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just-aake · 8 months ago

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Detecting Love

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: A person with the power to detect lies meets the spy who has been trained to lie her entire life.

Warnings: fluff, light angst

Words: 6169

You have the power to detect lies.

Now, it’s not exactly strong enough to be a hero, but you can honestly say that it has been useful in your life.

Sure, it gets annoying at times, but one of the many lessons you’ve learned is to ignore minor instances of dishonesty — white lies or small things like that — since it helps reduce unnecessary confusion or chaos with others.

People lie. That is an undeniable fact of life.

And while one may believe that being able to detect such things is great, the truth is there are times when you find yourself resenting your power.

Because, of course, everyone experiences moments when they wish that someone important to them isn't lying.

Like when your fiancée tells you she loves you.

There wasn’t really a malicious reason behind why a usually affectionate statement suddenly became so hurtful.

There was no cheating.

There was no fighting.

It was just another one of the many lessons you’ve learned in life.

That sometimes…a truth can also become a lie.

It’s just unfortunate that this lesson happened to you in such a way.

These kinds of moments make you wonder if maybe it’s better that people shouldn’t always know when someone is lying to them.

Then they don’t end up alone, drinking at a bar late into the night, trying to numb the pain of a broken heart.

You let out a heavy sigh as you stare at the pair of rings resting on the bar top, remembering the conversation that ended with one of them being returned to you.

It was a heart-wrenching discussion where your fiancée confessed her steadily changed feelings for you, leading to the resolution to remain friends.

And while neither of you is completely at fault for why things ended, you can’t help but blame your stupid power for putting you in the situation in the first place.

You sigh heavily once more before swiftly downing the glass the bartender had set in front of you.

At least your current attempt to drown your sorrow is going well, judging by how the rings start to blur in your vision.

With a sad sigh, you reach for the rings to put them away, but in your clumsy state, one slips from your grasp and tumbles to the floor.

Just as you move to retrieve it, a hand beats you to it.

Looking up, you find a red-haired stranger standing before you, offering the ring to you with a charming smile.

She looks familiar but the drunken haze in your brain makes it hard for you to remember where you’ve seen her before.

“Here, you dropped this,” she says, her voice low and smooth.

She’s beautiful and her voice sounds perfect. You think to yourself as you take the ring from her.

She chuckles lightly, “Thanks.”

Oh, did you say that out loud? You must be more drunk than you thought.

The woman offers her hand to you in greeting, and with a confident smirk, she introduces herself.

“My name’s Natalie. Natalie Rushman.”

Immediately, a red aura surrounds her, causing you to roll your eyes and return your attention back to the bar.

“Liar,” you mutter tiredly as you gesture to the bartender to close your tab, not really in the mood to deal with any more lies tonight.

At the corner of your eyes, you see the stranger give you a slightly impressed look.

Ready to leave, you stand up quickly from your seat.

However, the action makes the room suddenly spin in your vision, causing you to stagger backward.

A hand steadies you, resting gently on your back, and you unconsciously lean back against her surprisingly strong frame for support.

There’s a soft chuckle near your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Let me try again,” she whispers smoothly, guiding you upright and turning you around to face her.

Offering her hand once more, she reintroduces herself.

“My name’s Natasha Romanoff. I’m here to recruit you to work for the Avengers.”

You blink slowly, trying to comprehend her words through your drunken haze. You wonder if the alcohol is affecting you more than you thought when no red aura appears this time at her words.

Chuckling to yourself, you shake your head in disbelief, unfortunately worsening the pounding in your skull.

Work for the Avengers? That has to be a lie.

Before you can think about it any further, you feel yourself falling once more, unable to remain upright.

Strong arms catch you, and as your consciousness fades, you see a blurry glimpse of her striking green eyes before succumbing to darkness.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You wake to the pounding in your head and the bright sunlight streaming through your window. Turning away, you groan into your pillow, remembering that your fiancée – your ex-fiancée – would typically close the curtains before leaving for work.

Now that she’s gone, you’re going to have to adjust to living alone once again.

A cup being placed on the nightstand startles you into sitting up, as you turn in surprise to find the beautiful red-haired stranger beside your bed.

“For your headache,” she explains, placing some medicine next to the cup.

Your mouth hangs open as you struggle to remember the events of last night, some of which are honestly a blur.

You examine yourself, checking your clothes and finding them unchanged from the previous night, and then you scan your surroundings again and realize in relief that nothing was out of place.

Well, except for the presence of this stranger in your home, who’s patiently waiting for you to gather yourself.

Searching through your drunken memories, you think you vaguely remember meeting her last night. She had mentioned her name was — Nata…?

“Natalie?” you ask with uncertainty.

At her raised brow, you quickly apologize, feeling bad for not remembering correctly.

“I’m sorry, I can’t seem to remember, but did we…did something happen between us last night?” you ask hesitantly.

Her face twists in genuine sadness and disappointment, causing a panic to run through you as you struggle to recall what could’ve possibly happened between the two of you for her to have such an expression.

“I’m hurt,” she finally says, placing a hand on her chest, “And after you even said that it was the best night of your life.”

Seeing the familiar red aura appear around her at her words, you let out a brief sigh of relief before realization sets in, and you give her a hard glare.

“You’re lying.”

Her hurt expression quickly morphs into an impressed look, and you are slightly startled at how effortlessly she was able to shift her emotions.

The woman straightens her posture and crosses her arms, adopting a commanding stance that seems more likely her typical demeanor.

“So it’s not just luck,” she remarks, studying you curiously.

At her words, you quickly rise from your bed in confusion.

However, the action causes you to wince in pain at the pounding in your head.

Shutting your eyes tightly, you hold your head in comfort and lean lightly on the nightstand for support.

As you do, your hand brushes against yesterday’s newspaper that you had been reading moments before your ex said those fateful three words that led to the heartbreaking conversation between the two of you.

When the pain subsides, you slowly open your eyes, catching a glimpse of the front page before doing a double take.

The front features an article about the opening of the new Avenger Compound, including a photo capturing the Avenger members posed in front of the completed building.

What catches you off guard is the uncanny resemblance between one of the Avengers in the picture and the woman standing before you.

Pointing at her in disbelief, you stammer.

“You’re…,” then, gesturing at the newspaper, you continue, “…her?”

She doesn’t respond to your question but instead nods toward your other room, inviting you to follow.

“Let’s talk,” she says, heading toward your door, then gestures at the medicine on your nightstand. “But drink those first.”

After freshening up in your bathroom, you take a moment to stare at your reflection in the mirror, noticing the remnants of last night’s tears in your slightly puffy, red eyes.

Sighing, you brush away the depressing thoughts of your failed relationship before taking the medicine and exiting your room.

You are greeted by the sight of your unexpected guest comfortably seated at your kitchen counter, flipping through a magazine with casual disinterest.

“You’re Black Widow,” you say confidently this time, positioning yourself on the opposite side of her.

She closes the magazine with a snap, placing it on the table before clasping her hands atop of it and meeting your gaze.

“It’s actually Natasha,” she corrects you, before nodding at you. “And you’re Y/n L/n.”

“How did you…?”

She holds up a wedding invitation draft, displaying you and your fiancée’s names printed in fine lettering.

Realizing that she must have been snooping around your things, you give her a disapproving glare, snatching the card from her hand and hastily stuffing it into a drawer.

Feeling a mixture of emotions—irritated, sad, hungover—you turn to the fridge, deciding to make breakfast to give yourself some focus.

After you retrieve the eggs and other ingredients, you heat the stove before glancing at Natasha briefly, asking, “So, what does an Avenger want from me?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her resting her head against her hand, watching you with interest.

“I told you yesterday,” she replies.

You roll your eyes, giving her a deadpan look, knowing she’s aware that you don’t remember.

“Remind me again.”

Natasha gives you an amused smirk, straightening up in her seat.

“Alright, I’m here to recruit you, more specifically for a sort of managerial position at the new Avenger Compound.”

