living and loving

ira | 19 | being myself | black | 🐝

[notwhatitseems-2]

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹ about me ‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

ira, 19, they/she, black, lesbian | free congo/sudan/palestine | pro-black | bigots dni | not normal abt anything

sometimes i write if i’m in the mood! i love music and being a musician. i love reading as well. i’m currently watching iwav and the pitt (baran al-hashimi save me). beyonce beyonce beyonce. that’s it. older woman lover

always looking for moots and ppl to chat to, so feel free to talk to me abt wtv! just be respectful obvi

[notwhatitseems-2]

and ppl be wanting to jump me bc i say the mcu is racist oh okay

[maximoffwitch]

looks can be deceiving | b. al-hashimi

PART 5 – SERIES MASTERLIST

summary: when a pediatric case comes into the ed and requires a consult from you, baran sees you in a different light, forcing her to confront her hesitancies and make a decision.

word count: 3.4k

tags: medical/hospital inaccuracies; some workplace misogyny; brendon park bashing; more slow burn and some more flirting

a/n: i’m sorry that it keeps taking me so long in between chapters 😭 i have the rest of the story planned out in my head so hopefully that’ll help but just know that i’m constantly thinking about this series (and baran in general)

<PREVIOUS PART>

The next morning, when your alarm went off at five thirty, you cursed the monthly department head meetings, along with whoever’s brilliant idea it was to have them at seven o’clock.

Groaning, you rolled over and blindly hit your clock. For a moment, you just lay on your back in the silence. You knew you were playing a dangerous game, the October morning enveloping you in darkness and tempting you with a few more minutes of sleep. One more breath, you opened your eyes, swung your legs out of bed and sat up.

Glancing at the time, your eyes widened when you saw it was actually six o’clock. You must have snoozed your alarm a few more times than you thought, which meant you were now thirty minutes behind schedule. Fortunately, the job of a surgeon was nothing too glamorous, so you quickly washed up, threw on a pair of black slacks and a cable knit sweater, and stuffed your white coat in your bag before making your way into your kitchen.

Checking your watch again, you realized you had just enough time for a quick bite. With only convenience in mind, you grabbed a bowl from the cabinet and poured yourself some Lucky Charms with milk. As you took a couple bites, the sugary marshmallows barely doing their job of waking you up, you remembered what a certain someone had had to say about your breakfast choice.

Reaching into your back pocket—bowl in one hand and spoon clamped between your lips—you pulled out your phone and snapped a picture of the cereal. With one hand, you typed Baran’s name, the contact you created the second you’d gotten home yesterday popping up immediately.

Along with the image, you wrote: Breakfast of champions 😼

You didn’t expect a response anytime soon—the sun hadn’t even risen, and Baran was probably busy either still sleeping or getting ready for work—so when your phone buzzed in your pocket as you were putting your dish in the sink, you were a little surprised.

Clicking open the message, you chuckled as you read what she’d said: Good morning to you too. And I’m pretty sure a “breakfast of champions” would be Frosted Flakes, no?

Even her texts were so…her.

Typing out a response, you shook your head with an amused smile tugging at your lips, and you felt like a middle schooler texting their crush.

Semantics.

And since when were you so knowledgeable about “cavity-ridden” cereals?

After hitting send, you saw the time and swore under your breath, “Shit.”

If you didn’t leave now, you were really going to be late. Hurrying out the door, you got in your car, throwing your bag in the passenger seat. As you started the ignition, your phone lit up once more.

I happen to be very knowledgeable. 🤓

Biting your lip, you paused, your thumbs hovering over your screen. Flirting came easily to you, like second nature, but this was different. You thought for another second—literally, because that’s all you had time for—before replying.

Do you know if I’ll see you later?

The three grey dots appeared no sooner than your text delivered.

If you’re lucky! 😉

Hearting the message, you tossed your phone onto your bag before finally driving to the hospital, wearing a wide grin the whole ride.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

As you listened to Dr. Goodwin drone on about cardiology’s need for yet another 3D-printer, you were reminded why you dreaded these meetings.

Fidgeting with the cuff of your white coat, you fought the urge to you roll your eyes as you scanned the table. Several of your colleagues had blatantly ignored the semi-formal dress code Dr. Peterson had implemented a few months back—something about scrubs and etiquette. You weren’t surprised when you noticed that, besides the chief, you, Shamsi, and Conley—the only female department heads—were the only ones not in scrubs. Typical.

“Any updates on residencies? Fellowships?” Dr. Peterson changed the subject after noncommittally dismissing the 3D printer request.

This caught your attention.

“I have a prospective plastics fellow from Hopkins shadowing next week,” you interjected with a click of your pen.

