Summary: You’re tracing the nails of Natasha’s middle and ring fingers, trying to figure out why she keeps them so short. You think it's a mistake. She looks like she's about to lose her mind.
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings/Tags: fluff, mutual yearning, very suggestive, handholding
Minors DNI (just in case)
—
You round the corner of the training wing, the squeak of your sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. Like clockwork, Natasha is there, leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s dressed down in a soft, navy hoodie, looking more like a civilian than the deadly Black Widow.
At the sound of your approach, she looks up, her lips curving into her signature smirk. There’s a glint in her eyes that feels heavy, almost expectant, as she pushes off the wall. Before you even reach her side, she silently extends her hand toward you—an open invitation she’s been offering more and more lately.
It’s a quiet, domestic gesture that still catches you off guard. As you slip your hand into hers, feeling the familiar warmth of her palm, you can’t help but marvel at how much your relationship has changed. She always insists on walking you back to your quarters, joking that you’d get lost without her, but the way she holds onto you feels like more than just a guide.
It’s a dizzying contrast to the woman you met months ago. Sometimes, when she squeezes your hand or offers you a warm smile, you still see the ghost of the cold mask she wore the day you first met.
The memory of that mission is still sharp. Your team had been chosen as backup for the Avengers—a standard data retrieval with too many variables. You were assigned to follow the infamous Black Widow. Back then, "Natasha" didn't exist. She was just a shadow in tactical gear, one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s greatest assets.
You had tried to bridge the gap during the transport, offering a polite, "Hi—"
"Just follow orders and stay out of my way," she’d snapped. She hadn't even looked at you, her eyes fixed on her gear, dismissing your entire existence with a single breath.
Yikes, you had thought, adjusting the holsters on your leg. So much for getting along.
The jet had touched down shortly after, and the mission began before you could even blink. Natasha was the leader and you quietly followed her as the team cleared the area. That is, until the variables S.H.I.E.L.D ignored came screaming into play. A hidden pressure plate triggered an explosion that buckled the hallway you were scouting, the ceiling groaned as it began to rain concrete.
Without a second though, you grabbed the back of Natasha’s tactical suit and lunged forward, clearing the collapse just as the hallway crumbled into a wall of stone behind you. You stood there for a heartbeat in the settling dust, breathing heavily, only for the silence to be shattered by the thud of combat boots.
Enemy agents swarmed the room from the far end. In the chaos of the crossfire, a stray bullet tore through Natasha’s thigh. You saw her try to take a step only for her to stumble and was forced to one knee.
You didn't think twice. You stepped in front of her, planting your feet and returning fire with focused precision. You didn't stop until the last enemy fell, leaving the room in a ringing, heavy silence.
Dropping your weapon to the side, you immediately knelt in the dust, ripping a pack of gauze from your med-kit. You pressed it firmly against her wound, but you felt her rough, tactical glove catch your wrists, trying to shove your hands away.
You met her piercing green eyes with a glare of your own. “Stop,” you commanded, your voice labored but steady. “I’m already holding pressure.”
She was dangerously pale, her breath coming out ragged. Even wounded, she tried to sharpen her gaze into something lethal. “I didn’t need you to protect me,” she hissed, her fingers digging into your skin. “Don’t try to act like a hero.”
“Isn’t that how you try to act every day?” you bit back. Then, you let your voice soften, your thumb brushing unintentionally against the edge of her glove. “I don’t need to be a hero, and I wasn't trying to be. But if me playing hero is what kept you alive today, then that’s fine. You can be mad at me later—right now, you’re going to let me treat your injury.”
Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of her. A heavy sigh escaped her instead. She scanned your face, her green eyes searching for something, before finally dropping her gaze.
She reached for her own med-kit just as you reached out to stop her. She brushed your hand away with a roll of her eyes, but the movement lacked its previous bite. “Fine, 'Hero.' Keep pressure on my leg since you’re so insistent.”
Before you could respond, she reached her hand toward your neck. You jolted as a sharp rush of pain flared from your throat. You hadn't even realized a bullet had grazed you, missing your carotid artery by a terrifyingly small margin.
“Let me take care of your wounds at least,” she murmured. You tried to flinch away from the sting, but she caught your chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she held you in place. “Stay still, will you?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritability, though her eyes were uncharacteristically soft as she watched the blood seeping through the gauze.
She was looking at the wound as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “For protecting me.”
Your eyes widened. You could tell by the slight tremor in her touch that she wasn’t used to being the one who needed shielding. Her expression was becoming unsure, so you didn’t let her sit in the feeling for long.
“No problem at all, Miss Widow,” you teased, a playful lilt returning to your voice. “Happy to be your hero today.”
You let out a breathless laugh, the movement caused her hand to shift against your skin. Natasha met your eyes with a perfectly deadpan stare, though the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable.
“I so want to take that back,” she said flatly, her eyes lingering on your neck for a second too long.
The moment of quiet was shattered as Captain America burst through the rubble, his shield clearing the path for the rest of the team. In the chaos of extraction, you were pulled in separate directions. You were shuffled onto a transport jet where medics worked on your neck, while Natasha was rushed ahead—her blood loss had been significant, her face a ghostly shade of pale as they lifted her onto a gurney.
By the time you landed at the Tower, she was already gone. You spent the next few hours in the medbay getting stitched up, feeling a strange hollowness now that the adrenaline had faded. Thankfully, your team had emerged with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises, but your mind kept drifting back to the slight rasp of Natasha’s voice when she thanked you
You figured that was it. You were on different levels. She was an Avenger and you were merely a team leader for the backup team. You’d go back to your separate lives and meet the next time the Avengers required assistance.
You didn't expect to see her again so soon.
A few days later, as you exited the training room after a light workout, you froze. Leaning against the wall beside the door was Natasha. She looked better—her color had returned—but she was propped up by a crutch under her arm, the wrapping surrounding her leg visible under the fabric of her sweatpants.
A relieved smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “I don’t think you should be training, Miss Widow,” you said, your voice warm.
“Just Natasha is fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding more like she was trying—and failing—to be exasperated with you. She shifted her weight on the crutch, her green eyes scanning the fresh stitches on your neck. Her gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away.
“I’m not here to train. I was just... passing by the wing after getting cleared to leave. I’m off missions for a few weeks.” She cleared her throat, gesturing vaguely toward the residential hallway. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Since I’m already here.”
You knew the residential floor was in the opposite direction of the medbay, and there was absolutely no way she just happened to have passed by this area. You felt like there was more to it but you didn't want to press her.
“I would’ve been so lonely on that five-minute walk by myself,” you teased, your eyes filled with a playful mirth. “Though I will say, I’ll be walking. It’ll be more of a hobble for you.”
She let out a dry, short laugh. “Shut up and keep your pace down, Hero.”
That was months ago. Now, there are no crutches or excuses—just Natasha. She’s become someone you look forward to seeing every day. Even though you were just friends, you couldn't help but feel like there was something more bubbling under the surface.
As you walk, your thumb finds its way across the back of her hand. Her skin always feels a little cool, a sharp contrast to yours, which always seems to run warm. She responds by squeezing your hand more firmly, and when you steal a glance at her, she’s wearing a tiny, private smile. She keeps her gaze on the hallway, guiding the two of you until you finally reach your door.
Your heart sinks a little when you see the metal nameplate. The walk is always too short, and the thought of letting go already feels like a loss.
The first time she reached for your hand, it had caught you completely off guard. Now, it’s just a part of the day—a quiet ritual that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbles. She sounds a little bummed, like she’s just as unready for the walk to end as you are. “Same time?”
“Tomorrow,” you promise softly.
You honestly wonder how she manages to find the time for this every day. You wonder if she’d ever do this for anyone else, but the way she looks at you—as if you’re the only person in the entire building worth her attention—makes you believe this is just for you.
She slowly starts to pull away, her fingertips sliding across your palm and down the length of your fingers, dragging out the contact until the very last second. She waits until you’ve stepped inside and turned back toward her to give her one last smile before she finally heads off, her steps light with a subtle, happy bounce that says more than she ever could.
—
It starts gradually—the need to feel her more. She invites you to watch a movie with the Avengers, whom you thankfully have a good relationship with. She leads you to the couch, letting you sit first before sinking down so close that you can feel the heat of her thigh against yours. She turns to you, her gentle gaze meeting yours for a second, before she turns back toward the screen as the movie begins.
You find yourself tuned into her every move. You feel her tense during the suspenseful scenes and relax during the quiet ones. Those little tells her body gives—the glimpses she gives you—send a rush of warmth through you. Eventually, you can’t help but watch her instead of the screen.
Without really thinking about it, you reach for her hand where it rests on her thigh. You intertwine your fingers in that familiar way, the ritual you usually save for after your workouts. Your hands are both a little rough from training, but in this moment, all you can feel is the overwhelming softness she brings to your life.
You look down at your joined hands, your fingertips dragging across her palm. You find a small scab that has formed there and rub it gently before your fingers drift down to the underside of her wrist. The skin there is pale, and you can faintly see the blue-green veins underneath.
An injury brought you together, but you won't let it happen again. You promise that to yourself as you trace the veins that travel from her wrist to her palm.
Suddenly, Natasha’s hand envelopes yours, stopping your movements. You look up to find her already staring at you, her eyes unbearably tender.
“You know…” she whispers, her voice low over the sound of the movie, “that’s the first time you’ve held my hand first.”
Your lips curve into a playful, soft smile—the kind you save just for her. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
Your voice matches her quiet whisper, but the happiness in your tone is obvious.
“I wasn’t,” she whispers back, stubbornly turning her head to face the screen again.