Furrowing your brows, you question, “Why me? I don't have experience with that sort of thing.”

“But you can tell when someone is lying, can’t you?”

Pausing briefly in your cooking, you contemplate her words and its possible implications. Not many people know about your ability, and you don’t think you did anything to reveal it to the spy who’s currently staring expectantly at you.

So, in response, you shrug, replying as casually as possible.

“I guess you could say I’m good at reading people…psychology degree and all.”

A silence ensues, broken only by the sizzling of your cooking, until Natasha finally nods, seemingly accepting your explanation.

You breathe a silent sigh of relief, returning your attention to your current task.

But then she pulls out a folder filled with documents and places it on the counter, causing your nerves to rise again.

“Well, you’ve helped solve hundreds of cases with your interviews of the suspects,” she remarks casually, flipping through the folder before glancing up at you through her lashes.

“100% accuracy rate in the information that you provided to the detectives,” she continues, nodding at you in acknowledgment. “For a part-time profiler, that’s impressive.”

“Thanks,” you respond with a polite smile, but beneath the surface, a hint of suspicion creeps in as you begin plating the meal you made.

Natasha closes the folder with a definitive snap, making you look at her.

“You could say it’s almost impossible,” she muses, before a confident smirk forms on her face, and she tilts her head at you with a raised brow in challenge.

“Unless there’s some way you can guarantee that they’re telling the truth.”

Honestly, you should’ve known better than to think that the experienced spy hadn’t already completed thorough research and investigations into you and your powers before meeting with you.

If anything, this was likely just a test for her to confirm what she already knows about your abilities.

Sliding a plate across the counter to Natasha with a pointed glare, you relent, deciding there’s no point in denying it anymore.

“Fine, what do you know?”

Instead of responding, Natasha’s gaze lingers on the plate before her, a hint of confusion in her expression.

Her plate holds a fluffy omelette accompanied by a side of crispy bacon and a slice of golden-brown toasted bread.

As she glances back up at you with a questioning look in her eyes, you take a seat across from her, setting down a similar plate in front of you before also placing a stack of fluffy pancakes at the center.

“What’s this?” she asks, gesturing to the meal.

“Breakfast,” you reply bluntly, taking a bite from your plate.

Natasha raises a brow at you, remarking plainly, “It’s noon.”

“Brunch then,” you correct with a roll of your eyes.

Natasha's lips quirk up in amusement, and she shakes her head.

“Thanks, but I’ve already eaten.”

The red aura appears around her, and with your mouth full of food, you give her a pointed glare.

“Right,” Natasha says in realization, remembering what you can do. She pulls the plate closer to her with a soft thanks.

The atmosphere that followed was unusual but surprisingly not awkward. Despite being practically strangers, you find yourself slightly comforted by Natasha’s presence.

If she wasn’t here, you probably wouldn’t have dragged yourself out of bed today after what happened yesterday.

After a moment of eating, Natasha breaks the silence.

“So, how can you tell when someone’s lying?”

Pausing to contemplate your answer, you wipe your mouth with a napkin before responding.

“Well, when someone lies, there’s always this rush of chemicals that happens in their bodies,” you explain. “It ends up causing the typical indicators — things like fidgeting, sweating, or tone changes in their voice.”

“I didn’t do any of that, yet you still knew I was lying,” Natasha points out.

“No, you're right,” you admit, nodding. “You’re a perfect liar.”

From what you have seen so far, every expression and comment of hers appears genuine and honest, and if it was anyone else, they’d probably believe anything she says.

However, thanks to your ability, you know better.

Gesturing at her, you clarify, “You still give off the same chemical reactions though, and I have the ability to see that.”

Natasha leans back in her seat, crossing her arms as she processes your explanation.

“It’s mainly visual then,” she concludes before asking curiously. “You don’t even need to hear what they said to know that they’re lying?”

You nod, ruefully adding, “Yep, my world’s just filled with people glowing red at random.”

“And how long does this ‘glow’ stay around them?”

“Depends,” you reply with a shrug. “Usually not long, maybe a few seconds.”

Natasha hums in interest, tapping her chin, her brows pinching lightly in thought.

You can’t help but smile amusedly at the sight.

For a person who has such an intimidating reputation, the spy in front of you right now looks kind of cute rather than scary.

After a moment, you break the silence this time.

“So, what’s the job?”

Natasha’s eyes focus back on you at your question.

“Nothing too complicated,” she assures. “You’ll be in charge of interviewing the new employee candidates and conducting continuous reviews of the current ones.”

“You mean like screening them?” you ask, tilting your head in confusion, already aware of the rigorous and difficult process required to work at the Avengers buildings.

“Don’t you guys already do extensive background checks before hiring people? Why do you suddenly need me?”

At your question, a charming smile appears on her face, effortlessly shifting her expression like before, though now you understand she’s just hiding her true feelings about the situation.

“That’s confidential.”

You scoff in disbelief and cross your arms.

“You do know that just makes it harder to trust you, right?”

Natasha mirrors your posture, her pretty grin still in place, masking any other emotions.

“Fair point,” she admits. “But to be honest, you should never put your trust in people like me anyway.”

“People like you?”

“Spies,” Natasha clarifies as she begins to gather her empty plate and utensils. “Which is one of the types of people you’d be looking out for in this position. Their deception skills would be on a similar level to mine.”

You chuckle at that, causing Natasha to pause in her actions, raising a brow at you in question.

“Sorry, but everyone lies, whether you’re a spy or not,” you tell her, standing and taking the empty plate from her with a small smirk. “You’re just slightly better at it.”

A tiny offended look slips through Natasha’s expression at your little jab, her brow furrowing for a brief second.

Your grin widens at the sight of seeing a glimpse of her real self as you turn to place the dirty dishes in the sink.

Natasha quickly regains her composure, moving around the counter to lean back against the table next to you.

“In any case, the decision is still yours. I’ve already confirmed your abilities. It’s up to you to decide if you want to accept.”

At her words, you pause to consider your options.

A new job working with the Avengers is a great opportunity, but it would be a significant change in your life.

Then again, you’re already facing a huge change.

Your eyes unconsciously drift to the drawer next to where Natasha is leaning, where the wedding invitation draft remains, and your face twists in sadness at the memory.

You guess it wouldn’t hurt to add a career change alongside your new relationship status.

At least this way you can still earn a salary while also distracting yourself from the depressing thoughts of your failed engagement.

“Okay,” you decide, meeting Natasha’s gaze with a sigh, “I’ll take the job.”

“Great, I knew you would be agreeable,” Natasha remarks, extending her hand to you.

A red aura appears around her, causing you to huff and roll your eyes.

You take her hand in yours, giving her a tiny glare.

“Liar.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”

You say that as you dodge another swing from Natasha, ducking under her arm to get behind her, only for her to twist her body around and deliver a kick that you narrowly block with your arms.

Still, the impact has you stumbling back.

“Really?” Natasha asks with an innocent tone as she circles you. “I thought I mentioned to you that training was a part of your employment.”

A red aura begins to appear around her, but you don’t have time to comment before she swings her leg at you again.

You catch it against your side with a small grunt of pain.

Having been a profiler for criminal cases before, you do have basic defense training, and you always believed that you could hold your own against most aggressors.

At least you used to.

This current fight is making you reconsider your skills.

With her off-balance position, you attempt to throw her to the ground, but Natasha swiftly regains her footing, catching herself on her hands and executing a fluid movement to flip upright. She then bends low, sweeping your legs out from under you.

You land on the mat with a groan, feeling the impact reverberate through your body. Another pained breath escapes you as Natasha expertly pins you down.

You catch the faint red aura fading from her before throwing your head back against the mat with an exhausted sigh.

“You’re such a liar,” you breathe out, your voice tinged with both exhaustion and playful accusation. Closing your eyes, you take a moment to catch your breath.

