reader learning Russian for Nat. either r’s progression with the language, or Nat discovering it, idk whatever you’d like!
Last drabble wowwww…dis pretty cute ngl…
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COUNT: 552
Меня зовут - My name is…
Ты согреваешь мою душу - You warm my soul
Natasha’s beginning to notice something weird.
And she’s not sure if she likes it.
Lately, she’s noticed that you’ve been spending a lot of time with Wanda.
You’d go off for about an hour, an hour and a half every day with Wanda, disappearing off to her room.
Natasha tried to not think anything of it because it’s good to get along with members of the team.
And she didn’t want to be that type of girlfriend who got jealous or paranoid, doing crazy things like trying to listen outside the door.
Mostly because Wanda would know.
She sat in the common area with Steve, Sam, and Bucky, who were in the midst of a debate that she lost interest in hours ago.
The elevator doors opened, and Natasha turned her head to see that you’ve finished whatever you were doing with Wanda.
She watches as you get off but turn around as it seems Wanda isn’t getting off. Wanda whispers something you, patting you on the arm when she finishes.
Natasha watches as you smile and wave off to her before turning back to head where she is.
It’s fine, Natasha thinks.
But then she catches Wanda giving her a sly smirk before the elevator door closes.
And Natasha is in a sour mood.
Still, she decides she’s not going to press you about it even if she is dying to find out what it is the two of you are doing every day.
It isn’t until next week when Natasha comes home early from a quick mission that she finds you sitting in her bedroom quietly, looking over your phone.
“Ме…ня зо..вут…Мен..я зо..вут, Меня зовут…” Natasha hears you mumbling to yourself.
“What are you doing?” Natasha questions, surprising you as you jump slightly and turn around with wide eyes.
“You’re home early,” you say, a little disappointedly, and Natasha raises her brow.
“I’m sorry?” She replies in return.
“No…it’s not that…ugh, you heard me, didn’t you?” You say as you stand up, and Natasha walks closer to you.
“You mean you slightly butchering my home language?” Natasha teases and is surprised when you blush slightly.
You groan.
“It was supposed to be a surprise. Wanda is going to be disappointed in me that I got caught so soon.”
Natasha blinks.
“Is…that what you’ve been doing with Wanda lately?” Natasha asks, and you nod.
“Why didn’t you just come to me if you wanted to learn Russian? I could’ve taught you,” Natasha sounds a little hurt, but you merely smile at her and take hold of her hands.
“It was supposed to be a surprise for my lovely girlfriend,” you tell her. “I thought it would be nice if I learned something for you too since you learned how to make my favorite dish a couple months ago.”
Natasha still seems a little down, and you can’t help but laugh as you wrap your arms around her.
“Stop with that look,” you tell her, “since I’ve been caught already, I don’t have to keep getting Wanda to teach me, okay?”
Natasha just looks up as if that wasn’t the issue she was having.
“She did teach me one good thing to say to you,” you muse, and Natasha cocks her brow.
omg I can request a natasha romanoff x fem reader? like nat is very protective, so someone on the team yells at reader and nat gets very angry. love u ❤️❤️❤️
Protective nat makes me so soft. And gay. Love you!! 💘
Count: 1052
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Natasha thinks you're the most precious person to may ever grace this universe.
If she could, she would whisk you away to a place where you'd never have to deal with reality again.
But the closest she gets to that is getting you a job at Avenger Compound’s coffee stand. You had declined at first, not wanting to rely on your girlfriend for a job while you were also trying to get your degree. But Natasha always had a way of convincing you, which usually involved a debate you never win and also her tongue.
You were currently decorating the coffee shop in the compound as it wouldn't be for another couple of hours that your coworker would come, and you wanted to surprise her.
The nice thing about working for Tony was that the compound was relatively quiet since it wasn't a regular coffee shop that anyone could access, but the pay was undoubtedly better.
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas...damn it," Tony groaned as he stopped by. You've been playing Christmas music since you opened this morning non-stop.
"The songs are getting stuck in my head, isn't there anything else you could play?" Tony was still mumbling under his breath the lyrics.
"Blasphemous! Of course I can't!" You shout dramatically, smiling right after. You place your boss's regular drink on the counter for him to take. "On the house, since it's Christmas and all."
"You say that as if I don't get free coffee every day since it's, you know, my coffee shop," Tony smirks.
"Free coffee? No sir, I've been merely adding it to your tab..." You feign confusion. "But I suppose in the spirit of giving, I'll forgive your enormous coffee debt."
Tony lets out a burst of laughter, shaking his head at you. "I'll be sure to let your boss know that you're costing him money."
"If you could talk me up for a Christmas bonus as well, I would be ever so grateful," you jokingly say with a smile.
Tony laughs again, cheering his coffee to you as he walks off. "I have a feeling he's in the spirit of giving too!"
You shake your head as you get back to decorating. It isn't for another couple of minutes when another person comes up. It seems to be a new agent because you've never recognized him before.
"Hey!" He starts off rudely, and you already want to roll your eyes. "I need a black coffee with two sugars immediately."
"O-kay," you say, running it up on your till. "That'll be $2.78."
The guy rears his face in anger and confusion. "No, I work here. I'm an agent."
"Okay...it'll still be $2.78," you raise your brow at him.
He scoffs at you like you're the dumbest person on this planet currently. "I don't think you understand," he tells you again, speaking slowly as if that will make you understand. "I work here, so the facilities are free. I don't pay for the coffee."
"Yes..." You spoke slowly to him back, annoyed at him. "But this coffee shop is Tony Stark's, not part of the Avenger's property...therefore, it'll be $2.78."
The agent's face grew red in the cheeks as he started screaming at you in anger. "Listen here, do you want me to report you? I could have you replaced if you don't just give me the damn coffee!"
You were about to say something else when a furious blonde came up behind him.
"And who do you think you are that you can get her replaced?"
The agent swiftly turns around, shocked, face still red but now from embarrassment and fear when he sees Natasha Romanoff standing behind him, eyes narrowed dangerously.
"O-Oh, Miss Romanoff," the agent stuttered. "I was just trying to tell this girl that the coffees are free here as part of the orientation earlier."
"Yes, the coffee in the kitchen, not the coffee shop owned by Tony Stark," Natasha grounded out. "I believe the orientation outlined that as I was the one who told you."
"O-Oh, well, I--"
"So, as my girlfriend kindly told you, the coffee will be $2.78," Natasha cut him off. "I expect you're also in a giving mood today with the holidays."
The red disappears from the agent's face as quickly as it turns pale as he looks at you. The mistake and fear alone from the entire thing has the agent pulling out a crisp $100 bill from Natasha's implication.
"K-Keep the change for the trouble I caused. My apologies, I should've paid attention more." The agent hands you the money and grabs the coffee with shaky hands.
"It will do you well to listen in the future and cease being an ass to retail workers," Natasha lifted her thumb to gesture the way back to the training rooms. "Finish running 30 laps by the time I'm back."
The agent nods jerkily and takes off, not even sparing you a second glance.
You stare at the crisp bill in your hand, laughing as you put the remaining change in your tip jar.
"Good morning to you too," you say with a smile as Natasha comes up to the counter.
Natasha grumbles but stops when you put your hand on top of hers.
"I thought you weren't going to be able to see me until lunch," you say, reminded of the conversation you had with Natasha before you both went off to work.
"Yes, but I decided to escape for a few minutes. Steve can handle the training; I'm sure he lives for that shit," Natasha rolls her eyes. "Now, I did come down here for a reason."
"Oh? And what would that be?" You smile.
Natasha reveals her other hand that was behind her back, holding a mistletoe in it.
"'Tis the season and all," Natasha grinned, and you have to hold back your laughter. Natasha holds the mistletoe over your head as she starts to lean in.
"I hope you're in a giving mood," you smirk, and Natasha licks her lips delicately.
"Of course," she starts giving you the bedroom eyes. "I should give that agent enough time to finish his laps."
Natasha leans so closely you can feel the brush of her lips against yours, smelling the scent of gingerbread on her.
Oh my God. I will admit, I came from AO3 but goddamn your fics are amazing. I just came from your first 'lead me astray' with Natasha/Reader and I had a few ideas. I just thought of giving them to you since I couldn't keep it in.
Okay- Just imagine reader leaving for the mission/position but before that she leaves a note for Nat. And all throughout the days that she's away from her, the reader sends texts,letters or whatever always stating how she loves Nat and how she's sorry for how stupid she is and how her day is like. At first, Nat doesn't open the letters but just keeps them in her drawer or whatever but one night she just was curious and reads all of them.
But then, two weeks pass without the readers letters and Nat is worried af. She asks Fury and Fury skillfully avoids the questions but Nat is persistent and eventually corners Fury. Fury then says that it's been radio silence from the reader since like two weeks ago. Natasha demands that they like go over where reader was and that's where they find like multiple letters for Natasha, a old style voice recorder with a farewell recording for Nat, a pile of files and 3 USB's filled with info on HYDRA.
They find out that Reader was planning on taking a suicide mission alone. And they move in, but was a minute too late, Reader was shot and is stuck in coma (well, I mean if you want reader dead then be my guest) Natasha listens to the recording:
"I was, still am, lost without you Nat. You're everything I have left, and with you gone, what do I have to lose? Maybe with me out of the picture, you can finally move on and be happy with someone else. I love you. I always will. Never forget about me, please?"
You are on the angst train and I will not stand for it!!!!!!
So lemme sit down and we can indulge in this together 👀
Tbh I had to go back to read Lead me Astray because I always get it confused with Leave Me Lonely LOL
Reader would still leave for her position because after fucking it up with Natasha, she doesn’t think she can fix it. But she would definitely leave one last letter apologizing to Nat for not just talking to her when she was unsure of the the things between them. Reader wishes Natasha happiness and hopes they can stay in touch or one day be friends.
I think I would go for a coma for a chance of a happy ending.
A blurb of what I think reader would leave on the voice recording to Natasha:
Natasha's fingers shake as she touches the stupid voice recording pen she had given to you as a gift shortly after she said yes to officially dating you.
She can't believe you would keep such a small gift.
It's been a long day, and Natasha only left the hospital after Steve had come to drag her out because the doctors and nurses needed to do additional tests.
It hurt.
It really burned Natasha to see you lying there as still as a statue. Like you were dead.
Except you weren't. You were in a coma.
Natasha looks at the pen. She's gone through all of the data you sent except for this pen.
Because this pen was addressed just to her, and Natasha knows that this was your last message to her, and she's not really ready to hear what you had to say.
But now this pen could be all that Natasha has left of you.
She presses play.
At first, she just heard you coughing awkwardly to clear your throat.
"Um..." You start, and Natasha's lip twitches as she can picture you pressing your lips together in a gawky manner.
"Sorry...you know I'm weirdly awkward with this type of stuff..." you mumble before sighing.
"I guess...I guess I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry again. I knew vulnerability was difficult for you, but I guess I thought I could change that, and that was wrong of me. And then when I was insecure, I did things to punish you instead of coming to talk to you like an adult."
There was a pause, and Natasha imagines that you lick your lips.
"Things are rough on my end here, much worse than I imagined. I don't really have a lot of time before I have to go...I don't know if I'll make it back or not if I'm honest. I think you were right in a way...that this line of work, letting someone in can make you vulnerable. And I say that because making this choice was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, right under choosing to leave when I should've stayed to grovel to make it work with you.
I know I just said I don't know if I'll make it back, but truthfully, I don't think I will. And so, I just wanted to tell you that I love you. I love you, and none of this was your fault, do you hear me? I meant everything that I said in the letter. I wish you happiness, Nat. I wish you find a happiness that you can't find anywhere else in this lifetime. I hope you find someone that makes you spilling out your guts easier than destroying Clint at Mario Kart."
Natasha chokes on a laugh.
The recording is silent for a moment, but Natasha can hear you breathing, swallowing noticeably.
"And...I guess if I'm lucky and those kinds of things exist, I hope I get to meet you in the next lifetime, and if I get that chance...I promise to do it better."
The recording ends, and Natasha hasn't moved. Hot tears are falling down her eyes, and it feels like something is being torn inside her.
"Nat."
She hears the voice, but she doesn't turn around. Clint stands there, only catching the last quarter of the recording you left Natasha.
"This is my fault," Natasha says hollowly, tears falling more and more, and Natasha doing nothing to stop them.
Clint stands straighter, walking toward her. "No, don't say--"
"It is!" Natasha bites out. "Even though I still loved her, missed her, wanted things to work out, wanted to forgive her--I let her leave. I let her leave because I was scared, and I was scared because the truth was that I already let her in."
Natasha presses her hand to her face, teeth clenched. "If I could take it all back, I would. I would tell her every little thing on my mind because then she wouldn't have felt like she had nothing to come home to and wouldn't have made that choice."
Natasha feels Clint pull her into a hug, tears soaking his shirt as he doesn't know what to say.
"I don't even know if I'll get to tell her now," Natasha lets her face fall against Clint easily, her tight grip on the pen recorder loosening.
"You will," Clint tells her. "She'll wake up...she has to."
── ⟡ ˙ cw: fluff, comfort, fluffy headcanons, slice of life.
sevika ♡
sevika has always been protective of you and ever since you told her about being autistic in the beginning of your relationship, you noticed some things that even though subtle and silent, have made all the difference.
sevika learns early to read your signs. she notices the subtle—or not so subtle—changes in your tone of voice, posture, and breathing before you verbalize discomfort, and acts without drawing attention to it. your health is her priority.
during any sensory crisis, sevika becomes a silent anchor. she’s a firm presence, speaks a few words, and settles a calm pace. no excessive questions.
touch is always consensual and predictable. even if you’re both looking flirty at each other, she’ll stop and ask if it’s okay to keep going. also, sevika herself was never very good with physical displays of affection at first, so asking how and when you prefer contact is beneficial for both of you.
mel ♡
oh, gods help anyone who tries to cross the line with you. when someone tries to cross boundaries, mel intervenes without hesitation. you never need to explain yourself to strangers—she knows what you’re capable of, but she does it for you, directly and effectively.
your hyperfixations are taken seriously. mel listens to you, asks questions, remembers details, and often comes up with a gift related to your interests.
a clear commumication becomes the norm. she has no problem with objective phrases, explicit agreements, and aligned expectations. actually, she was relieved after finding someone like that since this also reassures and helps her.
whatever subject you’re interested in, expect all her efforts to stimulate and encourage you. mel provides the best books, materials and classes.
caitlyn ♡
caitlyn doesn’t infantilize you or try to “fix” you like some people have tried or suggested. she treats your neurodivergence as part of who you are, not as a problem.
if you have auditory sensitivity, noisy environments are negotiated beforehand. she chooses the tables furthest away, leaves before a peak of stimuli, and never insists that you “can hold on a little longer” if you ask to leave.
a routine is a serious thing, and when something deviates from the plan, she tries to give advance notice and offer clear alteratives to avoid any kind of stress to you.
she accepts stims naturally, and if someone gives you a dirty look, caitlyn’s sharp gaze and cold words leaves no room for comments.
5 times you almost said the three big words to Natasha and the 1 time you finally did.
Warning : mention of violence, smut at some point...
Happy Pride Month!! <3
Still working on a long fic that's kicking my ass but had to write a little something that would not leave my mind otherwise, so... Enjoy :)
⧗ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑
The room felt too big without her in it.
It was not really something you noticed right away, it was more gradual. The kind of thing that creeped in around the edges until suddenly you were hyper-aware of every empty space around you, every untouched surface, every silence that should not feel this loud.
You were lying on her bed, staring at her ceiling, one arm tucked behind your head and resting on her pillow.
You told yourself you would not do this.
You would not get used to the way it felt to be surrounded by her and her things - one of her leather jackets slung over the chair, a pair of her boots by the door, the faint scent of her shampoo still clinging stubbornly to the pillows around you.
And yet... here you were anyway.
Pathetically laying in her bed... Curled up beneath her blankets, your head buried in her pillow, surrounded by traces of her that made the absence somehow worse.
Missing her.
The thing was, you had spent years learning how to be alone. It had never bothered you before. You liked your own company. Liked the quiet, liked having your own space.
Then Natasha had happened.
And somewhere between late-night takeout, stolen hours between missions, and waking up tangled together more often than not, your definition of normal had shifted without asking permission.
"You’re such a traitor." You murmured quietly as Liho, her black cat, shifted slightly against the side of your head and let out the biggest sigh known to catkind.
Her tail flicked in response, unimpressed, before settling more comfortably against you, warm and solid and very clearly thinking the same as you.
You sighed as well, letting your head tilt to the side as you glanced down at her.
"You're supposed to make this less pathetic, you know?"
Liho blinked at you slowly, greenish eyes looking at you as if she were waiting for something.
You reached down absently, gently scratching behind her ears. She leaned into it immediately, purring, and you could not help the small smile that tugged at your lips even if you tried. She always seemed to have that power over you. And her owner too.
"Yeah, yeah. I know," you mumbled, pursing your lips. "You miss her."
Because that was the thing, it was not just you. Perhaps the situation would be easier if it had been the case.
The whole room felt like it was waiting. Like it was holding its breath until Natasha walked back through the door and everything clicked back into place.
You let your gaze drift towards the nightstand - everything exactly where she left it, like she will be back any second.
Except she will not.
Not tonight.
Not for a few days, at least.
Solo missions would do that.
Liho shifted again, stretching this time, one of her paws pressing lightly against your ear.
You exhaled slowly, staring back up at the ceiling.
This was stupid.
You were being stupid. And you knew it, but apparently reason had no play in your feelings.
She was fine, after all. She was always fine.
You did not need to...
But your hand moved before you fully decided to, reaching for your phone where it rested on the mattress beside you. You stared at the screen for a second, the background picture greeting you not helping to talk yourself out of doing what you wanted to. Still, you paused for a second, teeth grazing your lower lip as you forced yourself to think rationally about this.
She was on a mission, after all. She did not need distractions.
She definitely did not need you calling in the middle of the night because you... Well, because you what? Missed her? Wanted to see her? Heard her voice? Make sure she was okay?
That felt... dangerously close to something neither of you were ready to unpack right now. Liho let out a small, impatient sound, nudging your hand with her head.
You glanced down at her, eyebrows raised.
"...You’re not helping." You grunted, closing your eyes before letting out yet another sigh.
God, you were so pathetic.
Liho was still staring at you when you opened back your eyes, you rolled them before hitting the call button.
It rang once... Twice... You almost talked yourself out of it and hung up but by the third ring, the line clicked.
"Yeah?" Natasha's voice answered, slightly hoarse, a little quieter than usual.
Relief hit you so fast it almost made you dizzy and angry at yourself. One word, one raspy, sleep-roughened word, and suddenly the knot that had been sitting beneath your ribs for days loosened.
Were you this desperate and gone for this woman? You hated that, hated how immediate it was - as if some part of you had been waiting for proof that she was still there. Still breathing. Still okay.
The realization hit a second later and made you want to throw your phone across the room. Because, God, you really were gone for this woman. You needed to get a grip on yourself, and that as soon as possible. And preferably before she found out as well.
"Hey, you..." You replied, smiling at the ceiling, scrunching your nose as Liho's snout nudged your chin.
There was a faint rustle on the other end - movement, maybe. Fabric shifting. The soft, distant hum of a foreign location you could not quite place.
"You okay?" Natasha asked immediately, worry lacing into her voice.
Of course she did.
You huffed a small breath, glancing down at Liho as she curled tighter against your shoulder, ears shifting at the voice coming out of your phone.
"Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."
There was a beat of silence where you could practically hear Natasha thinking.
"Then why are you calling?" Straight to the point, not hitting around the bush with her - you always liked that. Usually.
You hesitated, because you did not actually really have a good answer.
"Can't I just call m-" You stopped yourself just in time, clearing your throat. Logically you knew she was your girlfriend. You had been on too many dates together if that was not the case. But you never said the actual word. There was actually more than one word you had not said yet. "Can't I just call you? It's been almost a week, I wanted to hear your voice."
Natasha let out a faint exhale on the other end, almost a huff.
"Of course you can call me, I just thought something was wrong at first," she grumbled, stopping as she heard you shift. "You're in my room."
It was not a question, it made you blink, caught off guard by her words.
"Wha-how did you even know?"
"Background noise," she replied, a smile in her voice. "And... you just confirmed it."
You shifted slightly, pulling the blanket up a little higher as you rolled your eyes at her smug tone.
"Well, for the record, I’m here for a very important reason."
There was a soft, amused sound from Natasha on the other end.
"Huh uh, sure."
"It's true. You said Liho needed supervision and she doesn't wanna leave your room, so... here I am." You replied, chuckling when the cat let out a soft chirp, shifting closer to the voice.
"Alright, turn the camera on." Natasha asked, waiting.
You smiled, turning on your side and putting the phone on the other pillow to make sure she had a good view of Liho too.
Natasha's face appeared on the screen seconds later, her hair pulled back in a neat braid.
"There are my girls," she smirked, the corner of her mouth softening as she took in Liho's curled up position next to you. Her gaze flicked briefly to the side - like she was taking in the angle, the background, the way you were positioned. "You're on my side." She hummed, one eyebrow raising knowingly.
You narrowed your eyes, biting down the inside of your cheek.
"What?"
Natasha's smirk deepened, slow and knowing.
"The bed... you're on my side." She repeated, voice dropping just slightly as she raised both eyebrows this time.
You froze, because... you were. Without even thinking about it.
"It's... more comfortable." You said quickly.
Natasha did not respond right away, just looked at you like she knew that was not the real reason. Or to the very least, not the only one.
Your pulse picked up slightly at the look on her face so you quickly cleared your throat, looking down at the cat.
"Liho chose it first." You added, gesturing vaguely to the cat as backup. But of course, the traitor that she was, barely even reacted, simply staring at the screen while licking her paw absently.
Natasha chuckled, low and warm.
"Of course she did." She looked at the cat with playful suspicion before her eyes slid back to you.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, nodding.
"Yeah, she’s been complaining. A lot. I think she misses you."
Natasha pressed her lips together, taking in the sight in front of her.
"How is the roommate's situation going?"
"...She knocked over a glass earlier." You glanced down at the cat again, making a face.
Natasha sighed, glaring at Liho through the screen.
"I chose her name so well." She shook her head, but there was unmistakable affection in it.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
And she saw it.
Of course she did.
Her gaze lingered on your face for a second longer than necessary, something unreadable flickering behind her eyes.
"Why did you call?" And there it was, the question you knew was coming again at some point.
You hesitated, because the real answer was sitting right there, obvious and inconvenient and a little too honest for comfort.
Because you wanted to see her.
Because you missed her.
Because her room felt too empty and wrong without her in it.
Because ever since you met her, she was always in a corner of your mind and these last couple of days you went back to that place more times than you would have liked - and actually needed to hear from the real her before turning completely crazy.
You shifted slightly, picking at a loose thread on the blanket.
"Just checking in, you know..."
Natasha’s expression did not change but you could tell she did not buy it.
"Okay, and now the truth?"
"Hey, that's mean. I am checking in too." You grumbled, frowning at her.
She leaned closer to the camera, her face taking up more of the screen. The way she called your name always got you, and this time was no exception.
"You would check in if you knew I could actually talk about the mission. Which I can't. Which you already know. So...?"
"Wow. Okay. Read me like a book, why don’t you..." You huffed a small breath, rolling your eyes.
Natasha gave a small, smug shrug.
"I am."
You glanced back up at her. And unfortunately, she was still watching you like that. Too focused, too attentive, like she was waiting patiently for you to find the words.
Your chest tightened.
"...Couldn’t sleep." You admitted instead, softer this time.
It was not the whole truth but it was not a lie either.
Natasha's face softened.
"Yeah? Even if you're in my bed, surrounded by all my things... And wearing my shirt?" She sounded almost amused.
You glared at her, frowning.
"Stop being mean, I'll hang up."
"Okay, okay." Natasha held up one hand in mock surrender.
She looked genuinely amused for a minute though. But then silence settled again, not the same as before. It felt heavier now. Charged with something you could not quite name, only feel.
You watched her for a second. The way her eyes scanned the area behind the camera. The way her shoulders stayed just a little too tense, even when she was standing still.
She was working.
Even now.
Always.
"But I will anyway, you should get back to it..." You added quietly, offering her a gentle smile.
Natasha exhaled, and for a moment you thought she might actually protest.
"Yeah, probably." But she did not move, did not end the call, neither did you.
Your heart was beating a little too fast. There was something sitting in your chest again - that familiar pressure, that weight that had been building for weeks now, threading itself through every moment like this.
You swallowed.
"I-" You started, breaths burning your lungs.
Natasha stilled, eyebrows raising as you suddenly stopped talking.
"Yeah?" She prompted.
Your fingers tightened around the phone as you brought it closer. God.
This was stupid.
It was just words.
Just three words.
You could say them.
Right now.
She was right there. Looking at you like that. Like... like she was waiting. Like she could see the battle happening behind your eyes, like she was standing at the edge of the same cliff.
"I... I l-" The words caught, your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you drew in a breath before panic slammed into you. You saw it then, so clearly, the possibility of silence. Of surprise. Of not hearing it back... And suddenly every survival instinct you possessed grabbed the wheel. "I mean I... You know,Liho is being very well taken care of. And I'll keep on doing that," you finished abruptly, the words coming out too fast. "Just so you know. Don't have to worry. About anything." You added with a smile.
Natasha blinked, then her face did something complicated, and suddenly she looked like she was the one whose air had been punched out of her chest even though you were the one actually out of breath.
"Yeah... I can see that."
"Good," you murmured, nodding a few times, hesitating again before clearing your throat. "Stay safe, okay?"
Natasha nodded slowly, eyebrows furrowing.
"...I will," she said finally, her gaze lingering on you for a second longer than it should. As if she were suspicious. "I’ll call you when I’m done."
You smiled, even though the motion felt rushed and out of place.
"Yeah. Okay."
Neither of you hung up immediately.
You just sit there for a second, looking at each other through the screen, waiting for more. Like there was something else to say.
Something just out of reach.
But then the screen went dark.
And the room felt just a little too big again, leaving you with words too big to deal with.
⧗
The plan had been simple on paper.
It always was.
In reality, however, it had dissolved into noise, smoke, and the kind of chaos that made your ears ring and all your carefully constructed thoughts scatter like startled birds.
Somewhere above you, something heavy collapsed with a metallic shriek, sending vibrations through the whole floor. The lights flickered twice before settling into a dim, unreliable pulse that painted everything in uneven shadows as dust fell from the ceiling like dirty snowflakes.
You pressed your back against the cold concrete pillar behind you, forcing yourself to breathe through the adrenaline clawing up your throat after taking down five other men. Your comm crackled with overlapping voices - Sam swearing, Tony complaining about power surges, someone yelling coordinates that immediately got drowned out by static.
Your earpiece buzzed again after another slow breath, and this time Natasha's voice came through clearly: "Status?"
Her voice was calm and grounded. Far too calm for the situation.
You exhaled sharply, something in your chest loosening just from hearing her - the sound of her voice hit you with embarrassing force. The building was still trying its absolute best to collapse on top of you. Your ears were ringing and your shoulder hurt and there were armed men somewhere in the vicinity actively trying to kill you. And yet the moment Natasha spoke, something inside your chest loosened.
You actually hated that she could do that, like some part of your brain had quietly filed her under safe, under trust, under the person you wanted beside you when everything else went to hell.