“Mhmm,” you murmur. You intertwine your fingers with hers again, your thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the back of her hand.
As you watch her, you notice the tips of her ears turning a faint, tell-tale pink. You smile to yourself, leaning back into the cushions. She’s acting tough, but you catch her glancing your way throughout the rest of the movie, her hand squeezing yours just a little tighter every time.
—
A member of your team went against orders during a base raid today, and the fallout was messy. Thankfully, the injuries were minimal, though you’re currently sporting a jagged cut above your eyebrow. You haven't even had time to reach the medbay before the other team leader, John, corners you in the hall.
He’s relentless, getting right in your face and shouting. You try to resolve it calmly, but he doesn't seem to care. Your apology is just noise to him. His hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, his fingers digging in so hard you know they'll leave bruises. You try to wrench your arm free, but the exhaustion from the mission has sapped all your strength.
When he finally lets go, it’s not because he’s finished. You look up to find Natasha standing there, her eyes filled with a terrifying, steady fire. She steps directly in front of you, her hand immediately finding your wrist. She caresses the skin where the bruises are already starting to bloom, her touch a stark contrast to the cold stare she’s leveling at John.
She points a finger at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The temperature in the hallway seems to drop twenty degrees. She sounds like ice, yet she continues to stroke your wrist with her thumb, a secret pocket of warmth meant only for you. John starts stuttering out excuses that don't make sense, and you feel Natasha’s hand tense against yours. She’s ready to tear him apart.
You wrap your hand around her index finger, squeezing lightly—a quiet warning to dial it back. Her shoulders drop a fraction, but she isn't done.
“There’s a proper procedure for everything,” she snaps, her voice like a whip. “You think you can just—”
She falters when you lean forward, resting your forehead right between her shoulder blades. It’s a bold move, and you feel the way her breath hitches. Her voice loses its edge, sounding much weaker than it did a second ago. “You can... explain yourself later. Go.”
John doesn't need to be told twice. He scampers off, looking genuinely terrified.
Natasha turns to face you, a slight pout on her lips and an annoyed look in her eyes. “I was defending you, you know,” she says, sounding disappointed. “Until you distracted me.”
“I distracted you?” you ask innocently. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” You smile sweetly at her.
She tries to glare at you, but she can’t quite hold it against your smile. She sighs, looking like she knows she’s already lost. She reaches up, her thumb brushing gently over the cut above your eyebrow.
“Let’s get this checked out,” she says softly. She interlocks her fingers with yours, leading you toward the medbay. She doesn't let go once—not even while the doctor is putting in the stitches.
—
You sit directly behind Natasha in the conference room as Steve goes over the mission details. The stakes are high and the intel is thin—exactly the kind of unknown that makes your skin crawl. You’ll be on Natasha’s team again, which usually brings you relief, but the variables are stacking up. HYDRA is suspected of developing a massive explosive, and S.H.I.E.L.D needs the data destroyed yesterday.
The anxiety starts to settle in your chest. Without realizing it, you dig your nail into your palm, only stopping when a sharp sting of pain tells you you’ve drawn blood. Your hands won't stay still.
You’re trapped in your own head when you feel something warm tap against the top of your thigh. You recognize the weight immediately. Natasha’s hand rests there, palm up, even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the formations Steve is displaying.
You place your hand in hers. The moment your palms press together, your heart rate starts to slow. You catch a glimpse of those blue-green veins on her wrist, and the promise you made to yourself echoes in your mind. Never again.
You relax into your chair, your fingertips tapping against hers in a rhythm only the two of you know. You catch the slight curve of her lips—a move so imperceptible no one else in the room would notice. But you always have your eyes on her.
Her fingertips wiggle against yours, as if she’s playing a game, and you respond by squeezing her hand lightly. It still surprises you how much strength is hidden in her thin fingers. You let go just enough to trap her middle finger between your thumb and index finger. You begin to drag them up and down, feeling the ridges of her skin and rubbing your thumb against the smooth surface of her nail.
You get lost in the motion, alternating between her middle and ring fingers. You trace the calluses in a repetitive, slow, up-and-down stroke.
A minute passes before you feel Natasha’s hand suddenly tense. Her fingers curl, trapping yours tightly against her palm. She turns around in her chair, and your breath catches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her usual composure is gone.
“Are you messing with me?” she whispers. Even in a whisper, you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.
“What do you mean?” you whisper back, tilting your head. You were just playing with her hand like you always do to stay calm.
She gives you a hard, searching stare. Like she’s looking for some kind of hidden agenda, but after seeing the genuine cluelessness in your eyes, she lets out a heavy sigh.
“Do you not like it?” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sad.
The tips of her ears turn a deep, vivid red. She looks like she’s fighting an internal battle, finally covering her face with her free hand.
“No…” she mumbles through her fingers. “You can continue.”
You smile happily at her as she turns back to the front with a low, frustrated groan.
—
You kept your promise, though you can sense Natasha still feels a flicker of guilt. She keeps glancing at the white bandage wrapped around your bicep while she speaks to one of Tony’s business partners. The mission was successful against all odds, so Tony is hosting a victory party—though you suspect he would’ve found any excuse to throw one.
You and Natasha are seated at the bar, finally taking a breather after greeting team members and guests. She looks beautiful in her grey dress. The fabric hugs her curves perfectly, and in the dim lounge lighting, she looks almost ethereal.
You reach out, resting your hand against her waist. You feel the subtle flex of her abdomen under your fingertips as she turns toward you. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she reaches up and hooks a finger under the strap of your navy dress, sliding it back onto your shoulder where it had slipped.
Then, instead of pulling away, she drops her hand back down and covers yours, pinning your palm firmly against her waist.
It’s a possessive, quiet gesture. She continues talking to the guest, but her thumb starts to stroke the back of your hand, holding you there as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. Being this close to her—feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress—makes that familiar flutter in your chest turn into heavy, quick beats.
You watch her profile as she continues to speak. The polite smiles and practiced pleasantries she gives the room are a stark contrast to the deep, late-night conversations you share, or the private smiles she saves just for you. Between the adrenaline of the mission and the noise of the crowd, you can feel your social battery starting to wane. You’re just grateful that Natasha always seems to notice. She effortlessly shifts the focus of the conversation to herself whenever you start to go quiet.
Needing to feel her groundedness, you gently pull her hand from her waist and rest it on the wooden bartop. You cover it with both of yours, pressing your palms against the front and back of her hand. It always makes you feel better, as if simply touching her can transfer her calm strength directly to you.
You glance down at her hand, noticing the neat nail polish she’s applied. The dark red color shines softly in the low, amber light of the lounge. They look perfect—sleek and sharp, just like her. Yet, the ends are rounded out, giving them a subtle softness that also feels just like the woman she is when the world isn't watching.
You find yourself tracing the shape of her nails, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you get lost in the repetitive, soothing motion. To anyone else, you’re just a pair of friends sitting at the bar. But to you, this is the only place in the room that feels like home.
You pause, your fingertip hovering. Something feels different.
You trace the tip of your index finger across the tops of her nails again, more carefully this time. There is no question about it. The nails on her ring and middle fingers are shorter—filed down significantly more than the others.
Did she accidentally trim them too short? you wonder. You continue to drag your fingertip across the top ridge of those two specific nails, the texture smooth and consistent. Something tells you it isn’t a mistake, though. Natasha does everything with intention. She doesn't just slip up with a nail file.
You drag your fingertip across even slower, feeling how perfectly rounded they are. It’s as if she took extra care to make sure there wasn't a single jagged edge left. Maybe they broke during the mission and she had no choice but to even them out, you tell yourself, nodding slightly as if that answer finally makes sense.
Satisfied with your theory, you bring her middle and ring fingers together, trapping them against your palm. You run your fingertip over both nails at once, over and over, lost in the repetitive sensation.
You’re so focused on the task that you don’t notice the way Natasha has gone completely still. The guest she was talking to is still halfway through a sentence, but Natasha isn't even pretending to listen anymore. Her hand is trembling in yours, and her breath is coming out in shallow, shaky hitches that make the fabric of her dress flutter.
She turns sharply to you, her pupils dilating the second they meet your eyes, the green barely visible. They hold a heat you thought you’d imagined before, but seeing them now—raw and unhidden—you realize this isn’t the first time she's looked at you this way. She looks completely wrecked.
She leans in, her face so close that her breath fans against your ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”
Her voice is low, breathless, and heavy. The heat of her words makes a shiver race down your spine, pinning you to the barstool. You don't pull away. Instead, you rest your head lightly against hers.
“Testing?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine confusion.
She tilts her head, her lips so close that a slight upward tilt of your chin would bring them together. “Yes, testing. I let you get away with it during the mission briefing, but there’s no way you don't know what you’re doing.”
She presses the tips of those two specific fingers against your palm, stroking them downward. She repeats the motion, her gaze unwavering and intense.
“I just noticed they were shorter,” you murmur back, your heart hammering. “I was just wondering why. Is that... not okay?”
She lets out a ragged sigh against your lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Before you can get another word out, she presses her fingers harder into your palm, curling them slightly. “You really want to know why they’re shorter?” she asks, the hunger in her eyes finally spilling over.
You feel the heat radiating between you, the specific points where her fingertips are pressed into your skin beginning to sweat. You know there’s a deeper meaning to her words—something you’re right on the edge of understanding—but all you can focus on is the sheer weight of her desire. It’s intoxicating.
“Tell me why,” you breathe against her lips.
