and running down the sides, sticky and sweet.

And he looks at you mischievously while he licks his fingers afterward. ✌🏼

(He's only satisfied when he makes you blush.)

AN: Do you agree with these? Got other pastry orders for these guys? 💜

I love working on these HCs every time, no matter how simple or complex the prompt is. 😂

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Dean Winchester Imagines

Dean Winchester Masterlist

Beau Arlen Masterlist

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Dean, Beau, Soldier Boy + Russell Tag List (Part 1)

@kazsrm67 @foxyjwls007 @luci-in-trenchcoats @lamentationsofalonelypotato @waynes-multiverse

@mostlymarvelgirl @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester

@deans-spinster-witch @sanscas @hobby27 @kaleldobrev @spnwoman

@samanddeaninatrenchcoat @pieandmonsters @globetrotter28 @midnightmadwoman @chevroletdean

@lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @spnfamily-j2 @deansbbyx @chernayawidow

@mimaria420 @stoneyggirl2 @fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like @waywardxwords @twinkleinadiamondsky

@my-stories-vault @0ccvltism @rizlowwritessortof @cookiechipdough @mrsjenniferwinchester

@fromcaintodean @k-slla @jackles010378 @deanbrainrotwritings @alwaystiredandconfused

@mrlonelycat @deans-daydream @leigh70 @aylacavebear @kmc1989

@siampie @rubyvhs @winchestergirl2 @winchester-whiskey

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n7valkyrien · 2 days ago

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have been looking out for what garrus calls shepard throughout the three games since this post and here we go!!!

ME1: always “commander” with the exception of battle banter.

ME2: “commander” with outsider present, “shepard” in private or in the presence of other squadmates

ME3: i don’t think he has ever called shepard “commander” (also note: my human girlfriend, sweetie and love of my life in citadel dlc)

and now we compare it with wrex and tali:

i didn’t pay much attention in ME1 at first but if memory serves me well:

wrex: “shepard” all the way

tali: a mix of “commander” and “shepard” in ME1, then “shepard” all the way

i just think it’s a really neat detail.

ofc wrex wouldn’t give a damn about those stupid human rules and formalities. he respects shepard but it’s not because of the title, but slowly earned.

garrus respects shepard. due to the turian militaristic culture that’s so deeply ingrained in him even if he’s a “bad turian”, he sticks to “commander” at first because that’s…well…the chain of command. but as their bond grows stronger, whether platonic or romantic, the personal connection causes him to use a more intimate way to address shepard.

then finally tali who also respects shepard from day 1. she’s been isolated on the flotilla for her whole life until her pilgrimage. she’s just a kid who’s experiencing the world for the very first time, so she’s scared of making mistakes especially when communicating with other species. sticking to “commander” sounds right to her.

quarians aren’t always being treated kindly. they were stigmatised. especially with what happened to her before joining shepard — being hunted down by saren’s assassins, rejected to land on illium, called “suit-rat” on the citadel, and more, she didn’t expect kindness on a human ship. but she’s welcomed by shepard and some of the crew.

(i’d also like to point out that when ash is expressing her doubts about aliens on board, she specifically mentions “wrex and vakarian”, not tali, which is a bit funny considering tali is the one most invested in the ship’s technology.)

as a naive girl who just left the flotilla for the very first time, and got treated like shit the entire time, i imagine she’d be quick to trust someone if they show kindness.

with the not-so-militaristic culture of hers, she feels comfortable switching to “shepard” quite frequently even in ME1.

#accidentally turned into a tali analysis oops #mass effect #tali’zorah #garrus vakarian #urdnot wrex #tali’zorah vas normandy #garrus #wrex #valkyrie.txt ᯓ

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xaythefreak · 2 days ago

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Hey, its me the "old man bots yaoi couples" enjoyer the one who sent to you. Im here to bring me more because im quite normal about drift and ratchet. Very normal...

(Why have one bot, when you can have two?.. heh.. it's a package deal. Im so sigma/hj/silly)

Anyway-!! AHEM burps this at u:

Drift truly believes you’re the missing third spark to his and Ratchet’s bond— that Primus wants the three of you to be together. Every word, glance, or moment of kindness from you is a sign. Even your fear? Drift chalks it up to being overwhelmed by fate.

Drift constantly calls you little one, starlight, or our spark. Yes, our. He already sees you as part of the bond. (Sweetspark, sparkmate..... we need more nicknames, like- "my sweet discord kitten e-liaison. Our darling mate human-") gets shot 98 times

He tells Ratchet every night how lucky they are to have "found you".

Ratchet isn’t delusional— he knows you didn’t agree to any of this. But that doesn’t matter. You’re his patient, his responsibility. His.

He monitors your vitals 24/7, programs the doors to restrict your movement, and disables any datapad you try to send out.

Ratchet is sharper, more grounded— he knows your relationship isn’t real… yet. But that doesn’t stop him from locking down your access routes and tracking your vitals obsessively. (Him and the other scientists bots or smth. A working together. Brainstorm and percy is right at his back yayaya)

He rationalizes his obsession as safety: the Lost Light is dangerous, and your body is too fragile for normal routines. (Be so fr like, imagine if we sneeze or crack our fingers infront of him and he's go haywire and panic mode, thinking if we're terribly ill or sick or smth.)

He controls what you eat, where you sleep, and who you talk to— because no one else is qualified to handle a human. (I like to see other bots fighting for our reader ass smh. Its like watching a cat fight/j..)

He sometimes argues with Drift about being too fast or too gentle, but they always circle back to the same thing:

“We love them. We’re the only ones who do.”

You are now the squishy center of one very obsessed, very in-sync, very delusional mech-marriage. (Time to sign the marriage papers or sparkbond or smth.. idk)

(Look at this old ass love sickfools... they make me SICK/ affectionately)

Something about drift being delusional and ratchet being possessive and protective towards reader, scratches my brain right and flip my the switch very good.... oh my primus, they're so overbearing perhaps overwhelming— i migjt explode right here, right now!!!!!! /hj.... (I migjt send this more in your inbox if thats okay w yoi. In honesty i was nervous to send this at you 😭😭😭)

from this day fourth you shall be called "old man yaoi anon" /j

but AAAAAAAA jumping around shaking the bars of my enclosure /pos

save me old man yaoi save me,,,

doing kinky medical shit with ratchet as Drift praises us as he jorks it woah what was that must've been the wind /j

BUT this is so cute,,, both of them being delusional ass old men who just wants to keep their precious lil human safe <33

Imagine if Ratchet finds a way to you pregnant w/ him and Drifts sparkling,,,, oooohhh,, oughhhh,,,,

also PLEASE send more stuff in my inbox if you want!! i LOVE YAPPING!!!!!! /gen /nf

#Xay's feelin freaky #transformers #valveplug #mtmte #transformers mtmte #yandere #transformers x human #transformers x reader #mtmte ratchet #mtmte drift #dratchet

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ducksido · 3 days ago

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Hai!! I decided to be loyal once again and request my schmookie bear Idia🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤🤤 so imagine this 😈😈, Idia with an equally as socially awkward reader, who loves programming video games, the catch is that well… they program otomes😱😱😱

So Idia and reader are already dating and just chilling and they’re trying to make the perfect otome together despite sucking at romantic relationships (Brian once again no work, so interpret may👍👍👍👍👍)

It’s a typical day in Ignihyde—meaning dark, silent, and filled with the glow of multiple monitors and the faint smell of energy drinks and anxiety.