"Took down most of them but pinned on the lower level, door won't fucking open," you muttered, glancing around the corner before quickly ducking back as a burst of gunfire shredded the wall where your head had been a second ago. "Shit, three hostiles, maybe more. You?" There was a brief pause when you could practically hear her calculating.
"On my way." Natasha replied, voice steady despite the gunfire echoing faintly in the background of her comm.
You huffed a breath that was half relief, half exasperation, dragging the hand that was not holding your gun through your damp hair as dust still rained down from above. You perked by the wall, shooting one of the three guards.
"Nat, you’re not exactly in a position to be detouri-"
"I said I'm on my way." She cut in sharply before you could get another word out.
That tone meant she was not taking anything for an answer besides what she had already decided.
You rolled your eyes - even though she could not see you - before dodging another bullet as you ducked into another corner, firing two more back and hearing a groan as one bullet touched a shoulder.
"Yeah, okay, Romanoff. Because this mission hasn’t gone off the rails enough already, let’s just add 'reckless heroics' to the list."
"Shut up and hold your fire," Natasha scoffed, appearing on the other end of the hallways and taking down the two men before quickly jogging back to your side. "Well, you're welcome." She breathed out, bruised lips forming a small smile.
Before you could fire back, another explosion rocked the building, way too close this time. The wall at your back shuddered violently, cracks splintering up its side. You stumbled as the floor shook, catching yourself just in time, heart slamming hard enough to make your vision blur as the ceiling above the three guards lying on the floor suddenly collapsed on them.
"Fuck-" You gasped, pushing off and moving quickly to a slightly less terrible piece of cover with the redhead following. "Okay, that was... not ideal. Like at all." You added, one arm extended in front of Natasha - even though no one was coming your way as she stopped at your side.
"No shit." She grunted, scanning the area before tugging on your wrist to urge you to follow her.
"Took the long detour to come to me, huh." You joked as you carefully climbed back the stairs to find yet another issue.
"Traffic." She replied dryly, already peeking around the corner, assessing, calculating. Always working.
And God, even now, even like this, even with alarms screaming overhead and dust coating the back of your throat, even while your heart was trying to punch its way through your ribs - your eyes kept finding her.
The steady set of her shoulders. The quick, efficient movements of her hands. The way she assessed every angle, every exit, every threat in a matter of seconds.
Natasha always looked like she belonged in chaos, like she had made peace with it years ago and simply learned how to move through the storm, or perhaps had made a pact with it and already knew nothing would happen to her.
It should have been terrifying, instead it made something warm and painful unfurl beneath your ribs. Because every impossible situation somehow became more manageable when she was standing beside you. Because she had come for you.
The mission had gone sideways and the building was falling apart. And somehow Natasha had still heard you were trapped and immediately changed course. No hesitation, no discussion.
Your chest tightened - not from fear this time, but something sharper, heavier. Something that had been building for weeks, months, quietly threading itself through moments each more inadequate than the last.
You swallowed hard, forcing your attention back to the situation at hand.
"Hey, Nat," you said slowly, glancing up at the ceiling that was definitely not supposed to be doing that. "Tell me you have a backup plan."
Natasha glanced at you, lips pressed together.
"I do..." She grumbled, forcing a door open with her shoulder before quickly climbing up the next stack of emergency stairs. "Not sure you’ll like it, though."
"Natasha, I already don't like that we're going up right now..." You grunted, running to catch up with her.
She did not answer, just kept moving. The stairs were narrow and creaky underfoot.
"Sam or Tony’s gonna catch us on the rooftop." She replied, frowning at the door that refused to open. She kicked the combination lock, hissing as she grabbed a bunch of wires, ignoring the look you gave her.
Another tremor rippled through the building, stronger this time. A section of the ceiling caved in somewhere nearby with a deafening crash, the sound echoing through the corridors like a warning bell.
Your pulse spiked.
This was bad.
This was really bad.
Not because of the collapsing building, not because Tony's voice had disappeared from the comms three minutes ago, not because every instinct you possessed was screaming that the situation was deteriorating faster than anyone could fix. But because, for one horrible second, you genuinely thought this might be it.
And suddenly, all the things that normally seemed important vanished.
And suddenly, all you could focus on was Natasha. Natasha, crouched beside a broken security panel. Natasha, covered in sweat, soot and bruises.
And suddenly, the words were there.
Right there.
Sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and insistent and impossible to ignore anymore - because the thought of leaving this world without telling her hit you harder than any fear you might have felt all night.
You took in another shaky breath, your eyes tracking the smudge of soot along her jaw, the way a strand of red hair had come loose and was sticking to her cheek, the dried blood on her chin, the sharp focus in her eyes even as the world quite literally fell apart around you.
God.
If there was ever a moment... If the building came down right now, if this was the last conversation you ever had, you might actually not bear the idea of her never knowing.
"Nat," you started, your voice coming out tighter than you intended, almost swallowed by the distant sound of collapsing concrete. "If we, you know, don’t make it-"
"We will." She cut you off, the response immediate, like she had not even needed to think about it.
You blinked, lips parted as you observed her work on the colorful wires carefully.
"I... well, yeah, but like, if we don’t-"
"But we will," Natasha repeated, sharper this time, finally glancing at you. There was something in her eyes now - something stubborn, unyielding and fierce. "I won’t accept otherwise."
You stared at her for a second, incredulous, adrenaline and frustration tangling together in your chest.
"Oh my god, I know," you shot back, gesturing vaguely at the crumbling building around you. "I’m just trying to tell y-"
"Dekta," she cut in, her voice dropping just slightly, softer but no less firm. "It’s me. I won’t let anything bad happen to us... If you let me work on those fucking wires."
And there it was.
That certainty.
That absolute, unwavering belief that she could hold the entire world together through sheer willpower alone if it meant keeping you safe.
Your chest ached.
Because you knew her.
You knew where that came from.
And you knew how dangerous it was.
You let out a breath that turned into a frustrated half-laugh, dragging a hand down your face.
"Fuck, you’re so stubborn," you muttered, shaking your head at this impossible woman. "Whatever."
But the words did not go away.
They just settled deeper, heavier, waiting.
And the building gave another violent shudder, as if reminding you that time was running out.
⧗
It started as nothing.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
Just another debrief after another mission successfully wrapped. So, naturally, another cluster of agents and Avengers lingering a little too long in the common area with glasses in hands and loud music all around.
You noticed her by accident.
At least, that was what you told yourself later.
The truth was that your eyes had developed a bad habit over the past several months.
No matter how crowded the room was or who you were talking to, no matter how hard you tried to focus on literally anything else - they always found Natasha eventually.
Like a compass needle snapping north.
You could be in the middle of a conversation, could be laughing at something Tony said, could be halfway through a story - and somehow your gaze would drift across the room searching for red hair and green eyes before you even realized what you were doing.
Tonight was no different.
One second you were pretending to listen to Sam rant about government paperwork, leaning back against the counter with a drink you had half-drowned already, the next your eyes had wandered.
And there she was...
Beautiful.
Effortlessly, unfairly beautiful.
Standing a few feet away and talking to... someone.
You would not have thought twice about it, except... Well, she was smiling.
Not the polite, diplomatic curve of her lips she used when she was playing a role. Not the sharp, amused smirk she gave when she was teasing.
A real smile. Soft and easy and unrestricted.
Your stomach flipped, and not the pleasant kind of movements it usually did when it involved her.
You narrowed your eyes slightly, trying to focus past the noise in the room to get a better look at who she was talking to. Some agent, you recognized the face vaguely, newer, maybe. You did not really know. What you could decipher however was the confident stance, way too relaxed to be speaking with Natasha, and leaning just a little too close.
And you realized with anger seeping into your veins that your girlfriend was not stepping away.
In fact, she tilted her head slightly, listening carefully before saying something back. And God, the agent had the fucking audacity to laugh.
Your grip tightened around the glass in your hand.
It was nothing.
Right?
It had to be nothing. Natasha knew plenty of people. People you did not know yourself. It was part of her job, after all. And it was not fair, she was not doing anything wrong. It was fine, not a big deal. But your slightly inebriated brain was set on convincing yourself it was a very big deal.
You forced your shoulders to relax, dragging your gaze away.
She was allowed to talk to people, a completely normal activity that human beings engaged in every day.
She was allowed to smile, too. Hell, you loved her smile.
This was normal.
This was-
You glanced back before you could stop yourself, and they were still talking. God, how long was this discussion going to be?
Your eyes kept on tracking every movement for the following minutes while the rest of your face was still pretending to listen to Sam’s story.
Every smile, every second she remained standing there. The worst part was that you trusted Natasha completely. This was not about trust, it was somehow more embarrassing than that, it was wanting.
Wanting her attention.
Wanting that smile.
Wanting to be the person she looked at like that.
And watching someone else get it felt like tiny little paper cuts somewhere beneath your ribs.
Death by a thousand stupid insecurities.
You took another drink.
An excellent decision, clearly.
Natasha said something else, her expression shifted - something amused flickering in her eyes - and the agent reached out briefly, brushing her dirty, unworthy fingers against her arm as she responded.
Something in your chest twisted.
Okay.
No.
Nope.
That was not happening.
You pushed off the counter before you could think better of it, crossing the room with the purpose you intended. You told yourself it was casual. That you were just... joining the conversation. Gathering information before actually stepping in.
Not interrupting.
Definitely not interrupting.
Natasha noticed you coming the moment your footstep hit a particularly creaky floorboard two steps to her right. Her gaze lifted, locking onto yours - sharp, assessing and aware like she always knew exactly where you were in a room.
The... woman - whoever she was or thought she was - beside her was still speaking, oblivious to the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"Hey," you said, a little too quickly, stopping beside the redhead and leaning into her side more heavily than you intended, blinking a few times to stop the world from moving too much - perhaps you should have stopped at two drinks like Sam suggested earlier.
The agent turned to you and offered an easy smile, probably delighted to have two Avengers speaking to her.
You nodded stiffly, barely acknowledging her before your attention snapped back to the person who actually mattered to you.
"Didn’t know you were still in debrief mode."
Natasha's lips twitched at the contact, subtle but there, her hand spreading on the small of your back to steady you.
"We’re not." She replied, her voice calm and even as always.
"Right," you said, glancing between them. "Just... chatting then."
"Yes." Natasha’s eyes narrowed slightly.
There was a beat.
An awkward one, if you could say so yourself.
You did not like it.
"So," you added, forcing something casual into your tone that did not quite land the way you wanted it to. "What’d I miss?"
The unknown woman chuckled nervously.
"Not much. Just telling Miss Romanoff about my upgrade ideas for her bites."
"Her bites?" You replied, eyebrows raised, ignoring the way Natasha's hand tightened on your back in warning.
"Yeah, you know... widow bites. They're impressive already but Mister Stark wanted my help to upgrade them and Miss Romanoff had some very good suggestions," she continued, praising your girlfriend like you were not standing right the fuck there. "Didn’t expect that kind of knowledge, actually. You know a lot about... well, a lot." The young woman giggled.
Something about the way she said it, like it was new, like she was just discovering something you had known for so long... it grated.
"Yeah," you said again, tighter this time. "She does tend to know a lot about a lot." You let out a snort, giving the young woman a look.
Natasha’s gaze flicked to you again, sharper now. Assessing.
The woman glanced between the two of you, clearly picking up on something. Finally. Tony had not picked the brightest one, it seemed.
"Well," she said, clearing her throat slightly. "I should, uh, let you t-"
"Yep," you cut in quickly. "Perhaps you should."
Natasha shot you a look at that, but the woman just nodded awkwardly and stepped away, muttering something about other projects.
You did not even watch her go, your focus was entirely on Natasha now.
The second she was out of earshot, the silence shifted.
Your redhead turned to you fully, arms crossing as she let go of you.
"Okay," she said, eyebrows raised. "What the hell was that?"
Your jaw clenched as you leaned against the wall for support, making a face of confusion.
"What was what?"
Natasha exhaled through her nose.
"That," she repeated, gesturing vaguely in the direction the agent disappeared. "Just now."
You let out a short breath, shaking your head.
"Nothing, just... talked to your new friend, that's all."
Natasha's expression flattened, her eyes flashing with something that was both arousing and thrilling. God, whatever was in your drink really fucked you up.
"What is your problem?"
"My problem?" You echoed, incredulous. "I don’t have a problem."
Natasha stepped closer, lowering her voice.
"Really," she said flatly, unimpressed. "Because you just interrupted a conversation for no reason and then acted li-"
"For no reason?" You cut in, the words coming out sharper than you intended. "Seriously?"
Natasha's jaw tightened, irritation flashing across her face.
"Yes. Seriously." She hissed back, keeping her voice low but making sure to send her point across.
You stared at her, incredulous.
"Wow," you muttered, running a hand through your hair. "Okay. Good to know then."
"Good to know what?" Natasha frowned.
"That you’re just... completely fucking oblivious." You grumbled.
"Excuse me?" Her eyebrows raised higher.
You hesitated. Because saying it out loud felt... actually ridiculous.
And petty.
And yet...
"You guys were flirting." You said finally.
The words hung in the air for a moment, then Natasha let out a sigh, leaned back against the wall, and turned to face you.
"I really wasn't."
You let out a disbelieving huff.
"Na-"
"I wasn't," Natasha repeated, firmer now, her gaze steady. "And if she thought I was, she's sorely mistaken."
You shrugged, the alcohol not helping you think clearly.
"Well, you were smiling."
"I smile," she replied, voice cooling as something you could not quite understand shifted in her expression, her shoulders dropping. "Sometimes."
"I don't know, not like that..." You grumbled lamely.
Natasha stared at you for a long moment, then exhaled through her nose as her eyes narrowed.
"Yeah, like what?"
"Like-" You stopped, frustrated, gesturing vaguely because you did not even have the right words for it. "Like you meant it or something."
"And that's a problem?" Natasha huffed out a laugh.
You opened your mouth before closing it again.
Because no. It should not be.
She was allowed to smile. Allowed to talk to people. Allowed to-
"Let’s just forget it..." You muttered, shaking your head.
Natasha reached out, gripping your chin gently and forcing you to look at her.
"Nuh uh," she said immediately, lips twitching. "Don’t do that. You started this, now finish it. Even if you're drunk."
You let out a sharp breath, throwing her a dirty look at her last words.
"Well, it’s just..." You cut yourself off again, jaw tightening. "It’s nothing, can we drop it?"
"It clearly isn't nothing."
"It is," you insisted, even though your chest felt tight, your thoughts a mess. "I just didn’t expect you to be so... friendly."
Natasha studied you, letting go of your chin to rest her palm on your sternum, thumb brushing the collar of your shirt.
"I'm friendly when I choose to be." She hummed.
"Yeah, I noticed." You chuckled, the words coming out more bitter than you intended this time. You reached for her hand with one of yours, keeping it on you - the touch grounding in a tilting world.
Natasha laced her fingers through yours, squeezing slightly.
"So what? I can't talk to someone now?"
"That’s not what I said."
"It’s what you’re implying."
"I’m not implying anything-"
Natasha sighed, cutting you off.
"You walked over there and shut down a conversation because you didn’t like it," she replied, voice sharpening. "So tell me, what exactly is the issue here?"
You stared at her.
Because the issue was obvious.
At least, it was to you.
But saying it out loud? That was different.
"That woman was clearly into you." You said instead.
Natasha blinked at you before snorting.
"Yeah, and?"
"And?" You stopped, frustrated, running a hand through your hair again. "And nothing. It’s just, like, obvious."
Her gaze locked onto yours, amusement flickering there.
"Yeah? Should I have?"
"I don’t know," you snapped, frowning at her, not understanding the funny aspect of this discussion like she seemed to. "Maybe... Probably."
Natasha leaned in closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of her breath.
"Why?"
The question landed heavier than it should, the hair at the back of your neck standing up in alarm.
You hesitated.
Because the answer was sitting right there, at the front of your mind, loud and insistent and impossible to ignore.
Because you did not like seeing someone else look at her like that.
Because you did not like the idea of her wanting that from someone else.
Because you-
"Because I-" The words slipped out before you could stop them, your voice cracking. "I just don’t like it, okay?"
Natasha hummed, lips curling into a satisfied smile, thumb brushing your hand.
You swallowed hard.
Your heart was pounding, she could probably feel it.
"I-I don't like seeing you like that. Imagining you with someone else." You grumbled, the words rough, pulled straight out of your chest.
Natasha pursed her lips, eyes on your frowning face.
"You think I’m 'with' someone else?" She asked, amused.
"No," you said quickly. "No, that’s not what I-just-" you shook your head, frustrated with yourself now. "Forget it. You can't understand."
Natsha hummed, looking at you with that familiar mixture of amusement and fondness, as if you were the most entertaining thing she had encountered all evening.
"Then explain it to me," she challenged, stepping closer and lowering her voice. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you got jealous over a conversation."
"I didn’t," you stopped yourself again, exhaling sharply. "You're enjoying this too much," you grunted, giving her a look. "Okay, maybe I did. A little."
Natasha smirked, really smirked, the kind that made your stomach flip.
"Good of you to keep up, I've been enjoying it for five minutes," she chuckled, tilting her head to give you a knowing look. "A little?" She repeated.
"Fine. More than a little." You grumbled.
Natasha's smirk softened into something warmer, almost fond. Her eyes flicked downward, kissing you before you could dig yourself into a deeper hole than you were already, lips smiling against yours as she tasted the remeanant of the alcohol there.
You closed your eyes, trying to keep your mouth shut too. Because the truth was right there.
Because you loved her.
It sat at the back of your throat, heavy, burning, ready. Pulsing in time with the organ in your chest.
This would be so easy, too easy, to whisper it against her lips and blame it on the liquid courage coursing through you. To gasp it into her mouth, letting her swallow the words and sealing them with your insistent lips on hers.
You were already here, already halfway there, already saying things you probably should not be saying.
What were three more words?
Your pulse pounded as she stepped away, deep green eyes opening to stare at you.
"Wait..." Your voice faltered, breath catching as everything crashed together at once. "You're, like... very... important," you frowned, confused about where you were going with that, the words coming out of your mouth not necessarily the ones you expected. "I mean, like... I love... that you're interested in me. Only me." You finished, weaker than what you almost said.
Safer.
Natasha's eyes searched your face, like she was trying to find something you were not saying.
She shifted closer, wrapping her arms around your neck.
"Well, I thought that was pretty clear already, but I'm very much only interested in you, silly." She breathed out against your lips.
The words were steady and certain, making the hair at your nape raise again. But they did not quite settle the storm in your chest, even as your hands settled on her waist, heavy eyelids blinking to look at her.
Natasha kissed you again, softer this time, lingering.
Her hands came up to cup your face, thumbs slowly brushing over the apples of your cheeks like she was memorizing them.
"Next time," she whispered, smiling softly. "Maybe try using words a little better before jumping to conclusions."
You huffed a small, humorless laugh.
"Yeah. I’ll work on that, kinda hard after those insane drinks Clint wanted me to try, though..." You grumbled, staring into her green pools that lulled you closer, limbs melting into her.
And somehow you still wanted more.
Greedy and pathetic and hopelessly in love. The realization hit so hard it nearly stole your breath - well, that and her tongue tracing over your lips.
If only she knew the truth, though...
If only you could actually do that.
Said the words, the right ones, the real ones.
But instead, they stayed where they had been for weeks now, caught in your throat.
Unsaid.
⧗
Natasha woke you with a sound that did not belong in her bedroom.
Not a scream - Natasha Romanoff did not scream - but something very close to it. It sounded like a strangled inhale, like she surfaced too fast from underwater and forgot how lungs worked.
Your eyes snapped open instantly.
The room was dark except for the thin blue glow of the digital clock on the nightstand showing 3:13 AM.
Beside you, Natasha was rigid. Not sitting up, not moving, not one arm above her head like you caught her doing before. Just frozen flat on her back, chest heaving in shallow and uncontrolled breaths that were trying very hard not to become panicked.
"Nat?"
You pushed yourself up on one elbow when no response came from her, sleep dissolving immediately from your brain. The sheets were tangled around her legs, a sheen of sweat glinted across the exposed skin of her throat. Her hands were fisted at her sides so tight you could see the tendons straining.
"Natasha." You murmured, a little softer this time as you shifted closer, still careful, because you had learned to be careful with her.
Her eyelids finally fluttered open at the movemnt, eyes cutting toward you, green and glassy in the dark - but they did not really see you yet. They were still trapped somewhere else entirely, something years away from this room. The Red Room. A mission gone wrong. Or some memory she will never tell you about. There were ghosts living behind Natasha’s eyes sometimes. You knew that much.
And tonight they followed her into bed.
Your chest ached immediately - not because she looked broken, Natasha never looked broken, she looked exhausted like she had spent the last several hours fighting ghosts no one else could see.
"Oh, honey." The endearment slipped out before you could stop it and something in her expression cracked.
Not dramatically, because Natasha never broke dramatically either. But you saw it, that tiny flicker of exhaustion beneath the mask she was trying to pull back into place - tonight she was not fast enough. Tonight you caught the crack before the mask could close.
"’m fine..." She murmured automatically, her voice rough.
You almost scoffed at the lie, except there was nothing funny about the way her breathing still stuttered every few seconds.
"Yeah," you murmured instead, giving her a look. "Clearly."
Normally she would smirk at that. Throw something sarcastic back. Deflect. Tonight she just closed her eyes briefly like she was too worn out to actually pretend and let out a low sigh.
You hesitated for only half a second before reaching for her. That hesitation did not exist before. In the beginning, you touched Natasha carefully because you did not know if she wanted it. Now you hesitated because sometimes nightmares left her halfway feral with adrenaline and instinct. Once, months ago, she woke up swinging.
She cried afterward.
Not visibly, but her hands shook while she checked your jaw for bruising, and she refused to look at you for the rest of the night and following day so you would not be able to see her glassy eyes.
You remembered holding her face and saying, "Nat, hey, it’s okay, it was an accident." You remembered her whispering, horrified, "I could’ve hurt you." As if she had not spent every day since trying to make up for it with hands gentler than ever before.
Tonight, though, the second your fingers brushed her wrist, she grabbed you. Hard.
Never enough to hurt, just enough to reveal how desperately she needed the contact.
Your breath caught.
Natasha turned into you so quickly, almost hopelessly, and pressed into you like she could not get close enough fast enough. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other hooked under your shoulder, and then she was burying her face against your neck with a shuddering exhale.
Natasha never clinged before.
Your heart practically fractured on the spot.
"Okay," you whispered immediately, wrapping both arms around her. "Okay, I’ve got you."
She said nothing, not that you expected her to talk right now, but her grip tightened.
You could feel the aftermath of the nightmare in the tension running through her body. Every muscle pulled taut. Every breath measured too carefully.
You started rubbing slow circles against her back, carefully laying back against the mattress, thumbs pressing gently into her sides. It took a while before she melted even a little.
"You wanna talk about it?" You asked quietly, lips brushing her hairline.
You only received a tiny shake of her head against your throat in answer.
"Okay. That’s okay too."
Another few minutes passed in silence. Outside the compound windows, rain tapped very softly against the glass - a reminder that the world kept on moving in small, ordinary ways while you held one of the deadliest women on the planet together with your bare hands.
The thought would almost be funny if it did not feel so devastatingly tender.
Natasha shifted closer even though you did not think that was physically possible. One of her legs slid between yours, anchoring herself there. Her fingers curled into the back of your sleep shirt like she was afraid you would disappear if she let go.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly, lips pursing. Most people only knew the polished version of Natasha Romanoff. The smirks. The sharp edges. The glares. The dry humor. The controlled, untouchable elegance.
The Avenger.
The spy.
The weapon.
But you knew this version too.
The one who woke up shaking. The one who hoarded affection like she did not know when it would be taken away again. The one who pretended she was not tired right up until she fell asleep on your shoulder. The one who quietly moved closer whenever a room became too crowded. The one who checked that you got home safely even when she was halfway across the world. The one currently curled against your chest as if your heartbeat was the only thing keeping the nightmares away.
The one who pretended she did not need anyone while silently gravitating toward you over and over and over.
You planted a kiss onto her head, nose resting there as your lips stayed pressed on her temple. Immediately, impossibly, she softened further like that single gesture undid another knot inside her.
Your chest hurt so badly with it that you almost said it right then.
The three words rose so fast it scared you.
You stopped yourself so abruptly your breath almost caught audibly.
Natasha did not notice. Or if she did, she did not question it.
She was still tucked against you, eyes closed now, breathing gradually evening out while your heart absolutely lost its mind inside your ribcage.
Because holy shit.
Holy shit. You nearly blurred it out.
Again.
Panic bloomed instantly.
Not because it was not true.
God, that was part of the problem. It was too true. Because loving Natasha was not a choice you made anymore - it had never been your choice. It had become instinct. As natural as breathing, as inevitable as gravity. You loved all of her. The legend. The weapon. The woman.
Especially the woman.
You stared at the ceiling, fingers still moving gently through her hair while your thoughts spiraled violently out of control.
This was not the moment.
Actually, this would be the worst possible moment, if you thought about it.
She just had a nightmare. She was vulnerable and exhausted and clinging to you like you were the only solid thing in the world right now. Saying it now would be... unfair.
The realization landed heavy in your stomach - it would be unfair to put that on her now.
Natasha had spent her whole life with people taking advantage of vulnerability. Twisting soft moments into leverage. Making affection transactional.
You knew that.
You knew her.
The last thing you ever wanted was for her to think your comfort came with strings attached. Like she owed you something because she let herself need you tonight.
Your eyes stung suddenly.
God. And what if she panicked?
Not because she did not care about you - you knew she did by now, even if neither of you said it out loud - but because love was different.
Love was permanence.
Love was trust.
Love was something Natasha approached like a wounded animal approached an open hand: cautiously, suspiciously, waiting for the trap.
You could still hear her voice from months ago, quiet and strangely raw after a mission in God knew where left both of you bleeding in a safehouse bathroom.
"I’m not good at this."
You had looked up from where she was bandaging your ribs, eyebrows pulling together.
"Stichting me up? Could have told me before I let you put your hands on me, huh."
"No, just... this," she had muttered with a roll of her eyes, making a gesture with her free hand between the two of you. "All of it."
Relationships, she had meant.
Feelings.
You remembered smiling softly.
"Well, good thing you don’t have to be good at it, then."
Natasha had stared at you for a long moment like that answer genuinely confused her.
Sometimes you thought she was waiting for you to realize she was impossible to love.
The horrifying thing was that loving her was the easiest thing you had ever done.
You looked down at her now, at the red hair spilling across your shoulder. At the tiny crease still lingering between her brows even in sleep. Her plump lips partially parted, puffing air on your shirt.
At the way she unconsciously seeked your warmth even while asleep, fingers twitching against your back every few seconds just to make sure you were still there.
Your entire body ached with affection.
You wanted to say it so badly.
You wanted to whisper it into her hair and hold her until she believed it.
You wanted to tell her she was loved so fiercely and gently and without condition that it even terrified you sometimes.
But fear curled sharp beneath the longing.
Because what if she was not ready?
What if hearing it made her... retreat?
What if it changed this - whatever beautiful fragile thing the two of you had built together for months - into something frightened and uncertain?
Natasha did not do love.
Or at least she thought she did not, or to the very least act like she could not.
You had seen evidence of that belief everywhere: in the way she - most of the time - deflected sincerity with humor, in the way she usually went still when someone cared too openly, in the way she looked almost startled every time you chose her again.
As if she was still waiting for the moment you would not.
