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amethystarachnid · 3 days ago

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heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

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callahanisms · 2 years ago

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a fair trade

pairing: miguel o’hara x gender neutral! reader

word count: 1,010 words

ao3 link: 🕷️🕷️🕷️

summary: your help is needed to defeat a multiversal entity, one that you’ve defeated before. but what can miguel offer in return for your service?

notes: kind of mishmashing the movies and comics together. do not fret if you haven’t read any of them! it’s mostly just referenced (much like how it was referenced in the last post). the fic on ao3 is also locked to registered ao3 users only. it’s a precaution i’m taking in response to ai using ao3 fics to be trained.

“(Y/N), we need your help.”

“Miguel, I’m in the middle of eating lunch. Because, you know, I didn’t have breakfast.”

“That’s on you.”

“Some of us don’t like breakfast.”

“Okay that’s not the point! The point is that we need your help!”

You were just sitting at your table, peacefully. After a mission earlier today, you thought you enjoyed a nice break. All you’ve been doing is going on missions across the multiverse, at the expense of your personal life back home. Your friends missed you and were constantly wondering why you would dip all of a sudden. After all, it wasn’t like you to just...cancel last minute. You loved your friends. You always made sure to be there. What you didn’t expect when accepting Miguel’s invitation was to be worked constantly. There was always a multiversal threat at stake, even for something small.

You were literally the local expert on the multiverse. Small things wouldn’t cause catastrophe. But Miguel believed they would. He believed in a domino effect. You believed that it was necessary to stay vigilant but not every small thing required attention. Sometimes the multiverse acted weird. It was a multiverse. It acted on its own accords.

“Miguel, is it actually something to worry about? Or is it something like the Vulture ended up in the wrong reality which can be cleaned up without my help?” You took a sip of your drink.

“It’s someone by the name of Verna. And she’s brought with her an army.”

“Verna? Never heard of her.” You shake your head.

“Really? She claims she’s fought you before.”

“If I saw a picture, then maybe I would recognize her.”

Miguel doesn’t hesitate. “Lyla.”

Part of you wondered what it would be like if your name was always on the tip of his tongue, ready to speak on a moment’s notice. You always wanted someone who could say your name with such ease, who thought of you constantly.

“Already on it.” Lyla pulls up a video. “This is live footage of the whole thing. We’re lucky she hasn’t spread her destruction further.”

As you were taking a sip of your drink, you choked on the liquid. Thankfully, you did not die. “We need you alive (Y/N).” Miguel says.

“I thought I banished her to the ends of the Multiverse!” You exclaimed.

“So you have fought her?” Lyla questions. “Was this the multiversal being you battled before?”

“She’s the reason I have no magic!” You crush the metal cup in your hand. “It took everything for me to banish her! And she just comes...comes back like nothing happened?” You squint a little. “She also looks a lot different than I remember. You said her name was Verna?” Lyla and Miguel look at each other before nodding. “She went by a different name. Called herself the Matriarch of...something. I don’t remember.”

“All the more reason for you to finish up and join us.” He crosses his arms over his chest.

“I lost my appetite.” You picked up the dishes and cleaned out the plates, dropping them off with the conveyor belt of dirty dishes. “You owe me Miguel.”

“Owe you what?”

“A break. Like a real break. My body needs to properly recuperate, you know.”

He inputs the numbers and opens the portal. “I can do that. You’ve done good work so far.”

“Exactly. Not getting paid here.”

“None of us get paid.”

“It was a joke. You know, Peter was right. You’re like the only one of us that isn’t funny.”

“That’s hilarious.” His voice did not change in tone and his facial expressions did not give away that he was humored.

“Lighten up a little. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re extra stoic because you want to kiss me.”

“I do not want to kiss you.”

“Everyone wants to kiss me.”

He looks at you, eyebrow slightly raised. “You should pay me in kisses actually. Think that’d be a fair deal. I help you guys stop Verna, again, and I get a kiss. It’d be the perfect reward.”

You feel his gaze on you. “It’s a joke, I promise. You don’t have to actually.” Even if you did want to kiss him.

He takes a step towards you, much to your surprise. His hand reaches up, fingers curled slightly, and his knuckles graze the skin of your cheeks. It’s reassuring in a way and his touch is gentle. It reminds you of when you first joined, how his fingers gently wiped away the crumbs at your face. His hand uncurls and cups your face. “How badly do you want a kiss?” He asks.

His voice made your legs shake. “If I answered that I think you’d make fun of me.”

“I mean...it’s a simple yes or no question.”

“Yes?”

You weren’t expecting his lips to crash against yours. The sheer force almost causes you to fall over and your hands fumble to grip onto his body. You could feel his muscles flex beneath his suit. You kiss him back, but most certainly not with the same amount of force he does. Miguel even goes as far to nip your bottom lip, causing a small gasp to emerge from your throat. It was a little embarrassing and your cheeks grew warm. He pulls away, satisfied and with that cocky smirk on his face.

“Make it back alive and I’ll give you another.” He puts his mask on. “Maybe even more.”

“You...have a lot of confidence that I will.” You were out of breath. Very much out of breath.

“You’ve beaten the odds before. It’s part of who we are.”

Miguel walks through the portal and you clench your hands for a few seconds. You were nervous. It wasn’t just the kiss that made you nervous (though your heart certainly was pumping for that reason primarily). Lyla looked at you with a smile. “You better come back. Or else I’ll lose the primary thing I make fun of him for.”

“I’ll try Lyla. For you.”

“Sure, sure. Now get going before people die.”

#to make up for the bad list of hcs #i might just be pumping out spiderverse content soon #spider-man: across the spider-verse #across the spiderverse #spider-man 2099 #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #gender neutral reader #male reader #female reader #x reader

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ancha-aus · 2 months ago

Text

Bitty Surprise - Chapter 1 - Pov Cross

Hello! What is this? This is something I normally only do on my AO3. My normal uplaod day is Sunday over there and I try to upload a chapter of a completed series every Sunday.

The thing is. This one is a short one and I figured everyone here could also appreciate the bitties. So I am cross posting.

The link to the AO3 story is Here.

Enjoy the bitty madness :)

---

Summary:

With the truce in place Killer, Cross and Nightmare are free to travel around the multiverse. They never expected to come across some Bitties who proceeded to steal their souls. They hope they at least did the same in return.

*---------------------------*

Cross can honestly say he is happy with the truce.

And no Killer that has nothing to do with the fact that they now are included in the council meetings and that Dream has been talking to him again.

Cross can admit it is nice to be able to try and repair his friendship with Dream but the eye brow wiggles from Killer has to stop.

Seriously, they are skeletons how does he even do it?

Cross just loves the fact that they can now actually go to neutral universes for their shopping without having to worry that someone is going to act weird.

Well they still act weird but now they can’t refuse service as easily or raise the prices because the Stars will be mad at them.

At the moment Killer and him are doing some grocery shopping. They had found this new neutral universe and it is perfect!

The monsters were never locked underground. They are chill about skeletons. They hadn’t even met the ‘main cast’ just yet! It is a large enough universe and world that they just, hadn’t ran into their own alternative and honestly it is a nice change of pace. Cross is getting tired of always having to explain that ‘yes technically he is Sans’ and ‘No they aren’t the same person because environment and nurture affects how a person shapes,’ and ‘It is more like having the same name and coming from two different countries.’. Cross can’t even count all the times people in universes have gotten weird about their own universe version of him after meeting any of the universe travellers.

Either way he is getting off topic.

The shops are all up to date and modern and have a large amount of styles.

Hell! Even boss had been treated neutrally here!

Instead of the fear and distrusting glares shot his way, this universe had been kept completely out of the loop! Which means they just see Nightmare as just another monster. Hell at most someone asked Nightmare if he was part slime monster.

Cross had managed to keep it together but Killer had wheezed and fallen over laughing.

Cross is also unsure how Nightmare had managed to keep a straight face before giving a charming smile and telling them that he got that a lot, but that it was just an expression of magic which caused the form. The monsters who had asked had quickly apologised for being rude. Nightmare however had just continued to smile and reassured the other that it had been alright as they hadn’t meant it as rude or negative but from a place of interest and respect.

Cross sometimes wonders if the war could have been over quicker if Nightmare had used his charms instead of the intimidation strategy but he isn’t going to finish that thought.

Either way it means that Killer and Cross have been doing most of their shopping in this universe and they tended to go to the same city, mostly because they knew the way at this point and where to get the best deals.

The truce did mean they didn’t have as much… disposable income anymore. No longer going on raids cuts back a lot in your pocket money.

It isn’t as if they have issues, Nightmare is a great boss and doesn’t let them have issues like that. It just means that now they actually have to pay for everything they want and that makes them more aware of prices again.

And honestly it is worth it as Cross can just enjoy spending time with Killer and Nightmare both without someone attacking them. It gives Cross time to really enjoy the experience and their company-

A snort and Cross looks over before biting down hard to stop himself from laughing “Killer.”

Killer grins as he leans against a doorway of a random shop, a large pink feathery boa around his neck and even bigger and brighter orange sunglasses on his skull.

“Killer? You must be mistaken! I am the fabulous Killster!! The real diva of the land!”

Cross knows he is going to lose this fight, especially with some kids nearby giggling before rushing back to their parents.

Cross rolls his eye lights as he turns away and starts walking “I am leaving you! And I am not going to get those snacks you want! Or maybe I will just get the wrong ones on accident! You are soooooo picky about them!”

“Hey! You don’t mess with the Crunchables!”

Cross snorts as Killer joins his side again, sans boa and sunglasses. Hah, sans, Cross may actually get better at this punning thing.

Cross looks around and realises he walked into another street parallel to the one holding the store they had been going to. Oh well, the long way it is. It is sunny anyway and a nice day to enjoy it.

Killer catches up and huffs “You are no fun.”

Cross answers with a deadpan voice “Of course not. They don’t train humour in the army.”

Killer snorts “Explains why XGaster was such a tool.”

Cross laughs and nods. It used to hurt, thinking about his past world. But he has made peace with his loss. He has a new home now with Nightmare and Killer and he is happy.

He knows that the Stars invited him to live with them after the truce had been made but… Cross hadn’t wanted it. He had wanted to just remain with Killer and Nightmare. Cross had found a certain peace in the silent and isolated castle. A happiness with being near Nightmare and Killer.

Cross could still remember how so many had come to him. Asking him if he had been okay, if he was sure about this decision, if he was being threatened.

Funny.

How even with a truce in place and Nightmare keeping his word to the dot people still mistrusted him.

Cross remembers how he had asked Killer about it. Why everyone still looked at them in that way. While they hadn’t with Cross. Even with Cross having been the reason half the multiverse had gotten into a war and XGaster had gotten out. Killer had snorted and looked so amused as he explained “You look like a hero. You behave like people expect a hero to be. Of course you are forgiven.”

Cross hadn’t liked it at all. Because it had been Nightmare who had even figured out that Cross hadn’t been in full control of himself. Nightmare had been the one who managed to at first lock XGaster out, then later lock XChara away and later remove them completely. Making it so that Cross was truly free to be himself again.

Yet everyone acted as if it had been the Stars. All while Ink had had a direct hand in bringing XGaster back and giving him his overwrite power back.

So Cross now just ignored most people and much preferred his own home. Where people didn’t question how he felt or thought the whole time. Where he had his new family.

Killer nudges him “Hello~ Crossy boy~ time to wake up again~” and he stares at him with those dark sockets “You good…” he glances to the side and kicks a rock “Didn’t meant to… like… trigger stuff I guess.”

Cross snorts and bumps their shoulders together “Nah, just my own mind wandering.” He looks around for a distraction when he feels himself freeze.

Oh.

My.

God.

That is.

He grabs blindly and tugs hard. Killer makes a choking sound “Cross!”

Cross just keeps tugging “Kills. Kills you need to see this. Kills. This day just became amazing.”

Killer grumbles but Cross feels him freeze under his hold “Holy shit… is that a…”

“Bitty store.”

They share a look and rush over to the store.

Only to pause by the window.

“Oh my god oh my god oh my god they are so tiny!” Killer jumps in place as he has both his hands on the window as he stares at the tiny monsters.

Cross can’t actually recognise these monsters. Normally the bitty stores seem to specialise in monster types and have all kinds of bitty versions of other multiverse goers.

This seem like… just bitties. Just really tiny cute little things. Cross feels his soul melt at the sight of a tiny tiny lion like monster yawning before rolling up. A tiny shirt and pants on and all kinds of plushies around it as the bitty hugs one of them close.