You’re slouched on Idia’s beanbag chair, a laptop on your knees and your fingers flying over the keyboard. Beside you, Idia is hunched at his own desk, cloak pooling around his legs, hoodie up, and hair glowing the softest hue of content blue. You’re both locked in total silence… except for the muttered lines of code and occasional:

“Bro, why did this variable name turn into emotional damage. It’s literally self-destructing my script—oh wait. That was a typo.”

You and Idia are, somehow, making the perfect otome game. The catch?

Neither of you has functioning romantic experience. Outside of each other, and even then it's like watching two haunted raccoons try to hold hands without combusting.

“Okay…” you mutter, staring blankly at the dialogue box on the screen. “So the love interest just confessed, and the MC’s supposed to, like, respond. What would be… realistic?”

Idia blinks slowly. “Uh. You mean in actual human realistic, or idealized 2D husbando dream logic realistic?”

You chew your sleeve. “I don’t know. What would you say if someone told you they loved you?”

He visibly bluescreens.

“...besides shutting down,” you add quickly.

“…Uhhh. I'd probably say something like, ‘N-no way, you’re just saying that because of the stat boost from that one event where I accidentally held your hand—why would anyone like me, I’m a zero-drop-rate SSR-level disappointment,’ and then short-circuit and roll under my desk.”

You blink. “Honestly? That’s better than like 80% of otome responses.”

You both nod solemnly.

Later, while working on the “Kiss CG Unlock” scene, both of you sit stiff as boards.

You: “Should he, like… kiss her forehead? Or is that too intimate??”

Idia: “W-wait forehead is more intimate than the cheek, right? I read that somewhere on a forum. I think.”

You: “What if the sprite kisses the air two pixels next to her cheek to imply it happened off-screen?”

Idia: “Genius. Subtle. Emotional. The fans will cry.”

You both high-five. You miss. Your fingers brush.

You both recoil like you touched a live wire.

Cue Idia’s hair flaring bright pink as he dramatically covers his face with his hoodie sleeve:

“C-crap! Critical hit!! Emotional damage x9999!!”

You wheeze into your hoodie. “We’re literally dating, why are we like this???”

“I don’t know!! You’re my actual love interest! It’s different! It’s worse! You’re real!!” he screeches.

Despite the awkward chaos, the otome game starts looking… kind of amazing. The characters have incredibly nuanced personalities, the routes are emotional and hilarious, and the MC has more depth than most commercial games. (She even has an option to respond to a confession with “No u.”)

You both sit there, staring at the final screen — the last line of code compiled. The game runs. No bugs. All dialogue paths working.

"...We actually made it," you whisper.

Idia looks at you.

“W-we… made a game. Together. An otome game. About romance. Despite being walking cringe compilations.”

He reaches over—slow, like a cutscene CG—and pokes your hand.

“True Ending unlocked,” he mumbles.

Your face heats up. You take his hand.

Achievement Unlocked: ‘Mutual Tsundere Affection.exe’

Bonus: Ortho walks in 3 minutes later and sees the two of you collapsed on the beanbag, holding hands and red-faced, surrounded by empty cans and 700 lines of spaghetti code.

He takes one look at the screen.

“…Big Brother. Y/N. This is the most emotionally repressed game I’ve ever seen. 10/10.”

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu #idia twisted wonderland #idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #twst idia #they're both idiots your honor

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passionwillow · 1 day ago

Note

Could we get a nsfw alphabet for Frankie?👉👈

YES YES WE CAN

Frank Langdon - NSFW Alphabet

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He'll always clean you up and cuddle, but he usually needs a minute. He likes to bask in the afterglow, steady his breathing and hold you before getting up. A lot of time its a little rushed, only because he wants to just lay down and hold you.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He likes his hands. They save lives, they're skilled, and the way you react under his touch.. It drives him insane.

He loves your hips!!! He loves holding them!!! And using them to tug you closer on his cock UGH. Just grabbing at the flesh, holding for dear life.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He loves seeing it in your mouth or on your face. He usually likes finishing inside, but something about seeing your pretty face painted with it, or seeing you swallow it..

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He loves being submissive for you! Letting you run the show, seeing the light in your eyes and your excited grin gives him a thrill. Order him around, call him a good boy.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

He knows what he's doing. Whether that's experience or human anatomy knowledge, he's confident in his abilities. He knows where to touch you, how to curl his fingers or thrust just right to get you crying out.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

RIDE HIM. He loves seeing you on top, getting to just kiss and bite at your tits. If you aren't confident, he's happy to guide you and help or go for missionary.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Usually serious. He's focused and locked in on you, pleasuring you, but if something humorous happens he'll laugh. You guys trip, clothes won't come off, etc..

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It's dark and thick, just like his hair. He keeps it maintained and under control, even shaving a little bit to help.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Usually pretty romantic! He isn't opposed to dirty talk or getting a little rough though, so it all depends on the mood.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Maybe a concerning amount. He can't help himself, he thinks about you nonstop. He's a little obsessed. So he's always sneaking off to receive himself, sending you pictures to taking videos.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He wouldn't mind being pegged. Part of him is nervous and part of him SERIOUSLY wants to try it. Otherwise, it's kind of the usual. Spanking, tying you up, a little choking.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Bedroom, on call room, back of the car, literally he doesn't care. Just let him slip inside you (he begs for it you can't convince me otherwise).

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You breathed. You looked at him, you smiled, you laughed. Literally everything gets him going. Just give him an excise, honestly.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Anything with piss, feces, vomit, or anything that could seriously hurt you. He has his limits, even if it's something you'd try. He can't imagine harming you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

A MUNCH. Desperate at anytime to taste you. Sit on his face and just let him feast. He could go at it for hours if you'd let him. When it comes to him, he'd never turn down. blowjob. If you don't really want to, cool with him. But seeing you on your knees gagging and choking on him? Ugh.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He can go whatever you like. He can pound into you and fuck you senseless or the his sweet time and draw it out. He's happy with whatever, he just follows the mood.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Lovessss them. He looks forward to pulling you into an empty room and pinning you to the wall, or finding an empty bed and taking you in an on call room. He's always mumbling and whining into your neck about how he'll be quick, just needs you for a second.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

He'll experiment to a degree, and he loves the thrill of getting caught. Someone seeing you moan around his cock, or clinging to his shoulders as he pounds you.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Easily 2-3 before he needs a break. He just gets so revved up and high off of you, he doesn't even notice that his won body is telling him to stop.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

YES YES YES. Vibrators are his favorite. Pressing one to your clit and watching you squirm and cry out, or losing his damn mind when you use it on his cock. Handcuffs, gags, blindfolds. He enjoys all of it.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He can't tease you for long because he cracks in no time. And he gets so whiny and pouty when you tease him! Tugging at your clothes, begging for just a minute with you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

SO loud. So whiny and needy and he doesn't know how to be quiet. You usually have to cover his mouth when he goes at it with you at work because he's so blissed out.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Claw the hell out of him. He loves seeing the marks your nails leave, the red streaks on his back.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

A good 5 inches, average thickness. Not super huge or anything but more than enough to get the job done.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

HELLO??? Always horny. Always needy. Always desperate nad tugging you into an empty room or hall.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

He passes out. Arm around you, weight half on you, face in your chest. He's out like a light.

#the pitt #the pitt hbo max #frank langdon x plussized reader #frank langdon x reader #dr frank langdon #frank langdon

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jellazticious · 2 days ago

Note

May I ask for some Morton headcanons, please?

