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Thermal Equilibrium Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~4.7k words
Tags: cockwarming, established relationship, humor, explicit, fully au, domestic au, one-shot, female reader insert, he will not stop talking, the experiment gets away from him
You wanted stillness. He wanted to understand stillness, which is a different thing entirely, and requires a methodology, and apparently several variables he needs to isolate. The problem is Ryland Grace has never been quiet for more than eleven seconds in his life, and right now he is very warm, very inside you, and extremely busy explaining thermodynamics.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ] [ fic masterlist ]
There is a particular kind of quiet that only happens when Ryland Grace has run out of things to say, and you have learned, over the better part of a year, that it never lasts longer than it takes him to think of one more thing.
Right now it has lasted eleven seconds. You are counting, because counting is contagious and you have caught it from him like a cold.
You are in his lap. Properly in his lap, settled all the way down, the both of you bare and warm under the good blanket on the couch that smells like him and faintly like the lemon thing he uses on his hands. His back is against the armrest. Your knees are bracketing his hips. He is inside you and neither of you is doing anything about it.
It is a Saturday, which is relevant context. Saturdays in this apartment have a shape: he sleeps in until some ungodly hour like eight, makes coffee badly, grades a stack of seventh-grade lab reports at the kitchen table while reading the funniest answers aloud whether you ask him to or not, and then somewhere around early afternoon, having run out of obligations, he gets restless in his skin and goes looking for something to investigate. Usually that means a kitchen experiment or taking apart the toaster that works fine. Today it meant you, and a thing he read about, and a careful negotiation conducted mostly while undressing.
So now it is mid-afternoon, the light coming sideways and gold through the blinds, a half-graded lab report still face down on the coffee table where he abandoned it, his glasses the only thing he is still technically wearing, and you are sitting full and still in his lap conducting research. There is a mug of his terrible coffee going cold on the side table. There is a documentary he put on hours ago and forgot about, paused on a frame of a jellyfish. The apartment has the specific stillness of a weekend with nowhere to be, and into that stillness he has introduced the one experiment guaranteed to test it.
That is the entire arrangement. That is the whole plan. He is inside you, and you are simply sitting there, and the rule, the single rule he himself laid down with the gravity of a man chalking an equation onto a board, is that nobody moves.
It was his idea.
You want that on the record, because in about ninety seconds it is going to stop being relevant to him that it was his idea, and you intend to remind him.
His hands are resting on your hips. Not gripping. Resting, the way you rest your hands on something you are trying very hard not to touch. His glasses have already gone askew. You did not do that. He did that, somewhere in the last eleven seconds, by frowning thoughtfully at the middle distance over your shoulder.
"Okay," he says.
You wait.
"Okay, so," he says, and stops again, and his hands tighten by maybe two millimeters, and you feel the whole length of him go a little harder inside you in a way that is involuntary and that he absolutely registers, because his breath catches and then he says, with enormous dignity, "that's just data."
"That's data," you agree.
"That's the experiment working."
"Mm."
"The experiment is going great."
The experiment is going great the way a soufflé is going great in the thirty seconds before it isn't.
—
It started, as a frankly indecent number of things start with him, with an article.
You don't even know where he finds them. He surfaces from his phone roughly twice a week with some new fact lodged in him like a splinter, and you have learned to recognize the symptoms: the eyebrows go up, the phone comes down, and he turns to you with the expression of a golden retriever that has found a second tennis ball.
Three nights ago the symptoms had presented over dinner.
"Did you know," he had said, around a mouthful of the pasta, which is a sentence that has preceded some of the strangest conversations of your adult life, "that people do a thing where the guy just. Stays in. On purpose. And nothing happens."
You had put down your fork. "I'm familiar with the concept, yeah."
"You're familiar with it." He had pointed his own fork at you, delighted, betrayed, thrilled. "Okay, see, this is the thing about you. I bring you a fact and you already have the fact. How do you already have the fact."
"It's a fairly well known fact."
"It is not a well known fact, it is a fact I just learned, which by definition makes it cutting edge." He had leaned in. "But okay, here's what I don't get. Walk me through the appeal. Because as far as I can tell the appeal is, and I want to make sure I'm reading this right, the appeal is nothing. The appeal is that nothing happens. You go to all this trouble to get into a position where historically a great deal happens, and then, on purpose, like monks, you make nothing happen."
"It's about closeness," you had said. "Being close. Staying connected. It's not about the friction, it's about the. You know. The being."
He had stared at you for a moment with the specific stricken wonder of a man encountering a foreign cuisine he has decided he must understand from the inside out.
"The being," he had repeated.
"The being."
He had set his fork down entirely at that point, which is how you know a thing has truly taken hold of him, because Ryland Grace abandoning food mid-meal is a seismic event.
"Okay, but here's my problem," he had said. "And it's a methodology problem. Because everything I'm good at, everything, the whole skill set, it's all about doing. You give me a problem, I poke it, I take it apart, I build a worse version and then a better version, I run it twenty times. Right? That's the move. That's the only move I have." He had gestured with both hands, knocking the salt over, ignoring it. "And you're telling me there's a whole, a whole discipline, where the entire point is to not do the thing. To just hold still and let it happen to you. That's. I don't even have the wiring for that. That's like asking a shark to stop swimming and appreciate the ocean."
"Sharks do have to keep swimming, though."
"Exactly! Thank you! That's my entire point! I'm a shark!" He had been thrilled to be a shark. "I would die. Conceptually. If I stopped."
"It's not really a swim-or-die situation."
"Everything's a swim-or-die situation if you think about it hard enough," he had said, which is the single most Ryland thing he has ever said at a dinner table, and you had married the idea of him a little further in your head right then, the way you do about twice a week.
"I need to try this," he had said, the way other men announce they need to see a specialist.
So here you are. Being.
—
"It's basically thermal equilibrium," he says now, twelve, thirteen seconds into the quiet, because he cannot leave a silence the way some people cannot leave a hangnail.
"Is it."
"It's totally thermal equilibrium. Okay, imagine, no, okay. You've got two objects, right, two bodies, different temperatures, and you put them in contact, and heat flows from the hot one to the cold one until they hit the same temperature and then. Nothing. Net zero. No more heat moving. That's equilibrium. That's us. We're two bodies that have reached the same temperature and now there's no net flow and it's peaceful, it's the most peaceful thing in the universe, it's the heat death of the universe except cozy."
"You've made cockwarming about the heat death of the universe."
"I've made it cozy," he says, wounded. "Were you listening. Cozy heat death. That's the whole pitch."
You shift your weight. Just barely. Just enough to settle a little deeper, not even on purpose, the kind of small adjustment a body makes on its own when it's getting comfortable.
His hands clamp down on your hips like he's bracing for reentry.
"Don't," he says, strangled. "Don't, that's, you can't do that, that's against the rules, those are my rules."
"I didn't do anything."
"You did a thing."
"I breathed."
"You breathed with intent."
You hold very still, and you let your face do nothing at all, which you have discovered is the single most devastating weapon in your arsenal where he is concerned. Ryland Grace can survive almost anything except an audience that refuses to react.
He looks at you for a long moment. His glasses are now at a genuinely impressive angle. There is a flush coming up his throat that you can feel more than see, the warmth of him radiating where your chest is against his.
"You're really good at this," he says, and it comes out almost accusatory.
