You are welcome to send in requests for stories, even if they are not like what I usually write. If it turns out to be something I'm not into, I just simply won't write it.
Everyones a little autistic they say but, then when i tell them my sensory issues made it so i wouldnt let anyone near my head with a brush as a kid, until my entire head was matted
Then I'm just weird.
They're totally fine with autistic people until they see a meltdown or a shutdown and thats simply too far for them
Surely a grown up should be able to control themselves.
They say autism is no big deal, its just a little diffrent. That's until they're faced with the fact that its actually disabling.
Going out for drinks when you have ptsd is like the ultimate russian roulette cause either you'll have a great time forgetting all your problems or you'll be triggered and the night is ruined and you've never felt worse
Reblog to let your followers know that despite your current obsession your previous obsessions still exist and are simply lying dormant until they awaken and strike again
I feel so useless when im sick its such a waste of time. I want nothing more than to feel better so i can go back to doing stuff. But getting better faster means resting, but resting gives me so much anxiety I'm now adding nausea to the other symptoms.
Summary: reader is a intern at nasa and cruahing hard on Christina
A/N: this is fictional and i make no claims about real people sexuality or anything like that. I dont know the first thing about being a intern at NASA so I went super generic with it.
Posted on AO3 first
Chapter 1
Youâre starting to think exhaustion manifests in all four senses.
Like the smell of burnt coffee and the taste of iron from the constant chewing on the inside of your lip. The sound of buzzing of too many voices at once bleeding together. The sight of your puffy eyes in the morning. The physical sensation of pressure over your chest created by the faint gnawing panic of knowing you have three deadlines, two unread emails marked urgent, and a stack of paperwork that may or may not be multiplying when you look away and when did you last call your parents?
Your laptop is open. Itâs been open for hours. Youâve done almost nothing or so it feels.
The NASA internship badge on your lanyard feels too heavy for your neck, like itâs reminding you of just how much is at stake.
You rub your eyes.
âFocus,â you whisper to yourself. âJust focus.â
Someone walks past your desk talking about propulsion systems like theyâre discussing the weather.
You sip your coffee and attempt to use your few working brain cells to make sense of their words but end up just feeling dumber by the second.
Your degree and years of studying was one thing, but being in this room with all these people made you feel like a kid that had just wandered in from the street. Ready to ask if the moon is actually made of cheese.
âYouâre going to love this,â your supervisor breaks you out of your own thoughts.
You look up slowly.
He is holding a list.
âCoffee run.â He smiles.
âCoffee run? Not to sound ungrateful, but that was quite the build up for getting you coffee.â
âNot coffee for me. Well yes coffee for me AND several others involved in the Artemis II mission for a meeting coming up soon, so better run. Unless you want me to ask someone else, you seem busy.â He does a fake walk off, knowing full well youâll stop him.
âNo. Hand me the list.â
He slides the list toward you.
Itâs long.
âOat milk latte. Black coffee. One cappuccino, extra foam. One⊠jeez didnât know you could put that many espresso shots in one drink?â
âBetter run. Starts in 15â he says quickly.
You stand up, overwhelmed..
âGot it.â You exclaim speed walking out.
The hallway changes before you even realize it.
Quieter. Cleaner. Controlled.
Doors with access warnings you shouldnât even be close enough to read. And you keep feeling like someone's going to tackle you for trespassing at any moment.
Your badge is checked more than once.
You make it to the meeting room. A few minutes to spare.
The room feels different, like it belongs to people whom you simply do not have any business breathing the same air as.
There are screens. Equipment. Parts you canât name.
Everyone is talking, most of it goes over your head, regardless you try to not be in the way. Then you see her. Christina Koch. One of the astronauts going on the Artemis II mission. You fight the urge to stare, but she is right there.
Not in a dramatic way.
Just there.
Mid-conversation. Hands moving as she speaks, calm voice, focused presence.
A living legend. Someone laughs at something she says. The sound feels too normal for how unreal this is.
You try to breathe.
âOkay,â you tell yourself. âJust⊠distribute caffeine like a normal functional human.â
You move carefully through the room.
One coffee. Name called. Handed over. A thank you and swift movements. All good.
Another coffee. Another, donât spill. Donât spill.
Then you reach her.
Sheâs slightly turned away, still half in conversation. She glances up when you stop.
âBlack coffee?â You ask, voice not betraying the internal collapse happening behind your ribs.
âOh, yes thatâs mine.â
You hand it over.
Your fingers brush hers as she takes the cup.
âThank you, sweetheart.â She smiles.
âUm yeah,â you manage. âOf course.â
You turn too quickly and walk away before anyone sees the blush creeping into your cheeks.
You make it out of the room somehow, without any mishaps.
The door closes behind you and you stop walking entirely. Pushing your back against the cold concrete wall, letting out a sigh. Had you not been breathing this whole time?
Sweetheart.
Anyone would be starstruck, no shame in that. However, the way her attention had you wanting to kick your feet and giggle like a damn teenager, was quite embarrassing.
A simple kindness. That's it. But nonetheless her saying those words weren't likely to leave your mind anytime soon.
You press a hand to your face, trying to cool it, before heading back to your desk
Later that day your shift comes to an end.
Youâre walking too fast because you need air and also because you donât know what else to do with yourself. Your mind is over stimulated, eyes sore but your body craves movement, having spent too many hours in one spot
Itâs dark out. You make your way through several hallways. Stretching your neck back and forth.
A door opens ahead.
Several people step out, but you focus on a specific woman.
Adjusting the strap of her bag.
She doesnât look like an astronaut right now.
She looks like a person who just worked very hard.
Something drops near her foot, but she keeps walking.
You move to pick it up. Moving the cap off the floor. You hurry to catch up.
âSorry.â you say, tapping her shoulder lightly.
She turns. Looking at you in confusion.
âYou dropped this,â you speak shakily, handing it back.
âAh, thank you. I didn't even realise.â she says lightly.
She pauses.
âHave we met before?â
You swallow. âYeah. This morning. Coffee.â
Her confusion shifts to recognition.
âOh! That was you. Saving me twice today then, the coffee was great.â
You nod too fast. âYeah, I try to not destroy peopleâs mornings. Thereâs a coffee place down the street, itâs further away but they grind fresh beans for each brew.â
She laughs softly.
Itâs not loud. Just real.
âIâll make a note of that. â she says.
You should stop there, but you donât.
âI just.. um can I say something really quickly?â
She tilts her head slightly. âSure.â
You pray your coherent in these moments as your mind goes blank.
âI just think what youâre doing is just so impressive and brave. Going to the Moon, and being part of Artemis II, and being the first woman to do it and I justâ you inhale some air trying to steady your speech. âYou must have worked so hard, you deserve all the honor. You will inspire generations to come.â
Itâs quiet for a bit.
She looks at you for a second longer than you expected, long enough for your adrenaline to turn to embarrassment.
âThank you,â she says gently. âThat means a lot.â
You smile, embarrassed, but her smile is genuine.
âYou doing okay? Long day?â She looks down at your collection of papers and all over frazzled appearance.
âYeah, I mean Iâm sure Iâll get better at it.â you speak. You weren't about to complain about your silly tasks.
She smiles and nods.
We start walking a little together without meaning to.
âSo,â she says, âyouâre on the coffee rescue team? What else do they have you doing all day?â She asks earnestly.
âPaper work and um more paperwork. Reading and re reading and typing stuff up then doing it again.âyou say nodding, recalling the day.
âThatâs important work,â she says seriously.
âOh yeah of course I'm thankful to be a part of all of it.â You speak fast, hoping you didn't sound ungrateful.
Your eyes shift to her arms as they tense her muscles and you curse yourself for looking.
âYour workouts must be pretty intense." You shift the focus.
âOh yeah,â she says. âIt can be but you get used to it..â
âI saw a video from a training session with your colleague, it looked painfulâ you add.
She laughs at that.
âYeah,â she says. âThatâs kind of the idea.â
You nod like you understand, but your gym sessions included way more breaks searching for a good song than exercises.
âI mean sometimes itâs hard and tiring, but it's achieving the result needed for the mission.â She talks gesturing with her hands as she speaks, still holding on to her cap.
âYeah youâre in great shape. I mean your biceps are⊠great.â You blurt out, then wish to evaporate..
Then she laughs, amused.
âThanks,â she says.
You nod again. Too much nodding. Stop nodding.
You reach a junction in the hallway.
She slows.
âWell,â she says, âgood luck with the rest of your coffee diplomacy.â
âThanks,â you say. âGood luck⊠going to the moon.â What a sentence.
She laughs again.
âAppreciate it.â
Then sheâs gone.
Just like that.
And you head home to get some sleep and get ready to start the day over.
Trinity Santos walks into the Pitt everyday with a bucket of unresolved trauma, a toxic yuri situationship, and Dennis Whitaker hanging off her belt like a labubu and still manages to serve cunt
People on the internet say Chappell Roan is evil. I look into it, it turns out be bullshit. A few days later people again say Chappell Roan to s evil. I look into it and again it turns out to be bullshit. A few days later people are back at claiming Chappell is evil and this time they claim they say there is a pattern of behavior. But it's the same bullshit from previous times. And we learn nothing from this and the cycle continues.
TW: a lot, suicidal thoughts, sh, panic attack, OCD
Fandom: The Pitt
Trinity Santos x Yolanda Garcia x reader (Platonic!Dana x reader)
Reader really has a shitty day and the hospitalâ rooftop is too tempting
You had crossed the gates of the Pitt at exactly seven that morning and you still hadnât come back home. You pull out your phone from your jacket pocket, glancing at the screen for a brief instant. Itâs six in the evening, your shift ended more than two hours ago, but you still havenât had the courage to go back home. Just below the time, written in bold letters above YOUR photo â set as your wallpaper more than two months before â there are about twelve messages from the group chat âSome3.â
You turn off the screen, letting the phone slide back into its place in your jacket pocket, without bothering with the messages. Theyâre probably looking for you; you should already be at home with them by now; instead, youâre on the hospital rooftop, staring with melancholy at the asphalt a few dozen meters below you, with a lit cigarette held tight between your trembling lips. You inhale some smoke and then blow it out, mesmerized by the little gray cloud rising toward the ever-darkening sky as night approaches. You cough a couple of times before your lungs finally give you a break, then you inhale the smoke again. Your asthma isnât very happy right now, and the inhaler abandoned in your jacket pocket â not the one with the phone, the other one â is proof of it.