Cross’s skull is turned back around and Killer stares at him with the most serious look Cross has ever seen on his face “Cross. If I don’t go in there and hold at least one bitty I will fucking die.”

Cross blinks before remembering. Bitty universes tended to not allow anyone access and least of all them. Saying it is too much of a risk to have any bitty of either the Stars or the Crescents given out. At least the Stars weren’t allowed versions of them either.

But these… these didn’t look like versions he had seen before…

Cross grins widely “You wouldn’t be able to stop me from holding one.” And he ducks under Killer’s arms and enters the shop.

A pleasant little bell rings out as Cross lets his eyes go around the store. It is chaos and overfull and should be overwhelming but it is beautiful and Cross never wants to leave.

The walls are covered with shelves and even more shelves all filled with all types of colourful items, tools, tiny house expansions. All for bitties. There is a bookshelf by the cash register that holds books all about bitty care.

But most importantly. To the other side by the window, which is cracked open to let some fresh air in. Are the bitty containers.

“Oh shit.” And Killer rushes straight there and falls to his knees to be on eye level with some of the glass containers as he coos that the miniature monsters.

Cross rushes to his side and just stares in awe.

He is unsure how long they just stare until they hear someone laugh softly behind them.

“I take you never saw a bitty before?”

Cross turns around and sees a ram monster behind him. Cross feels slightly embarrassed as he looks back at Killer, who has yet to stop staring at the bitties, before he looks back “We… we euh… We know of them of course. We just never had the chance to… see them ourselves.”

The ram laughs as they look at Killer who has actual hearts in his sockets as he stares at two tiny bitties starting to interact.

The ram looks back at him and grins “If you want you two can hold some of them.”

That shakes Killer out of his staring as he looks up in awe at the ram “We can!? But I thought… They bonded quickly and stuff?”

The ram huffs “Only when not treated right.” they look apologetic “I am sorry. I just know that a lot of people keep those poor bitties isolated. Makes them more likely to quickly bond to a new owner. But that is cruel. The little guys are happiest and healthiest if they can interact with one another and form a bond or two with fellow bitties.”

Cross nods along “I never heard that before but it makes a lot of sense.”

Killer nods “Yeah! Cats have it too! Cats bond with fellow cats! Which is why it is advised to adopt two or a bonded pair when you adopt a cat. I assume the same counts for bitties?”

The ram smiles brightly “It does! Come! I will show you some of the older bitties, they are more likely to let you hold them in peace and won’t mind it too much.” The ram leads them away from the front and to a larger container, Cross glances down and spots about sixteen bitties.

Killer gasps as he stares “They are so small.”

The ram laughs “Yeah you never get used to it.” they open the container which causes a few of the bitties to look up. The ram smiles “Hey you guys. Any of you okay with letting some new visitors hold you for a bit?”

The bitties share looks before a goat bitty rises and easily walks over to the opening and holding their arms out. The ram lowers their hand and the bitty climbs up themselves.

The ram takes the bitty out and doesn’t even close the container behind them.

Killer has his hands in a cup and the bitty is carefully transferred. Killer just stares in awe and gently pets the bitty. Cross looks nervously at the container “euh… shouldn’t you like… close that?”

The ram hums and looks over his shoulder “Oh no it is fine. Bitties, once comfortable, don’t tend to run away or explore beyond the area they see as home. I mostly keep those closed and locked to make sure customers don’t just remove bitties from their areas without permission.”

Cross nods and feels Killer nudge him with his shoulder “Cross. Cross. You gotta try this man!”

Cross looks at the ram monster and they laugh as they ask for another bitty to volunteer which another bitty answers, a dog monster bitty this time. One transfer later and Cross has an adorable tiny dog monster in his hands. Staring up at him and wagging the tiniest little tail when Cross pets him.

Eventually both bitties seem to have had enough and start to fuss, which the shop keeper sees and they quickly take the two bitties back and put them with the others. In the container one little cat like bitty runs to the goat to check them while three other dog bitties rush the returned dog bitty.

The shop keeper grins “See? Bonded pairs and groups. They are adorable when they snuggle together and sleep.” And they point to one pile of three bitties all sleeping peacefully together in the afternoon sun.

Cross can’t help but coo at the sight. Killer turns to the shopkeeper with a begging look “Can we… hold more?”

The ram laughs but nods as they keep retrieving bitties for them to hold. Cross thinks his favourite is a little cat one who had been nuzzling the tips of his phalanges, even when he got scratched by the little guy.

They spend their whole afternoon in that little shop. Talking to, holding and snuggling tiny bitties. Some are friendlier than others and Cross still isn’t sure just who his favourite is. Maybe the shy little guy that kept hiding his face. Or the sweet bitty who would hug his finger. Or the bitty that bit his phalange as soon as Cross tried to pet them. Oh Cross just can’t decide.

“Oh… my… god!”

Cross blinks away from the tiny sleeping bitty in his hands as he searches for Killer, only to see Killer disappear behind a shelf near the windows.

“Oh are you kidding me! This is the cutest ever! Hey! Sir! Can I please hold this skeleton bitty?”

Oh. My. God.

Cross very carefully returns the bitty he was holding to the right container before running towards where he saw Killer disappear. The moment he gets to Killer he saw what has the other enchanted.

Perfectly at eye level for them. Right by the window near the cracked open side. Is a container with a lone skeleton bitty inside.

The bitty is bigger than the bitties they had seen until now but that mattered very little because it was still a bitty and still not even as big than their own hands.

The little thing is munching on some pieces of fruit and seems completely uninterested in the noise they are making or the fact that Killer is pretty much plastered against the side of their cage. The little thing just munches on their fruit as they look out of the window.

Cross can’t help but notice the caved in skull and how one socket is completely black while the other socket is red with a tiny spot of black. The bitty is wearing this large, for them, jacket with a fluffy hood and some shorts.

The shopkeeper catches up to them and Cross hears them pant “Please no running in the store!”

Killer only turns a tiny bit, his own empty sockets not looking away from the bitty “Can I please hold this one? Oh they are just adorable!”

The ram monster frowns before seeing where Killer is looking and they look apologetic “Oh… euh… I am sorry but no… that little guy isn’t really for holding or anything… Not even really up for adoption for that matter.”

Cross frowns before once again noticing that the little guy is all alone… No other bitties with them. “Where is their bonded bitty?”

The ram sighs as they looks sheepish “Well, the little guy is bonded! It is just… Bitey is… bitey… and he can’t be with other bitties… Mostly because he tends to steal the food from the other bitties and stockpile it.” The ram walks over with some food and very carefully unlocks the actual little gate.

As soon as the lock unlocks the bitty turns around and the large red socket stares at the ram. Cross can see the bitty study both Cross and Killer before dismissing them and staring at the one holding the food.

The ram very slowly moves a hand closer and into the container.

The bitty glares and starts to show their fangs and a low growl starts to leave the tiny thing.

The ram speaks softly “It is okay. I know you are stressed. I am just giving you some food. I won’t take anything from you.” the ram slowly fills the food dish before the hand leaves the cage and the cage is relocked.

The bitty continues to stare at the gate for a bit before slowly rising from its spot and taking a few steps closer. He looks up to check the gate and ends up grabbing the filled dish and pulling it over with him. Back to the spot he had been sitting at. The one closest to the window.

Killer just coos loudly as he stares at the bitty. And Cross gets it. It is so fucking cute.

The ram sighs.

Cross turns to the ram and frowns “So… where is their bonded bitty? Wouldn’t the little guy feel relaxed and happy if his bonded or bondeds are near?”

The ram sighs again as they rub their face “We know! The problem is… we don’t… actually have the other bitty that he bonded with?” They wave at the open window “There is a bitty somewhere here in town… just going around in the alleyways… we don’t know who they are or how they are, they were not originally from this store to begin with!” they sigh and look sadly at the skeleton bitty “We would… like to let this little guy go to reunite with his buddy but… well… the skull, as you no doubt know better than anyone… it needs constant treatment…” they sigh sadly.

Killer frowns “Why not catch the other little guy?”

The ram chuckles “Oh we tried. We tried everything but the little guy is smart and slippery and… well… the last time we tried to catch him he made a run for it and we didn’t see him for five weeks.”

Cross feels himself freeze. Five weeks? From what he understood not being near their bonded for a few days was already rough for the bitties…

The shopkeeper sighs “This little guy was beside himself. Whining and staring out of the window. Trying to escape multiple times. Not even eating his own food and just stockpiling it all. We were so worried. When the other guy came by for a visit again we just… we decided it was for the better to just leave them an easy way to interact.” And they wave at the open window.

Killer frowns “What about cats? I thought cats hunt bitties?”

Cross feels his soul speed up with panic. There is a tiny bitty all alone outside and there are cats and what if those cats get the little guy and-

The ram holds up their hands “No! Well… yeah… But we have yet to see a cat try to get in but we have security cameras. Bitey’s friend tends to only come when there is no one in the shop at night.” they nod towards the cage where the little bitty has been sorting the food and between moving it he keeps looking up at the window, as if waiting.

Waiting for his equally tiny friend.

The ram smiles as they point back to the other bitties “Either way, this bitty isn’t for sale or adoptable. Want to look at the other bitties again? There are many more in all shapes and forms!”

Killer looks back at the tiny skeleton “Fine I guess…” he stares for a moment longer before going back to the other bitties.

They spend a while longer holding the other bitties in the store. But Cross knows his soul isn’t in it. He can’t help but keep thinking about a tiny bitty outside. All alone and having to take care of himself. About the tiny bitty who is alone in a cage, hoping for his one friend and family to come back for him, while all the other bitties dislike him. Cross is reminded of the empty space he had been, all alone. He is reminded of Killer who had been in his own dead AU for a long time. About Nightmare, who no one seemed willing to try and understand or even bother to talk to, to try and understand why he did what he had to.

Killer and him end up leaving the store in silence as they continue their track to the grocery store. They are lucky it is still open and they quickly grab the things they need. Neither of them say anything as they collect the things they need and pay.

They don’t bother to explore the streets anymore after getting the stuff they needed and Cross uses his, well it used to be XChara’s but now it is his, knife to cut a doorway for them.

They step through and Cross feels himself relax.

Home sweet home.

Hah!

Strange how before it was just a place of work but now it is his home.

Killer had called it Nightmare’s hideout once. But Cross likes to think it is more than just that now. It is their hideout, their home. A place where the multiverse can’t get to them and they can just be. A place perfectly safe with nothing that can hurt them anywhere near.

Honestly it would be the perfect place to have two tiny bitties run around, nothing would hurt them as they explore-

Cross shakes his skull and goes straight to the kitchen after entering the castle. He opens the bag and starts putting things away. Killer looks into the bags and takes out some frozen pizzas which he puts in the oven.

They are quiet as they clean up and wait for the timer to run out.

“You two are oddly quiet.”

Cross looks up as Killer grins “Sup boss!”

Nightmare rolls his eyes as he looks unimpressed “Not much of a boss anymore. Why do both of you feel disheartened? I thought you two were going to one of the universes that we had already called clean?” he frowns.

Cross feels touched by the worry as he shrugs “We did! We went to the usual place.”

Nightmare’s frown doesn’t disappear “That doesn’t explain your emotions.” he looks between the two of them.

Killer huffs as he leans on the counter with crossed arms “We were just walking through town and- Wait! Nightmare!” Killer stands upright with a large grin “They have a bitty shop in that universe!”

Nightmare blinks and looks surprised “But it is a neutral universe…”

That is when Cross remembers. Cross himself and Killer may have had the chance to see bitties once or twice from a distance… but Nightmare wouldn’t have had the chance, ever. As Nightmare at first hadn’t been able to enter positive universes and later it was just too much of a risk as he would be weaker and the Stars stronger.

Killer seems to have thought of the same conclusion as he grins widely “Mare you need to come with us next time! There were so many bitties! They were all so cute and were so well behaved but not afraid or anything and it was all clean and well taken care of!” and Killer starts explaining with wide gestures what they saw and how they held some bitties.

Cross keeps an eye on the oven and by the time Killer winds down talking the pizzas are ready for them. They all get their own and get comfortable at the table to eat their dinner.

Killer grins widely “Oh and Nightmare! They had a skeleton bitty! Not any other multiverse goer or anything! The little guy was straight up just his own person! He was cute and was just hoarding food and such a big little guy!”