Yes yes ofc, I love Morton, he's a sweetie pee

Also sorry some of these made me go 🥺😭 so look out

Morton the Scavenger

He's four foot ten inches tall 🥺

He's kinda got an identity crisis going on without the crisis. More like an identity whatever

Morton was his old owner's name and he thought it was him being referred to

Although he kind of doesn't care what name or gender he is. He doesn't bother with the name and the way people default to he/him to describe him

Actually getting an identifier handed to him immediately is pretty nice. More time to hoard

He's second hand afflicted as suggested by his species "insect" and not "cursed"

Morton wasn't lying about being food cricket but he was a pet cricket before

WAS A decoration for a little library with an active club

My speculation for how Morton became the way he is without looking at the Visitor is that he got a taste of a person's blood who did look

The same day he was to be fed to the frog was the same day the Visitor appeared

His kleptomania came from being so so so bored when he was a pet. He hoarded words before he hoarded items

The item hoarding came from his newfound fascination of the world outside his tank. He must have it all before his time runs out

His second pair of arms are almost always fidgeting something

Everything he knows before meeting Sam was observed from the library. From information to communication to what humans do

He's like a month old literally but in cricket years that's like being in your late 20s (crickets max out on 3 months)

But after becoming half man, he gained like an extra 40 years on his life span

He's aware that crickets live for three months but he doesn't know that he gets to live longer as a half human

He gains emotions and attachment like a human but he's still an insect by biology so he doesn't gain the capacity to emote these new feelings

And he's aware of that. He knows he can't fully communicate what he means so he knows that it's kind of hard to deal with him. But he means well and he tries and he apologizes

He's kind of like a savant, yeah

Morton doesn't care about the specifics of what he is. He knows he's a man cricket thing but he doesn't question what portion he is a human and what portion he is a cricket

But sometimes he forgets which traits came from what

Imagine that he will eventually relearn how to make cricket noises with his legs and it will shock him since it's been a while he's done that

#Look Outside #Morton the Scavenger #jella answers

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urfavrib · 3 days ago

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a HC for your troubles my good *insert honorific for ribs*!

If Gricko was human he would work anywhere. Like, literally any job ever. You could see him working at a fro-yo place one day and the Whitehouse the next. He would enjoy fun jobs the most, like working at a Wahooz. He would also really like being a summer camp manager for kids (Living outside and kids!!!). Or just anything to do with kids, it helps him understand his daughter he recently adopted!

Human Hootsie would be nonverbal autistic, totally not projecting my tizim here. She would be decently independent compared to other kids, but prefers to stick with others she likes. She can still make sounds and loves verbal stimming!!! (makes hoot like sounds, origins of her nickname hootsie). Her Flypad is a mobility aid, she uses it to communicate and as a way to distract herself from overstimulation. After being adopted by her new papa, she is super happy!!!! He gets her stim toys, doesn't mind she doesn't talk and totally gets her! (cough cough autistic undiagnosed gricko cough)

Human Frost would work somewhere calm, like a library or a book store (he likes books). I imagine he got stuck with a retail job, and then proceeded to get fired for being "rude" to a customer ("No, ma'am, we are not out of tinsel as I just stocked that isle".) He would go to college for some fancy major, like phycology or physics, being sponsored by the religious group that his parents sent him to be raised by. Halfway into his first year he has a major identity crisis and drops out impulsively. Ends up traveling the country aimlessly, hating himself for ending up here. Until he meets a man stuck in a tree with his daughter watching him!

Human Gideon would work a construction job, living by the day and the beer. He doesn't really have any goals in life, and he's barely squeaking by as is. After leaving a toxic boarding school his parents sent him to, He doesn't know what to do with himself. He's honestly really depressed. So with nothing better to do, why not follow the man who offered him some sorta work deal?

Human Kremy would be a conman at heart, looking for the next chump to trick. A smart man doesn't stay as some dishwasher at a mom and pop restaurant, he needs to get an image going! He got himself mixed in some nasty gang shit, so he ran to a town across the country to buy him some time. He knows he doesn't have long, and he needs protection. Might as well make a name for himself here, there's no way he can go back to his hometown. He gets himself a handsome bodyguard (just a couple of guys!!!), and starts on his many business ventures.

Human Torbek is a homeless wreck, life was NOT kind to him. He actually got a decent start, getting a decent retail job and a tiny apartment. But a couple medical bills and some lovely chronic pain in his back, he was on the streets. He works under the table now, to anyone who can hire him. He meets a powerful seeming man, with a powerful LOOKING man by his side. Who cares if he works far below minimum wage, they even gave him a place to sleep!

here is my yap, engage if you wish

OH HELL YEAH

(this kinda spiraled into Summer camp au but oh well)

Gricko hates routine so I can totally see him having a billion connections and one off jobs. Helping where he’s needed before he’s off to the next!

But during the summers he’s pretty busy at his summer camp

Camp Whatchamacallit

(what ya ma call it)

He’s the head counselor and handles the kids and oversees most everything else (of course with a helping hand of the Krew)

Babygirl Hootsie is an icon, def nonverbal autistic and uses a communication aid. She hoots(best vocal stim ever) and happy hand flaps all the time. She loves climbing trees out at the camp. but hates summer heat as she can’t get comfortable so she’ll sit in the kitchens with Kremy a lot on really hot days.

Gideon is a construction worker he’s been offered foreman and supervisor jobs but he prefers to get in there and get his hands dirty. If he’s not at work, and not at his and Kremy’s apartment, he’s helping fix things around the camp for Gricko.

Kremy doesn’t have a real job per se, he’s basically a stay at home wife to Gideon (who makes enough money to pay for everything and more). So Kremy is fairly often found out at the drag bar helping his girlfriends and occasionally having a show or two, or at the casino rocking the poker table. He’s always on the verge of a break through career but never follows through. He can be found in the Kitchen at camp most the time, he’s not a big fan of kids but he does love cooking.

Torbek is the onsite caretaker of the camp, and lives there year round. Gricko offered him the position since he technically didn’t have to pay him and he had a place to live, food to eat and got to have all the time he needed to get up in the mornings with the pain. He gets benefits from Gricko(medical & dental) which makes his life sooooo much easier. since he’s not in debt anymore. He just has to maintain the camp to the best of his ability and call Gideon for anything he can’t do alone.

#once upon a witchlight #legends of avantris #gideon coal #kremy lecroux #ouaw #morning frost #gricko grimgrin #torbek #hootsie grimgrin #human ouaw #thank you for your hcs

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laurasimonsdaughter · 14 hours ago

Note

I can’t get over this funny idea for werewolves and if thought I’d share it. The idea about some werewolves trying to “live wild” and failing miserably.

Their being a social movement of werewolves believing that they need to “return to nature” so they can “get in touch with their beast side”. Going out into the woods trying to live as a wild wolf… and failing absolutely miserably at it to the point of giving up. Getting hopelessly lost in the woods, comedically failing to catch any kind of prey, and other antics that cause them to just give up on the whole idea. That they believe their shapeshifting & wolf instinct will hard carry them, not realizing that wilderness survival is skill set that takes both humans and wolves a life’s time to master.

Ha, very werewolf-transcendentalist.

I imagine that this concerns werewolves that can shapeshift at will, and therefore decide to stay in primarily in wolf shape, with varying levels of success. It would probably be a very popular thing to do, especially for young werewolves still figuring themselves out, or werewolves who feel stuck in their ways and wish for change.

Other werewolves would probably give it a name like Reverse Shifting - because they spend more time in wolf shape than in human shape -and talk about it the same way they would if their family member/colleague/neighbor had decided to upend their life to go live in one of those trendy converted vans.

