welcome to my blog!! my name is star, and iâm so happy youâre here :)
what i write: exclusively wlw fics, mostly in the marvel universe (for now)
who i write for: the girls, the gays and the mentally ill. plz no cishet men, this is not for you lol
Hi hi hi itâs been forever, I havenât forgotten about this account I SWEAR. I missed all of you so so dearly, especially a specific few (you know who you are, and I missed talking to you regularly).
I graduated and then moved two days after and Iâve been on set nearly everyday since! I got roped into a long term PA position for a movie, which is something I definitely didnât expect! Itâs been wonderful and grueling and beautiful and brutal, and I promise that when life starts to slow down, Iâll put more energy into writing again.
I miss you and I hope youâre all okay. Iâll be responding a bit better but tbd on next fic post;)
i had to delete my account because i realized that writing stuff like "that" wasn't really my thing. i got convicted because i realized that i could do so much more than what i'm doing now. i also wanted to focus more on my studies to achieve my dreams
which is why i decided to delete my toy4naat blog.
but since i'm still your biggest fan, and you're still my favorite author, i'll continue to support you.
i loveyouuu starr :))))
GAB! So here for your new account, I canât wait to see what you create!!
Summary: Uhhh based off a request of r meeting Nat on a train and then I took it too far and now this is part one of I don't know how many and I don't know where I'm going with it yet! Bye! Enjoy!
Warnings: None
Word Count: 2,500
Song: Call It Fate, Call It Karma by The Strokes
The first thing you notice about her is the way she watches reflections instead of people. You catch it in the train window- your own face clouding over hers, your tired eyes and purple eye bags floating somewhere near her shoulder. Sheâs looking at the glass, not directly at you, like sheâs searching for something.
You look away first.
The train rattles somewhere between âcharming European countrysideâ and âdefinitely the middle of nowhere.â You werenât supposed to get on this train. You were supposed to get on the earlier one, the faster one that didnât involve questionable upholstery and a man across the aisle eating tuna straight from the can. Youâre not supposed to be on this train at all really. Youâre supposed to be at home, doing something mundane like laundry or grocery shopping, but instead, youâre here.
And so is she. Sheâs wearing black- of course she is. Not in a dramatic brooding way, more in a âthis fabric wonât show blood or coffee stainsâ way. Practical. Her red hair is tucked behind one ear, but a few strands have escaped, softening what is otherwise a face carved from cool disinterest. You tell yourself not to stare, but it proves to be quite difficult. Thereâs so many details to take in.
âYouâre very subtle,â she says without turning her head.
Your soul leaves your body for a brief moment. âI was staring at the countryside,â you reply quickly.
âWeâre in a tunnel.â
You focus your eyes to the window and find that the train is, in fact, going through a tunnel. Itâs pitch black out.
âMhm, very scenic. I love tunnels actually.â
You think you see the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Itâs definitely not a smile, but itâs something, and you count that as a victory. She finally turns to look at you properly. Green eyes, sharp jaw, rigid, curious in a way that feels a little dangerous, like sheâs sizing you up and double checking the math.
âWhy are you on this train?â she asks.
âBudget constraints and poor decision making,â you say. âYou?â
A pause. âWork.â
âAh. The mysterious kind?â
She tilts her head. âIs there another kind?â
âAccounting,â you offer.
âIâve seen men cry over spreadsheets,â she says flatly. âItâs a dangerous job.â
A few heads turn, like they can feel the stagnant air between the two of you. Her attention remains pinned to you like a thumbtack through paper. Thereâs something about her that feels lonely. Not in a sad, obvious way, more like sheâs solitary by choice. Permanently braced for impact. You donât know why you sat next to her. There were plenty of other open seats next to far more normal people.
âAre you running toward something,â you ask lightly, âor away from it?â
Her expression doesnât change. âThatâs a bold question.â
âIâm a bold person.â
âYouâre on the wrong train.â
âBold and bad at logistics.â
That almost tug of a smile again. The tunnel ends and light floods back through the compartment. For a split second, you see her more clearly- a faint scar peeping over the collar of her jacket, her hands braced on the chair, her body angled towards the aisle like sheâs waiting for something to happen. She studies you like youâre a puzzle she didnât expect to enjoy.
âYou ask a lot of questions,â she says.
âItâs a coping mechanism.â
âFor?â
âExisting.â
A silence stretches between you, like sheâs weighing her options.
âIf you keep moving, nothing can catch up to you,â she says bluntly.
You cock your head. âDoes it work?â
âSometimes. But you donât seem like someone who runs.â
âIf youâre calling me boring, Iâm offended. And I do run. I absolutely do.â Youâre not quite sure what youâre referring to, or why youâre spilling so much to a complete stranger. Sometimes trains become liminal spaces like that. Spaces where things begin to slip through the cracks.