“I don’t think we need more tummy-tuckers or face-lifters around here,” Park interjected with a mocking laugh.

You knew the ortho surgeon looked down on you, whether it was because you were a woman or a plastic surgeon, you didn’t know nor did you care.

“You’re right, Dr. Park.” You plastered on a tight smile, causing him to smirk. Good, let him think he had the upper hand. “The next time you need a pedicled medial gastrocnedmius and hemi-soleus flap along with an STSG for your fibula fracture patient, I’ll let you handle that, along with the malpractice suit that would surely follow?”

The satisfied expression quickly disappeared from the man’s face, and you steeled your gaze.

“That’s what I thought.”

Before you could return to the topic of your potential fellow, two knocks interrupted as the door cracked open.

“Sorry to interrupt—” Emery poked her head in— “but I need a consult down in the ED. Kid with a dog bite.”

Her eyes landed on you, and that was your cue. As you gathered your things and stood up, thankful to be relieved from this meeting, Park spoke again.

“Walsh, you need a consult for a simple bite?”

“When half the kid’s nose is missing, yeah, I think I need a plastic surgeon,” Emery snarked back as she held the door open for you.

Turning around in the doorway, you looked to Dr. Peterson. “I’ll send over the prospective fellow’s information later today.”

He simply waved his hand. “No rush. Sounds like you’re going to have your hands full.”

You nodded before following Emery out and down the hallway towards the elevator.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to go to those meetings,” she chuckled as she pushed the down button. “You look like you’re presenting at some conference.”

“Tell me about it.” Rolling your eyes, you stepped into the elevator and hit the button for the basement. “What is it you say? “Heavy is the head that wears the crown”?”

You smirked when your friend glared at you. “I say it one time and suddenly it becomes my motto?”

“Hey, you said it not me.”

“Whatever.” Emery rolled her eyes, but you could see she was biting back a smile. “Can I tell you about this case now?”

“Yes, fine.” You leaned your back against the elevator wall. “Catch me up.”

In the short ride down to the pitt, Emery told you what little details she knew about the patient. An 8-year-old boy had the entire tip of his nose, along with part of the dorsum and ala, bitten off by a dog. The lesion was about three centimeters in diameter, and significant tissue was missing.

“What are you thinking?” Emery asked when she finished presenting. She couldn’t help but have a couple ideas on which route would be best for this nasal reconstruction, but there was a reason she’d called you.

“I’ll have to see the actual wound—” the two of you stepped out of the elevator and were immediately greeted by the cacophony of the ED— “but I’m thinking forehead flap.”

“Really?” Emery frowned as she led you through the organized chaos to the trauma bay. “The flap might not adapt to the kid’s supporting tissue growth.”

Raising an eyebrow, you knocked on the glass door. “I thought you wanted my professional opinion, Dr. Walsh?”

You ignored her narrow stare and entered the bay when you heard a muffled “Come in”.

“Ah—” Baran swiveled around in the stool and looked up at you. “Wyatt, this is our plastic surgeon,” she said your name as you shook hands with the woman, who introduced herself as Wyatt’s mother.

Before you could even greet the injured boy, he interrupted.

“I need surgery?” His voice was cracked and his face wet with tears.

“Yeah, buddy,” you confirmed with a kind smile, as you spared a glance over his mother. “But you’d be asleep the whole time and won’t feel a thing, okay?”

He nodded tentatively, and you reached down to roll over the spare stool. “I know you’re probably really uncomfortable, but can I take a look?”

You sat down in front of the boy, your knee barely brushing Baran’s as she moved over before standing up. When Wyatt nodded again, you carefully lifted the gauze to reveal the wound.

From the side, Baran observed while you conducted your initial assessment, your expression completely focused, void of the lightheartedness she was used to seeing. She let her eyes fall down your figure, finally noticing you weren’t in your usual scrubs, before they flit back up to land on the exposed skin between your gloved hands and rolled up sleeves of your sweater. Subconsciously, she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth as a warmth spread throughout her body.

“Am I gonna have a scar?” Wyatt asked as you finished your survey and reapplied the bandage to cover the open wound.

You hummed in affirmation before lowering your voice and giving him a mischievous look. “But scars are badass.”

This earned you a crack of a smile, and you winked. Baran watched as you effortlessly balanced a competent professionalism with a certain tenderness reserved for the injured boy. The ease and softness with which you interacted with Wyatt caused her chest to tighten, and a different kind of warmth flooded her body. Perhaps, she had assumed wrong about you. She was starting to think her picture of you was mainly assumptions, and Baran hated it.

Standing up, you peeled off your gloves and sobered your expression as you addressed the room.