Nightmare chuckles as he eats a piece “If this whole conversation is just a windup to ask if you can adopt a bitty you could have started with that.” He eats another bite.

Killer’s grin falls and he sighs “Not like it is possible… little guy isn’t up for adoption.”

Nightmare frowns “Why not?”

Killer just stares sadly at his plate and Cross speaks up “Well, bitties bond to other bitties for like stability and mental health and stuff. Well the little skeleton guy does have a bitty he is bonded to, but that bitty isn’t actually in the shop but a wild bitty.”

Nightmare stops and frowns at them “I thought bitties couldn’t live in the wild?”

Killer pouts as he lays on the table on crossed arms “They normally can’t… guess it is just a very crafty bitty.”

Cross thinks “I think there are some AUs where they can but that are the special cases. In general they can’t…” he sighs as he pushes at his pizza “We are just worried about the two little guys…”

Nightmare looks at them thoughtfully before nodding “I see. And while adopting isn’t possible you could always visit him and sponsor him.” and he eats.

Killer shoots up and stares in shock “What?”

Nightmare pauses as he looks unimpressed “You can visit the bitty still. Not to forget you may be able to make a deal with the shop that you at least adopt him in name. That way you can still spoil him but the shopkeeper will be able to make sure everything is still fine. In some places it is called sponsoring.”

Cross blinks confused “That is a thing?”

Nightmare nods “It is often done with endangered species, at least in quite a few universes. It makes the people feel more involved and attached to them. Maybe you can make a deal with the store and work something out?” and he turns back to his pizza.

Killer jumps up “Yes! We can totally do that! Oh! And tomorrow we can show you where the store is! That was you can also see the bitty!”

Nightmare chuckles “It is fine Killer.”

Killer pouts “Come on boss, it will be fun!”

Nightmare sighs as he shoots Killer a look “I thought we already agreed I am not technically your boss anymore. At most I am your landlord.”

Cross snorts “Being a landlord implies we are paying you, which we aren’t.”

Killer nods “In matter of fact you still pay us.”

Nightmare sighs but Cross can spot a small smile on the other’s face.

Cross smiles as he turns to his own food and finally eats dinner.

"… Hey."

“Bunny.”

“Who were that?”

“… Don’t know. Left quickly.”

“Okay… stay safe?”

“I am fine bunny.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

*----------*

Next Chapter: [Here]

#utmv #BittySurprise #nightmare sans #dust sans #killer sans #cross sans #horror sans #Bad Sans poly in the making!!#start focus on HorrorDust and Krossmare #Also yes. This does imply that HorrorTale and DustTale DON'T Exist.#Have fun you nice people and let me know what you think of it!#or think will happen :3

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yeloenk · 5 months ago

Note

I WANNA KNOW MORE ABT UR CROSS CCINO I AM INVESTED PLZ

GRABS YOU AND SHAKES YOU AROUND

where do i even.. start.... oh my goodness

OKAY so,, cross and ccino. first i'll go over how i think they would meet, then i'll go over how their relationship would be like.

i think cross, after the whole x-event is resolved, is now left without purpose. he doesn't know what to do; he tries to fit in with the other omega timeline residents, but he feels wrong and out of place after everything that he did. he feels undeserving of a "real home"—plus, the omega timeline feels too restrictive to him. since he was a multiversal threat not too long ago, he was put under rules & observation. it reminded him way too much of being controlled by X-Gaster, so he takes off to figure out things on his own.

he drifts from au to au for a while, trying to find one that sticks. when he stumbles across fluffytale, the weird friendliness/calmness of it draws him in.

i won't delve into the story i have for them too much after this point (i'm currently writing a fic about it!!!) but long story short, cross begins working with ccino at the cafe.

FROM THERE !!! from there, their relationship is verryyy slow. cross is super hesitant about opening up about anything; at first, he dodges any personal questions from ccino. but over time, he grows more and more comfortable with him and sharing bits about himself. he slowly learns what it's like to be safe and happy again.

now, ccino. since ccino and nightmare are or were canon at some point in fluffytale, i believe ccino would be left with.. quite a bit of trauma from the relationship. he struggles a LOT with his self worth and motivation; he puts on a nonchalant, "happy" front to his customers. i think he would struggle taking care of himself, and would make self deprecating jokes to cope. he often misses meal times, making up excuses for himself. but, cross kinda sees right through his act, and can tell something's up.

cross would get ccino to let his walls down; it takes a while, because ccino is terrified of being vulnerable to another person again. he's afraid he'll be hurt again, he's afraid he isn't and never will be enough for cross. since cross was under nightmare's influence at one point, he has that to emphasize with ccino & make him feel better about himself.

they are a SLOWburn friends to lovers with miscommunication and mutual pining,,, they both think they aren't good enough for the other before one confesses giggle!!!!!

they both help each other see the best in themselves, and learn what it means to have safe love again. AND YEEWAHAHGGSHSGHS THEY MAKE ME SICKKKKKK SOBBING ON THE FLOOR I LOVE THEMEEMMM!!!!! i wanna share more of my thoughts about their story but again i dont wanna spoil the fic im cooking up

ALSO. I HAVE A SPOTIFY PLAYLIST FOR THEM. yoooouu should totes check it out if u wanna,,, hehe

link

im a freak about them. can you tell

#yelorambles #utmv #undertale #undertale au #sans undertale #underverse #xpresso #cross sans #ccino sans #fluffytale #cross x ccino #ccino x cross #asks

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osleeplessflowero · 1 year ago

Text

Oneshot Masterpost

A collection of my oneshots! Series gradually being updated. These links are specific to Tumblr, BUT I have also posted quite a few of these on my Ao3! I also have fics on there, which I will also be making a masterpost for + uploading the chapters to tumblr.

🏡Neighborhood Series🏡

A series of randomized oneshots that take place in the same universe, a timeline where the skeleton duos all live in their own houses in a singular neighborhood. This will contain skeleharem elements, as well as individual oneshots for equal screentime.

In order:

{Lore Related v}

🌠Stargazing (Classic Sans! First oneshot I wrote.)🔭

✨Back To You (Also Classic, takes place a little bit after the former.)💤

🎸Concert Night (Fell!Sans)🎵

🌨️Sans and Red have a talk.❄️

{Out Of Order/Bonus Content v}

🏍Stress Relief (Fell/Red!)💢

📻Close (Blue/Reader) 🎵

🏖Beach Day (Swap Bros!)🌊

☕️Relax. (Fell Paps/Edge!)❄️

🌃Late Night Walk (Rus/Reader)🛹

🪓Scare Actor!Horror🎃

A series mainly themed for Halloween where Reader has a chance encounter with Horror while going to a Haunted House with their partner. Takes place in a Post-Pacifist Horrortale timeline, so Horror goes by Sans.

Part 1: Scares and a Sudden Friendship🎃🪓

Part 2: Coffee Hangout☕

Part 3: New Experiences // Meeting Papyrus!🥄

Part 4: A Better Haunted House🧡

📖Fairytale Series🪄

A series of miscellaneous fairytale-based scenarios featuring your favorite skeletons. Some may have connections to others!

🗡️Assassin!Red/Mage!Reader🪄

⚔️Knight!Blue/Reader🎶

👑King!Nightmare/Ruler!Reader(Start of a Bad Sanses series)💢

🌹King!Dream/Ruler!Reader (An alternate timeline to the former concept)🪄

Cowboy!Stretch🐎

An AU where Stretch and Blue live on a ranch and work as cowboys. The other skeletons ARE present in other areas, but this mainly just focuses on Stretch and his growing relationship with Reader. Could be considered Farmtale inspired.

🥃Part 1: howdy.🍯

🐴Part 2: Going for a ride🏇

💚Nightmare/Multiverse Traveler!Reader✨

An endless(?) game of Cat and Mouse, where Nightmare chases Reader across the Multiverse in order to finally be with them. Mutual pining, we love to see it!!

Part 1: Chasing🌌

Part 2: Blooms. (Angst)🥀

Part 3: A Violent Variant🔪

🖤Bad Sanses🔪

A collection of scenarios with everybody's favorite villains.

🎃Pumpkin Carving! (was originally a part of a now cancelled Halloween writing challenge series.)

☃️Snow Day! (Christmas Special)🌨

🛌Sleepover!

🛝i'm here. (Dust Comfort)💜

🔪"Knife" To Meet'cha (Killer/Reader #1)🍻

🌹Falling For Ya (Killer/Reader #2(?) ) 🌃

🔒Cornered (Dust/Reader) (Kinda steamy)💜

🌌Alone With You (Dust/Reader)💕

📚Tired (Nightmare/Reader, Reverse Comfort)🍵

AmalgaMATE

A scenario where Reader is an amalgamate of several different Reader souls, and is hopelessly in love with Science/Classic? Sans.

🧪Part 1: me and the amalgamate i pulled by being a punny guy 🔒

🤍Part 2: Soulmates?!🤍

Standalone Oneshots

Oneshots that haven't been made into series yet/are intended to be by themselves.

☔️Chance Encounter (Dream/Reader)🚍

🎶Dream/Fem Reader (Requested)🌳

💌Messages + Confessions (Error/Reader)📄

🛍First Meeting (Fell Papyrus/Edge!/Fem Reader)🐾 (Requested)

🫧Into The Sea (Merman!Blue/Reader)🌊

☕Home (Cross/Reader)🏠 (Requested)

Star Sanses HQ Shenanigans(Star Sanses & Reader [Platonic]) (Requested)

Flirting With Death (Reaper/Immune!Reader) (Requested)

🎡Carnival Date (Classic!Papyrus/Reader) (Requested)🧣

😱Frightening New Friend (Horror!Papyrus & Reader)🎃 [Halloween Special]

🌊A Light In The Depths (Mer!Nightmare/Reader)🤿

😳Crushing (Cross x Swap Universe!Reader) (Requested)💜

🛞Immune (Siren!Nightmare/Reader)⛵

🩹(Platonic)Fell Sans & Reader Hurt/Comfort (Requested)❤️‍🩹

🌑Bittersweet (Flirty Vampire!Nightmare x Vampire Hunter!Reader)🗡️

Pocky Game (Error/Reader) (Requested)

My oneshot requests are currently closed, but I will let all of you know when/if they're open again! Feel free to send in Asks otherwise :]

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links-crosses-multiverse · 9 months ago

Text

I finally Made my decision about making a Comic...

This Comic will be called:

"Link's Crosses Multiverse"

There will be a Light Chain and a Dark Chain.

I already Made a Cover for it...

It will Take a while for the First Part to come Out...

I got Inspired to make my own Comic by

@linkeduniverse

@linked-maze

@zelda-the-sacred-realm

@recalled11

@limited-hero

@bonus-links

Please leave them a follow they deserve it...

Here is Proof That I did the Cover!

Time: 5h 26min

App: ibispaint X

Light Chain

Wind

Time

Twilight

Tracks

Minish

Four

Mask

Worlds

Sky

Hyrule

Legend

Wild

Warriors

Void

Dark Chain

Sora

(There will come more of the dark Chain)

#new comic series #cover art #link's Crosses Multiverse #the legend of zelda #light concepts #dark concepts #links meet au

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hard-core-super-star · 2 years ago

Text

searching for redemption [K.Bishop]

pairing: switch!kate bishop x bottom!reader x top!kate bishop

summary: a multiversal anomaly grants you and your girlfriend the opportunity to explore some of your more...intense desires.

warnings: pure smut -> minors, don't you dare interact with this [selfcest + threesome; kinda dubcon at the beginning 'cause R doesn't know it's another version of kate; slight degradation/humiliation [other kate is mean but in a good way]; strap-on sex [kate receiving]; cunnilingus [R receiving]; both kates are technically service tops but shhh; there's an element of tease and denial but it's sort of a background thing]

wordcount: 3.4k

a/n: this is quite literally the filthiest thing i've ever written so proceed with caution. this is a request/lowkey commission from a very lovely anonymous person so shoutout to them for all their ideas. i'm definitely not going to drop a link to my buy me a coffee for anyone else who might be interested. anyways, thank you for your support, i'll go back to writing pure fluff soon...maybe, hope you enjoy <3

* * * * * * *

You should've known something was different about your girlfriend the second she stepped foot in your shared apartment.

She had left early in the morning, mumbling something about Yelena and how the blonde was insistent on forcing her to have an actual training routine. Your complaints about it had been swallowed up by your exhaustion so the brunette was forced to leave since she couldn't come up with any excuses not to.