âNot from me,â she says testingly.
Your heart does something inconvenient. âI donât know you,â you reply.
âYouâre still here.â
You swallow. Thereâs something magnetic about her, sure, but youâre vulnerable and sheâs a mystery. You know getting wrapped into something or someone may not be the smartest decision here.
âI could be a terrible person,â she adds casually.
âI guess you could,â you shrug, desperate to keep the conversation light.
She just searches your face for a moment, an action that feel likes waiting before a judge to decide your fate. You feel suddenly nervous, maybe because of her, maybe because youâre regretting your decision.
You clear your throat. âIf you are running, I hope itâs towards something better.â You look away, ending the conversation. Yes, thatâs good. No beautiful strangers, nothing tying you anywhere.
âAnd you?â she asks, despite your attention averting back to the window. âWhat are you running toward?â
You think about missed trains and missed opportunities. You shouldâve made up your mind quicker, gotten on the earlier train to avoid whatever reflection this interaction is forcing upon you. Maybe you shouldâve just stayed home. With your ex. In the apartment. That you share. You think of telling the woman beside you that you just couldnât handle it anymore, that youâd moved to the city for her, that youâd passed up your dream job for her and thatâs why youâre running. Running is grandiose for this situation. You barely have anything but your bag and the clothes on your back. Itâs a futile attempt really. And you know that. But it still means something at least. The past few months had felt like everyone else got a map and you didnât. A guide to survive life post grad. Youâre breaking, but youâd never admit that to anyone.
âI donât know yet,â you say finally.
The train begins to slow, a small station approaching. Itâs small and forgettable and then you realize you donât even know where you are. She stands, smoothing down her coat and grabbing a small bag from the overhead rack. She looks down at you, hesitates.
âTry to take the right train next time.â It sounds almost fond.
âMistakes are part of the journey,â you respond.
Then, to your surprise, she leans down slightly, close enough that you can smell something clean and sharp- like winter air.
âBe careful,â she says quietly. âYou ask too many questions.
You tilt your head. âYou answer them.â
She smiles properly, the first time she has this entire ride. It transforms her, makes her look younger. Lighter. The train doors hiss open. She steps towards them and then pauses.
âIf you ever find what youâre running toward,â she says without turning around. âI hope itâs worth sticking around for.
And then sheâs gone. The doors close and the train rumbles. You sit there, staring at your own reflection in the window. Your heart is beating a little too fast, your face burning. You donât know her name. But youâre not thinking about going back anymore. Youâre thinking about the next stop and whether, maybe, youâll choose to get off. Maybe this was a good choice, maybe she was a sign. Maybe youâre supposed to disappear for a little bit.
By the time the train comes to another stop, youâve almost convinced yourself she was a sleep-deprived hallucination brought on by stale train air and unresolved emotional baggage. Almost. The station is small, one platform beneath a flickering light. A vending machine that looks like itâs lost custody of its own will to live. Itâs late. The kind of late where your footsteps sound louder than they should and every shadow feels like it might materialize into something sinister. You wonder if your ex has noticed youâre gone. Of course she has. You wonder if sheâs doing anything about it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder and step off the platform and into the street. Cold air bites your face. You exhale, watching your breath curl upward like a ghost. New city, fresh start. At least for now. Even if itâs just temporary, even if you suddenly become logical and force yourself to go back home.
You make it approximately twelve steps before walking directly into someone. Itâs not a gentle bump, more of a âI was looking at Google Maps and not my surroundingsâ kind of collision. You bounce back. They donât.
âOh my God- Iâm so sorry, I wasnât looking, I-â
âYou should.â
You freeze. That voice. You look up slowly, and of course. Of course itâs her. Standing under a dim streetlight, like sheâs been personally curated by the universe for dramatic timing. Black coat. Red hair catching the light. Expression frantic in a way that makes your chest tighten.
âYou got off an hour ago,â you say.
âI did.â She responds quickly, but sheâs not looking at you. Her eyes are darting through the darkness behind you and to your right.
âYou donât live here.â
âNope.â
âAre you following me?â
Her eyes seem to catch on something and then she reaches out, grabbing your arm and pulling you towards her. âNo, Iâm not,â she narrows her eyes, the reserved stranger you knew on the train suddenly no more. Sheâs fierce in a way that has you bordering on panic. âAnd I was really stupid for talking to you on the train, I-â she looks up again quickly and you try to turn your head to see what sheâs looking at, but she stops you. âYou need to come with me right now.â
âSorry, what?â but sheâs pulling you down the street, tugging your arm until you fall into stride with her.