“Given the size of the lesion, I’ll need to do a nasal reconstruction with a forehead flap,” you confirmed your initial thinking before turning towards Wyatt’s mother. “I’ll take a piece of skin from his forehead and use it to cover the wound and rebuild his nose,” you explained the operation.

Baran knew you were simplifying the details for the ease of understanding, but she couldn’t help but admire the composure you kept, as if this complicated procedure was nothing but a walk in the park for you.

“It will require two surgeries, and as with all skin flaps, there is the concern it could grow disproportionately to the underlying tissue, especially considering his age,” you continued, which deepened the mother’s concern. “We can consider other options if you’d like, but I recommend this route for the best outcome, structurally and cosmetically.”

Feeling your pager beep, you pulled it out and scanned the message. Internally, you cursed, realizing you needed to be scrubbed in for your scheduled corrective jaw surgery, but you kept your face neutral.

“I need to call my husband,” Mrs. Donovan said, clearing her throat, “but I think you know what’s best.”

You nodded and gave her an encouraging smile before looking back at the boy. “Does that sound good with you, Wyatt?”

“I just wanna look normal.”

Bending down so you were eye-level with him, you said, “I’ll do my very best to have you looking like yourself in no time, and if you don’t, I promise I’ll buy as much ice cream as you’d like, deal?”

For a moment, Wyatt still looked hesitant before he countered, “And comic books?”

You quickly glanced over at his mother, who wore a small smile, her anxieties clearly alleviated by your confidence. “Deal.”

Baran watched fondly as you held up your fist, bumping it with Wyatt’s, and there was a small part of her that wondered if you’d be like this with Kaveh, an even smaller part wanted to find out.

“I do have a surgery to get to, so I need to run,” you said, straightening your legs to standing. “We’ll get you transferred upstairs, and I’ll check in later, but in the meantime—” your eyes found Baran’s, a smirk dancing on your lips— “you’re in very good hands.”

Baran’s eyes widened slightly, and you could tell she was fighting back a smile. Shooting her a subtle wink, you turned on your heels and exited the trauma room, leaving behind a blushing Baran.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The rest of your day was fairly straightforward. After your jaw surgery, you had no other operations scheduled, having blocked off time to plan for a DIEP flap you had later this week, so you took the time to check in on Wyatt.

Now that his father was there, you went over the procedures with all three of them, explaining your general approach and the recovery time. After answering a handful of questions and taking some pictures of Wyatt’s face, you went ahead and scheduled the first surgery.

As you spent the rest of your day on-call, holed up in your office, and pouring over surgical plans, you didn’t give much thought to your interaction with Wyatt in the ED hours earlier. Baran, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about it.

It was her own fault really, this preconceived notion she had of you in her head, and it was unfair. But as a single mother, Baran wasn’t just putting herself out there; she also had to think of her son.

She was long past denying that she had feelings for you—what kind of feelings, that part she hadn’t quite figured out yet—yet she was still hesitant to take the next step. Flirting with you and giving you her number was one thing, but dating? That was a whole different story.

At first Baran made the excuse that wasn’t ready to date again, to start something new, but as you kept showing up and she kept falling deeper, she knew that reasoning was all but obsolete. And now she was using her son and her baseless presumption of your aversion to children to rationalize her own fears. But watching you with Wyatt this morning left her last wall of defense completely crumbled, and Baran was forced to see you in a new light.

Throughout the day, amidst the incoming traumas and the revolving door of patients, you lingered in the back of her mind, and her inner turmoil started to dissolve. But it wasn’t until she received a text from her ex-husband reminding her of his and Kaveh’s camping trip this weekend that her mind finally cleared.

Baran had made her decision.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

With an hour left of your shift, you were more than ready to go home, shower, and crawl into bed, but apparently your pager had other plans for you. Scanning the message, you fought back a groan. Another emergency consult.

While even the possibility of seeing Baran made the trip down to the emergency department worthwhile, the pitt was still the pitt.

After treating a third degree burn—which luckily didn’t require any grafting, only debridement and dressing—you exited the trauma bay.

“This is like my third consult in the past week. You just can’t get enough of me, huh?” You joked as you approached the nurses’ station, where Dana was peering at you over the bridge of her glasses.

“Not me,” Dana retorted, her eyes flitting to over your shoulder. You frowned, but before you could ask, an all too familiar voice was saying your name.

“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” you said as you turned around, your smirk softening into a smile.

Baran nodded, keeping her expression neutral and professional. “Could I have a word?”

Before you could answer, she was already stepping off to the side, away from the central station, leaving you with little room to object. As you pushed yourself off the counter, you glanced back at Dana for an explanation, confused as to what was happening, but the charge nurse merely shrugged. In the three steps you took behind Baran, your mind flashed back to the procedure you did just minutes ago. Retracing your steps, you tried to recall any missteps or risk you might’ve taken but came up empty, unable to think of anything that would call for concern.