"At sitting still?"
"At sitting still. Yeah. You're a natural. It's annoying. I'm the one who proposed the study and you're out here being zen about it and I'm." He swallows. "I'm having a lot of thoughts."
"What kind of thoughts."
"Scientific ones."
"Uh huh."
"Rigorous ones," he insists, and then his hips do a thing, the smallest unconscious flex upward, barely a centimeter, the kind of motion a body makes entirely without consulting its owner, and you both feel it, and he says "okay that wasn't me, that was an autonomic response, that doesn't count, the brain didn't authorize that."
"The brain's not really running the show right now, is it."
"The brain," he says with dignity, "is collecting valuable data."
The thing about him, the thing you fell for somewhere around the second month, is that he cannot do anything without trying to understand it, and he cannot try to understand a thing without poking it.
So of course he starts adjusting variables.
It begins almost innocently. His hands, which have been gripping your hips like handles, gentle, and start to move. Not anywhere scandalous. Up your sides, slow, mapping. You recognize the touch. It's the same touch he uses on a problem, the same patient curious pressure he puts on anything he's trying to figure out, and the fact that the thing he's trying to figure out is you makes something low in your stomach pull tight.
"So like," he murmurs, and his thumbs have found the dip of your waist and settled there, "the interesting thing is the anticipation, right, because nothing's happening, so your nervous system is just. Idling. It's revving. It's like sitting at a red light with the engine going." His thumbs stroke once. "Everything's primed and there's nowhere for it to go."
"You're narrating," you tell him.
"I narrate, it's a whole thing, you knew this going in." His mouth has wandered to your jaw. Not kissing. Just resting there, breathing you in, talking against your skin so you feel every word as much as hear it. "The question I have, the real research question, is whether the stillness amplifies sensation or dulls it, because there's an argument both ways. Like on one hand, no new stimulus, so you'd think it'd fade. Habituation. You stop feeling your own socks after a minute, right. But on the other hand."
He goes quiet.
You wait.
"On the other hand," he says, and his voice has dropped about half an octave, "I can feel your pulse."
You go still in a different way.
"Right here," he says, soft, wondering, the wonder doing the thing it always does where it stops being funny and starts being unbearable. "I can feel your heartbeat. From the inside. I didn't, I didn't know I'd be able to feel that. It's going kind of fast, by the way. For someone so zen."
"Shut up."
"I'm just collecting data."
"Collect it quietly."
"That's not really my strong suit," he says against your throat, and you can feel him grin, and then he goes thoughtful in the specific dangerous way that means he's had an idea. His hand slides up your spine to the back of your neck, cradling. "Okay, new variable, hold on, I want to isolate one thing." And he tips his head and kisses you. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that has a thesis. The whole time his other hand stays flat and still on your hip, anchoring you down onto him, so the only thing moving anywhere between the two of you is his mouth on yours, and somehow that makes it worse, makes the stillness everywhere else roar.
When he pulls back his pupils are blown and he looks genuinely rattled by his own findings.
"Yeah, that's, okay, that did something," he reports, a little hoarse. "That changed the readings. The readings are way up. I felt you do that thing, the clench thing, you did the clench thing when I kissed you, don't tell me you didn't, I have direct evidence."
"That's not fair."
"Science isn't fair," he says, delighted and wrecked. "Science is just true."
"That's not what that means."
"It's what it means tonight," he says, and then, because he is who he is, because the curiosity is always going to win, his hands slide around to your back and pull you in that final fraction so there is no space left anywhere between you, and he exhales like a man who has just understood something. "Oh, that's the appeal. Okay. Okay, yeah. I get it now. I get the being."
And the worst part, the part that undoes you, is that he means it. He's not performing. He has genuinely, in this moment, with his glasses crooked and his heart hammering against your chest and himself buried as deep in you as he can get without moving, arrived at a real understanding of why people do this, and the understanding has cracked something open in him, and the something is tenderness, and it is pouring out of him at a rate his mouth cannot keep up with.
"You're a menace," you tell him, but your voice has gone unsteady.
"I'm a scientist," he says, and kisses you.
That's where it starts to come apart, and it comes apart on his end first, which is exactly how you both secretly knew it would go.
Because once he's kissing you he can't stop talking into the kisses, and once he's talking he's getting worked up, and once he's worked up his hands won't stay still, and his hands not staying still means his whole body wants to follow, and the entire structure of the experiment is now resting on the willpower of a man who has never successfully resisted finding out what happens next.
"The hypothesis," he says against your mouth, breathing hard, "the hypothesis was that I could just. Be. Be in the moment. Very enlightened. Very still."
"Mm hm."
"I want to flag that the hypothesis is in trouble."
"Is it."
"It's in serious trouble. We may need to revise the hypothesis. The hypothesis may need to be that I have the self control of a, of a, I don't even have an analogy, that's how bad it is, the analogy generator is offline."
You almost laugh, and then you make a decision, and you do not move at all.
You stay completely, perfectly, infuriatingly still. You let him do all the wanting. You sit there, warm and soft and unhurried in his lap, and you watch the experiment he designed turn around and start running him.
His hips flex again. He catches it. Stops.
His breath shudders out.
"Okay, I'm controlling for breathing," he announces, to nobody, to the ceiling, in the voice of a man clutching the last shred of his methodology. "If I just regulate the breathing, right, box breathing, in for four, hold for four, the Navy SEALs do it, I read a thing, I can bring the whole system back down to baseline and then I can. I can just." He takes a slow, deliberate, theatrical breath in, and you feel his chest expand against yours, and you feel exactly what that does to the rest of him where he's seated inside you, and so does he, because the breath comes out as a wreck instead of a four-count. "Okay, the breathing makes it worse. Filing that. Breathing is contraindicated. Who knew. Everybody, probably. Everybody knew."
"You're doing great."
"I'm doing terribly, and we both know it, and the cruel thing, the genuinely cruel thing, is that you're enjoying watching me do terribly."
You are. You make absolutely no effort to hide it.
"You could just," he tries.
"Mm?"
"You could just move. A little. Hypothetically. For science."
"But it was so peaceful," you say. "The cozy heat death. I was really getting into the being."
He makes a sound that is not a word.
"You said nobody moves," you remind him sweetly. "Those were the rules. Your rules."
"I have done extensive research since I made those rules," he says, very fast. "There's new data. The rules are out of date. I'm issuing a correction. A formal correction. I was wrong, the original parameters were flawed, I'd like to move now please, I'd really like to move, I think about thirty seconds ago I would have said I could do this all day and I want to retract that, I want it stricken from the record, please."
"You're begging."
"I am peer reviewing," he gasps, and his hands are gripping you again, white knuckled, and the flush has gone all the way up to his hairline, and his glasses are so far gone they're practically vertical, and he is the single most undone you have ever seen a fully verbal human being get, and he has not moved an inch, because the one thing more powerful in him than the wanting is the part of him that will not, ever, be the one to break a rule he set for the experiment, even as the experiment dismantles him in real time.
It is, you decide, the most him thing you have ever witnessed.
So you take pity on him.
You lean in, your lips against the shell of his ear, and you feel him go rigid with hope, and you say, very quietly, "Okay."
And you move.
The sound he makes when you finally roll your hips is not dignified, and you treasure it, because Ryland Grace has been talking for what feels like a geological age and you have rendered him, for one perfect second, completely silent.