âMy name is Natasha,â she says quickly without looking at you, her hands rustling with something in her coat. You tell her your name, but she barely acknowledges it, her focus clearly on something else.
âWhy the fuck am I following you again?â
She shoots you a look and then you hear the cocking of a gun from underneath her coat. Your eyes go wide and she gives you a look that says âkeep movingâ.
âI- fuck,â she hesitates. Your mind starts racing. Maybe she really is as mysterious as you were making her out to be. She continues to hastily scan her surroundings, one hand now out of her coat and back on your arm, the other holding what you presume is a gun. âIâm working,â she says flatly, like sheâs decided against making something up. âIâm on a job and I got a little distracted.â
âA job? People normally just have jobs, they arenât typically on jobs-â
âWould you give it a rest?â she shoots you a quick glare. âIâm planted here on purpose, I calculated a tip off point where they were supposed to find me, but I got off on the stop before instead.â She talks quickly, as if you understand a single word sheâs saying. âIt wasnât until I got off the train that I realized how many brutes were on it. They shouldâve gotten me while I was on it, but they didnât. They think youâre me.â
âExcuse me?â
âThey donât know what I look like, thatâs the whole point,â Natasha says with a hint of annoyance. âThey think youâre me, and leaving you to die wouldâve been great for my mission actually, it wouldâve thrown them right off my trail- but I didnât, I canât.â
âThanks I think.â The city approaches, the street lights becoming more frequent and the bustle of people becoming louder.
âJust keep your head down,â Natasha says firmly. And you do, letting her lead you through the streets, her grip on your arm loosening as the two of you get lost in the crowd. In any other situation youâd feel absolutely terrified. If you didnât want to get away from your old life so badly, maybe youâd be horrified at this sudden side quest. But itâs more exhilarating than anything. You and Natasha walk for what feels like forever, until she swiftly pulls you down a dark alley.
âIf youâre planning on killing me, make it quick.â You say it jokingly, but her lack of response makes your skin prick.
You trample through the darkness until she comes to a hard stop, flipping a switch and punching in what sounds like a code on a keypad. You hear the sound of a heavy metal door opening, and then a faint sliver of light peeks through the alley. She tugs you through a doorway, pushing a large red button with the palm of her hand, forcing the door closed behind her. Youâre in a small hallway, with another metal door and just a single flickering overhead light. Perfect murder room. Natasha digs out a set of keys from her jacket pocket, the gun seemingly gone now. Part of you thought she was lying at first, that this whole secret agent thing was just a front to get you to hook up with her. But the dual security starts to make you think otherwise.
She gets the door open and pushes through. You follow her, straight into a big open room. A flat. And a nice one too. As nice as a windowless, concrete loft can get. You walk past her into the open room and you hear the keys being tossed onto a table and the door closing behind you. You think you hear her let out an exhausted huff, but youâre too busy taking in the scene. The loft could easily be sterile, almost medical with the gray walls and floors, but thereâs sashes hanging from the ceiling, scarves tied together, strung across the walls adorned with tiny little string lights.
âCool place,â you say with a shrug.
âUh-huh.â Natasha walks past you, tearing off her coat and hanging it on a rack. Your eyes follow her as she walks across the room and into what you assume is the kitchen.
âSo,â you call out, backpack still on, rocking back and forth on your heels.
âI have a spare bed,â Natasha calls out. She comes back into the room with a glass of water, handing it to you. âHere.â
âThanks,â you mumble, taking it and taking a sip. The entire situation still isnât registering, probably because you still donât fully believe her.
Natasha just stares at you for a moment. She doesnât look like that woman on the train anymore. Sheâs different, harder. âThereâs food in the fridge, help yourself. Roomâs around the corner, Iâm going out.â
âIs this some weird human trafficking front or something?â
âWhat? No,â she scoffs. âIâm just going to scan the perimeter, Iâll be back in a bit.â
âScan the perimeter?â
âDid you listen to me at all?â
âKind of.â
âIâm trying to help you. If you want to leave, be my guest.â She pulls on a different jacket, a blue one, and a large white scarf. You believe her, you think. Probably.
âSo, what- Iâm just here until you let me out?â
âYouâre here until itâs safe,â Natasha says absentmindedly, pulling on a pair of boots.
âI came here to exist in a new city, not a new dungeon.â
She looks up now, her eyes hard but undeniably guilty. âIâm sorry,â she says flatly. And then she exits quickly, the door slamming behind her and the lock clicking.
Apologies, Iâm having such bad burnout and writers blockđŤ . I have no idea what to write or what I want to write and school is eating me alive rn so bear with me