#werewolf #werewolves #anon

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snatcher-no-snatching · 2 days ago

Note

I like to imagine Catfish Bob just collects all kinds of things that fall into the water. Even if he doesn't entirely know what they do. If he has some kind of cave or something he lives in, I imagine it looks about as messy as og Bob's house.

yeah!! close to my thoughts, I have him living in the hull of one of the shipwrecks he caused

the inside is as bad as the outside. overgrown, falling apart, rust, algae, and remains of all sorts littered about... it's a real mess. and yeah, he has quite the collection of trinkets as well! since my mer Bob used to be human (both shark and catfish) he has something of a sentimental attachment to his things, he's amassed quite the hoard over time. he doesn't miss being human, the keepsakes are just nice to have

#he put the figurehead there himself. he's very proud of it #mer!bob #asks #all the other merfolk know to give his ship a wide berth #no one is stupid enough to trespass on his home turf #except maybe two excitable and curious little mer kids...

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wolfbluebird · 7 hours ago

Text

Woven in Shadows

(Natasha x Fem!Reader)

Word count: 7.4k

Warnings: Fluff, angst.

Summary: You and Natasha face one of the most challenging problems you’ve ever faced.

(Men and minors dni)

There was something unbearably soft about the mornings. Not the ones Natasha spent alone—those were brittle, mechanical things, shaped by years of training and habit, stitched together from silence, cold air, and muscle memory. But the mornings with you—those were entirely different. When the light crept through the curtains in slow, golden ribbons and the outside world seemed to hold its breath, just for a little while longer. When she woke up to the warmth of you beside her, your body pressed sleep-heavy against hers, your fingers still loosely twined with hers beneath the sheets like you’d found her in your dreams and refused to let go. Those mornings made her feel like someone else. Not a spy. Not a weapon. Not the Black Widow. Just a woman in love. And even though the thought should’ve terrified her, it never did. Not when you were here. Not when you rolled closer in your sleep and she got to bury her face in the nape of your neck, breathing you in like you were the only thing tethering her to the earth.

She still didn’t know how she’d let this happen—this, being completely, irreversibly undone by you. There wasn’t a classified file for this kind of vulnerability. No protocol for the way her chest felt too small every time she looked at you, like her ribs couldn’t possibly contain everything you made her feel. She had been trained to resist pain, to live through anything. But this tenderness, this ache of being so in love with you she forgot how to move some mornings—this disarmed her. And God, did it silence her. Natasha didn’t talk much in moments like these, didn’t need to. She said everything in the way her hand traced absent, reverent lines over your skin. The slow drag of her fingers from your hip to your shoulder. The way her lips hovered at the back of your neck like they were always on the edge of a kiss. Like she was afraid if she pressed too hard, you might vanish. She didn’t know how to stop touching you. Didn’t want to.

She used to wake up alone, heart already on guard, the weight of survival pressed into her spine. But now? Now she woke up and found you. You, warm and safe, your body curved unconsciously into hers like you trusted her, like you knew she’d never let anything happen to you—and that wrecked her. Natasha Romanoff, feared and forged in red rooms and bloodshed, brought to her knees by the sound of your breath, the rise and fall of your chest. And she was so careful with you. With how she held you. With how she whispered things into your hair that she could never say when the sun was fully up. “I’ve got you,” she murmured, soft and certain, or “You don’t have to get up yet.” And sometimes, on the mornings where her guard had worn all the way down, when her heart felt too full and her voice too raw, she’d say the one thing that scared her most: “I don’t know who I’d be without you.”

No one else saw this version of her. She didn’t let them. Not Clint. Not Steve. Not anyone. The Black Widow persona was untouchable, crafted from silence and skill and every kind of armour imaginable. But that version of her couldn’t survive in this bed. Not when you made a quiet, contented noise and instinctively reached for her in your sleep. Not when she let you find her hand and hold it, even in dreams. You made her human. You made her soft. And somehow that softness never felt like weakness. It felt like freedom. Like truth. She didn’t always know how to explain what you meant to her—not in words. But in how she stayed, how she curled into you, how she didn’t flinch away from the light anymore. That was how you’d know. You had to know.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It still amazed her, sometimes, that someone like you had chosen someone like her. You, with your heart that didn’t seem to understand limits. You could walk into a room and feel what people needed—not in a manipulative way, not in a tactical way, but with an instinct born of genuine care. It was your power, yes—your hands could draw pain out of a body like pulling darkness from water, glowing faintly as you did it, warm light bleeding from your skin like it came straight from your soul. But it was more than that. Your gift wasn’t just what you could do. It was who you were. Kind, open, stubborn in the way that only people who believe in goodness can be. You had an Avenger’s badge and the kind of battlefield composure that came from training, but underneath all of it, you were still the person who stopped mid-mission to help an injured civilian limp to safety. Still the one who knelt beside dying strangers and stayed with them, whispering to ease the fear from their eyes, even when you couldn’t save them. You always tried. Always cared. Natasha had never seen anything like it.

She didn’t know how you carried all that empathy and still stood tall. It exhausted her just watching. The way you walked through a world so broken and chose to meet it with tenderness. You let people lean on you, cry into your shoulder, call you in the middle of the night when the nightmares came back. You showed up every time. You didn’t know how not to. And Natasha… she could only marvel at it. She had learned to keep the world at arm’s length. To compartmentalise. You didn’t. You let it all in. You felt for people. Fought for them. Loved them, even when they didn’t deserve it. She knew that your powers took something from you each time—when you used too much of yourself, you went quiet, your hands shook, your skin paled like you were fading out. And still, you kept giving. Still, you kept healing. It made her ache in ways she didn’t have language for. Because she wanted to protect you from everything. From pain. From the weight of your own compassion. From the world, even when you kept throwing yourself at it with open arms.

Natasha loved you because you were good. Not in the naive, fairytale way. You weren’t innocent. You’d seen horror. Fought your way through fire and loss like the rest of them. But you’d come out the other side still soft. Still kind. You reminded her what they were fighting for. Who she wanted to be. You didn’t demand her vulnerability, you just made space for it. She found herself telling you things she’d buried years ago, not because you asked, but because you listened. Because you looked at her like she was worth knowing. Worth saving. She didn’t know how to live like you did, so open and endlessly willing, but she was learning. Watching you, she was learning. And God, it made her fall harder every single day.

Some days, when you came home from a mission, eyes tired and knuckles scraped, you’d smile at her like she was the only thing you needed. And Natasha would feel this wild, unsteady rush of love—because even when the world had taken the best of you, you still had more to give. You’d let her help you wash the blood from your hands. Let her sit behind you, arms around your waist, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades as you rested. She never told you that sometimes, when you weren’t looking, she’d stare at your hands like they were holy. How could something so small hold so much power? So much goodness? You didn’t even see it, half the time. You just did what you did because it felt right. But Natasha saw. Every time. And she loved you all the more for it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The compound was already humming with motion when you stepped into the prep bay—voices on comms, boots against metal, the low thrum of the Quinjet coming online through the wall. Stark’s voice was floating in from the main hangar, barking half-joking orders to Steve, while Sam checked loadouts and Wanda flicked her fingers through a tablet in that absent way she had when her mind was already on the battlefield. And in the middle of it all, like a constant, steady presence—you found her. Natasha. Already half-geared up, black suit zipped halfway, her hair pulled back in that braid she did when she didn’t want to be fussed with. You spotted her from across the room and something in you loosened, even now. Even with the heaviness of what you were about to walk into hanging thick in the air. Even with the weight of your role clawing its way up your spine.