You hear the phone ring and then the voicemail kick in; you donât need to pull it out to know whoâs calling you. The only real doubt that could arise is which of the two of them has actually worried enough to call you. Well, maybe you know that answer too. You finish the cigarette and stub it out on the cement beneath you; as you do, your fingertip barely scrapes against the cement and that faint pain numbs you completely, along with the cold air and the sound of the traffic below. You glare with resentment at the empty pack of cigarettes in your pocket and a small huff leaves your lips. You settle yourself more comfortably on the ledge, not paying much attention â as if you werenât literally one step away from death.
A small, melancholic smile curls your lips and a jolt of pain strikes your right cheek; by now a bruise has surely formed, no doubt about it. You donât need to have studied medicine for ten years to figure that out, and you donât need a mirror either. You feel it in every facial movement you make; every single crease of the skin reminds you coldly of what happened today and the reason you find yourself on this rooftop.
Itâs not the first time a patient has thrown a punch at you, but it is the first time that the father of a child â John, six years old, with a cardiac malformation for which you could do nothing except fifteen desperate minutes of cardiac massage on your part â screams at you that itâs your fault his child is dead, punches you in the face, and then, according to the evening news, throws himself off the nearest bridge to the hospital. Dead on impact. Only Dana had recognized the man on the news, and her gaze had settled on you with a sweetness and a concern that only that woman was capable of. But, as was your habit, you had downplayed it and reassured her and, above all, you had begged her not to tell anyone.
Not that anyone knew about your relationship. A relationship involving three people is never an easy confession, and in a workplace? A nightmare.
Everyone in the ER knew about THEIR relationship, but you stayed in the shadows, with fleeting quickies, stolen kisses, and a shared apartment twelve minutes by car from your workplace.
You had started working at the Pitt alongside Trinity, and gradually she had grown close to a certain surgeon, and then, well, the duo had become a trio. With Yolandaâs hands roaming over your body while your mouth found warm shelter between Trinityâs legs. Before long, your casual relationship had grown more serious until you decided to move in together, and you fit together so well that it seemed a shame not to have met them sooner; a sacrilege, almost. Trinity had opened up about her scars, you about the depression that had consumed you for most of your life, and Yolanda about her battle with â and eventual victory over â the obsessive-compulsive disorder that, over the years, had transformed into the control she so often displayed in the operating room. You were imperfect, but you loved and accepted one another completely in a way you had only ever dreamed of.
You slide your fingertip over the wheel that strikes the lighterâs flame; it takes three tries for the fire to rise and for the empty cigarette box, resting on the cement of the ledge, to catch fire.
Youâve been up here for hours by now; you donât know what you want to do, you donât know if you want to take a step forward and end all of this forever or take a step back and return to the arms of your partners, at home. John isnât the first child youâve lost, but you had grown attached to him like you never had to anyone else. In one month, you had seen that little human being more than most of your own family; he had made you laugh, cry, have fun; he had drawn you a beautiful picture: three figures holding hands in front of a building with an asterisk drawn on top, at the center of which was a serpent coiled around a staff. One night, while you were checking his vitals, you had told the little one that you loved two people and not just one, like other people. You had told him that everyone says you can only love one person at a time, and that they said it because they had never met two extraordinary people at the same time.
The next day, when you had entered his room for the routine checkup, you had found him sitting on the bed â surrounded by machines that a child shouldnât even have to see, at his age â clutching triumphantly, in his tiny little hands, that piece of paper. He had handed it to you with the biggest smile you had ever seen him make, and in a proud voice he had said that he too loved many people: his father, his cousin, his teacher⊠and he understood what it meant to love more than one person. You had cried that day, because a child had explained and understood what many people couldnât even conceive of.
The world had lost a beautiful person today.
It wasnât your fault, you know that; rationally, you know that you did â that all of you did â everything you were capable of doing. But grief⊠grief is never rational.
What remains of the pack is a little pile of ash; you brush it away with the back of your hand, letting the wind carry it off with a gust. The way you too would like to fly away, without the weight of everything you feel on your shoulders right now.
âTo jump or not to jump, that is what I wonderâ⊠you chuckle bitterly at the thought; after all, the great Shakespeare would not be very pleased with this butchered quotation.
The phone rings again, three, four, five times. And then, the rooftop door opens with a creak.
You donât even turn around, you donât feel the need and even less the desire. Whether itâs one of your colleagues or one of your partners doesnât matter; you donât owe explanations to anyone, everyone comes up here, whether for the view or for other reprehensible reasons is beside the point.
âHey kiddo, I havenât seen you come down in a while. The night shift has arrived and Lena too, finally. I canât wait to get home to my boys. Maybe itâs time for you to do the same.â
The unmistakable voice of the head nurse rings through the noisy silence of the roof, drowning out the hum of car horns dozens of meters below. You hear the click of a lighter, and without turning around, you understand she has just lit a cigarette.
You donât answer. You donât turn. The sound of her steps approaches slowly, unhurriedly, as if she had all the time in the world â and perhaps, in a way, she does. Dana isnât the type of person who rushes you; sheâs the type of person who sits down next to you, on the cold cement, a meter from the edge, and smokes in silence as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
âI lied for you today, you know? Santos called me, about an hour ago,â she says, after a long drag. Her voice is flat, free of judgment. âI told her you were still at the hospital, that you were finishing some charts. She pretended to believe me.â
Your stomach drops. Not because of the lie itself, but because Dana had had to construct it, think it through, make it believable. For you. Because you hadnât had the courage to answer the phone.
âYou didnât have to,â you murmur.
âI didnât have to, but the alternative was telling her the truth, and I donât know if I was ready for that conversation.â
You donât ask what the truth is according to Dana. You donât need to. You saw her watching you walk out of the family room with the bruise already forming on your cheek and your eyes hollow.
âIâm not going to jump, Dana,â you sigh, but not even you believe your own words because, as a matter of fact, a very large part of you would just like to have the guts to take that last step.
âI didnât suggest that, kid, but Iâm definitely not going down from this roof without seeing you get off that ledge first. Youâve been up here for hours and I doubt itâs just to admire the view.â
You hear a long breath and then a little cloud of smoke rises to your right. The woman has probably moved closer, without you noticing.
You swallow. The metallic taste of smoke scratches your throat and the inhaler in your pocket weighs like an accusation.
âIt was a bad day, Dana. Nothing more.â
âA bad dayâŠâ Dana chuckles bitterly, weighing every single word and shaking her head a couple of times before tossing the cigarette on the ground and crushing it with the toe of her shoe.
For a few seconds, the only sound surrounding you is your breathing, the wheeze in your bronchi that you are trying with all your might to silence. Your abs ache from how hard youâre straining not to cough, but from the gaze you feel burning against your back, you understand itâs futile.
âHow much,â she says. A single word, dry as a slap.
âDanaââ
âHow much did you smoke, y/n.â
âA pack.â
Dana drags a hand over her face. From bottom to top, slowly, pressing her fingers against her closed eyes as if she were trying to erase something from her own sight. Youâve seen her make that gesture only after the worst shifts â the ones after which you find yourself in the parking lot staring at the steering wheel for twenty minutes before you can turn the key.
âA whole pack,â she repeats, and her voice trembles now. Not with anger. With something deeper, rawer. âYouâre asthmatic. Youâre asthmatic, for fuckâs sake, y/n, and youâre a doctor, you know what it does to your lungs, and the wheeze I can hear in your breathing is proof of it. Whereâs your inhaler? ChristâŠâ
Out of the corner of your eye, you see her turn toward the city for a second, toward the lights flickering on one after another in the growing darkness. You see her hesitate, open her mouth and then close it again as if she were afraid of what sheâs about to say might cause. Youâve never seen her doubt anything.
âSantos and Garcia wonât be happy about this, you know that, right?â
An icy chill runs down your spine, and itâs not from the cold.
âW-what?â
âIâve worked in the ER for twenty years and I notice everything that happens inside it. Youâre the only person Santos doesnât vent to during a shitty shift, and the other day I saw Garcia adjusting the stethoscope around your neck with a smile Iâd only ever seen her direct at Santos. It didnât take me long to figure it out⊠and itâs fine, Iâm not judging you, kid. Iâm not judging any of you three, and actually, Iâm glad youâve found someone to talk to. You donât need a medical degree to see that you love each other.â
Dana smiles and, slowly, takes a step toward you, and only when sheâs sure you wonât make any sudden moves does she rest her hand on your arm.
You canât speak. Your throat has closed and itâs not the asthma, this time. You had guarded that secret so jealously that now, hearing someone else say it out loud is like being stabbed right in the chest. You had been so careful; you had told everyone that you and Trinity had moved in together â for financial convenience, obviously â and the relationship between her and Yolanda was common knowledge by now. You never would have thought that your glances would give you away.
âI donât care, Y/n. Iâve never cared. Who you love, how many people you love, how you love them⊠thatâs your business. What I care about is that two people who love you are a few minutesâ drive from here and theyâve been looking for you for hours. Theyâre looking for you and youâre up here, alone, in the cold, with a pack of cigarettes in your veins and a bruise on your face and a deafening wheeze in your lungs. Punishing yourself.â Her voice cracks, barely, on the last word. âPunishing yourself for something that isnât your fault.â
âI know you know it but knowing it and believing it are two different things, kid,â the knot in your throat tightens, âand until you believe it, you canât be up here alone. I donât trust your choices right now.â
âWell⊠I donât trust myself right now either.â
Dana squeezes your arm as another coughing fit strikes you.
âThat child was special,â she says, and her voice has changed again, lower, softer. âEvery time I walked past his room and saw you in there telling him things, making him laugh, checking the machines pretending everything was normal⊠every time I thought that boy was incredibly lucky to have you as his doctor.â Pause. âAnd today the world lost something irreplaceable. But not because of you, Y/n. Not because of you.â
You donât answer. You canât. Your eyes burn and your throat is a tight knot and if you open your mouth now you know what will come out is a strangled sound, a cry of pain that you donât want Dana to hear â not here, not now.
âItâs time to get off that ledge, y/n. Go home to your girls.â
A long silence settles between you. The traffic below continues as always â indifferent, constant, stupidly normal â and the sky has gone completely black now, without that orange strip on the horizon left to hide behind. Dana is standing, less than two meters from you. She hasnât moved closer but she hasnât moved away either. She guards that space the way one guards a border.
âYou know what he told me, once?â you say, and you donât know why youâre saying it, you donât know where it comes from, but the words come out before you can stop them. âJohn. One evening, while I was checking his vitals and he couldnât sleep, he asked me why I became a doctor.â
Dana doesnât move, doesnât speak. She listens.
âI told him I became a doctor because I wanted to help people and make them feel better. And he looked at me with those big eyes that were impossible to say no to, Dana, and he said: âBut then why do you cry when you leave my room?ââ Your voice breaks, you canât help it, as the memory of that sweet child invades your mind with force.