You could survive not saying it. You would rather swallow these feelings for another year than risk making her think she owed you an answer tonight, an answer given at three in the morning with tears still trapped behind her eyes would not really be an answer at all. However, you were not sure you could survive watching her pull away from you. Not over something like that. Not over timing. Not over words. So you swallowed the words down hard enough it hurt. And instead tightened your arms around her slightly and pressed another kiss into her red hair. Natasha made a small sound low in her throat. Contentment? Trust?
"You’re okay..." You whispered carefully.
Not I love you.
Even though every inch of you meant it.
"You’re safe. I’ve got you."
Her breathing evened out completely after a few minutes.
Eventually, exhaustion dragged at your own eyes again, but sleep came slowly. You mostly just laid there holding her, listening to the rain and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your chest.
You stayed. That was all. Stayed through the nightmares. Stayed through the sharp edges. Stayed through the parts of her she thought were too damaged to be loved.
You buried your face briefly in her hair, eyes burning.
"I’m here." You whispered.
Always, you almost added. But that was dangerously close to the other thing.
So instead you held her tighter and let the words live silently inside your chest a little longer.
⧗
You smiled against her insistent lips, blindly reaching for the handle of the door that was digging into your back, your other arm lazily draped around her shoulders.
Natasha chuckled into the kiss, breaking away just enough to push the door open with her hip.
She stepped inside first, pulling you along by your shirt collar before reconnecting your lips together the second the door of her quarters was closed behind you.
"Someone's eager." You mumbled between kisses, both arms wrapping fully around her neck now, back arching as you felt her warm hands on your hips.
Natasha bit your lower lip gently, hands sliding under the fabric of your shirt to press her burning palms against the shivering and bare skin of your back.
"Almost like it's been weeks or something." She breathed out, giving you a heated, amused look.
You shook your head, fingertips brushing along the loose curls of her braid. You tilted your face enough to look down at her cat who circled your ankles, purring at the contact. Liho meowed loudly at the lack of acknowledgement from both your parts, rubbing against Natasha's legs next.
The redhead ignored her, too busy nipping at your jaw instead, one of her hands tugging on the loop of your pants to bring you closer to her.
"She might be hungry..." You hummed, tilting your face back to give her more room, eyelids fluttering as you let your feet follow her wherever she was taking you.
Natasha grunted against your skin at your words, ignoring Liho entirely.
"She's always hungry," she muttered before pulling you in another heated kiss, hands gripping your hips as she walked backwards toward the door of her bedroom. "Plus, she already ate. Now's my turn." She smirked as she pulled you inside the room instead, closing the door before the black cat could enter.
"You’re so rude," you chuckled, leaning against the door, your hands feeling up her arms that quickly wrapped around you, refusing to let you go too far. "Slamming the door right into her face like that..."
Natasha scoffed, rolling her eyes as she resumed her kisses along your jaw.
"Trust me you're not gonna want an audience," she said, lips hot on the hollow of your throat. "Know what else's rude?" Natasha asked, teeth grazing your skin, her eyes sparkling as goosebumps followed.
"Mhm, what?" You panted, already feeling yourself worked up, thighs pressed together for a semblance of relief, hands finding purchase at her toned shoulders.
Natasha smirked, pressing a slow kiss to your collarbone before biting down lightly, then soothing it with her tongue.
"You," she whispered against your skin, hands sliding lower. "You got no idea what you've been doing to me all day, huh? I couldn't stop thinking about you. During that meeting too," she grunted, nose nudging the collar of your shirt as far as possible. "Imagine that? Me? Distracted?"
"Well, I didn't do anything." You grinned, fingers slipping into her braid, purposely messing it up as you brought her lips back to yours.
Natasha groaned as you ruined her carefully braided hair - she hated when you did that. But she kissed you back anyway, hands fumbling and pushing fabric off your shoulders in a hurry.
"Liar," she accused between breaths. "You wore those clothes on purpose."
"My clothes? What about them?" You breathed out, helping her out of her own top.
Natasha kicked her shirt to the side, pressing flush against you, skin on skin now.
"That shirt," she said, voice rough as her fingers traced the waistband of your pants. "That clings like that? Your chest looked heavenly. Called my name." Natasha exhaled sharply through her nose before claiming your mouth again with a low whine of frustration as she tried to push your pants as far as she could.
You could not help but let out a shaky moan, kicking your shoes and jeans off to finish the job, fingers curling in her hair.
"I think you're losing your mind if you hear my tits talking to you." You chuckled against her lips, walking her to her bed, mouths still sharing the same oxygen.
Natasha fell onto the bed with you, laughing into your kiss - actually laughing, something rare and light that made your inside flutter so violently your lips parted against hers.
"Oh, your tits definitely talk," she teased back against your mouth before letting her mouth trail lower once you were fully straddling her lap. "They say 'touch me, Natasha' all day. Can hear them through all these walls and layers."
One of her hands slid up to cup your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra, her other one pressing down your lower back to make you arch it.
"You're such a dork." You grunted, hips rolling on her lap, your hand not in her hair working on her bra, letting it pool between you like a final motion. Natasha let out a small laugh, but the sound turned into a breathy moan she tried to immediately swallow as your hips rolled against her lap again.
Her hands immediately reached behind you to take off the last piece of fabric hiding your silky skin from her gaze, eyes sparkling as the sight of your bare chest finally greeting her.
"Well hello, ladies. Missed you too." Natasha smirked, ignoring both the amused and bewildered look you sent her as she leaned down to press a light kiss on your sternum, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts until your back arched against her on its own this time.
You let out a chuckle, teeth sinking into your lower lip as you gripped her toned arm, your fingers still tangled in her head guiding her face lower. Natasha did not need guiding, she was already moving down - her lips trailing fire over your sternum, nipping gently at the soft skin of your chest before her teeth grazed the swell of your breast. Her hands trailed lower, feeling your soft sides and committing it all back to memories.
"Sorry, I might be delirious," she murmured, voice muffled against your skin as she pressed warm kisses over your chest. "Like I said, s'been weeks."
"Yeah..." You breathed out, eyelids heavy as you stared down at her. "...acting like you’ve been through withdrawal or something." You teased, though your chuckle died in your throat as her teeth grazed your sensitive skin in clear retaliation, piercing green irises looking up at you.
Natasha smirked against your skin before finally taking one of your nipples into her mouth, tongue swirling around it, slowly at first, teasingly. She could feel the way you tensed beneath her, how your breath hitched and fingers curled tighter in her hair. She hummed approvingly around the peak before sucking gently. Your hips jerked into her lap involuntarily as a reaction to her ministrations. Your teeth sank into your lower lip, breaths turning heavy as you tried to contain yourself even though her actions along with the faint friction happening between your thighs was making you dizzy with want for more.
Natasha immediately noticed the way you moved against her - subtle, involuntary, but so telling. She quickly switched to your other breast, lavishing it with the same attention while one of her hands slid down your stomach and over your hipbone, tugging down the last fabric clinging to your body.
You let her roll you over and watched as she dragged your panties off your legs, her burning fingertips grazing your skin. You shifted on your elbows, giving her a heated look as you stopped her from laying back with a firm foot on her toned stomach.
The redhead frowned, confusion clouding her gaze for a second.
"Nuh uh, you're wearing far too many clothes." You smirked, licking your suddenly dry lips.
Natasha arched a brow, but the smirk on her lips grew as she understood your demand. Without hesitation, she took a step back. Her buttons popped open in record time as she kicked off the remnants of her clothes. She grabbed your extended leg with one hand, squeezing your calf as she drew closer.
"Better now?" She drawled in a hoarse tone that groped at your belly with a small smile on her face, her lips trailing over the inside of your leg, eyes never leaving your face.
You nodded slowly, your gaze never leaving her mouth as you tried your hardest not to melt too visibly under her ministrations. But it was harder said than done when your whole being filled with anticipation, your breath coming in faster before you could take the reins over it.
Natasha took her sweet time - kissing up your inner thigh, slow and deliberate, letting the warmth of her mouth linger on your skin. She kept going until her nose bumped the apex of your thigh before finally reaching her destination, the first contact making every touch she did before small compared to the way her tongue eagerly seeked you out. Her eyelids fluttered for a second, a small sound escaping her parted lips as your grip in her hair resumed before tightening.
"Fuck-" You gasped, thighs already starting to tremble on either side of her head. "I almost forgot..." You stopped yourself, swallowing hard as her eyes snapped back to yours, her lips wrapping around your clit as she shot you a quick wink. "...how good you were at that." You finished in another gasp, letting the back of your head hit the mattress as you tried to keep the sounds in.
Natasha smirked - actually smirked, you could feel it against your folds - before diving back in with renewed focus. She alternated between slow, teasing licks and firm suction, like she had all the time in the world to relearn you - her tongue swirling expertly while one hand gripped your hip to keep you from bucking too much. The other slid up your stomach to pinch a nipple - multitasking like the terrifyingly efficient woman that she was.
"Inside-" You panted, back slightly arching off the bed while the hand not in her hair gripped the one that she rested on your chest for dear life, eyebrows furrowing as you focused on the pleasure she was making you feel. "Need you inside, Nat."
The redhead, your redhead, did not hesitate or drawled it longer than you thought she would - perhaps she did miss you as much as she claimed to - and slipped two fingers into you without warning, curling them just right on the first try like she knew your body better than her own. You rewarded her with a shaky gasp, unforgiving warmth spreading through you like wildfire.
Her tongue kept working your clit in perfect rhythm with her thrusting fingers, adding pressure exactly where it mattered. The wet sounds were loud in the quiet room, mixing with your gasps and Natasha's soft hums of approval against you as she stared at your body that chased the feeling she was giving you. And suddenly it was too much. Too many feelings. Natasha was all around you, everywhere - outside and inside. Her insistent hands, her heavy gaze fixed on you that you could not see but felt all the same, the scent surrounding the two of you. It was too much and you were right there, with the words ready to claw themselves out your chest and throat to finally slip past your parted lips.
You let go of her hair immediately as a semblance of dangerous clarity reached you, your hand pressing flat against your parted mouth. And what if you stopped yourself from breathing that way? At least the words were going down with you, and you would not blur them out of the blue, in the middle of sex, mind you.
You let out a trembling moan, thighs starting to shake as you bit down the inside of your fingers.
Natasha felt the exact moment you tensed, the way your body coiled like a spring ready to snap. She doubled down with eyebrows furrowed in focus, keeping the pace of her fingers and curling them while her tongue pressed hard against your clit. Your muffled moan only spurred her on, she always loved making you fall apart beneath her. Loved being the reason for that desperate grip on yourself, for those half bitten-off sounds she could practically taste in the air between you two. And then here you were, your thigh jerking up by reflex as your walls spasmed around her fingers, sucking them in.
She pulled back and took a deep, ragged breath, eyes traveling languidly over the faint sheen of sweat over your curves.
You opened your eyes again, face tilted to the side as you lazily reached for her with your hand, pushing the babyhair off her forehead with a faint, delirious smile on your face.
Natasha leaned into your touch, her damp lips curling as she kissed the palm of your hand. Her fingers, still glistening, brushed over your stomach as she crawled up to hover above you, arms caging either side of your head. She pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth first, then finally claimed it properly - slow and deep and so tender compared to what had just happened moments ago.
It made your toes curl.
"I love-" You stopped yourself just in time, gulping down, teeth grazing your lips as you tried to find something else to say. Something else than what you really wanted. Something that you might actually not regret saying. "I love, love when you do that." You finished in a lower tone, heavy eyes searching her face.
Natasha studied you, those green eyes always seeing too much, like she could read the hesitation in your chest, the words that did not make it out.
But she just kissed you again, slower this time, letting you taste the proof of your arousal clinging to her. Her hand came up to cradle your jaw as her thumb stroked your cheekbone gently, affectionate and warm.
"Yeah, I gathered as much." She grinned smugly against your lips.
You chuckled, pushing her away with one firm hand on her sternum before suddenly flipping both of you over, your body pinning her down on the mattress. You tried not to react too visibly as her hands immediately grabbed your hips by pure reflex.
"You know I don't like when you look too smug." You grunted, playfully rolling your pelvis into her lap, one eyebrow raised pointedly.
Natasha blinked up at you, almost surprised for once, her usually controlled expression flickering with something unreadable as your weight settled over her. A slow smirk curled on her lips, her hands traveling lower until she was cupping your buttcheeks.
"Well hello," she breathed out, tilting her chin to press a kiss to your jaw. "Missed those too." She smirked, her hands squeezing the flesh, a small chuckle escaping her as the involuntary movement it caused you to make.
"Oh, shut up." You laughed, your hands cupping her face to pull her into a firm kiss.
Because if there was one thing you were good at, it was distracting you from telling too much. And what could be a better distraction than those plump lips, stealing all possible breath from you until you could not speak anymore.
⧗
It was quiet in the compound.
Not the half-expected, tense, waiting kind of quiet that came after a mission or before one, but something softer, lived-in... And an atmosphere that could only prevail in the late hours of the day, one that only night owls could understand.
Most of the lights were off, the common areas were empty. And you were sitting on one of the couches, half-curled into the corner, a blanket draped over your legs more out of habit than actual need. There was a book open in your lap, but you had not turned the page in... well, a while now.
You were not reading. You had not been for the past twenty minutes. Or maybe even longer. Your gaze kept drifting.
To the doorway. To the window. To the hallway.
You did not know exactly when she got back.
You just knew she did.
You heard the faint echo of a quinjet followed by footsteps earlier. The soft click of a door. The almost imperceptible shift in the atmosphere that always seemed to follow her presence - like something settled into place because she was back in your orbit.
You did not go to her. Not immediately. You had an unspoken agreement whenever one of you would return from solo missions, you would not go looking for the one who had just come back. It was up to her to come find the other if felt the need. Otherwise, you had to give the other time and space - enough to take a shower and put herself together while wiping away all the blood that stained the skin - before either of you could face the world again as an acceptable person.
So, you told yourself you would give her time, like always. Let her decompress. Shower, change, whatever she needed.
Totally normal.
Totally reasonable.
And it definitely did not end up with you pacing your own thoughts into the ground for what had to be the past half hour.
You exhaled slowly, dragging your eyes back down to the book you grabbed again.
You froze in the middle of a mess of words you surely must have tried to read before as soft footsteps echoed in the hallway. They were quiet - of course they were - but you recognize them anyway. Measured and controlled in the way that let you know she was letting you hear her approach.
Your heart picked up instantly.
Which was very stupid. It was just her.
Just Natasha.
The footsteps stopped right behind you.
You did not turn around right away, but you did not even know why. Maybe because if you did, this became real - that aching missing feeling whenever she was not near you. The words that had been sitting in your chest for weeks now, building and building and building until it felt like they were going to spill out whether you wanted it to or not.
"Your book’s upside down."
You blinked, looking down with a frown.
It was.
"...I knew that." You mutter, flipping it to the side quickly.
There was a soft sound behind you, something between a breath and the ghost of a laugh. You finally turned. And there she was. Clean now, changed too, her hair still slightly damp, falling loose around her shoulders. She was dressed in comfortable clothes, like she had already shed the mission and stepped back into something more... normal.
Her eyes were on you before they flicked to the empty mugs sprawled on the small table in front of you, eyebrows raising faintly.
"You’ve been sitting here for a while." She noted.
You shrugged, aiming for casualness to buy yourself more time on your emotions.
"Yeah. It’s a couch. That’s kind of what they’re for."
"Mhm." Natasha did not move closer, did not sit down next to you despite the empty place, she simply stood there, watching you. Like she was trying to figure something out.
You shifted slightly under the weight of it.
"What?"
"You’re weird again." Natasha tilted her head just a fraction.
Your eyebrows shot up.
"What!? Me? I’m not weird. What do you mean?"
"Yeah, you are," she replied simply with a scoff, like it was painfully obvious. "You keep almost saying something for weeks now."
Your stomach dropped, colors draining from your face.
Oh.
Oh, God, no.
You let out a short, awkward laugh, shaking your head.
"I don’t... what are you talking about?"
Natasha did not seem to buy it, not even a little, as she arched an unimpressed eyebrow in your direction.
"I’ve seen you do it," she continued, stepping a little closer now, her voice quieter but more certain. "You can’t lie to me, you know?"
You looked away, suddenly very interested in a nonexistent wrinkle in the blanket.
"I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re imagining things."
"I’m not."
"You might be."
"I’m not." She repeated, a little firmer this time.
You huffed a breath, rubbing the back of your book that laid on your side, upside down.
"Okay, even if I were, hypothetically, almost saying something... it’s probably not even important."
Natasha stepped closer, close enough now that you could feel the shift in the air between you as she leaned into your space.
"It is, though." She said, lips twitching.
You shook your head, letting out a chuckle.
"Nat-"
"Come on, just say it." The words landed softly, like a request. But solid with no room to dodge, no room to deflect anymore.
You swallowed hard, your pulse picking up again.
"This is a bad idea." You muttered, mostly to yourself, looking up at her with almost pleading eyes.
"Why?" She frowned.
Because you might ruin everything.
Because she might not say it back.
Because what you have right now is good and safe and enough-
"Because..." You started, before stopping. You held your breath, expecting... something. But Natasha did not move. She did not push. She just waited. And somehow, that was worse.
"You’re not gonna let this go, are you?" You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair in a nervous movement.
"No."
Of course not.
You glanced up at her, she was closer than you realized. Her expression was not guarded, not like it usually would be with... anyone else. Anyone else but you. There was something open there, she let you see it, decipher it like it was yours to. She was curious. Maybe even a little cautious. Like she knew this mattered.
Your chest tightened.
God.
This was it then. This was the moment you had been avoiding for weeks.
You were sure you could still back out. Say something else, make a joke, deflect, kiss her until you were both too distracted to remember the discussion at hand. You had done it before. You could do it again.
But you looked at her now.
At the way she was standing there, waiting. At the way she was clearly not letting it go this time. At the way she came to you without any mask on.
The faint dampness still lingering in her hair, the patience in her eyes, the way she had not pushed you once - just waited, as if she trusted you to get there eventually.
And God.
Maybe that was what finally did it, because something in your chest just settled.
You exhaled slowly. Because the truth was the truth. The truth was painful to hold in. The truth was choking you alive. Perhaps it was killing you more to keep it in than scream it at her. Because the truth was the truth and it was inevitable - even though you tried to run away from it. It would always come back to here and now, it would always come back to her.
"I love you." The words left your mouth in an exhale before you could stop them, like they almost did too many times to count before.
You froze immediately as your brain caught up, your heart slamming hard against your ribs, every instinct screaming at you to take it back, to say something else. Anything.
But Natasha just... looked at you.
And for a split second, panic spiked, until a faint breath escaped her.
"Oh."
You blinked, your entire body went tense. The sound was not disappointed, it did not sound uncertain either. If anything, it sounded fond. Almost helpless.
And you were fucking lost.
"Oh?" You echoed, suddenly very aware of how exposed you were right now despite the blanket covering your clothes. "That’s-well, okay. Cool. Good. Great response. I-I actually really love that for me," you started to ramble, because of course you were - already half-turning away like maybe you could just physically remove yourself from the situation. "I mean, not that you have to say anything back, because you don’t. I just, well, clearly picked a great time to-"
"No, no, I just... was expecting something else," Natasha replied, lips twitching. "I mean, I already knew that."
You stopped before fully turning back now, elbows planted on the back of the couch as you caught up with her words.
"...What?"
Natasha smirked, something softer in her eyes now.
"I know." She repeated, like she knew you needed to hear the words again.
"You know, what? You knew? Since when?"
"A while." She shrugged slightly, pinching her lips together to hold the laugh in.
"A while?" You repeated, incredulous. "Natasha, I’ve been internally losing my fucking mind over this for weeks, actual weeks-"
"Yeah, I noticed." She scoffed, reaching for one of your hands.
"-and you just knew!?"
"Well, yes. I knew you loved me."
You stared at her.
Because that was... That was so unbelievably her.
"Oh my God, you are actually unbelievable." You muttered, dragging your free hand down your face.
There was a faint flicker of amusement at the corner of her mouth as she stepped closer, fingers brushing hair away from your eyes so she could look into them.
"I love you too, by the way," she shrugged, lips twitching into a smirk. "In case you didn’t know."
You stared up at her, breath half caught in your throat. She loved you.
Of course she did.
The evidence had been everywhere.
You had just been too terrified to trust it.
"...You do?" You asked, because apparently your brain had fully stopped functioning as needed to hear things more than one time.
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"I just said that, didn’t I?"
"Yeah, I know, I just-" You let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking your head. "You could’ve, I don’t know, mentioned that before I spent months spiraling over it."
She tilted her head slightly, narrowing her eyes.
"Well, you could’ve said it sooner.”
You stared at her, lips parted.
"...You’re really turning this around on me right now?"
"Mhm hm."
You huffed out another laugh, softer this time, something in your chest finally loosening after weeks of tension as she leaned in enough to press her smile against yours.
A.N.: Damn, can't stop with the hurt/comfort, huh?
The training room was loud with the sounds of bodies hitting mats, instructors barking corrections, and recruits laughing nervously whenever someone messed up a technique.
You stood among them in your black S.H.I.E.L.D. training gear, arms folded tightly across your chest.
"Today we're covering chokehold escapes," Natasha Romanoff announced from the centre of the room.
The room immediately quieted.
Natasha had a way of doing that.
She walked slowly between the pairs of recruits.
"An attacker doesn't need to be stronger than you. They just need you to panic. Your job is to stay calm and create an opening."
You swallowed.
Stay calm.
Easy for everyone else.
"Partner up."
You were paired with Ethan, another recruit who had joined a few months before you.
He was nice enough.
Never pushed people.
Never made fun of mistakes.
Natasha demonstrated the technique on one of the senior agents.
Hands on the throat.
Break the grip.
Step off-line.
Counter.
Simple.
At least on paper.
"Practice."
Around the room, everyone began working.
Ethan lifted his hands toward your neck.
Immediately, your stomach twisted.
"No—"
The word slipped out before you could stop it.
He blinked. "What?"
You forced a smile.
"Could you put your hands on my shoulders instead?"
"Oh."
He shrugged.
"Yeah, that's fine."
"Thanks."
You gave him a grateful half-smile, though your hands were already trembling.
For the next several minutes, you tried to follow the technique.
You weren't getting it.
Your timing was wrong, and so was your footwork.
Everything felt wrong.
"Again," Ethan said patiently.
You tried.
Failed.
Again.
Failed.
Then a familiar voice appeared beside you.
"You're dropping your centre of gravity too late."
Your stomach sank.
Natasha.
She stepped beside Ethan.
"Move."
Ethan immediately backed away, and Natasha took his place.
Your heartbeat accelerated.
"It's easier to understand when you can feel the correct pressure," she explained.
Before you could answer—
Her hands wrapped around your throat.
Firm.
Controlled.
Professional.
Not painful.
Not dangerous.
But—
Your lungs forgot how to work.
The room disappeared.
Suddenly you weren't in a S.H.I.E.L.D. training room anymore.
You were smaller.
You were trapped.
You were scared.
Your vision blurred.
"No."
Natasha opened her mouth to explain the technique.
"No."
The word came out broken.
Your eyes flooded instantly.
"No no no no—"
You shook your head violently.
Trying to back away.
Trying to escape.
Trying to get away from the hands around your throat.
Natasha's eyes widened.
The concern was immediate.
She released you so quickly it was as if she'd been burned.
"Hey."
"No no no—"
Your breathing shattered.
Every breath came too fast.
Too shallow.
The room spun.
"Hey."
Natasha's voice was softer now.
"What happened?"
A sob tore from your chest.
You couldn't answer.
Couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
The other recruits had stopped training.
Everyone was staring.
The attention only made it worse.
Your knees nearly gave out.
Natasha reacted immediately.
One arm wrapped carefully around your waist.
Not restrictive.
Not trapping.
Just steady.
"Let's go."
You barely heard her.
She guided you toward the door.
Nobody said a word as she led you out.
-///-
The hallway was quieter.
Cooler.
But the panic followed you.
By the time Natasha got you to a bench against the wall, your entire body was shaking.
You sat down hard.
Your hands immediately flew to your throat, rubbing at the skin, and trying to erase the sensation.
Trying to remove hands that weren't there.
Natasha crouched in front of you, far enough away to avoid crowding you.
Yet close enough that you knew she wasn't leaving.
"Look at me."
You couldn't.
Another sob escaped.
"Hey."
Her voice remained steady.
"It’s okay."
Your chest heaved.
Nothing felt okay.
Nothing.
"I need you to breathe with me."
You shook your head.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
The certainty in her voice cut through the panic.
"In."
She demonstrated.
Slowly.
You tried and failed.
Tried again.
A little better.
"Good."
Another breath.
And another.
And another.
Minutes passed before the worst of it finally loosened its grip.
Your hands still trembled, but at least you could breathe again.
Natasha remained crouched beside you.
Waiting patiently.
When she finally spoke, her voice was gentle.
"What happened in there?"
You stared at the floor.
Silence stretched between you.
You knew she wasn't going to force an answer, which somehow made it harder.
A fresh tear slipped down your cheek.
"My dad—"
The words broke apart.
You couldn't continue, and you didn't need to, because Natasha understood immediately.
You saw it happen.
The realization.
The horror.
Then something else.
Anger.
Sharp and cold.
Not directed at you.
At him.
Whoever he was.
Whatever he'd done.
Her jaw tightened.
But when she spoke, her voice remained calm.
"I see."
A sob escaped you.
Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward.
Natasha opened her arms with a slight hesitation, not really used to comforting young recruits.
You buried your face against her shoulder anyway.
For a moment, she simply held you.
One hand resting gently on the back of your head.
No questions.
No pressure.
Just safety.
After several long breaths, your shaking finally began to ease.
"You know," Natasha tried quietly, "you didn't do anything wrong."
You swallowed hard.
"It was embarrassing."
"It wasn't."
You looked down.
"The whole class saw."
"Then they saw someone have a trauma response."
Her tone was matter-of-fact.
"Nothing to be ashamed of."
You wiped your eyes.
Natasha studied you for a moment.
"If you decide to continue today—"
She gave a small smile.
"—that's incredibly brave."
Your throat tightened.
Not from fear this time.
You nodded.
"I want to."
"Good."
Natasha stood and offered her hand.
You took it.
The shaking hadn't completely stopped, your legs still felt weak, but you followed her back toward the training room.
When the class resumed, Natasha quietly excused you from the chokehold exercises.
Instead, you sat against the wall with a bottle of water while the others practiced.
Every so often, she glanced your way.
Making sure you were okay.
Making sure you were still breathing.
Still grounded.
Still here.
And for the first time since walking into training that morning, you felt like maybe you were.
When the lesson finally ended, Natasha approached you again.
The room was emptying around you.
"You stayed."
You looked down at your hands.
"Yeah."
A small smile appeared on her face.
Not the intimidating smile the infamous Black Widow gave enemies.
A real one.
Warm.
Proud.
"Good work, recruit."
You gave her a short smile, not meeting her eyes.
"You still want to learn the escape?" she asked.
You hesitated, because a part of you wanted to say no, part of you wanted to avoid it completely.
But another part—the stubborn part that had gotten you through S.H.I.E.L.D. training in the first place—wanted to prove you could do it.
You nodded. "I do."
Natasha gave a small approving nod.
"Good."
She led you out on the now empty mat.
"No neck contact."
The relief that flooded through you was immediate.