Natasha's laughter fills the air, resonating above you, her amusement infectious and drawing a small grin from you. You peek open your eyes, watching as she disengages from atop you and heads over to her water bottle at the side.

“I’m a spy. It comes with the job,” she says casually, taking a sip.

“Okay, and I’m basically just HR,” you counter, pulling yourself upright into a sitting position. “So how does combat training fit into that?”

Natasha gestures towards you with a sweep of her hand.

“You need to be prepared to defend yourself if you ever expose someone dangerous and find yourself without backup,” she explains.

“That’s unlikely considering I haven’t even encountered anyone suspicious since I started,” you remark with a sigh.

It's been a month already, and you're starting to question if your presence here is even necessary.

Before you can dwell further on your thoughts, the cold touch of a metal water bottle against your cheek startles you.

Recoiling, you look up to see Natasha holding it out to you.

Raising a brow, Natasha waves the bottle lightly in offer.

You snatch the bottle from her with a tiny glare, but she only smirks in response.

Apart from the new job, the other surprising addition to your life is your budding friendship with the Avenger.

After the whole recruiting ordeal, you honestly expected to only have passing encounters with her at the compound.

However, to your surprise, on your first day here, Natasha was the one who volunteered to give you a tour of the place, and in the days that followed, the two of you would often share coffee and chat before you had to head off to your respective jobs.

Those regular interactions with her also earned you a fearsome reputation among the other workers, which actually works out in your favor since they’re already nervous by the time you call them in for a review. This way they are more likely to slip up and reveal anything they may be hiding.

But, like you said, you haven’t found anything substantial yet.

With a heavy sigh, you pull your knees to your chest, resting your forehead against them, feeling the weight of failure bearing down on you.

Then you hear Natasha plop down beside you.

“Back when we met, you asked me why we needed you,” she begins.

Curious at her words, you turn your head slightly to glance at her, waiting for her explanation.

Natasha leans back on her hands, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she continues to speak.

“A couple of months ago, our surveillance revealed that someone within the compound staff was plotting an attack during the opening ceremony of the new building. However, we couldn’t confirm who it was without risking exposing that we knew of their plan."

Your eyes widen in confusion at the revelation. From what you remember, the opening ceremony was a success. There hadn’t been any news of an attack that day.

“But you caught them, right?” you inquire.

“No,” Natasha responds, shaking her head before meeting your gaze. “You did.”

Surprised, you straighten up, giving her a questioning look.

Natasha offers a small smile, elaborating, “You had recently interviewed him as a suspect for another case, and in your notes, you labeled him as dangerous and untrustworthy, despite everything about him proving otherwise.”

“And you believed me?” you ask incredulously.

Natasha shrugs, “Well, I had no other leads at the time anyway.”

You scoff in exasperation at her teasing, playfully pushing her away.

She chuckles softly before adopting a more serious expression.

“Trust in your abilities, Y/n,” Natasha says with a genuine tone. “If it’s you, not finding anyone suspicious is a good thing.”

You watch her closely, waiting for the red aura to appear.

But as a couple of seconds pass and nothing changes, you tuck your forehead back against your knees, this time to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face.

“Alright, break’s over,” Natasha announces, giving your back an encouraging pat. “Let’s go again.”

You groan in reluctance, remaining in your curled-up position.

“Come on,” Natasha urges, her tone coaxing. “I’ll go easy on you this time.”

You don’t even need to look up to know the red aura is surrounding her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

“What’s this?”

Natasha's voice draws your attention away from the task of pouring cooked popcorn into a bowl.

She's sitting on your sofa, examining a small, elegant card that you had accidentally left on the table.

Widening your eyes in realization of what she’s found, you hurry over to her, but her narrowed eyes tell you that she has already read the names on the card.

“She’s inviting you to her wedding?” Natasha exclaims, disbelief coloring her tone. “It’s only been a year since your breakup, and now she’s already getting married?!”

Sighing in disappointment, you had hoped to keep this information from Natasha, who developed a strong dislike for your ex after you shared the details of your breakup during one of your girls' nights.

Placing the bowl of popcorn on the table, you take the invitation from her hand and head to the kitchen, intending to tuck it away in a drawer.

As you slide it open, you catch the sight of the old wedding draft buried at the bottom, which causes a tiny pang of sadness in your chest at the memory of that time, of how everything changed so suddenly.

You can't help but wonder how your life might have unfolded if your engagement hadn't ended.

Would you still have accepted Natasha's offer if you hadn't been seeking a distraction from your failed relationship?

“You’re not thinking about going, are you?” Natasha's voice interrupts your thoughts.

Glancing up, you notice a peculiar look in her eyes, though it quickly shifts to a neutral expression at your gaze.

After a whole year of spending time together, you could tell underneath her impassive expression that she was upset about something; though, you figured it was just outrage at the situation.

Tossing the invitation into the drawer and shutting it, you offer her a small reassuring smile before returning to your seat beside her to start the movie.

“No, of course not,” you tell her.

As the opening scenes play, you maintain a normal, nonchalant expression, aware of Natasha's gaze still lingering on you even as the red aura fades from around your body.

After a while, Natasha huffs in disbelief before finally settling into the sofa, pulling the bowl of popcorn into her lap.

“You better be sharing that, Romanoff,” you tease, your eyes fixed on the screen.

Natasha scoffs before tossing a piece of popcorn at you.

“Of course, I will.”

Just as you're about to turn your head to look at her and confirm her honesty, she swiftly shoves a cushion pillow to the side of your face, blocking your view.

After a few seconds, she releases it, fluffing the cushion casually before leaning her head against your shoulder and tossing another piece of popcorn into her mouth.

You chuckle at her antics, amused by her playful behavior, before returning your attention to the screen.

A few days later, you find yourself standing on the outskirts of the wedding area, observing as servers and workers hustle to complete the finishing touches.

A sad, bittersweet expression tugs at your lips as you recognize familiar details chosen by your ex, mingled with hints of a stranger’s preferences in the decorations.

To be honest, you don’t intend to stay for the wedding. You're just here to confirm something for yourself.

Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes, conjuring your ex’s face in your mind, and whisper to yourself.

“I’m in love with her…”

Opening your eyes, you exhale slowly, a content smile on your lips as you notice the red aura surrounding your skin. It's a relief to be able to find closure regarding your feelings for your ex.

“You know, I don’t need powers to know you were lying,” a voice remarks from behind.

Startled, you turn to find Natasha approaching.

She stops beside you, her gaze fixed at the scene ahead as she accuses, “Saying that you weren’t going to come here.”

You look at her briefly before returning your attention to the field.

“I got curious about something,” you admit. “Figured that this was one way to confirm it.”

Excited and happy chatter fills the air as your ex appears, surrounded by friends and family.

Suddenly, thoughts of what-ifs from the other night resurface, prompting you to ask out loud unconsciously before you can stop yourself.

“Do you think I should’ve just pretended that she was telling the truth at that time — when she said she loved me?” you ask Natasha. “Maybe it might’ve worked out between us if I just kept my mouth shut.”

There’s a beat of silence before Natasha finally responds, her tone tinged with wistfulness.

“From my experience,” she begins, “I can tell you that living a lie would not make you happy…no matter how much you wish for it to be true.”

You chuckle lightly, “You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am,” Natasha says confidently.

A comfortable silence falls between you as you both observe the preparations from a distance.

“She is a fool for letting you go, though,” Natasha suddenly adds, her tone casual.

You laugh softly, gently chiding her, “You can’t call the bride that on her wedding day.”

“Alright then,” Natasha concedes, turning to you. “You’re an even bigger fool for coming here by yourself.”

She returns her gaze to the field, muttering under her breath with a hint of irritation, “…still visiting the one who broke your heart.”

Amused, you tilt your head to catch her eyes, chuckling at her words, as you tease, “You know, it almost sounds like you’re jealous.”

When Natasha doesn’t respond or look at you, you raise a brow in surprise and poke her side.