It lasts exactly that one second.
"Oh thank god," he breathes, and then he's moving, finally, hips driving up to meet you as you sink back down, and the first real slide of him is so much after all that holding that you both make a noise into it. His hands clamp on your hips and drag you down onto him, all the way, deep enough that you feel it in your stomach, and the relief in him is so total it's almost a religious experience. He's laughing, breathless and a little wild, the way he laughs when something works. "Oh, okay, yeah, no, this, this is the appeal, I had it backwards, the appeal is when you stop, the stopping is the appeal because then there's the. The." He loses the word as you grind down hard and feel him twitch inside you. "The starting. God. The starting is the whole thing. Don't stop, do not stop, that's an official finding."
"I thought it was about the being."
"It's about the becoming," he says, which is either profound or completely meaningless, and you don't care which, because his hands are everywhere now and his mouth has found your throat and the careful, agonizing stillness of the last however-long has wound you both so tight that every drag of him in and out of you lands like something much bigger than it is. You're slick enough that there's no friction left to fight, just the slow obscene ease of taking all of him and lifting off and taking him again, and the wet sound of it fills the quiet where his voice used to be.
You set the pace. He lets you. That's the deal you've worked out over months, that he can run his mouth about variables and equilibria all he likes but in the end he goes pliant and grateful under your hands, follows wherever you take him. So you take him slow. You ride him in long unhurried strokes, drawing all the way up until he's barely inside you, until he's panting and his fingers are flexing helplessly against your skin, and then down again, slow, slow, watching his eyes roll back. The contrast, the manic brilliant chatterbox going soft and obedient and wrecked underneath you, is something you will never, ever get tired of.
"You held out," you tell him, rolling your hips in a slow grind that has him gasping. "You actually held out. I'm impressed."
"I'm a professional." His voice is shredded. "I'm extremely. Professional. I had a hypothesis and I tested it and the hypothesis was that I'd die, and I was right, I'm dying, this is what dying is, write it down," and the last word breaks in half as you clench around him on a downstroke, deliberate, just to watch it happen.
His head goes back against the armrest. "Okay, that's, you can't just, that's not in the protocol, you can't do that," but his hips are snapping up into you now, losing the rhythm, chasing it, all his careful method dissolving into want. One of his hands leaves your hip and slides between you, thumb finding you exactly where you need it because of course he knows, he has studied you the way he studies everything, and the first slow circle he draws makes your whole body jolt down onto him.
"There she is," he says, ragged and delighted and reverent all at once. "Okay. Okay, I've got data on this, I know what this does," and he does it again, steady pressure in time with the way you're riding him, and the two sensations stack and stack and you stop being able to keep your pace even. "Yeah. Yeah, there you go. You're allowed to fall apart, that's, I'd actually really like to observe that, for science, please, I want to feel it."
"You're going to make me," you manage.
"That's the entire research objective," he gasps. "That was always the objective. Come on. Come on, I've got you, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm cozy heat death, remember, no net flow," and he's babbling now, half nonsense, his thumb relentless and his hips driving up to bury himself in you again and again, and the wound-tight pressure that's been building since the very first still minute finally crests and breaks. You come hard around him, clenching tight, and you hear him swear, genuinely swear, the fear-gauge profanity he saves for when the floor drops, because the feeling of you tightening on him is the thing that finally takes him too. He pulls you down flush and holds you there and lets go with a broken sound against your throat, hips stuttering up into you, spilling deep while you're still pulsing around him, both of you locked together at the exact point where neither of you can tell whose shaking is whose.
For a long moment there is no net flow at all. Just the two of you, joined, gasping, finding the same temperature.
When you finally lift your head he's looking at you with his crooked glasses and his blown pupils and that specific expression he gets, the one underneath all the noise, the one that you don't think he knows he makes. The one that says you are the most interesting thing that has ever happened to him and he cannot believe his luck and he is a little bit scared of how much he means it.
He gets there late. He gets there sideways. But he gets there.
"Hey," he says, soft, and for once there's no preamble, no analogy, no okay-so. Just: "I'm really glad it was you who already knew the fact."
Your heart does something complicated.
"Why's that," you manage.
"Because I would've been embarrassed to be this bad at sitting still in front of anyone else," he says, and grins, and ruins the moment perfectly, on purpose, the way he always does the second a feeling gets too big to hold, and you love him so much in that instant that you have to close your eyes.
---
You stay like that for a while, the two of you, not moving for an entirely different reason now. He's still inside you, softening, and neither of you is in any hurry to change that, which strikes you as funny given that not moving was the whole problem twenty minutes ago. His hand has found the back of your head again and he's just holding it there, thumb tracing slow shapes you don't think he's aware of, his heartbeat slowing under your cheek from a sprint to a walk to something steady.
"You okay," he murmurs into your hair. The voice has gone soft and low, the post-disaster voice, the one that comes out after the engine cools.
"Mm."
"You went somewhere at the end there."
"I did."
"Good somewhere?"
"Very good somewhere."
He's quiet for a second, and you can feel him deciding whether to make a joke, and you can feel him choose not to, which is its own small miracle.
"I think I had the appeal backwards the whole time," he says instead, slow, working it out the way he works everything out, sideways and out loud. "I kept thinking the still part was the experiment and the moving part was the reward. But it's not two things. It's the same thing. The staying still is just. It's trust, right. It's me sitting here doing nothing useful and you letting me, and neither of us going anywhere." A pause. "That's the whole experiment. That's all it ever was. Everything else was just me being a shark about it."
You lift your head to look at him, because that is dangerously close to him being cleanly self-aware, and you want to see it before it evaporates.
It evaporates. He sees you looking and the grin comes back, sheepish, reflexive, the shutter coming down over something he showed you for exactly one second.
"Don't write that down," he says. "That one's not for the record."
"Too late."
"You can't publish that, it's not peer reviewed."
"I'm publishing it everywhere."
"Devastating," he says happily, and pulls you back down against his chest, and you let him.
After, much after, when the experiment has reached its actual conclusion and you are both a boneless tangle on the couch with the good blanket half on the floor and his glasses somewhere that is going to be a problem to find later, he is quiet again.
Genuinely quiet. The rare kind. The kind that means he's run out, fully, that the engine has finally idled all the way down.
You give it eleven seconds.
You count.
At twelve, predictably, gloriously, he stirs against you, and you feel him take a breath to say something, and you brace for it.
"So in conclusion," Ryland Grace says, to the ceiling, with the deep satisfaction of a man filing a final report, "the appeal is real, the methodology was sound, and I think for the next round we should isolate some additional variables."
You don't even open your eyes.
"Go to sleep, Ryland."
"I'm just saying. For science."
"Sleep."
He goes quiet. He lasts almost thirty seconds this time.