Needless to say, your day had been boring so, the second you heard the front door open, your mind was filled with the excitement of your girlfriend being back home. Excitement that didn't let you focus on the way Kate slammed the door shut behind her or the mumbled string of curses that followed.

“Well, what do we have here?”

The sound of her voice makes you smile and you turn to look at her over your shoulder. “Thought I would surprise my girlfriend with her favorite food. I would’ve gotten pizza but you always end up giving all your slices to Lucky.”

You catch the small roll of her eyes before you turn your attention back to the stove, turning off the flame before Kate distracts you and you burn the boxed macaroni…again.

She doesn’t reply immediately but you write it off as her being tired and nothing else. Until she speaks up again in a tone you’re not used to hearing from her.

“Fuck. You're perfect.”

“Is that you or your stomach talking?”

“Neither.”

You're about to ask her what she means when she crosses the space between you. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you backward until you collide with her body. The food you had been preparing gets forgotten the second you feel a certain hardness rubbing against your ass.

“You missed me that much?” You tease.

You’re expecting one of her usual responses. Maybe a whine or a witty comment or a barrage of kisses across your shoulders.

You don’t get any of that, though.

Instead, you get her calloused hands groping at your chest through the fabric of the worn-out band tee you stole from her closet. “Don’t be a brat, baby.”

The words are something you've only ever heard as a joke, a playful jab that never lands since you both know Kate’s the real brat. But today, they slip out of her mouth without a second thought as if she’s said them, and meant them, a thousand times before.

“Says the one ignoring my fantastic cooking skills.” You push back against her hips, expertly grinding against the strap-on hidden inside her pants and earning yourself a groan from her parted lips.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be complaining,” she mumbles.

Her hands leave your waist and all at once, she’s turning you around and pushing you up against the kitchen counter. You attempt to tease her again but she’s far quicker than you are.

She instantly leans in to capture your lips in a borderline desperate kiss as her hands explore your waist. You're no stranger to Kate's arousal-filled desperation, and you can't judge her since you're the same way sometimes, but there's something different about it.

Some underlying darkness that you can't quite place.

“Kate-” You attempt to pull away but she doesn't let you get far.

She ignores your half-formed moan, choosing instead to deepen the kiss while she hooks one of your legs over her hip to erase the already non-existent space left between your bodies. Her actions are unexpected but they only serve to fuel the gathering arousal in your underwear.

You’re too caught up in the feelings she creates inside you to hear the sound of the door opening again…until you hear a very familiar voice.

“What the fuck?”

You jump away from the archer only to find yourself staring at Kate.

Well, two Kates.

You briefly wonder if you’re dreaming but the remnants of Kate’s hands on your body feel far too real for any of this to be a dream. Which means you’re staring at not one but two versions of your girlfriend.

Versions that seem to be engaged in a very serious staring contest.

“Is this another one of Wanda’s little tricks?” The difference in her tone of voice is suddenly obvious. “‘Cause it wasn’t funny the first time.”

“What? No. I’m me…and you’re me…and you’re hot?” The way the brunette stumbles over her words confirms your suspicions.

You’ve been making out with another version of your girlfriend.

And you can’t find it in yourself to be too upset about it.

Clearly, this other version Kate doesn’t mind either. She steps away from you, her arms crossed and a single eyebrow raised. “Why do you sound so surprised? Have you never looked at yourself in the mirror?”

Kate’s eyes widen and you can make out the soft pink hue that spreads across her face. Her hands are balled into fists at her side, almost as if she’s ready to defend you from this other version of herself. “y/n?”

You know what she’s actually asking of you but you can’t stop yourself from adding fuel to the fire. “Well, you are hot.”

Your girlfriend stares at you like a fish out of water while her other self bursts out laughing. It should be weird and yet you find yourself smiling as if the fabric of the universe didn’t somehow rip to create this moment.

“See? This is why I love her.”

Kate’s flustered and slightly nonchalant attitude disappears instantly. “Hey, she’s my girlfriend.”

Her possessive nature can’t be stopped, not even when her only competition is literally herself.

“Excuse me, your girlfriend was enjoying everything I was doing.”

Her comment leaves you breathless and, unfortunately for all of you, your girlfriend knows exactly what that reaction means. It means the other Kate isn’t wrong. And the knowledge instantly sparks a reaction in your archer.

“Shut the fuck up.” She shoves the other version of herself and while the act isn’t technically aggressive, it prompts the other archer to respond the same way.

Their shoves turn into a, somewhat pathetic, attempt at fighting with each other. They’re somehow the exact same person which means every punch is anticipated and blocked accordingly, leaving them both to stumble toward the nearest wall while they try to outwit each other with increasingly illogical insults.

The sight is more entertaining than strange and your next words fly out of you far too fast to be stopped. “You guys should just kiss and make up, it’ll be faster.”

The smirk you receive in response gives you a clear idea of which Kate is currently being held against the wall. “I told you she was into it.”

Your archer reluctantly lets go of the other one, turning around to look at you, a weird mix of surprise and longing in her eyes. “You think we should…what?”

“I’m just saying,” you reply with a shrug. “What’s the use of fighting with yourself anyway?”

Kate stares at you, mouth agape, while her variant shoots you a wink over your girlfriend’s shoulder. It shouldn’t be hot but you learned a long time ago not to question the things you find attractive about the archer.

“Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“Thought about what?” Those eyes you love so much leave you as she waits for a response from her double.

“Kissing yourself.”

You have to fight against yourself not to laugh at the look that crosses your girlfriend’s face. “Excuse me?”

“Is she always this stubborn?” Kate rolls her eyes before pushing herself off the wall and approaching you again. The way she moves tells you there's a plan hiding inside her mind and you already know you’ll go along with whatever she wants.

“Don’t you already know the answer?” You reply, accepting the hand she holds out for you and jumping down from the counter. “You’re the same person.”

“Right again, darling.”

Your girlfriend’s intake of breath reaches your ears right as her variant pulls you in close. What you’re doing borders on insanity but you don’t care. Some experiences are worth losing your mind over.

She wordlessly checks in with you and the second you nod, her hands tangle in your hair and pull you into until there’s no space left between your lips. You know you should feel weird about what you're doing, maybe even a little guilty, but it’s impossible to deny the connection that runs between you, even if you’re different versions of the person the other one loves.

You almost expect your Kate to voice her displeasure and kick her variant out. But of course, that doesn’t happen. Because no one in this room can’t say they’re not more than a little curious to see where things go. To see how far they can go.

Kate pulls away from you, her lips pulled together somewhere between a giddy grin and a knowing smirk. It’s striking how different she seems to be despite being the archer you know and love. “Glad to see we’re on the same page, baby.”

“y/n?” The archer’s voice is barely audible over the pounding in your chest. “I…do you…is this what you want?”

You meet her eyes, both of you searching the other for any signs of discomfort. The only thing you find though are the very obvious signs of your girlfriend’s growing arousal. So, you nod. “Yeah. If you’re okay with it.”

“I…I mean, yeah. I think I am.”

“That was fast,” Kate’s variant teases. “Did watching me make out with your girlfriend turn you on that much?”

The answer is more than clear but the slight catch of her breath gives her away far too quickly. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

A few seconds of tense silence go by before you all collectively spring into action. It’s, admittedly, a mess of hands and lips but the three of you make it into the bedroom together. You lose track of who’s who until a pair of rough hands push you down onto the mattress.

Kate attempts to follow after you but her double stops her before she can get too far. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I, uh-” You watch as your girlfriend does her best to pull herself together. “Where do you think?”

“Nice try.” She pulls Kate against her body and you’re given a front row seat to the subtle expressions of pleasure your archer tries to hide. “You’re not going anywhere yet though. We have to give your girlfriend a good show.”

You have a pretty good idea of what she means and yet nothing could have prepared you for the real thing.

Your thighs instantly clench together while you watch the other Kate’s hands trail underneath your girlfriend’s shirt. The fabric in the way stops you from seeing much but your girlfriend’s body and the feeling of her skin in your hands is forever ingrained into your brain.

“What-” Her words get caught in her throat and all that comes out instead is a breathy moan.

“Do you ever stop talking?” The variant’s words slip out in between groans, her hips sliding back and forth against Kate’s ass. “Just let yourself feel good, I know what you want.”

You watch, entranced, as Kate’s lips trail a path down your archer’s neck, slowly coaxing her tense shoulders into relaxing as her head tilts back. “You…are way too sure of yourself.”

It’s impossible not to laugh at her words, mainly because you’ve said them at least a hundred times and she never believes you. Your amusement is shared by the other archer and she shoots you a small smile. “Maybe…but I’ll bet anything you’re already dripping for me.”

The words aren’t technically meant for you but your moan tangles with Kate’s. In all honesty, you’ve been dripping since your little makeout session in the kitchen and your clit throbs so hard, you’re sure a mere gust of wind would be enough to make you cum. It really would be so easy to slip your hand-

“No touching, sweetheart. Be a good girl and wait for us.”

The thought of having to wait more than a few seconds is unbearable but there’s no way you’ll disobey this dominant version of your girlfriend. You’ve always had your suspicions that Kate holds back her rougher side around you and this, strange and unexpected, meeting merely confirms your thoughts.

You’re tempted to beg just to see what reaction you’ll get out of both of them.

Instead, you groan and position your hands above your head, gripping the pillow hard enough to leave nail marks in the fabric.

Your own struggle leaves you unaware of the storm brewing inside your girlfriend. A storm full of unspoken desires and a need to get her hands on something.

The position she’s in makes it hard for her to even attempt to fight for control but she tries anyway. Hesitant hands reach out behind her to blindly run her fingers across whatever skin she can find.

“I told you it would feel good.” Her other self murmurs against the flushed skin of her neck. “I know everything you like. I know all the spots that drive you wild.”

“Please.”

Your girlfriend’s slightly whiny voice forces you to focus again. Unfortunately, the sight you focus on merely serves to drive you further toward the edge of desperation. “God, will you just hurry up and fuck each other already?”

Your words make both versions of the archer halt their movements.

Two pairs of wide eyes stare you down but while one looks flustered enough to turn into a puddle on the floor, the other one regards you as if you're her next meal. It's dizzying and pleasurable all at the same time and you know the squirming of your legs gives you away instantly.

“I see you still haven't tamed your brat.” Kate rolls her eyes but there's far too much excitement on her face for the action to be believable. “Too bad I can't deny her anything.”

Time somehow slows down and speeds up at the same time.

You're still left neglected on the bed but the two brunettes finally start removing the many obstacles in the way. Your girlfriend gets turned around easily and you're barely able to keep yourself together when she works up enough courage to kiss the other version of herself.

Surprisingly steady hands reach out to tear away at shirts and clumsily pull at pants.

It feels like both an eternity and a second until they're both standing naked in front of you and you're panting just from the sight of them. Your patience is finally rewarded when your girlfriend climbs on top of you, hushed murmurs of how perfect you are getting lost as her hands explore your desperate skin.

“Kate,” you moan, your hands reaching out for her.

“I know, baby, I'm getting there.” There's the slightest hint of a tease in her tone but it comes more serious than you've ever heard it from her. You don't know what being physical with a variant of herself has done to your girlfriend but you don't really care as long as she’ll finally give you what you want.

What you want comes in the form of four hands pushing and pulling at your clothes until you're left vulnerable under both of them.

The sight of your drenched folds makes them both groan but it's your archer who moves first. “Fuck, y/n, you look so good like this. All mine to play with.”

The more dominant of the two merely smirks, content to watch while Kate trails a path of kisses down your body.

“Please.” This time, you're the one who begs and your hands instinctively wrap around the archer’s as she holds your legs open.

She doesn't say anything in response, she merely leans in and lets her mouth explore your wetness. There's nothing new about her motions but there's a certain confidence behind them that you've never seen before.

Your girlfriend, usually slow and gentle, instantly attaches herself to your swollen clit, her tongue flicking relentlessly against your sensitive bud.

You're too lost in your own pleasure to notice the movements of her variant…until you literally feel Kate moan into your cunt.

It's hard for your eyes to focus but once they do, you're left bucking your hips up and clenching around nothing. You watch through wide eyes as Kate’s variant thrusts into her soaked pussy, strong hands gripping her hips while she fucks her at an equally relentless pace.

Holding your head up is a challenge but you manage, unwilling to look away from such a tantalizing sight.

You whine when Kate’s lips detach from your clit and it takes no time for her other self to grip onto her hair and push her face down into your cunt. “Fuck her like you mean it, Katie.”