You hear her sharp intake of breath before she finally lets it go. Her lips meet yours as if she couldn't wait a single second longer. They move with an unrestrained, desperate hunger, her free hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold you in place. She’s all heat and when she lightly bites your bottom lip, a jolt of pure electricity leaves you breathless.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, both of your ragged breaths the only sound in the small space between you. Her eyes are dark, focused, and entirely yours. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“I’ll show you why,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy promise.
She interlocks her fingers with yours, tugging you toward the elevator with a purposeful stride. And she shows you why—over and over—all night long.
—
You wake to the soft, ticklish sensation of Natasha running her fingertips over your spine. Opening your eyes takes a bit of effort, and the first thing you see is the scattered evidence of last night. A collection of deep hickeys you left blooming just above her collarbone.
You reach out, pressing your thumb gently against the one with the darkest hue. Natasha flinches slightly, a small intake of breath catching in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. You look up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with a soft surprise that quickly melts into pure affection.
“This means you’re mine, you know,” you murmur, your voice still scratchy and deep from last night’s activities.
She smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they only do for you. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she reaches under the tangled sheets, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She presses firmly against a mark she left there, making you jolt.
“And this means you’re mine,” she teases, her voice a low hum.
Her expression softens as she leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels a lot like love. She pulls back just a fraction, a playful glint returning to her gaze as she looks at your hand resting near her heart.
“So…” she drawls out, her nails stroking your palm. “Were they short enough for you?”
—
What was supposed to be a 1-2k word short fic about something that happened at the bar last week turned into double the length because I started to think, "but how did they meet tho?" Then I figured I should make it a bit cutesy for all the cutie patootie readers. So yeah, this is how it ended up 😂 Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated :)
SA/N: My work schedule finally stabilized post earnings season and instead of resting up, I decided to watch an animated video on the entire history of Rome at 2 a.m then went down the rabbit hole and watched the history of Greece. Hope your guys' weekend has been well spent as well.
Summary: Natasha thought keeping things casual would be simple, that is, until the lines between what’s casual and what’s not start to blur.
Warnings: fluff, light angst, sexual themes
Words: 5768
The Avengers Compound kitchen is unusually calm that afternoon. Just the quiet hum of the coffee machine and the soft afternoon light spilling through the large windows as the two agents engage in a deeply serious debate.
“No, but listen,” Clint insists from the other side of the kitchen counter. “They made a good point.”
Natasha barely looks up from where she’s resting her forearms against the counter as she waits for her coffee to finish, but the faint curve of her lips shows she’s listening.
“If we put Thor’s hammer on some sort of tray,” Clint continues, gesturing with both hands to illustrate the concept, “and then pick up the tray…technically that counts as lifting the hammer, right?”
Natasha hums thoughtfully, tilting her head in exaggerated contemplation.
“Hmm,” she says slowly. “Interesting point.”
Clint brightens immediately.
“But,” Natasha adds, her green eyes glinting with amusement as she turns to him, “would it be you who’s worthy…or the tray?”
Clint opens his mouth and then pauses. His brows slowly knit together as he processes the loophole she just introduced.
Natasha watches him rub his chin in concentration, a small, amused huff leaving her nose. She shifts her weight slightly against the counter, enjoying the rare moment of downtime.
It’s peaceful, which is exactly why she doesn’t notice the footsteps approaching before a pair of arms suddenly slips around her waist from behind.
The action comes with a familiar ease as the warm body settle lightly against her back. Before she can turn, a chin rests comfortably on her shoulder.
“I know who’s worthy,” you murmur, your voice low as your words brush against the shell of her ear.
Natasha’s smirk appears instantly. She tilts her head just enough to glance at you from the corner of her eye, one brow arching in amusement.
“Do you now?” she asks, playing along.
You nod, a confident little grin spreading across your face.
“Mmmhmm.”
Your arms remain loosely wrapped around her waist, casual and unapologetic. One of your hands slips beneath the hem of her shirt, fingertips lightly brushing the skin at her side.
“And she’s pretty cute too,” you add offhandedly. “Especially when she wishes me luck before I leave for my mission.”
Natasha snorts softly under her breath.
“And if I don’t?”
“Then we’re going to have a problem,” you warn in playful threat.
Natasha simply raises her brow, unmoved by your words.
When it’s clear she’s not budging, you tilt your head and respond with an exaggerated pout, batting your eyelashes at her with ridiculous enthusiasm.
“Come on,” you say dramatically. “Don’t leave me hanging, Romanoff.”
Natasha chuckles at your antics, shaking her head. Still, she turns within your arms until she’s facing you. Her hands rise to your face, cupping it with easy familiarity as her thumbs brush gently across your cheeks.
For a moment, the playful noise of the room fades into the background.
“Good luck on your mission,” Natasha says softly.
Your smile appears instantly, but then—
Flick.
Her finger taps your forehead.
“Hey—!” you protest, instantly bringing your hands up to soothe the spot.
Natasha’s lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she adds.
You respond with an exaggerated pout.
Before you can retaliate, the calm kitchen atmosphere is abruptly interrupted as FRIDAY’s voice echoes through the room, calling your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested me to inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will leave without you.”
A beat passes before she continues.
“Fifty-eight…fifty-seven…fifty-six…”
You roll your eyes and sigh.
“Alright, guess I’m going now.”
You back away, already heading toward the doors, though you pause long enough to point a warning finger at Natasha.
“This isn’t over,” you tell her with mock seriousness. “I’m getting back at you when I return.”
Natasha leans casually against the counter again, folding her arms.
“Sure you will,” she replies, entirely unconvinced.
You point at her again as if issuing a formal threat. Then you disappear through the doors.
Natasha watches them slide shut behind you before a quiet chuckle escapes her.
When she turns back around, she finds Clint staring at her with a raised brow. It’s the look he gets when he thinks he’s figured something out.
Natasha narrows her eyes.
“What’s with your face?”
Clint leans forward slightly against the counter, folding his arms.
“So,” he says carefully, “are you two together now?”
Natasha’s expression immediately flattens.
“No,” she says, her tone firm. “You already know what kind of relationship I have with her.”
Clint waves his hand vaguely.
“Right, right. The whole casual friends-with-benefits situationship.”
He points toward the door you just exited through.
“However…”
Natasha already doesn’t like where this is going.
“…that just now seemed a bit on the coupley side of things.”
Natasha rolls her eyes at his ridiculous observation.
“It was a hug, Clint.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clint nods thoughtfully.
“I mean,” he continues, “Laura hugs me like that all the time.”
Natasha gives him an unimpressed stare at his comparison. What you did just now is not the same thing.
“It’s just a hug,” she insists.
“Sure,” Clint says with a shrug. Then he tilts his head slightly. “But have you seen her hug anyone else like that?”
Natasha opens her mouth, but then she pauses. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks about it.
Because…no. Not really.
You’re friendly. You joke with everyone. You throw your arms around someone’s shoulders sometimes during celebrations or victories.
But that kind of hug?
Arms around the waist. Chin on the shoulder. Body pressed against hers.
That was different. You don’t usually do affectionate stuff like that outside the bedroom.
Still, Natasha quickly pushes the thought aside.
You and she spent last night together. Maybe it was just leftover affection from that.
Except, for some reason, the thought of you hugging someone else like that causes a strange irritation in her chest.
Natasha frowns faintly at the feeling. Then she shakes her head, brushing the thought away.
“You’re overanalyzing,” she says firmly. “It meant nothing.”
Clint raises both hands in surrender.
“If you say so.”
His expression, however, clearly says he doesn’t believe her. Still, he’s learned not to push Natasha when she uses that tone.
Instead, he nods toward the counter again.
“So,” Clint says casually, returning to the earlier debate, “picking up the tray with Thor’s hammer on top?”
Natasha smirks again.
“Doesn’t make you worthy.”
Clint sighs dramatically.
“Damn.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
The room is quiet.
Not the brittle, suffocating silence that sometimes settles over the Compound after a mission. Not the kind that presses in from all sides and demands to be filled.
This one is softer. Almost fragile. The kind that lingers in the aftermath of something warm.
Natasha lies awake on her back, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her.
Sleep refuses to come.
It hovers just out of reach, close enough that she can feel it pulling at her, but never quite close enough to take hold.
Beside her, your body is warm. You’re tucked into her side beneath the sheets, your presence a steady, grounding weight against her. Your arm rests loosely around her waist, fingers curled just slightly against her stomach like you’d fallen asleep mid-thought.
Your breathing is slow and even. Soft against her skin.
You usually aren’t here this long.
Most nights follow a pattern—one that neither of you ever bothered to name, but both of you understand perfectly. It starts the same. You come together, lose yourselves for a while, share a few quiet moments afterward. Sometimes, a conversation drifts lazily between nothing and everything. A few smirks, maybe a teasing remark.
And then you leave.
Always before it lingers too long. Always before it can become something else.
But tonight is different.
You had just gotten back from a mission, longer than usual, rougher by the look of it. Natasha had seen it in the way your shoulders carried tension, in the way your movements were just a fraction slower than normal. And so, the moment you stepped off the jet, she had taken you into her arms and pulled you straight into her room.
Instinct. Habit. Maybe something else.
Clothes hadn’t lasted long. They never do.
But afterward, after a momentary respite of just losing yourselves in each other, instead of leaving, you had just curled into her side, exhaled once, and fallen asleep almost instantly, like your body had finally given out the moment it felt safe enough to.
And Natasha had let you stay.
Slowly, her gaze shifts, and she looks down at you.
Your face is half-hidden against her collarbone, your hair slightly disheveled, messy in that way that comes from both sleep and everything that came before it.
For a long moment, she simply watches you.
There’s something unguarded about you like this. Something softer than the version of you she usually sees—the one who jokes, who fights, who moves through the world with sharp edges and practiced confidence. This version of you seems like it’s reserved for her eyes only.