It's a personal best, and you tell him so, and he's so pleased about it that he forgets to keep talking, which is how you finally, both of you, reach equilibrium.
left and right; you both have your dominant hand free when holding hands
character finds out reader isn't opposed/into bigger guys/people
cleaning up spouses facial hair/eyebrows | "not too much" "i'm being careful, promise"
rise to the sun; waking up with spouse
Fic ideas:
Kya | legend of korra | you've been learning under Kya and as time goes by the two of you grow closer as does the tension until, finally, a kiss is shared
Leighton Murray | tslocg | you were warned to not get involved with leighton, warned by the girls closest to her and yet, against better judgement and blue eyes and pink lips, you did anyway
Steve Harrington | stranger things | a breath of normality as there's a pause in the planning process to defeat vecna
Bucky Barnes | marvel | you spot bucky combing his fingers through his hair, paying close attention to the greying areas, and he allows himself to dwell on the past and what life could have been like if he had returned home
Sevika | arcane | angst/avoidant-attachment/situationship, here and there but not where you want her when you need her
Past secret 'situationship' in high school before she got with Ted and you disappeared, you find yourself back in Hawkins after many, many years and come face to face with Karen when you knock to pick your son up from a playdate
You stared out the front passenger-side window, watching the familiar sub-urban landscape pass by. You hadn’t seen this street since you were in high school, a decade ago already. A lot had happened since then, you had moved away for college, had fun, got a job, settled down, and now you had returned to raise your son. Urban life wasn’t bad, many grew up in cities, but Hawkins was safe and you were much closer to your parents - who are over the moon to be spending more time with Kyle.
“Maple Street, right?” Your wife’s words pulled you out from your thoughts and you turned to see her focused on the road.
“Yeah, 2530,” you responded before you heard the ticking of the indicator and the turning of the car.
Your relationship, to everyone, was under false pretenses. To anyone, the pair of you were just friends, best friends, living together because it was cost-effective, because of the lack of space in the city, because it was easier to raise a child with another person rather than on your own. Even your own son referred to your wife as his aunt. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked, because loving her in secret was better than not loving her at all. And, God, how lucky you were to be loved enough to simultaneously be someone’s world and their biggest secret.
The car rolled to a stop next to the sidewalk and you turned to give your wife a smile, “Thank you for driving me, you know you didn’t have to, it’s only a twenty minute walk.”
“Really? ‘Cause I think we both know that Kyle would be on your back not even five minutes into it,” she pointed out and you let out a warm chuckle at how right she was.
“We really need to stop that because he’s getting too heavy for me,” you comment as you open the car door and you hear her hum in approval before shutting it behind you.
Kyle had called you in the middle of the school day asking if he could stay round a friend’s house for dinner and you were about to say no before he sneakily handed the phone over to Nancy. Her sweet, polite voice asking if he could come over and that she had already called her mother to ask, who had also given her the address, and how could you say no to that? Besides, you were relieved to have found out that he had found a friend so quickly.
So here you were now, walking up the path to Nancy’s house and knocking on her door. You stand there rocking slightly back and forth on the soles of your feet, a nervous habit carried from childhood, as you wait for someone to answer.
“Ted, can you get the door?” You hear a woman call from somewhere inside. Her voice is sweet even with the stressed tone, and familiar in a way that has your stomach giving way into a pit whilst somehow comforting your increasingly beating heart. “Ted!” You hear the slam of a cupboard after another minute of stillness, “Sorry, just coming!” You hear as she approaches the door and the sound of her hand pulling back the lock and the twist of the door handle before it cracks open.
The recognition is mutual. You can see it in the way she pauses slightly, opening the door. Her big, brown eyes wide as her words die on her tongue.
“Karen,” you begin with raised brows. “Hi, I’m uh- here to pick Kyle up. It’s nice to see you, how have you been?”
Your words are muffled to her ears, sounding as if you’ve been enveloped in a bubble, and she’s slow to realise that you’ve spoken even though her eyes were trained on your moving lips. The image has her reeling back to the taste of them and the ghost of your lips pressed to hers has her heart pounding against her ribs.
— — —
Karen’s chest rose and fell with deep breaths, the whole squad was out of breath and taking time to recover after the last run through of the routine. Collectively, the group ebbed slowly towards the littered waterbottles, and as she drank from hers she saw you disappear into the locker room. She mentally shook her head, you were always forgetting to bring your water bottle in, always needing her to remind you. She looked back to see everyone talking, no one would notice if she left as well, before she followed you out.
When she walked in she saw you swallowing your water as if your life depended on it, letting out shaky gasps once you had finished. God, you made her feel crazy. Just the act of you drinking water had her biting her lip to contain her smile. You squinted at her suspiciously as she came closer, the playful look in her eyes clear as day.
“What’re you up to?” You asked her, your smile present in your voice knowing what it was she was looking for.
“Nothing,” she shrugged, placing her hands on your hips, “you were perfect out there.”
“Yeah?” You questioned, your face moving closer to hers and eyes flicking back behind her to scan the room one last time.
“Mhm,” she hummed before leaning forward and pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.
— — —
“Karen?”
Finally, her eyes flick to yours and a sheepish look overcomes her features as she adjusts the baby sitting on her hip. She lets out a shy laugh and rifles a hand through her curly hair, “Yeah, it’s been- I’ve been good, thanks, and you? How have you been?”
“I’ve been good too, just moved back to Hawkins over the summer break,” you nodded with a smile, “I’m glad Kyle’s already making friends, Nancy seems like a lovely girl.”
At the mention of his name Karen suddenly remembers why you’re standing at her door and she calls out to Nancy that Kyle’s mother is here. As she does her wandering eyes move over to the unfamiliar car in front of her drive. A woman sits at the wheel, watching; she almost wishes she never looked, the drying feeling in her throat is coarse and she quickly averts her gaze with a thick swallow.
You had gotten everything she had ever wanted.
— — —
The Snow Ball was nearing and the anxiety and excitement of nearly every student was buzzing through the halls. Girls collated in groups as they eyed the boys, waiting for them to approach and ask them to be their date. You weren’t looking at the boys though, you only had eyes for one person, one girl; Karen Childress.
You stood leaning against her locker, a routine you had settled into since the beginning of the year, waiting for her to finish class so that the two of you could spend your shared free period together. The bell sounded and not even a beat later masses of students were piling into the hallway; your eyes scanned as far in front of you as possible, stretching onto the tips of your toes as you did so, just trying to get a glimpse of her. As soon as she appeared from the corner she was hard to miss - her blonde, perfectly styled curls along with the recognisable colours of the cheer uniform became a beacon amidst the crowd - anyone would be able to see her.
“Karen!”
Anyone included Ted Wheeler.
You look behind you in the direction of his voice cutting through the hallway and see the wide, toothy grin on his face as he pulls his arm down from a wave. There’s a sickening feeling brewing in your stomach, that there’s something wrong, and it only grows when you spot the bouquet of flowers in his other hand. Your eyes turn back to see Karen with a welcoming smile on her face and you watch as the scene unfolds in front of you.
A small ring forms around her as he gets closer, still people move along with their day getting to where they need to be next and you feel them bump into you on their way past. However, you stand transfixed. Ted stops in front of her, hands clasping around the stems of the flowers, and Karen looks up patiently, expectantly. You can’t hear what he’s saying, only the distant movement of his jaw as you watch her. The bubbling in your stomach feels dangerous and there’s a high-pitched wringing in your ears as all your senses dull. Pink dusts her pretty face as she accepts the gift, her hand easily slipping into his before she leans up on her tip-toes and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. Everyone erupts into a celebratory round of applause, but you’re already gone, the noise muffled behind the door.
She finds you ten minutes later. Cooling down on the bleachers after a hard run, in the hopes of sorting out your thoughts or trying to distract yourself from them you weren’t sure.