Whatever response your girlfriend had fades away as you messily grind against her face. She wastes no time in giving you what you need, her grip tightening in an attempt to keep you still.

There's no way for any of you to stop yourself from squirming and grinding into each other in some way and the room quickly falls into a continued chorus of grunts and moans.

You can hear the sound of the other archer’s voice but you're too far gone to make out the words she says.

Kate isn't though and the mix between being praised and degraded makes her clench around the strap buried deep inside of herself. Which only prompts more humiliatingly pleasurable words from lips that are basically identical to her own.

“Fuck, this is what you needed, isn't it? To be fucked so good you're forced to give in to all those nasty thoughts in your head? It feels so good, doesn't it, Kate?”

Hearing her own name in her own voice while she's being pounded into by herself feels far too good not to admit it. And the sounds of pleasure that escape her lips push you right over the edge almost instantly.

“Kate!” The archer’s name is the only warning you can give before you slam head-first into an earth-shattering orgasm.

“Fuck-” Both Kates respond at the same time as they're both pushed over the edge by different things.

Your girlfriend falls apart the second she feels your release soak her chin and the sight of both of you completely fucked out beneath her causes her variant to crash into her own orgasm.

You're sure you blackout for a few bliss-filled moments and when you open your eyes again, you're greeted with the sight of your girlfriend sprawled out on top of you, her heavy pants lightly tickling your skin.

You turn your head to the side and find her variant, panting just as heavily beside you, her hand clutching yours, the toy covered in your girlfriend’s release still attached to her hips.

You're in the middle of forming a plan to get your hands on her when she speaks up. “That was…wow.”

The sound of her voice makes your archer lift her face from your chest, a wide grin on her face. “You can say that again.”

You hate how well you know her because her features give away the words she’s not willing to say. “You want to leave, don't you?”

Your voice is a hoarse whisper after all the loud moaning you've done but they both hear you. There's a beat of silence, two sets of eyebrows furrowing, and then your answer.

“Yeah…I just…I don't know how I got here but I need to get back home. To you…my version of you.”

She looks genuinely apologetic and you would laugh if you weren't so tired. “I get it. As amazing as this was, this isn't your home.”

“But feel free to come back anytime,” Kate says, completing the other half of your thoughts. “You, uh, taught us a lot.”

“Mmm, did she? I think we already knew you were full of yourself.”

“Yeah, but she made it literal.”

Your girlfriend gets a chuckle out of both you and her variant but it's not enough of a reward for her.

It happens in the blink of an eye but suddenly Kate is sitting up and pulling her other self into a rough kiss, her hands tangled in her hair and her teeth nipping at her bottom lip.

The sight is somehow more attractive than the first time and all three of you are left breathless once they pull away. Giving Kate the satisfaction she was looking for.

Her variant leaves, once she manages to pull herself together again, and you and Kate, your Kate, stay in bed for a while. There's an unspoken understanding about what she's discovered about herself but she finally speaks up after a while.

“So…do you think we can try bondage next?”

“Yeah. I honestly always thought you were a little vanilla in bed.”

Your response earns you a glare…and an overachieving archer who goes above and beyond to show you how wrong you truly are.

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huh-1260 · 4 months ago

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This @links-crosses-multiverse Gremlin Sky!

I kinda simplified the design, and I did choose make fanart of their Sky non gremlin'd but I wasn't satisfied with it, so I'm going to digitize the one I finally liked when I drew him, I hope I it done

#lcm sky #Links crosses multiverse #gremlin sky #Another variant of the gremlin #:D #Sorry this took so long I wasn't sure where to start #I hope you love your gremlin!

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coolingrosa · 3 months ago

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COOLINGROSA MASTERPOST

Hello! My name is Rosa, and I’m the creator of RoseVerse, a Undertale Multiverse started by the popular TRANSFEM DREAM SANS head-canon I began posting long ago! If you’re ever confused by me, this MASTERPOST is the place for you!

ROSEVERSE FIC LINK

ROSEVERSE PREQUEL

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･INFO °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ Name: Rosa

✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ Age: 18

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✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ Sexualities: Lesbian, Aro, Demi-Ace

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ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ UNDERTALE ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ UNDERVERSE ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ DHMIS ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ FOR THE FORGOTTEN ONES (FANFIC) ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ HANDPLATES ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ I LOVE AMY ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ EPIC THE MUSICAL ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ WHO MADE ME A PRINCESS ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ YAELORKE ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ ALIENSTAGE ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ SCHOOL BUS GRAVEYARD

────୨ৎ────

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ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ FNAF ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ PAFL ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ SKY CHILDREN OF THE LIGHT ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ MHA ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ GREEK MYTHOLOGICAL ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ INTERVIEW WITH A VAMPIRE ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ PETSCOP ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ CREEPYPASTA ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ CLASS OF 09

────୨ৎ────

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࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ BEE AND PUPPYCAT ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ SPIDERVERSE ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ SPY FAMILY ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ POPPY’S PLAYTIME ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ MURDER DRONES ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ FIREWATCH ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ ARCANE ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ ANGELS OF DEATH ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ NIMONA ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ FIONA AND CAKE ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ QUEEN CHARLOTTE ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ THE LAST OF US ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ SPONGEBOB ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ PONYO ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ OSYAMUI PUN PUN ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ POKEMON ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ DDLC ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ HUNGER GAMES ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ MYSTIC MESSENGER ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ MUSICAL PIPERS ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙ LOCKWOOD AND CO

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✩₊˚.⋆🕸️⋆⁺₊✧ #Cooling rosa answers silly stuff

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satanslovergirl · 7 days ago

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╔══════════════════════

(° ✓ ) THE TRICKSTER’S GAME (° ✓ ) ╚══════════════════════

Pairing: Dean Winchester x She/Her Reader (Y/N)

Tones: Annoyed!Dean, Fluffy Romance, Light-Hearted Comedy, Teamwork Heavy

Rating: T (Language, Comedic Situations, Light Romance)

Word Count: 5,500+

Based On: Supernatural Season 5, Episode 8 – “Changing Channels”

---

❝ Is this some kind of sick joke? ❞ — Dean Winchester, upon realizing they’ve been sucked into a TV show multiverse.

---

Synopsis:

Dean and Sam Winchester, along with Y/N, are pulled into a chaotic, TV-themed purgatory ruled by none other than the Trickster—who later reveals himself as Gabriel. From a broody CSI drama to a soap opera surgery gone wrong, a humiliating herpes commercial, and even a Japanese game show from hell, the trio must play their roles or risk being trapped forever. Through it all, Y/N becomes the voice of reason and emotional anchor between the boys, reminding them that they’re stronger together—and sometimes, laughter really is the best weapon.

---

SCENE ONE: CSI SUPERNATURAL

Harsh sirens wailed. Dean blinked against the fluorescent strobe of blue-and-red lights. The overwhelming smell of latex gloves and freshly spilled coffee clung to the air like an overdone Hollywood set.

He turned slowly, eyes narrowing on a perfect chalk outline, white tape forming crisp borders on an otherwise pristine alley. “Are you kidding me?”

Y/N, already wearing a trench coat, raised her brows. “CSI: Supernatural?”

Sam adjusted his aviators, inspecting a fake badge tucked in his coat pocket. “It’s staged. Too clean. No blood, no trauma... The Trickster’s behind this.”

Before anyone could question their next move, a mustached detective hustled toward them, script-ready. “Detectives! We’ve got a fresh one—body’s cold, but the trail’s hot!”

Dean sighed. “If I say ‘enhance’ into a computer screen, shoot me.”

Y/N smirked. “Only if you call the killer’s ex-girlfriend a ‘person of interest.’”

Reluctantly, the trio played along, going through the motions. Sam scanned evidence with a comically oversized magnifying glass. Dean used a toothpick to “analyze” blood splatter that didn’t exist. Y/N was forced into a corny back-and-forth with a tech who used way too many puns.

Still, something clicked in her head. “He wants us to solve the puzzle—but it’s fake. The point isn’t the murder.”

Dean crossed his arms. “Then what is it?”

She looked between the boys. “Playing along.”

---

SCENE TWO: GREY’S ANATOMY CHAOS

They didn’t move—reality shifted around them.

Fluorescent lights above. Gurneys rushed past. Alarms blared.

Dean was in light blue scrubs, holding a scalpel. Sam wore a lab coat and held a clipboard. Y/N was strapped to a hospital bed, looking pale and panicked, IV in her arm.

“Oh hell no,” Dean muttered, spinning in place. “I am not playing surgeon.”

Y/N groaned faintly. “Guys…” Her voice cracked. “Something’s wrong.”

Dean’s chest tightened. Trickster prank or not, she looked genuinely ill. Her skin was clammy, sweat dampening her hairline.

Sam rushed forward. “She’s coding, Dean.”

Dean froze. “What? I’m not a real doctor—what if this is real?”

“You have to play the role,” Sam snapped. “Or she dies here.”

The overhead speaker blared, “Paging Dr. Sexy. Dr. Sexy to OR 2.”

Dean clenched his jaw, whispering to Y/N as he gripped her hand. “You’re gonna be okay. I got you. Just hang on.”

He fumbled with defibrillator paddles. “CLEAR!”

A fake shock jolted her body. She gasped, color returning to her face.

“Holy crap,” Dean breathed.

Y/N blinked, voice raspy. “I thought I was done for.”

He leaned close, brushing hair from her face. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

She smiled faintly. “You looked good in scrubs, though.”

Dean rolled his eyes, but his grin betrayed him.

---

SCENE THREE: THE HERPES COMMERCIAL FROM HELL

The world shifted again.

Sunny skies. Golden fields. Soft acoustic guitar strumming in the background. Dean and Y/N stood side by side, hands linked.

Text on screen: “HERPES? LET’S TALK ABOUT IT.”

Dean let out a strangled sound. “No. Nope. Not doing this.”

Y/N blinked, horrified. “Oh my god, are we in a pharmaceutical commercial?”

“Yup,” Sam said, strolling past with a bright pink sweater tied around his neck. “We’re selling herpes meds now.”

Dean threw up his hands. “This Trickster’s going down.”

The commercial rolled on, forcing the pair to walk hand-in-hand through fields, ride tandem bicycles, and gaze longingly into each other’s eyes while a narrator droned on about “intimacy and managing flare-ups.”

Y/N was red-faced by the end. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Dean just muttered, “Kill me now.”

Suddenly, Sam stepped forward, looking like he was about to speak, but the narrator’s cue cut him off. “And now, we hear from our third hero. Sam Winchester, please, tell the audience…”

The camera zoomed in on Sam, as he hesitated. He looked at Dean with a nervous, embarrassed glance. “I… uh…” His voice faltered.

Dean’s face contorted with a barely restrained smirk. “Come on, Sammy. You were the one who said we had to play our roles.”

Sam gritted his teeth. “Right… right.”

The camera zoomed in further. Sam cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and spoke, “I have genital herpes.”

Y/N’s jaw dropped as the scene shifted abruptly. “Oh my god, I can't believe he just said that.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “See? Now we’re all stuck in this mess together.”

---

SCENE FOUR: JAPANESE GAME SHOW FROM HELL

BAM!

A klaxon blared. Confetti rained down. Dean was suddenly in a glittering suit jacket, a name tag reading “WINCHESTER-SAN.”

The announcer yelled incomprehensibly, and Sam was immediately smacked in the face with a giant foam mallet.

“WELCOME TO NUTCRACKER!” the screen flashed in bright lights.

Y/N ducked as slime exploded from the ceiling. “Dean!”

He was already holding a trivia buzzer, eyes wide. “I don’t even speak Japanese!”

Sam stumbled, wearing goggles and holding a rubber fish. “I think we just have to survive the round!”

“You think?” Dean shouted.

They were pelted with marshmallows, launched into a ball pit, and forced to answer absurd questions—like what’s the square root of a sandwich.

Dean buzzed in. “Mayo?”

DING DING DING! Confetti everywhere.

Y/N was doubled over laughing. “This is actually kind of fun.”

Dean grinned at her, breathless. “You’re insane.”

“You love that about me,” she teased.

Just then, the Japanese presenter leaned toward Sam, speaking rapidly in Japanese. Sam frowned, not understanding a word. “I don’t understand, I don’t speak Japanese!”

The presenter, frowning, pressed a buzzer, and a loud, triumphant klaxon sounded. Sam yelped as a giant foam Nutcracker swung at him and made contact with his groin.

Dean burst into laughter. “Guess that’s a wrong answer.”