"We'll adapt it. Every technique can be modified while you're learning, y/n."
You hadn't expected that answer.
For some reason, it made your chest feel warm.
Natasha stepped in front of you.
"I'm going to place my hands on your shoulders instead."
You nodded.
Slowly, giving you plenty of warning, she rested her hands there.
Not grabbing.
Just enough pressure to simulate the positioning.
Your muscles tensed automatically.
Natasha noticed.
"Look at me."
You did.
"You okay?"
After a moment, you nodded.
"Yeah."
"Good."
She waited another second before continuing.
"Now."
She shifted slightly.
"Break the line of force."
You attempted the movement.
It was so clumsy you nearly stepped on your own foot.
Natasha caught your arm before you lost balance.
"Not bad."
You blinked.
"Really?"
"No."
The deadpan answer made you stare.
Then she smirked.
"That one was terrible."
You groaned.
Natasha actually laughed, a real laugh for once.
Not the one she put on when a recruit tried to tell her a joke to impress her.
The sound surprised you so much that you forgot to be nervous for a second.
"But," she continued, "you moved."
You straightened.
"Again."
This time you focused.
Hands on shoulders.
Pivot.
Break contact.
Step out.
You almost got it.
"Closer."
Again.
And again.
And again.
Every repetition felt a little easier.
The panic wasn't gone.
But it wasn't controlling you anymore.
Natasha adjusted your stance.
Moved your foot a few inches.
Shifted your shoulder.
"There."
You repeated the motion.
Everything clicked.
The angle.
The balance.
The timing.
You slipped out of the hold smoothly.
Natasha's eyebrows lifted.
"Well done."
Heat immediately rushed to your face.
You looked away.
"Oh."
The praise felt strangely overwhelming.
Natasha noticed the blush instantly.
"You embarrassed by compliments?"
"No."
The answer came much too fast.
Her expression turned suspicious.
"You are."
"I'm not."
"You absolutely are."
You groaned again.
Natasha crossed her arms, a small smile lingering on her face.
"Interesting."
"Please stop talking."
"No."
You covered your face with your hands.
That only made her smile widen.
The terrifying Black Widow was apparently finding this funny.
Unfair.
Very unfair.
"Again," she said.
You dropped your hands.
Tried the technique once more.
Perfect.
Natasha nodded immediately.
"There it is."
You couldn't stop the smile that appeared.
For the first time all day, you felt proud instead of scared.
Natasha noticed that too.
"You know what I'm impressed by?"
You looked up.
"What?"
"Most recruits would have quit after what happened earlier."
The room seemed quieter suddenly.
"You didn't."
You swallowed.
Natasha's expression softened.
"You came back."
Something in her voice made your eyes sting.
Not with panic.
Just emotion.
"You kept trying." She folded her arms. "And now you're getting it."
Your face heated all over again.
"Stop."
"No."
The answer was immediate.
A faint smile appeared on her face.
"You should be more proud of yourself."
Nobody had ever said things like that to you before.
Not without expecting something in return.
Not without mocking you afterward.
So you didn't know what to do with the words.
You just stood there awkwardly, staring at the floor while your cheeks burned.
Natasha seemed to understand.
She didn't push.
She simply nodded toward the mat.
"One more time."
You took your position.
This time, when you escaped the hold, it was smooth and fast.
Confident even.
Natasha's smile was small but unmistakably proud.
"There you go."
And somehow, that simple sentence made you stand a little taller than before.
You kept practicing for what felt like both 5 minutes and an hour.
"I think it’s enough for now."
You nodded, your breathing uneven.
She handed you your water and walked out, you followed her.
You followed her down the hallway toward the locker rooms.
Your muscles ached.
Your head felt heavy.
But compared to earlier, you felt steadier.
"Good work today," Natasha said as the two of you walked.
You glanced at her.
"Even with... everything?"
"Especially with everything."
Heat crept into your cheeks again.
A faint smile touched her lips.
"So," she said casually, "someone picking you up?"
You nodded.
"Yeah."
A few more steps.
"My dad."
Natasha stopped walking.
Immediately.
You took another step before realizing she wasn't beside you anymore.
Turning, you found her staring at you.
Her expression had gone completely still.
Not cold.
Just focused.
You knew that look by now.
The one she got when something suddenly became important.
She reached out and gently caught your wrist.
Not tightly.
Just enough to stop you from continuing down the hall.
You froze.
Your breathing started speeding up before you even understood why.
Natasha noticed instantly.
"Hey."
Her thumb moved slowly against your wrist.
Back and forth.
Grounding.
Steady.
Your eyes dropped to the motion.
It helped.
A little.
Enough to keep the panic from spiralling.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer than you'd ever heard it.
"Do you feel safe with him?"
The question hit harder than you expected.
You looked up.
Met her eyes.
Searching for something.
Permission, maybe.
Or reassurance.
Or a reason not to answer.
Natasha didn't pressure you.
She simply waited.
You swallowed.
"I..."
The words stuck.
Her thumb continued its slow movement against your wrist.
You took a shaky breath.
"I don't know."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then Natasha nodded once.
Like she'd expected that answer.
Like she understood how difficult it had been to say.
"Okay."
The simple acceptance loosened something in your chest.
The two of you resumed walking.
More slowly this time.
By the time you reached the locker room, the conversation hadn't ended.
It had only become quieter.
More careful.
You changed into lighter clothes while Natasha sat on a nearby bench, giving you space.
"Your dad used to grab your throat?" She asked directly, no hesitation.
You stared at the floor.
"...Sometimes."
Silence.
"Only when he was angry?"
You hesitated.
"Mostly."
Natasha's jaw tightened.
You noticed.
"So not always."
"No."
You pulled your hoodie over your head.
"He never..." You swallowed. "He never left marks or anything."
Natasha didn't react the way you expected.
She didn't seem relieved.
She just listened.
"Do you feel nervous when he's around?"
You laughed softly.
A sad sound.
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
You sat down beside your locker.
"Most of the time."
Your eyes met hers as another silence came over you.
"What happens when he's angry?"
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve.
"He yells."
Natasha nodded.
"And?"
Your shoulders drew inward.
"He gets really close."
The thread snapped.
You stared at it.
"...I never know what's going to happen."
The room became very quiet.
Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees.
"That sounds exhausting."
Nobody had ever described it that way before.
But she was right.
It was exhausting.
Always watching.
Always guessing.
Always trying not to make a mistake.
You looked away quickly.
For some reason, your eyes burned.
"It's fine."
"No."
Her answer was immediate.
You glanced at her.
"It isn't."
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
"Does your mom know?"
You bit the inside of your cheek as you pushed your workout clothes into your bag.
"Don’t have one."
Natasha took a deep breath, cursing under her breath as you zipped your bag up and slung it over your shoulder.
Then Natasha stood.
"Come on."
The two of you headed outside.
The evening air was cool.
Cars occasionally passed the facility entrance.
You sat together on a wooden bench near the pickup area.
Waiting.
The conversation drifted to easier topics after that.
Training.
Classes.
A story about one of Natasha's former recruits accidentally handcuffing himself to a chair.
You actually laughed.
The sound surprised both of you.
Then familiar headlights appeared at the end of the drive.
Your stomach immediately dropped.
Natasha noticed.
Of course she did.
The car rolled closer.
Stopped.
The passenger door unlocked.
For several seconds, Natasha said nothing.
She simply watched your dad through the windshield.
Her expression was unreadable.
Her eyes following every movement.
The way he sat.
The way he looked toward you.
The way your shoulders instinctively tensed.
Her jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
Then she forced a polite smile.
The kind adults wore when they were trying very hard not to show what they were thinking.
She turned toward you.
"Hey."
You looked at her.
Her expression softened immediately.
"If you need anything—"
She reached into her pocket and handed you a small card.
"Here is my number."
You nodded quickly.
"Anything at all."
Her gaze held yours.
Making sure you understood.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
Before you could think about it too much, you stepped forward and hugged her.
Natasha froze, and for half a second she seemed completely caught off guard.
Then one arm came around your shoulders.
Awkward at first, like she wasn't used to it.
But warm.
Steady.
Safe.
You closed your eyes briefly.
"Thank you."
Her grip tightened slightly.
"Take care of yourself, y/n."
You pulled away.
Nodded.
Then headed toward the car.
As you opened the passenger door, you glanced back once.
Natasha was still standing exactly where you'd left her.
Arms crossed.
Watching.
Not in the way instructors watched recruits.
Not in the way strangers watched strangers.
In the way someone watched when they were making a silent promise.
The kind that said:
I'm paying attention.
And you're not alone.
You climbed into the car.
The door shut.
And even as the vehicle pulled away, Natasha remained standing there, eyes fixed on the taillights until they disappeared into the evening darkness.
Your cheating ex is getting married to her new girlfriend, and you're invited to the wedding! Your first impulse is to send the e-vite straight to spam, but your coworker has a different idea...
vi x reader, fake dating AU. 2.4k
The night air is cold, even through your shawl. You tug it in closer, to no avail. You could go inside. But instead, you stare up at the sky. There are no stars, there never are in the city. The moon is beautiful, though.
“Are you cold?” someone asks from behind you. You turn. It’s your date for the night. Vi. She’s leaned up against the doorframe, suave and unbothered. She’s played her role perfectly tonight. You? Not so much. The reception isn’t even over and you’re hiding out.
Vi slides the door shut behind her, and you turn back to the sky.
“Do you want to go home?” she asks. Her voice is soft and warm, and you want to wrap yourself up in it, in her. Which is the problem.
When she offered to be your date to your ex’s wedding, you had turned her down. You weren’t even planning on going. You deleted the invitation as soon as you got it.
But Vi had been persistent, had hatched a plan between shifts. She would pretend to be your girlfriend to show everyone you had moved on, that what Bianca did hadn’t broken you. And eventually you agreed. A few strategically posted Instagram stories later, and she showed up at your front door, dressed to kill (or at least break some hearts), and ready to take you to the wedding of the woman who had shattered you.
Vi ambles closer to you and wraps one arm around your waist. The door behind you is glass, and you can practically feel the gaze of curious wedding-goers burning hot against your back. They’d been gawking all night. Because of that, and only because of that, you nestle in closer. She’s warm and solid against you, finally some relief from the bitter chill.
“No,” you answer her question finally. “I’m fine.”
She laughs. “That’s why you’ve been hiding?”
You bristle at that. “I’m not hiding. I’m taking a smoke break.”
There was no cigarette in sight. That was a joke between the two of you. Vi was quitting, but still insisted on taking her smoke break every hour. “It gives me time to think,” she would say.
“Ah, I see.” Vi nods sagely. “Well, I think it might be time to go back into the party.”
You groan and bury your face in her shoulder. “Don’t say that.”
“Another hour and we can leave,” she promises. She tilts your face up to look at her. “You look beautiful.”
Your face burns hot despite the cold. “You said that already.”
“And it’s still true.” She grabs the door for you, and you murmur a thanks as you step through. Things like that come easy for Vi. Holding open doors, compliments, tender embraces. You know life has never been kind to her, but somehow some part of her has managed to stay soft. It makes you feel better about your own mushy center.
Stepping back in from the balcony feels like being transported into another world. The city outside is grey, painted blue by the moonlight. Everything inside is white, beige, cream, accented by the gold of dangling chandeliers. You always knew Bianca’s family had money, one of the many points of conflict between the two of you, but not like this.
“It’s too much, right?” Vi whispers next to you, close enough you feel the words more than hear them. “The decorations? It’s tacky.”
You smile and nod, but there’s a pit in your stomach. Eight months ago, you would have killed for this to be your tacky wedding. Instead, you found your girlfriend, the love of your life, tangled up with her coworker in your bed. And so, you had to completely restart your life. Everything was tainted with traces of her. Your apartment, your shared friends.
The only thing that’s stayed the same since then was Vi, your coworker at The Last Drop. Nothing had changed between the two of you. Until now.
Vi takes your hand in hers brings it up to her lips. The gesture shocks and thrills you. It’s too much, too over the top in its affection. You should tell her to dial it back, tell her that she’s overdoing it. Bianca never did things like that. But you can’t quite bring yourself to stop her.
“Let’s dance,” she says.
It’s not a request. She drags you after her onto the floor. The song is slow, so she pulls you in close, positioning you like a rag doll. She sways the two of you to the beat; she’s got an alright sense of rhythm. The music is gentle and hypnotic. You want to rest your head on her shoulder, to melt into her. You stay upright though, and smile when her eyes meet yours. You feel lighter.
Vi has that effect on you. That’s why you were hiding. Not Bianca.
Because you told yourself were done with all of this – with dating, with relationships. But when Vi smiled at you, or held you in her arms, it was too easy to forget why that was the case. Vi seemed different, but you never guessed Bianca would have done what she did. It wasn’t worth the heartache.
And that’s your mantra as Vi pulls you in closer. What you tell yourself as you succumb to her gravitational pull and bury your face in the crook of her neck. The song ends, and you pull back. The spell isn’t broken. You still feel warm and gooey, melted through.
You don’t go back to your seats. You dance through three more songs, one slow and two more up tempo. During the last song, Vi spins you so fast you the room blurs, and you can’t help but laugh. You know people are staring, that the two of you are making a scene. You can’t help it.
Then it’s time to say goodbyes. This is the moment you had been dreading.
“We can just leave,” Vi suggests, face close to yours. The whole dinner she had been in your space. Hand on yours. Arm wrapped around you. Anchoring you.
“We have to,” you say, stomach tight. It was why you came.
You wait in line, Vi’s hand in yours. She squeezes, once, and shoots you a tight nod. “Moment of truth,” she whispers. You smile back with a confidence you don’t feel.
When you finally reach Bianca, you almost bolt. The last time you saw her you were telling her to rot in hell.
She smiles when she sees you, but you’re not sure it reaches her eyes.
She hugs you, and your skin burns where she touches you.
“I didn’t think you would show,” she says, when she finally pulls away. Her hands stay on you, rubbing wide circles on your upper arms.
“Then why send the invite?” Vi asks. Her tone is clipped.
Bianca doesn’t answer, and instead asks you, “And who is this?” Like she didn’t already know.
Moment of truth, like Vi said. “This is Vi. My girlfriend.”
Bianca’s eyebrows twitch, slightly. Her hands fall to her side. Then she schools her expression. “Am I allowed to say you moved on fast?”
Vi answers for you. “No.”
Bianca laughs amicably. “I guess that’s fair.”
It’s so warm in here. You miss the cool night air.
“But it seems you were wrong,” she continues. “Jess and I are the real deal.” A petty reference to one of the many things you had screamed at her that night - that she and Jess would never make it because Bianca was a heartless monster.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Vi asks, hand on the small of your waist.
“Nothing,” you say.
“Inside joke,” Bianca says, with a wink. Your face heats hotter still. You wonder if everyone else can hear your conversation, if they’re silently judging you. Pitying you. You wonder whose side everyone is on. Is it even possible that it’s yours? After all, they showed up tonight.
“We should go,” Vi says, looking at you, concern clear on your face. You can’t bring yourself to wish that she was better at hiding her emotions. You like that it’s all out there, that she’s an open book.
“Yeah,” you reply, voice small. You turn to Bianca. “It was good to see you.”
Bianca smiles, eyes crinkling this time. You wonder if that means you lost. “You too.”
She looks like she wants another hug, but you turn before she can reach for you. Vi’s hand is firm on your back, guiding you to the door.
Before you leave, she stops you. “She’s watching,” she says. You know who she’s talking about. “I’m gonna kiss you, okay?”
You nod, palms wet. Vi leans in, and suddenly it’s all too real. And you consider stopping her, just for a second. It’s too late though. If you do, everyone will catch on that it’s fake. Or they’ll think you’re fighting because of her. So, you let Vi’s kiss you.
She’s a good kisser. Lips soft, with a firm hand on your jaw guiding you. If you weren’t floating in outer space, looking down at your own body, you probably would enjoy it. When she pulls away, she rests her forehead on yours. “I think she saw that.”
That jars you back to reality. You remember where you are, that people were watching at all. It had just been so long since you had been kissed, you tell yourself. It was confusing you.
“Let’s go,” you beg.
She rubs her thumb over the apple of your cheek. “Sure thing. Walk slow”
In the car, it takes everything in you not to cry.
“She was such a bitch,” Vi says.
She was. And the crazy thing was, until you had to talk to her you were actually having a good night. The best.
“You hungry?” Vi asks. You hadn’t touched your food all night – you hadn’t thought she noticed, though. Before you can answer, she’s punching the address to the closest fast-food place into her beat up android.
You both order way too much food, and Vi pulls into the closest parking spot so you can feast.
Your stomach is getting dangerously close to eating itself, but instead of unwrapping your sandwich you look at Vi, who experiences no such hesitation.
“Why’d you do this?” you ask.
Vi looks bewildered. “You seemed hungry.”
“Not the food.” You shift in your seat. “Why’d you come with me tonight.”
She pauses before answering. The part of you that’s stuck in that bedroom with Bianca tells you it’s because she’s concocting some lie. A more generous part, the one that’s taken with the sharp tailoring of her suit jacket and the tussle of her hair, wants to believe she’s shoring up courage to confess. That this was where she would tell you that it was because she wants you, because she’s always wanted you –
“I thought you needed closure,” she answers, finally.
Oh. “You were being a good friend.” You offer a tight smile. It’s a good reason, even if it’s not the one you were hoping for in your heart of hearts.
She tilts her head thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess we are friends, huh?”
You nudge her. “Of course we are. What else would we be?” But your heart is blistering in your chest.
She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Coworkers, obviously.” She grins at the way you roll your eyes and snatches one of your fries out of the bag.
“Hey!” You try to snatch it back, but it’s in her mouth in a blink.
“Too slow,” she says, mouth full. You wrinkle your nose, and she laughs, head thrown back.
You play with your fingers, giving them something to do, so you don’t do something stupid, like reach out for her.
It’s two AM when you leave the parking lot. You don’t want the night to end. You want to invite her up, but you can’t think of an excuse that wouldn’t make your desperation for her obvious.
She walks you to the door, tie loosened, suit jacket abandoned.
You turn back to say something, maybe just goodnight, but Vi beats you to it.
“Can I tell you something?” she asks. Her gaze is piercing, and the focused beam of her attention makes you want to squirm.
Instead, you raise a brow. “Can I stop you?”
“I like you. I think I’ve always had a thing for you. Ever since you started working at the bar.” The words knock the air out of you. You would accuse her of lying, of playing some kind of cruel trick, but she’s so solemn you know she’s telling the truth. “That’s why I wanted you to come to this. I thought maybe it would give you some closure, help you move one. I wasn’t lying” Her eyes go wide, and the earnestness in her gaze makes you want to gobble her up. “But, or also, I guess, I wanted to be there when it happened. Because maybe you would be ready.”
“Ready for what?” you ask, breathless. It’s funny how getting what you want feels a lot like having the wind knocked out of you. Like standing at the edge of a steep cliff, too scared to look down.
She doesn’t answer immediately, instead takes a half step closer to you. You stand your ground. So, she moves closer still. One rough hand curls delicately around the back of your neck. “For this,” she whispers, and her lips are on yours again.
You had thought she was good at this before. It turns out, Vi was better when it the real deal.
She starts to pull away, and you fist your hands into her shirt to keep her where she is. She doesn’t protest, just wraps her other arm around you and pulls you in closer.
Kissing her is a revelation. You can’t for the life of you understand why you had never done it sooner. You would kick yourself, but you’re too thrilled.
You pull away, just a hair, to whisper, “Do you want to come inside?”
Her fingers skim along the edge of your face, kissing your cheeks. “Not tonight, princess.” Your stomach flips at the nickname even as it sinks in disappointment. “Have to take you on a real date first.”
“I don’t mind,” you say, maybe too fast from the way that Vi laughs. There’s nothing mean spirited about it, though. She kisses your cheek. You close your eyes and will time to slow down. It doesn’t.
“Goodnight. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Another brush of your cheek. And then, just like that, she’s headed down the stairs. She throws another look at you before turning the corner, grin rakish and entirely self-satisfied. You can’t bring yourself to be irritated. Your whole body is vibrating with excitement.
Maybe you’ll regret this. Maybe you’ll look back on this night and curse yourself for ever letting someone else in, for letting yourself get hurt all over again.
pairing. young!caitlyn x young!fem!reader
content warning. kinda discrimination with zaunites - 14 years old akward teens with much hidden love - shooting competition, so, use of guns.
author's note. english isn't my first language :) first post!
The first thing you hear is chattering, even before you're out of the car. Must have slept again while going to the competition.
Your parents are from the richest part of Zaun ─ what's still poor in Piltover's eyes ─ so it means you have a chance of a good life.
Even if that costs your mental health.
You hate how you're treated up here. Like you're garbage, a thief who was snuck into the place only the good belong to. But she's not like that.
She. The Caitlyn Kiramman. The girl you've been watching since you were 10, her with her rifle, much better than yours. And she won every single competition against you, ever since you both met at school – she was always better.
As far as she treats you well ─ like a real human, for once in that place ─ you can't help but feel something for her, deep there, hidden. Assuming it's just disappointment because she's better than you, you get out of the car.
“Cait!” You called out, smiling at the blue-haired girl in front of you, holding her so-loved rifle, her family’s emblem on it making it so much fancier than yours, just by being hers. She smiled too, of course – the same smile that made her eyes shine and yours shine even more. Whipped.
Her mother’s hand is still on her shoulder before she storms towards you, catching you in a hug that almost makes you laugh because of how happy she is just by being with you. “I really thought you wouldn't compete today.”
You giggle, feeling that warmth on your cheeks, smiling so big it makes her smile more too. She’s admiring you: the curve of your cheeks, the color of your eyes – it all happens before she can realize what she’s doing, making her smooth that feeling off by fixing her ponytail (that was already perfect). “Mother said I couldn't miss it.” You start, your smile getting smaller as her parents start talking to yours. Tobias was always friendlier to Zaunites than her mother.
“Good! Guess I won't lose my shooting partner!” Caitlyn said, taking your rifle with hers, guiding you to the small room where the event organizers check the rifles. As much as you pretend, you can feel the gaze of her friends on you, judging every piece of your outfit down to your nails. They don't like how close she is to you. “Ignore them...” she whispered, putting herself behind you, to protect you from their gaze.
Your rifle gets checked first, while hers is checked for a maximum of five seconds before it's returned to her with a smile. You can feel her attention on you, though you can also feel her friends come close, distracting her – not from the rifle or the competition, but from you. No matter how much time passes, no matter how much money your parents make.
You’re a Zaunite. Forever.
After the same four hours of competition you're so used to, you end up getting second place – again, but she's first, and you're not jealous. You almost wanted her to win and be better than you.
Before you can show the second-place medal to your parents, you can't help but feel a little sting in your chest from being put in second again – you can be good, or the best. Then why are you still getting only second place, whether Caitlyn Kiramman is there or not? You may know why.
Retreating from the spot where you got your medal, you take your rifle, walking to a separate balcony, just staring at the tall buildings, no green smoke or any smoke in sight. It's pretty, you can say, especially after growing up in Zaun.
Your house isn't in a very fucked-up part. You have sunlight, and not tons of drugs everywhere you look. Still, it's dark there, and all the smoke you must deal with every single day—
“You look distracted.” A voice behind you almost makes you jump. Cait. “You got second place! You deserved first, though.” She smiled, her tooth gap showing.
“I'm happy you got it, seriously.” You start, making space for her to also lean on the railing. Her medal and rifle aren't there anymore, replaced by a single violet, the same ones you saw growing on the doors of the building's gardens, as she fidgets with it.
“I'm sorry for them... back there. They pushed you away when you tried talking with me.” She whispered, looking down at her hands, at the single flower. “And for not talking with you at school.”
Both of you sigh, but you finally look up, your gaze meeting hers. “You're not below anyone because of where you come from. You're a cool person.” Caitlyn whispers, as if it were sacred, just for you two, as she puts the flower in your hand. “I like you – really like you.”
The same warmth on your cheeks from earlier is here again, but now, it comes with a fast thump of your heart. The same happens to her.
After almost five seconds of staring (that felt like a whole minute), you have the courage to press your lips against hers. Not a big kiss, but something real. Getting twice as real when her hand slowly finds yours, kissing you again.
It doesn't last long, as her mother calls her again, seeing you both in this situation. And surprisingly, you can see that she's suppressing a smile.
“Caitlyn, we have a dinner with Jayce.” She said, giving Caitlyn a shake of her hand, waiting for her at the door. She looks at you, then at the small flower in your hand. “Can you find me tomorrow?” She asked, almost leaving. And you can see that pretty smile of hers once you say yes.
SYNOPSIS: Vi never imagined attending her first Pride parade would leave such a mark on her.
WC: 2k | CW: no use of y/n, this is just pure fluff
a/n: this sickly sweet fic is part of the pride & bloom collection! requests are open if you want to hop in and show our girlies some love during this month.
Bass thumps through the pavement beneath your shoes, mixing with bursts of laughter, whistles, and the occasional shout from somewhere up ahead. Rainbow flags flutter between buildings, bright against the summer sky, while crowds pour through the streets in every direction.
Vi shoves her hands in her pockets as she takes in the sight in front of her. She had never been to Pride before. Not because she didn’t want to, but because life kept getting in the way. She was too busy surviving, and that left little room for any sort of celebration, let alone a parade crowded with unapologetically happy people.
Her gaze drifts over the sea of color stretching down the avenue. Couple walking hand in hand, friends dancing to music spilling from speakers, people waving giant rainbow flags and others cheering loudly.
It’s an unfamiliar sight, not because she’d never seen queer people or loved another woman before. But seeing others existing without any fear, without the need to hide or look over their shoulders? It hits deep in her chest.
“It’s pretty impressive, right?”
Your voice finally pulls her back to the present. Vi glances over at you, finding you already watching her instead of the parade.
“Yeah,” a smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “S’cool.”
“You nervous?”
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Please. I’ve survived prison fights.”
The words come easily, the same way they always do whenever she’s trying to brush something off. But you don’t look convinced, not even for one second. Vi fights the urge to fidget under your gaze, really hoping you’ll let it go before you manage to see through her.
The thing is, she is nervous, and she feels ridiculous about it. She’s fought people twice her size, faced down armed enforcers, survived years she never should have survived at all. A crowder parade shouldn’t make her stomach twist itself into knots. Yet, she can’t shake the strange feeling sitting heavy in her chest.
Her eyes drift back to the crowd. To the women holding hands without hesitation, the couples wrapped in pride flags, the older woman laughing just as her wife pulls her into a dance in the middle of the street.
The sight makes her chest ache in a way she doesn’t understand. Not because they’re together or because they look head over heels in love, but because they’re older. Grey hairs, smile lines, years written across their faces.
For so long, Vi had never allowed herself to think that far ahead— life had taught her not to. She’d worried about tomorrow when tomorrow arrived. Anything beyond that felt dangerous, like tempting fate. So, she got used to focus on the next day, the next fight, the next problem around the corner. Thinking about the future had always felt like a luxury meant for somebody else.
But all around her are people who look like they’ve made it. People who found someone and got to keep them to build a life together. The realization settles beneath her ribs, because for the first time, she finds herself wondering what growing old with someone would be like, to stop surviving long enough to actually live.
Before she can dwell on it for too long, you reach for her hand.
“Hey,” your voice is gentler now, thumb brushing against her knuckles. She didn’t even notice how tightly she was clenching her fist. “You okay?”