You bite your lower lip so hard you taste blood.
âA six-year-old child⊠and he noticed I was crying. He noticed that every time I left his room I leaned against the corridor wall and cried because I knew â I knew, Dana, from the very first day â that he wasnât going to make it. That every probability I had studied in my medical textbooks testified to how his story would end. And he knew I was crying and he never said anything until that evening when he asked me and I didnât know what to say, I didnât know how to explain to a child that I was crying becauseââ
You stop. The sob takes your throat like a hand and squeezes. You lean forward, your hands on the cold cement, and for one horrible second the world tilts â the edge is right there, less than a few centimeters away, and your body weighs too much and the void pulls â
Danaâs hand grabs your arm with force. So hard that you feel every single finger through the fabric of your jacket. She pulls you back and for a moment you find yourself with your back against her chest, her arm around your shoulders and her heart pounding against your back.
Not the calm heartbeat of a woman who has everything under control, but the terrified heartbeat of someone who has just seen what could have happened.
âDonât move,â she says, and her voice is unrecognizable. Hoarse, broken, stripped of all professionalism, of all distance, of every role. âDonât move, y/n. Stay here, stay still.â
Her arms tremble around you.
Yours tremble against her body.
And you stay like that for a time you canât measure â seconds, maybe, or minutes, or hours compressed into a heartbeat â until Dana drags you off the ledge, setting you with your back against the cement you were sitting on just moments ago.
âHe answered me himself, you know,â you whisper, and your voice is a whisper, the thinnest thread barely audible, the ghost of a sound. âI apologized for not knowing how to answer him and he said: âMaybe you cry because you care about me. My dad cries too and I know he loves me.ââ
Dana doesnât answer, but her arm tightens around you and her breathing becomes irregular, short, broken â like the breathing of someone fighting not to cry and succeeding by the thinnest margin.
âAnd he was right,â you say. âI was crying because I cared about him. And now Iâm crying because heâs gone and his father is gone and Iâm on this fucking roof wondering ifââ
âEnough.â
Dana lets you go. She shifts, moves in front of you; kneeling on the cement, her hands on your shoulders, her face thirty centimeters from yours, and in her eyes you see something youâve never seen in twenty years of emergency room condensed in that woman: fear. Pure, naked, total fear.
âEnough,â she repeats, and her voice trembles but holds. âListen to me. That child loved you. His father was destroyed by grief and did the things that grief makes people do. And youâre here, alive, with a bruise and a heart that hurts too much, but youâre here. Youâre here, Y/n. And I need you to stay here.â
She takes your face in her hands. Her fingers are cold and rough against your skin.
âI need you to use that inhaler. I need you to get up from this cement and come down from this roof and let me drive you home and let those two women hold you tight tonight. I need these things, Y/n. I need them. Can you do them for me, if you canât do them for yourself?â
You donât answer. Not with words. But your fingers find the jacket pocket â the one without the phone â and pull out the inhaler. The metal is ice-cold. You bring it to your mouth. Press. Inhale. Hold for a few seconds.
The bronchi open. Air flows in and the wheeze, finally, fades.
Dana nods. She releases your face. She sits next to you, shoulder to shoulder, and for a full minute you stay in silence, seated on the cement with your backs against the ledge you were sitting on just moments ago.
âThat child is the reason you get up from this roof,â Dana says. âNot for me. Not for your job. Because that child â you are not allowed, y/n, do you hear me? â you are not allowed to turn that child into a memory of something that was lost.â
You stand up.
Your legs tremble, your knees protest, and for a second the world spins, darkness closing in at the edges of your vision, but Dana quickly grabs you by the elbow to keep you from falling.
âEasy, kid,â she says. âEasy.â
She holds your elbow a few seconds longer than necessary, until sheâs sure your legs can hold on their own, and then lets go â but doesnât move away. She walks at your side toward the roof door, half a step behind, close enough to catch you if you fall and far enough not to make you feel like an invalid.
âMy keys are in the locker,â you say, your voice hoarse. âI need toââ
âOh, you donât actually think Iâm going to let you drive, do you?â She turns to you as if you had just told her youâd removed a lung from a healthy patient, arching her right eyebrow.
âDanaââ
âIâm driving you home. End of discussion. Your car will get some rest.â
You donât have the strength to argue. You donât have the strength to do anything, really. The adrenaline left a long time ago and what remains is an exhaustion so total that it feels like youâre moving underwater. You follow Dana through the ER â emptied out at this hour, thanks to some divine miracle â until you reach outside, the parking lot, where the cold night air makes you shiver.
The drive home is blurred, the warmth of the car lulls you and the devastating emotions of the day drain you so much that you think you closed your eyes at some point. You donât even remember telling Dana where you live, actually; and yet, when you open your eyes you recognize the façade of your apartment building.
You turn toward her. In the darkness of the car, her face is lit in flashes by the orange streetlight and her dark circles seem deeper, her gaze more tired. She spent her evening on a roof, in the cold, for you. She should be home with her boys by now, and instead sheâs here.
âDana.â
âTell me.â
âWhy did you come up?â
She looks at you for a few seconds and then, with a tired smile, answers, âBecause I donât only have two children to look after, but also many other doctors just like you, kid â Santos and Mohan and Javadi and Whitaker. Youâre all my godchildren, and I have to make sure my godchildren are safe.â
âThank you,â you say, and the word is so inadequate, so small compared to what it contains, that youâre almost ashamed to say it.
Dana huffs a half-laugh â dry, tired, real â and then hugs you.
âThis pain will pass, y/n, but until then, turn to the people who love you.â
She gives you one last squeeze and then gets out of the car to open your door for you, walks you to the entrance and waits patiently while you find the keys inside your jacket. The head nurse waits until youâre inside the building and then, with one final nod, walks away.
âI expect not to see you at work tomorrow, and when you come back, weâll have a talk about what happened tonight. Itâs not optional.â
Dana closes the front door, with you inside, and heads toward the car. You hear her start the engine only after you step into the elevator and the doors close behind you.
You arrive in front of your door without realizing it; you slip your hand into your jacket pocket to pull out the keys again and open the door.
The smell hits you first. Lavender â Trinityâs detergent. Coffee â Yolanda. Something burnt â the toaster, probably, forgotten somewhere in the chaos of the day by Trinity; Yolanda keeps everything under control, after all. Home. The sound of that word in your head hurts in a way you didnât expect.
âFinally.â
Yolandaâs voice comes from the living room. The tone is the exasperated one she uses when you come home late; irritated, a bit annoyed, but fundamentally calm. The tone of someone who thinks they already know what happened: long shift, charts, the usual delay. You hear the sound of the couch deforming under the weight of someone getting up and then her footsteps â barefoot, quick â in the hallway.
Yolanda appears from the doorframe; sheâs wearing your gray sweatshirt, sweatpants, and her hair is tied up. Sheâs gripping the phone in her hand and slipping it into her pocket with the automatic gesture of someone who has just stopped checking the screen.
âI know you were finishing charts, but you could have at leastââ
She stops.
The words die in her mouth. You see it happen in real time: the sentence fading, the lips remaining half-open, the eyes moving from your eyes to your right cheek. And staying there, pinned.
Her face changes and the irritation vanishes, the relief vanishes. What remains is something bare, sharp, surgical.
âY/n.â
Your name sounds different from how youâve heard her say it a thousand times. It sounds like an alarm sounds.
âWhat the hell happened.â
Itâs not a question. You know her well enough to know that when Yolanda phrases things like that â flat, dry, without a question mark â sheâs not asking. Sheâs demanding an answer.
âTrinity.â
She says it without turning around, without taking her eyes off yours, raising her voice just enough for it to reach the living room. Trinityâs name spoken in that sharp, urgent, clinical tone is the same one she uses in the operating room when something goes wrong and she needs another pair of hands.
You hear Trinity get up from the couch, her hurried steps in the hallway, and then you see her appear behind Yolanda, with the blanket still clutched in one hand and the expression of someone expecting a complaint about the lateness who finds something else entirely.
She looks at you, her gaze quickly finds the bruise on your face and stops there. The hand gripping the blanket opens and the fabric falls to the floor without a sound.
âWho,â she says. A single syllable. Low, hoarse, charged.
âCan we sit down? Iâll explain everything, butââ
âWho the fuck did that to your face, y/n.â Trinity has taken a step forward. Sheâs in the hallway now, less than a meter from you, and her eyes havenât left the bruise for a single second. Her hand rises toward your cheek â slow, controlled, with the gentleness of someone handling something broken â and her fingers stop a centimeter from the skin. She doesnât touch. She feels the heat of the inflammation through the air.
âClose the door,â says Yolanda, behind you. You hadnât realized it, but the front door is still open, flung wide onto the landing. You push it. It closes. The sound of the lock clicking shut is final. For one single instant you had the temptation to run away, but it wouldnât solve anything now. If anything, it would only make things worse.
Trinity takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the hallway light. Her lips tighten. You see her clench her jaw once, twice; a gesture she makes when examining victims of violence.
âItâs not a fall,â she says. âItâs not a locker. Itâs not a cabinet door. Itâs a punch, y/n. Someone punched you.â
Silence. That she was good, you already knew, but thisâŠ
âWhy didnât you answer the phone?â Yolanda speaks. She has come closer now, and you feel her to your left. Her tone is low, careful, controlled with a visible effort, like someone walking on a glass floor. âWe called. Messages. Dana said charts. But you werenât answering. Why?â
âBecause I couldnât.â
âCouldnât or wouldnât?â
The difference, right now, seems irrelevant to you.
Trinity releases your chin. She takes your hand â the right one, the one with the fingertip scraped by the cement, which fortunately she doesnât notice â and guides you to the living room. She sits you on the couch and then sits beside you, so close that her thigh touches yours, and she doesnât let go of your hand. Her fingers are warm. Yours, on the contrary, are ice-cold.
Yolanda stays standing. Arms crossed, leaning against the TV cabinet, facing you. The news is still on â the volume low, images scrolling across the screen â and for a second your eyes fall there, on the screen, and you pray theyâre not replaying the bridge story because if they see it now, before youâ
âTurn that thing off,â Trinity says to Yolanda, and from the tone you can tell itâs not because of the noise. She noticed your gaze. She saw where you were looking. She doesnât know why yet, but she saw it.
Yolanda picks up the remote and turns it off. Silence. Only the refrigerator humming, the bathroom faucet dripping, your breathing.
âTalk,â says Yolanda.
You look at them. Both of them. Trinity is at your side, with your hand in hers and her eyes fixed on you â those eyes youâve learned to read like an open book and that are now full of something that oscillates between fear, fury, and anguish. Yolanda stands before you, arms crossed, with the expression of someone performing an emotional triage.