---

SCENE FIVE: THE TRUTH BEHIND THE SCENES

Once they completed the game show round, the illusion shattered like glass. The set dissolved into an empty, colorless void.

Standing at the center was Gabriel—the Trickster. He slow-clapped.

“Well done, kids. You played your roles beautifully.”

Dean stepped forward, seething. “What the hell was the point of all this?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Life’s a stage. And you either follow the script—or get written out.”

Sam’s jaw clenched. “You made her almost die.”

Y/N raised her chin. “You wanted to scare us into obedience.”

Gabriel smirked. “I wanted to prove a point: you three can survive anything—as long as you stick to your parts.”

The void faded. They were back in the motel room. Real world.

Dean turned to Y/N, face still pale. “You okay?”

She gave a small nod. “Yeah. Thanks for saving me, Dr. Sexy.”

Dean flushed. “Don’t call me that.”

Y/N smirked. “Too late.”

---

╔════════════════════════════

(° END OF EPISODE °)

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Tags: #SupernaturalFanfic #DeanWinchester #GabrielTheTrickster #TVParody #FluffyDean #SheHerReader #NovellaStyle

#dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #sam and dean #dean winchester #supernatural x reader #supernatural imagines #supernatural family #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural #spn imagines #spn famdom #spn fanfic #spnfandom #spn

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amethystarachnid · 2 months ago

Note

hi!! natasha romanoff x fem!reader 13 trope pls? thank you!💗

SWAPPED

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ From: MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.1k

ᯓ★ Summary: during a mission you and Natasha get body swapped by an artifact so, until Bruce and Tony find a way to get you back in your own body, you two are blocked. The already disastrous situation only worsens if you think that you are inside the body of the woman you have a crush on

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): some innuendos and tony's jokes

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The rhythmic hum of the Quinjet fills the space between you and Natasha. It’s one of those comfortable silences, the kind that only comes from spending years side by side in life-or-death situations. You sit across from her, legs slightly spread, fingers playing with the frayed edges of your gloves. She's leaned back, arms crossed, her head tilted against the wall, the soft overhead light catching the reddish strands of her hair.

You shouldn’t be staring. But you are.

Her eyes are closed, lashes dark against her pale skin, and for a moment you let yourself have this—watching her like this, peaceful, completely unaware of the way your heart hammers against your ribs just from being near her. You tell yourself it’s harmless. She doesn’t know. She’ll never know.

It’s been like this for a while now. Years, actually. You’re friends—good friends—and that’s all it’s supposed to be. That’s what you keep telling yourself. But there are nights, in the quiet of your own room, when you replay moments between you two, when the air feels heavier, charged, and wonder if maybe she ever thought about you the way you think about her.

But then you remember every sly smirk she’s thrown at a cute waiter, every flirtatious comment she’s batted toward some attractive guy during missions, and you push it all back down. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t like women, and she definitely doesn’t like you. At least, not like that.

“Earth to Y/N,” Natasha’s voice cuts through your thoughts, and your heart stutters painfully.

You blink, realizing too late that her eyes are open now, green and sharp, staring right at you. Caught.

“Zoned out there for a second,” you say, forcing a small smile, hoping your face isn’t betraying you.

Natasha quirks a brow, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Thinking about the mission?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Of course.”

She hums, clearly not buying it but letting you off the hook. “You’re cute when you lie.”

The words hit you square in the chest, even though you know they’re nothing more than a tease. She always does this—throws out little comments that make your head spin, but never with any real weight behind them. Still, your stomach flutters embarrassingly.

You scoff, trying to play it cool. “You’d know. You’re the queen of lies.”

She grins, sharp and amused. “Touché.”

The comms crackle, and you’re grateful for the distraction. “Approaching the target,” comes Sam’s voice through the speakers. “We’re two minutes out.”

You pull yourself together, focusing on the mission. It’s supposed to be simple: in and out, retrieve some weird artifact that SHIELD flagged as dangerous. But nothing ever really goes according to plan.

The Quinjet dips lower, and you and Natasha both rise, moving in sync like you always do. Her presence is grounding, even when your heart is a mess. She gives you a look, the one that says we’ve got this, and you nod.

The building is dark, abandoned, with only the occasional flicker of a broken light illuminating the dust-filled air. You and Natasha slip through the corridors with ease, your footsteps nearly silent. It’s like this every time—the two of you moving together like a well-rehearsed dance. But still, you feel the tension in the pit of your stomach. Maybe it’s the mission. Maybe it’s just her.

You find the artifact in a room that looks more like an ancient temple than part of a crumbling office building. It sits on a pedestal, glowing faintly—a sphere of dark glass with strange runes etched along its surface.

“Looks easy enough,” you whisper, inching closer.

“Famous last words,” Natasha murmurs beside you.

You shoot her a look. “You jinxed it.”

She smirks, but there’s caution in her eyes now. “Let me take a look first.”

You step aside as she approaches the pedestal, fingers hovering over the orb but not touching it. There’s a beat of silence, and then—because of course—something shifts in the air. A pulse radiates out from the sphere, like a ripple through water, and you barely have time to react before it hits both of you.

You feel it deep in your chest, like your whole body is being stretched and compressed all at once. There’s a sharp, blinding light, and your vision blacks out.

When you come to, everything feels... off.

You’re lying on the cold floor, but your body feels strange—heavier in places, lighter in others. There’s a weird disconnect, like your brain isn’t entirely synced with your limbs. You groan, pushing yourself up, but even your voice sounds different.

And then you see yourself.

Or rather, your body. Across the room, sitting up just like you, wearing that same expression of confusion and dawning horror.

“Y/N?” Natasha’s voice comes out of your mouth. Her eyes—your eyes—are wide.

You look down at yourself—except it’s not yourself. It’s Natasha’s body. Her black tactical suit, her gloves, her—

“Oh my god,” you breathe, hands flying to your chest where, yes, you can feel everything that makes Natasha Natasha. “This can’t be happening.”

Natasha scrambles to her feet—well, your feet. “We swapped,” she says flatly, already more composed than you feel.

“No shit,” you snap, but your voice—her voice—makes it sound more seductive than pissed.

There’s a beat of silence before Natasha quirks an eyebrow, still in your body. “I sound hot.”

You glare at her, but it’s hard to focus when your body is standing there, hands on hips, looking at you with your face. It’s beyond weird. And then there’s the fact that you’re inside Natasha’s body right now, every inch of it hyper-aware.

You try not to think about it. About how many times you’ve imagined touching her, being close to her, and now—now you are her.

“This is bad,” you mutter.

Natasha crosses her arms—your arms. “Could be worse.”

You blink at her. “How?”

She smirks. “At least I don’t have to do my own makeup tomorrow.”

Despite yourself, you snort, but the sound that comes out is so soft and melodic that it makes you self-conscious all over again.

“Okay,” you say, trying to focus. “We need to fix this. Get back to the Quinjet, call for backup—something.”

But as you move, you realize that walking in her body feels different—more balanced, stronger. Your limbs respond, but there’s an elegance to it that you never noticed before, at least not from the inside. You can’t help but glance down, and immediately regret it.

Natasha catches you staring.

“Enjoying the view?” she teases, a wicked glint in your—her—eyes.

You flush, but it’s hidden behind her perfect features. “Shut up.”

“Hey, if I were you—” she gestures to herself, “—I’d take advantage of the situation.”

You want to die.

But the thing is, she has no idea. No idea that inside your head, the thoughts are spiraling. Being in her body is like standing too close to the sun—intense, blinding, dangerous. Your brain is a mess of don’t think about it and holy shit, I’m her right now.

“Let’s just get out of here,” you say, voice tight.

You make your way back through the building, trying your best to focus on walking normally, not gawking at the way her body moves, how natural it feels, how strong. But you can’t help the intrusive thoughts—the ones that creep in despite your best efforts.

I wonder what it feels like to fight like her. To stretch, to—

You shake your head, forcing your mind away from the edge.

Natasha, meanwhile, seems to be having a great time. She whistles at one point, and you glare at her.

“Really?”

“What? I’ve never had your legs before. They’re nice.”

You want to scream. Or melt into the floor.

When you finally get back to the Quinjet, you both sit down hard, exhausted and overwhelmed. The artifact is in a containment box now, but there’s no telling how to reverse whatever the hell it did.

“We’ll figure it out,” Natasha says, running a hand through your hair.

You nod, but your mind is still racing. This body swap—being in her skin—it’s like every buried feeling you’ve ever had is now screaming at you. And the worst part is, you’re terrified that you’ll slip. That you’ll say something, or do something, that gives it all away.

Because if there’s one thing you know, it’s that you can’t let Natasha find out how you really feel.

But sitting here, in her body, with her teasing you like it’s all just a game—it’s going to be harder than you ever thought.

The Quinjet touches down at the compound just as the sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows across the tarmac. You’re gripping the edge of the seat so hard that your knuckles—Natasha’s knuckles—turn white. Beside you, Natasha flexes your hands, examining them with curiosity, like she’s still amused by the whole body swap disaster.

“This is so weird,” you mutter under your breath, adjusting your posture. Every tiny movement feels strange, foreign. The suit that usually fits Natasha like a second skin now molds to you, and the weight of her body, the strength in her muscles, is something you’re still not used to. Every step feels like you’re walking in a too-real dream.

Natasha glances at you with your face and shrugs. “I think I’m handling it pretty well.”

You shoot her a glare but it doesn’t have the same impact when it’s coming from her eyes.

Sam’s waiting at the hangar, leaning against a crate, his arms crossed, but the moment he spots the two of you descending the ramp, he frowns. “Everything go okay? You guys look… off.”

You try to open your mouth to explain, but Natasha beats you to it, stepping forward in your body with her usual swagger. “Define okay,” she says, your voice sounding way too confident.

Sam blinks, glancing between the two of you. “Wait—what?”

“Yeah,” you say, gesturing to yourself. “We, uh, swapped.”

“Swapped,” Sam repeats slowly, like he’s trying to process whether you’re joking.

Natasha gives him a grin. Your grin. “Body swapped.”

Sam’s jaw drops open, and then he bursts out laughing, his voice echoing through the hangar. “No. No way.”

You groan. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh, it’s hilarious,” Sam counters, wiping a tear from his eye. “I mean, look at you two.”

“Can we just get inside?” you snap, not really in the mood for jokes—not when you’re wearing Natasha’s body like some awkward cosplay.

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam waves you through, still chuckling. “This is gonna be good.”

The three of you head into the compound, and you can already feel the tension building in your chest—or, well, Natasha’s chest—as you try to figure out how the hell you’re going to explain this to the rest of the team.

Of course, you don’t have to wait long.

The moment you step into the common area, Tony Stark is there, lounging on the couch with a drink in hand. Bruce is at the table, reading through something on his tablet, but both of them glance up as you and Natasha enter.

“Hey, Red, Y/N,” Tony greets, lifting his glass. “You’re back early. What’d you do, set off a self-destruct sequence to save time?”

You sigh, rubbing your temples, which feels even weirder when it’s not your head. “Tony—”

Natasha cuts in, crossing your arms over her chest. “We had a bit of an incident.”

Tony narrows his eyes, noticing the odd dynamic, the way you’re both standing, the uncomfortable distance between you. “What kind of incident?”

“Body swap,” you blurt out.

Tony stares. “Body swap? Like Freaky Friday body swap?”

You nod grimly.

There’s a beat of silence, and then Tony starts laughing so hard he nearly spills his drink. “This is perfect. Oh my god, I wish I had cameras on that mission.”

Bruce lowers his tablet, blinking in mild confusion but already looking concerned. “Wait, seriously? You two swapped bodies?”

You and Natasha both nod.

Tony, still cackling, leans back further on the couch. “This is like the greatest sitcom episode I never knew I needed. Please tell me you at least tried to do each other’s voices.”

Natasha, still in your body, smirks. “I think I nailed hers. Don’t you think?” she asks, and it’s unsettling hearing your voice laced with her sarcastic edge.

Tony snaps his fingers. “Spot on. Ten out of ten.”

“Can you just help us?” you interject, crossing Natasha’s arms tightly, feeling the tension coil in your muscles. Her muscles. “This isn’t exactly fun for me.”

Tony waves his hand dismissively, though there’s still a grin on his face. “Fine, fine. We’ll fix you. Right, Brucie?”

Bruce sighs, already getting up and walking towards his lab. “I’ll start running some tests. Come on.”

You and Natasha follow him through the compound, Tony trailing behind, still muttering about the comedy gold of this entire situation.