“You,” she begins softly, “weren’t at my locker.” You look up finally to see her playing with her fingers. “Ted asked me to the ball, is that why you’re not talking to me?”
You felt your jaw clench as you gritted your teeth at the mention of his name, the silence between the two of you stretched on. You shrugged and cleared your throat, “just assumed that we’d be going together, that’s all,” you said, your voice coming out weaker than you hoped.
Karen took the seat next to you, “Sorry, it’s just- it’s senior year, about time I didn’t go with a friend.”
Friend.
The title rang through your head like an echo and before you could stop yourself a scoff left your mouth.
“Is that what we are?” You turn on her instantly, the anger quickly rising and blocking any conscious train of thought. “Friends? Why can’t you say it, why can’t you say you love me?” You spit, accusingly.
“I do, I do love you,” Karen pleads, taking her hands in yours, but you quickly yank them away.
“But?” You shake your head in disbelief, you voice rising, “I feel like there’s a big but, because I don’t think ‘friends’ kiss after school’s out in the back of the locker room, or-”
“-You can’t give me what Ted can!”
Her confession comes in an outburst and cuts you off. All you do is look at her as your heart feels as if it’s about to give way.
“So that’s what this is about?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, I just,” she pauses, “I thought it would be easier this way.”
You shake your head lowly, “So that’s it? This is it?”
“Yeah, I guess it is,” she whispers, lip caught between her teeth as she looks at you. You don’t say another word before getting up and leaving.
It was the first time she had said that she loved you, it was also the last. She didn’t hear much from you for the rest of the year, only a small note you had slid into her locker towards the end of the year wishing her good luck.
— — —
Your conversation dissipates at the sound of the kids running down the stairs.
“How many times have I told you to stop running down those stairs, Nancy? It’s dangerous,” she reprimands lightly and a sheepish grin overcomes the girl’s face.
“You must be Nancy, it’s nice to finally meet you, Kyle talks about you all the time,” you smile and he finds your side before you ruffle the hair on the top of his head, “Now, what do we say?” You encourage, looking down at him.
“Bye, Nancy, bye, baby Mike, bye, Mrs Wheeler, thanks for having me round,” he rushes out quickly. “And bye, Mr Wheeler.”
“It was lovely having you, you’re welcome back any time, Kyle,” Karen nods warmly.
“Good luck, Karen, with,” you bobble your head and shoulders lightly, “everything.”
You hear a small goodbye from Nancy before you return back to the car and Kyle waves back as he gets in his seat.
Karen looks on as you drive off, watching as you disappear into the distance, only closing the door once she can no longer see you. She pauses, back pressed against the solid wood of the door and she wonders what her life could have been like with you. Her fantasy stretches on for only a moment before Mike begins to fuss and she’s pulled back into her own life.
If only she had been brave enough to love you properly.
lin beifong masterlist | tv show masterlist | main masterlist
Lin Beifong x Reader
1,740 words
a/n - for @bwings02 hope you enjoy, thank you for your patience <33 x
An unexpected trip to Zaofu in search of new airbenders brings up unresolved tension for your wife, Lin, you help in any way that you can
You stretch out your arms with a light, relieved groan as you step out of the aircraft and into the green valley. You breath in a deep breath of fresh air and a smile pulls at a corner of your lips. To your left you watch, with Bolin, as Korra air bends Naga’s ball off into the distance before she goes bounding after it and, your smile tugs at both corners, Lin stands with her arms crossed watching the whole thing with a straight face. A chuckle leaves you when her green eyes glance at you and you find your place next to her, arms almost brushing.
“It’s nice here,” you confess.
“Yeah, the Avatar thinks so too,” Lin grovels beside you, emphasising Korra’s title, her shoulders flush to her ears.
However, she feels them lower when she finds you looking off into the distance. Privately, she admires you from the side - the picturesque landscape in the background and the welcomed cool swirl of a summer breeze - and then her eyes fall onto your ring-adorned finger. The same sense of pride overcomes her whenever she catches sight of it, but the feeling is quickly quashed; her eyes hardening at Bolin’s love-affinited, squishy, squashy, love-sickening face coming into view. She lets out a huff and scowls, there were presently more pressing matters anyway.
Korra sends the ball flying once again.
“While you’re playing fetch, four of the most dangerous criminals are hunting you down,” she spits out, catching everyone’s attention. “We should get moving.”
Lin’s patience seems to grow thinner the more Korra justifies not listening to her. She’s probably gained more white hairs since Korra first stepped foot in Republic City than all of her years as chief. Naga returns, dropping the ball at her feet and looks at her expectantly.
“I think she wants you to throw it for her,” Korra smiles, stating the obvious.
Lin looks down at the ball and then back up to Naga, “I’ll pass, thanks,” she replies in an unamused tone.
“We just had a call on the radio about another airbender,” Asami announces, stepping out with Mako.
“A city called Zaofu,” he states, replying to Korra’s question, “home of the metal clan.”
Lin’s reaction to the name is instant, and you can feel the way her whole body becomes tense, but not in frustration as it was before.
“You know the place?” Korra asks, everyone turning to her, and you give her an understanding look.
Lin crosses her arms over her chest and rushes her words out, “Never been, but I don’t want you going there. I’d rest a lot easier if you were back, safe, in Republic City.”
“Sorry, but if there’s an airbender is Zaofu, then that’s where we’re going next,” Korra speaks out, eyeing Lin as she walks past and back into the aircraft. The rest follow closely behind her, eager to get back up in the air and continue with their task.
Lin’s face falls in defeat, the weight of having to potentially see her half-sister again growing heavier on her shoulders. She feels your fingers wrap around her wrist and she turns to see the sad look on your face.
“Are you okay?” You ask softly, but she shrugs you off.
“Yes. Fine.” She replies curtly before popping Naga’s ball on her way past and disappearing back inside.
You let out a sigh as Naga whines sadly beside you, and you lend a comforting hand to the top of her head. The white fur, a mixture between soft and coarse, sticking up through the spaces between your fingers.
“I know, I know,” you hummed. It was things like this that caused Lin to put her walls up again, it was best to just leave it for now.
With a final pat to Naga’s head, you followed the route inside. The room was buzzing, the excitement of finally finding a new airbender at the forefront of everyone’s minds. Except for Lin, of course, who was sitting at the back with her arms crossed and a sour look on her face. You took a step in her direction before hesitating and moving in the opposite direction. She needed to be left alone - to mellow.
— — — — —
“Wow,wow,wow, an entire city made of Metal! You should be right at home, Beifong!” Bolin calls out in awe, face as close to the city as he could get it.
You turn back to glance at Lin to see her looking anywhere but outside, posture rigid as she attempts to make herself seem indifferent. Korra eyes her suspiciously. When the aircraft begins its descent, you take a seat beside her.
“I assume you won’t be coming out,” you begin, lightheartedly, to which she instantly shakes her head. “Do you want me to stay, with you?” Lin pauses, and you know her well enough to know that she wanted to say yes, but she doesn’t.
“No, Zaofu isn’t a city most have the opportunity to visit… you should go.”
Your heart flutters in response. “Thanks,” you whisper, placing a hand just above her knee - a small gesture of comfort - and she wordlessly places hers on top of yours.
The docking process is quick and Bolin is the first to make it to the door, impatiently hopping from one foot to the other. Giving Lin’s leg a soft squeeze, you join the others on their journey out.