And Natasha doesn’t know what to do with that.
Inevitably, her mind drifts. Back to the kitchen. The hug. Clint’s words.
Her chest tightens slightly at the memory, the feeling subtle but persistent. Annoyingly so. And with it comes the thought she had pushed down at the time.
Did it mean anything?
“You’re thinking really loud,” you mumble against her skin. The words are rough with sleep, barely formed, but they cut cleanly through her thoughts.
Natasha blinks, startled, her gaze snapping back down to you.
Your eyes are only half-open, unfocused, like you’re hovering somewhere between awake and asleep.
“You’re awake?” she murmurs quietly.
“Barely,” you grumble.
You shift slightly, adjusting your position so your chin rests more comfortably against her shoulder. Your arm wraps firmly around her waist in an absent, instinctive movement.
Natasha’s gaze flickers downward to your hand, resting against her stomach. Then back to your face.
“What was with that hug before you left?” she asks quietly.
You lift your head just enough to look at her properly, blinking like you’re trying to piece together what she’s talking about.
“What hug?”
“The one in the kitchen,” she clarifies. “Before your mission.”
Your brows draw together slightly.
“What about it?”
Natasha shifts onto her side, propping her head up with one hand so she can see you properly. The movement creates a small distance between you, just enough for her to notice.
“I don’t know,” she says slowly. “Clint was saying some things, and it just seemed…”
She trails off, searching.
“…intimate.”
The word lingers between you.
You go still for a second, thinking.
“Oh.”
It’s quiet. Almost too casual. But something changes.
Without seeming to realize it, your arm slips away from around her waist. It’s subtle. But the absence is immediate.
The space you leave behind feels colder than it should.
Natasha hates how quickly she notices.
You run a hand through your hair, still looking thoughtful.
“I guess I didn’t really think about it,” you admit. “It just sort of happened.”
Natasha nods faintly. That’s what she expected. Clint had been reading into it. Overanalyzing, like he always does. The hug didn’t mean anything.
It was just—
Nothing.
For some reason, that revelation doesn’t bring the relief she thought it would.
You sit up with a quiet stretch, a tired yawn slipping past your lips. The sheets fall away from you as you move, revealing the tank top and underwear you must’ve pulled on at some point.
Natasha’s eyes track the motion automatically. She remembers exactly how those clothes had ended up on the floor earlier.
The urgency. The heat. The way neither of you had slowed down long enough to think.
Now, you stand beside the bed, scanning the floor for the rest of your clothes.
The contrast is jarring.
Natasha stays quiet, watching as you dress—pulling your shirt back on, stepping into your pants, smoothing each fold as if putting yourself back together piece by piece.
When you finish, you turn toward her again. You lower yourself onto the mattress beside her, leaning in. Your hand lifts to her chin, gently guiding her eyes back to yours.
Then your lips press softly against hers.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers curling lightly into your hair as she kisses you back.
For a brief moment, the thought crosses her mind.
Pull you down. Keep you here. Start it all over again. Lose herself in something easier than this feeling sitting in her chest.
But before she can act on it, you pull away.
“Sorry about that,” you murmur, your voice still close enough that she can feel the words against her lips. “I’ll try not to do anything like that again.”
Natasha’s brows knit slightly. She tilts her head upward, chasing your mouth for another brief kiss.
“It didn’t bother me,” she says quietly.
You smile, soft and small.
But when she leans in again, you pull back. Just enough to be out of reach. Her hand lingers in the air where you had been.
“But you’re right,” you continue gently. “That kind of thing’s too intimate.”
Your expression softens further.
“At least when we’re not hooking up.”
The words settle heavily in the quiet room.
“We agreed this was casual,” you remind her.
Natasha nods slowly. She remembers how this all started. Months ago, at one of Tony’s infamous parties. Too much music. Too much alcohol. Too many people packed into the living room.
The night had blurred into laughter, dancing, and eventually, one very impulsive decision.
The morning after had been awkward. Not because either of you regretted it, but because you both understood exactly what it could become.
And what that would mean.
In this line of work, relationships don’t come easy.
They come with risk. With distance. With the constant possibility of loss.
Neither of you had ever been particularly successful at making relationships work in the past. Neither of you had ever been good at holding onto something like that.
So Natasha made it simple.
No expectations. No attachments. Just something to take the edge off between missions. Something steady in the middle of chaos.
And it has worked so far.
You lean down again, pressing one last, gentle kiss to her lips.
“Let’s not blur the boundaries, Natasha,” you say softly. Then you pull away. You slide off the bed, your movements quiet as you head toward the door.
“Sweet dreams.”
The door clicks shut behind you, and the room falls silent again.
Natasha exhales slowly, her head sinking back against the pillow. Relief settles over her. Or something like it.
The misunderstanding is gone.
Everything is exactly what it’s supposed to be.
What you have is casual. Simple. Safe. It’s better this way.
She repeats it to herself as she closes her eyes.
Again. And again. And again.
Eventually, sleep begins to take her.
But no matter how many times she repeats it, it doesn’t quite erase the faint, persistent ache in her chest.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha takes a slow, measured sip from her glass, letting the burn of the liquor settle before she swallows. To anyone else in the crowded living room, she looks perfectly at ease, just leaning casually against the bar at one of Tony Stark’s increasingly extravagant parties.
The room is alive with movement and sound. Music pulses through hidden speakers, low and rhythmic, blending with the hum of overlapping conversations. Laughter erupts from every corner. Glasses clink in celebration of yet another successful mission. The Avengers are relaxed, off-duty, and untouchable for the night.
Everything appears normal.
But if anyone cared to look closely, they would notice the cracks beneath her surface.
The subtle tension in her posture. The way her fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around the stem of her glass. The faint clench of her jaw.
And most telling of all, the fact that Natasha’s gaze hasn’t shifted in several minutes.
She isn’t watching the party. She’s watching you.
When you told her you would avoid doing things like the hug, the things that blurred lines, it hadn’t seemed like a big deal at the time. A new boundary drawn, respected without argument.
At first, Natasha thought she wouldn’t even notice the difference.
But she had been wrong.
It started small.
A movie night in the common room.
Where you used to drop onto the couch beside her without hesitation, your shoulder pressed comfortably against hers, your presence warm and familiar. Sometimes you would lean into her without thinking, your head resting briefly against her arm as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Now, you sit on the opposite end. A pillow placed neatly between you two, creating a quiet, deliberate space.
Then in the gym.
After sparring, when both of you were catching your breath, Natasha had paused in front of you, expecting, without thinking, that same absentminded gesture where your hand fixes a loose strand of hair behind her ear as you made some teasing remark about her fighting skills.
But this time, you passed right by her, reaching behind her instead and grabbing your towel and water bottle without so much as grazing her skin.
Even during mission briefings, the difference was impossible to ignore.
You used to lean over her shoulder to read the screen, your presence close behind her. She could feel your warmth at her back, your breath near her ear as you murmured observations only she could hear.
Now, you stood at the table with your own tablet.
Still beside her but never close.
Always careful. Always just far enough away.
Natasha swirls the amber liquid in her glass, watching the way it catches the light.
So this is what you meant. This is the new boundary.
And she had agreed to it.
So why does it feel like something is missing? Why does the absence of those touches that “meant nothing” feel so…loud?
Her gaze sharpens slightly.
And more importantly, why are you giving them to someone else?
Natasha’s jaw tightens at the sight.
Across the room, you’re laughing. There’s a looseness to your movements, a little more relaxed, your smile a little brighter. Tony’s been generous with the drinks tonight, and it shows. You’re not out of control. Just…lighter.
Your arm is draped casually around Carol Danvers’ shoulders as the two of you talk, the two of you caught in your own bubble of conversation.
Carol laughs, her head tipping back at something you say. And you laugh with her. Then, without hesitation, your arms slip around her from behind, pulling her into a playful hug.
Natasha’s grip tightens around her glass.
It should mean nothing. It is nothing.
Just like how it is for her.
But to her irritation, the hug lingers. Your arms don’t drop right away from the other woman.
Carol nudges you with her elbow and says something in response, prompting you to lean closer so you can hear her over the music. You lean in a little too much, your face drifting into her space with an ease that feels overly familiar.
A sudden, sharp heat twists in Natasha’s chest.
Before she fully registers her own reaction, she downs the rest of her drink in a single motion. The glass meets the counter with a quiet yet decisive sound.
Then she moves.
Natasha crosses the room with clear intent, weaving through groups of people without slowing.
You’re still smiling when she reaches you, still caught mid-laugh as you turn to greet her.
“Hey—”
Her hand closes firmly around your wrist as she pulls you away from the other woman. You look at her in surprise, but you do not resist as she leads you through the crowd.
Behind her, Carol calls out, her tone light and amused.
“Hey, Romanoff, what’s the rush?”
Natasha does not respond or look back. She continues forward, guiding you toward the hallway.
You glance over your shoulder, your smile lingering.
“I’ll catch up with you later, Danvers!” you call.
The promise sharpens Natasha’s irritation. Within moments, she pulls you into her room.
The door closes behind you with a quiet click, and the atmosphere shifts immediately.
You move first. Your arms slide around her neck as you pull her into a deep kiss.
Natasha responds without hesitation. Her hands grip the front of your shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as she kisses you back.
There is nothing gentle about it. The kiss is intense and consuming as she steps forward, erasing the space between you until your back meets the door with a soft impact.
She barely notices. All she feels is the heat building inside her.
For a brief moment, an image flashes through her mind of you standing with Carol, your arms around her, leaning in without hesitation.