âJohn died this morning.â
A shadow passes over Trinityâs face. She knew â they both probably knew, departments talk â but hearing it from your mouth, in your broken voice, is different. Her hand squeezes yours.
âCardiac malformation. Fifteen minutes of cpr. He didnât make it.â The clinical chart tone; the wall every doctor hides behind, with great effort and very often without great results. âHis father was in the family room. I went to notify him of the death. He⊠letâs say he didnât take it well.â
âThe bruise,â says Yolanda. Hers is not a question.
âHe screamed at me that it was my fault, that I had killed his son, and then he punched me.â You gesture toward your cheek with a nod. âOutside the room. No one was around.â
Trinityâs hand contracts in yours. A reflex, a jolt; the body reacting before the mind. Her breathing has changed â itâs shorter, quicker, her chest rising and falling in jerks.
âAnd you didnât tell us,â says Trinity.
âThatâs not all.â
Yolanda pushes off the cabinet, takes a step toward you. Her arms have uncrossed and her hands are at her sides, open, and thereâs something in her posture that reminds you of the way she approaches the operating table when she already knows the surgery is going to be long and complicated and isnât going to go the way it should.
âHe⊠left the hospital after hitting me. He jumped from the bridge on Eighth. Died on impact.â You swallow. âThey reported it on the evening news, in the afternoon. Dana recognized him⊠sheâs the one who brought me home.â
The silence that follows is not silence. Itâs the sound of two people processing information too large, too heavy, too full of implications to be absorbed in a single breath. Yolanda has stopped moving; she stands in the middle of the living room, two steps from the couch, with an expression youâve seen only once â in the operating room, when she lost a patient on the table and took off her gloves and set them in the bin with a calm that had frightened everyone. Trinity, beside you, has closed her eyes.
âThe charts,â says Yolanda. And the word falls into the living room like something heavy, something dirty. âDana told us you were finishing charts.â
âDana lied for me. I had asked her not to say anything.â
âAnd where were you.â Yolanda whispers, her gaze concealing the need for a denial that, however, doesnât come.
âOn the roof.â
One second.
âOn the roof,â Trinity repeats, and opens her eyes. âFor how long.â
âSince four. Maybe earlier. I donât know.â
âFour hours,â says Yolanda, and her voice trembles. âFour hours on the hospital roof without answering the phone, after a man punched you in the face and jumped off a bridge.â She inhales. âWere you on the ledge?â
You donât answer. But the way you avoid her gaze is answer enough.
âGod.â The word leaves her like an exhalation. She brings her hands to her face, presses them against her eyes, drags them down slowly, and when her eyes reappear theyâre glistening. Glistening in a way youâve never seen. Glistening in a way that frightens you more than anything that has happened today, because Yolanda doesnât cry â she never cries. âY/n⊠You were on the ledge.â
âI wasnât going toââ
âYou werenât going to?â Trinity stands up, and her voice rises with her. âYou donât know if you were going to or not. You donât sit on a ledge for four hours when you know what you want to do, y/n!â
Sheâs right. Sheâs right and you know it and she knows it and the silence that follows is the proof.
âThe charts,â says Trinity, and her voice has changed. Itâs fragile, wounded. She takes her hands from her face and her eyes are red and wet and full of a desperation that devastates you. âWe believed it. I believed it, Y/n. Dana said you were finishing charts and I said âok, sheâs doing chartsâ and I stopped calling because I thought you were working and you were on the ledge. For half an hour longer I didnât look for you because someone told me a lie and I believed it and you wereââ
Her voice breaks. She turns her back on you and takes three steps toward the kitchen before stopping with her hands pressed on the tabletop, arms straight, head bowed. Her breathing is loud, ragged â the breathing of someone trying to hold the pieces together by sheer force of will. Itâs the breathing youâve heard her do many times before⊠just before a panic attack.
âTrinity, sweetheartââ you stand up.
âSit down.â Yolanda. She isnât looking at you. Sheâs looking at Trinity and then, with three quick steps, reaches her. She places a hand on her sternum and presses gently, to make her feel her presence. She presses softly, with an open palm, a gesture that both of you use to help your girlfriend â to give her something physical to focus on when her breath escapes her.
Trinity inhales, once, twice. Slowly, fighting against the panic rising in her chest. Her hands are still on the table, knuckles white with the effort and arms trembling under the weight of a body that wants to give in.
You stay on the couch, motionless, while guilt devours you. Not only for everything that happened today but also for this. For the fact that Trinity, one of the two women you love with all your heart, is having a panic attack in your living room, and the cause is you.
âBreathe, love,â Yolanda murmurs; her voice is calm, low, steady⊠completely different from the one she just used with you. Itâs the voice she reserves for Trinity in the worst moments. âLook at me. Breathe in with me. Thatâs it. Good.â
Trinity raises her head. Her eyes find Yolandaâs and cling there, like an anchor. She inhales when Yolanda inhales. She exhales when Yolanda exhales. They do it three times, four, five, until the rhythm stabilizes and Trinityâs hands on the table finally stop trembling.
âIâm sorry.â
You say it from the couch, with your hands on your knees and your voice trembling like a childâs. You say it looking at them and the inadequacy of those two words crushes you.
Trinity pulls away from the table. She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, with a rough, almost angry gesture, as if the tears were a personal offense. She inhales once, deeply, and then crosses the living room and comes back to you.
She kneels on the floor in front of the couch, and her hands take your knees. She looks up at you from below and her face is devastated and furious and full of love, and all these things together shouldnât be able to coexist on the same face, yet on Trinityâs they do â they always have.
âIâm not done,â she says. Her voice is still hoarse, still unsteady. âIâm not done being angry with you. Iâm not done being afraid. Iâm not doneââ She stops. Swallows. âBut first I need to know one thing. And I need you to tell me the truth, love â not the version you think is less painful. The truth.â
You nod.
âOn the ledge. For four hours.â Her fingers tighten on your knees. âAt any point during those four hours, did you think about jumping? Iâm asking you if the thought crossed your mind, even for one second.â
The living room is so silent you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears. Yolanda stands at the kitchen entrance, motionless, arms at her sides and eyes fixed on you. She waits. They both wait.
And you could lie, you could say âno, neverâ with the same ease you said âIâm fineâ to Dana this morning. You could protect â again, still, always â and add another layer of lies between yourself and the people you love.
But you stopped lying tonight. Youâre tired, and you canât do it with their eyes on you.
âYes.â
A single syllable, so brief and yet the heaviest you have ever spoken.
Trinity closes her eyes. She doesnât move, doesnât pull away, doesnât remove her hands from your knees, but her face does something that destroys you: it contracts, for a second, as if she had received a physical blow â a real, bodily pain â and then recomposes itself. When she opens her eyes there are tears, but beneath the tears there is something else â something hard, determined, unshakable.
âOk,â she says. âOk.â Sheâs shaken, visibly shaken, but sheâs trying to process somehow the bomb youâve just dropped.
Yolanda has moved. You didnât hear her, but now sheâs behind you, on the couch, and her hands are on your shoulders. The weight of her hands on your tense muscles is warm and steady and says: Iâm here, Iâm not going anywhere.
âAnd Dana?â asks Yolanda, from behind you. Her voice is controlled, but her fingers on your shoulders tremble, just barely, betraying everything else. âDana knew? That you were on the ledge?â
âShe came up. She found me there and â she pulled me down.â
A sound escapes Yolandaâs throat. Itâs not a word; itâs a strangled sob. Her fingers tighten on your shoulders, once, hard, and then relax. She leans down, leaves a kiss in your hair, and you feel her hands stiffen slightly.
âYou smoked.â
âIââ
âGoddammit, y/n,â Yolanda whispers, her voice still trembling, but with anger now.
Trinity doesnât react â not immediately, at least. Her face stays motionless, perfectly still, for three whole seconds, and then something breaks. You see her rise from her knees, sit next to you on the couch, and rest her head against the backrest, eyes on the ceiling. She inhales. Exhales. Inhales again.
âYouâre asthmatic,â she says, to the ceiling. As if she were telling the universe and not you.
âI know.â
âYou know.â A pause. âYou know, and you smoked.â
Thereâs no anger in her voice. Thereâs something worse: thereâs weariness. The exhaustion of someone who spent hours fighting against imaginary scenarios and now discovers that reality was worse than all of them.
Yolanda has moved. Sheâs no longer behind you; sheâs gone to the bathroom to get something. When she returns, she has the stethoscope gripped in her hands, along with your backup inhaler â the emergency one, with the corticosteroid and not just the bronchodilator.
âYoloââ you sigh.
âDonât piss me off more than I already am right now, please.â
She sits to your right and makes you turn toward her; she slides the bell first across your chest and then your back, ordering you to breathe in and out when she tells you to.
âI can still hear the wheeze. Take a puff.â
You grab the inhaler; her look brooks no argument, and youâre not sure how much further you can push the rope before it snaps, so you follow her orders to perfection, and when, a few minutes later, she checks again, sheâs satisfied enough to put the stethoscope away.
She lets herself fall onto the couch, at your side, and her arms wrap around you, together with Trinityâs; the surgeon rests her forehead against your shoulder, and her body trembles. You feel something warm and wet soaking through the fabric of your shirt where her cheek is pressed, and you realize sheâs crying. Yolanda is crying. In silence, without a sound, with tears falling without permission, and youâve never seen her cry in your life, and the fact that sheâs doing it now, here, against your shoulder, tells you everything there is to know about what youâve done to her tonight.
You stay like that.
You donât know for how long. Time stopped mattering the moment you stopped lying, and now all that exists is this: three bodies on a couch, three broken breaths trying to find each other again, the living room that smells of lavender and cold coffee, and the world outside the window going on without you.
Itâs Trinity who moves first.
She stands â eyes swollen, red, but her gaze steady, present â and removes your jacket. She does it slowly, sliding it off your arms one side at a time, and the smell of stale smoke rises from the fabric like an animal waking up. She folds it with care â too much care for a jacket that should just be tossed in the corner â and takes it to the hallway. When she comes back, her hands return quickly to you, to your face; she touches you as if that could anchor you, in her mind.
Trinity sits next to you again. She takes your chin between her fingers and turns your face toward the lamp. She examines the bruise, with light, professional fingers â the touch of a doctor assessing a trauma. As if she werenât assessing the battered face of the woman she loves.
âIce wonât do much good at this point,â she says, softly. âTomorrow itâll be worse. But nothingâs broken.â
âI know.â
âI know you know.â A shadow of something crosses her lips. âBut you donât get to decide, today.â
Yolandaâs eyes are still glistening but sheâs no longer crying; her breathing has stabilized â not as controlled as usual, but certainly better than before.