“Aren’t you coming?” Asami pauses, turning to Lin.
“What’s there to see? It’s just metal, big whoop. Just find the airbender and let’s get moving; and don’t tell anyone I’m here,” she replies, ending her words more seriously.
Bolin catches your eye and raises a brow, you only shrug and he shrugs back. You liked Bolin, if you had to choose, he was your favourite. He was definitely the most fun to be around, as entertaining as that love triangle the other three had going on, you’d rather spend your time elsewhere. You caught a last glimpse of Lin before you left and frowned to yourself, the weight of this whole ordeal was clearly getting to her; hopefully you’ll all be on your way soon.
With the automatic shut of the metal door, the room falls into a heavy silence and the weight of Lin’s heart becomes more apparent. She lets out a hot huff and shifts uncomfortably on her seat at the feeling, her arms still crossed over her chest. For unconscious protection or to stop the ache she was unaware of, she did not know. All she knew was that she did not have time to sulk or be angry, the Avatar did not have time, they all needed to get moving urgently.
— — — — —
The sound of the doors opening drew Lin’s attention and her impatience rose back to the surface, you all should have been back hours ago. However, as she turned to face the group her impatience quickly boiled to anger. Her jaw tightening to an almost painful pressure.
“Lin,” the woman she dreaded most to see, smiled mere metres away from her.
“Suyin.” Lin did not return the smile.
“You guys… know each other?” Bolin questioned looking at Suyin.
“Of course, we’re sisters-”
“-Barely,” Lin mumbled under her breath.
It was then that Suyin spotted the glint of a ring around Lin’s neck. The familiarity of it confounding her before she remembered a conservation she had with you just moments ago -
“How long have you been married? Your ring is beautiful, is he a metalbender?”
“Yeah, she is,” you had replied, gently grazing over the ring with your other hand.
“How wonderful, you should bring her along with you when you next visit Zaofu.”
- she could laugh at the irony of it all. And a part of her was hurt, you knew such a different Lin; one that was sweet enough to forge matching wedding bands, one that would show off her commitment, her fondness, to another person so openly.
“You’re married,” she says almost accusingly as her eyes flit between you and Lin, “at the very least I could have been told. I’ve always tried to involve you, to keep you informed, I’ve always held a spot for you-”
You can see the look on Lin’s face, the way she’s trying to interject, to stand up for herself, but she’s beginning to shut down. Like a deer in headlights, she cannot move, her jaw snapped shut and every muscle in her body tight.
“- I feel like it’s not so hard to understand why,” you butt in with a tone of finality that has Suyin pressing her lips together and becoming aware that there were others in the room.
“Right, I’ll show you all to your rooms and then we can get started with lunch.” Suyin turns back to the group and leaves.
“What.” Lin hisses questioningly at Korra.
“We’re staying for a few days,” she smiles, scratching the back of her head.
“Don’t you know that you are being hunted at this very moment-”
“And what’s safer than a metal fortress surrounded by guards?” Korra points out matter of factly before leaving quickly.
Lin lets out a long, shaky breath. You place an arm around her, your hand lightly squeezing her waist in a comforting manner.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper earnestly, and it’s all it takes for Lin to fall into you the stress of the whole situation catching up to her.
“It’s not your fault,” she mumbles into the fabric of your shirt as she pulls you in closer.
“Did you see Bolin’s face?” You ask after the moment passes and you feel Lin’s body move up and down as she chuckles silently.
— — — — —
That night, you lounged on your shared bed listening to Lin as she moved about the room. Suyin had moved you into Lin’s room as a silent gesture, you had to admit she was quite attentive to everyone’s needs. Especially Lin’s. But at this very moment, Lin needed you to listen, to take in whatever she had to spill out of her. The relationship between Lin and Suyin was rocky and it was going to take a lot of time if she ever did want to build on it. As Lin pulled the duvet, you opened up your arms and she slid naturally back into them still talking out her frustrations. Poor Lin always had so much stress; you only hoped you could relieve or carry some of that weight.
Summary: Being the PR manager for the Avengers means spinning disasters into headlines and keeping gods, soldiers, and billionaires on message. It would almost be manageable—if only a certain red-haired agent didn’t treat every press event like optional side quests, rumors like entertainment, and you like her favorite game.
Warnings: fluff
Words: 4994
Being the PR manager for the Avengers means accepting that disasters don’t end when the smoke clears. These sorts of things linger in conversation. They trend on social media. They get dissected by twenty-four-hour news cycles and podcast hosts with Wi-Fi and opinions.
Your job is to take the wreckage and turn it into something acceptable, maybe heroic even. Preferably before lunch.
Which is exactly why you’re currently pacing the Tower’s press prep room with a phone glued to your ear and a headache blooming behind your eyes.
“He did what?!” you hiss, stopping short of throwing your folder across the room purely on principle.
You press your fingers hard against your temple as Pepper explains that Tony’s newest, impulsive purchase of a construction site during a fight had been spectacularly destroyed in under a couple of minutes.
“Yes, I understand it was technically taking responsibility,” you say tightly. “No, that doesn’t stop the optics from being a nightmare.” A pause. Then, quieter and resigned, “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it.”
You end the call before she can apologize on Tony’s behalf again.
Before you can even process what you’d need to do for that problem, the doors slide open behind you.
“Hey,” Steve Rogers says easily, strolling in with a casual gait. “How’s it going?”
You turn around and face the super soldier with a reprimanding glare.
“You’re late.”
You flip open your folder with practiced precision, pull out a neatly annotated sheet, and press it into his hands.
“Highlighted sections are your main talking points. Civilian relief efforts. Accountability. Team unity. If a question veers off course, you pivot. Smile, acknowledge, redirect. Got it?”
“Oh. Uh—okay,” he says, already skimming the page, brow furrowing as he murmurs the bullet points under his breath.
You’re about to remind him to breathe when the doors open again.
Perfect. On schedule, for once.
You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.
“Here are your notes, Roman—”
The words die in your throat, and you immediately pull your notes back from reach.
“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.
Clint Barton looks down at himself, pats his chest, his arms, then grins cheekily.
“Nope,” he says. “Definitely not Romanoff.”
You close your eyes. Just for a second.
“This is not happening right now,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.
It’s not surprising. Natasha Romanoff treating a mandatory press event like a suggestion at best is practically tradition. Still, you’d allowed yourself the faint, dangerous hope that today might have been different.
“Barton,” you say calmly, checking the time on your phone, “I don’t have the energy for this. Where is she?”
He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself.
“I owed her a favor. And now,” he says, gesturing to himself with a flourish, “you have me.”
You don’t respond. You just dial.
“Yes,” you say the moment the line connects. “Pull Romanoff’s name from the panel.” A beat. “I don’t care that it’s already printed. I don’t care if they already noticed. Do it.”
Protests crackle through the speaker. You hang up before they finish.
Across the room, Steve is still by the doors, shoulders hunched, quietly rehearsing under his breath, as if this were a mission briefing rather than a media circus.
“Rogers,” you snap.
He straightens instantly.
“Stick to the notes,” you say firmly. Then you turn, leveling Clint with a look that could curdle vibranium. “And you—stay out of that room.” You point toward the wall separating you from the sea of cameras and questions waiting on the other side.
Clint raises both hands in surrender and gives you two thumbs up.