“Wait, seriously, are you jealous?”

She swats your hand away.

“Stop that,” Natasha reprimands, before gritting out, “I’m not jealous!”

A small grin forms on your face as you notice the red aura appear, causing Natasha to roll her eyes and walk away.

“I’m leaving,” she declares firmly.

“Aww, come on, Natasha,” you call as you trail behind her.

Glancing back at you and seeing your pleased expression, she points at you in warning.

“That smile better be off your face by the time I pull up, or else you’re walking home,” she states before continuing on her way.

Watching her go with a fond smile, you find yourself softly repeating the words.

“I’m in love with her.”

Looking down, your smile widens when you don’t see the red aura appear, confirming what you already knew about your feelings for the red-haired spy.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

As you sit in your office at the Avenger compound, you feel a sense of fatigue wash over you at your busy schedule of back-to-back interviews.

Across from you, the final candidate squirms in her seat, clearly nervous under your scrutinizing gaze.

A chill sweeps through the room, courtesy of the cold blast of air from the AC, and you can't help but regret your decision to have it set so cold, a choice originally intended to maintain an intimidating atmosphere during interviews.

With a sigh, you reluctantly pull your hands from the cozy warmth of your hoodie pocket and turn to the next page of questions.

"Let's talk about handling confidential information," you begin, your voice cutting through the tension in the room. "Can you share a time when you had to ensure the secure handling of sensitive data?"

The candidate responds with some slight hesitation, but you sense it’s more from her nerves than any dishonesty, so you continue, moving on to the remaining questions.

Luckily, the rest of the interview goes by quickly and smoothly with her answering the other questions without any problems.

However, now comes the final question of the interview.

“Among the Avengers, who do you consider to be the hottest?”

Clearly caught off-guard, she stumbles over her words, “W-what?”

Maintaining your serious demeanor, you repeat the question.

“Who do you believe is the hottest Avenger?”

After a moment's pause, she softly answers, “Black Widow..."

Setting your clipboard down, you extend your hand.

"Thank you for coming. It was nice meeting you," you say, signaling the end of the interview.

As she thanks you and leaves, you flip to the last paper on your clipboard, revealing a sheet with tick marks beside the names of your Avenger friends.

With an amused smile, you add another mark at the end of Natasha’s already leading line.

“I don’t think that last question was approved by Steve,” a voice accuses from the doorway.

Glancing up, you see Natasha leaning against the frame, her arms folded.

You shrug in response, “Makes it more interesting though.”

Natasha hums curiously before moving to your side, perching on the edge of your desk. Her narrowed eyes fix on you.

“Is that my hoodie?” she asks in suspicion as she tugs at your sleeve.

“Maybe,” you reply, hastily pulling the hood over your head to conceal your guilty eyes.

Natasha had left the piece of clothing at your place after her last visit, and given the chilly room, borrowing it seemed harmless enough.

“Don’t you have a briefing to get to?” you deflect, attempting to change the subject.

Natasha huffs knowingly before responding, "I had some spare time, so I came to bother you."

"I’m honored," you quip sarcastically, though inwardly your heart warmed at the fact that she thought of you.

Natasha chuckles lightly, then gestures towards your clipboard.

"Ask me some questions," she prompts, her tone playful yet eager.

Deciding to indulge her, you reach for your clipboard and adopt a serious demeanor.

“Name?” you begin.

Natasha shoots you a deadpan look, prompting you to show her the document with the question written on it.

“If they lie about their name, then that’s a red flag already,” you defend, giving her a pointed look.

“Natalie,” you mock.

Natasha chuckles, shaking her head at the memory before extending her hand.

“It’s actually Natasha,” she corrects, playing along.

Skipping past the other general questions, you delve into more targeted inquiries related to threat assessment.

“Have you ever been associated with any extremist or radical groups or organizations?” you ask.

“If you consider working undercover to gain intel on them, then yes,” Natasha responds without hesitation.

“Have you ever participated or been involved in any violent behavior where someone was hurt?”

This one makes her pause for a moment before she finally admits softly, "…yes."

As the questioning continues, Natasha's playful demeanor gradually fades, replaced by a rueful tone.

By the time you reach the final question, she places her hand on your clipboard, gently setting it down on the desk.

"Maybe these questions aren’t meant for people like me," she says sadly, her tone filled with regret.

Observing her disappointed expression, you scoot closer and rest your hand on hers to draw her attention.

“Do you still want to hear my final assessment?” you ask gently.

After a contemplative pause, Natasha nods, curiosity evident in her eyes as she gestures for you to continue.

“Well, based on your answers,” you say with a dramatic pause, flipping through the papers before shaking your head firmly.

“Absolutely not. Extremely dangerous. Definitely a high-risk candidate.”

Natasha huffs in disbelief at your teasing and gives you a playful push. As your laughter subsides, you soften your tone, meeting her gaze sincerely.

“But…I’d trust you,” you admit genuinely.

Natasha's eyes widen slightly before she averts her gaze, clearing her throat. Her fingers toy with the clipboard, flipping to the last page and seeing the score sheet, before chuckling in amusement.

Turning back to you, she tilts her head with a raised brow.

“I don’t get the special question?” she asks.

You take the clipboard from her, offering a knowing look as you begin to organize the documents on your desk.

“I think we both already know your answer to that question,” you reply.

“Then ask me another,” Natasha insists.

Her request makes you pause as you ponder what to ask. Only one thing comes to mind, the question you’ve been hesitating to ask her for a long time.

Meeting her expectant gaze, you find yourself wanting to know the answer, despite the fear in your mind at the possibility of causing another big change in your life again.

Summoning your courage, you face her directly.

“Would you…,” you start, faltering momentarily before gathering yourself with a deep breath.

“...would you say ‘yes’ if I asked you out on a date tonight?”

There's a moment of silence, and just as you consider retracting the question, Natasha reaches out and adjusts the hood atop your head.

Perplexed by her action, you watch her suspiciously. Then, in one swift motion, she pulls the hood down over your eyes, obscuring your vision.

“No,” her voice responds to your question.

Hearing her stand, you quickly remove the hood to see Natasha already making her way out of the door, but before she disappears from your view, you catch the red aura surrounding her slowly fading away.

As an excited smile spreads across your face at the revelation of her true answer, your phone on the desk pings with a new message. Glancing at the screen, you see a text from Natasha.

I’ll pick you up tonight.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 2

a/n: Thank you for reading! I know I said I was going to take a little break, but I had some time so I ended up finishing this and decided to post it now instead of later.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff

3K notes · View notes

ravensmadreads · 1 year ago

Text

Under the cut because-

Well-

You know what..

FUCK YOU. I did NOT sign up for feels? Did i sign up for feels??? We were HAPPY. like chocolate slides with a barrel of monkeys happy and you went and made me feel EmotionS?! Like not even one emotion a whole BUNCH OF THEM. how DARE YOU. Your evil scheme to lure me in with fun banter and adhd vibes and then BAM! FEELS ATTACK. RUDE MA'AM. RUDE AF.

When you tell someone you trust them, you expect them to tell you the truth. Is it possible to have one without the other? If the truth is what we believe it to be, then how fragile is our trust? - did you just go freaking POETIC on me??? Are you kidding me??? I'm having a breakdown before bed ma'am EXPLAIN YOURSELF

The kid is hilarious and my spirit animal tho she's wrong your jokes are amazing

Not me crying laughing at the imagery of her sneaking in her own room that was so FUNNY and for WHAT

Are they..... is this... like some strict cop/lovable thief banter/phone sex thing...? cause it felt like it? Are they.... *whispers* courting..?