The feeling tightens inside her, and Natasha presses into the kiss with greater intensity.
Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place as though anchoring you exactly where she wants you. Where she feels she needs you.
Mine.
The thought hits her before she can stop it. She resents it immediately, hating how natural it feels and how good it sounds.
Because the truth is, you do not belong to her. You never have. That was always the agreement.
When she pulls back, it is only for a brief breath. Her eyes move over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks, your softened expression, and the way you are looking at her, completely unaware of the conflict inside her.
“Hey, what’s wr—”
She silences you with another forceful kiss.
Your words dissolve into a soft sound against her lips.
Her hands rise to cup your face, drawing you closer as though she fears you might slip away if she lets go.
“Natasha…” you murmur.
The sound of her name on your lips sends a dull ache through her chest.
Still, she continues to kiss you. Again and again, her lips lingering briefly before moving to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your cheek, and then back again. The rhythm becomes restless and searching, almost desperate, as though she is trying to remind both of you of something unspoken.
Eventually, your hands move to her waist and pull her closer.
The contact draws a quiet breath from her.
Your touch feels exactly the same as it always has, and she hates how much she has missed it.
Your fingers trace along her sides and slip beneath the hem of her shirt. The warmth of your touch against her skin sends a shiver through her.
But the sensation is complicated.
Even as she leans into it, something inside her aches. This is the only time you touch her like this now, hidden away behind closed doors.
Outside of this space, there is distance. No casual contact, no easy closeness, and no quiet affection shared without thought.
Yet tonight, Carol received that version of you.
The realization sharpens the ache. For a moment, Natasha allows herself to sink back into the kiss, into the feeling of you, into the illusion of being chosen.
But the thought does not fade.
Only here. Only like this.
Abruptly, Natasha pulls away. Her hand catches your wrist, stopping your movement beneath her shirt.
She shakes her head.
“I can’t do this.”
The words feel as though they tear something open inside her.
You blink at her, confusion crossing your face. Your head tilts slightly as you try to understand, and then your expression softens.
“Are you worried about the drinks?” you ask gently. “I’m fine. I only had a few.”
She shakes her head again and steps back, creating distance between you.
“No,” she says quietly, gesturing between you. “I can’t do this with you anymore.”
The words settle heavily in the space between you.
Your hands lift slightly, as if you intend to reach for her, but you stop yourself at the last second and let them fall back.
For a moment, you simply look at her. Then something in your expression shifts. Your arms fold loosely, your fingers gripping your sleeves.
“Oh.”
The sound is soft, almost lost, but the way your shoulders drop afterward makes her chest tighten painfully.
You look hurt, though you try not to show it.
Every instinct in Natasha urges her to move, to close the distance, to pull you back and say something that will erase that look from your face.
But she remains still.
What right does she have?
She agreed to something simple and uncomplicated.
Yet standing here, watching you try to act as though this does not matter, she finally faces the truth she has been avoiding.
She does not want something simple. She does not want something casual.
She wants you.
Not just in this room or within some boundary. She wants you openly and completely.
The realization arrives all at once, clear and undeniable, and entirely unhelpful.
Because the words still refuse to come.
You offer her a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
“If that’s what you want, Natasha,” you say softly.
Her throat tightens as she tries to respond, but no words follow.
You nod once and turn toward the door. The quiet click as it closes behind you echoes through the room.
Natasha remains where she is long after you have gone, her chest tight and aching.
Only now does she understand why.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
Natasha exhales slowly, releasing a quiet sigh as she leans her hip against the kitchen counter. One hand remains loosely wrapped around a ceramic mug whose warmth has long since faded, yet she makes no effort to refill it.
She is waiting, though she cannot fully define what she expects. Perhaps she is waiting for the coffee machine to finish, for the silence to shift, or for something deeper that she cannot quite name.
The steady drip of coffee fills the otherwise empty room.
It reminds her of how things were only weeks ago, before everything changed and before words were spoken that cannot be taken back.
Sunlight stretches across the polished countertops, catching along the edges of steel and glass. Somewhere within the walls, the faint hum of the tower’s systems continues, a constant reminder that life is still moving forward.
However, she doesn’t feel as though she is moving with it.
Her thoughts wander without restraint, circling back to that previous night. Every word, every glance, and every moment she wishes she could change plays repeatedly in her mind.
A dull ache settles in her chest, familiar and unwelcome. Despite how hard she tried to ignore it, it never truly fades, instead lingering with quiet persistence.
She closes her eyes briefly, hoping for relief, but nothing changes.
The sound of footsteps echoes faintly from the hallway. The rhythm is steady and unmistakable.
Natasha’s attention sharpens immediately, her body reacting before her thoughts fully catch up. She glances over her shoulder and straightens as soon as she sees you standing in the doorway.
You appear just as surprised to find her there.
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you feels heavier than it should, weighed down by everything that was said. The silence stretches, pressing in from every direction.
Eventually, you offer a small smile. It is soft and genuine, familiar in a way that causes something in her chest to tighten.
But you do not step closer.
Instead, you remain where you are, leaning casually against the doorframe as though an invisible boundary separates you. The distance itself is not large, but it is undeniable.
And Natasha notices it immediately.
You clear your throat, the sound quiet but enough to break the tension.
“I am heading out for another mission today,” you say, your voice careful and measured. Your head tilts slightly, a habit she knows well, one that always made her smile without effort. “Wish me luck?”
The words are the same as always. The tone, the phrasing, and the moment itself are all familiar.
Everything surrounding them, however, is different.
There is space between you now, a deliberate distance that marks the line she has drawn.
Natasha swallows, her throat suddenly dry.
She understands what this moment means.
You are trying in your own way. You are trying to show her that things are still manageable between you, that you respect her decision, and that you can stand here and speak with her as though nothing has truly been lost.
Her fingers tighten slightly around the mug before she sets it down with a soft clink.
“Good luck,” she says quietly.
The words feel small and inadequate, but they are all she can manage.
Your smile lifts just a fraction more, and relief flickers across your expression. It is as though you expected resistance and are grateful not to find it. You nod once.
“Thanks, Natasha.”
Just like that, you accept it. You seem satisfied with that small offering, with the careful and restrained version of whatever exists between you now. You push away from the doorway and begin to turn, ready to leave things exactly as they are.
That is what breaks her composure.
It is the ease with which you accept the distance without question.
Something twists sharply in Natasha’s chest. In that instant, with startling clarity, she realizes she cannot continue like this. She cannot stand there pretending that polite smiles and quiet farewells are enough.
Her body moves before the thought fully settles.
“Wait.”
The word is soft, barely above a breath, but it stops you immediately.
You pause mid-step and glance back over your shoulder, confusion flickering across your face.
Natasha is already moving. She crosses the kitchen quickly, her steps decisive as she closes the space between you before doubt can interfere.
Before you can react, her hands rise, warm and steady as they cup your face.
Then she kisses you.
There is no hesitation, no restraint, no careful distance. There is only her, choosing you.
A soft, startled sound escapes you, muffled against her lips. For a brief moment, you freeze, caught off guard as you try to process what is happening.
Then instinct takes over.
Your hands find her waist and pull her closer as you return the kiss.
In that instant, everything falls back into place. The warmth, the familiarity, and the connection that never truly disappeared all return at once.
Natasha leans into you and deepens the kiss, pouring weeks of restraint, frustration, and unspoken emotion into it. Her grip tightens slightly, as though anchoring herself, as though afraid this moment might slip away again.
Your hold mirrors hers, firm and certain.
When she finally pulls back, both of you are breathing unevenly. She rests her forehead against yours, her thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as she steadies herself in the moment.
“Don’t do anything reckless,” she murmurs.
The words are familiar, but their meaning has changed. This time, they carry everything she left unsaid before.
Your eyes open slowly as you study her face, and when your expression softens, Natasha knows that you understand.
This was not an accident or a lapse in judgment. It was a deliberate choice.
Before you can respond, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the moment as she calls your name.
“Mr. Stark has requested that I inform you that if you are not in the hangar bay in the next sixty seconds, he will—”
“FRIDAY,” you interrupt calmly, “I got it.”
You do not look away from Natasha.
There is a brief pause.
“…Understood.”
Silence settles again, softer now.
Your hands remain at her waist, your fingers idly tugging at the edge of her top.
“So,” you say carefully, a hint of teasing in your voice, “are we establishing new boundaries?”
The question sounds light and joking, but Natasha knows what you’re really asking. You’re trying to understand what she is offering.
Natasha exhales sharply, her nose wrinkling slightly in slight irritation at the word.
“Yeah, new boundaries,” she mutters.
Your brow lifts slightly.
“And they are...?”
She rolls her eyes, though there is no real sharpness in the gesture. When she looks back at you, her expression is completely unguarded.
“Whatever lets me love you.”
The honesty is blunt and unfiltered in a way that’s entirely her.
For a moment, you simply stare at her in surprise. Then your smile spreads slowly, bright and certain. Your hands shift, slipping just beneath the hem of her shirt as your fingertips brush against her warm skin.
Natasha relaxes at the contact. Her eyes flutter closed, and a quiet sigh escapes her as relief washes over her.
The distance is gone.
Your arms wrap fully around her, pulling her into a tight embrace.
She melts into you instantly, burying her face against your shoulder as though it is the most natural place for her to be, as though she is finally allowed to rest there.
For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then, softly near your ear, Natasha speaks with quiet curiosity.
“That hug in the kitchen the other day…?”
You hum softly in response, waiting for her to finish.
“…Did it mean something?”
After a brief hesitation, you nod gently against her temple.
“Yeah,” you admit gently. “It did.”