As Baran turned, she noticed an uncharacteristic nervousness in your expression, causing her to tilt her head.

“What can I do for you, Cap’n?” You stuffed your hands in the pockets of your scrub pants.

Baran’s lips curled into a small grin at the nickname, but she furrowed her brows when she noticed the slight bashfulness in your tone.

“I’m sure your burn patient will heal nicely,” she reassured before softening her gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, sorry,” you chuckled, scratching the back of your neck. “You just make me nervous.” The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them, and your eyes widened.

“I make you nervous?”

“I mean, have you seen yourself?” you mumbled as you felt your cheeks warm.

Raising an amused brow, Baran pressed her lips together to stifle a laugh. She took a certain satisfaction—pride, even—in having this effect over you, when usually it was the other way around. Deciding to put you out of your embarrassment, Baran changed the subject.

“I actually wanted to ask you something non-work related.”

“Oh, sure.” Your heartbeat echoed in your ears as anticipation swelled in your chest.

“Are you doing anything Friday night after work?”

You shook your head, doing your best to ignore the increased pounding against your ribcage. “Free as a bird.”

“Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

With an arched brow, you asked the unspoken question to which she replied with a subtle nod. A stupid grin formed on your face, and your stomach fluttered with excitement.

“It’s a date.”

Baran beamed, her eyes shining as her lips parted to speak. But before she could say anything, Yolanda rounded the corner.

“Did I hear ‘date’?” She looked at you with a smug expression, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, for you knew how much shit she was going to give you later.

“I didn’t know that word was even in your vocabulary, Yolo,” you snarked, but she simply ignored you as she approached the central station, where you now noticed a group of residents and nurses had huddled together.

“So who won the bet?” Yolanda asked, causing your head to snap.

“You people bet on us?”

Truly, you would never understand the workings of this emergency department.

“It would seem the pot belongs to Dr. Walsh,” Ahmad announced, and you let out a scoff.

“Don’t give it too much thought,” Baran said as she put a light hand on your elbow, returning your attention to her. “There’s always some sort of bet going on down here.”

“Oh, really?” You angled your body back towards her, tilting your head slightly. “And what are you betting on, Dr. Al-Hashimi?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You laughed, as you heard your own words echoed back at you. “I would actually,” you quoted her, one of your brows twitching up.

Baran leaned in, lowering her voice in your ear. “Just know I usually come out on top.”

Her breath tickled your neck, and a heat spread throughout your body, settling in your lower abdomen.

“Noted,” you said, your voice breathy.

“As sickening as this is,” Yolanda interrupted, but you paid her no mind, completely lost in the mesmerizing depth of Baran’s gaze on you, “Houdini, you’re needed upstairs.”

That caught your attention.

“What?” You whipped your head around, meeting the other surgeon’s attention with a frown. “Why?

As if on cue, your pager vibrated against your hip.

“Park’s IM nail exchange went awry,” Yolanda explained aloud what you were now reading. “He needs an ALT flap.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you swore as you slipped back into surgeon mode. Working under the same roof as Brendon Park was surely going to send you into early retirement.

“Houdini?” Baran asked, a glint of curiosity and amusement shining in her eye.

“It’s a long story,” you sighed and shook your head.

“Well, I’m looking forward to hearing it on Friday.” She flashed a satisfied grin as she grabbed her tablet from the desk and tucked it under her arm. “Good luck with your flap, Dr.—” she said your name before slipping past you towards where her name was being called.

As you and Yolanda made your way to the elevator, you couldn’t help but turn your head back and catch a glimpse of the head of brown curls.

“Focus, Romeo,” Garcia quipped, nudging your elbow with hers. “You have an ortho surgeon to take down a notch.”

You laughed. “Don’t worry, Yoyo. I can multi-task.”

With one more look over your shoulder, you let your eyes linger on Baran for only a second longer before you entered the elevator and refocused.

Friday could not come soon enough.

[emilys-bangs]

𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧, 𝐧𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 | 𝐛.𝐡

Tags: established relationship, fluff, bit of feels, no use of yn, baran al hashimi i would do anything for you forever

Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!

Word count: 0.7k

જ⁀➴⋆.˚

Baran is not proud to say that she nearly loses a fight with the football strewn across the driveway. She gives it an irritable kick once she regains her balance—that's for nearly making her face-plant onto the gravel—and pulls in a breath as she grabs her keys from her bag, some of her drowsiness dusting off with the brief fright.