She saw you at the same time, and her mouth pulled into that slight, private smile that only ever seemed to exist for you. Not the smirk she wore on missions, not the wry edge she gave the team when they were pissing her off—just something small and soft and real. She reached for you without words, and you came. You always did. You took up the space beside her like it had always been yours. Without asking, your hands moved to help her secure the fastenings on her belt, checking the placement of her weapons, adjusting the straps of her harness. The gesture was almost ceremonial now—neither of you needed help. But you liked the ritual of it. The closeness. She let you fuss over her with a patience she didn’t have for anyone else, arms lifting, body shifting easily under your touch. You slid a spare clip into one of her thigh holsters and murmured, “You’re light on reloads.” She huffed. “You always say that.” But she let you add one more anyway.

When she turned to do the same for you, her hands were slower. Not out of uncertainty—she knew your gear as well as her own by now—but out of that same quiet reverence she always had when she touched you. Like this might be the last time. Her fingers brushed over the clasps on your chest plate, checking for alignment, then lingered just a second too long on your ribs. She didn’t say anything, but you felt it in the way her hand stayed there, steady and warm. Like she was grounding herself. You leaned into it briefly, just enough for your shoulders to touch, and she finally exhaled. “You okay?” you asked quietly, not pushing, just checking. She didn’t look at you at first. Just nodded once. “Yeah. Just… don’t like going in separate teams.” You gave her a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Nat. I’ll be fine.” But her eyes flicked to yours and something sharp lived there, something she hadn’t named yet. “I know. Doesn’t mean I like it.”

She helped you with your arm guards next, fingers sliding under the straps to check for movement. “Too tight?” she asked. You shook your head, and she sealed the Velcro down, knuckles brushing your wrist. Then, with a glance around to make sure no one was paying attention, she dipped her head and pressed a kiss to the corner of your jaw. Not quite on your mouth, not quite chaste. Just there. Like a touchstone. You let your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat, memorising it. The shape of her lips. The way the scent of her clung faintly to her suit. The weight of being loved in a place built for war. “I love you.” she whispered. You caught her hand before she pulled away. “I love you too” And for a second, the whole room faded. Just her and you and this fragile, fleeting moment of peace before the storm.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The Quinjet vibrated steadily beneath your boots, its engines thrumming like a distant heartbeat as it cut through the clouds, high above whatever chaos waited down below. You sat shoulder to shoulder on the bench lining the left side of the cabin, suited up, armed, ready—but folded into each other like none of that mattered right now. The others were scattered around the jet, all of them locked in their own versions of pre-mission focus: Steve reviewing blueprints, Sam checking over drone feeds, Wanda with her eyes closed and headphones in, already half in her own head. But you and Natasha? You were wrapped in your own little world.

Your head rested against her shoulder, heavy with that special kind of tired that only came from battle-readiness—the coiled tension that came from waiting, listening, knowing something was coming but not yet knowing what. Natasha didn’t speak. She rarely did on these rides. But she leaned into you like it was second nature, like her body had been carved to fit yours. One of her hands was loose in yours, fingers curled together in a familiar, easy knot. The other rested on your thigh, thumb stroking in slow, absent circles through the fabric of your tactical trousers. Her touch wasn’t firm, wasn’t possessive—it was grounding. Casual. Loving. Like she didn’t even think about it anymore. Just needed you there, needed that point of contact. And God, you loved her for it.

You turned her hand over in your lap, your fingers tracing the knuckles, the grooves of her scars, the curve of her palm. You ran your thumb over the rings she wore—thin, simple bands of silver and black, nothing flashy, but each one chosen, each one meaningful in its own quiet way. She didn’t wear them for decoration. She wore them like armour. Like memory. Like truth. You twisted one gently around her finger and she glanced down, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. “You always do this before a mission,” she murmured, voice low, not quite teasing. “I like your hands,” you said simply, still tracing the ridges of one of the bands. “You never used to wear jewellery, you know.” “I didn’t have anyone to show off for,” she replied, just as quietly. And then: “You ruined me.”

You huffed a soft laugh and bumped your head a little more snugly against her shoulder. She turned slightly to press her cheek to your hair. Just for a moment. Just enough to let you feel the weight of her affection settle in your chest like a second heartbeat. She smelled like leather and metal and something warmer—something distinctly her. “You nervous?” she asked eventually, her thumb pausing mid-stroke on your thigh. You shook your head. “Not when I’m with you.” And you meant it. Not because you were invincible together—God knew that wasn’t true—but because when she was close, the fear didn’t get to take the lead. You could breathe. You could be.

The Quinjet hit a pocket of turbulence, just enough to jostle you both slightly, and without thinking, Natasha tightened her grip on your thigh. Not hard. Just protective. You glanced up at her and found her already looking down at you. Her green eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, were soft now, filled with something you didn’t have to name. “After this mission,” she said quietly, “we’re taking three days off. No comms. No training. Just you and me.” You smiled, letting your fingers slide between hers again. “Deal.” Then you kissed the edge of her shoulder plate and tucked yourself in a little closer, not caring who saw. This was yours. She was yours. And for now—for this moment—you were safe in each other’s hands

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The Quinjet doors split open to a city swallowed by smoke and fire.

The sky was already red when you touched down—thick clouds of dust rising where Hydra planes strafed across rooftops, shattering glass and chewing through concrete like it was paper. You could barely hear yourself think through the sheer noise of it. Sirens wailed through the chaos. Civilians screamed as they fled down fractured roads, dodging gunfire and falling debris, clutching children, ducking into alleyways, praying for shelter that no longer existed. The city felt alive, but in that sick, devouring way—like it was breaking apart beneath your boots, and if you stood still too long, it might swallow you whole.

Natasha was at your back the second you stepped off the ramp, the rest of the team peeling away into smaller units. Steve was already barking orders through comms—split the grid, cover more ground, keep civilian casualties to a minimum. Stark’s repulsors screamed overhead as he launched toward a collapsing tower, and Wanda vanished in a blur of red as she took off down a side street with Sam, her voice steady as she counted threats aloud. You stayed with Natasha. That wasn’t even a decision. That was instinct. The two of you moved as one, weapons drawn, feet finding rhythm through the cracked asphalt and shattered glass.

“North side’s overrun,” came Sam’s voice in your ear, static-laced but clear. “Three Hydra dropships just touched down outside the stadium. I count at least twenty armed on the ground.”

“I’ve got civilians pinned in the metro station,” Wanda followed, her tone tight. “Sending coordinates. Need backup.”

“We’ve got east,” Natasha said immediately, already vaulting a low wall beside a flaming SUV, her gun raised, eyes scanning. You followed, weaving between rubble and smoke, your body moving before thought could catch up. The heat from the fires made your skin feel slick inside your suit, sweat already trickling beneath your collar. The air was thick—ash, gunpowder, the acrid tang of scorched metal—and somewhere in the distance, something boomed, a building toppling in on itself like a dying animal.

Hydra soldiers swarmed the streets in organised packs, tactical and relentless. Their weapons weren’t standard-issue anymore—tech-enhanced, Stark-like, buzzing with stolen energy. One of them rounded a corner and Natasha dropped him with a clean double-tap to the chest. Another came at her from the left and you threw up a burst of your power—a shockwave of light and kinetic force that sent him flying backwards into a parked car, the metal crumpling like tin under his body. She didn’t flinch. Just nodded once and kept moving. You kept pace beside her, your breathing sharp, adrenaline lacing your limbs with that cold, vibrating edge.