In the lab, Bruce starts scanning you both, asking all kinds of questions about the artifact, while Tony pokes at the readings, throwing out occasional jokes that you’re trying really hard to ignore.

“So, Y/N,” Tony says, tapping on a screen, “how does it feel to be the Black Widow for a day? Got that spy mojo flowing yet? Maybe try one of her signature flips?”

You shoot him a glare. “Not the time, Tony.”

He holds up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, I’m just saying—if I were you, I’d make the most of it. Stretch a little. Test out the flexibility.”

Natasha snorts, still in your body, clearly enjoying this more than she should.

Bruce, thankfully, clears his throat, cutting through the banter. “This isn’t going to be an easy fix,” he says, his brows furrowing as he studies the readings. “Whatever that artifact was, it didn’t just swap your consciousness—it rewrote certain biological signals. I’m going to need time to figure out how to reverse it.”

You feel your stomach sink—or Natasha’s stomach, whatever. “How long are we talking?”

Bruce hesitates. “Could be a day. Could be a week.”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “Great.”

Tony claps his hands together. “Well, in the meantime, you two get to live each other’s lives. This is going to be so entertaining.”

Natasha crosses your arms and smirks. “I think I’ll enjoy this.”

You glare at her. “Glad one of us will.”

After Bruce gives you both a few more instructions, you and Natasha head out of the lab, the weight of the situation sinking in. It hits you harder when you realize you can’t just sit around in her body without taking care of… basic things.

“So,” Natasha says casually, as you both walk towards the living quarters, “I guess we should talk about the elephant in the room.”

You glance at her. “Which one? The fact that I’m stuck in your body or the fact that Tony thinks this is hilarious?”

“No,” she says, stopping in front of her room—your room, for now. “The fact that we’re going to have to deal with… hygiene.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Hygiene?”

She gives you a pointed look. “We’re going to have to shower at some point.”

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. Showering. In her body.

You can already feel the heat rising to your face, and you scramble to find words. “I—I can just, you know… avoid looking.”

Natasha chuckles, leaning against the doorframe. “Good luck with that.”

You glare at her, trying to seem unbothered, but your heart is racing. “You’re way too chill about this.”

She shrugs, still wearing your body with an ease that’s almost infuriating. “I’ve been through worse.”

You groan, running your hand through her red hair. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

“Or an adventure,” she says, smirking.

You try to ignore the way that makes your stomach flutter.

Hours pass, and after a painfully awkward attempt at dinner—where Tony made more jokes about the swap and Sam nearly choked laughing—you find yourself back in Natasha’s room. It’s neat, sparse, just like you expected. Her gear is lined up meticulously, and there’s a faint trace of her perfume in the air.

You’re standing in front of her mirror, still wearing her tactical suit, trying to muster the courage to actually take it off. You need to wash up. You can’t exactly avoid it forever. But the idea of seeing… everything… it’s almost too much.

“This is fine,” you mutter to yourself, tugging at the zipper.

The suit peels away, and you force yourself to keep your eyes on the wall, on the ceiling—anywhere but the mirror. But your curiosity gets the better of you, and you glance.

It’s surreal. You’ve seen Natasha in her suit a million times, in training, on missions, but seeing her body like this—knowing it’s you in there—it makes something twist painfully in your chest. You try to ignore the intrusive thoughts, the ones that creep in despite your best efforts.

Don’t look. Don’t think about it.

But you can’t help it.

You take the quickest shower of your life, eyes squeezed shut most of the time, and when you’re finally done, you throw on a set of Natasha’s pajamas, which are soft and simple but still somehow make you feel like an imposter.

You flop down on her bed, groaning into the pillow. “This is hell.”

A knock sounds at the door.

You sit up quickly. “Yeah?”

Natasha steps in—in your body—wearing one of your old T-shirts and sweatpants, looking way too comfortable. She grins. “So. How was the shower?”

You scowl. “Don’t.”

She raises her hands. “Hey, just checking.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She shrugs, then flops onto the bed next to you, stretching out her arms—your arms—and sighs. “It could be worse.”

You turn your head to look at her, feeling the heaviness in your chest again. “Yeah? How?”

She grins. “We could’ve swapped with Tony.”

You both burst out laughing, the tension breaking, at least for a moment. But as the laughter dies down, you realize that being stuck like this, stuck with her, is going to be harder than you thought. Because every second in her body, every teasing joke, every lingering glance—it’s pushing you closer to a line you’ve been avoiding for years.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can keep pretending.

You lie there on Natasha’s bed, still in her body, staring up at the ceiling while Natasha lounges beside you in your body like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She’s got your legs crossed at the ankles, one arm draped over her stomach, and she looks almost too comfortable. You wonder if it’s that easy for her, adapting to being someone else.

But it’s not.

What you don’t realize is that behind her smirks and sarcastic comments, she’s struggling just as much as you are—maybe even more.

She glances over at you, watching herself—well, you—stare at the ceiling, your jaw tight, eyes heavy with everything you’re trying not to say. From where she’s lying, seeing her own face from the outside, it’s strange. Surreal. But what throws her off the most isn’t the swap—it’s you.

You’ve always been the reason she’s held back.

Natasha has spent years convincing herself that it’s fine—more than fine—that the friendship you two share is enough. She never let it go further, never allowed herself to say anything, because she was sure you didn’t feel the same. Every time you talked about past relationships—guys—it reinforced the wall she built around her feelings. You’d talk about dates that didn’t work out, about exes who weren’t worth the time, and even when you were clearly frustrated with how they treated you, you never mentioned anything about girls. Never once hinted.

So she buried it.

She became your closest friend, your mission partner, the person you trusted when things went to hell. She told herself that was enough. That it had to be.

But being in your body now? It’s like standing too close to a window she was never supposed to look through. She feels everything—your heartbeat, the way your chest rises and falls with every breath, the way your hands fidget when you’re anxious. It’s intimate in a way she hadn’t prepared for.

And it’s killing her.

You shift beside her, still oblivious to what’s running through her head, and groan into the pillow. “This is the worst.”

Natasha props herself up on her elbow—your elbow—and studies you. “It’s not that bad,” she teases, though her chest feels tight.

You turn your head to look at her, your—her—red hair spilling across the pillow. “You’re handling this way too well. I’m over here having an identity crisis, and you’re… what? Just chilling?”

She forces a smirk. “I’m adaptable.”

But inside, she’s far from chill.

Being in your body, it’s different from anything she’s experienced. She thought it’d be awkward, and yeah, it is, but there’s more to it. She can feel your strength in the way your muscles shift under the surface, the subtle scars from past missions that she traces absentmindedly while sitting in front of the mirror. She knows every inch of you now—every part of you that she never thought she’d be allowed to see.

And it terrifies her.

She didn’t expect this—didn’t expect that being you, even temporarily, would make her feelings harder to ignore.

Earlier, after you both left Bruce and Tony’s lab, she’d gone straight to your room. It felt weird, standing there in the doorway, in your skin, staring at your bed, your shelves, the mess of clothes in the corner. It was so you. She’d hesitated before going in, feeling like she was intruding on something personal.

But curiosity got the better of her.

She walked around the room, running her—your—fingers over your books, photos, little trinkets you’d collected. Things she recognized, things she didn’t. She sat on your bed for a moment, bouncing lightly on the mattress, wondering if you ever thought about her here, in this space, when no one was around.

The thought made her stomach twist.

And then came the harder part—the shower.

It wasn’t until she stood in front of your bathroom mirror, the water running in the background, that she realized how complicated this was. She pulled your shirt over your head, carefully, like if she rushed it would be wrong. She avoided looking too closely at first, focusing on the tiles behind her, but her eyes eventually drifted to her reflection—your reflection.

It was strange, but also… beautiful.

She knew you were gorgeous—she wasn’t blind—but seeing you this way, with nothing to hide behind, made her heart race. It wasn’t about attraction in a superficial way. It was deeper than that. It was seeing the person she cared about, vulnerable, open, even if you didn’t know it.

She felt like she was breaking some unspoken rule.

The shower itself was quick. She kept her eyes closed most of the time, focusing on the mechanics, but even that was a challenge. Feeling your body move, the way your hands—her hands—ran through your hair, it was too much. Every second in there felt like she was toeing a dangerous line.

And now, lying next to you on her bed, still in your body, it’s all she can think about.

You sigh beside her, breaking the silence. “Do you think Bruce will actually fix this?”

She shrugs. “Eventually.”

You roll onto your side to face her, propping yourself up on one elbow. It’s a surreal sight—her own face looking at her like that, soft and tired. “This is so weird,” you say. “Like… I’m talking to myself, but I’m not.”

She smiles, but there’s a tightness to it that you don’t notice.

“You’re really good at this,” you add. “The whole… hiding how weirded out you are.”

She hesitates, then says, “I’m used to pretending.”

The words come out softer than she intended, and for a second, something shifts in your expression, like you’re about to ask her what she means. But then you stop yourself, and the moment passes.

Another beat of silence stretches between you, heavy and thick.

You break it with a nervous laugh. “God, I can’t believe we’re in this mess.”

Natasha chuckles, though her mind is racing. She wants to say something—anything—to bridge the gap that’s been growing between what she feels and what she shows. But she can’t. Not when she’s convinced that if she does, she’ll lose you.

So she stays quiet, even though every part of her is screaming.

But then you say something that catches her off guard.

“You know,” you start, your voice hesitant, “when we first swapped, I was… kinda panicking. I thought you’d be pissed. I didn’t think you’d take it so well.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Why would I be pissed?”

You shrug, looking at the bedspread. “I don’t know. I guess I just thought… I don’t know. That you’d hate being stuck in my body.”

There’s something vulnerable in your voice that tugs at her chest.

She sits up slightly, looking at you more seriously. “Why would I hate it?”

You hesitate, chewing on your bottom lip. “Because… I’m not you. I’m not the Black Widow. I don’t have your skills, your… confidence.”

Her heart aches. She never realized you felt that way.

“Y/N,” she says gently, “you’re one of the strongest people I know.”

You scoff. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m serious.” She shifts so she’s fully facing you, her legs crossed beneath her. “You think I don’t notice how much you do? How hard you train, how much you care about everyone on this team?”

You look at her—at yourself—with wide eyes, surprised by the intensity in her voice.

“I’m not in your body right now just wearing it like a suit,” she continues. “I feel it. I feel your strength. Your resilience. It’s all there.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the tension between you almost palpable.

Then you smile, shy but genuine. “Thanks, Nat.”

She swallows hard, her throat tight. “Anytime.”

You lie back down, staring up at the ceiling again, but Natasha remains sitting, watching you. She wants to say it—the thing that’s been burning in her chest for years. But she doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, she whispers, almost too softly for you to hear, “You have no idea.”

And maybe that’s the problem.

Because while you lie there, in her body, wondering if this swap is going to break you, Natasha sits in yours, wondering if it’s the only chance she’ll ever get to be this close to you.

The next few days in each other’s bodies are, unsurprisingly, absolute chaos. The compound, usually buzzing with energy and the hum of advanced technology, now feels like a stage for the most awkward reality show ever made, starring you and Natasha as the unwilling leads.

Tony, of course, is having the time of his life.

“Alright, Y/N—” he grins one morning, leaning against the kitchen counter with a coffee in hand, “—or should I say, Natasha? How’s the super-spy life treating you? Mastered the seductive stare yet?”

You narrow Natasha’s green eyes at him, but the effect is ruined when you accidentally bump the edge of the counter with her hip. Natasha’s body is a powerhouse—every movement feels amplified, and you’re still adjusting to the strength in her limbs.

Tony smirks. “Careful, Widow. You’ll dent my kitchen before you dent my heart.”

“Tony,” you say through gritted teeth, crossing Natasha’s arms over her chest. “This is already hard enough without your commentary.”

“Hard enough?” He raises an eyebrow. “Was that an innuendo? Damn, Y/N, didn’t know you had it in you.”

You groan and glance at Natasha—who’s leaning casually against the fridge in your body, sipping coffee like none of this bothers her. She catches your look and raises your eyebrow in amusement.

“Tell him to shut up,” you mutter.

Natasha takes another sip of coffee, licking your lips—her lips?—before responding. “Why? He’s right. You’re terrible at hiding your thoughts. I can practically feel the awkwardness radiating off you.”

Tony cackles. “Oh, this is golden.”

Bruce walks into the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He freezes when he sees the three of you—Tony grinning like a maniac, Natasha lounging in your body, and you trying not to break the counter with Natasha’s super strength.