The whole thing was so artistically put like the imagery of them sitting side by side in the car and the phone call and the background of the day changing and them slowly acknowledging the chase and also the draw of each other and- i can't - i can't even put it into words that was too much like im losing braincells (that I DO NOT HAVE) rn and im going to scream some more when i wake up and you come back but seriously. From the bottom of my heart. Fuck you (Affectionate)

title: nose as long as a telephone wire

rating: M (just for language)

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 4412

summary: you get too caught up in a phone call with your favorite DEA agent and accidentally let slip something very personal.

warnings: light angst, language, mentions of the cartel, mentions of drinking, obnoxious intros, comedy? i think i’m funny, part of a series but you can read alone

a/n: song lyrics come from Bad, Bad Leroy Brown by Jim Croce, and the last ones come from Tom Waits’ Yesterday is Here. Hope the anon who requested the series likes this - sequel to Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

🤍AO3 Link 🤍Masterlist

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before.

A girl walks into a poker hall in Florida.

She joins the game.

She wins. Everyone asks, ‘well, how’d that happen?’

Girl says, ‘I got magic powers that tell me when you’re lying.’

Wide-eyed, they all ask, ‘really?’

She says, ‘yep, and now you owe me fifty grand.’

They all laugh and easily hand over the money.

And then they try to kill her.

Okay, sorry, that one isn’t all that funny.

What about this one?

A girl walks into a diner in Texas at two in the morning.

She’s scared, tired, and hungry. She solves most of these problems by ordering the biggest burger on the menu and pouring five shots of Crown Royal in her milkshake. And because she’s a lie detector and a lightweight, it all goes straight to her head.

She starts to tell the guy next to her about her little situation in the poker hall. Guy’s nice, sympathetic, asks enough follow up questions to make him appear interested.

And then he goes and lies to her.

Girl says, ‘please don’t kill me, sir!’

And the guy says, in a gruff and very serious voice, ‘I’m not gonna kill you, I’m DEA.’

Oh, and, like, this guy is smokin’ hot. Like just come off the grill hot. Like you pick him up and you burn your fingers – ay, caliente! Like danger and sex all wrapped up into one. Oof, Mama Mia and the rest of the cast in Greece, y’know what I’m saying?

So, DEA agent wants to help.

They flirt, they fight, and just as it seems, this one thing is going well, this only bright light in her life may actually hold a candle, she knows what she has to do.

She TASERS his ass. And all six feet of hotness drops, like a sack of potatoes.

Girl drives off, knowing he’s better off without her.

. . . oh, you were expecting a punchline?

Sorry, folks, this ain’t that kinda story. That girl just ain’t that kind of girl.

Truth is . . .

Funny little word, truth. It’s implicit that truth and trust come in the same bag. When you tell someone you trust them, you expect them to tell you the truth. Is it possible to have one without the other? If the truth is what we believe it to be, then how fragile is our trust?

If you taser someone and leave them literally by the side of the road, what have you broken? Their trust or their understanding about the truth of who you are?

But what about –

“Okay, that’s enough philosophizing to my ten-year-old. I gotta get her ready for school then I gotta vacuum this rug before the day rush. Scoot.” Maria knocks your boots off the end of the bright red couch in the lobby of the Motel 6 on route 22 and you grin sheepishly up at her.

“Aw, c’mon, Mare, this is good for the kid. She’s learning so much.” You glance over at Maria’s daughter, Rio, ready to have her defend your proselytizing – when you meet her heated and leveled glare. You’ve never seen such a small child radiate such annoyance.

“Your jokes suck.”

With a scowl, she stomps to her feet and lets her mother lead her off down the hall to one of the other empty hotel rooms, glaring at you over her shoulder.

You wave a hand to her as you go, smiling flatly. “Thank you, Mare! I owe you one! And thank you so much, little girl, I’ll be here all week.” You dig into your coat pocket and pull out your half-way empty packet of smokes. “Everyone’s a friggin’ critic.”

“Hey, you there! You can’t be smoking in here!”

Birdie, another maid whom you promised to stay out of her way if she kept your “hideout” in one of the second floor empty rooms a secret, snaps at you over the counter. The hotel phone at the front desk rings and she answers it with one hand as she shoos you off. “Go on, take it outside!”

Groaning, your body aching from the toll of driving forty-eight hours straight, you stand up, the unlit smoke between your lips. “Alright, alright, I’m going. Might die before I get there, but I’m going.”

But the other maid barks at you again, asking your name.

“Monologue McQueen, that’s you, right?” She has the red handle pressed against her shoulder. “You’ve got a phone call.”

The toll of outrunning the law and the cartel had taken its turn on Baby as well and the call is no doubt the mechanic calling with an update. You could have kissed Maria all over her face when she let you in at midnight and slipped you a key to a room at the end of the complex. She did owe you one after you proved her brother didn’t kill his boss – but that’s a story for another time.

“Just send it up to my room, alright, Birdie? I’ll take it there. Thank you.”

You trudge out of the hotel lobby in the bright Colorado sunlight and take a deep breath. Colorado is markedly different from Texas. More mountains. More green. Less roads . . . and even less mouth-watering DEA agents.

You stretch till you hear something crack and you shake out your head. Things had been going pretty well since Texas too. Made some money here and there – legally this time. You still hadn’t decided what to do with the fifty grand in your trunk (which had since been removed while Baby went to the doctor’s) but having it nearby was nice. A parachute if things got bad – or worse-r than they had been. But, counting no more run-ins with any government men or better yet, a complete lack of presence from the cartel – it seemed like everything that had happened since Florida was finally fading into the background.

You light the cigarette as you bounce up the concrete steps. Using Maria’s master key, you let yourself into the small dark room that looked heaven-sent after days on the road. Dark wood paneled walls, orange carpet, a lime-green tiled bathroom, a rug that could make you dizzy if you stared at it for too long. Perfect. And you can smoke all you want. You breathe out into the low sunlit room and smoke wavered white then gray as it swam through the shadows.

Sighing and realizing you should probably eat soon if you were going to pick up Baby, you toss off your jacket onto the bed. There’s a blinking red light over the phone as you pick up the receiver and sit down on the mattress.

“Yellow.” You slip your cigarette into the ashtray and wait.

“Hey there,” the deep masculine voice drawls, “it’s Baby Cow Eyes. How’ve ya been?”

Either your knees buckled or the mattress dropped you but you hit the ground with a thump.

“What was that?”

Eyes level with the window, the glass covered by a gauzy white curtain, you inch down to the floor, one vertebrae at a time, the plastic phone shoved tightly against your ear. You think you can hear him breathing on the other line but that might be your own frantic panting. Shitshitshit.

“Nothing,” you mutter. If you can get underneath the window, he might pass your room by. “Nothing at all.”

“Why are you whispering? I’m not literally in the room.”

The phone cradled by your shoulder, you slither, one arm at a time along that nauseating carpet, as far as the cord will allow. This is perfectly normal behavior for an adult woman.

“And what room would that be?” You breathe, softly. “Huh, Agent Pena?” You think you see a flutter of movement on the other side of the window and you jerk back against the door, toes clenched, eyes shut, and bottom lip bitten to the point of pain.

“I don’t know.”

Your eyes pop open. “What?”

The bastard actually laughs.

“If you know what hotel I’m at,” you hiss, jerking the curtain to the side from your protected corner to peer out into the open hallway, “why aren’t you kicking down doors and swinging around that big, thick badge?”

“Why do you think?” You think you can hear the chunk of a gas pump turning off.

“Psychological warfare. You’re gonna nuke the motel from space. Who knows?

You had to drop off Baby at the mechanics and one of his crew gave you a ride back to the motel. That was this morning and since then, not another car had pulled into the motel’s parking lot. Crouching on your knees, you spare a glance into the parking lot below. Still empty.

Over the phone, Javi’s sigh is garbled. “That sounds like a lot of work, sweetheart.”

Your fingers tightened around the plastic. “But you are coming for me, right?”

He inhales and, in the space, you hear the car door slam shut. “That’s right.”

You put the receiver against your chest and, as silent as a church mouse, you mouth:

F U C K

“You still there?” The vibrations are muffled in your shirt.