Her arms tighten around you. And for a few seconds, the world narrows to just this moment, to the two of you standing in the quiet kitchen, holding onto something that never truly left.
“Forty-eight…forty-seven…forty-six…” FRIDAY'S voice counts softly in the background.
You groan quietly and pull back just enough to look at her, offering a reluctant, almost apologetic expression.
“This is not over,” you say with mock seriousness. You lean in and press a brief kiss to her lips before whispering, “I am going to tell you exactly how I feel when I get back.”
You begin to turn, but Natasha catches your arm and pulls you back against her. She arches a brow, a playful smirk forming on her lips.
“You honestly think I’m going to let you leave now?”
She leans closer to your face, close enough to steal your focus again.
Your grin returns instantly.
“Oh?”
Your arms slide around her waist once more, drawing her tightly against you.
“Are you planning to hold me here with you forever, Romanoff?”
Amusement flashes in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Natasha says, her smile widening. “Unless there is another boundary you would like to set.”
You rest your forehead gently against hers, a soft laugh escaping before you answer.
“No,” you murmur quietly. “That actually sounds perfect to me.”
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: hope you enjoy the fic and thank you for reading! (love/hate relationship with this one but I needed to get it out of the drafts so that I can stop editing it every time I see it 😅)
I don't remember if i used this gif already, but there's not enough Nat gifs out there.
Summary: You're the new rookie to the avengers. Shy? Definitely not you. Sarcastic? Yes. But around a certain redhead, shy is all that you are
Warnings: Just you being a shy mess around her
------
You noticed it the second week you moved into the Tower.
Not the crush. God, no. You’d noticed that the first time Natasha Romanoff leaned against the briefing table and gave you a lazy little “you keeping up, rookie?” with one eyebrow raised.
No, the thing you noticed in week two was worse.
You physically could not act normal around her.
Everyone else? Easy.
You sparred with Steve without flinching. You stole fries off Sam’s plate. You sat cross-legged on Bruce’s lab counter while he rambled science at you for an hour straight. You even let Tony drag you into one of his chaotic workshop arguments.
But Natasha?
Natasha walked into a room and suddenly you forgot how chairs worked.
It was humiliating.
“Pass the salt.”
You nearly dropped the entire container into your soup.
Natasha blinked at you from across the dinner table.
“…You okay?”
“Yep,” you answered too quickly.
Sam snorted into his drink.
You kicked him under the table without looking.
Natasha took the salt from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for maybe half a second.
You stopped breathing.
Actually stopped.
She frowned a little. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Mhm.”
Your voice cracked.
Clint outright choked laughing.
—
Natasha, somehow, did not get it.
Which made absolutely no sense because she was literally one of the best spies in the world.
She could tell when people lied before they even opened their mouths. She noticed tiny shifts in posture, changes in breathing, microexpressions.
But apparently your painfully obvious crush existed in a blind spot.
Or maybe—
Maybe she noticed and just didn’t care.
That possibility haunted you most.
So you avoided her.
Not dramatically. You weren’t hiding behind walls or sprinting in the opposite direction.
You just… strategically disappeared.
If Natasha entered the kitchen, suddenly you remembered you had laundry.
If she sat beside you during movie night, you’d excuse yourself for water you didn’t need.
If she tried talking to you one-on-one for too long, your brain melted into static.
It got so bad that one morning Steve found you fully climbing back out of the common room window.
“…Why are you using the fire escape?”
You glanced past him.
Natasha was inside making coffee.
“…Fresh air.”
Steve looked unconvinced.
“You live on the thirty-eighth floor.”
“Cardio?”
—
The thing was, Natasha made it impossible.
She wasn’t even trying.
She’d casually sling an arm around your shoulder after missions.
She’d smirk at you from across the training room.
She’d praise you in that low, rough voice like it was nothing.
“Nice shot.”
“Good work.”
“You’re improving.”
And every single time, your brain replayed it for the next six business days.
The worst part?
Natasha liked being around you.
A lot.
She liked your dry sarcasm. She liked how you got protective over the team despite being newer and younger. She liked how your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck after training.
She especially liked making you flustered.
Not maliciously.
It was just… cute.
You’d get all stiff and avoid eye contact while trying so hard to act normal.
And Natasha, despite decades of emotional repression and spy instincts, had somehow mistaken your crush for intimidation.
Which honestly offended her a little.
One night after a mission, she cornered Clint in the kitchen while he dug through the fridge.
“She’s scared of me.”
Clint stared at her.
Then he started laughing.
Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What?”
“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You seriously don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“You’re kidding.”
“Clint.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then realization slowly crossed his face.
“Oh my God,” he said again, quieter this time. “You like her too.”
Natasha scoffed immediately. “I do not.”
“Nat.”
“I don’t.”
“You look at her like she personally invented sunlight.”
Natasha opened her mouth.
Closed it.
“…That dramatic?”
“Worse.”
—
After that conversation, Natasha started paying attention.
And suddenly everything clicked into place.
The nervous fidgeting.
The avoiding.
The staring when you thought she wasn’t looking.
The way you’d go completely silent whenever she sat too close.
Oh.
Oh.
The realization hit her so hard she nearly walked into a glass door.
You had a crush on her.
A big one.
And somehow, impossibly—
Natasha felt warmth bloom low in her chest at the thought.
—
The next few days were torture for both of you.
Because now Natasha noticed everything.
Like how your ears turned red when she touched your arm.
Or how you always looked for her first after missions.
Or how your entire face softened whenever you thought no one was watching.
It was unbearably endearing.
Which became a problem when Natasha started getting shy too.
Not externally, obviously.
Natasha Romanoff didn’t really do externally shy.
But internally?
Disaster.
You smiled at her in the elevator one morning and she forgot what floor she needed.
You complimented her fighting stance during training (something which you had taken a whole of 30 minutes to muster up the courage for) and she spent the next hour punching the bag hard enough to split seams.
It was deeply inconvenient.
—
The breaking point came during movie night.
You were curled into the far corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves shoved over your hands, trying very hard to focus on the screen.
Natasha arrived late carrying popcorn.
Your heart immediately started acting traitorous.
There was exactly one open spot left.
Beside you.
Of course.
You contemplated death briefly.
Natasha sat down close enough that your shoulders touched.
You froze.
Completely.
She noticed instantly.
And this time, instead of pretending not to, Natasha tilted her head slightly.
“You always this nervous around me?”
Your eyes widened.
“…No?”
“Liar.”
The fondness in her voice made your stomach flip.
You stared determinedly at the TV.
“I’m not nervous.”
Natasha hummed softly. “So if I did this—”
Her fingers slipped carefully around your wrist where it rested against your knee.
Gentle.
Warm.
You nearly short-circuited. Luckily no one noticed, at least, they pretended not to
“Shut up,” you muttered weakly, still staring straight ahead.
Natasha’s thumb brushed against your pulse.
Way too aware. She was way too aware of how fast your heartbeat got.
Her expression softened.
“You know,” she murmured quietly enough just for you, “for someone so confident around everyone else…”
You finally looked at her.
Big mistake.
Natasha was already watching you with this small, impossibly soft smile.
Not smug.
Not teasing.
Just… warm.
Your face burned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Mhm.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Probably.”
But she still didn’t let go of your wrist.
Actually, her fingers slid down slowly until they tangled with yours.
Your brain stopped functioning entirely.
Natasha squeezed your hand once.
Then, very casually, she leaned her head against your shoulder.
You looked at her like she’d personally rewritten reality.
Natasha didn’t look up from the movie.
But you caught the tiny smile tugging at her mouth when your fingers squeezed hers back.
Summary: Being told not to fall in love with someone is difficult, especially when that someone is Natasha Romanoff—and especially when the warning comes far too late.
Warnings: fluff, angst, implied sexual themes
Words: 8244
The music pulses through the floor of the club like a second, louder heartbeat, trying to drown out your own.
Lights fracture across the room in restless bursts of color, slicing everything into shifting pieces. Faces appear and disappear, hands are thrown into the air, and bodies collide and reform in rhythm.
Everything blurs into noise, into heat, into something wild and uncontained.
It's chaos.
And you sit just outside of it.
Tucked into the corner of a booth, you exist in a pocket of stillness that doesn't quite belong in a place like this.
One arm drapes lazily across the table, your fingers idly tracing random patterns as you wait. Your gaze drifts over the crowds, not really focused or searching for anything, just passing over the movements like background scenery in a place you're not really part of.
A figure stumbles into your peripheral vision, breaking the rhythm of your detachment. Before you can shift away or pretend not to notice, he's already there, leaning heavily against the back of your booth, far too close, and invading your space with the unmistakable scent of cheap alcohol and poor decisions.
"Hey, sweetheart," he slurs, words sticking together as he flashes a crooked, overconfident grin. "You want some—"
"Nope."
You don't even turn fully toward him. The word comes out flat and immediate, cutting him off mid-sentence without hesitation.
"Keep walking."
He pauses, blinking in confusion when the response didn't match the script in his head. His grin falters, twisting into something sour as his ego scrambles to recover.
"Bitch," he mutters under his breath, not quite brave enough to say it louder.
You don't give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
He barely makes it two steps before the universe corrects itself.
A solid collision sends him stumbling backward, his balance giving out as he catches himself awkwardly on the floor.
"Hey—!" His protest starts on instinct, but it dies just as quickly as it began.
Because she's there.
Natasha stands over him, her posture loose, almost casual, but there's nothing soft about the look in her eyes.
"Watch where you're going," she says, her tone low, edged just enough to make the warning unmistakable.
The man swallows hard, whatever bravado he had dissolving instantly. He scrambles to his feet without another word, disappearing into the crowd like he was never there to begin with.