You push past him, silently fuming at the things you have to deal with.
“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice sing-song and far too amused.
You don’t slow down.
“To fix this,” you mutter.
Like every other mess the so-called Earth’s Mightiest Heroes leave behind.
It’s part of your job after all, to deal with these sorts of messes, even if one of them is a frustrating red-haired agent who especially enjoys being your problem to clean up.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Your knuckles rap sharply against the door, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway. You don’t bother knocking again. You already know she heard you.
As you wait, your phone buzzes with a notification. You glance down and check the messages.
It’s a photo from one of the press assistants.
Steve sits at the panel, but he’s not facing the audience of reporters. Instead, he’s looking to the person on his left with rapt attention. Clint is sprawled in the chair beside the Captain, boots up on the table, microphone in hand, mid-gesture as if he’s counting off points in a story no one asked to hear.
“Oh, God,” you mutter, scrubbing a hand down your face.
Another problem to deal with, just as you’re handling this one.
Right on cue, the door opens, and your most frequent problem appears in front of you.
You don’t give her a chance to speak. You simply turn your phone around and shove it into her line of sight.
“This is your fault,” you say flatly.
Natasha glances at the screen for half a second before lifting her gaze back to you, lips already curling into an amused smirk.
“Well,” she says lightly, “hello to you too.”
She’s dressed down in a black tank top, loose sweats, and hair pulled back without effort, and somehow she still looks good, and that only makes your irritation feel worse.
You pull the phone back and cross your arms.
“You were supposed to be there.”
She mirrors you, folding her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, completely unbothered by your tone.
“Steve’s handling it,” she says. “He’s good at that earnest, heroic thing. Besides, I wasn’t even part of that mission.”
You let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve perfected for moments exactly like this, and start tapping through your phone.
“No,” you say, finally finding what you’re looking for. “You were supposed to be there to clear up this rumor.”
You hold the screen out again.
An article fills the display with a scandalous headline. Below it is a photo of Natasha at Tony’s most recent party, leaning far too close to a national ambassador at the bar, her smile caught mid-flirt.
You sigh in exasperation.
“How do you manage to have a playboy reputation worse than Stark’s?”
Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.
“Please. I breathe near someone, and suddenly it’s a scandal. According to them, I’ve slept with half the world’s diplomats.”
“Which is exactly why you were supposed to deny it publicly today,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Instead, I’ve got Barton out there improvising some story.”
Natasha chuckles, low and soft, and shakes her head. She steps closer to you and reaches up, her thumb brushing lightly between your brows.
“You always get this little crease right here when you’re angry,” she murmurs. “It’s cute.”
You smack her hand away without hesitation.
“It’s stress,” you snap. “Which means I’m apparently adorable every time I have to chase after you.”
Her smirk only widens at your words.
“I should cause trouble more often then.”
You ignore that, not bothering to entertain her usual flirting banter any further. You still need something to mitigate the whole rumor mill.
“Why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” you sigh in exasperation.
She arches her brow.
“Like what?”
“You always make it look like you’re one step from bringing them to your bedroom,” you challenge.
Natasha pauses just long enough to eye you suspiciously. Then she sighs dramatically and gestures dismissively with her hand.
“I didn’t sleep with anyone if that’s what you’re asking about. We just talked politics. Not exactly the kind of foreplay I’m into.”
You press the stop button on your phone, ending the recording immediately before her little suggestive comment and nod in satisfaction.
“Perfect. Thank you.” You turn the phone back toward her. “Now sign here so that I can release this as your statement.”
Her mouth parts slightly as realization hits. She blinks at you for a moment and then finally laughs under her breath, impressed despite herself. Without breaking eye contact, she traces her signature on the screen with her finger.
“Well played,” she admits. “A little underhanded though.”
You give her a deadpan look.
“I work with superhumans, gods, narcissists, and spies. It’s a required skill at this point,” you say simply before directing your focus to your phone.
Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.
You feel it even when you refuse to look back up. You focus on your phone instead, thumbs moving quickly as you forward statements, tag editors, and lock down follow-ups. This is familiar territory. Safe territory. Paperwork and damage control don’t flirt back.
You’re almost impressed she’s managed to hold her tongue this long.
Almost.
Then she shifts with the soft scuff of her foot against the floor as she pushes off the wall like she’s made a decision.
The subtle change draws your attention, despite how hard you try to resist.
“Well,” Natasha says lightly, breaking the silence, “I think you’ve kept me long enough.”
Your head snaps up. Instinct takes over before logic can catch up, and you look past her into the room, suspicion flaring sharp and immediate.
“Don’t tell me you have someone waiting in there this whole time,” you say in panic, preparing yourself to develop some cover before more rumors can spread.
Her smirk blooms, the kind she wears when she knows she’s already won something.
“I meant,” she says smoothly, “you kept me from my bed.”
Natasha takes a step closer. Then another. Before you can stop her, she lifts her hand, fingers warm against your skin as she tilts your chin up just enough to force your attention back to her.
Green eyes lock onto yours.
“But,” she adds softly, “I wouldn’t mind some company.”
For exactly one heartbeat, your carefully built walls falter. Your pulse stutters. Heat flares low and dangerously. For a split second, it would be so easy to forget the job, the rules, the reasons you’ve built this distance brick by brick.
Then you remember.
Who she is.
What she does.
And most importantly, how much she enjoys teasing you like this.
You push her hand away and step back, reclaiming space to clear and cool your mind.
“Be at the next press call,” you say evenly, your voice steadier than you feel. You turn away before she can read anything on your face. “And please try not to stand too close to anyone in the future.”
Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.
“No promises.”
You don’t respond. You just keep walking. Not until you’re safely out of her sight do you let your expression crack, stern composure giving way to the helpless heat creeping up your cheeks.
At least this problem is handled. You exhale slowly, forcing the feeling down where it belongs, already bracing yourself for the next mess waiting to be cleaned up.
Because if Clint is still holding a microphone, there’s no way whatever he’s saying is harmless.
You can only hope it’s fixable.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The hearing room smells faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. The kind of room designed to make people feel small.
Unfortunately for the people seated behind the long crescent table at the front, Natasha Romanoff has never been particularly good at feeling small.
You stand along the side wall of the room, tablet tucked against your chest, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool wood paneling. From here, you have a clear line of sight to everything: the committee members, the press row, the cameras perched on tripods like watchful birds.
And Natasha.
She sits calmly at the witness table, as if this is the least stressful place she could possibly be.
Your tablet screen glows softly with neatly organized notes of talking points, diplomatic phrasing, redirect strategies, and neutral language suggestions meant to keep the hearing smooth and uneventful.
You spent most of the night preparing them.
And you know very well she’s not going to follow half of them.
Still, there’s always a first time for anything.
Natasha sits with one ankle crossed casually over the other beneath the table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded together like she’s waiting for a lunch order instead of answering questions from a congressional oversight committee.
Her expression is perfectly composed, but then her attention drifts.
Her eyes flick across the room for barely a second before settling on you, where you stand against the wall. When she catches you watching her, one corner of her mouth curves upward. A quick wink follows.
You immediately look down at your tablet, pretending to review your notes.
You recognize that teasing look. And you sigh quietly to yourself at how your heart still fell for it.
Across the table, one of the committee members adjusts his glasses and leans toward his microphone.