“We’ve got movement by the old post office,” you said into comms, spotting a cluster of black-clad operatives using an overturned bus for cover. “Looks like a command team.”

“Take them down,” Steve ordered. “Clear a path. Every inch we push forward is one they lose.”

Copy. Easy. You and Natasha exchanged a glance, no words needed, and split like a pincer—her circling wide, drawing fire, you going high through the wreckage of a half-demolished café. You moved like a shadow, quick and quiet, your boots barely making a sound as you reached the upper floor and targeted the enemy cluster below. Natasha’s voice came sharp through your ear: “Three on the left. One’s got a launcher. He’s mine.” You dropped down behind the others just as she said it, landing hard, sending a surge of power into the ground that knocked two of them off balance. Natasha swept in from the other side, lethal and silent, her widow’s bites crackling as she struck.

It took less than forty seconds. Four down. Breathing heavy. No injuries. You exhaled shakily and reached out without thinking. She caught your wrist before you even finished the motion, steadying you, anchoring you. Her eyes swept your face quickly, checking. You nodded once. Still good. Still together.

Then the comms sparked again—Steve, urgent. “Heads up. They’re not just here for chaos. Hydra’s after something. Possibly someone. Stay alert. Watch each other’s backs.” Natasha gave your hand a final squeeze. “Let’s go find out what they want.” And with that, you ran.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

You were headed toward the next comm drop—half a mile east, near what used to be a bank tower—when you saw them. A surge of people breaking away from the chaos, not toward safety, but downward. Into the subway station. Dozens of them. Men, women, kids clutched in trembling arms. Faces smeared with soot, tear tracks cutting through the grime. People moving on fear and adrenaline alone. You spotted the old iron staircase before Natasha did, half-buried behind the remains of a toppled delivery van, the station sign scorched black, barely readable. But there it was. The underground entrance gaping like a throat.

You grabbed her arm without thinking, the instinct too fast to question. “There,” you said. She followed your gaze instantly, eyes narrowing. And then she saw them too—silhouettes flooding down the stairs, some stumbling, others carrying the injured. No guards. No order. Just raw, unfiltered panic. “Shit,” Natasha breathed. “If they’re hiding down there…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to. You both knew exactly what could go wrong.

There was no time to clear it with the others. No time to ask for backup. You both moved. You broke off from the street without hesitation, her hand brushing your back as she followed you through the wreckage, ducking low under a collapsed awning and hopping the railing to the stairwell. The air grew heavier with every step down. Cooler, but laced with the metallic sting of stress-sweat and electrical burn. Somewhere below, the flicker of backup generators cast uneven shadows across the cracked tile walls. The fluorescent lights lining the platform ceiling were failing in bursts—flickering, buzzing, casting everything in an unsteady white-blue glow.

You hit the bottom of the stairs and heard the murmurs immediately. Shuffling feet. The low, anxious voices of those trying not to cry, not to panic. Dozens of civilians gathered near the far edge of the platform—some pressed back against the walls, some huddled by broken benches, others frozen in place near the train tunnel entrance. The emergency lights strobed against their faces. Their eyes widened when they saw you and Natasha. One kid stepped behind his mother. Another tugged at someone’s sleeve and pointed. You didn’t look like rescuers—you looked like more trouble. But then you holstered your weapon. Natasha did the same. And slowly, the fear in their eyes turned into something else. Hope. Or maybe just the dim shape of it.

You and Natasha moved like you were wired together, no words needed, just motion and breath and instinct honed by too many missions where hesitation cost lives. She stayed close—shoulder to shoulder with you as you stepped onto the platform, scanning the crowd like she could catalogue fear by the way it clung to people’s skin. You saw the way her eyes shifted over every face, not searching for threats this time, but for injuries. For weakness. For someone about to collapse under the weight of it all. You watched her soften in real time, the Black Widow melting away piece by piece, until only Natasha remained—quiet, fierce, steady.

You crouched beside an elderly man slumped against a pillar, his lips pale, fingers trembling. “Sir, can you hear me?” you asked gently, already checking for blood, pulse, coherence. Natasha was at your back, her hand pressed lightly against your spine for a breath—grounding you, letting you know she was there—before she peeled away to kneel beside a woman holding a baby wrapped in a soot-streaked jacket. “How long have you been down here?” she asked softly, almost tenderly, her voice a careful thing. The woman didn’t answer, just clutched the child tighter and nodded toward the far tunnel. More down there. Others. Her eyes said what her mouth couldn’t.

The air was thicker down here—stagnant, warm, laced with fear and oil and whatever was burning in the electrical room two levels above. The lights overhead crackled every few seconds, casting everything in stuttering shadows. Every time it went dark, the crowd held their breath. Every time the light returned, someone sobbed in relief. You reached out and steadied a teenager trying to haul her injured brother up from where he’d collapsed. “We’re going to get you out,” you told her. It wasn’t a promise. It was a decision.

Natasha’s hand brushed yours as she passed you a med pack from her belt. You took it without looking, already pressing gauze to a bleeding shoulder, your knees soaked in someone else’s blood. “We’ve got to organise this,” she murmured close to your ear, voice low, clipped. “Triage first. Get the kids into one group. Anyone walking goes with them. We keep the others here until we know it’s clear above.”

You nodded, your free hand already motioning to the small, trembling clusters around you. “They’ll listen to you better than me,” you said, and it was true. Natasha’s voice carried. Not because it was loud, but because it was anchored. She could still a room with a glance. She could make the end of the world sound manageable. She stood tall, shoulders squared, her braid falling loose over her shoulder. “Everyone who can walk,” she called out, loud enough to cut through the murmur of fear, “start gathering by the west stairs. Parents, hold your kids. We’re going to move, but not yet. You’re not alone. You’re safe with us.”

A pause. Then, slowly, people began to move.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t sudden. But they trusted her. Trusted you. And sometimes that was enough to start.

You and Natasha stayed in motion, side by side, touching shoulders, exchanging glances that spoke volumes. You could feel the weight settling in the base of your throat—the sheer number of lives pressing in around you, fragile and scared and clinging to whatever threads of hope they could find. Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. But when her hand caught yours in a quick, silent squeeze between moving bodies, you felt the tremor in it.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

It happened fast.

One moment, people were starting to calm—fragile and frayed but clinging to the safety you and Natasha offered like a life raft. Parents gathered their children. The injured were laid out in a loose triage area near the back wall. Natasha had even gotten a small group seated and breathing together, grounding them with that quiet authority of hers, voice low and steady like she was narrating calm into their bones. You had just finished checking the pulse of a boy in his twenties—dislocated shoulder, bleeding from the head, but still alert—when the scream came.

Then another.

And another.

The crowd twisted, rising in a panic all at once like a wave crashing backward. Eyes wide. Feet scrambling. People shoved past each other, frantic, clawing to get away from the stairwell they’d just been told led to safety. A mother tripped, nearly crushed beneath a swarm of bodies before you lunged to haul her back up, pressing her behind you. “What is it?” you called, voice lost in the rising chaos.

Then you heard it.

The metallic clatter of boots on concrete. Not just one pair—dozens. Heavy, synchronised, tactical. And voices—barking orders in harsh, clipped tones through filtered masks.

Hydra. They were forcing them back down.