“Where are you?” you ask, shoving the phone back against your ear. You scan the parking lot one more time just in case of a surprise attack. “At least do the sporting thing and give me a head start.”

Javi huffs over the rumble of the engine as it overturns. “Oh, hell no. You got your one and only head start two days ago. When you tased me.”

“Okay, see, you sound mad about that. My concern about psychological warfare doesn’t seem so crazy now, does it?”

“I’m not mad.” You could almost picture the frown, dark eyebrows drawn in, glaring at the phone like it had personally offended him.

You grimace. “How’s your face?”

There’s a pause, as if he wasn’t expecting that question.

“It’s fine. Had worse,” he grumbles. “Barely even feel it any more.”

“When you growl like that, it makes me feel like you’re still mad.”

“I’m not –,” He cuts himself off and you grin. If you were keeping a tally, which you definitely weren’t, then you just got a little tick next to Javi’s zero. “What are you doing out in Colorado?”

“This feels like entrapment.”

“I’ve got about eight hours ahead of me,” he sighs and you can see his broad fingers tighten over the steering wheel. “This isn’t entrapment, it’s conversation.”

Eight hours. That gave you enough time to get Baby back and . . .

Unless he is . . .

F U U U U CK

See, there’s one little problem with your gift and the government goon is toeing dangerously close to finding it out. Shitdumb, bad fucking luck.

“A conversation, huh?” You rub your forehead with your fingers. This is going to end so badly. “Alright. You start. How did you find me?”

“Mhmm, I was hoping we’d play twenty questions.”

You pull back and stare at the holes in the receiver. Was he flirting with you?

But he continues, “After I came to and found my phone shattered, another thoughtful parting gift from you, I think it was safe to say you were spooked. Route 22 was the closest highway. Giving your headstart, I had a guess where you might be.”

“So, what, you started calling all the motels along route 22?”

“You mentioned you liked places with pools. Started with those first.”

Parts of that night were very clear in your mind – the way he looked at you at the counter, the way he chuckled, his hands on you when he hauled you off the back of Baby’s hood.

When he said you were smart, funny, resourceful.

However, there were other things that were decidedly not as clear.

“I never said that.”

“Yes, you did. You talked about pools when you held me hostage for an hour relaying your life’s story.”

You scowl and stand up, uneasily convinced he wasn’t about to burst your door down. You loop the cord through your fingers. “I said I stayed in places with pools because they needed a maid, not because I liked going there.”

Again, Javi laughs, deep and relaxed, and the world flares brightly for a minute.

“Sweetheart, you and I both know there isn’t a goddamn thing on this earth that could make you do something you didn’t want to do.”

For a second you could see it. Clear in your mind. Bright, gold sunlight. Open road, warm desert sand, the roar of Baby’s engine –

– his hand over your knee and he laughs –

“You know, I don’t think I ever said sorry about your face.” You swallow, sitting back on the bed and taking up your cigarette again. You take three long puffs in the silence, appreciative that there is quiet to steady your nerves. The room smells like clean cotton and ash. “And . . . I’m sorry for tasing you. You were nothing but nice to me and I . . . I shouldn’t have done that.”

Leather squeaks as if he’s adjusting in his seat, the engine humming over the line.

“I got close to a woman with a history of cutting and running. You wouldn’t be alive right now if you weren’t a little bit . . . shifty.”

Despite his familiar teasing, you glance at the window, fearing something else scarier than your DEA shadow. From the beginning, he said he wasn’t going to hurt you or kill you and he hadn’t lied about that.

It had been too long since you felt the barbs of that night in Florida but now you can feel them prickle under your skin.

“S-s-shifty, huh?” You can’t fight the sting in the back of your throat. You wrap an arm over your waist and clutch the phone tighter. “The way you say it, it sounds like a compliment.”

“It is.”

“So you’re not mad about your face?”

He sighs and you swear you can hear his teeth grinding.

“I’m not mad about my face, I’m mad you got the drop on me, alright? Shoulda seen that comin’ a mile away.”

You scoff. “Hey, pal, that shit’s original. No one expects the secret taser.”

“How many of those do you have?”

“Why? Planning on making them standard issue?”

“No, sweetheart, we have actual guns for that. I just need to know how many to search for.”

“And give up my one defense? Now that wouldn’t be very shifty of me.”

He chuckles again, the sound pulling a smile from you. “Smart, babygirl, smart.”

With the cigarette between your fingers, you kick off your boots and they land with two loud thuds.

“What was that? Sounds like you’re moving.”

“Darn, you caught me.” You lean back, your spine propped up by the scratchy pillows, your feet stretched out in front of you. With the hum of Javi’s car, as tinny and distant as it might be, you can almost picture yourself in the seat next to him. He’d have the windows down, enjoying the air in the late afternoon. Maybe the radio is on. And he's bad, bad Leroy Brown

The baddest man in the whole damn town. You flex your toes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on your arm, your thigh. “I’m sneaking out the back right now. I’m hunkering down and slipping into the night.”

“Ah, I’ve been thinking of all the ways I can say this to you: bullshit. It’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon. Try again.”

Your heart squeezes, but in a good way, like you’ve swallowed bubbles and they’re making your lungs all jittery.

You glance at the empty spot next to you, looking for his jeans, his wide hands.

“You’ve been thinking about me?” It’s breathless, surprised. You don’t mean to sound so pleased. You realize the cigarette has been burning untouched and is in danger of collapsing. Cursing to yourself, you reach over and tap it out.

“Just how to be one step ahead of you, sweetheart.” His words slow you down. The half-smoked cigarette, burnt and ashen, tumbles from your fingers as you let it fall into the ashtray. You pull your legs up to your chest.

“But things are getting serious out in Florida, in Bogota,” he continues, the teasing lilt from his voice gone. “We really need your testimony. Could save a lot of people’s lives.”

You watch his sunglasses slip down over his nose, just enough to catch yours and really stick in the knife. The engine roars as he guns the gas.

“Javi,” you begin slowly. “I’ve made a lot of enemies. Not just in the cartel. I mean, those are probably the baddest, but I can’t show my face in certain places. You can’t protect me every second of every day.”

“What makes you think I can’t?”

He won’t look at you now and you stare blankly. How many times were you going to hurt this man?

“You couldn’t see me coming, for one.”

“Ouch.”

You grimace, eyes squeezing shut. “I’m sorry, Javi, I–,”

“You’re right.” He visibly swallows, and he switches his grip on the steering wheel. “I broke your trust.”

You try to smile to comfort him, but know he wouldn’t appreciate your pity. You pick at the torn thread on your jeans. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t trust anyone.”

“Well, I guess for someone who – how did you phrase it? ‘Gives trouble a little wink and blows a kiss as you drive by’ – you’ve got to be a little paranoid.”

Your mouth falls open and he smirks, his aviators back high on his face.

“I did not say that.”

“You definitely did, sweetheart. From your lips to my ears. Gotta make up for the fact that I got accused of not listening last time.”

His hand is on the gear shift. The light hair on the back of his wrist and forearm glows in the late evening sun. You think about what it would be like to touch it.

“How’s Steve, by the way?”

Javi snorts and rolls his eyes. “That dumbass? He’s fine. Been duck hunting while on leave. Goddamn Deliverance shit.”

“An activity he shares with Mrs. Steve, I’m assuming?”

“Nah, Connie’s too good for that. Too good for him, as I like to remind him.”

“What’s he like? What’s Connie like?”

He pauses, thoughtful. “Connie likes cats. Blonde. They both are. He’s a good agent. They’ve got a little girl, actually. Adopted her, in Bogota.”

“That’s nice. They sound like good people.”

“They are. Steve’s lucky to have her.”

The car slows, the ringing warning of an oncoming train has him stop before a long stretch of railroad tracks. He taps the wheel with his fingers. The wind comes in and ruffles his hair. He’s handsome in a way that is almost overwhelming. Like you wouldn’t know what to do if he actually looks at you with intention.