âTomorrow we talk,â she says. âAbout everything. The cigarettes. The asthma. Dana. The roof. The ledge. The phone. About how we make sure this never happens again.â Pause. âI canât go through another evening like this, y/n. I canât do it. Not a second time.â
âNeither can I,â says Trinity, from the other side, quietly.
âTomorrow,â you say. Itâs all you have. Your voice emptied out, your body exhausted, and their bodies at your sides, and the blanket â picked up from the floor by one of them, at some moment you didnât register â around your shoulders.
You donât promise anything. You donât say âit wonât happen againâ because you donât know if thatâs true and youâve stopped lying tonight. You rest your head against the backrest, close your eyes, and let the weight of your body give in toward them. Toward Trinity, on your left, who takes your hand under the blanket and laces her fingers with yours. Toward Yolanda, on your right, who squeezes your arm and presses her cheek against your bicep.
You surrender. To them. To this. To the fact that you are alive and you are here and it hurts and tomorrow it will hurt again, but at least you wonât be alone.
Three figures holding hands.
All three of them standing.
Just like in Johnâs drawing.
Heyy, sooo⊠Itâs been a while uh? At least, I was really inspired for this one. I hope u liked it and yes, I fell in love with Santos and Garcia (what I have to say, toxic yuri is my kryptonite). Anyway, requests are open (as always) and have a great day!
Summary: Â Natasha was stressed. Her life was filled with responsibility, even more now that she had to train the new recruits for the next three months. Not finding the same relief she had once felt after working out, she started watching a gaming streamer. Finding that your voice relaxed her and eased the tension in her body.
She walks into a flower shop, needing to buy flowers for Wandaâs birthday. You welcome her warmly. Wait, why does that voice sound so familiar?
âThank you for stopping by! I hope your girlfriend likes the bouquet,â you say brightly to your last customer of the day.
The bell on the door chimes as they exit and you let out a sigh of relief. It had been a busy day, rather a busy week with a multitude of events that called for bouquets, arrangements, etc.Â
You were always grateful to be the go to florist for weddings, holidays, and anniversaries. At times for more somber reasons like funerals, but you were able to leave a lasting memory for your customers with the care you put into their requests.
Being a florist and owning your own shop was something you always aspired for and it brought a lot of meaning into your life. Seeing people at their happiest and at their lowest points was something you didnât take for granted and always gave it your best.
Though, being empathetic and connecting with customers didnât cost you anything and felt natural, you needed some time in your day to focus on yourself and relax.Â
You did that through gaming which became a hobby a few years ago. Being able to immerse yourself into another world and focus on only that was something that took your mind off the responsibilities that came with being an adult.Â
Wanting to connect with others who enjoyed the same hobby, you started streaming a month ago in hopes of meeting or creating a community of people with interests similar to yours. It had started off slow, which was to be expected, but soon you had people joining your stream and chatting with you.
You loved the small community you had and was grateful to have something to look forward to after work. You enjoyed talking about your day and hearing about the lives of others and the different games they were playing.Â
You chose to stream without a camera because you wanted this to be completely separate from your normal life and were a bit too shy to put yourself completely out there. Thankfully those in your community didnât mind and stuck around for you and your personality.
â
After closing up the shop, you arrived home and began settling in for the night. Doing your usual routine of showering, making dinner, and preparing for your stream.
You do your routine of making sure all your equipment is working, your connection is stable, and at last, you press âGo Liveâ.
â
Natasha turned on the TV and connected to the live stream of the only person who brought her peace for the past two weeks.
It was Natashaâs turn to train recruits for the next three months which had begun a month ago. Being as skilled as she was as Black Widow, training people who didnât know their asses from their elbows was headache inducing. Not to mention the overconfident recruits who felt that they were above the training they were receiving.
Exercising had been a way for her to release stress and still was, but recently it hadnât felt like enough. She wanted a way to relax at the end of the day and discovered gaming. After exploring a few games she learned that while she did enjoy it quite a bit, she found more joy in watching people playing after stumbling upon a videogame streaming site.
She came across a channel called, âY/Nâs Cornerâ and was immediately hooked. Your soft and gentle voice brought her a sense of calm that she hadnât experienced in a while. Like the stresses of the day and the responsibilities she had didnât matter for the time that she watched your stream.
Listening to your little rambles about your day as you traversed throughout whatever game you chose to play made her smile without realizing. You were just the right amount of casual and competitive that kept her engaged. Hearing you laugh brought a sense of warmth in her chest that she couldnât explain and she wondered what you looked like when you were laughing.Â
She never chatted, rather, was a silent supporter and showed up whenever she could when she saw the notification that you went live. Always thankful for the unknown streamer that allowed her to go to sleep in peace.
After your stream ended for the day, Natasha laid in bed thinking about what she needed to do the next day and remembered it would be Wandaâs birthday. Tony would be throwing a party for the occasion and she didnât want to show up empty handed. Maybe flowers? she thinks as she drifts off to sleep.
â
After a few deliveries, it had been a slower day at the shop. Considering how busy it had been the past week you couldnât help but feel a bit relieved to have a breather.Â
It was nearing the time to close and the sun was starting to set, creating a warm hue throughout the shop. Shadows casted from the dissipating light were all around you in the shape of flowers as you began doing a few closing tasks around the counter. Â
The bell chimed as a customer entered the shop and you looked up to see a distracted redhead examining the flowers near the door. You couldnât help but pause as the setting sun made her look like she was glowing. Her hair looked fiery but soft at the same time and her green eyes were shining from the reflection of the light. The green dress she was wearing accentuated her eyes even more.
You shook your head, remembering that you have a job to do and need to lock in.Â
âHi, welcome in! Is there anything specific that youâre looking for?â you say with a bright smile.
Her eyes snap to yours and looks at you as though she recognizes you from somewhere.
âNot anything specific,â she says while squinting at you. âItâs my friendâs birthday and I wanted to get her some flowers.â
Choosing to ignore the looks she was giving you, you respond âThatâs very sweet of you. Did you want to choose a few flowers for a bouquet or select a premade one? Or I can select a few for you.â
âIf itâs not too much trouble, would you select a few to create a bouquet?â the redhead says.
âItâs no trouble at all,â you say while walking around the counter. âDo you happen to know what flowers your friend likes?â
âI donât, sorry. I know that flowers have a meaning behind them and Iâd like to convey our friendship and hope for her happiness, if thatâs helpful at all.â
âItâs very helpful,â you say while scanning the shop. You pick up a yellow freesia and hold it up to her. âThis, for example, conveys friendship in flower language. While a yellow daisy represents happiness. Thereâs a lot of combinations to choose from to convey what you want to express to the person youâre giving them to. My job is to try to make it presentable at the end,â you say with a laugh.
âI donât know if my friend will understand the meaning of them,â she says with a little smile. âHopefully the feeling will be conveyed anyway. I think my friend likes pink. What about these ones?â Glancing at you while pointing to some pink hyacinths.
âOh, so youâre doing my job for me now?â you say playfully. âThose are pink hyacinths. They represent playful joy. I think theyâd add a pop to the bouquet. I was starting to get worried that it was getting too yellow.â
âI had to throw in a suggestion considering I hardly gave you anything to off of,â she says with a smirk. âI think three different types of flowers should be enough. I donât want to hold you up any longer.â
You gather a handful of each of the flowers and move behind the counter to start arranging them.
âYouâre not holding me up at all. Whatâs your name by the way?â you ask while multitasking to fill the silence.
âMy name is Natasha. Whatâs yours?â
âIâm Y/N.â Pointing to your name stitched into the fabric of your green apron.
Natasha looks surprised that she didnât notice as she looks down to where youâre pointing.
You catch her attention again, gesturing to the ribbons. âWhat color ribbon would you like to be tied around the bouquet?â
Her eyes move to examine the ribbons. Smirking, she says, âLetâs go with scarlet.â
You pull up the total as you do the finishing touches on the bouquet.
Natasha pays as you hand her the finished bouquet. Her fingers brush yours as she looks up and gazes at you. It feels like the noises outside come to a quiet and itâs just you and her, hands touching, looking at each other as though you were both exactly where you needed to be.
âThank you so much for your help today Y/N,â she says softly while looking down at where your hands are touching.Â
You looked down as well, feeling shy all of a sudden. âIt was my pleasure. I really enjoyed helping you today and I hope your friend likes the flowers.â
Her hand moves away from yours as she grabs the bouquet from you fully. You immediately miss the bit of warmth that her hand had given you but shake it off as you look up to give her a soft smile.
âHave a great rest of your day Natasha. If youâre ever in need of flowers again, you know where to find me.â
âOf course. Youâll be my go to girl,â she says with a playful smile. She turns to leave and you find yourself staring at her as she walks away.
With her hand on the door handle she turns around to look at you. Even though the sun had set a bit more than when she first walked in, she still looked as radiant to you as when she first entered.Â
Her eyes shining like emeralds linger on your face as if memorizing you before smiling and walking out the door.
You inhale deeply, realizing that you hadnât been breathing during the short staring contest. You feel your heart beating a little faster and wonder what it was about her that made you feel this way.
You could only hope to see her again as the shop was encompassed in darkness as the sun fully set.
â
Natasha walked back to the Tower, holding the bouquet securely against herself as though it were something precious and fragile. She wouldnât be able to forgive herself if she ruined the beautiful arrangement you had made for her.
She looked back on the interaction she had with you and wished it couldâve been longer. When you had first welcomed her in she felt startled to hear the same voice sheâd heard last night on stream. The same voice that would quiet the worries in her mind and soften the shell she surrounded herself in.
At first she thought it was just a coincidence, someone with a similar voice. Your laugh though, was unmistakable. That laugh that carried an ease to it and was so infectious that she couldnât help but feel lighter while hearing it.Â
Sheâd always wondered what you wouldâve looked like laughing, and seeing it in person was even more than she couldâve imagined. Your eyes brightened with a little crinkle in the corners of your eyes that she found endearing. The way when your laughter would slowly die down and turn into a soft smile.
You brought the same sense of peace that she felt while watching your streams but the feeling was even deeper while talking to you in person. She felt a pull towards you that she couldnât quite explain and secretly hoped to see you again soon.Â
Maybe tell you about how Wanda liked the flowers tomorrow as an excuse to visit you, she thought as she entered the tower and stepped into the elevator to go up to the party.
The elevator doors open to loud music and a sea of people that Tony probably invited. She scans the room to find the birthday girl leaning against Vision and talking animatedly to some members of the team.
She makes her way through the crowd with light steps, gracefully avoiding bumping into other partygoers until finally arriving in front of Wanda.