Natasha was already moving, already raising her gun, her jaw clenched so tight it looked carved in stone. “They’re driving them in like cattle,” she snapped, stepping into position at your side as civilians poured around you, stumbling, shrieking, desperate to get away from whatever was above. “They know we’re here. They want hostages. Or a trap.”

The subway platform filled with noise—panic, echoing off the tiles, ricocheting in every direction. Someone screamed that they saw guns. Someone else yelled about smoke. You reached out to grab a child nearly crushed between fleeing legs, pulling her tight against your side as her father came skidding in after her, shouting her name.

The air felt tighter now. Compressed. Like something wrong was crawling down your throat. The flickering lights above strobed faster, casting Natasha’s silhouette in bursts—her stance sharp, her shoulders squared, one foot already braced forward. Her expression had changed. No softness now. Only fire. Only fury.

“They’re close,” you said, eyes locked on the stairwell where shadows started spilling in—a flicker of black uniforms, the glint of weaponry. “We don’t have much time.”

Natasha turned her head slightly, just enough for you to see the barest crack in her mask—not fear, but something worse. Calculation. She was already counting bodies. Counting civilians. Counting how many bullets she had left and how much time you’d need to get them out.

“We hold the line,” she said. You nodded. And then the shadows started to move.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The first wave of Hydra soldiers hit hard—but they weren’t prepared for you and Natasha at your full fury. You moved like a mirrored pair, a machine of muscle and instinct and precision born of too many missions side by side. Natasha ducked beneath a wild swing, drove her knee into a man’s gut, then spun and shot another square between the eyes without even blinking. You launched yourself at the group surging toward the civilians, slamming one into the tiled wall hard enough to crack it. His helmet clattered to the floor. You didn’t let him breathe again.

Gunfire cracked like thunder in the narrow space, echoing off tile and metal. Sparks flew. Someone screamed. Natasha covered a mother shielding her children, her body between them and the fight as she snapped off two perfect headshots and then dropped to a crouch to reload. You slammed your palm into the underside of a soldier’s chin, following it with a knee to the groin and a vicious elbow to the throat. He went down like a sack of bones. Another took his place almost instantly. It didn’t matter. You were faster.

The bodies started to pile. But it wasn’t enough. The ground began to tremble.

At first, you thought it was just the chaos—the pounding boots, the concussive blasts. But then it became unmistakable. The air shifted. The lights flickered. A low, mechanical rumble crawled up the tracks like a storm coming alive.

The rails were vibrating.

The unmanned subway carriage was coming.

You didn’t know if Hydra had triggered it as a failsafe or if it was some malfunction spiralling into hell, but you felt it—through your boots, up your spine, in your skull. And you weren’t done yet. You couldn’t be.

Only one soldier left now. The others were dead, bleeding into the concrete, twitching where they fell. Natasha had pulled back toward the crowd, ordering people into lines, shouting for them to move fast but stay low. Her eyes found you once, sharp and burning, but she didn’t call out. She trusted you. Trusted you to end it.

You squared off with the last man.

He was taller, heavier. Stronger than the others. Smarter, maybe—he hadn’t rushed you like they did. He was tactical. And relentless. He struck with full-body weight, trying to overwhelm, trying to drive you back. Blow after blow, your arms jarred from blocking, your ribs aching from a glancing hit. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t yield.

The tunnel roared louder. Your fight dragged toward the platform edge.

You could feel it—every inch of ground behind your heels disappearing. Every step he took forcing you closer to the drop. The empty tunnel gaped behind you, a black void shuddering with oncoming force. You could hear it now—screeching metal wheels, the high-pitched scream of a speeding train screaming down the tracks with no brake, no driver, no goddamn mercy.

Natasha shouted your name—but you couldn’t look. You were too close to the edge. And he knew it. He grinned behind the mask. You didn’t flinch.

The kick landed with the force of a battering ram—steel-toed boot slamming into your stomach so hard you saw stars in the tunnel lights. Your breath exploded out of you in one ragged gasp, your vision narrowing to a pinprick of white pain. Every nerve in your body lit up with fire, but you gritted your teeth and refused to let go. Fingers clamped around the soldier’s leg, digging in through fabric and muscle, anchoring you both to the edge of the tracks.

He struggled—big, brutal, certain that the fight was his—but your desperation lent you strength you didn’t know you had. You heaved with every ounce of will, dragging his weight forward. The rails groaned beneath his boots as he teetered, arms windmilling for balance. Your own boots scraped against the edge of the platform, toes curling over the lip as you fought the pull of gravity and the promise of oblivion below.

Behind you, the tunnel yawned wide and pure black, broken only by the harsh white slash of the oncoming carriage lights. They grew brighter with terrifying speed, reflecting off your sweat-slicked skin and the soldier’s gleaming helmet. In that moment, sound dropped away—no train screams, no crushing echoes—only the single, hammering beat of your own heart. You tightened your grip, muscles tearing, and launched your final surge.

And then there was only light. The carriage tore through the spot where you’d stood, its metal side a blur of bone-shaking speed. You and the soldier vanished into that unstoppable force, leaving nothing but a whisper of displaced air and a spine-tingling silence that rolled up the tunnel walls like a wave.

Natasha’s world shattered in a heartbeat. The seconds stretched unbearably long as she stood frozen at the platform’s edge, the echo of that unrelenting metal thunder fading into a hollow silence that screamed louder than any gunshot. Her breath caught, tight and ragged, like it had been crushed beneath an invisible weight. Her chest heaved violently, trembling with the sudden onslaught of panic and despair.

Her knees nearly buckled, but she forced herself upright, gripping the cold railing as if it could anchor her shattered soul. The gun in her hand slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor, the sound a cruel punctuation to the chaos swirling inside her. Her eyes were wide, wild—dilated with shock and disbelief, searching the darkness as if somehow willing you back from the void.

Then it broke through—the raw, guttural scream tearing from deep inside her throat, a sound so desperate and broken it wasn’t human. It was a sobbed wail, a furious cry against the cruel, unbearable truth that you were gone. She dropped her head forward, hair tumbling like a dark curtain to hide the tear tracks streaking her face. Her hands trembled uncontrollably, fists clenching and unclenching as though trying to squeeze the pain back inside.

Memories flooded her mind in jagged shards—your laugh, the softness of your touch, the way you’d looked at her just moments ago with that fierce, unwavering kindness. Each memory stabbed sharper than the last, twisting inside her like a knife. The silence around her was suffocating, filled only with the sound of her ragged breaths and the distant chaos of the battle still raging.

She staggered back from the edge, collapsing onto the cold tile floor, curling into herself as if to hold in the agony threatening to swallow her whole. Tears spilled freely now, hot and relentless, as if mourning the loss not just of you—but of every future they’d dared to imagine.

Natasha Romanoff—the Black Widow, the woman who had faced death more times than she could count—was utterly broken. And in that moment, all that fierce strength turned inward, burning like a wildfire of grief and rage that promised this loss would haunt her forever.

Steve’s boots pounded urgently down the stairs, Wanda right behind him, their faces taut with alarm as they burst into the subway station. The chaos around them seemed to dim, the noise of panic and battle fading into a sharp, focused silence the moment they spotted Natasha. She was slumped near the platform’s edge, eyes wide and haunted, trembling like a ghost trapped in a nightmare.

Wanda reached out first, her voice gentle but firm. “Natasha, come with us. We need to get you out of here.” But Natasha shook her head violently, every movement sharp with desperation. Her voice cracked, raw and frantic. “No. No, she’s still there. I know it. If I track the carriage, I’ll find her. She has to be okay.”