Vi glances down and stares at your joined hands for a moment. She allows herself to just enjoy the warmth of your fingers wrapped around hers.
She squeezes your hand back. “I’m okay.”
You take a small step closer, your free hand rummaging through bag. A few seconds later, you pull your hand back out, something wrapped around your fingers.
“Here.”
Your fingers brush against her skin as you carefully fasten a bracelet around her wrist. Small beads in shades of orange, white and pink catch the sunlight when you pull back. There’s a tiny charm hanging from it, and Vi lifts her hand to inspect it more closely. Her heart skips a bit as she takes a good look at it— it’s your initial.
“I made ‘em last night,” a shy smile spreads across your face as you lift your own hand. “We’re matching.”
An identical bracelet sits there, except for the small golden V dangling from it.
The matching bands aren’t even fancy, the beads aren’t perfectly aligned, hell— one of them even looks slightly crooked. And somehow, that only makes it better, because you made it for her.
Warmth settles in her chest, pushing against the strange ache that had been living there since you arrived at the parade. Her thumb brushed over the tiny charm, your initial, and a grin spreads across her face before she can stop it.
“It’s the prettiest bracelet I’ve ever owned,” she starts, and there’s a mischievous glint in her eyes when she looks back at you again. “Pretty cheesy, though.”
Your jaw drops. “Cheesy?”
“Very.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” you point accusingly at her wrist. “Take it off then.”
Vi immediately wraps her hand around the bracelet, taking a small step back as she looks at you with an offended expression.
“I’m never taking it off.”
The grin that spreads across your face is impossible to miss.
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of color, music, and laughter.
You drag her from booth to booth, stopping to admire handmade crafts, sample food from street vendors, and buy enough stickers to cover an entire wall. At some point, a volunteer paints a tiny rainbow on Vi’s cheek. She pretends to hate it, but the dozen photos she let you take of her suggest otherwise.
The parade is louder than she expected. Cheers erupt from every corner of the street, music spills from passing floats, strangers dance together as if they’ve known each other their whole lives. Normally, crowds like this would put her on edge and she’d be scanning every exit, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
It’s in those overwhelming moments when her fingers drift to the bracelet wrapped around her wrist. Her thumb brushes over your initial in a small, absentminded gesture. Every time she touches it, the warmth in her chest returns.
For the first time in a long time, Vi finds herself enjoying the moment without worrying about what might go wrong or wondering when it will end. She laughs when you pull her into a dance she swears she doesn’t know, steals bites from your food when you aren’t looking, and lets you take picture after picture, even when she complains about every single one.
And every time she catches the sight of the grin on your face, she finds herself smiling right back.
By the time the sun begins to sink lower in the sky, painting the streets gold, the crowds have started to thin. You walk side by side, your hands brushing occasionally as you make your way away from the parade route.
The day settles comfortably between you with that kind of silence that only exists when you’re with the right person. Vi’s thumb catches on the bracelet again, and you notice. A soft smile takes over your lips as you bump against her shoulder lightly.
“You’ve been playing with that thing all day.”
“It’s my favorite thing in the world,” Vi glances down at the bracelet, smiling with such tenderness it makes your heart ache.
You chuckle at her statement, and the sound makes her heart skip a bit. She looks over her shoulder, watching the last of the festival-goers pass by. The families, the friends, the couples…
She exhales quietly. “I think I get it now.”
You glance at her, eyes slightly furrowed with confusion.
“Get what?”
Vi hesitates because she’s not used to being vulnerable out loud. At least, not in the middle of the street. But she looks back once again, toward the flags still waving in the distance and the people who had spent the entire day celebrating who they were without apology.
A lump forms unexpectedly in her throat.
“Pride.”
Your expression softens, fingers curling around hers as you listen intently.
“I always thought it was just…” She gestures vaguely. “Y’know, music, big party, lots of hot people on the street.”
“And now?” you prompt, eyes never leaving her face.
Vi swallows as she tries to turn her overwhelming train of thought into a coherent sentence. Now she thinks about the older couple dancing in the street, about the countless hands she’d seen intertwined throughout the day, about the future, about belonging… about you.
“Now I see is people getting to be happy,” her grip on your hand tightens softly. “People getting to love who they love and not have to hide it.”
She pauses for a second. Then, a small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.
“And maybe it is about realizing there’s a place for us, too.”
Your eyes fill with so much affection it nearly knocks the breath from her lungs. Before she can mutter anything else, you step closer. Close enough that she can catch the faint scent of sunscreen lingering on your skin, mixed with whatever sweet drink you’d been carrying around all afternoon.
Your hand rises to her cheek, and the rest of the world begins to blur. The tiny rainbow has started to fade, but she still feels your thumb brush across it.
You lean in, your lips finding hers with such tenderness it makes her knees weak. The kiss is slow enough for Vi to feel every part of it— the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers curl against her jaw, the quiet sigh you let out when she leans back into you.
All day she’d been watching people celebrate love without fear, and now she finally gets it. She’s certain that she doesn’t have to earn her place beside you, she doesn’t have to fight for it, she’s allowed to be loved.
You pull back first, only far enough to rest your forehead against hers. Her hands find your automatically, fingers intertwining as the bracelets on your wrist shift with the movement.
Vi opens her eyes and finds you smiling at her, a smile so full of love it makes her chest ache all over again.
“I love you,” you whisper, thumb tracing over her cheek.
The lump returns to her throat, but she doesn’t try to swallow it down now. Instead, she squeezes your hand.
“I love you,” and she means it.
For the first time, the future doesn’t feel frightening. It feels worth looking forward to.
“…you’re a big sap.”
Vi groans immediately, hands grabbing your waist as she lets her head drop backwards. “Oh, c’mon.”
“You got emotional and it almost made me cry,” you grin, pulling her closer. When she glances back at you, she notices your teary eyes.
“I did not get emotional.”
“You should totally do next year’s Pride speech.”
Her face immediately drains of color. “There’s no fucking way.”
You laugh, the sound bright and carefree as you begin pulling her down the street.
“Please! You’d be great.”
“No.”
“You could talk about belonging.”
“No.”
“The future? Or at least give the girls some lesbian sex tips?”
Vi nearly trips over her own feet. “Okay, that’s enough.”
Your laughter only grows louder. She rolls her eyes, but smiles despite herself and lets you guide her down the street. Vi’s fingers brush against the bracelet wrapped around her wrist one last time, your initial catching against her thumb. It’s a small, simple detail, yet it somehow feels like everything.
Maybe Pride is about celebration. Maybe it’s about community. Or maybe it’s about love. But as she looks at you, chuckling beside her with your matching bracelet glinting in the sunlight, Vi thinks it’s also about finding your people, about finding your place.
And finally realizing you were never outside of it. You were just waiting for someone to take your hand and lead you home.
“that’s a good look on you, pup.” vi says, limping towards the bar.
silco might kill you, if he finds out you let her in. he’s going to make it a painful death when he sees all the marks she’s leaving on his floor. right now, you’re as much a dead man as she is. at least to zaun.
“you shouldn’t be here,” you avoid her eyes, knowing it’ll only make it worse. instead you focus on wiping glasses, stacking them behind the counter—
the sweet smell of blood crowds your senses, as her hands find home on either side of you.
you push the rag at her chest, annoyed. “they’re looking for you, violet. and when they find you,” you huff, “with me, who knows what they’ll do.”
“you think i’d let them arrest you?” she says with an uncannily sunny disposition, gently prying the cloth from your hand. “where’d all that faith in me go?”
she really is her father’s daughter. pure of heart, optimistic, and stubborn beyond belief.
the city thinks she’s a criminal. to you, she’s worse. vi left you behind. for a good cause, sure, but it doesn’t change the fact that she left you, playing right into the kingpin’s hands, leaving you heartsick because she wanted to go and play the hapless heroine.
“besides, aren’t you happy to see me alive?”
you may not be showing it, but those missing posters have been rotting away for months, and with the way people have been talking about her—like she’s really gone—you were ready to drink yourself into a stupor over it twenty minutes ago.
as much as you hate to admit it, all that vitriol disappears at the sight of her.
you have, as vander used to call it: tunnel vision, especially when it comes to her. it used to be for powder too, but it’s been years since that one.
a routine of empty prayers, you’ve gotten used to.
“what are you doing here, vi?” you ask, eyeing up the gashes and bruises blossoming up to her jaw.
she sighs, surrendering to the look on your face. “i just… needed some patching up, okay?”
“i had nowhere else to go.” she adds when you seem unconvinced, unaware that your mind’s been made up since you recognized her shadow in the doorway.
it’s a side-step from what you’d usually do, but you hold her face in your hands while you treat her wounds, relenting to the girl you’ve always loved, hoping that this time, your faith won’t outlive its reason.
Chapter Summary: After a weekend that feels like you weren't fully there, it's finally your first day as an intern at Romanoff-Maximoff Global. Will the exhaustion catching up to you win first or will you get fired by the CEO herself before that?
Word Count: 8.7k
Warnings for this Chapter: depersonalization, past psychological trauma
A/N: Longer chapters (7.5k+) after this one are only going to be on AO3. Tumblr changes my format quite a lot and fixing it (especially with this longer chapter) is giving me eye strain 😅 For the longer ones, I'll still do a preview here and tag those that asked. Hopefully this is an okay compromise! Thank you guys for reading!
Series Masterlist
—
Muffled footsteps thud against the ceiling. Low chatter from the basement leaks through the metal vents. In the distance, people shout from one of the fraternity houses nearby. The world outside this room is alive. It’s almost midnight on a Friday. Everyone around your age has exciting plans carrying late into the night, but you lie in your bed, in the dark, alone.
Your tongue drags along the swollen muscle inside your cheek where you drew blood. The wound feels tender, warmer than the rest of your mouth. You press against it, forcing a blunt, radiating pain through your jaw. A condescending huff escapes you, aimed entirely at yourself.
You deserve this pain.
Memories of the interview with Wanda flood your head. You secured the internship, but the achievement feels hollow.
It feels like pity.
An ache wells in your chest, spreading to your throat until it tightens by the second. You grip the rough bedsheets beneath you as tightly as you can, ignoring the lingering pain in your fingers from how hard you squeezed your shirt earlier.
Even through the heavy cloud of exhaustion from the day, shame burns. How could you act like that? How could you let that ugly side of you show?
You release the sheets from your grip, exhaling a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
Stop wavering. Stop complaining. Just be…
“Perfect.”
Your mother’s voice finishes the thought for you.
Silence rings in the air. The vent rattles as the heat kicks on, but it feels like your parents' words are what swirl around the room, chilling the air. Maybe it’s the sheer fatigue of the day, but you can’t wave your hand and push them away tonight. They replay on a loop. Sharp words with jagged edges that tear your skin open, over and over. The strikes come too fast to heal.
You flinch.
Sudden shouting rises from the lower level. The couple downstairs are fighting again. It’s a noise you have grown used to, but tonight your brain stays on high alert, firing on all cylinders despite the exhaustion crushing your limbs.
You just want to sleep.
Lifting your arm, you press your forearm over your eyes as if the extra cover can protect you. But the shield is useless. You’re still trapped in this house.
You still have to go to the coffee shop in the morning. You still have to face your manager, handle the rush, and explain why you need to drop your weekday shifts. You still need to figure out what clothes are passable for a corporate office like Romanoff-Maximoff Global. You still need to calculate your rent, check your draining savings, and ration what to eat.
You still need to…
Pain shoots through your skull. There’s too much. And you have to do it all on your own.
The jagged words, the mistakes from today, and the endless checklist drag your mind into loops with no exit. It’s a carousel of failure that refuses to stop spinning. You squeeze your eyes shut until stars dance behind your lids.
Your hand forms into a tight fist. The air leaking from the vent is supposed to be warm, but your fingers are freezing. You never actually noticed how cold your hands always are.
Not until you felt the contrast of Wanda’s hand holding yours.
You just want to sleep.
—
You open your eyes with a start at the first ring of your alarm. It feels like you only just blinked. Did you sleep? You must have, considering you feel shockingly awake.
Your fingers squeeze into a fist, testing the muscle. The ache from last night is gone. You run your tongue over the bite inside your cheek. The skin is still raised, the deep indents from your teeth still sharp and noticeable, but no matter how hard you press, the pain doesn’t arrive.
Even the usual exhaustion in your limbs is missing. There’s no heavy ache, no weight holding them down, no desperate craving for a caffeine hit to fix your problems.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body moves with an ease you haven't experienced in two years. It’s an unfamiliar sensation. It should feel welcome. Instead, beneath it all, you feel completely numb.
Your feet slide into your slippers. Your body goes to work, moving through your morning routine without your permission.
Brush your teeth. Wash your face. Apply skincare.
You reach for the hairbrush automatically, dragging it through the tangles left by your pillow. Staring into the bathroom mirror, it doesn’t feel like you’re looking at yourself. It feels like you’re miles away, trapped behind a thick wall of glass. Despite the usual bloodshot strain being completely absent from your eyes, they look incredibly distant.
Your head turns away the moment your body deems your hair to be acceptable.
Dressing yourself feels like dressing a mannequin. You pull on your long-sleeve shirt and jeans then tie your sneakers. There’s no warmth in the fabric.
Smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt, your fingers stop over your heart. You press down to remind yourself you have a pulse, before your hand drops away.
You reach for your backpack leaning against the wooden desk. The straps slide over your shoulders. You open the bedroom door.
The hallway is dark as usual, the smell of stale weed lingering in the heavy air. Creaking footsteps echo from the basement stairs. Usually, your chest would tighten at the sound. Your heart would pound, your ears straining for the distinct weight of Matt’s shoes on the wood.
This morning, there’s nothing. No fear. No racing pulse.
Your feet simply carry you past the central staircase with quiet, even steps. You step out onto the porch, the front door clicking shut behind you. The crisp autumn breeze that usually bites at your skin feels like a ghost.
—
The warm lights of the coffee shop blend with the golden sunrise spreading across the floor. Steam from the espresso machine hisses into the air, clouding the shot glasses resting on top of the metal grid. The scent of burnt medium roast and chemical sanitizer from where your coworker scrubs the counter is overwhelming, but your nose barely registers the smell.
Your fingers move rapidly across the touch screen of the cash register. Ring up a large drip coffee. Tap the screen. Process the card. Swipe a paper cup from the stack, write the drink acronym on the side with a black marker, and slide it down the line.
"Next," you call out.
The word falls from your mouth like a pre-recorded audio file. Your voice is steady, polite, and easy.
A customer snaps at you because they forgot to order their latte with oat milk. Usually, your stomach would knot at the harsh tone. You would apologize immediately, your throat tightening as you rushed to fix the mistake even if they were technically wrong. Today, you just nod with understanding.
"We’ll make it again with oat milk."
You walk to the espresso bar and pull the carton from the fridge. Explaining the situation to your coworker feels like watching yourself from a distance. It’s an eerie sensation. The rehearsed voice is the exact same one you used when your parents invited people from church to your home, or when you were dragged to after-school programs.
So this is how people hear you. It’s pleasant. Confident. Soft enough to never sound commanding. It makes sense why your parents wanted you to speak this way. But somehow, it doesn’t sound like you at all.
You continue anyway.
You speak to the next customer. You share a laugh with a regular who always orders a mocha. Your lips curl, stopping exactly at the point where the smile looks just real enough. Even if it doesn’t feel like you—even if you’re just watching yourself follow a program forced into your skin—at least it doesn’t hurt. At least your head isn’t pounding, and it doesn’t feel like gravity is trying to pull you into the ground. At least your arms aren’t shaking just from lifting them. At least your stomach isn’t curling in on itself from the emptiness.
At least it feels like all the stressors in your life don’t exist. Everything is being done for you while you watch from deep inside your mind.
Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for it to stay this way until you graduate university. It would be easier to live in a world completely free of pain and exhaustion.
But would that really be living? The thought forces its way into your cloudy mind before drifting away.
—
The day continues the same way even as the routine shifts.
Your manager at the coffee shop hadn’t exactly been receptive to the sudden change in schedule, but had agreed nonetheless. The tight grip of guilt never comes.
You return home, drop your bag, and change out of your work clothes into a t-shirt and sweatpants. The weekend always brings a different kind of labor. Some weeks it means a long trek to the grocery store to buy discounted frozen meals. Sometimes it means cleaning your room, despite how small the space is. Other times it means scrubbing the communal kitchen or bathroom.
This weekend requires studying and completing assignments.
Dead week starts Monday. Fortunately, the two major assignments due can be turned in online. Completing them now will clear your schedule for the internship, leaving the rest of the week free of classes to study until finals arrive the following week.
Everything after that could be figured out later.
You sit at your desk, bringing out your notebook and laptop and open the first assignment.
—
You close your laptop the second the final assignment uploads. There’s no time to celebrate the small victory. Your body is already moving, changing out of your sweatpants and into a crisp white button-down and black slacks required for your restaurant dinner shift.
The restaurant is a completely different beast than the morning coffee rush, but you navigate the crowded dining room with the same quiet detachment. You balance heavy trays of drinks on icy fingertips. You recite the evening specials with that same pleasant cadence.
When a table sends back their steak because it’s undercooked, you smile. You apologize for the mistake and offer to fix the problem like you’re reading a script. Carrying the plate to the kitchen, you explain the issue to the chef and return to the floor without a single flicker of irritation or fatigue.
Everything happens as though you’re a marionette on stage. Sharing conversation. Forcing laughs. Reciting a rehearsed story. The noise of clinking silverware, the bright glare of the kitchen lights in contrast to the dim dining room, the demanding voices of your tables—it all bounces off you as if you’re made of wood.
You survive Saturday night this way. The amount of sleep you get feels even shorter than the night before, but the harsh effects never strike you.
You survive your shifts on Sunday the same. You perform every task flawlessly, like a ghost floating through life. When you look back at the weekend, it doesn't feel like a memory. It feels like a movie you watched from the back of a dark theater.
It’s easier this way. You could live in this black-and-white movie.
But Sunday night arrives, and the biting air of your room finally registers.
—
You look through your drawers for suitable clothing for tomorrow morning. One of your roommates downstairs has friends over. The sudden spikes of laughter and raised voices feel like background noise to the mission at hand.
The white collared shirt you wore the past two days won’t work. Toward the end of your shift, a coworker accidentally spilled red wine on your right sleeve. The purple-red tinge is far too eye-catching to pass. The long-sleeve shirts you wear to your coffee shop shifts are too informal. Your t-shirts are out of the question—a cheap array of colors and old school shirts from middle and high school.
Your eyes turn to the candleholder on the wall. The spare collared shirt from the interview still hangs there along with the black skirt. It was easy to ignore this weekend. You were able to ignore all the problems looming over you. The deep wrinkles still remain across the left midsection.
Shaking hands. Erratic breathing. Fingers clutching fabric like a lifeline. The metallic taste of blood in your mouth.
Shame burns into your skin, melting into your bones. The interview. Wanda comforting you. Your manager’s disappointed look when you asked to change shifts. The guilt eats at you from the inside out. Suddenly, the room feels far too cold to bear.
You drop to the floor. The freezing wooden floorboards seep through your clothes, biting at your skin where they make contact. Pulling your knees tightly to your chest to conserve heat, you lower your head to your knees.
You blink rapidly in the darkness that you’ve created. It feels like you can’t stand. Your arms lock around your legs tighter, as if you can make yourself even smaller than you are right now.
But it’s impossible. You bring your feet closer to your body and tuck your hands between your knees.
Why is it only getting colder?
Your fingers intertwine with each other, a desperate grip as if to remind yourself that you’re still here, still with yourself. You look down at where the dim room light finds its way past your legs. Your hands are shaking, but it’s not from the cold.
The sound of laughter rings from downstairs again, followed by the sound of your own breathing. It’s coming far too fast. Your chest seizes, tight and suffocating.
Like it did in the bathroom on Friday.
Like it did during your interview with Wanda.
It’s scary. The negative thoughts, the spiral, feeling like you can’t take a breath.
But it never fully culminates.
Your fingers release each other and your arms drop, landing with a blunt thump on both sides of you. Your shoulders that were rigid and pulled up to your ears collapse. Your knees give way, your thighs and calves lying flat across the floorboards.
Only your head remains in place, hanging downward as you look at your shadow across the floorboards.
You flatten your right hand against the wood, forcing yourself upward. Your arm threatens to break under the weight of your racing thoughts and a body that refuses to move quickly. Reaching out, your fingers hover near the wrinkles on the hanging shirt.
Your breath quickens. You turn your head away. It feels like if you touch the fabric, the feelings from that day will return, snapping whatever thin string is holding you together.
The laughter downstairs pricks at your skin.
You take careful steps back to the drawers. Every movement is calculated, silent, as if there’s a monster in your room that you’re desperately trying to hide from. You try to slow your breathing, forcing the air to pass quieter through your teeth than before.
The bottom drawer opens with a hollow scrape.
You never open this drawer. Not once through your two years in community college. Tasteful shirts you wore to church appear beneath the dust. Most are hand-me-downs from your mother. A few she bought specifically to make a statement to the congregation.
Evidence that her daughter is put together. Something for the neighbors to be jealous of. Proof that she’s a better parent than everyone else.
You haven't seen these clothes in a long time, but somehow you know exactly where everything is placed.
Pulling out the top and holding it in front of you, you know it will work for tomorrow. It’s one you were complimented on many times before, though the fabric never actually made you feel good about yourself. The knit is soft against your fingertips.
The black cable-knit polo brings back a flood of memories with its ivory buttons on the front and white accents on the sleeves and bottom hem.
Your mother told you to feel grateful for it. She called it a status symbol. But you never wore it a single time unless she commanded it.
A stray breeze from the vent brushes past, and the faint scent of your mother’s perfume suddenly wafts around you. The fabric has been trapped in a dark drawer for two straight years, yet it still refuses to let you forget. The memory makes your head throb.
She used to spray that perfume everywhere. On her shirt, her neck, the car. Every ride filled the tight cabin with the scent of sharp floral alcohol and the heavy, musky cologne from your father. The combination always made you feel sick.
You close the drawer softly despite the heavy thudding in your head.
Rising from the floor, you force your eyes to the metal hanger on the candleholder. You remove the wrinkled white shirt, crumpling the thin fabric between your fingers before tossing it into your makeshift laundry basket. It lands right on top of the pile.
Carefully, you work the metal hanger through the neck of the black polo before hanging it up. The ivory buttons glint under the dim light of your room. You slide your skirt over the hanger so that it rests atop the shirt, trying to cover it, but the ivory refuses to hide itself.
You shove the wrinkled white shirt further down the pile of dirty clothes. The bits of white still show. Frustration wells in your chest, ready to burst at any moment.
“Only incompetent people lose their cool over simple things.”
Your father’s teaching echoes instantly, killing the anger before it can start. You force a harsh breath out through your nose before your shoulders slump again.
Turning the lights off, you kick off your slippers and lie in your bed. The room plunges into darkness. You stare upward, but the ceiling looks frayed, almost blurry at the edges. Your body feels rigid, the muscles of your arms and legs holding a tight tension you can’t seem to release. The scent of your mother’s perfume swirls in the air, making your thoughts muddled and your chest heavy.
You reach for your phone. The movement is almost painful against your stiff arm. The bright screen burns your eyes, forcing you to squint.
1:05 AM.
The internship starts at 8:00 AM. Waking up at 6:00 AM is the only way to be safe. It takes a full hour from the bus stop to get to the building. If I fall asleep now, at least I’ll get almost five hours of sleep, you calculate. It’s better than the usual four hours you get. You close your eyes, desperately needing the energy for tomorrow.
First day.
The words replay in your head, forcing your eyes to shoot open. You crane your neck to see the clothes hanging on the candleholder. Turning your head, you see your backpack resting against your desk, packed and zipped from earlier. You check the time again.
2:23 AM.
If I sleep now, I’ll get a little under four hours of sleep. You lie your head back against the pillow.
What if Wanda asks a question and you can't answer it? What if you get lightheaded again and trip? What if you make a mistake in front of everyone?
You check the time.
2:51 AM.
Your sister’s unanswered message. Your mother’s shirt. Your father’s harsh words. Your display in front of Wanda. Rent. Tuition. Food. First day.
You check the time.
3:15 AM.
They’re going to know I’m exhausted. If I sleep now…
—
The alarm blares through the room.
You sit up frantically, your hand scrambling across the mattress to find your phone and kill the noise. The alarm is silenced. The room plunges into sudden stillness, but your breaths come fast and shallow.
Checking the volume on the screen, you find it set to the same level as usual. Yet, it feels as though someone cranked the decibels up an additional hundred percent. The bright light of your screen forces your eyelids to close tightly from the pressure mounting.
Your eardrums throb with the phantom echo of the ringtone. Or maybe the pulsing rhythm originates inside your skull. Every single beat sends a wave of nausea directly to your stomach.
A cold sweat rushes over your skin. Your hand flies up to cover your mouth as your stomach violently heaves, but nothing comes up. Maybe you’re lucky that the only thing you consumed yesterday was a few scraps of dry bread during your shift.
That fact doesn’t register with your body. Your mouth waters and acid rises up your throat, forcing you to swallow it down repeatedly.
You swing your legs out of bed once it feels like your stomach has settled slightly. Your hand rests on your chest, pressing your palm down and rubbing side to side as if to coax your heart into a slower rhythm.
A granola bar sits atop your desk. Maybe eating it will make you feel better, you think, reaching a hand out toward it. The sudden thought of the dry texture on your tongue makes your stomach churn again. Your fingers drop away.
You take a single step toward your bedroom door.
Your leg folds completely beneath you, and it takes every ounce of your remaining strength to force your leg straight again. You reach for the brass doorknob, but your fingers swipe through empty air. Looking down at your feet, you realize you're standing entirely too far away.
The floorboards look like they’re vibrating beneath you.
You can do this.
The thought comes slowly, a heavy weight you have to drag directly out of the mud.
The bathroom door closes quietly, but the scrape of old wood against the frame pierces your ears.
Turning on the light, you finally raise your head to take in your appearance. A few sharp blinks force some moisture back into your eyes. Your eyes are bloodshot and puffy, the delicate skin beneath them looking slightly bruised. You can see the effort your body is making just to keep itself upright in front of the glass. Your hair is disheveled, knotted from where your fingers gripped it during those short, fitful bursts of sleep.
Not today.
The thought slams down as you grip the cold porcelain sides of the sink.
Freezing water runs from the faucet. You force your already freezing hands directly into the stream, scrubbing your face repeatedly. Your palms press hard against your skin, rubbing as if the freezing water can wash away the dark circles and the red in your eyes. As if it can erase this far from perfect appearance.
Shame bubbles up as your fingers turn numb. This is your own fault.
The bristles of the hairbrush feel like needles against your scalp with every single pass. Every tug at a knot radiates a sharp, stinging heat across your head. It triggers an unbidden memory—your mother sitting you down in front of a mirror to brush your hair. Her movements only get rougher the moment the bristles hit a tangle, forcing the plastic teeth straight through the knot without warning.
You remember the desperate urge to cry. Yet, the sharp glare your mother would fix on you through the mirror would always force the tears right back down.
Her version of a perfect daughter doesn’t cry.
You turn the handle of the faucet, stopping the stream of water. You press your fingertips against the dark circles under your eyes. You’ll have to cover it with concealer.
—
You stand in front of the outfit you assembled last night. The comfort of your worn sleep t-shirt and sweatpants is forced off of you, leaving you exposed to the room. Your hand shakes as you remove the skirt and polo from the hangers. The skirt slides over your skin easily, though the deep chill of the house instantly creeps up your legs. The polo feels heavy against your fingers.