âYes, sorry Iâm a bit late. I was grabbing these for our beautiful birthday girl,â she says while handing Wanda the bouquet.
âThese are gorgeous Natasha. I didnât take you for one to know flower language or did you just take a lucky guess and happen to choose the ones that mean friendship?â Wanda remarks with a teasing lilt while giving Natasha a hug.
âHey, I can be sentimental too you know,â Natasha states exasperatedly. âBut yes, the florist was the one who helped me with the meanings behind the flowers and choose them. The pink one was my lucky guess.â
âI figured,â Wanda says with a laugh. âThank you anyways. I love them. I guess Iâll have to pay them a visit when I want to change the flowers in my room.â
âYou should. The floristâs name is Y/N sheâs reallyââ
âRushman! Youâre needed behind the bar,â Tony calls from somewhere nearby.
âUnfortunately duty, or I guess I should say the Tinman, calls,â Natasha says while rolling her eyes. âIâll catch up with you whenever you decide to freshen your drink. Enjoy the party Wanda, you deserve it.â
Wanda gives Natasha another hug before Natasha walks to take over as makeshift bartender.
Charming the guests came naturally to her as she made their drinks. Fake smiles and polite pleasantries. Never anything below surface level despite the many advances made towards her.Â
After a few hours she was relieved of her duties and decided to call it a night. The forced smiles had taken a toll on her social battery. She wishes Wanda a happy birthday one last time and says her goodbyes to the team before heading back to the elevator to go to her room.
She releases a sigh of relief as she closes the door to her room, taking off her heels and begins getting ready for bed.
It was late and she knew that the chances of you streaming were low, but decided to check anyway as she opened her laptop. She was happily surprised to see that you were live. Her body relaxed into the bed the moment she heard your voice. You sounded a bit congested compared to earlier, but maybe her speaker was the problem.
âHaley is so hot but so rude in the beginning. I know she gets better but do I really want to marry someone who was mean to me until I gave them gifts? Leah feels more stable and more wholesome. Sigma67, hell no Iâm not marrying one of the bachelorâs. Sebastian? I may as well marry a rock at that point.â
Natasha chuckles quietly as she hears you continue to rant about the marriage candidates in the game. Feeling her eyes slowly begin to close to the soothing tone of your voice.
âIf I could marry Krobus I would. Theyâre the only one that never disappoints me, doesnât get jealous, gives me buffs. Whatâs not toâŠâ
â
Natasha woke up feeling refreshed. She had a rare day off and was looking forward to resting her voice from yelling at recruits.
After finishing her morning routine she joined the team for breakfast in the common room. Everyone but Steve was fairly hungover so it was a quieter morning with Wanda cooking, Tony grumbling about how much his head hurts, and Vision watching over everyone.Â
You stayed in the back of her mind all throughout and she wonders if itâd be too soon to pay you a visit. She continued to consider this while going through her workout and while she headed to her room to shower.
While showering, she convinces herself to go, not to see you, but to let you know how much Wanda loved the flowers. Definitely not because she already missed your smile.
She changes into jeans, a white shirt, a leather jacket, and a baseball cap. It was much earlier than yesterday when she visited your shop and she hoped she wouldnât be catching you at a busy time.
She turns the corner to see the white door of your shop but pauses when she sees a sign on it.
The sign on the door read, âClosed today, sorry:(â
While your handwriting and frowny face looked adorable, she felt a wave of disappointment wash over her when realizing she wouldnât be seeing you today.Â
Hopefully youâd be streaming today so she could at least hear your voice, she thought as she trudges back to the tower.
â
The day passed by slowly and it was finally around the time you normally stream. Natasha had her laptop open, ready to watch whenever you went live.
This went on for a few hours, with her tidying up her room, doing her nighttime routine, all the while checking her laptop every few minutes. The notification of you going live never comes.
Maybe youâre taking a break today too,â she thought, trying not to be too disappointed.Â
Realizing you wouldnât be streaming today, she put one of your previous streams on, hoping that it would have the same effect. She felt herself relax a bit, but missed hearing new stories about your day and worried about why you had closed today.
â
Sleep had not come easily. Natasha woke up throughout the night, pausing to listen to you, then going back to sleep. Apparently there was something special about hearing you talk live. Or perhaps after meeting you, she wanted more.
The combination of the change in routine and her lack of sleep forced her into a lousy mood that she wasnât afraid to show.
After getting ready for the day and changing into her workout attire she walked into the common room for breakfast. Everyone was already seated as she made her way to the end of the table next to Steve and Tony.
âWake up late, Romanoff? Thatâs unusual for you,â Tony quipped.
âFinally got your head out of your ass, Tony? Thatâs unusual for you,â Natasha snaps back with a glare.
âJeez, who rained on your parade today?â
âStop provoking her, Tony. Youâll just make it worse,â Steve says, glancing between them. âNat, is something wrong?â
âWhatâs wrong is both of you spreading your testosterone and not minding your own business.â
âWhat am I supposed to do aboutââ
âTony, letâs just eat quietly.â Steve, sensing her mood, picks up his fork and silences Tony.
â
Natasha slams her jacket down on her bed. It felt like everyone was getting on her last nerve today. Tony with his constant comments, the recruits being incompetent, and most of all you still not going live today.
You didnât stream for another two days and Natasha was losing it. She had checked your shop to see if you were open, under the guise of surveying the area, only to be disappointed each time. The rain cloud that was forming on the first day only grew and she wasnât afraid to strike lightning down on anyone who tried to mess with her. Or breathe within five feet of her for that matter.
She was towards the end of sparring training with the recruits and everyone had been paired up except the odd number that got stuck with Natasha. She took her time making small jabs until she caught them off guard and slammed them into the mat with more force than necessary. Finally dismissing everyone for the day.
The recruits grumble about how harsh she had been the past few days as they walk to the locker rooms.Â
She releases a tense sigh. The days felt slower without you, like she was just going through the motions to get to the end, only to start over again the following day.
She felt a desperation in her chest that she had never felt before. How could you affect her this way when she barely knew you? Sure, she watches your streams and knows small details from the anecdotes that you shared, but those were simple. What she felt when she met you was like she was behind a door that could bring her happiness. Unlocked and inviting. She just wasnât sure if she was brave enough or trusted what was beyond.
She made her way up to her room to shower, passing by staff and team members who took one look at her expression and scampered away.Â
Her head felt clearer after showering but there was a lingering feeling of exhaustion that wouldnât go away. With dark circles under her eyes and heavy shoulders, she made her way to her laptop, deciding to catch up on reports to get her mind off of you.
The streaming site was still open from when she had played one of your past broadcasts the night before. She was about to close the tab when she saw a notification on the top right of her screen indicating that you had just gone live.
The exhaustion she felt washed away into disbelief. Completely disregarding the reports she needed to finish, she found her way to your channel and heard you greeting everyone.
Your voice sounded a bit scratchier and you spoke quieter, but the complicated feelings in Natashaâs chest dissipated. She felt lighter than she had in days. It was you. You that had been on her mind, you that brought quietness in the chaos of her life, you that she had missed even if she didnât want to admit it.
âSorry for not streaming these past few days without any notice. I ended up getting a cold and was confined to the dungeon that is my room and the cell that is my bed. Iâve been symptom free for the past day â throat is still going through it as you can hear. Hopefully I wonât sound like a gremlin for too much longer.â
Natasha caught herself smiling softly the entire time you were talking and laughing along with you. Your giggle mightâve been the cutest thing she ever heard. She was glad to hear that you were okay and still had your infectious positivity.Â
You couldnât talk as much as normal, as you were protecting your throat, but Natasha savored the bits and pieces of you talking about your cold as if it was an adventure.
âAnd then I literally sneezed 10 times in a row. I thought that was it for me â with no one to bless me and all. Itâs a miracle I survived without any blessings.â
 Natasha listened for as long as she could, but felt herself slowly dozing off. The lack of sleep finally catching up to her as though hearing that you were okay was the permission she needed to rest peacefully.
I hope the flower shop is open tomorrow, she thought before letting sleep take over her.
â
You woke up feeling better than you had for days. Your throat didnât feel like it was on the verge of shriveling up every time you talked and your complexion looked better as you tested your voice in front of the mirror of your bathroom.
âYouâve been symptom free for 36 hours. Itâs time to get back on the saddle and work.â Hyping yourself up while walking to your closet.
Deciding on a gray long sleeve shirt and blue jeans you head out to the door to put your sneakers on before finally departing for your shop.Â
It felt good to be walking the familiar route after being trapped inside for a few days. Other shop owners stop you to ask where youâd been. You retold the story of your cold in the most dramatic way possible as they laugh along with you, handing you little treats as a way of saying âWeâre happy to see you back and hope youâre feeling better.â
After finishing your tale, you bid them farewell as you made the rest of your way to your shop. Taking note of the sign on the door that you haphazardly wrote when you realized you were too unwell to open.
You unlock the door and take everything in. The automatic watering system thankfully had done its job. Your plant babies were still thriving. Your green apron is still hanging near the counter. The fresh smell of the flowers gives you energy.
It hadnât been long but you had missed this. You loved the routine you had of taking care of the flowers and managing your shop.Â
You walk through the space, going around the counter to put on your apron. Starting your opening tasks before finding yourself at the door ready to kick off the day.
You saw customers already waiting outside the door, some being regulars that you felt grateful to. You turn the closed sign to open and open the door with a smile.
âWelcome in!â
â
It had been quite the rush until you were in the last half an hour of being open.
Regulars had stopped by when they noticed you were open and new customers joined when they saw how popular your shop was. You caught up and laughed with them as you navigated the shop to help them find what they were looking for. Helping others who were unsure, until everyone left with smiles on their faces and flowers in hand.Â
The sun was low in the sky. You felt sapped, but filled with warmth. You hadnât been gone for long, but the reception you received filled you with gratefulness.
You were tidying up around the floor when you saw pink hyacinths in the corner of your eye. You brush the petals gently with your fingers. Natasha suddenly came to mind. The sun had been setting like it was now and you remember how drawn you felt towards her.
Is it weird to feel this way towards someone Iâve only interacted with once? you thought, reminiscing about the interaction.
While lost in thought, the bell chimes and you glance up.
You lock onto familiar green eyes, the same eyes you were just picturing. Your heart flutters as you glimpse down at her lips that were curling into a smile.
You try to muster some courage. âI guess you couldnât stay away. Back for more?â
âI did say youâd be my go to girl,â she says with an easy smile. âPlus, my friend adored the bouquet you made her for her birthday.â
âHey, you chose one of the flowers so it was a team effort,â you say grinning at her. âWhatâs the occasion today?â
She looks caught off guard but quickly answers, âJust something for myself.â
âNothing wrong with some self love.â You cringe inside at your response. Normally you were charismatic with your customers, but with Natasha you couldnât stop your nervousness.