Idly, she hopes you haven't heard her strangled yelp—not because you would laugh, no, but because you would get that look about you. That displeased frown, the twist of your mouth that wordlessly says you hate all of this, how the hospital bleeds her dry, how she won't let you inconvenience yourself—"it's not an inconvenience if I want to, Baran"—and she's too weary to rehash it all again tonight. Actually, she thinks, slotting her key into the lock, she'd very much prefer to never speak about any of it again, in any capacity.

The door quietly creaks open, the house's warmth drifting through. Baran steps in with a slow exhale. It's unusually silent, with Kian at his father's, but light floods everywhere, the familiar scent of home lifting some of the weight off her shoulders.

She's grateful not to find you in the living room. You're not in the kitchen, either, though a pot of something bubbles at the stove.

"Azizam?" She calls out, trudging over to the stairs.

"Here." Your voice drifts down. It's a little muffled, courtesy of the half-shut door of her bedroom. Baran reaches it and gently nudges it open, her smile, already in place, slipping when she takes in the sight in front of her.

There's a basket of laundry at the foot of her bed—laundry she hadn't washed before leaving, she's certain—and you're sitting on top of the covers with your legs crossed, folding. Piles of neatly folded clothes flank your side—short stacks of her t-shirts, another one for her leggings, small balls of socks gathered into a circle. All in dark shades, her blacks and browns and deep grays.

Baran stares. You look up from the shirt you're folding and flash her a smile. "Hey."

Her eyes dip down to your hands, locked on their fluid movement. You tuck in the sides of the shirt, smoothing the sleeves down flat, then fold it in half.

"What—" She finds herself faltering, briefly taken aback. Baran swallows—the action is difficult in a way that alarms her, her throat suddenly tight, her voice coming out more choked than she expects. "What's this?"

"What?" You stand, carefully sidestepping the towers of folded clothes. She's still frozen in the doorway, startled back into moving when you reach for the bag on her shoulder and rid her of the weight.

Her eyes grow hot. "You don't have to do my laundry for me."

"Can't I want to?" You murmur, drawing back closer, tugging her into a hug. "Hi."

Baran swallows again. "Hi," she whispers. Her arms sling around you, her head falling to rest against your cushiony warmth. Her eyes shutter closed; she breathes in, feels your scent filter into her lungs. She holds it for as long as she can, her lungs itching, then pushes it out slow. "You didn't have to do that," she says quietly.

"I know," you hum, squeezing her. "How was your day?"

Baran sighs into you. She feels you brush a soft kiss to her skin, then feels you reach around to free the clip from her hair. Feels you ease the teeth out, gently smooth over the crown of her head, loosening the ache that had been pounding up at her temples. At her prolonged silence, you give her another kiss and cinch your arms around her tighter.

"Long, huh?"

"Mm." She mumbles.

It's all she can manage. She hates it sometimes, how forcing the words through feels monumental. You're never upset when she comes home like this, her mouth suddenly too heavy, her jaw feeling like it's glued shut.

Baran digs her face deeper into you. All at once, she's overwhelmed—with you, with the way you love her, lift her up like it's so easy. She'd grappled with her independence for so long. It's been an uphill battle, her whole life—yes, she's capable, yes, she can be responsible. But it's different, having someone else take over the reigns—not because you think she can't. Never because of that.

Her eyes burn. "I love you," she says hoarsely.

You hum, kiss her again. "I love you. Dinner?"

She mumbles an affirmative.

[notwhatitseems-2]

thinking i give mysterious when i really give loser awkward nerd lesbian

[notwhatitseems-2]

why did nobody say daredevil was this fucking nasty omg

[notwhatitseems-2]

yet another beheading wowowow

[notwhatitseems-2]

nobody gets iasf like i do

[notwhatitseems-2]

i genuinely cannot get over how trash doomsday looks. it’s nothing but nostalgia bait for the dudebro marvel fans that refuse to accept anybody that’s not a white man in superhero movies.

there was no buildup to doomsday whatsoever and idk what happened cause they did pretty good getting up to thanos

[notwhatitseems-2]

speaking my truth: if mel and langdon or abbot and baran get together i’m gonna throw up in my mouth

[notwhatitseems-2]

doomsday trailer looks dookie what’s new

[notwhatitseems-2]

the wlw celebrity crush videos on tiktok be frying me bc it’ll be a blizzard featuring zendaya

[notwhatitseems-2]

can’t wait to see parker ellis on my screen

[laceandtears111]

save me natasha romanoff in the beginning of black widow save me please oh my god please

[notwhatitseems-2]

writers block is so evil

[msschemmenti]

ptmc’s finest - smau

mama has work to be done

samira mohan x singer!reader | smau

summary: reader is on the last leg of her first north american tour when she ends up in PTMC being treated by one of the worlds most-chronically offline doctors ever.

july 21st

[norwayromanoff]

Never Have I Ever

masterlist

Older!NR x younger (and inexperienced in the dating department)!r

Word count: 2.6k

Summary: When Natasha finds out that you’ve yet to have your first kiss during a silly game of Never Have I Ever, she eagerly jumps at the presented opportunity… only to find herself getting rejected.