The train roars as it passes, the blinking red lights like cosmic stars across his face. You pick at lint on your sock because he can’t be blamed for it, and you should try and make nice. So you open your mouth and ask,

“So is Mrs. Peña still planning on taking me out by the kneecaps? I’ll give her at least two free shots.”

He makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He adjusts on the seat and cracks his neck.

“Oh, yeah, you really got Mrs. Peña all worked up.”

“Then send her my regards. How should I fill out the card with her flowers?”

There is silence on the other end. The train whistles and the lights flash. The car rumbles from the force of the train, the weight of gravity. The heavy sun is hovering just above the horizon, going red against the mountains. Like a cracked chicken egg with a smear of blood.

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me.”

You sit up higher on the bed and cross your arms.

“What do you mean?”

Javi glances from the train, to you, the red lights hiding any blush on his cheeks. He frowns.

“I’m– I’m not married. That . . . was a lie. There’s no one waiting for–,”

Fuck. Fuck fuck shit. Of all the ways for him to find out. Goddamn it. You lean forward onto your knees, groaning, as you wait for it to sink in. He twists in his seat to you, rabid delight on his face.

“Hang on a fuckin’ second, you’re telling me that little trick of yours doesn’t work over the phone?”

You shake your head. Why, why did you bring up the wife? That’s, like, rule number one.

“Sorry to disappoint,” you sigh, admitting defeat, and pick at your socks. “Over the phone just isn’t as good as the real thing.”

He laughs in disbelief. There might be some red in his cheeks after all. “Uh, yeah. I’d have to agree with that.”

He sits back in his seat, mouth agape, as the last of the train cars rumble through. The ticking of the warning signs slows and the barrier raises. Javi distractedly puts the car into drive and it shudders as it goes over the tracks.

“So what other limitations do you have?”

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’ve never put it to the test. As far as I can remember, it only ever makes me money or gets me into trouble.”

“Really? You’ve never been curious.”

“People like me aren’t afford the luxury of being curious.” You glance out the window, at the darkening farmland rushing by. “We just hope to get by. See one day after the next.”

“I know what that’s like,” he murmurs. “Now knowing if you’ll make till sunrise. It’s a bad way to live.”

“Yeah,” you agree, eyes shut. “It is.” His spine is straight, gaze forward, but his knuckles around the wheel are white. Sunlight is fading fast. “How’d you live with it?”

“Didn’t. Not well, at least. Dealt with the worst of it by drinking. Met with people I shouldn’t have.”

Your stomach clenches as you try and decipher his meaning. People, being other agents, the cartel itself, or even women –

There’s no one waiting for me, he was going to say.

“It’s lonely,” you say. You see him nod in the silence.

You bite the inside of your inner lip. “You don’t have to agree with me, you know? I really can’t tell if you’re lying or not right now, so you –,”

You don’t have to pretend to care.

“I’m not lying,” he soothes. You wonder if he could be this kind in person. “Someone once told me starting off a conversation with a lie is not a good way to make a friend.”

You smile out of the corner of your mouth. “That’s good advice. You should keep her around, whoever said that.”

“I’m trying.”

You can feel the shake of the car over the road. Twilight has come, purple and heavy, drawing shadows where there used to be light. Javi takes off his sunglasses and drops them in the clutch of his front shirt, but in the faint light you can’t quite see his eyes.

“I did watch Dr. Pole,” he offers, “had to see what all the fuss was about.”

“You liar.”

He laughs and his fingers bump your knee. “Just making sure.”

You want to stay here with him, but you know you can’t. You squeeze your eyes shut and open them to the dark, warm hotel room.

“Javi, I – I have to go.”

“I know,” he says, his voice running thin through the phone line. You twist away from the headboard, your feet touching the orange carpet. The street lights outside your window have come on, leeching the color from your room. It feels sterile now, less welcoming. Another moment of peace, gone. Another location burned. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

You huff a laugh, in spite of yourself. “That’s not the comfort you think it is.”

The car hums, swallowing up anything he might have said.

“But there is something I wanted to say, before you go. Before you tased me, which was a one time thing by the way, I, uh, actually had a nice time with you. I wouldn’t call it a barrel full of monkeys, but . . . you, uh, surprised me.”

You can almost picture the way he curls around the plastic handle, broad shoulders folding in on themselves as if to make his joy as small as possible. Protect it from prying eyes.

“Of course, you did. Chocolate waterslide and all that.”

You can feel his smile, even if you can’t see it. You slide your shoes back on, and gather up your jacket. It wouldn’t take you that long to walk to the mechanics and you remember seeing a diner on the drive back this morning. You wondered if they’d let you sleep for a few hours in a booth.

“Oh, uh, just one more thing,” you say, the cord around your fingers. “You still haven’t told me your real name. At the diner, you said it was Javi, but that’s just a nickname, right? What’s your name?”

“You gonna frame me for murder or something?”

“Or something, sure.”

“My name’s Javier. Javier Peña.”

“Nice to meet you, Javier.”

“Call me Javi.”

You don’t really know how to end it, can’t really speak with the knot in your throat, so you click the receiver back into its cradle. You hope he won’t think you’re rude for not saying goodbye.

The mountain air has turned cool without the sun, night curling around the motel like a lazy black cat. You lock the door behind you and leave the key on the doorframe, with a note inside on the bedside table thanking Maria for her kindness and explaining why you’re leaving.

There are still no cars in the parking lot, but the light to the lobby is on behind the closed curtains. You wonder if the maids are playing poker in there.

You begin to whistle, the canvas bag with fifty thousand dollars in cash slung over your shoulder, as you walk down the road, gravel crunching beneath your feet, wondering where he’s going to eat tonight, what music he might like, and if anything he said today was true. You whistle and listen for the sound of his engine.

And the road is out before me

And the moon is shining bright

What I want you to remember

As I disappear tonight

Today is gray skies

Tomorrow is tears

You'll have to wait

Till yesterday is here

#javier pena x reader #im totally normal about this #im a lying liar who lies #this BROKE ME #like i was expecting fun banter and teasing and flirting #and it had ALL OF THAT #but the bonus feels came out of NOWHERE and whacked me IN THE FACE #KINDA LIKE HOW YOU TASED JAVI IN THE PREV CHAPTER THIS FEELS LIKE THAT OP HOW DARE YOU #gonna keep yelling at you for this #javi being mad / not mad was the funniest thing #NOT THEM BONDING OVER BEING LONELY AND ALONE #HOW DARE YOU MAKE HIM SAY NOBODYS WAITING FOR ME #SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UPPPPPPP #WHO GABE YOU THE RIGHT TO BREAK MY HEART LIKE THAT #also #how dare you not tag me in this masterpiece #im v mad and v sleepy and im writing this with like half an eye open #queuing this so you get it after you come back online #i mean i hope so #in case you see this while you're busy heres a summary:#you are mean for this #im having emotions i didn't sign up for #i lovingly hate you #this was a masterpiece #this broke the only half brain cell i had left #thank u for using the words mouth watering to describe Javi you're so real for that #give trouble a little wink and a kiss as you drive by is about to become my tag line idc if im not cool enough to pull it off #ok that's it byeeeeeee #p.s tell max to hire you

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thrashkink-coven · 22 days ago

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Things for beginners to know before starting demonolatry or demonology practices

1. The classifications of demons were written by humans, not demons.

Different occult schools of thought will have different understandings of the Hierarchies of Hell, whether Hell even exists, and what attributes are associated with each demon. In some sects Lucifer reigns supreme Emperor of Hell, in others it is Sammael, Moloch, or Baal. It all depends on the perspective of the practitioner. All of these models are equally correct and incorrect. Documentation of de(a)mons were often written by right hand practitioners who saw them as evil, therefore their negative attitudes are emphasized. Other times devotees have documented the same entity as being very kind and affectionate. It is incredibly important to take into account who is speaking whenever you read about demons. No single book or author can deliver to you the most **objective** facts about these demons or the model of reality, if they claim to, they’re lying to you. You as the practitioner must discover and decide what reins true in your reality. Teachers and gurus may influence you but ultimately you must make the decision for yourself.