Sliding the shirt on, the luxurious knit feels scratchy against your sensitive skin and actively drags your shoulders down. You fasten the ivory buttons with clumsy, uncoordinated fingers, smoothing down the collar with a trembling palm. The phantom scent of sickening floral perfume and heavy cologne immediately surrounds you. Your throat constricts, but you force slow, breaths through your nose to keep the nausea back.
Heavy straps from your backpack dig deep into your shoulders. The front door clicks, then slams shut behind you with a deafening thud.
Walking toward the bus stop, you keep your head down as the pavement sways and shakes violently beneath your sneakers.
The low chatter inside the crowded bus hits your ears like physical pressure. It forces you to pull your backpack tightly against your chest, squeezing your eyes shut to block out the sea of faces. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass grounding you for a brief moment.
Then the bus ride begins. The heavy rumble of the engine and the constant friction of the tires against the pavement rattle your jaw, vibrating straight through your skull. Your teeth clench hard into the swollen muscle of your inner cheek.
Not today.
—
The building towers above you. The glass reflects the cold morning sunlight. Immovable and unyielding.
Your steps are labored as you walk up the stone staircase, each forcing a heavy sigh of effort. Your abdomen feels sore from the violent heaving that awaited you right when you woke up. Your thigh trembles as if you’re wearing through the last bit of energy you have.
The glass doors open when you step into range. The familiar synthetic scent of the lobby washes over you as you walk into the luxurious lobby.
You look up at the warm glow of the chandeliers high in the ceiling. The lights blur and sway in your vision. You force your gaze back level at the desks across the lobby. The panic you felt when you first walked into this lobby a few days ago worms its way into your tired mind.
Suddenly, it feels like you’ve been injected by ice. Your eyes widen and the distorted vision you’ve had all day clears. The edges of the room become crisp. The nausea evaporates. The dull, throbbing pressure behind your eyes vanishes, as if a tight band around your head was loosened. Your limbs suddenly feel weightless. The clatter of heels on marble and the low murmur of conversation drop away into distant static.
You feel entirely hollowed out, but perfectly still. Untouchable.
The trembling in your thigh stops. You roll your shoulders back, adjust the strap of your backpack with a steady hand, and take a deep breath. The exhaustion is gone. In its place is a crystal-clear emptiness. It’s different from the weekend where you felt like you were watching yourself from the sidelines.
You’re present.
It feels good.
The instructions from your onboarding email flash through your mind verbatim.
Precise steps carry you across the marble floor to the security desks. Your eyes meet the same receptionist from the day of the interview. You greet her with a warm, measured smile, stating your name and matching the exact check-in protocol given to you.
She blinks at you with wide eyes. Opening a drawer, she slides a black lanyard across the sleek desk.
“The card will be replaced once you get your photo taken,” she says, offering a small smile. “Have a good first day.”
You return the sentiment warmly before turning toward the elevators. The onboarding email directed you straight to the sixtieth floor. Stepping into the elevator, the expensive, clean scent of the air feels entirely different than before. Your head was a chaotic jumble of noise that day. Today, your mind feels remarkably clear.
The floor numbers rise on the digital display.
—
Mark’s familiar face greets you the exact moment the elevator doors slide open. A slight wave of relief washes through your chest that it’s him standing there instead of Wanda.
“Happy first day,” Mark says in his usual monotone voice. “I’ll be your supervisor for the duration of your internship.”
You give him a grateful smile. “Thank you, Mark. It’s good to see a familiar face.”
He gives you a quick glance. “Follow me,” he says, his voice noticeably warmer.
He turns toward a vast array of desks sprawling across the open floor plan. Multiple monitors rest on every desk. Employees sit with their heads bowed, monitoring the market. Thankfully, the space isn't as dim as the fifty-second floor, though it lacks the blinding, sunlit brilliance of the C-suite penthouse. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the perimeter, letting morning light flood the room.
Hushed chatter and quiet whispers cover every square inch of the floor. Employees turn to look at you and Mark as you pass, their gazes brief and entirely uninterested before they drop back to their monitors. You’re at the absolute bottom of the food chain here.
Mark stops at a desk on the far left corner of the floor, right next to a junior analyst.
“This is Eli. It’s his first year as an analyst. When you’re not with me or working on tasks, you can ask him questions before coming to my office.” Eli nods at Mark before offering you a friendly smile. “Nice to meet you…?” Eli prompts.
You give him your name, your voice smooth and polite. Mark points to a structure directly behind your workstation.
“My office is right there. You are to come to my office for instructions every morning.” He turns a sharp look onto you, checking for compliance. “Okay,” you respond lightly.
Mark’s office is barely half the size of Wanda’s penthouse suite. The dark, one-way glass reflects your image right back to you. You look put together. In control.
A rapid tour of the surrounding departments follows. Down in Human Resources, you complete onboarding forms, review corporate policies, and stand against a white backdrop for your official badge photo. The coordinator promises the real badge will arrive by the end of the day. Walking back through the corridors, Mark introduces you to various team members who share brief stories about their own first days.
You smile along, tossing out pleasant laughs at all the right moments. The amusement never reaches your eyes.
Back at your desk, the technical setup begins. You log into the secure servers, configure your corporate email, and map out the specific financial softwares the firm relies on. Mark’s instructions stay sharp in your mind, tracking verbatim. You repeat the data back to him the second he prompts you.
You sit in your chair like a statue. Your shoulders are pulled back, your spine locked ramrod straight. Your eyes stay fixed on the display despite the busy movements around you. Other employees casually stretch their arms upward and twist their necks to relieve tension. You don’t move.
The moment Mark steps away into his private office, your lower lip vanishes between your teeth. You press down, squeezing just until the skin is about to break.
Your fingers slow against the keyboard. The clean, sharp gridlines of the financial software begin to blend together on the dual monitors. You try to blink away the sudden blurriness once, twice—each blink coming slower than the last—but your vision completely refuses to refocus.
Reaching out for your temporary ID badge resting on the desk, your own hand betrays you.
A tremor shakes your fingers when you try to lift the plastic card. To fight it, you dig one of the sharp plastic corners deep into your open palm.
Why? Everything was going so well.
Your hand continues to shake as if taunting you, a reminder that you can’t outrun this exhaustion forever. Goosebumps ripple across your bare arms, forcing you to pull your shoulders even higher to conserve whatever body heat you have left. The hushed chatter that felt like background static earlier now expands, surrounding you entirely.
Eli turns to look at you in your peripheral vision, an unmistakable look of concern crossing his features. Before he can speak, the entire floor goes dead silent.
Eli's head snaps toward the elevators to see what everyone is staring at. Your eyes follow his gaze, forcing your heavy eyelids open against the crushing urge to close them.
Wanda steps into view.
She’s wearing a crisp white blouse and tailored trousers. The outfit is simple, yet her quiet authority remains unmistakable. Her eyes slowly travel across the open floor plan before her sharp gaze locks directly onto yours.
You stare back at her, blinking rapidly in a desperate attempt to combat the growing dryness in your eyes.
Her eyebrows furrow slightly, a tiny movement as if she’s spotted something she dislikes.
You snap your gaze back to your monitors. She thinks this is too much for you already.
Your breaths come too fast, shallow and erratic. Trying to force them into a slower rhythm, you draw a deep breath through your nose. The mistake is instant. The phantom scent of that overwhelming, sickening floral perfume floods your senses all over again, making your jaw clench tight enough to ache. Your stomach twists into a violent knot.
Subconsciously, your hand rises to your hair. Your index finger and thumb drag along individual strands, smoothing them over before patting them down. Nothing on the screen registers anymore.
A light touch against your back suddenly forces your back straight.
The change is immediate. The scent of old perfume and heavy cologne vanishes into thin air. The comforting aroma of summer flowers and memories of warm August nights replace it. Your tight shoulders relax slightly. The air that felt completely frigid just moments earlier seems to rise a few degrees.
“This is unexpected. Did we have a meeting scheduled?” Mark's confused voice comes from directly behind your chair.
“No. I just thought it would be a good idea to visit the analyst floor,” Wanda responds smoothly. Her voice sounds crisp and professional, entirely different from the gentle tone she used during your interview. “It raises morale.”
You sneak a quick glance over your shoulder as they continue to converse. Wanda stands with her arms pulled behind her, the back of her hands resting against her lower back. Yet, the fingertips of her left hand press lightly against your upper back.
She hides the touch behind the long sleeve of her right arm.
She taps her index finger against your spine rhythmically, as if reminding you to turn back around.
Panic flares all over again. Now she thinks this is too much for you and that you can’t even pay attention. Your lower lip finds its way right back between your teeth, your jaw locking tight.
Wanda’s fingers remain steady on your back as the volume of her voice rises slightly, addressing the room.
“Remember to remind everyone that there are snacks on the counters on both sides,” Wanda says nonchalantly to Mark.
Her fingertips drag slowly against your back one last time before she pulls her hand away and walks down the aisle.
The air instantly chills the second her warmth leaves you.
A cautious glance follows Wanda’s path all the way until she enters the elevator. The doors slide shut, allowing you to finally release a heavy sigh. There’s no telling how many warnings Wanda will graciously grant you before you get fired. You don’t have the time to be eating snacks.
Squinting back at the monitors, you flatten your vision as if the forced focus will make the data readable. You try to familiarize your mind with the foreign software. It’s the only task Mark left you with since it’s only your first day, but your fingers stay hovered over the keyboard.
The keys remain untouched. It feels as though your brain is slowing down at a concerning, dangerous rate.
A brief blink turns heavy, your eyelids refusing to lift. The sudden sensation of your head sinking downward feels exactly like succumbing to temptation. Gravity drags you deeper, pulling you down into a dark, empty space of nothingness. Just rest.
Your head snaps up.
Your heart pounds violently against your ribs Your eyes frantically find the bottom corner of the monitor, searching for the digital clock.
It hasn’t even been a minute.
Your breathing slows down after a few moments. You try to tell yourself how stupid you’re being, but your brain rejects the thought. You don’t even have the energy to hate yourself right now.
Your eyelids drop. Your head sinks. You go under again.
Then you snap awake. Heavy, frantic breaths. A racing pulse. Your eyes dart around the room to see if anyone caught you.
The cycle repeats over and over, and you can’t stop it.
A tap on your shoulder breaks the cycle after five minutes.
Turning your head slowly, you find Cindy standing beside your desk. She’s smiling down at you softly. “Hi, it’s good to see you again,” she says quietly, as if she already knows the exact state you are in. “I was asked to bring you up for a meeting.”
Your pulse spikes. You’re getting fired.
“I…” you start weakly, clearing your throat. “I have to familiarize myself with the software. Mark said it’s my task for today.”
Cindy’s soft expression shifts, her mouth curving into a look of quiet sympathy. “Don’t worry about that. This takes precedence.”
Don’t worry because you won’t be coming back to this desk. That’s what she really means. You state the fact to yourself, your chest tightening as you prepare for the end.
Rising from the chair, you grab your backpack and pull the straps over your shoulder.
You slide the lanyard over your head, pulling down on the plastic card. The fabric tightens uncomfortably against the back of your neck. It’ll leave an indent. Cindy watches the entire process with a curious expression, but her soft smile returns the moment your eyes meet.
“Let’s go.”
She beckons you forward, looking back every few paces to ensure you’re keeping up. Your steps wobble beneath you, but you force your weight forward anyway.
The trip up the elevator is quiet and familiar. Relief washes through you that Cindy doesn’t attempt to make conversation. Your brain can’t process words quickly enough right now.
The bright C-suite penthouse floor feels entirely different than before. The sunlight is far too intense, blinding and painful. Your eyes drop to the floor, tracking your own careful steps right behind Cindy’s heels. The path is exactly the same, leading all the way to the right side of the floor.
Cindy stops just short of Wanda’s office door.
She stops at the door right beside it instead. Two sharp knocks echo through the hall before a smooth, raspy voice responds from inside.
“She can come in.”
Cindy opens the door and ushers you through the threshold. The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing entirely alone just inside the executive office.
The rustle of shuffling papers fills the quiet room. Forcing your eyes up toward the sound, piercing green eyes lock directly onto yours.
Beautiful, you think briefly before she speaks up.
“Sit,” she says simply.
She points a manicured finger toward the chair directly in front of her desk. It’s the exact same design from Wanda’s office. Shaky steps carry you across the polished floor. You slip your backpack off your shoulders, resting the bag against the base of the seat.
The leather is soft against your thighs. The material immediately reminds you of Friday's interview. Except the person sitting across from you today is entirely different.
Your eyes naturally gravitate to the nameplate resting proudly on the front of the massive glass desk.
Natasha A. Romanoff. CEO.
You adjust your posture in the chair, sliding forward until you rest right on the edge of the seat. Pulling your shoulders back with effort, your spine straightens completely—as if your mother’s knee is digging straight into the small of your back.
Your hand reaches over to where the sleeve of the polo has folded, uncurling it and smoothing it down before resting your palm over your shoulder. It trembles beneath your touch from the exertion.
The quiet scratching of her pen against a document echoes through the office.
“Wanda spoke very highly of your interview on Friday,” Natasha says, her raspy voice flat and calm.
That’s a lie, you think tiredly.
“Thank you, Ms. Romanoff,” you respond. The soft cadence of your voice falters toward the end of the sentence, a quiet slip that doesn’t go unnoticed by you. You squeeze your shoulder tighter.
Natasha caps her pen and leans back in her chair. Her green eyes lock onto yours, heavy and unblinking. Her gaze drifts briefly down to your shoulder, where you keep your posture rigid and impossibly still.
“However,” Natasha continues, her tone dropping into something noticeably colder. “That doesn’t seem to be reflected today.”
Your throat constricts tightly. Wanda told her. You wet your dry lips before responding, your mind racing for a single acceptable answer that will save you.
“It won’t happen again,” you promise. You force your voice to hold completely steady. “Please. Give me another chance to prove myself.”
The intense sunlight shining into the office forces your eyes to squint slightly. You don’t waver, holding her gaze even as a fresh wave of dizziness threatens to blur the room.
She rises from her chair elegantly, walking around the perimeter of the glass desk.
Stopping directly in front of your seat, she leans her lower back against the edge of the glass. Her frame blocks the sunlight coming in through the windows, casting a shadow over your face. Your eyes can finally open completely. She wears a similar outfit to Wanda, except her tailored blouse is a light blue. The white heels make her look even taller from your position in the chair.
You crane your neck upward to maintain eye contact, desperately clinging to some semblance of competence.
The bright morning light shines right behind her, catching the strands of her hair until it looks like a fiery halo around her head. It would be mesmerizing if you weren’t about to be fired by the CEO herself.
Her lips pull into a thin line as she scans you, as if she's calculating something in her mind. Under her heavy scrutiny, an intense urge to cover yourself and hide away wells up. You know you must look terrible right now.
She lets out an exasperated sigh before walking past your chair.
The scent of your polo that’s been following you all day is instantly replaced by a wave of fresh pine and clean mint. The new aroma clears your mind slightly, though your torso still shakes from the sheer exertion of holding your posture straight.
A sharp, cold sensation presses against the side of your neck, jolting you completely out of your thoughts.
A low huff of laughter sounds from behind you, and a plastic water bottle comes into view in front of your face. She sets the bottle firmly into your free hand before walking back around to rest against the edge of the desk once again.
“Drink,” she says flatly. It doesn’t feel like she’s asking.
Bringing your other hand down from your shoulder, you try to hide the tremor shaking your wrists. Your fingers feel completely weak against the ridges of the bottle cap as you try to twist it. Your fingers slip off from the inadequate pressure.
Don't fail now.
You try a second time, forcing every ounce of your remaining strength straight into your fingertips. A small step sounds on the floorboards right in front of you the exact second the plastic seal finally cracks open.
You look up to see Natasha taking a step back, leaning back against the glass desk casually. She nods at you as if urging you.
The plastic ridges of the opening feel dull against your lips, but the cool sensation of the water moving down your throat is heavenly. You hadn’t realized just how dry your throat actually was.
You stop yourself the second you notice Natasha watching you, your arm lowering the bottle down against your thigh.
“Keep drinking,” she commands bluntly. “I can’t have an employee pass out from dehydration.”
You bring the opening back to your lips, swallowing the rest of the water much slower than before. So it’s just to make sure you're not a liability, you realize while looking down. There’s barely anything left in the plastic container by the time you finish.
“If you continued the way you were on the sixtieth floor, you would have been reprimanded by Mark,” Natasha states sharply once you’re finished. “Maybe even fired on the spot.”
Your eyes drop down to your sneakers, the swaying floorboards finally stopping. “I… I know. I’m sorry,” you apologize weakly. “I’ll do extra work to make up for it. Please. I won’t ask for another chance after this.”
Looking up at her, you try to hold her gaze with pleading eyes.
Her eyes lose their hard edge for a split second before sharpening once again.
“I don’t need you to do extra work,” Natasha says, her voice returning to a cold, businesslike clip. “I need you to do the work you’re assigned, and do it well without finding the material so boring that you fall asleep.”
A sharp breath hitches in your throat. This is it. She’s about to fire you.
“Go back to your desk and finish the task you were assigned.”
She’s already walking around the perimeter of her desk to sit back down in her plush chair when your eyes lift in shock.
Why isn’t she firing you? You literally slept on the job.
You stare at her with disbelief written all over your face.
She meets your eyes languidly, raising an eyebrow. “Are you not going to follow that instruction either?”
Jumping up from the seat, you clumsily slip your backpack over your shoulders. A sudden wave of lightheadedness makes your knees wobble, but you blink away the black dots in your vision. You turn toward the exit, your hand reaching for the handle.
“I won’t waste the chance you’re giving me,” you say, your voice tight but urgent. “I’m sorry again and thank you so much.”
You pull the heavy oak door open and walk out into the bright corridor before you can hear another word.
—
Eli is away from his desk when you arrive back on the floor. Everything remains exactly as you left it, except for a small plastic packet resting right next to your keyboard.
Placing your backpack against the base of the chair, you sit down and pick up the object. The weight feels instantly familiar in your palm. Flipping the packet around, your eyes land on the colorful branding of a fruit snack.
It's the same ones Kate would always carry in her bag at school.
You shake your head despite it feeling like it's throwing your brain around in your skull.
The top corner is already slightly torn, as if someone deliberately pre-cut the plastic to make it easier to open.
The sudden sound of Eli settling back into his rolling chair makes you look up. “Did you give this to me?” you ask, holding the small packet up for him to see.
His eyebrows furrow. “No, that wasn’t me. That definitely wasn’t here earlier.” He offers you a small, easy smile. “Lucky you,” he says, turning his attention back to his monitor.
Staring down at the plastic, you slide your thumb into the pre-torn notch and rip the wrapper open the rest of the way. The cut helps immensely against the waning strength in your fingers. You pop a single strawberry gummy into your mouth, chewing slowly. It tastes familiar
The lingering memory of the warmth in Wanda’s office washes over you. You had been too out of it at the time to look at the packet carefully, but the shapes of the gummies and the fruity flavor are the same.
Your rigid posture finally droops a bit, the tension draining from your spine.
Halfway through the packet, the violent shaking in your hand begins to subside. The sugar works through your system, clearing the thick fog in your mind and easing the painful, hollow ache in your stomach. Though, the exhaustion still hangs heavily over your body, refusing to let go.
“Oh, sweet.” Eli’s voice rings out from beside you. “They put the snack basket closer to us.”
Turning around in your seat, you look at the space between Mark’s office and the neighboring manager’s door. A new table has been placed directly in the center of the walkway. Massive baskets filled with an array of snacks rest proudly atop the wood.
Eli slides out of his chair, grabbing a package of cookies from the basket before turning back to you with a grin. “Lucky us.”
You give him a wide grin back. It’s been a long time since you smiled like this.
Friday was emotionally draining. The weekend was caught somewhere in a blur between a dream and a nightmare, and Sunday night dragged up memories you hoped to keep buried forever. This morning brought a rollercoaster of feeling entirely at your lowest point.
But you made it to the office safely. You didn’t get fired.
Now, the sweet grape flavor of the fruit snack permeates your mouth, chasing away the distant taste of acid.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice holding a quiet trace of wonder. “I guess we are lucky.”
—
The sky holds a deep red-orange hue as the sun sets slowly outside the windows. Only forty-five minutes remain until your workday is officially scheduled to end. A majority of the analysts on the floor have staggered schedules. Many of them left for home an hour ago. Eli was called into a late meeting, leaving you entirely alone at your workstation.
You memorized and navigated the different software systems multiple times, ensuring you can answer any unexpected questions. Your torso leans heavily against the front of the desk. The fruit snack packet you consumed hours ago granted just enough sugar to complete your assigned task today.
Looking around the quiet floor, you log into your university portal and pull up a set of lecture slides. Finals are coming in the blink of an eye. Your eyes scan the text, your hand writing notes in the notebook you brought from home.
Fifteen minutes pass before your hand begins to move slower. Your head drops inch by inch, drawing closer to the surface of the desk.
A cool breeze passes through the walkway. Pulling your arms closer to your chest, you rest your forearms against the wood. Your head follows, resting flat atop your arms.
Just five minutes, you reason with yourself hazily. The assigned work is completely finished, after all.
—
“...wanted her to take care of herself,” a raspy voice sounds faintly through your consciousness like a dream.
“You always wrap your words around spikes. Just admit that you were worried,” a sweet, slightly accented voice follows.
“Says the one who left her a treat without a single word,” bites back the first voice.
“Mmm…” you murmur into your sleeves, fighting weakly through the thick layer of sleepiness.
Silence follows for a moment. Something is gently draped over your shoulders, and the sharp, comforting scent of pine trees and mint instantly surrounds you. The intense warmth lulls your body, dragging you right back to the brink of sleep.
A hand rests lightly on the back of your head. Careful, gentle fingers run through your hair, untangling the knots without a single hint of roughness.
“Sleep a little longer,” the second voice whispers lightly against the dark.
The soft aroma of jasmine mixes perfectly with the pine.
“Okay,” you mumble tiredly. Your consciousness leaves you completely, enveloped by the comforting mixture of scents protecting you from the cold room.
—
A/N: Sorry for how long this chapter is! When I committed to this series I promised myself I wouldn't take any shortcuts when talking about mental health and trauma. And I really wanted to talk about the stuff that often happens after anxiety attacks because it isn't mentioned enough. Like the insomnia even though you're so tired, the dissociation, adrenaline induced clarity, and the crash from not addressing the problem. Hopefully the softness towards the end rounded out the heaviness? :D (Let me know if there are any mistakes, I tried to edit, but there's always a chance I miss something)
I really appreciate your guys' thoughtful comments here on each chapter. I hope the change with the chapters doesn't bother you guys too much 😅
I'm gonna try this one more time and if it doesn't work then oh well
I would like to request Junker Queen(Zeus) with the voice line "Nearly had ya, didn't they?"
Nearly had ya, didn't they?
Words: 274
Prompt list
What was meant to be a quick resupply, quickly flipped into a fight. It was a constant battle, as soon as you managed to push them away another two returned in its place. And after a while your body couldn’t maintain that speed anymore, your arm aching and burning.
At some point you couldn’t raise your sword, which was when she seemed to notice the danger you were now in. Every monster paused as the sky darkened in an instant, the clouds dropping what seemed like an ocean's worth of water pouring onto everything.
Except for you, a clear patch through the clouds allowed you to stay covered in sunshine. But that wasn’t the thing that blinded you, the sudden strikes of lightning did. One allowing for your partner to appear, her arrival granted you enough safety to collapse onto the dry grass.
Without an actual word she charged into the hoard of monsters, causing them to target her now. You had taken to looking up into the sky, overhearing the shouts of everyone, mainly Odessa though.
At some point the sounds had died down before going silent, her footsteps over breaking it. Instead of standing over you like she would to anyone else, she took her place on the grass next to you.
“Nearly had ya, didn’t they?” Not daring to vocally respond, only nodding your head. “Well lucky I arrived on time.”
Her arms reached over to you, wrapping themselves around your chest to pull you closer to her. Placing you onto her lap, with her behind you and the sunshine filling the sky again. There was no better place to sleep.
not because you couldn’t fight. there are a few ways you could slip free, lace the air with that new drug you’ve been perfecting.
not shimmer.
something more dangerous. more addictive…it numbs judgment, clouds fear, makes people second-guess everything.
but something inside you is tired. of everything. of running through the lanes
of zaun.
so when vi grabs your arm in that alley just off the black-market strip, and caitlyn hits your side with a rifle raised like she means it, you don’t bother to run.
"you don’t talk much," vi mutters, hauling you forward.
you don’t speak. you just stare ahead…blank, disinterested.
"you know who this is, right?" vi asks caitlyn as they push you into the armored transport.
caitlyn nods, her expression is smug. "the ‘mistmaker.’ supplier of... whatever it is that’s turning addicts into paranoid zombies."
vi chuckles darkly. "yeah she’s supposed to be real dangerous.”
they don’t notice the slight twitch at the corner of your mouth when they say the name.
mistmaker.
you hate it and who the hell came up with it? sounds like a fucking dc supervillain.
they interrogate you
you sit cuffed at a metal table, light buzzing overhead like it resents your presence.
vi leans back in her chair, boots kicked up, watching you with folded arms.
caitlyn sits more properly. professional. guarded. but her eyes analyzed you again and again like she’s looking for something she doesn’t quite believe is there.
“you’re supposed to be this scary genius,” vi says, frowning. “but you just sat there while we cuffed you doing nothing. no shouting. no fighting. you didn’t even ask to go before the council .”
"don’t need to," you murmur.
it’s the first thing you’ve said since they caught you.
vi glances at caitlyn, brow raised. caitlyn leans forward.
“why did you make the mist then?” her voice is careful yet curious. “it’s not shimmer. it doesn’t make people feral. it... changes them in every way.”
you stare down at your hands, the bruised wrists where the cuffs bite into skin. "it was supposed to help people in the undercity."
vi scoffs. "help who, exactly? the kids wandering around hallucinating in the streets? the merchant who tore his own eyes out because he thought he saw his dead daughter?"
you were silent thinking about how out of control things had gotten. you really didn’t mean any of it but it was too late.
cait’s voice is softer this time. “did you know what it would do?”
you hesitate, “not at first. i ju- i just wanted to help.
and that’s when they both start to see it…
that you’re not what they thought. not some manic genius. not a monster creating a drug that destroys people in back-alley labs for fun or profit.
you’re someone who believed in once.
someone who failed.
they fall for you
the interrogation against becomes a conversation.
they keep coming back. day after day for some reason.
you don’t give them much though. you don’t have much to give. but you answer .
and they begin to see more of you.
the way your voice cracks when you talk about the undercity kids who begged for something to stop the pain.
the way your eyes soften when they mention the victims.
the way you flinch not at threats, but at kindness.
i gets harder to keep the line between enemy and... someone else.
weeks pass.
you’re no longer locked in a cell. you’ve earned privileges under surveillance, of course.
caitlyn just watches you with those blue eyes like she’s trying to see who you were before it all fell apart.
and somewhere between the paperwork and the shared silences, the lines of you and the lines blur even more.
you catch vi staring at you when you’re not looking.
you feel caitlyn’s hand linger a little too long when she brushes past you.
and you…as broken as you are feel warmth for the first time in years. you’re terrified of it these feelings but they don’t pull away.
alright I've got to do some quick math to explain attitudes towards AI to my boss.
we're looking to create an AI policy, and when we were talking about this, my boss (older millennial) was genuinely shocked to hear that younger people do not (seem) to view AI positively (a la the recent commencement speakers being booed)
please rb for larger sample size!