Author’s note: Here’s a lil soft!Nat oneshot (as usual) in an attempt to get my writer’s block to literally fuck off.

It’s no secret that Natasha likes you… or at least, it’s no secret to everyone but you.

Tony is constantly rolling his eyes, Steve is always hiding a knowing smile when you innocently dismiss Natasha’s flirting, Wanda is endeared but growing exhausted, Clint keeps poking fun at you in ways that you never seem to understand, and Bruce just chuckles as he watches quietly from the sidelines.

You’ve been called it all: young, unaware, inexperienced, oblivious. It’s a running joke with the team now regarding your obliviousness to all of the large, loud, and very obvious blaring red signs that unmistakably point to Natasha Romanoff having heart eyes for you.

It’s not your fault. Not really. You’ve never been in a true relationship before—you’ve only been on a handful of dates in total, none of which went well—and the team learns to the full extent your inexperience goes on a random team bonding night.

Tony makes multiple trips from the kitchen to the common room, preparing everyone for what’s to come. Cups, ice, mixers, and alcohol… necessities, in his opinion.

“Alright, guys, drinking game,” he announces, voice firm, no room for objections, “What are we feeling? Truth or Dare? Spin the Bottle? Never Have I Ever?”

There are a few murmured protests anyway, the team clearly tired of his arguably concerning desire to bring alcohol into everything.

“Do we have to?” Natasha asks flatly, boredly.

“It’s a teambuilding exercise,” he retorts, waving a hand vaguely, “For boosting morale or, I don’t know, whatever.”

Spin the Bottle quickly gets voted out, and although it’s a close call between the other two, Never Have I Ever wins in the end.

And Clint starts off strong, jumping right into it. “Never have I ever joined the mile high club.” His eyes deliberately flit to Tony as if daring the billionaire to try and avoid drinking.

Tony isn’t fazed as he hears the prompt, as he notices Clint’s look, and he takes a large first gulp of his beverage, unashamedly admitting to his history of airborne debauchery.

“God, Tony,” Clint says, laughing, “I hope it was at least on one of your private jets.”

Tony simply smirks over the rim of his glass, neither confirming nor denying, and Clint fakes a gag at the nonanswer.

Wanda speaks then, keeping the game moving along. “Never have I ever had sex in public.”

More than just Tony’s drink is sipped with that one.

“Never have I ever had a one-night stand,” Bruce chimes in next.

Almost everyone takes a drink, all except Bruce… and you.

“Never have I ever lied about an orgasm.”

Natasha definitely drinks for that one.

The game continues, laughter and teasing comments getting thrown all around, but at a certain point, everyone else’s cups are at least halfway empty—Tony’s is almost completely empty—and Natasha’s brows furrow as she takes in the sight of yours: perfectly full, condensation forming on the glass, clearly untouched.

She glances over at you.

You’re not looking back at her, too engrossed in the game, in the fun of the night, in the entertainment happening around you.

She clears her throat then, drawing everyone’s attention her way. “Never have I ever had sex,” she says plainly, eyes still staring your way.

“What? Natasha, that’s too eas-” Tony starts, but she shoots him a look that gets him to shut his mouth before returning to you. No one understands her prompt of choice, but they play along anyway, every single one of them confusedly taking a small sip of their drink.

Every single one of them… except you.

She moves to something marginally more innocent. “Never have I ever gotten to second base.”

You still don’t drink.

The team turns to watch you along with Natasha now, finally catching on to what she’s doing.

“Never have I ever been kissed,” she tries again.

Your drink remains situated on the table, and you’ve fully noticed her attention, her pointed prompts. You give her a smirk.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you mutter good-naturedly, shaking your head, chuckling lightly to yourself at her figuring it out, “You got me. I’ve never been kissed. So what?”

Natasha’s eyebrows raise, and the resounding reactions from everyone else are a mix of shock, disbelief, surprise, and perhaps even concerned alarm from Tony. They begin talking over each other.

“Wait, what?”

“You’re fucking with us.”

“Seriously?”

“There’s no way.”

Despite the comments—you’ve heard them all before—you remain casual about the whole reveal, not at all bothered by the reactions you’re receiving or the fact that you’ve never had your first kiss. You shrug dismissively. “It just hasn’t happened yet.”