2. Assume all spirits are multi dimensional

Lucifer, the light bringer, is also the spirit of darkness. He is the sweet prince and the adversary, he is a devil and an angel. It is extremely rare that you will encounter a spirit that is only one thing. There is a little bit of truth to everyone’s interactions. To a Luciferian, Lucifer is a guide, a companion, and a positive presence. To a Christian he is an adversary, a tempter, liar and bringer of evil ; and there is an entire rainbow of other experiences that contribute to the understanding of “Lucifer”. Demons are not all good nor are they all bad, trying to paint them in only one light will only lead to disappointment and confusion. It is just as foolish to assume that a so called angel will always be pleasant and nice, as it is to assume a so called demon will be terrible and mean. Every energy interacts with every person uniquely.

3. Scary and intimidating doesn’t automatically mean “evil”

Nice and pleasing doesn’t automatically mean “good”

If you’re interacting with demons or spirits associated with death, it shouldn’t be very surprising that they’re dark, mysterious, or have a frightening appearance. If you’re dealing with demons or spirits of sex and lust, it shouldn’t be very surprising that they’re alluring, attractive, or beautiful. This doesn’t mean that the scary demon is going to kill you, and this doesn’t mean that the sexy demon is going to fuck you. There are very likely going to be times when your demons will scare you. This doesn’t mean that they’re going to hurt you or possess you (they shouldn’t be frightening you to the point of constant paranoia, but seeing some “disturbing” or strange imagery isn’t out of the norm when you’re contacting a de(a)mon).

If you enter a deep dark cave looking for a bear, don’t be surprised when you see sharp teeth. Demons of violence may summon gory imagery. Demons of death my feel cold and distant. A large part of demonolatry is understanding your fear and overcoming it.

4. Yeah, it’s intense.

Okay. This is hard for me to explain. Infernal spirits and angels alike are entities that force you to confront your innermost self and change. It’s not always spooky and scary and whimsical. Sometimes it’s losing your dead end job, having a serious breakup, losing toxic friends, or having a personal epiphany. When I say it’s intense, I don’t mean that I’m levitating and seeing gnarly gory shit and summoning demons while covered in blood all the time. I have dreams and experiences of course, but seeing a demon work is not about the theatrics. Are you ready to confront the things you rrrrreeaaaaalllly don’t want to think about? Your trauma, the lies you tell yourself to get through the day, and the toxic cycles you comfort yourself with?

Lord Lucifer has made me cry many MANY times. But it was never because he hurt or scared me. I’ve seen many demonolaters refer to Lucifer as a therapist and I couldn’t agree more. He not only changes your understanding of yourself, but others and the world. Through this understanding you can change yourself, and others, and the world.

5. You as the practitioner need to be able to withstand the symptoms of your demonic relationships

Being in a relationship with Lilith or Asmoday is not an excuse to develop a porn addiction. Being in a relationship with Lucifer does not give you the right to psychoanalyze all of your friends, being in a relationship with Eligos is not an excuse to destroy all of your relationships or be cruel towards others. Demons represent energies and concepts that are unfavourable to the masses. When working with Astaroth I will feel more lustful, just by being in her proximity. That is not justification to cheat on my partner or force myself onto him. As much as demons like Lucifer for example can inspire us to be wise and sharp, he can also influence us to be vein and narcissistic. We must always be aware of these effects and resist them, working with demons and shadows does not mean becoming the worst version of ourselves, quite the contrary. Interacting with these negative aspects is meant to show you how to overcome them.

6. Demons cannot and will not replace your relationships with humans

I am very pro godspousing and having friendly and affectionate relationships with demons and spirits. Having said that, as much as our spirits may love us and care for us, they will not be the ones to text you good morning. They will not make you soup when you’re sick, or buy you flowers after a hard day. Demons are guides and companions, but they are not people. Trying to use demons to solve your loneliness will only lead to heart ache. You very much can have a sincere relationship with a demon or other spirit, but be aware that that relationship will not mimic your relationships with humans, and it shouldn’t. Gods and demons are not humans, therefore your relationships with them will not feel human.

7. There’s always more to learn

Devotion to any spirit is an endeavour that can take years or even a lifetime. Your work is not done because you read 3 books and browsed the Occult Wiki for an hour and a half. Become very dedicated to learning about your demons of interest and the culture that surrounds them. Yes, this means boring, tedious research.

8. No, ______ is not mad at you. Please talk to them

You will at some point inevitably do something wrong, especially if you are freshly initiated. Demons understand that we are human, we make mistakes. Instead of becoming paranoid and avoiding your demon out of fear of consequences, put on your big boy pants and confront them directly. Understand what you did wrong and learn from your mistake. There may or may not be consequences, every demon is different. But making yourself sick thinking they’re going to smite you down doesn’t make anything better. I guarantee you that talking to them about it will serve you a million times better than running away.

9. You need to know your boundaries BEFORE you reach out

As important as it is to research your demons, it is equally important to research yourself. You need to have strict boundaries that you will not negotiate. These boundaries should be outlined in your contract if you have one. If blood magic is uncomfortable for you, don’t allow any demon or spirit to coerce you into giving it until you are ready. If you’re a minor you’re more than allowed to not do sex magic. This relationship belongs to you as much as it does your demon(s). If it doesn’t serve you, simply refuse it.

10. On that note, demons can and will reject you. You can and will reject them as well.

On many occasions I have approached spirits who did not want to work with me at the moment. Sometimes they end up showing up later in my life, other times they never do. Oftentimes this is because of an incongruency on an alchemical level, we just aren’t meant for each other. It doesn’t necessarily mean you’re doing anything wrong. Sometimes you are, but your demon or deity will usually make that clear to you in some way. Don’t force it. If I’m already terribly preoccupied with life or other spiritual relationships, I’m within my right to reject another demon trying to enter my circle. That isn’t a rude thing to do. I’m within my right to deny a ritual I don’t have the energy or resources for. We can put it on the back burner for now.

Likewise, if a demon or spirit is repeatedly overstepping my boundaries or harming me in any way, I can (and should) leave that demon. If I’m not doing enough or causing insult, that demon can leave me. As binding as devotional contracts can be, we are not trapped with each other if we choose not to be.

11. Protection shouldn’t only be against spirits. Be very aware of your surroundings and the people around you

Learn the power of secrecy. As a Luciferian living in an extremely conservative area, I have to be extremely careful about when my pendants are visible. I have to be careful when entering certain places because I don’t want to be hate crimed or harassed. Yes, being out and proud of my demonic relationships is very important to me, but it is not worth risking real danger from bigots, or risking my employment. When I go to work, I have to leave my Lucifer ring at home, not because my work is discriminatory, but because I don’t know when I’m speaking to a christofascist grandma who would make a complaint to my boss because she saw my devotional ring. I don’t know which of my coworkers would make my life more difficult if they knew about my practice. If you are visible, people will approach you and make comments. Now, there are those of us who don’t give a fuck, and on most days I don’t. But for those of us who are vulnerable to that kind of discrimination, please be aware.

12. Self mutilation is not demonolatry

If you choose to offer blood it should be no more than a few drops. You should be using safe tools like a lancet, and disinfecting the area you extract from. This should be done in the least harmful manner possible. Devotional markings or tattoos should be done by a professional.

13. This stuff takes time. Relax

These relationships don’t develop in 24 hours. It takes a tremendous amount of repeated effort to gain the favour of a demon or spirit. If you’re not getting the results you want, take a break, reevaluate your methods, and try again later.

#demonolatry #demonology #luciferism #luciferian #luciferian witch #theistic luciferianism #lord lucifer #lucifer devotee #lucifer #goetia #goetic demons #demons #pagan #paganism #witchcraft #magick #occultism #grimoire #beginner witch

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