Steve stepped closer, his hand on Natasha’s shoulder, steadying her as she swayed. “Nat, you’re not thinking straight. We don’t know what happened down there.” But she pulled away, eyes wild, refusing to be consoled. The determination in her gaze was fierce—terrifying.

Wanda’s hand glowed softly, a gentle light reaching out to calm the storm inside Natasha, but Natasha flinched, stubborn and broken. “I’m not leaving,” she whispered fiercely, her voice cracking under the weight of the impossible hope she clung to. “She’s alive. She has to be.”

They exchanged a look—Steve’s calm, grounded; Wanda’s filled with quiet sorrow—before gently, carefully, they began to pull Natasha away from the platform’s edge, away from the darkness where you’d vanished. But even as they moved her, Natasha’s eyes stayed fixed on the tunnel’s depths, searching for a sign, a miracle, anything to hold onto.

Steve and Wanda moved with quiet urgency, guiding Natasha away from the platform’s edge and back toward the stairwell. Her legs were unsteady beneath her, each step a battle against the weight pressing down on her chest—a crushing grief she refused to let go of. The fire and chaos of the city had begun to dim as the last Hydra forces were driven back, their ruthless storm finally broken.

Outside, the city was scarred but still breathing. Streets littered with debris, smoke curling upward into a heavy sky streaked with fading orange light. Civilians—shaken, some with tears still wet on their faces—huddled in small groups, guarded now by Avengers moving methodically to restore order and safety. The roar of battle had faded into a tense silence, broken only by distant sirens and the occasional crackle of radio chatter.

Natasha stood apart from it all, eyes vacant, the firelight catching on the tears she refused to wipe away. The victory felt hollow—like a hollow shell where joy should be. The weight of what she’d lost settled deep inside her like an unhealing wound. Part of her soul was shattered, scattered somewhere in that dark tunnel beneath the city, lost to the unstoppable carriage and the cruel mercilessness of fate.

She moved slowly, mechanically, as if she were a ghost drifting through the ruin of a world she no longer recognized. The smiles, the relieved embraces around her—all felt distant, unreachable. Wanda approached carefully, her voice soft, almost a whisper. “Natasha…”

But Natasha only shook her head, eyes locked on the smouldering horizon. “No,” she murmured, voice raw and brittle, “No part of me is okay.”

And in that silence, heavy and unyielding, it was clear: something vital had been ripped from her forever. The Black Widow, the woman who had fought so fiercely against the darkness, was broken in a way no mission, no fight, could ever fix.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The quinjet hummed steadily as it soared away from the ruined city, slicing through thick clouds stained orange by distant fires. Inside, the hum was almost deafening in its normalcy, a cruel contrast to the chaos left behind. Natasha sat rigidly, her eyes fixed on the dark window, watching the blur of clouds and fading light, but her mind was miles away—tangled in the empty space beside her.

Her hand moved almost instinctively, reaching out for the familiar warmth that had been there just hours before. Her fingers brushed against cold, empty leather—the seat you had occupied on this flight. The sharp absence of your presence hit her like a physical blow. She curled her hand into a fist, struggling to hold back the sudden, raw ache inside her chest.

She missed the way your head had rested lightly on her shoulder, the soft weight grounding her in a world that often felt too sharp, too dangerous. She missed the gentle pressure of your hand in hers, your fingers weaving between hers, mindlessly playing with the many rings that adorned her fingers—tiny distractions that somehow made everything seem okay.

Now, her rings felt heavier, colder, stripped of the subtle warmth your touch had always brought. The silence between her and the empty seat was a cruel reminder of everything lost—every soft glance, every whispered word, every quiet moment of comfort she had taken for granted.

Natasha’s jaw tightened, a bitter knot settling deep in her throat. The mission was over, the threat vanquished—but the battle inside her raged on. And in the stillness of that quinjet cabin, with only the steady drone of engines to fill the void, she was left facing the vast, aching emptiness that your absence had carved into her world.

✯¸.•´*¨`*•✿ ✿•*`¨*`•.¸✯

The funeral was held in a quiet chapel nestled near the Avengers Tower, its stone walls heavy with centuries of solemn prayers and whispered farewells. Outside, the world moved on unaware, but inside, time itself seemed to slow, caught in the suffocating grip of grief. Soft, muted voices mingled with the occasional stifled sob, the air thick with the scent of lilies and worn leather hymnals. The gathered Avengers stood like shadows, their faces grave, each bearing the weight of a loss too profound for words.

At the front, beneath the altar, stood the casket—immaculate, polished to a high sheen, yet heartbreakingly empty. The lid was closed as if to honour a presence that had never been returned. It was a painful symbol, a cruel gesture to contain a void that no wood or metal could ever fill. The absence of a body made the grief all the more intangible, a ghostly wound that refused to heal.

Natasha stood close, her posture rigid but trembling beneath the surface. Her eyes were glassy, swollen from nights spent crying herself awake, red-rimmed and raw as if the pain had scraped away the moisture altogether. Every breath was shallow, uneven, a ragged attempt to hold herself together. Her hands clenched the front of her coat, knuckles white, as though grasping for something to keep her tethered to this cruel reality.

She thought of you—the light in her life that now flickered out too soon. In the endless corridors of her mind, she pictured a different future, one where the two of you stood together in front of friends and family. She’d imagined delicate white dresses flowing softly around you both, the warmth of your hands entwined tightly as you declared your love before the world. That vision had been her sanctuary, a place where hope still bloomed despite the darkness.

But now, that sanctuary was shattered. The altar was empty, and so was the space beside her heart. The echo of that absence reverberated in every corner of the chapel, a haunting silence that swallowed the whispered prayers and the gentle hymns. Natasha’s breath hitched, breaking through the stillness with a raw, ragged sob that tore from deep inside her chest—a sound so broken it seemed to fracture the very air.

Around her, the Avengers formed a protective circle, their presence both a balm and a reminder of the family they still had. Wanda’s hands found hers, warm and steady, fingers lacing tightly with a desperate tenderness that spoke of shared sorrow. Steve stood silently nearby, one hand resting lightly but firmly on Natasha’s back, offering strength without words, a steadfast anchor amid the storm of her grief. Bruce’s usually reserved demeanor softened, his eyes shadowed with empathy as he gave her the space to unravel without judgment.

No one dared speak of the body lost to the dark, the relentless subway tunnel that had swallowed you whole. The unanswered questions, the what-ifs and might-have-beens, lingered like ghosts around the room, pressing down on every heart. The empty casket was both a tribute and a torment, a physical reminder of the absence that could never be filled.

Natasha’s sobs grew louder, jagged and desperate, tearing through the chapel like a storm breaking loose. The Black Widow, the woman known for her unbreakable will and icy composure, was stripped bare—left vulnerable and shattered by a loss too vast to comprehend. Her soul felt torn, a piece forever missing, leaving a hollow ache that no victory, no mission, no promise could ever mend.

As the ceremony drew on, the faces of her friends blurred through her tears, their quiet support a fragile lifeline. But beneath it all, Natasha knew the truth she dared not say aloud: a part of her had been lost that day in the tunnel, taken with you in a way that would haunt her forever. The future she once dreamed of had been extinguished, leaving only the cold, painful present—and the unbearable weight of an empty altar.

❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖✿❁ ≖≖ ❁

A/N: Haven’t been posting for a few days because I’ve been writing this beauty, hope you all like it… and I’m sorry 😔. But I hoped you enjoyed reading it xx

Ps. I’m not paying for anyone’s therapy after this xx

[Masterlist]

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