Question 1/3
What is your age, and do you feel AI is a net positive or net negative in our lives today?
prompt: sheltered princess // from @ladywhumpdiaries // wc: 900
summary: your knight caitlyn has a sworn duty to protect you from all threats...even yourself
tags: fem reader, sickfic, spoiled!reader, royalty au, knight caitlyn, fluff
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You cannot deny that you’ve lived a sheltered life. As the youngest daughter of the king at only twenty-two, you are free from most of the royal duties and obligations that plague your older sisters. Both of your parents have always seen you as their little darling who can do no wrong, and they rarely say no to you. You’ve been able to lead a relatively carefree life in the safety of the castle, taken care of by a plethora of staff.
But there is one person who doesn’t have a problem saying no to you.
Caitlyn puts her hands on her hips, standing tall, her feet firmly planted. “Absolutely not.”
“Caaaiit,” you whine, pouting. “I’ll wear a cloak! I want to go frolic in the snow for a while. It’s so pretty!”
Caitlyn doesn’t budge. “No. You’ll catch your death.”
You roll your eyes and flop down onto a settee dramatically. “You sound like my mother.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, the queen has good sense. Shame you didn’t seem to get any yourself,” Caitlyn says dryly.
You huff, but you’re not actually offended. If it were any other royal, it would probably be improper for the princess’ personal knight to talk in such a brazen way. But you’ve known each other for years at this point, and Caitlyn feels more like a very protective friend than a staff member to you by now.
And Caitlyn does not have a problem letting her opinion be known, especially not when it comes to your safety. You think she’s ridiculously overprotective, but you have to admit that a part of you likes how she looks out for you. You’ve found your eyes lingering a lot more on her lately, on the curve of her defined shoulders, or the particular silky blue of her hair. Your heart seems to beat a little faster every time she enters the room.
“It’s the first snowfall of the season,” you say, looking up at Caitlyn with wide eyes that usually get you whatever you want. Caitlyn doesn’t move an inch. “You know how I love to make angels in the fresh snow!”
“The tailor has not yet finished your new winter coat,” Caitlyn says firmly. She retrieves a blanket and tucks it around you. “You have a delicate constitution and I won’t have you catching cold. You’ll stay inside where it’s warm until you have the proper clothing.”
“Delicate constitution,” you grumble, crossing your arms. “I think I’m perfectly hardy, thank you very much.”
Caitlyn raises a dark eyebrow and says nothing.
“Fiiinee,” you sigh, flopping back against the pillows. “Can I read a book or is that too strenuous for me, since I’m such a delicate flower?”
A twitch of Caitlyn’s lips could almost be interpreted as a smile. “I’ll retrieve your novel from the library,” she says, slipping from the room.
You still plan to sneak out into the snow after everyone has gone to bed for the night, but Caitlyn doesn’t need to know that. You’ll be just fine.
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“I’m dying,” you moan, laying a hand across your eyes. “I never thought it would end this way.”
Caitlyn, who’s sitting on the edge of your bed, gives a quiet snort.
“You are not dying. You’re ill,” she says patiently, more than used to your dramatics by now. She hands you a glass of water. You take a sip and hand it back.
“With a cold that could have easily been avoided, mind you, had you simply listened to reason,” Caitlyn adds.
You squint an eye open and grin slightly. “Reason’s no fun, though.”
Caitlyn gives you a dry look. “And this is?”
“No,” you admit, wincing after a sharp cough makes your chest hurt.
Something in Caitlyn’s expression softens, just a fraction. She pours you a cup of tea from the pot on your nightstand, then adds a generous spoonful of honey, stirring it carefully. She checks the temperature of the teacup with the back of her hand before handing it to you.
“Here, love,” Caitlyn murmurs, helping you sit up a little to drink the tea. “For your throat.”
You take a sip, giving a grateful hum at the soothing warmth. You look at the woman who hasn’t left your side for nearly two days now and give a tiny sigh.
“I…I’m sorry you have to look after me. Again.” The playfulness has gone from your voice and you stare down into your amber tea. “I know I can be…a lot.”
Caitlyn makes a thoughtful noise in her throat. Then, to your surprise, she leans in and kisses you tenderly on the temple. Your head skips a beat.
“You are not too much for me,” Caitlyn says, tucking a lock of hair behind your cheek. Her lips curve in a lopsided smile. “For someone else – perhaps. But me? Never.”
Your throat feels oddly thick and you can’t think of what to say to that, so you drink more tea instead.
Caitlyn rubs your shoulder when you cough again. “Just get well, darling,” she murmurs, pulling up the blanket so it's covering your chest. “Then we’ll return to arguing about good sense,” she smirks.
You laugh softly. “Fair enough.”
It isn’t long before you drift off to sleep, Caitlyn never leaving your side.
Summary: You intrigue Toph in ways she can't explain. With footsteps too light, and a presence that sometimes slips strangely beyond her reach. Toph should keep her distance from someone she can't always sense clearly. Instead, she keeps gravitating toward you. Toph finds herself drawn to you with an intensity she's never felt before—like the earth itself pulling her toward something fluid, gentle, and impossible to hold onto.
A/N: Guys, I'm very proud of this chapter. I think I outdid myself with the writing in some sections here, but pls let me know what you think.
For now, this is it for this story that already holds a very special place in my heart. Maybe in the future I'll write more chapters, if there's anything specific you'd like to see within this storyline, let me know. <3
Word count: 3k
Masterlist | Previous chapter
There's something off in the ground. Toph knows before she even fully wakes up. A rhythm that doesn't quite find its place.
The night is a cold one; there's wind ruffling the curtains by the window Toph forgot to shut. Goosebumps rise on her skin even under the blanket, and she regrets going to sleep with only a tank top. She exhales slowly, still half-curled on her side, listening.
There. Light steps, careful and measured.
Toph doesn't move right away. She knows it's you because there's an insistent absence beside her where you should be lying asleep. She just listens to it—the soft shift of weight, the pause between steps, like you're not sure whether you should be walking at all.
Judging by the silence outside, it must be late into the night. The wind dances between falling leaves and loose curtains, it carries the smell of approaching rain.
Toph shifts, sitting up fully now. A soft groan escapes from her lips, and she frowns, never being one to wake up instantly in a good mood. One of her hands holds herself up, while the other runs through her loose hair, pushing a few long strands behind her ear.
"You're doing it again," Toph mutters into the dark, voice rough with sleep.
The steps stop immediately. A small pause. Toph can feel how you're staring at her now, hesitating on what to say.
"…Sorry."
Toph clicks her tongue, pushing herself to stand up. "You keep saying that like it fixes anything." The ground is cold against her bare feet. She moves slowly, her body still asking her to lie back down and sleep, even if she defies it by walking towards you.
"I didn't mean to wake you," You whisper into the night, taking the final step to shorten the distance between you and Toph. She can tell you're standing near the open window, the cold air causing both your and her hair to flow with the breeze.
Toph frowns, trying to remember for a moment if she was really the one who forgot to close that window, or if maybe you're the one who just opened it.
"You didn't," Toph shrugs. She purses her lips to hide a grin. "You just made it impossible to stay asleep."
There's a faint exhale; half a sigh, half something quieter. You lower your head, shifting your eyes away from Toph. She can feel it. It creates a distance, ever so small, but she's still not fond of it. It's still noticeable.
Toph's mouth hovers open with uncertainty—she's not good at this. She takes half a step closer to you, and the night holds its breath when Toph reaches a hand toward you. Her fingers only graze the side of your arm; it's a ghost of a touch, unpracticed.
Part of her yearns to feel more of you, but she doesn't know how. She feels, though, the stumble in your heartbeat, how your breath shakes. Maybe it tells her enough.
"Is something wrong tonight?" Toph asks, her voice is soft in a way that's starting to belong only to you.
Silence lingers longer than usual. You shift, leaning closer to where her hand now rests gently against your arm. Then, softer; “No- it's nothing.”
Toph raises a brow at you. She shakes her head faintly. Her touch moves; she lets go of your arm, hand coming to hover above your chest. Toph falters for only a second before she lays her hand flat against your chest, right above your racing heart. Her palm is warm on your skin, a little calloused from training but still soft in her own way.
"Don't lie to me," She breathes.
Another pause. Toph worries about how long you're holding your breath, until you exhale in a gasp. And if she could see you now, she'd spot tears hanging on your eyelashes, as you look at her as if she hung the moon in the sky; all breathless because her long dark hair falls in waves over her shoulders and shapes her face just right, and the silver glow coming from the window outlines her features and complements her bright eyes.
You knew you were a goner the moment Toph gave you an attitude about not fighting her and still didn't treat you as if you'd break. She was captivating like that.
You reach for Toph's hand resting atop your chest, your fingers close around hers tightly, and you don't let go. Still hanging onto your bravery, you take a final step forward until you're able to lean in the tiniest bit. Your hair brushes against Toph's, just shy of touching your forehead to hers.
"I… just couldn't sleep."
Leaving Toph speechless is no easy feat, but you do just that. Her tongue feels tangled in itself, when all she can sense is the warmth of you oh so close to her. And the beat of your heart, steady underneath her hand, becoming familiar like the rhythm of a dance.
Boldly, part of her wants to lean closer still. "Yeah, I got that part."
But Toph shifts back slightly instead, focusing—not on the words, but on the way you're standing. The way your weight shifts, barely there, like you're trying not to leave an impression. Like you're trying not to be felt. Toph's chest tightens; she wants you here.
It takes Toph less than a beat to make a decision; "…Come on," she says, decidedly holding your hand on her own and tugging you along with her when she turns and starts walking out of the room.
Toph guides you outside. The wind is colder here; tree leaves rustle on the ground as you walk, crossing the training grounds until you find the overgrown stone path that leads to the stream that flows down the mountain. The night is serene, rain clouds gather in the distance, but for now, the moon still shines.
"Toph, I…" Your words fail you. Because Toph walked you outside, in the middle of the night, just because she knows of the comfort you find near the flowing water.
She hums, bumping her shoulder into yours with a cheeky smile on her lips as if it's no big deal. "Sit with me."
Toph tugs you down with her, settling comfortably on the grass by the river. "Closer," Toph adds, quieter. Timid in a way that is wholly unfamiliar to her.
This time, you don't hesitate. The space between you two disappears. Your shoulder is a warm and constant presence against hers, your knees are pressed together, and she still has your hand clasped on her own.
Toph lets out a slow breath she didn't realize she was holding.
There. That's better.
You sit together like that for a while. Not talking, just the quiet presence of each other, the night pressing in around you, the rest of the world distant and irrelevant.
Toph leans back slightly on her free hand, grounding herself. You sit beside her in that same careful way, not as distant as it once was. But Toph can feel it, like a shiver on her skin, the difference; how you slow your breathing, your heartbeat. And suddenly, your presence beside her threatens to feel like a memory again.
"You always do this," Toph mutters eventually, the only sounds other than her voice are the water flowing downstream in between the river rocks and the wind rustling leaves.
You hum curiously, "Do what?"
Silence hangs for a beat. There's a faint shift; you turn your head in her direction.
Toph tenses slightly, feeling the grass between her fingers, the earth beneath, and how it helps her find the comforting weight of the woman beside her. "You get all… quiet. Lighter than usual. Like you're trying to disappear or something."
Your composure wavers, with a stumble of surprise. "I'm not trying to disappear," you say, but there's something uncertain in it, hesitant. Your finger taps against Toph's hand rhythmically. You're aware of what you do; of the times you slow yourself down, until all that's left is an echo.
Toph frowns. She still faces forward, but her head tilts to the side, toward you. "Then stop acting like it." She shifts, something restless starting to build under her skin. "…It's annoying," she adds, a little sharper than she means to.
There's a hitch in your breath, and Toph holds her own too until she can feel you again. Subtle, but unmistakable. And suddenly the space between you, even this close, feels a little wrong again.
Toph's jaw tightens; she curses herself mentally. She doesn't know how to fix it. Doesn't know how to say things the way other people do. So she defaults. Back to blunt, direct. "I just mean-" she exhales sharply, frustrated. "I can't tell where you are when you do that."
You shift your posture, and both your hands are now holding onto her one, "Toph-"
"Everything else is clear, okay?" Toph pushes forward before you're able to continue, her words coming faster now, less controlled, "The ground, the people moving, even the trees and the water—I know where things are. I know."
Her fingers tighten slightly around your hand. "But you… When you get like that, it's like you're barely even there."
Toph stops. Because she hears it; what she just said. Feels it, more like. The weight of it settles into the space between you like electricity.
Your voice, when it comes, is quiet, but closer than it was a moment before. "You're saying you can't feel my presence? You… can't feel me?"
Toph's throat tightens. She purses her lips because there's an insistent sting behind her eyes that she refuses to let spill down her cheeks. "That's not-" she starts again, but it is.
She exhales, slower this time. Toph shakes her head, turning away from you and allowing her loose hair to hide her face. "…I hate it," she mutters. That wasn't what she meant to say either. But it's closer.
"I hate when you seem like you're not there." It comes out more vulnerable than Toph wanted to. Her pulse is loud in her ears now, her awareness locked entirely onto you—every shift, every breath. "You know I already can't see you," she adds, much quieter. Rougher. Biting back a wince at the rawness of her own words. But now they're out there. Unavoidable.
Toph stills completely, as if she doesn’t move, she can take it back somehow. Something in her chest tightens, caught somewhere between fear and longing.
For a long moment, you don't say anything. Still digesting everything those words have brought to the surface. Every unspoken moment, every instance where the lines between you got blurred, every what-if that none of you had dared entertain too much until now.
Eventually, you finally move. Not away, but closer. Slowly enough that Toph feels every inch of it; the shift of your weight, the soft press of your presence closing the gap until your head comes to rest against Toph's shoulder.
You lean into her, your warm breath fanning over her collarbone when you speak; "I'm sorry, Toph. I- I didn't know."
Toph freezes. Her breath catches until her lungs ache, sharp and quiet all at once. It's the closest you've ever been, and she can feel all of you, entirely. She doesn't know what to do with the butterflies in her stomach.
"But… I'm right here. Now I am," you promise softly. There's something apologetic behind the gentleness of your voice.
Toph swallows heavily. Her fingers twitch slightly against the ground, like she needs to anchor herself to something. "Yeah," she mutters.
Toph's thoughts are louder than anything she's ever felt through the earth. Yet she doesn't move away. Doesn't think she'd be able to if she tried. If anything, she twists her body just slightly closer to you, and her cheek timidly comes to rest against the top of your head.
Her hand is tight as it still holds onto yours, fingers intertwined, and she doesn't plan on letting go anytime soon.
"Sometimes I do wish…" Toph's voice breaks the slightest bit at the end. The small smile that tugs at her lips is a melancholic one. "I do wish I could see you."
The dead of night has a way of breaking through one's defenses all too easily. Because it's the most vulnerable and honest you've ever heard Toph be.
It catches you off guard. More than anything else ever could. You pause for a moment beside her, feeling your mouth go dry. "Oh…" You don't know what to say. What could you even say, when your heart bleeds for her so?
Instead, you bring her hand to your face. First, you place a tender kiss on Toph's knuckles; a brush of lips that tastes like a confession. Then, you raise your head and hold her hand to your cheek, allowing her to feel as much of you as she wants to.
She straightens when she realizes what you're doing, her brows softening as she begins seeing you with her fingertips. Toph's thumb traces the arch of your eyebrow, her fingers find the corner of your mouth, the curve of your cheek, and the tip of your nose. She's quiet as she maps the shape of you, committing details to memory.
Her bright eyes shine with unbridled affection under the moonlight when she whispers, "I always knew you were pretty."
Your face goes all warm against her touch, and you hide yourself on her shoulder again. She had a way of making your chest feel all warm and fuzzy with nothing but her words.
Minutes of silence go by, and only the hazy glow of the moon is witness to this fragile thing blossoming between you.
You are the first to break the quietness eventually: "Did Katara ever tell you why she brought me here?" Your voice is nothing but a whisper, careful not to break the bubble of peacefulness that surrounds you two now.
Toph shakes her head subtly, her cheek presses more into you. "Not really, she just told me you needed something fresh," She shrugs, "A new place, I don't know."
You smile, Toph feels the shape of it against her. "She was probably my only friend growing up. I really only had her, and my mom." You begin tracing the faint scars on Toph's hand with your fingers, brushing over patches of raised skin, committing her to memory in a way that makes Toph shiver.
After a beat, you continue, "But then Katara left with Aang, and for a long while it was fine; she wrote me hundreds of letters, telling me all about her travels. But… when my mother got sick, I…" Your words tangle on themselves. You press closer to Toph, chasing her comfort until you can feel the shape of her lips against your forehead.
You clear your throat, "Well, one day I woke up and realized I was all alone. I guess I became too vague with my letters back to Katara. She came back shortly after, and the next thing I knew, she was dragging me to a sky bison and taking me to the Earth Kingdom." A chuckle falls past your lips, and that genuine smile returns.
Toph is silent for a long moment, and only her soft breath tickles your hair. But she lets go of your hand to bring a strong arm around your waist, decisively pulling your body impossibly closer to hers. She is warm against you, steady in a way that makes you feel wholly safe.
"I'm sorry about your mom," Toph whispers eventually. It's all she can say to try to ease the hurt.
Lazily, you reach a hand to the dark strands of Toph's long hair that fell past her shoulder. Your fingers mindlessly twist and twirl her silky hair. "It's become easier now," You admit quietly, "The night… Just reminds me of her sometimes, and her absence."
"I understand." Toph's thumb is gently tracing patterns on your waist. Your shirt has ridden up the slightest bit there, and you feel the heat of her touch against your skin.
You shift subtly, just enough so you can lean your head up and look at Toph under the moonlight. "Katara told me you'd keep me busy."
At your words, Toph grins. A small chuckle escapes her in a breath, and she raises an eyebrow at you.
Toph is so close now, the hazy glow of the moon reflects against her bright eyes and outlines the shape of her small grin, a teasing quirk of her lips that seems to pull you in like gravity. If you dare to lean forward just an inch, your nose might brush hers.
"I… didn't quite understand her at the time," Your words fall dazed now, as if entranced. But Toph's arm around your waist is not merely holding you now, it's pulling; asking you to come closer, closer, closer. You feel heat creeping up your neck, "But, she told me if there was someone who could take my mind off things, it was probably you."
The words are nothing but a breath against Toph's lips; she feels more than hears the shape of them. And oh, how sneaky Katara had been; she had to have known Toph would inevitably become entirely infatuated with you.
Something stronger than herself beckons Toph to close the small gap that separates you. As stubborn as the rock that she bends, she may be, but for you, Toph would shift the balance of earth itself, if you asked.
She leans forward until her upper lip touches yours, and a shiver runs down Toph's spine, because suddenly she realizes she'd imagined this very feeling a thousand times before.
Toph's free hand finds your cheek, her fingers carefully trace the line of your jaw when she speaks, "Then I should probably thank Katara, huh?"
You hear the beating of your own heart. Yet all you feel is Toph; the warmth of her arms around you, the perfume of her hair, her breath against your lips.
In front of you, the river water flows between the rocks in an eternal dance. Forever intertwined in unlikely harmony.
All you can whisper before crashing your lips against Toph's is, "Yeah, me too."
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
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Chapter Summary: It's interview day and nothing is going right. With your final round interviewer being someone you would never have expected, will you be able to hold it together?
Word Count: 7.5k
Warnings/Tags for This Chapter: Describes an anxiety attack, unsafe living environment, past psychological abuse, hurt/comfort
Series Masterlist AO3
—
You lean your back against the counter in front of the espresso machine, glancing down, the digital calendar glares back at you.
Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
It was the last company you expected to hear back from—if you even factored them into your reality at all. You vividly remembered the moment you submitted that application. It had been a desperate Hail Mary thrown into a sea of listings, a wild shot at the most prestigious entity in the corporate world. As a leading consulting and venture capital firm, their name was a household fixture, synonymous with an elite, gatekept world of wealth. The firm was notorious for its fiercely guarded internship cohorts and a grueling, multi-stage interview process designed to break lesser candidates.
The very same interview you were just offered.
You tap your finger against the side of your phone, going through all the logistics in your mind before the morning rush begins. The available dates only have morning openings, ninety minutes. Meaning, it’ll be a two-stage interview. You’ll have to cut one of your shifts at the coffee shop short, or call out altogether. It isn’t something you can exactly afford. Getting the internship is the only way it’ll be worth the loss in wages.
You glance up at the sound of the door chime.
A student walks into the shop, a backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone pressed to her ear. “Mom, am I supposed to separate my clothes by color when I do my laundry?” The student looks up, giving your coworker an apologetic smile. “At least darks and lights? Okay, cool. Love you.” She hangs up and begins ordering.
Watching her, you remember having to figure everything out entirely on your own. Three burnt eggs. A load of laundry destroyed. Smacking your printer until it finally worked. Even down to securing your very first part-time job.
A notification flashes across the top of your screen, breaking your train of thought.
Your older sister.
Hey, you haven’t texted me back in a while. Do you not love me anymore? Haha, call me soon.
You open your text history with her. The last time you messaged her was three months ago, a brief note assuring her that everything is going well. You scroll backward, tracing the conversation history to the earliest saved messages. The gaps of time between your responses grow longer and longer the further down you scroll.
Do you not love me anymore?
It isn't her fault she doesn't know. You silently left that day, and the only explanation you gave her was that you were excited to start school. If there’s a feeling greater than love, then that’s what you feel for your sister. It’s a love that makes you willing to sacrifice anything for her—even yourself. It’s the very love that made you accept becoming a marionette for years, until you had no choice but to finally break away.
Now, you are still trying to stand, desperately trying to figure out who you are now that the strings are cut. And it’s because you love her so much that you can’t talk to her. So instead, you don't respond, simply so you won't have to continue to lie to her.
You move your screen back to the digital calendar and choose the earliest date before you can think twice. Two days from now. Friday. Somehow, the message from your sister reminds you of exactly why you’re here.
Your coworker hands you the customer's order, and the morning rush begins.
—
The remainder of Wednesday brings back-to-back classes, paired with heavy assignments due for both the following Monday. Your sister’s message lingers with you throughout your restaurant shift, dragging memories in its wake as you set plates down at customers' tables. The imperceptible shaking of your hands is becoming increasingly harder to ignore. You don’t know if it’s from the interview looming, or from the fact that you’ve fixed your hair for what feels like a hundred times today.
On Thursday, you finally ask one of your coworkers at the coffee shop to cover the latter half of your Friday shift. Guilt creeps in at the inconvenience you’re bestowing upon them, but this is your only chance. If you don’t secure this internship now, you’ll be forced to repeat this entire exhausting cycle next term, only to possibly face the exact same uncertain results.
University is exhausting, work is exhausting, and the panic rising in your chest is debilitating.
You glance at the time—half past eleven. You close your laptop. The amount of studying you’ve done is far from sufficient, especially with final exams around the corner, but you know you’re going to need all the rest you can get.
Possible interview questions replay endlessly in your mind as you check to make sure everything is prepared for tomorrow.
Tell me about yourself. There isn’t much to say.
A black skirt you save for special occasions and one of your clean white collared shirts hang meticulously from the metal candleholder. You don’t have any other clothes that would pass for professional wear.
What are your greatest strengths? I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Your wallet, notebook, and keys are packed securely inside your backpack.
What are your greatest weaknesses? So many.
Your phone sits on its charger, and a single granola bar rests on your desk, waiting to hold you over for the day ahead.
You turn off the light, and the room plunges into sudden darkness. Sitting at the edge of your bed, you feel the hard mattress digging into your thighs. Only the ugly parts of you come to mind. Answers no hiring manager would ever want to hear.
But deep down, you already know the truth. Despite the terror, despite the total lack of preparation, the practiced image of you will save you. It always does. The phantom strings still holding your spine taut will pull, and your confident, charismatic smile will appear on command. Your voice will alter into that perfect, magnetic cadence you were taught makes you more attractive. You’ll say whatever you need to say to get exactly what you want.
It’s the only thing ingrained into you for years.
You hate that you’re this way. You despise how easily the mask slips on.
You lay back, your head finally resting against the pillow, praying that everything goes well tomorrow.
—
You wake up ten minutes before your alarm goes off, the light of your screen harsh against the darkness of your room. You let out a tired groan. You could sleep for ten more minutes, but waking up a second time will feel even worse.
Ten extra minutes to get ready, I guess. You try to be positive.
And you definitely needed them. The bags under your eyes are prominent, and it takes you far too long to finally make the decision to dab concealer beneath them. One of your shorter front strands has a mind of its own, refusing to stay down even after you use product.
You bite your lip in frustration as you rush back into your room to change into a t-shirt, since you didn’t have the time to do laundry. Your jeans hang too loosely around your waist, forcing you to use the one and only belt you own.
It feels like all your last-minute preparations are going to waste as a sudden realization hits you. You won’t be able to hang your interview clothes in the backroom of the coffee house. The heavy smell of espresso and whatever else lingers in the air will seep right into the fabric.
You take the skirt and shirt off their hangers, folding them meticulously before placing them carefully at the bottom of your backpack. Pulling your keys out, you shrug your jacket over your shoulders and grab your phone off the bed. You rush to close your door and lock it while slinging the heavy backpack over your shoulder.
It feels like your brain is trying to leave your skull with the way it throbs with every breath you take.
The sound of someone entering through the front door makes you pause.
“Oh hey, I’m lucky to catch you. Heading out?” Matt’s voice echoes from the entrance.
He must’ve just finished his shift.
You twist the doorknob twice, making sure it is truly locked, before letting yourself fully come into view.
You greet him with a close-lipped smile. “Hey, good morning. Yeah, I’m in a real rush.” You step toward the front door, but he makes no move to get out of your way.
“I’m sure you can spare a minute," he says, staring down at you with an easy smile. "Do you want to hang out later?”
Nothing is going right this morning.
“I’m sorry, I probably can’t. I have classes and work later.” You try to ease your arm past him, reaching carefully for the front door handle.
His smile drops for a split second before returning. He glances down at your arm, looking almost amused by your effort to bypass him. “No problem. See you later.”
You open the heavy door and push past him into the crisp morning air. Turning back just before the frame clicks shut, you offer a tiny concession. “See you,” you respond, forcing an apologetic look to your face.
The door closes before you can see his reaction. Not that you have the time. You’re already sprinting toward the bus stop.
You manage to catch the bus just in time. Your head aches violently at the sudden rise in your heart rate, your pulse drumming in your ears.
It’s barely five minutes into the bus ride to the coffee shop when you realize you forgot your granola bar.
—
You make an extra effort to greet customers brightly and carry conversations with them as you prepare their drinks. It feels like the only thing that can ease the guilt of leaving your shift early. Hopefully, seeing the extra tips left in the jar will make the impending loss in your paycheck a bit more bearable.
Behind every warm greeting and polite laugh, the interview looms heavily in your mind as the hours tick away. Finally, it’s time to clock out. The extra espresso shot you added to your americano—meant to carry you through the morning—feels like it was tainted by your worst enemies.