There’s silence as the rest of the team stares dumbly at you. They knew that you were mostly a stranger to romantic things, knew that you’d never had a real relationship with someone before, but this? This is newfound knowledge. No wonder all of Natasha’s attempts at flirting with you have been overlooked. You’re not just inexperienced; you’re inexperienced.

Tony breaks the quiet, blunt as ever, offering what he thinks is a simple solution… and if it means you kiss a certain redhead that’s been pining for you at the same time? Well, win-win. “You know what? Why don’t you just let one of us do it? Get it over with. I’m sure someone here is willing to kiss you.” He isn’t subtle with the way his eyes sweep across the others before landing and staying firmly planted on Natasha.

Wanda, although doing her best, is also not subtle, her gaze flicking back and forth between you and the Natasha, trying her best to communicate that now is the chance.

Clint is laughing, Bruce is smirking, and Steve is shaking his head at the antics unfolding before him. Everyone is in on something you don’t know of, but like usual, you’re blissfully unaware of the nonverbal conversation that is happening between your teammates around you.

After some more silent and not so discreet prompting from the others, Natasha takes a deep breath, forcing nonchalance into her voice and demeanor. “I guess I could do it,” she volunteers. Her attempt at acting casual is transparent to everyone else but you. “I mean, I probably am the best kisser here.” She tries to sweeten the deal.

No one refutes her statement. They all know it’s true.

But still…

“No, it’s okay. I’m good,” you answer her, giving the redhead a small, grateful smile, touched by the offer but unwilling, nonetheless. Your ideas surrounding your first kiss are more than just whatever tonight is. Then, you address the entire team: “But on that fun note, it’s getting late, so I’m going to bed. Goodnight, everyone. Drink some water.” Your last words are aimed at Tony.

You stand, grabbing your still full cup, and head to the kitchen to pour its wasted contents down the drain, placing the now empty glass in the sink and exiting the room, a handful of bewildered goodnights tossed out behind you as you go.

The confusion from everyone is palpable once you’ve disappeared.

And Natasha is almost… offended. You rejected her so easily, so effortlessly. You didn’t even seem to consider kissing her.

All eyes snap to her when you’re gone, everyone blatantly staring at the expression on her face as she tries to recover from your rejection.

“What just happened?” Natasha asks out loud.

“You, Natasha Romanoff, just got rejected,” Tony laughs, snarky and teasing as ever, “For probably the first time, I’m guessing.”

Natasha pauses. “That… wasn’t a legitimate rejection, right?”

“No, no, that definitely was,” Tony replies, “She literally said ‘nope’ and then left.”

“Tony,” Wanda hisses, trying to get him to be quiet, wanting to soften the blow for the redhead who is still clearly trying to understand everything that just occurred.

Natasha’s attention moves to Wanda now, wanting a second opinion. “Wanda?”

Wanda grimaces but answers honestly. “I mean… it wasn’t not a rejection”

Natasha lets out a loud groan at that, having been, albeit uselessly, hoping for another answer. “Fuck.”

“You know, I always thought that she was just extremely oblivious, but maybe she just doesn’t like you but doesn’t know how to turn you down,” Tony can’t help but continue.

“Tony!” Wanda exclaims again as Natasha groans another time.

Steve interjects before Tony can rub more salt in the wound like he is most likely planning to, the billionaire still smiling gleefully as if finding the whole situation beyond amusing. “Or maybe she just didn’t like the circumstances. I say give it one more good shot. Make it known that you like her, that you want to actually kiss her, that it isn’t just some silly drunken shenanigan to you.”

“I like Steve’s idea,” Clint comments, and Wanda nods her head in agreement.

“That’s just because none of you want to hear that-” Tony begins.

“Tony, enough,” Wanda grits out, “Get out. Go to bed. Go anywhere else. Just… shoo.”

Tony rolls his eyes but acquiesces, getting up and bidding everyone a goodnight before heading to his quarters for the evening.

Everyone else stands to file out of the room as well, sending Natasha a mix of sympathetic, encouraging, and pitying glances as they leave, Wanda’s hand making its way to Natasha’s shoulder in a reassuring gesture before she also walks away.

Natasha remains seated on the common room couch for a while after everyone’s exit, wallowing, lamenting, wondering what the absolute fuck happened tonight. She’s slouched against the cushion, her head flopped back and her eyes closed as she replays the look on your face as you rejected her, as she hears your little nonchalant “I’m good” on repeat in her mind.

It’s silent, the rest of the team already asleep by now for the night. Whether or not that’s a good thing as she’s left alone with her thoughts, she’s not sure, but she appreciates the peace and quiet anyway.

After some time, she sighs and reluctantly pries herself up off the sofa to return to her own quarters, shoulders slumped in discouragement as she goes.