You don't react right away, choosing to examine her quietly instead.
There's something about the way she holds herself that captures your attention a second longer. Since you met her, Natasha has always been poised and self-assured, unshakable, as if she knows she's entirely in control.
Slowly, you lean your chin into your palm and sigh with exaggerated drama.
"My hero," you coo, your voice dripping with mock admiration.
Natasha huffs, unimpressed, and slides into the booth beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever she decides to be. Two drinks land on the table soon after.
"Shut up."
You grin, reaching for one of the glasses and lifting it to your lips.
"That took a while," you comment casually.
Natasha shrugs, already taking a sip of her own.
"Line was long."
"Mmhmm," you hum, unconvinced.
You don't need an explanation. You've known her long enough to read between the lines and figure out what really took up her time.
"Let me guess…new number?"
A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. Without answering, she reaches beneath the neckline of her top. She pulls out a small, folded slip of paper and flicks it across the table toward you.
"Two, actually. Stopped me on my way back."
You catch it easily, unfolding it with a raised brow. Messy handwriting with the message to 'call me' followed by a phone number. To top it off, in one corner is a lipstick mark stamped like a signature.
"And she got it into your bra?" you tease, glancing up at her. "That's dedication. Sounds like someone's going to have a very busy night."
Natasha relaxes back into the seat, giving a faint, noncommittal shrug.
"We'll see if I feel like it."
You smile faintly into your drink.
That's always her answer.
And you already know how it ends.
By the end of the night, she'll choose someone. She'll give them just enough of everything—attention, charm, pleasure. Something that feels dangerously close to real. Enough to make them think they've been chosen for something more.
And in the morning?
She'll be gone.
Another almost. Another story someone else will tell about her.
Your fingers trace the rim of your glass as your gaze flicks back to her.
"Do you ever think about taking one of them seriously?" you ask, quieter now.
"No," she deadpans.
You laugh at her immediate response, your smile turning fond as you tilt your head at her expression, which has now shifted to an unamused glare at you.
"I mean it, Natasha," you press, softer. "Maybe consider the possibility of falling in love with someone for once."
Natasha scoffs, shaking her head like the idea itself is ridiculous.
"Nobody who's handing out numbers to someone they spent ten seconds talking to is looking for love," she replies, matter-of-factly, raising the glass to her lip, before adding. "And neither am I."
The corner of your smile falters slightly, and you quickly look down at your drink before she can catch the shift in your expression.
It's one of the clearest differences between you and her. Where she dismisses it, you still believe in finding the one—a love so certain there's no question, no doubt.
Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff doesn't fall in love. Not really. Not in any way that lasts. Her walls aren't just high. They're reinforced, locked tight, and designed to keep everything out.
Even you.
And you're the closest thing she has to a best friend, aside from those she saves the world with.
You exhale slowly, pushing the thought down and steering the conversation toward something safer.
"So what's your secret, then?" you ask, letting the teasing edge return. You tap the paper. "How do you keep collecting these like trophies?"
Natasha raises a brow over the rim of her glass before giving a slight shrug.
"I know what people want to hear."
You make a face.
"That's such a cop-out answer."
Her smirk deepens, sharpening at the edges like she's already entertained by an idea.
"What?" she challenges. "You want a demonstration?"
You pause, but it's not really out of hesitation, not in the way it should be. It's curiosity. It's the pull of wanting to see what she does with that effortless charm she carries around like a second skin.
And maybe, if you're being honest, it's something else, too.
"Sure," you say finally, with a casual shrug that doesn't quite match the interest in your eyes.
You shift closer, turning fully toward her, and then you lean in with exaggerated confidence, deliberately overdoing it. Your voice drops, dripping with mock seduction, every word intentionally theatrical.
"Hey, beautiful," you murmur, laying it on thick. "Wanna come home with me tonight?"
For a split second, there's silence.
Then Natasha laughs.
It's not the quiet, amused huff she usually gives you. It's fuller, something real enough that it catches you off guard.
Her head tilts back slightly as the sound leaves her, her shoulders loosening and her guard dropping in a way you don't see often.
And for that brief second, you're not thinking about the bit anymore.
You're just watching her.
Watching the way her eyes crinkle faintly at the corners, the way her lips curve without calculation, the way the sound of her laugh settles somewhere in your chest and lingers there longer than it should.
"That's not even remotely close to what happens," Natasha says, shaking her head as she looks back at you, amusement still lingering in her expression.
You blink, pulled out of the moment, and then you laugh too. It's lighter, a little self-aware now as you lean back from her space.
"Yeah, alright," you admit, grinning as you shake your head at yourself. "That was too much."
You glance at her again, more thoughtful this time.
It has always amazed you how she holds herself and how her attention works. Natasha doesn't chase, but somehow, she still pulls people in.
Your grin fades into a more contemplative expression. You shift again, slower this time, closing the distance without the exaggerated movement from before.
"Alright," you say, quieter now, your tone losing the performative edge. "Let me try again."
You take a slow breath, letting the noise of the club fade just enough to sharpen your focus.
This time, when you look at her, you don't rush it. You let your gaze linger, unhurried, as it traces over her, catching the relaxed confidence in the way she sits, the subtle teasing curve of her lips, the way the shifting lights catch in her red hair and set it briefly aglow before slipping away again.
Only then do you meet her eyes.
"Hey," you say, your voice quieter now, steadier. "Mind if I join you?"
Something changes. It's subtle, so slight it could almost be imagined, but the air between you shifts, tightening just a fraction.
Natasha tilts her head, the corner of her mouth lifting into a small, amused smile.
There's a flicker of intrigue there, something sharper beneath the surface, before she gestures casually to the space beside her.
"Go ahead."
With her permission, you slide closer, easing into her space. Your knee accidentally bumps against hers beneath the table. Instead of pulling away, you stay, letting the contact linger just long enough to be noticed.
Then, sliding your arm along the back of the booth behind her, your fingers brush absentmindedly through a loose strand of her hair, catching it for just a second before letting it fall.
"So," you ask, your tone light but measured, "are you here alone?"
Natasha holds your gaze. For a moment, her eyes don't move, steady as she assesses you, but then in one second, they dip…to your lips.
It's brief, almost nothing, before she meets your eyes again.
But you still catch it. And the awareness of the action lands somewhere low in your chest, tightening unexpectedly at the way her attention feels.
"No," she says smoothly, as if nothing at all just happened. "I'm here with a friend."
There's a faint hint of amusement in her tone, like she's making a joke that you can't participate in.
Her fingers tap lightly against the side of her glass, a soft, rhythmic motion, before she tilts her head again, studying you with a look that feels far more intentional than casual.
"But," she continues, her voice dipping lower, slipping beneath the noise of the club so that you feel it more than you hear it, "I wouldn't be opposed to some better company."
Your brow lifts in exaggerated offense.
"Oh?" you hum, leaning in just enough to close the distance by a fraction, your knee pressing more firmly against hers beneath the table. "That so?"
Natasha's lips curve into that slow, knowing smirk she wears when she knows she's already ahead, when she's already decided how something is going to go.
"Mhm."
Her gaze drifts again, this time with no attempt at subtlety. It moves from your eyes, lingering at your mouth, down the line of your jaw and neck, and then to your collarbone before lifting back up again, like she's mapping something out in her mind.
It shouldn't affect you.
She hasn't even touched you.
And yet, heat rises anyway, creeping up your neck, settling across your cheeks before you can stop it. You swallow, steadying yourself before continuing.
"And what exactly qualifies as 'better company'?" you ask, keeping your tone teasing, though the curiosity underneath it is real and unguarded.
Natasha leans in closer. Not enough to erase the space between you. Just enough that it matters. Just enough that your focus narrows, sharpening until she's the only thing that feels clear.
"Someone interesting," she says.
Her fingers shift, sliding lazily across the table, near your hand. They're close enough that you're aware of the distance between them, of how little it would take to close it.
"Someone who knows how to hold their own," she adds, her eyes lifting to meet yours again, something like a challenge buried in the words.
There's a pause as she lets her words linger.
"And," she finishes, softer now, her voice lowering just enough to settle under your skin, "someone who knows how to keep my attention."
Your lips twitch, amusement flickering through your facade briefly.
"Oh, is that all?" you tease.
Natasha huffs out a quiet laugh, but her gaze doesn't waver. It stays locked on yours, steady and expectant.
"Think you can manage it?"
The way she says it, not quite cocky, but not entirely fake either. It feels like an invitation. Like she's waiting to see what you'll do with it.
So without thinking, you lean in—just a little.
"I don't know," you answer, tilting your head as if you're considering her instead. "You seem like you get bored easily."
"I do," she admits without hesitation.
You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at her blunt honesty. Instead, you let your fingers tap idly against the back of the booth just behind her shoulder, grounding yourself in the motion.
"Then I guess I'll have to make sure I'm not easy to forget," you tease.
Her response isn't what you expect.
There's no immediate smirk, no counter-teasing remark. Instead, there's a brief flicker of something warmer in her expression, gone before it fully forms.
It catches you off guard as her amused grin returns on her face.
Natasha's fingers slide closer to yours on the table, brushing against yours lightly, as if she's offering you a glimpse of what her touch feels like without fully giving it.
"Careful," she murmurs, her voice low, threaded with quiet amusement. "That almost sounded like you're promising me a good time."
You grin, unable to help it now, caught up in the rhythm of it all, in the ease of this back-and-forth.
"Maybe I am."
For a moment, Natasha doesn't respond. She relaxes back in her seat, watching you thoughtfully.