âYes, exactly,â she responds seriously. âCan you choose a few flowers for me to create a bouquet like you did last time? Iâm not familiar with that many so Iâd really appreciate it, if itâs not too much trouble.â
Already looking around for the flowers that came to mind when you thought of her, you shot her a smile. âIâm more than happy to.â
You pluck some light red carnations, pink tulips, and white orchids from their containers with decisiveness.Â
Natasha watches you with fondness as you begin wrapping the flowers in floral wrap.
âAre you not going to tell me the meanings of the flowers this time?â
You feel your cheeks heat up, forgetting that sheâd probably be expecting you to explain the meanings like you did last time. Contemplating if you should lie, you decide you should do your job properly.
âThe light red carnations mean admiration, the pink tulips mean gentle affection, and the white orchids mean beauty,â you relay quickly while pointing to each one. Looking away to not see her reaction.
You donât see Natasha change from looking at you with fondness, to looking at you with so much tenderness that even sheâs surprised at how you can make her melt with just a few words.
âCan I get a bouquet of these as well?â she asks while pointing to the container of white gerbera daisies.
âOf course,â you say while going around the counter to retrieve them. Relieved that she wasnât asking further about your selection of flowers for her.
You wrap the daisies while she watches your hands work. The silence felt more comfortable than it did the first time she had visited.
You bring up the total for the bouquets after finishing the wrapping, handing them to her after she pays. She only grabs one of the bouquets, leaving the bouquet of white gerbera daisies in your hands.
âThose are for you,â she says leaning forward with a soft smile. âNew connections.â She turns around and walks out the door. Leaving you with just the sound of the bellâs chime, a racing heart, and an astonished expression.
â
Ever since Natasha had gifted you the bouquet, she had been visiting you everyday around the time you closed.Â
She would help you move the heavier pots and containers that you normally struggled with, with ease. Sheâd sweep the floor for you and wipe the windows even though you protested against it. After the first few days you started joking that she was an honorary worker.
The conversations started gradually, just learning bits and pieces about each other. You learned that she was Russian, that she has a sister who she loves but tries to hide it, that she learned ballet when she was younger. You could tell that she didnât like to share much about herself, so you gratefully held the pieces that she did share close to you.
After two weeks, she nervously told you that she was a part of the Avengers with Black Widow being her alias.Â
âHow could you let me charge you for the flowers?â you shriek.
âThatâs what youâre focused on?â she asks, amused. Her shoulders lose their tension.
âI mean, for someone whoâs saved the world a couple times, the least I couldâve done was give you some free flowers,â you mutter regretfully.Â
She looks down at her hands, rough from her training and field experience. âI thought youâd treat me differently considering everything Iâve done in the past is out there.âÂ
You consider her words before reaching for her hands. Holding them in yours gently as though she were precious. To you she was.
âThese past few weeks Iâve gotten to know Natasha. Not Black Widow. I know Natasha canât tell the difference between a hydrangea and a dianthus even though Iâve told her at least 100 times,â you say with a playful eyeroll. âI know Natasha is a menace if she doesnât have a coffee at 3 oâclock on the dot. I know that Natasha loves her friends and family even when sheâs complaining about them.â
You rub the back of her hand with your thumb. âAnd I know Natasha thatâs allowed herself to tell me pieces of herself even though itâs difficult. Thatâs the person who I want to continue to know and learn about, past be damned.â
She looks at you, eyes glistening, as though you hung the stars and the moon.
âI guess Iâll have to keep telling you more about me,â she murmurs, holding your hand back.
â
It had been a month since Natasha started visiting your shop regularly. Helping you close at the end of the day had become a part of her routine. You and her had gotten even closer after she told you what she does. Even bringing you to the tower a few times, in which you were endlessly entertained by F.R.I.D.A.Y.
She wasnât sure how to define your relationship. It felt like an in between where she accepted how she felt about you, but was too afraid to risk what you guys had currently. She had convinced herself that she was satisfied with how things were as long as she had you, her sunshine, in her life.
That is, until she walked to your shop and paused at the door to see a man leaning against the counter. Far too close to your personal space. Natasha could tell he was flirting with you and she felt her chest tighten.
She knew you were popular in the area. People from other shops often brought you gifts in the form of baked goods and other items from their shops. She always figured that youâd probably have some admirers, but seeing it in person brought a twinge of irritation that she wasnât anticipating.
She wanted to stop him but knew she didnât have the right. You werenât hers. People were allowed to be interested in you and she had to be okay with that. She told herself this, but imaging you with someone else felt unbearable. The facade of being satisfied with just being friends cracking.
While lost in her thoughts you notice her at the front. Wearing jeans and a black t-shirt with her leather jacket that you had become so familiar with. The man, who was leaning far too close to you and only talking about himself, had blocked your view of her. You wave at her, catching her attention.
She looks conflicted as she walks through the door. You lean back from the counter, letting the man know you would be closing soon. Essentially dismissing him without saying it outright.
He gets the idea and walks out, grumbling about how women never give men chances.
âAre you ready for your closing shift?â you ask with a grin.
She looks lost in thought as she absentmindedly murmurs, âYeah, letâs get started.â
Normally sheâd chat with you while you guys went through the checklist of tasks. Today she was quiet. Seemingly engrossed in what was preoccupying her mind.
Maybe sheâs tired today, you thought while moving the last pot into place and closing out the register.
You turn to look at her, only for her to already be watching you. Her face fills with determination as she locks eyes with you.
âDo you want to hang out at the tower today?â
Your eyes widen. Figuring that she wasnât in the mood to talk today. You would never turn down an opportunity to spend time with her though.
âOf course. You just canât get enough of me huh?âÂ
âI really canât,â she says softly, moving towards you. She reaches her arms around you, untying the back of your apron and gently maneuvering the neck loop over your head. âReady to go?â she asks next to your ear.
She moves away to put the apron on the hook near the counter.Â
You're glad because youâre sure if she was still next to you that she would be able to hear your heart beating a mile a minute. Did she know the effect she had on you? Thereâs no way she didnât. You had known that you had feelings for Natasha for a while now. At times you thought she might feel the same way, but she never pushed the boundaries of friendship. So you always held yourself back.
It was the first time you felt that maybe just being friends wouldnât be enough. Your heart wanting more. To be hers and for her to be yours. You just didnât know how to make that step forward and if it was worth risking everything.
You both walk to the door together, her holding it open for you before you lock the door.
The evening was warm as you both made your way to the tower. You felt yourself gravitate towards her, bumping into her occasionally. Apologizing each time with a shy smile.
Her hand brushes yours as she gives you a smile, telling you not to apologize when youâre about to open your mouth to say sorry again. Your hand felt electric where she had made contact.
You enter the tower together and head to the elevator. She presses the button for her floor.
Youâd only been to her room twice, both briefly. You felt glad that your relationship with her was progressing and maybe she was putting more trust in you.
She leads you to her room, closing the door but not turning around.
âNat?â
â
So many thoughts were racing through Natashaâs mind. Should she risk everything? If you didnât feel the same way, how would you guys go back to how you were before? Would you even be in her life after this?
She looks down and notices her usually steady hands, shaking. She was terrified of not having you with her.Â
She swallows the fear down, the feeling of wanting more â to have you be hers overtaking her as she takes a deep breath and turns around.
âY/N,â she says with as much confidence as she can muster. It was now or never. It was time to allow herself to open the door.
âWe havenât known each other for that long but the moment I walked into your shop to buy flowers that day, I knew I was a goner for you. Youâre on my mind all the time. When I see the sunset, I think of you. When thereâs flowers on the side of the road, I think of you. Even when Iâm brushing my teeth, I think of the silly faces you make at me when weâre closing the shop and I canât help but smile and wish you were there with me.â
She takes a shaky breath before saying, âI mightâve been a goner even before that. Your voice, your laugh, your cute giggles, have brought me so much peace even before really meeting you. Over two months ago I came across your stream and I was hooked. Hearing about your day and watching you play games with your adorable commentary became a part of my routine. When I went to get flowers the day we met, I didnât know it was you until I heard your laugh. Iâd know that laugh anywhere. The same laugh that felt like it was lifting the burdens of my day away. I didnât mean to hide that I knew about your stream, I just didnât know how to bring it up. Iâm sorry for keeping it to myself all this time.â She finds the courage to look at you.
Youâre staring at her. Eyes wide, like you couldnât believe what she was saying.
She prepares herself to be rejected. Sheâd told you this too late.
âY/N-â
âNat,â you say, cutting her off. âFor a master assassin youâre not very good at hiding things.â You say with humor in your voice, eyes filled with warmth.
âThe first time you allowed me into your room I happened to see your laptop open. I promise I wasnât peeking on purpose! It was just right there, and I saw my channel on your screen. If I clocked you as a stalker, we wouldnât be here right now.â
You walk forward until you're standing right in front of her. Her eyes tracking you the whole way.
âThe day we met I knew there was something different about you. When you walked in, I was floored. I almost couldnât do my job because I was so lost in your eyes,â you say with a sweet laugh. You reach your hand up to cup her cheek, smiling up at her adoringly. âAnd then our hands touched, and it felt like it was just you and me. Like we were meant to be there together. I didnât think my feelings could grow even further, but every time we talk I just want more. More time to talk to you, more time to look at you â just more of you.â
âI was yours the moment we met,â she murmurs while leaning down before pausing halfway. âIs this okay?â
Instead of answering, you close the distance. Your lips meet as you wrap your arms around her neck.
She wraps her arms around your waist, like she originally wanted to when she took your apron off but couldnât find the courage to. Wanting to be as close to you as possible â finding it just wasnât enough.
She lightly bites your lower lip, asking permission. You part your lips, allowing her tongue access as she starts walking you backwards slowly against the wall. Your bodies pressed tightly together as she leaves you breathless.
With one kiss, Natasha was already addicted. Feeling like she couldnât get enough of you. You had her in a haze and she wanted to be as close to you as possible. She slowly dragged her hands under your shirt. Feeling the warmth of your bare skin as she held your waist. She pulled her head back slightly to look at you. Gazing at you with a wordless question that you understood immediately.Â
You lean your forehead against her shoulder and murmur, âI want you.â
âIâm yours,â she says, sliding her hands down to the back of thighs and lifting you. Carrying you towards her bedroom.
You let out a startled laugh. Kissing below her ear as she lays you down onto the bed.
She leans down on top of you, supporting her weight with one arm as she gazes at you lovingly.
âStop looking at me like that,â you whisper. Your cheeks heating up from her gaze.