Instead of feeling energized, you feel sluggish. Your brain feels like it’s processing everything slower than it usually does on four hours of sleep. The intense caffeine kick that normally eases your headaches only makes your skull pound, to the point that if you pressed a fingertip to your temple, you’re certain you would feel it violently pulsing.
You grab your backpack from the breakroom and carry it into the cramped bathroom. Zipping it open, you find your belongings completely shifted. The cover of your notebook bears fresh indentations from where your keys knocked against it during your walk. Your interview clothes, which you placed so meticulously at the bottom, are slightly unfolded and bunched to one side.
Your back presses against the bathroom door as you hug your backpack tight against your chest. You slide down the frame, the cold wood doing nothing to pull you out of your own mind. It’s only when you’re sitting flat on the floor, your backpack pressed tightly between your torso and your legs, that you feel the first real emotion flicker through the numbness.
“So stupid,” you whisper to yourself, over and over again.
Because what did you honestly think was going to happen by stuffing your clothes down there? Your right leg bounces uncontrollably against your arm. You rest your elbows heavily on your knees to stop the trembling, before burying your face in your hands, running your fingers through your hair and gripping it tightly.
You release your hair before it can no longer be salvaged. Strands hang in every direction in your peripheral vision from where your tight grip pulled them from the elastic.
You dislike yourself even more for worrying about your hair at a time like this.
Reaching back, you pull the tie completely free. Shorter strands fall loosely against your cheeks, blocking your vision from anything that isn't directly in front of you. You pull your interview clothes out of the backpack, unfolding them fully.
Wrinkled.
You suck in a sharp breath, biting your lip harshly as you force yourself to stand up off the floor. You hang your backpack from the coat hook and drape the clothes carefully over the top.
Your hands tremble as you unbuckle your belt and unbutton your jeans. It feels like all your strength is actively leaving your body as you push them down and fold them. You’re operating entirely on autopilot. Your t-shirt follows. It takes two agonizing tries on every single button before your collared shirt is finally closed and tucked neatly into the waistband of your skirt.
You risk a glance at the mirror. Then instantly wish you hadn’t.
Blood seeps from your bottom lip where your teeth must’ve punctured it earlier. The fabric of your shirt is noticeably wrinkled on the left side. Strands of your hair are raised in some areas, while entirely flat in others.
A complete wreck. That’s the only description for the reflection staring back at you.
Swiping your tongue over your bottom lip, you barely even feel the sting. Your right hand rises subconsciously, beginning to smooth over the creases on your side. Somehow, it feels less like a fix, and more like your body is desperately trying to comfort you because your mind simply won’t.
Combing your fingers through your hair, you let your nails drag against your scalp to remind yourself that you cannot afford to do this right now. The rigid tension in your shoulders drops, but it brings no relief. Instead, it’s replaced by a profound exhaustion, leaving you feeling as though you’ve just survived a violent war with your own mind.
Reaching into your backpack, you pull out your phone, expecting at least half an hour to have passed. You’re already mentally bracing yourself for a mad dash to the bus stop, preparing for the forty-five minute trip into the city.
It’s only been seven minutes.
You zip up your backpack before slinging it over your shoulder. Glancing in the mirror one last time, you can’t help but feel like you look especially hollow today. Fragile.
Suddenly, you can feel a ghost of a tight grip on your shoulder, fingernails digging deep beneath your collarbone.
“Smile. People are watching.”
The corners of your lips curve upward as if being pulled by invisible strings. Turning back toward the exit, you find the metal door handle cold against your palm.
You hope to leave this weak side of you behind in the bathroom before the interview begins.
—
You settle into the bus seat, hugging your backpack against you like a shield. The contrast between your first early morning transit and the subsequent, mid-day rides has never bothered you. This one is louder, more packed, with strangers constantly pressed close on all sides. Sometimes it’s impossible to find a seat, so perhaps you’re lucky today.
Except for the woman to your right, whose shoulder digs directly into yours as she talks loudly on her phone. You can’t help but wince when she raises her voice at whoever is on the other end. Apparently, they forgot to set an appointment for her.
You hug your backpack even closer to your chest when she waves her arm in sheer frustration. It’s a terrifyingly familiar sight. Loud voices. Placing blame. Disappointed expressions.
You were fortunate that you had never been struck.
It would blemish your skin, after all.
Keep it together, you remind yourself the moment you begin to deeply retreat within yourself.
The woman doesn’t get off at the next stop. Instead, more people pack themselves onto the bus, and the ride only grows louder. The hard plastic of the seat digs into your back. The walls of the vehicle feel like they’re closing in on you, trapping you in a symphony of shouting voices and shifting bodies.
Please, keep it together, you plead with yourself as the bus continues its grueling journey into the city.
—
You squeeze past the passengers standing tightly in the aisle and turn toward the bus driver, offering a grateful smile that you know falls flat with how tired your eyes feel. The driver gives you a brief once-over before shooting an encouraging smile back at you. Stepping off the bus, you walk down the plaza stairs with shaky, uneven steps.
It feels like everything has been completely out to get you today. Even yourself.
But you need this. This internship. To graduate. To get a stable job in the future. Because that’s the entire point, right?
You force your chin up, refusing to let yourself waver as you look toward the towering monolith of reflective glass and steel ahead.
The Romanoff-Maximoff Global building is the tallest structure in the city. It’s entirely fitting for the headquarters of a financial giant. Craning your neck upward, you can barely make out the massive corporate sign displayed proudly on the dark glass of the upper levels.
You take one deep, steadying breath before walking up the wide stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy glass doors slide open automatically when you step within range, and a rush of cool, synthetic-smelling air immediately wraps around you. Walking inside, it feels far more like stepping into a high-end luxury hotel than an office building.
The polished white marble floors perfectly reflect the warm light pouring down from the crystal chandeliers above, blending with the natural sunlight cutting through the massive windows to make the lobby feel impossibly bright. Resting areas are abundant, filled with long, plush couches and elegant armchairs. Perfectly arranged fresh flowers sit in heavy vases atop a multitude of pristine coffee and accent tables.
It’s a room you have no business being in.
You scan the sprawling lobby ahead, where a row of people in tasteful, high-end professional wear are seated at sleek desks, intensely focused on whatever tasks they are working on. Your eyes jump anxiously from side to side before you quickly pull up the email on your phone to anchor yourself.
Check in at the front desk.
There are seven of them.
You grip the strap of your backpack resting on your shoulder. Your thoughts race at the possibility of walking up to one of the desks and getting the entirely wrong person. That would be your first memory at this company.
Your heart rate jumps at the thought, sending pangs of pain to your head, but you’re saved when one of the women working at one of the desks calls you forward.
The sound of your sneakers against the marble echo throughout the lobby and it feels like everyone is watching you, waiting for you to slip up. But when you look up, everyone still has their heads down, doing their jobs.
“How can I help you?” the woman asks before you’re even fully at the desk.
“Um.” You scramble to open the email again before stepping the rest of the way and turning the screen toward her. “I have an interview today. It’s in twenty minutes.”
She stares at your phone screen with an impassive expression, glancing up for a brief second. Her fingers tap a few keys on the keyboard, her eyes scanning the monitor before she looks back at you.
“Take the glass elevators on your left to the fifty-second floor,” she says, sliding a sleek black security card across the desk. “The financial planning and analysis manager is expecting you.”
You take the card, your fingers brushing against the cool plastic. You nod a thank you, but she’s already looking back down at her own screen.
Turning toward the left side of the lobby, you look at the rows of elevators. The black card feels heavy in your palm. You run your finger against the edge of it, letting the dull plastic dig into your fingertip.
The elevator doors open instantly after you tap the card against the scanner. Pressing the metal button for the fifty-second floor, you finally lean against the railing. The doors close, and the numbers on the digital screen rise alongside the elevator. You take a deep breath, holding it tightly, then finally release it.
With every exhale, you try to push out all the things that have gone wrong today. Waking up before your alarm was annoying. Matt being the first person you saw was inconvenient. The coffee shop shift completely burned through your social battery. Your breakdown in the bathroom left you listless. The loud, cramped bus ride overwhelmed you.
At least you have a little under twenty minutes to get your head on straight.
The elevator doors slide open, and you’re greeted by a stoic man dressed in a sharp suit.
“Are you my ten o’clock interview?” he asks bluntly.
“Yes,” you respond, the word coming out almost like a question.
He gestures to his left, beckoning you forward. “Great. We can start now since you’re already here. Follow me.”
You breathe in sharply. You’re not ready. But you can’t find it in yourself to ask for more time.
He begins walking down a long grey hallway without looking back once as you trail behind him. His strides are long, and it takes whatever remaining energy you have just to keep pace.
The fifty-second floor feels like the exact opposite of the lobby. Dark wallpaper, dim lighting, and an eerie silence hangs over the space. Stopping at a white door, he opens it and ushers you inside.
The room fits the grim aesthetic of the rest of the floor, but the complete lack of windows makes it feel more like an interrogation room. He takes a seat at a desk against the far wall before pointing to the single chair in front of him.
“Sit down.”
“I’m Mark. The FP&A manager. I’ll be conducting your interview today.” He glances down at the papers resting on his desk. Before you can introduce yourself, he has already begun.
“Walk me through what a $10 depreciation does to financial statements, assuming a 25% tax rate.”
Your brain doesn't even pause to process the sudden prompt. Instead, the ingrained image within you activates. The strings snap your posture a fraction tighter, and the practiced, effortless warmth floods into your expression on command. You block the exhaustion, the pounding headache, and the hollow ache in your stomach behind a glass wall you know will break eventually.
It just can’t be today.
You need to be perfect.
When you speak, your voice slides perfectly into that clear, confident cadence you were taught to use.
“Assuming a 25% tax rate, a $10 depreciation expense reduces net income by $7.50,” you begin smoothly, your lips holding a charming smile. “This increases ending cash by $2.50 on the cash flow statement, balancing the assets and equity sides of the balance sheet down by $7.50.”
Mark holds your gaze for a moment before continuing. “Good,” he says with a faint smile. “Let’s continue.”
—
You stare at the white door Mark has just exited through. The prompts and questions had been endless, one popping up right after the other the exact second you finished answering, leaving absolutely no room for rest.
“Walk me through how the Income Statement, Balance Sheet, and Cash Flow Statement are connected.”
“How do interest rates affect a company's borrowing costs?”
“What is EBITDA, and why do we use it?”
You let out a shaky breath. The smile melts from your face, and your eyes drift closed.
The last forty-five minutes saturate into your body. Your shoulders drop completely, as if they can no longer hold themselves up against the weight of the day. The moment your eyes shut, it feels like the windowless room is spinning as a severe wave of lightheadedness sets in.
One more interview, you reason with yourself, the thought a desperate plea to convince your own body not to give up just yet.
But it’s as if your body knows you’re lying. It knows that after this, you will have to take the bus back to your university, walk to class, followed by another lecture, and then face your restaurant shift tonight. It isn't just this interview.
You fight against your own limbs to force your shoulders upright. Your eyes snap open at the sound of voices right outside the room. The words are muffled behind the thick wood, but it sounds like a casual back-and-forth. You easily catch the confused inflection in Mark's tone.
The door opens suddenly. You wipe the tired expression off your face instantly, replacing it with an easy smile. Turning around, you see Mark standing beside a shorter woman.
“Hi,” the woman greets you warmly. “I’m Cindy. I’ll be taking you to the next round of the interview.”
Mark stares down at her with squinted eyes before turning his gaze to you and offering a brief nod.
“Hello,” you respond as you stand up, grabbing your backpack off the floor and sliding the straps over your shoulders. Your legs wobble slightly under the sudden pressure of your weight. Forcing your posture straight, you nod politely at him. “Thank you for the interview today.”
He gives you a small smile before you walk out the door and follow Cindy down the dimly lit hallway. She taps a gold colored card against the scanner and the elevator doors slide open. She gestures for you to enter before she steps besides you and presses the button labeled C.
She turns to you with an encouraging smile. “Don’t be nervous.” She pauses, tilting her head slightly. “Though, I have to admit, I’ve never seen an undergraduate internship interview take place on the C-suite floor.”
Huh?
C-suite… that can’t be right. Anybody studying anything within the business major knows exactly what the C-suite is.
The highest-ranking senior executives in the entire corporation.
You glance up at the screen displaying the floor numbers. They just keep rising. It feels like the elevator is moving significantly faster than it did on your trip to the fifty-second floor.
The elevator stops smoothly and the doors slide open, revealing an open floor plan flooded with light from towering skylights above. You have to squint, adjusting your eyes from the stark dimness of the previous floor.
Stepping forward behind Cindy, you scan the area. The floor is made of polished dark wood that looks spotless. The center holds multiple plush couches where you assume high-value investors and shareholders sit while waiting for appointments. A long counter rests on the right, the top crafted from white marble with light wood detailing the cabinet space beneath. A high-end coffee machine sits on the surface, surrounded by neatly arranged pods and endless amenities. Chips, cookies, fruit.
Your stomach caves in on itself at the sheer sight of the food.
It’s just as quiet up here as it was on the fifty-second floor, but somehow it doesn’t hold the same eerie atmosphere. Instead, with the sunlight streaming down and the rich aroma of coffee in the air, you feel your shoulders naturally settling.
Massive executive offices line the far wall, each room looking at least ten times the size of your bedroom. Your view inside is completely blocked by heavy wooden frames and dark, one-way glass.
Cindy leads you to the office furthest to the right. You trail closely behind, still craning your head to absorb the pure opulence of the floor. Opening the door, she gestures for you to go inside.
“Have a seat right in the chair in front of the desk. Your interviewer will be coming in shortly.”
She gives you a warm smile that you mirror instantly out of habit, before she steps back and closes the heavy door with a soft thud.
You can’t help but look around the bright office. The left wall holds two massive bookcases lined with a vast array of books, their spines varying in every color. The right wall features a shelf filled with small decorative pieces and jewelry. The brilliant gold and silver of the rings lined across the wooden shelf reflect the sunlight streaming in from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk.
Taking a few paces forward, you reach the single armchair in front of the desk. Slipping your backpack off your shoulders, you place it securely against the base of the chair. As you sit down, the high-end leather feels soft and accommodating against the bare skin beneath your thighs.
You take a deep breath in. Somehow, the room smells exactly how a warm summer night feels. The aroma envelopes you completely—the scent of flowers that bloom in the peak of July and sun-warmed concrete. Even the temperature of the office feels absolutely perfect against your cold, shivering skin.
It’s the first time you’ve felt genuinely comfortable all day.
You finally glance at the desk in front of you. It’s crafted from a dark, rich wood that you can tell is of exceptionally high quality without even touching it. A computer monitor rests to the left, the screen faced entirely away from you. Papers scatter the surface in a way that looks messy, but strictly organized at the same time. A picture frame made of light wood sits at the far right of the desk. The noticeably worn edges of the frame make you believe that the owner must pick it up often.
Your gaze drifts to the elegant nameplate resting right in front of the picture frame.
Wanda D. Maximoff. CFO.
What—
The door opens before you can even fully register the situation you are in. It feels like your body is creaking when you turn almost robotically to look behind you.
You’ve seen her in countless business articles before. She’s one half of the power couple who built one of the most successful companies in the world. Wanda stands in front of you, wearing an elegant navy blazer and a matching long skirt. Crisp black heels make her look even more imposing, if that’s even possible.
She’s even more gorgeous in person.
The heavy door closes slowly behind her. She turns toward you fully, offering a slight tilt of her head and a soft smile. Her sharp green eyes shine against the ambient sunlight, and somehow, the whole room feels instantly brighter.
The distinct shade of her eyes looks almost too familiar. But before you can think further, Wanda starts to speak.
“Well, hello there,” she says lightly, walking directly toward her desk. Her blazer lightly brushes your shoulder as she passes, and the rich scent of summer flowers fills the air.
It feels like you’re in a complete trance as you watch her take a seat in her leather desk chair, which matches the dark shade of the wood. You’re finally snapped out of it when she rests her elbow on the surface, placing her chin in her palm and tilting her head. She offers you an almost teasing smile.
What are you doing? you chastise yourself internally.
You clear your throat, instantly digging for the assured voice programmed deep within you.
“Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” You stand up, extending your hand to offer a firm handshake, exactly like you were taught to do in school.
She stops you with a slight raise of her hand before you are even halfway out of your seat, her smile remaining entirely unchanged. “No need for that. Please, sit comfortably.”
Biting the inside of your mouth, you sink back down into the soft leather. Your outstretched hand finds its way to your left side, nervously smoothing over the slight wrinkles that still remain on your shirt. This is absolutely nothing like the clinical mock interviews you practiced in class.
Wanda glances down at one of the papers resting on her desk before her sharp green eyes lock onto yours once again.
“So,” she begins, her tone smooth and entirely unbothered. “You’re not qualified for this internship.”
You freeze.
Then why—
“Then why are you here?” she asks, sounding almost amused as she cuts right through your internal panic. “Well,” she muses, looking up toward the skylight in thought. She meets your eyes once again. “I like to look at the whole picture.”
“I…” you start, your voice noticeably wavering.
Stop it, you fight with yourself internally, forcing your posture rigidly upright.
“I know I’m not qualified,” you state clearly, the rehearsed confidence taking over. “But I can adapt quickly. I know how to read financial models. I’m proficient in Excel. I know how to do market research.”
You pause when her expression morphs from an amused smirk into a softer, quieter smile. It’s an expression that completely cuts through your ramble.
“I know. You did extremely well in your interview with Mark,” she says slowly. “Perfect, even.”
You breathe out a quiet sigh of relief at that, but your mind is still swirling.
Then why am I here? you wonder again.
Wanda glances down to where your hand still rests over the wrinkled fabric of your shirt. You widen your palm to cover the creases entirely, hoping she doesn’t see how disheveled you feel.
The corner of her lip pulls upward. Her gaze doesn’t move from your hand.
“Tell me about yourself.” Her tone is completely relaxed, but it doesn’t stop the sudden spike in your pulse.
You take a slow breath in before beginning. “I’m currently a junior in university, majoring in finance. I do well in my classes. I balance going to school and working part-time jobs. I learn quickly, and I know I can adapt to working here,” you finish in a poised tone.
“I see,” she says, sounding almost lost in thought. Her gaze shifts, tracking up to focus directly on your bottom lip. You desperately hope it’s healed by now. “What are your greatest strengths?”
The raw truth from last night echoes bitterly in your head: I can manage to function on four hours of sleep.
Instead, you let the script speak for you. “I take instruction well and turn that into results.”
“Mhm.” She nods as if she was expecting that exact response. Finally, she looks up to meet your eyes again. “And your greatest weaknesses?”
So many.
“Sometimes I get too focused on what I’m doing and don’t see what’s around me,” you respond, offering an almost self-deprecating smile.
“And do you balance going to school and working well?”
You move your gaze downward, staring at the scattered papers on her desk. “Yes,” you say quietly, the smile on your lips wobbling slightly at the edges.
The silence in the air hangs incredibly heavy. You force your eyes upward at the total lack of a response. It feels like she’s staring right past you. As if she’s reading your mind.
“What are your hobbies?”
Your mind blanks. What does this have to do with anything?
Your mouth opens, but instead of a quick, tailored answer, your breath comes out erratically. You grip your side tightly, the fabric of your shirt wrinkling further beneath your fingers, but you can’t stop yourself. Maybe it’s the accumulated stress of the interview. The extra shot of caffeine earlier. Seeing Matt. The lost wages from cutting your shift short. The woman’s loud, angry voice on the bus. The months of surviving on four to five hours of sleep. Your stomach twisting painfully in on itself from the complete emptiness.
It feels like you can no longer quell the overwhelming waves of anxiety that you are usually so good at hiding from others.
Because what are your hobbies? Why can’t you think of a single thing?
Your face twitches in sudden pain. You unclench your jaw, realizing your teeth have bitten right through the muscle of your cheek. Blood spreads over your tongue. You barely register the metallic taste.
This is a question you should be able to answer easily.
It feels like the office walls are closing in, the sunlight that had been so bright dimming slowly.
You barely process the sound of a drawer opening.
The remaining light in your vision dims entirely as a shadow encompasses you. A warm hand envelopes your own, the heat of her palm pressing over the fingers you have clutching so tightly against your shirt. You tilt your head up slightly, your vision clearing just enough to see Wanda standing directly in front of you, her red hair curtained softly around her face. Her eyes look almost apologetic as she gently uncurls your stiff fingers from the wrinkled fabric.
The faint sound of plastic crinkling fills the quiet air as she places something small into your palm that she is holding open. You look down blankly to find a small fruit snack packet resting on your palm.
The exact kind you used to eat when you were a kid. A time before there were expectations.
She wraps your fingers gently around the packet, the pointed corners of the plastic digging slightly into your skin.
“I’m sorry, darling,” she murmurs, her tone genuinely apologetic. There’s a faint accent in her voice that you can’t quite put your finger on. “That was a mean question.”
You shake your head slightly. You’re the one who’s overreacting to a simple icebreaker.
She grips your hand lightly, her thumb rubbing over your knuckles with an expression that looks almost disapproving. “Let’s take a break.” She releases your hand, stepping back just a fraction. “Eat the fruit snack. It always makes me feel better.” She gives you a soft, reassuring smile.
Now that her warmth isn’t anchoring you, the tremor in your hands is completely noticeable. You bring your other hand up to the corner of the plastic, trying to tear it, but your fingers refuse to cooperate.
Why are you failing at absolutely everything today?
The packet is gently removed from your hand before you can spiral any further. You glance up to find Wanda opening it for you, widening the plastic seam to make it easier for your fingers to reach inside. She hands it back to you with a reassuring smile.
“There we go,” she says softly. “These are always hard to open.”
You reach inside, pinching a grape-shaped gummy between your thumb and index finger before popping it into your mouth. You chew slowly, letting the soft elasticity ground you against the spinning room, though the candy remains completely flavorless on your tongue.
Wanda crouches down directly in front of you, resting her elbow on her knee and looking up at your face with a gentle smile. You quickly reach back into the plastic packet for another piece to avoid her locked gaze—an orange one this time. With every chew and swallow you manage, Wanda gives an almost imperceptible nod of approval.
By the time you reach the very last gummy, a strawberry, you can finally taste the sweet, fruity flavor. It’s heavily mixed with a sharp, lingering metallic taste. The throbbing pain in your inner cheek grows with every remaining bite, and the fingers you used to grip your shirt earlier ache intensely from how tightly you held them. The only sound in the office is the steady, quiet rhythm of your own breathing alongside Wanda’s.
You can see the sunlight in the room clearly again. But it also shines a harsh light on how you just behaved.
You quickly place the empty wrapper on your skirt before reaching to smooth down the left side of your shirt. Harsh lines from where it was in your clutches refuse to flatten completely, even as you run your hand down the fabric repeatedly. You let out a breath of frustration.
Giving up, you run your fingers through your hair, trying to find some semblance of the image you are meant to portray. You sit up rigidly once again, squaring your shoulders. Finally, you steal a glance at Wanda, who is still crouched in front of you.
She looks troubled as she watches you. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and her lips are set in a faint frown.
It's your fault.
You clear your throat. It feels like you haven't spoken in hours, even though you know it’s only been minutes.
“Let’s continue.” The confident edge in your voice is marred by a weak rasp that you try desperately to ignore.
Wanda gives you a long, unreadable stare before rising. It’s almost impressive that she was able to crouch like that in high heels.
“Okay,” she whispers, almost to herself. “Let’s continue.”
She walks around her desk before sitting back down, leaning back in her chair and observing you closely. “Why do you want to work at our company?”
You close your eyes briefly before opening them, keeping the heavy, panicked emotions at bay behind the fractured glass wall that is now messily covered in tape.
“I want to work at this company because…”
—
The remainder of the interview goes exactly as planned. There are no more curveball questions. Every prompt is strictly about the job or the firm. The questions are standard. Easy to answer.
But you know you aren't going to be offered the position. You won't get it because instead of the pristine image you were trained to portray, you had accidentally been yourself.
You’re left with Wanda’s final words before exiting her office.
“We’ll call you if you get the position.”
If you had done well, you feel like they would’ve given it to you right then. Or at least, Wanda wouldn’t have sounded so deeply conflicted.
At least you got to meet her, you think, desperately trying to find a single silver lining. You could only hope to carry yourself with the elegance and poise that she did.
A cold breeze hits the bare skin of your legs, snapping you back to reality. You look up, realizing you are standing on campus, and open the heavy door to the building of your first class.
You let out a slow sigh as you enter the crowded lecture room. You’ll have to repeat this entire exhausting cycle again next term.
—
You feel completely hollow as you step out of the restaurant breakroom, tying your apron tightly around your waist. Today has felt like twenty-five hours. And every single one of those hours was designed solely to drain you of what little energy you had left.
Angie appears right in front of you. You almost want to turn on your heel and walk away, because right now, your raw emotions can’t handle anyone being genuinely nice to you. But you can never ignore Angie—not when she’s been so good to you.
“Sweetie!” she calls out excitedly. “There was a last-minute reservation, and they specifically requested to sit in whatever section you’re assigned to.”
Maybe it’s one of the regular customers I had a longer conversation with, you think, trying to match her energy.
You nod at her, forcing an easy smile onto your face at her excitement.
“Get out there,” she says brightly, grabbing your shoulders and steering you directly toward the dining room doors. “I have you in section five. They’re already here, waiting for you.” She gives you a playful push forward.
You walk to the service bar and wash your hands thoroughly before turning around. Scanning the dimly lit dining room, you notice it’s hardly full yet. Most of the standard reservations won't arrive for another ten minutes. You take measured steps toward your section, mentally preparing to muster up a bright, welcoming smile.
Maybe the fruit snack actually helped. Your head isn’t pounding nearly as violently as it did before the interview.
You reach the corner booth where the ambient lighting is the dimmest. You are just about to greet the couple in front of you when you catch a terrifyingly familiar voice.
“Told you, Nat.” Wanda is leaning exceptionally close to her companion, whispering into her ear as if sharing a private secret.
The image is too familiar. The memory of those vibrant green eyes from a week ago flashes violently through your mind.
Nat? you think, your thoughts instantly racing.
Natasha Romanoff. The other half of the power couple. The CEO of Romanoff-Maximoff Global.
You meet her sharp eyes, which are already watching your approach closely.
“Yes, moya lyubov, you were right,” Natasha says, her gaze never wavering from your face.
You turn your head as Wanda sits upright. You desperately want to find somewhere to hide—anywhere no one will ever find you—after coming face-to-face with the exact person who just witnessed you at your absolute worst.
“Can I get the wine list, darling?” Wanda asks, offering you a bright smile.
The slight wrinkle of her nose as she smiles at you makes you pause, forcing yourself to finally get it together.
“Of course,” you respond politely, already turning on your heel to escape this deeply awkward situation.
“And darling?” Wanda calls out after you.
You turn back around, forcing a grimace that you desperately hope passes for a polite smile.
“We’ll see you at the office on Monday.”
—
A/N: I really wanted the first interaction to be with Natasha because I've never written for Wanda before and wanted to stall it as long as possible 😂 but even though this is fiction, I couldn't rationalize why the CEO would be interviewing a possible intern. The CFO interviewing was already a stretch. Hopefully I wrote Wanda okay! Feedback is always appreciated 🥰
Also, thank you guys again for the feedback and interest on the first chapter 😊 it made writing the second chapter fun and something I looked forward to.
To the person in asks saying i love AO3 more for posting this chapter there hours earlier: NOT TRUE. i forgot i had a prior engagement when i was making this draft 😂
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