She passes by your door on the way to hers and pauses right outside. The light is on, visible from under the door, and there’s quiet movement coming from within.

You’re still up.

God, Natasha isn’t sure her heart can handle any additional rejection from you tonight, but she finds herself knocking anyway. She needs to know.

Your door opens quickly and you peek out, head tilting in a silent question. “You’re still up?” you ask her.

The redhead doesn’t answer for a few moments, just looking at you. She doesn’t want to lie, but she doesn’t feel like she can tell you exactly what’s on her mind and preventing her from sleeping right now either. “Yeah,” she eventually says, and then a fake smirk appears on her face, “Just still trying to wrap my head around your rejection. It’s going to keep me up all night.” It comes out as a joke.

You hum, smiling at her words, taking her sarcasm in stride.

And then it’s silent.

And Natasha feels like the air is buzzing from all the things unspoken on her part, from all the confusion and uncertainty and discomfort that she’s experiencing by just standing here in your doorway. She wonders if you can feel it too.

“So, am I just that unattractive to you?” She breaks the quiet. Another joke.

That gets her a small laugh this time. “You and the word ‘unattractive’ have never been in the same sentence,” you respond.

That should make her feel better, but… “That wasn’t an answer,” Natasha points out.

“Do you really need one?”

There’s silence again as she considers what to say.

When she speaks up, it’s soft, confused, vulnerable, all smirks and sarcasm and pretenses gone. “Why didn’t you let me kiss you?” she asks, looking away as she talks.

You frown slightly at the shift in her behavior, her playful remarks and teasing from before now nowhere to be found, replaced with something that seems fragile, imploring.

Your words come out a murmur, trying to explain yourself, to soothe. “It’s nothing personal, Natasha. I just want my first kiss to be special. That’s all.”

“What would make it special?”

“Just… with the right person.”

“What’s the right person like?” Natasha presses.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you muse, pausing for a moment to genuinely consider your answer to the question, “I guess someone sweet and considerate…”

Natasha remembers how just this morning she brewed an extra serving of coffee so that you’d wake up to a fresh pot.

“…someone who makes me laugh…”

Natasha remembers how just a few days ago you two were laughing until you both couldn’t breathe at some inside joke that would be too complicated to explain to anyone else.

“…someone who’s there for me.”

Natasha remembers how just last week she stayed up with you through the night when you needed someone to help chase the nightmares away.

Her. You’re describing her, and you don’t even know it.

How can she get you to see?

“Anything else? Hair color? Eye color?”

“Wow, you want specifics,” you joke, still not understanding.

Natasha could curse your obliviousness right now, and her tone turns more deliberate, still gentle but with a push. “What about martial arts abilities? Any history as an assassin? Or, you know, superhero status?”

You glance up at her, meeting her green eyes with your own.

And then you remember how the pot of coffee was already ready for you just this morning.

And then you remember the inside joke that Steve found the two of you laughing and clutching your sides at just a few days ago.

And then you remember the nightmares Natasha swore she’d stay up to keep you safe from just last week.

“Oh,” you breathe out slowly.

Natasha nods, hope returning as she sees realization start to wash over you.

“So, the right person…” she prompts.

“Yeah…” you murmur back, knowing what she means this time, what she’s meant all this time.

“Does that mean I can I kiss you now?” she asks softly.

“Is this still about the game? I don’t want a pity kiss.”

“It was never about the game. I don’t know how you haven’t noticed, but I have the biggest crush on you.”

“You do?”

Natasha says your name, fondly, tiredly. “I’m completely smitten with you.”

“I never even knew.”

“I know you never knew. You’re the most oblivious person on the team, the most oblivious person on the planet. I’ve been flirting with you for months.”

You shake your head in disbelief, trying to come to terms with the fact that Natasha’s romantic pursuit of you has apparently always gone right over your head.

“So, can I kiss you?” Natasha asks again.

You nod, and then she’s moving in, giving you just the slowest and gentlest press of her lips to yours, your eyes closing immediately in response to the touch.

She pulls back after only a brief moment, not wanting to overwhelm you since it's your first kiss, but it still leaves you feeling dazed, lightheaded, your mouth parted with little puffs of breath as your eyes flutter open to gaze at her. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest, and your face is flushed from just that.

You wanted your first kiss to be special, and you succeeded.

“Was that… okay?” Natasha asks, taking in your slightly stunned expression.

You nod again, struggling to find your voice at first, and when you do, it’s barely there, breathy and shaky. “Can we- can we do that again?” It comes out like a plea, as if there’s a chance Natasha might need convincing.

“I would kiss you forever. Just say the word.”

[notwhatitseems-2]

petition to stop having fics posted in the smallest font guys my eyesight is bad enough i can’t see that😭