âLike what?â
âLike Iâm the only thing that matters.â
âMaybe you are.â She leans down to kiss your neck. You jolt, feeling her lips suction onto your neck, leaving her mark on you.Â
She brings her hand down to the hem of your shirt, looking up from where sheâs leaving another mark, asking for permission silently.
You sit up, allowing her to slide your shirt off. She looks at you like she canât help herself before reaching behind you for your bra clasp. Looking at you to see if it was okay.
âI trust you, Natasha,â you say before brushing your lips against hers. Hoping she understood that you wanted to give her everything.
You hear the click of the clasp being released as the straps of your bra loosen. She slides them off your arms and tosses your bra aside. She presses her hand to your shoulder, laying you back down.
She gazes down at you adoringly before murmuring, "Gorgeous.â She leans down, kissing between your breasts before turning her head to take one of your nipples in her mouth.Â
It wasnât your first time, but everything with Natasha felt different. New. Like your sensitivity got turned up a few notches. You felt yourself reacting to every swipe of her tongue. The pressure of her fingers gripping your breast. All culminating into the growing wetness you felt between your legs.
You werenât the only one reacting. You could feel her length pressing against your thigh through her jeans. Your shaky breaths when she would lick your nipple and sharp intakes of breath when she would suck a bit harder drove her crazy.Â
She gave your other breast the same attention before kissing down to your stomach. Covering every inch of you with kisses like she were on a mission.
You tugged on her jacket, wanting to feel her warmth more clearly.
She slips out of her jacket, taking off her shirt and bra in the process. You admire her body openly and wrap your hand around one of her biceps. No wonder she was able to carry everything with ease when helping you. Her strong muscles flex in your grasp.
She hides her flushed cheeks in your neck as she moves her hand downwards. Her fingertips resting on the button of your pants.Â
Kissing over the marks she made, she undoes the button of your pants and zipper and slides your pants off. She drags her fingers over your underwear until she reaches the spot where your arousal has gathered. You were already soaking and she hadnât even truly began.
She let out a breath against your neck before leaning back to drag your underwear down your legs. A string of your arousal shining as she fully removes them.
âYouâre driving me crazy,â she mutters.
Her thumb presses lightly against your clit and you twitch from the sensitivity. She presses harder and circles her thumb, forcing a moan out of you.
âMmm-â Your cheeks heat up from hearing yourself and move to cover your mouth.
Natasha grabs your wrist and presses it into the bed. âDonât be embarrassed, baby. I love the sounds you make. Let me keep hearing them,â she whispers while her fingertips move downward until sheâs at your entrance.
She doesnât give you a moment to feel shy before swirling your arousal on her middle and ring finger. She looks up, looking for approval.
You give her a small nod, feeling safe with her.
Her fingers slowly enter you and you feel yourself tighten at the intrusion. She rubs circles into your hip to ease you and you feel yourself relax.
She starts slowly, setting a leisurely pace. Her fingers drag against the spot inside you that forces breathless moans out of you. You feel her thumb return to its spot on your clit, continuing its ministrations from earlier while thrusting her fingers into you faster.
You feel your mind become hazier as you get closer to reaching your peak. A part of you wants more of her. To be full of her.
You reach towards her, touching her cheek. âNat,â you say breathlessly.Â
Her fingers pause â eyes filled with worry that she mightâve hurt you. âIs everything okay baby?â
âEverything is okay,â you say, trying to ease her worries. Shyly looking down, you bite your lip. Finally peeking up to see her looking at you with a mix of worry and adoration. Your chest fills with warmth as you find the courage to say, âI donât want to cum without you inside of me. I want to be even closer to you.â
Itâs like a switch flips in Natasha as she eases her fingers out from inside of you and begins unbuttoning her jeans.Â
You could see how hard she was from how her cock was straining against her boxers, creating a tent. You reached out, rubbing her length through the fabric and noting how thick she was. She inhales sharply at the feeling.
You push her boxers down, not being able to be patient anymore, as her cock springs free and hits her stomach. You could see the head of her cock glistening as precum dribbled down her length.Â
You lay back down as she shuffles forward until her shaft is rubbing against you. She slides herself on your slit, gathering slick and bumping against your clit as she thrusts upwards.
Your arousal was down to your inner thighs from how turned on you were. It didnât take long for her cock to be covered in you and she lines herself up to your entrance.
She cups your face with her hand, rubbing her thumb across your cheek.Â
âIâll take it slow. You let me know whenever something doesnât feel right, okay?â She looks at you seriously.
You wrap your arms around her neck to pull her closer to you so youâre face to face, Leaning up the rest of the way you kiss the corner of her mouth. Smiling against her lips you respond, âI promise I will.â
She brings you into a deep kiss â slowly beginning to press herself into you. The stretch feeling impossible at the beginning. You suddenly feel grateful that Natasha had stretched you out a bit earlier. Â
She makes her way into you. Inch by inch. You grip her biceps as she continues. The head of her cock finally hitting the deepest part of you. The sound of your pants filling the room.
She rests her face against your neck. Staying still to allow you to accommodate to her size.Â
âIâm obsessed with you,â she breathes out.
âIâm that good already?â you say playfully through uneven breaths.
She pauses for a moment before pulling out halfway and thrusting back into you with force. You release a startled moan.
âIâm that good already?â she says looking at you with a smirk.
âThe absolute bestest,â you say with a teasing glint in your eyes.
She rolls her eyes with a smile. She presses her lips against yours and you feel yourselves both smiling into the kiss. Her hips gradually move away from yours as she begins a slow, but steady pace.
Everything with Natasha felt perfect. Her caring demeanor, the way she looked at you like you were her world, even the random playful banter when you were making love. You wanted everyday and every moment for the rest of your life to be with her.
You feel the stretch start to feel more manageable, Natasha reading your expression, increases her tempo. Hitting the exact spot inside you that makes you feel like youâre losing control with every thrust.
You feel tears start pooling and falling down the sides of your cheeks at how intense everything felt. At the overwhelming adoration you have for her. At the love you feel building for her, even in the short amount of time youâve known each other â knowing that this love would only continue to grow.
She wipes your tears away, matching your expression of love for her as if she knew exactly what you were thinking. You memorize her face at this moment, cheeks slightly flushed, pupils dilated, her red hair disheveled, but most of all â her tender expression. Like she was memorizing you too.
Your hands grip the sheets as you feel your climax steadily approaching. She reaches for your hands, uncurling your fingers and interlocking them with hers. She presses your hands into the bed on both sides of your head as shifts to change her angle, hitting even deeper inside you. You wrap your legs around her waist, wanting her closer to you.
Your moans reverberate next to her ear, her strokes becoming erratic. Too lost in your pleasure to feel smug about the effect you have on her.
âIâm close, baby,â she groans, trying to make the moment last longer. Unsure of where to finish.
You wrap your legs tighter around her waist. You look up at her with pleading eyes. âInside please. Itâs okay.â
That sets something off inside of Natasha â gripping your hands tighter, her thrusts shallow but donât lose their intensity. Your walls tightening around her as you sit on the verge of climaxing.
âFuck, baby-â she moans shakily before making a final rough thrust, reaching as deep as you can allow.
You feel the warmth of her seed filling you to the brim and beyond. Your legs shake against her waist as you reach your peak. Your vision blurs from the pleasure. Clutching her hands until your knuckles turn white. Letting out a broken moan that sounds like her name.
She murmurs quiet praises into your ear. Making slow thrusts to help you ride out your orgasm. She releases one of your hands to cup your face.
âThis feels like a dream,â she whispers, still breathless.
You gently grab her hand, maneuvering it until her palm is resting over your heart. Finally able to speak after coming back down to Earth.
âIâm right here. Iâm yours. You have my heart,â you say softly but with conviction.
She leans down, giving you a deep kiss that she hopes conveys her feelings, unable to put them into words.
âAnd Iâm yours. Always, as long as youâll have me.â
âThis coming from my biggest fan?â you question, giving her a mischievous grin.
She throws her head back, letting out an unrestrained laugh at your cheekiness. Yeah, sheâs in love, she thinks to herself.Â
She gives you a playful smack on your shoulder.
âDomestic violence already!" you shriek dramatically.
âWhat have I gotten into?â she says, shaking her head trying to give you a disapproving look but failing.
You pull her into a tight hug. âNo take backs,â you say softly.
âNever,â she says, holding you tighter. âIâm exactly where I want to be. Now and in the future.â
âForever,â you whisper, picturing it.
â
The sun casts a red orange glow around your flower shop. Its fading rays shine off the leaves of the flowers, and glint off the shelves.
The bell chimes as a customer enters. Red hair accentuated by the remaining light.
âIs it too late to buy something?â she asks while looking around.
âItâs a bit last minute but I guess I can make an exception,â you respond while hiding a smile. âDo you need help finding something?â
âNo thank you. I know exactly what Iâm looking for,â she says while grabbing a bouquet of red roses. âIâll just take these today.â
You ring her up while trying to keep an air of professionalism. âReceipt today?â
âNo thank you, maâam.â Her act finally cracking as she smiles at you. The soft smile she only gives when you two are alone.
She hands you the bouquet, brushing your hair behind your ear. It was longer than it had been a year ago.
âHappy anniversary, my love,â she says softly, voice filled with love.
You rush forward, giving her a kiss that has her stumbling backwards before catching herself. Your eyes shine with love as you look at her.
âI love you too,â you say against her lips.
âSorry Iâm a little late getting out today. Let me just finish up so we can leave for the restaurant,â you say while removing your apron.
âTake your time, gorgeous. Weâre in no rush.â
âMaybe if my part time closer showed up on time I wouldâve been done already,â you say with faux discontent. Glancing back to give her a pointed look.
She lets out a laugh filled with amusement. âArenât they just terrible?â
âJust the worst,â you say while reaching to hold her hand.
You both walk toward the door. She pauses right before, leaning down to give you a sweet kiss before opening the door. You walk out together, looking forward to all the anniversaries, memories, and love that will only continue to grow in the future.
â
This is my first time writing a fanfic. Hopefully I did okay đ . I haven't done any creative writing since I was in my freshman year of university. I got interested in this fandom late last year and reading other writer's fanfics have brought me a lot of joy. I was originally writing this for myself, but I wanted to maybe give that same joy to others. I have a handful of other fic ideas, so feedback is always appreciated. Sorry if my formatting was poor at times. If you want to see my journey as I improve my writing, please give a follow! Thank you for reading! đ
when i look up a knitting term, the last thing I want is an ai overview. I want a 60+ year old woman with no understanding of lighting or helpful camera angles who still manages to give the most concise and clear explanation of how to execute purl 2tog through the backloop. ai summary fuck off, where is phyllis?
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