“Ms. Romanoff,” he begins, voice carrying the dry superiority of someone who has never really cared about anything but himself. “Given your…complicated background, many citizens are concerned about the level of autonomy the Avengers currently operate under.”
Natasha tilts her head slightly.
That’s the first warning sign.
You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.
“Complicated,” Natasha repeats mildly. Her eyes flick toward you again before returning to the man across the table and giving him a playful smirk. “That’s a polite way of saying assassin.”
The room shifts uncomfortably. Someone in the press row shifts in their chair. A few reporters glance up from their screens. Still, the man presses on.
“You spent years working for foreign intelligence agencies, including organizations hostile to this country.”
Natasha nods once.
“Yes.”
You glance down at your notes. Page three.
If questioned about past affiliations, acknowledge and redirect to present-day service.
Your gaze lifts again.
Natasha doesn’t even glance in your direction as she does not follow that suggestion, choosing not to say anything further to defend herself.
The committee member leans forward.
“And yet the public is expected to trust that someone with that background now acts in their best interest.”
Natasha’s lips curve slightly as her eyes slide toward you again.
You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.
“Well,” she says calmly, “it seems to be working out so far.”
A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.
You pinch the bridge of your nose at her cheeky response.
That wasn’t on the list.
Across the room, Natasha watches the gesture, her smile deepening subtly.
Another senator leans forward.
“Let’s not pretend the Avengers have some spotless record here. Property damage, civilian casualties, unsanctioned interventions—”
The smile disappears from her face as Natasha straightens slightly in her chair.
The second warning sign.
You lower your tablet slowly, hoping that someone on the panel has enough sense to stop pushing and insulting the people she considers her family.
“—one could argue the Avengers cause nearly as many problems as they solve.”
Natasha studies him for a moment. Then she smiles. It’s the smile that usually means someone is about to regret something.
“Respectfully,” she says smoothly, “the people who tend to complain the loudest about the Avengers are usually the ones who call us when aliens start falling out of the sky.”
The press row shifts again. A few reporters start typing faster.
You close your eyes briefly.
That’s going to trend.
Across the room, one of the senior organizers shoots you a pointed look.
You give them a small, helpless shrug.
What did you expect with that line of questioning?
Another member of the panel clears his throat.
“Ms. Romanoff,” he says sharply, “this isn’t a stage for clever remarks.”
Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.
“You’re right,” she agrees pleasantly. “It’s a stage for questions. So, please, continue.”
The room goes still for a moment, surprised by her sudden compliance.
You watch her closely. Natasha is actually doing remarkably well. Better than expected, honestly.
The next few questions go by without incident.
Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.
You almost start to relax.
Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.
“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”
The air in the room tightens immediately.
Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.
You notice it right away.
The man continues.
“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”
Your hands tighten around your tablet.
The room waits with bated breath.
But Natasha says nothing.
You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.
Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.
The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.
“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”
Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.
“I am,” she says calmly.
Then she turns and walks out of the room.
The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing.
You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.
You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.
“Excuse me.”
You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.
“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”
Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.
“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.
“She avoided several,” he snaps.
You cross your arms.
“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”
The man scoffs.
“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”
You cut him off.
“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”
Your voice is sharper now.
“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”
The organizer folds his arms.
“That doesn’t erase what she was.”
Your jaw tightens.
“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”
He looks satisfied.
You step closer.
“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”
“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”
The organizer stiffens.
“You’re implying—”
“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”
Silence stretches between you.
The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.
He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.
“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”
“Noted,” you say.
He leaves.
You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.
Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.
“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.
Her smirk appears instantly.
“Long enough.”
Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.
“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”
You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.
“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”
She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.
Instead, you shrug.
“It’s fine.”
You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.
“I liked your responses better anyway.”
You keep walking.
Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.
“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.
“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”
Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.
When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.
“Can I join?” she asks.
You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.
She responds with a slow, shameless smile.
You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.
“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.
She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.
And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.
Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.
The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.
You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.
No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.
So far, so good.
You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.
You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.
And there she is.
Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.
You recognize him after a moment.
A visiting ambassador.
Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.
You narrow your eyes slightly.
They’re standing a little too close.
Not inappropriate. Not technically.
But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.
You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.
Your head snaps toward it immediately.
Another flash.
Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.
You set your drink down without a word and move.
The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.
He doesn’t even see you coming.
You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.
“Hey—!”
You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.
The man stares at you in disbelief.
“You can’t—”
You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.
“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.
Your phone is already in your other hand.
“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”
You hang up before the man can start arguing again.
Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.
You dust your hands off lightly.
Problem solved.
When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.
You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.
“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”
A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.
“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”
They quickly return to their conversations.
You feel it before you see it.
A familiar gaze.
You glance toward the bar.
Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.
Heat creeps up your neck.
But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.
When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.
Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.
You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.
“Whiskey,” you say.
Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.
“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.
You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.
“You already know what it was.”
Her lips twitch.
You take a small sip before continuing.
“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”
Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.
“Very specifically.”
Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.
The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.
She tilts her head slightly.
“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”
You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.
“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.
Natasha watches you for a moment.
Something in her expression softens.
Her hand lifts.
You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.
“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.
You start to protest—
But her hand doesn’t stop this time.
Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.
Her voice lowers.
“What if I do?” she whispers.
For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.
Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.
Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.
“…Natasha,” you warn gently.
She doesn’t pull away.
“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”
You stare at her for a long moment.
Natasha doesn’t look away.
The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.
Her hand is still cupping your face.
You reach up and take her wrist.
For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.
You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.
Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.
Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.
You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.
“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”
The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.
“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”
Her gaze flicks back to yours.
“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”
You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.
Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.
Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.
You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.
Natasha looks almost smug.
You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.
Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.
Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.
“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.
You give her a small, unimpressed look.
“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”
Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.
“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.
“Yes.”
She studies your face.
“And what about potential rumors?”
You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.
“I can handle any rumors,” you say.
Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.
“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”
You tilt your head.
“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”
Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.
The sound is softer than usual.
For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.
Then she leans in just slightly.
“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”
You glance at her.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”
Her smirk returns immediately.
“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: these two were fun to write. thank you for reading!
Something in the water | coming soon! | fluff | you've been learning under Kya and as time goes by the two of you grow closer as does the tension until, finally, a kiss is shared
Before the climb | WIP | a breath of normality as there's a pause in the planning process to defeat Vecna
Karen Wheeler
Butterfly | angst | past secret 'situationship' in high school before she got with Ted and you disappeared, you find yourself back in Hawkins after many, many years and come face to face with Karen when you knock to pick your son up from a playdate
Lin is next, but which are you more interested in seeing after? 🤨
Karen Wheeler
Natasha Romanoff
Kya
Voting ended onDec 20, 2025
Lin Beifong | "whispered comfort" | an unexpected trip to Zaofu in search of new airbenders brings up unresolved tension for your wife, Lin, you help in any way that you can
Karen Wheeler | "butterfly" | past secret 'situationship' in high school before she got with Ted and you disappeared, you find yourself back in Hawkins after many, many years and come face to face with Karen when you knock to pick your son up from a playdate
Natasha Romanoff | "jumper luck" | it's been years since the blip, years since the world has moved on from her death and you're still crying over a knitted jumper
Kya | "something in the air" | you've been learning under Kya and as time goes by the two of you grow closer as does the tension until, finally, a kiss is shared