“Are we still like this?” he sighs, pouring himself coffee.

“Yup,” you and Natasha answer in unison.

“I’m working on it,” Bruce mumbles, taking his mug and retreating to the lab before Tony can rope him into more banter.

But of course, Tony isn’t done.

He spends most of the day following you and Natasha around, making jokes and taking mental notes for what he calls his “future blockbuster screenplay” about two spies who swap bodies and fall in love.

“You know,” he says at lunch, spinning a fork between his fingers, “this situation would make a killer rom-com. Two partners, forced into each other’s bodies, learning deep secrets—maybe even… forbidden feelings?”

You almost choke on your food. Natasha, meanwhile, chews calmly, though you notice the slight twitch at the corner of your mouth—her tell when something gets to her.

“I’m serious,” Tony continues, pointing between you two. “You know you’re gonna come out of this with some kind of emotional breakthrough. It’s, like, body-swap 101.”

“Tony,” Natasha says dryly—your voice coming out smooth and unimpressed, “you’ve been watching too many movies.”

“And yet, I’m still right,” he replies, grinning.

You glare at him. “Just let Bruce fix this already.”

But Bruce is struggling. Despite his genius, the body swap isn’t something easily reversed. Every time he calls you into the lab for scans or bloodwork, he looks more stressed, muttering about neurological pathways and “molecular consciousness displacement” like the world’s worst bedtime story.

“We’re talking about reprogramming the body’s natural biological signals,” he explains one afternoon, running a scanner over Natasha’s body—you in Natasha’s body—again. “It’s not just swapping your consciousness. Your physical forms are literally rejecting each other.”

“Cool,” Tony says, lounging on a lab stool, “so we’re one step away from Y/N growing red hair and Nat turning into a Starbucks-loving civilian?”

Bruce gives him a withering look.

You shift uncomfortably on the exam table. “How long, Bruce? Seriously.”

He sighs. “I don’t know. Maybe a few more days? Maybe a week? I don’t want to rush this and make it worse.”

The idea of being stuck in Natasha’s body that long sends your thoughts spiraling. Not because you hate it—but because you’re terrified of slipping up. Of showing too much. You already catch yourself staring at Natasha—your own body—when she’s not looking. She wears your skin like it’s nothing, moving through the compound with her usual confidence. And it drives you insane.

But the worst part? She seems completely unaffected. Like this is just another mission to get through.

Except… it’s not.

What you don’t see is how hard Natasha’s working to hide her own cracks.

Being in your body isn’t as simple as she makes it look. The first few days, she plays it cool—leaning into the teasing, pretending she’s fine—but inside, it’s chaos. She feels everything—your racing heartbeat when she stands too close, the way your stomach flips when Tony makes an offhand comment about the two of you being too comfortable.

The worst part is your scent.

She didn’t expect it to affect her, but it does. Being in your body means being surrounded by your warmth, your softness, the little details she’s tried to ignore for years. When she lies in your bed at night, staring at the ceiling, she wonders if this is what it would feel like—if things were different.

If you wanted her.

But she doesn’t let it show.

Instead, she focuses on small things—testing your strength at the gym, running drills with Sam, even sneaking in sparring sessions with Clint. It’s weird using your body in combat—your movements are less refined than hers, but there’s a power in you she’s always noticed.

“You hit harder than you think,” Clint comments one afternoon after she knocks him to the mat in the gym.

“Thanks,” she says, wiping sweat from your brow, though it feels strange to take credit for your strength.

“You’re adjusting fast.”

She shrugs, grabbing a towel. “I adapt.”

Clint watches her for a beat, then smirks. “You know, Y/N’s been asking about extra combat training for weeks now. Maybe when this is all over, you should be the one to help her out.”

The idea makes something twist in her chest.

“Yeah,” she mutters, “maybe.”

But adapting gets harder at night.

The quiet moments, when she’s alone in your room, lying in your bed, wearing your oversized T-shirts—those are the ones that crack her armor. She’ll catch herself staring at the ceiling, running your hands over your arms, wondering how you’d react if you knew. If you felt what she was feeling now.

And there are moments—small ones—when she thinks maybe you do know.

Like when you catch her reflection in a window, watching you when you think no one’s looking. Or when your gaze lingers too long on her—your own body—during training.

It builds, slowly, over the days.

The tension. The unspoken.

And Tony doesn’t help.

One evening, after another failed attempt at reversing the swap, he corners you both in the kitchen with two glasses of wine.

“Alright,” he says, sliding the glasses across the counter. “We’re officially past the ‘this is hilarious’ stage. Now we’re in the ‘let’s get deep and vulnerable’ stage.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Tony—”

“Nope,” he cuts you off, raising a finger. “You’ve both been weirdly quiet about this, and I know—” he points between you—“that there’s more going on than just a body swap.”

Natasha, in your body, leans against the counter and sips her wine. “Like what?”

He grins. “Like, say, hidden feelings? Deep-seated emotional repression? Classic spy stuff.”

You almost spit out your drink. “Tony!”

He laughs. “I’m serious! You two have been dancing around each other for years. Now you’re literally in each other’s skin, and you’re telling me there’s nothing happening? Come on.”

You glare at him. “You’re reading into this way too much.”

But Natasha stays quiet.

Tony notices and smirks. “Or maybe I’m right.”

She finally speaks, her voice low. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But even you can hear the edge in her tone.

Tony backs off—barely—but his words linger.

That night, after everyone’s gone to bed, you find yourself wandering to the balcony, staring out at the stars. It’s quiet, peaceful, and for once, your thoughts settle.

Until you hear footsteps behind you.

Natasha.

In your body, wearing one of your hoodies, her hands stuffed into the pockets. She stands next to you, leaning on the railing.

“Can’t sleep?” she asks.

You shake your head. “Not really.”

The silence stretches, thick with unspoken words.

“Y/N,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, “do you ever wonder… if things could be different?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Different how?”

She hesitates, then sighs. “If we weren’t always on missions. If we didn’t have to… hide things.”

The question makes your heart race. Because yes. You’ve wondered. More times than you can count.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

The words hang between you, fragile and heavy.

And for the first time since the swap, you see it—the crack in her armor. The way she looks at you, like she’s been holding something back for years.

“Y/N,” she says again, her voice barely audible, “if we never get this fixed… I need you to know—”

But before she can finish, there’s a loud bang from the lab, followed by Bruce shouting, “I think I found something!”

You both jump, the tension snapping instantly.

But even as you rush toward the lab, Natasha’s unfinished words echo in your mind.

I need you to know…

And suddenly, the thought of going back to normal doesn’t feel so simple anymore.

The lab is a mess of wires, glowing monitors, and a haze of smoke from whatever Bruce just accidentally exploded. You and Natasha rush inside—her still in your body, you in hers—hearts pounding, the echo of her almost-confession still lingering between you.

Tony’s leaning against the wall, grinning like the proud inventor he is. Bruce, flustered but hopeful, gestures wildly at a console that’s beeping erratically.

“I did it,” Bruce says breathlessly. “I think I actually did it.”

“You’re sure?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady, even as your hands—Natasha’s hands—tremble slightly.

Bruce adjusts his glasses. “Ninety-five percent sure. That’s pretty good, right?”

Tony claps him on the back. “Close enough. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? You swap with a dog? Or each other’s subconscious fears? That would be fun.”

You glare at him, but Natasha—still in your body—smirks. “If we end up in Tony’s body, I’m quitting.”

Tony gasps, clutching his chest. “You wound me, Romanoff. Truly.”

But you barely register the banter. Your mind is spinning with the weight of what Natasha almost said out on the balcony. The thought that she was going to confess something—and that you might never have known if Bruce hadn’t found a solution—sits heavy in your chest.

“Alright,” Bruce says, flipping a few switches. “This should reverse the swap. You’ll stand here—” he points to two glowing platforms, side by side, “—and when I activate the sequence, it’ll realign your consciousness with your original body.”

You glance at Natasha. She’s watching you, expression unreadable in your face, which makes it even harder to guess what she’s thinking.

You swallow hard. “Ready?”

She holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

You step onto the platforms, heart racing. There’s a low hum as the machine powers up, energy swirling around you both.

Tony’s voice cuts through the noise. “Alright, lovebirds. If you swap brains with a toaster or something, I call dibs on the patent.”

You roll your—Natasha’s—eyes, but then everything blurs.

There’s a blinding flash, like lightning in your veins, and suddenly, everything feels… right.

You stumble forward, catching yourself with your own hands. Your own hands.

You blink, the world spinning for a second, then look up to see Natasha standing across from you—in her own body—rubbing her temples.

“Nat?” you ask, your voice—your real voice—cracking slightly.

She lifts her head, and when her green eyes meet yours, there’s a beat of silence that stretches and expands, until the buzzing in your ears fades completely.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’m me again.”

The sheer relief makes you laugh, breathless and shaky, and Natasha’s lips twitch upward.

“We did it!” Bruce exclaims, but his voice is distant, muffled against the roaring in your head.

Because all you can focus on is Natasha.

Tony is still yammering, probably making jokes about you two now being able to “safely kiss without existential dread,” but his words blur as the lab becomes a peripheral hum.

Natasha steps closer.

The tension is palpable—electric.

She hesitates, then grabs your wrist gently, fingers curling around your skin like she’s grounding herself.

“Y/N,” she starts, her voice low, almost trembling. “We need to talk.”

Your heart skips. “Yeah. Okay.”

Without waiting, she pulls you out of the lab, past Bruce’s triumphant cheers and Tony’s relentless teasing. Neither of you say anything as you navigate through the compound, weaving past empty hallways until you find yourself standing outside your room.

She pauses at your door, biting her lip. “Can we—?”

You nod, opening it.

The room is exactly as you left it, but it feels different now—charged with an energy you can’t ignore.

Natasha walks in first, stopping in the middle of the room, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her usual calm is gone—replaced by something raw, vulnerable.

You close the door behind you, heart pounding. “Natasha, what—”

She cuts you off. “I found your diary.”

The words hit you like a freight train.

Your face heats up instantly. “What?”

She swallows, her hands flexing at her sides. “When I was in your body. In your room. I—I wasn’t trying to snoop, I swear. But I couldn’t sleep, and I was looking around, and I saw it on your nightstand.”

You cover your face with your hands. “Oh my God.”

“Y/N,” she says quickly, stepping closer, “I didn’t mean to read it. But when I opened it… I saw what you wrote. About me.”

Your heart is now definitely trying to claw its way out of your chest.

“I—” You struggle to form words. “Natasha, I—”

She takes your hands, pulling them away from your face so you’re forced to meet her eyes. They’re soft, filled with something you can’t quite name—hope, fear, longing.

“You like me,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

You nod, defeated. “Yeah. I do.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air, but instead of tension, there’s relief.

“I didn’t want to say anything,” you rush on, “because I thought—you know—I thought you only liked guys. And I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”

Natasha lets out a shaky breath, then laughs—soft, incredulous. “You’re an idiot.”

You blink. “What?”

She smiles now, full and real. “I like you, too. I have for a long time.”

You stare at her, stunned. “You do?”

She nods, her hand brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I didn’t say anything because I thought you weren’t into girls. You’ve only ever talked about guys, and I didn’t want to cross a line.”

Your head is spinning. “So all this time…?”

“All this time,” she confirms.

There’s a beat of silence, then you both laugh—nervous, breathless, but filled with something else now.

Natasha’s eyes darken slightly as she steps even closer, her hand now cupping your cheek. “I didn’t want to tell you while I was still in your body,” she admits. “It didn’t feel right. I wanted this—” she leans in, her breath ghosting over your lips, “—to happen with us. The real us.”

Your breath catches. “So… what happens now?”

Her lips curl into a smirk. “I think this.”

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft at first—tentative, as if both of you are testing the waters. But then you melt into it, your hands tangling in her hair, her fingers digging into your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss deepens, and everything else—the awkwardness, the fear, the weeks of body-swapped chaos—fades away.

When you finally pull apart, breathless and grinning like idiots, Natasha leans her forehead against yours.

“That was worth waiting for,” she murmurs.

You laugh, your heart so full it hurts. “Definitely.”

But then there’s a loud knock at your door, followed by Tony’s unmistakable voice.

“Hey! I’m gonna assume the awkward confessions are done and the kissing has commenced?”

You and Natasha groan in unison, but neither of you can stop smiling.

Because for once, Tony’s actually right.

okay so, writing this was actually more confusing than I thought lol

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