Her gaze holds yours with that familiar spark of challenge resting just beneath the surface. It doesn't push. It doesn't press.
It just…stays.
Like she's waiting.
Like there's something unfinished hanging between you, and she's content to let it linger there as long as it takes.
And somewhere in that quiet, the space between you shifts.
Not all at once. Not in any way you could point to.
Just enough to stop it from feeling quite as defined.
And then everything shifts.
Natasha's lips curve slowly into that unmistakable, confident smirk, her brows lifting slightly, like she's just claimed victory without needing to say it out loud.
That's what breaks the trance.
You blink, the moment snapping apart as your awareness rushes back all at once.
And suddenly, you're very aware of how close you are to her.
Your hand is now braced against the seat behind her. Your body angled more toward hers. One knee pressed into the booth, and the other shifted forward between her legs.
Like you were about to climb into her lap without ever realizing so.
Your breath catches.
When did you—
For a second, you don't move. You just look at her, then at the tiny space between you, then back again—trying to trace it back, to find the point where things shifted.
But there isn't one.
Just the quiet realization that it already has.
A soft, disbelieving laugh slips out.
"That—" you start, shaking your head slightly, still hovering there. "That shouldn't have worked."
Natasha's lips curve again, slower this time. There's satisfaction there, unmistakable, but beneath it, something softer flickers briefly.
"Mm," she hums, her voice low. Her gaze dips once to your mouth before returning to your eyes. "And yet…here you are."
Something in your chest tightens at that, sharp and familiar. You don't let yourself examine it too closely. Instead, you exhale and push yourself back, creating space, though not nearly as much as you probably should.
"Okay," you mutter, half to steady yourself. "That was—"
"Convincing?" she offers lightly.
You glance at her, narrowing your eyes, though a reluctant smile tugs at your lips.
"Dangerous," you correct.
She leans back, finally giving you some room, but not before her fingers brush briefly against your wrist as you pull away.
Just enough for her touch to linger, to stay with you.
"I did warn you," Natasha says, her tone light again. "If you're not careful, you might fall in love."
You scoff, settling back into your side of the booth, though your heart hasn't quite caught up with you yet.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, Natasha. It's not that easy to make me fall in love."
"Good."
The word lands differently.
You glance at her.
She's looking at you with a serious expression now, not teasing, not amused.
"Don't fall in love with me," Natasha says quietly.
It's soft. Nearly lost beneath the music, beneath the noise, beneath everything else.
But you hear it anyway.
It settles somewhere deep, somewhere uncomfortable, tightening your chest in a way you don't have time to process, because just as quickly as it appears, it's gone.
Her smirk slides back into place like armor.
"Unless, of course," she adds casually, lifting her drink, "you want a full demonstration."
You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you reach for the folded paper. Without thinking too much about it, you tuck it back into the front of her top, your fingers lingering just a second longer on her skin before pulling away.
"Save it," you say lightly. "For your numbers."
And then you lean back. Back into your space. Back into the role you've always had in her life.
The best friend.
The one who is never supposed to cross that line.
The one who already did anyway.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You drag your spoon slowly through the soup, barely registering the motion as it disturbs the surface. The liquid folds in on itself, ripples spreading outward before settling again, only for you to repeat the same absent-minded movement.
It's rhythmic, almost hypnotic, just something to keep your hands occupied while your thoughts drift somewhere else entirely.
"Not that good?"
The voice cuts cleanly through the fog.
Your head lifts, blinking as the restaurant comes rushing back into focus all at once—the soft amber lighting, the low murmur of conversations overlapping, the occasional clink of silverware against plates.
Across from you, your date is watching with a small, curious smile, her expression gentle but searching, like she's trying to read what you won't say.
"Hm? Oh—no, it's great," you answer quickly, setting your spoon down with a soft clatter. Your hands retreat to your lap, fingers lacing together as if that might steady you. "I'm just…"
You falter, the excuse dissolving before it forms. Your gaze dips briefly, and you shake your head with a quiet exhale.
"Sorry," you add, softer this time, a note of sincerity threading through the awkwardness. "Would you excuse me for a minute?"
You're already pushing your chair back, offering her an apologetic smile, the kind you've perfected over time that hides more than it reveals.
She nods easily, gracious in a way that only makes the guilt twist tighter in your chest.
"Of course," she says. "Take your time."
That almost makes it worse.
You weave through the restaurant, past tables filled with people who seem entirely present in their own evenings, their laughter and conversations grounded in a way you can't quite access.
The restroom door swings shut behind you, cutting off the noise abruptly, leaving you in a quiet that feels almost oppressive.
You exhale, long and unsteady, bracing your hands against the edge of the sink.
For a moment, you just stare down at the porcelain, your reflection hovering faintly in your peripheral vision. You try to gather yourself, to reconstruct the version of you that walked into this place with the intention of trying—really trying.
Because this should be working.
She's kind. She listens. She laughs easily, asks thoughtful questions, and remembers details you mention in passing. There's nothing forced about her, nothing sharp or complicated.
By every reasonable standard, this date is going well.
And it is.
So why does it feel like you're somewhere else entirely?
Your gaze lifts slowly, meeting your own reflection in the mirror. You look…distracted. Distant in a way you can't quite hide, no matter how hard you try.
Because no matter how much you focus, your mind keeps slipping.
Back to her.
Natasha lingers at the edges of everything, like a shadow you can't quite shake.
When your date smiles, warm and open across the table, your mind instantly replaces it with something else. A familiar smirk that builds at one corner first, like it knows exactly what it's doing to you.
When the light catches your date's hair, soft and golden, your thoughts betray you with flashes of red instead. How those scarlet strands fall just slightly out of place, like it refuses to be tamed, like it's part of her in a way that feels intentional.
And when your date's fingers brushed yours earlier, it should have meant something.
But all you could think about was the difference.
The way Natasha's touch never feels accidental. The way it always lingers just a fraction too long, like she's leaving something behind on purpose. Like she knows exactly how to stay with you, even after she pulls away.
You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands coming up to press against your cheeks.
"Stop," you murmur under your breath, sharper this time.
This is ridiculous. You're on a date—with someone real, someone present, someone who is actually trying to meet you halfway.
And instead, you're stuck on someone who has made it very clear that she doesn't want this kind of relationship. Not with you. Not with anyone.
You let out a frustrated breath, dragging a hand down your face before reaching into your pocket for your phone.
This is a bad idea. You know it is. Your thumb moves anyway. Because, despite everything, despite the logic, despite the self-awareness, she's still the person you want to talk to.
The line rings once.
"Hey, what's up?" Natasha's voice slips through the speaker, low and familiar, and something in your chest loosens instantly, like tension you didn't realize you were carrying finally gives way.
It annoys you. How easy that is. How immediate.
You press your lips together, pushing that thought aside.
"Hiding in the restroom," you say, leaning back against the counter, your tone dry but lighter than you feel. "While my date is probably wondering if I've escaped out the window."
There's a soft pause, and then a low chuckle that feels entirely too warm through the phone.
"That bad?" she asks, amusement curling through her words.
You huff quietly, your gaze drifting back to your reflection.
"No," you admit, and this time it's honest. "She's great. Really great, actually."
You hesitate, your fingers tightening slightly around your phone.
"It's just…" you trail off, your brow furrowing as you try to find the words. "I don't know."
There's a quiet hum on the other end, thoughtful and measured.
"Mm," Natasha murmurs. "You're distracted."
It's not a question.
Your lips press together in a small pout because, of course, she can hear it. Of course, she can pick you apart without even trying.
"Maybe," you concede.
A beat passes.
"Need a rescue?" she asks, her tone shifting, still teasing, but there's an undercurrent there. Something just shy of serious.
And that's the problem.
Because you know she means it.
She would show up. Or give you an excuse convincing enough to leave. She would use all of her resources to pull you out of this moment without any hesitation.
The thought makes your chest tighten, not with relief, but something more complicated.
Your lips curve faintly, despite yourself.
"You offering?" you ask, letting a bit of that familiar back-and-forth slip in, something easier, something safer.
"Always," Natasha replies smoothly.
You can practically hear the smirk in her voice. Before you can call her out on it, her voice continues, softer this time.
"Do you want me to?"
It hits you hard how quickly she is to say that. Because it's effortless for her. This dynamic. This closeness that never quite crosses the line, but never steps back either.
Her offer hangs in the air, tempting you with the promise of her presence.
You open your mouth to respond, something half-teasing yet also honest already forming.
"I–"
"Where did you say your wine glasses are?" The voice in the background cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your smile falters, the warmth from earlier cooling as the realization that she isn't alone settles in.
There's a faint rustle on the other end, a subtle shift of movement. Natasha mutters something, her voice lower now, directed away from the phone. You can't make out the words, only the tone, easy and unbothered.
Truthfully, the revelation is not surprising.
Natasha moves through people and spaces like she belongs anywhere she chooses to be. There's always someone, something, some orbit she exists within.
So why does it feel like something just dropped in your chest? Why does it feel like you've been caught off guard by something you already understood?
You swallow, your grip tightening slightly on your phone as you force your expression to smooth out.
By the time she comes back, you've already started building the walls back up.
"…sorry," Natasha says, her voice slipping back into place like nothing happened.
You lean more against the counter for some support, letting the teasing edge return to your tone.
"Felt like some company tonight?" you ask.
It's a casual question. Harmless in the way you say it.
And yet a long pause fills the conversation as Natasha considers your tone.
"Something like that," she finally replies.
You nod faintly to yourself, your lips curving into something that almost feels like a smile.
"Good," you say. "Wouldn't want you getting bored."
The words come out easy, but underneath them, something twists, sharp and unwelcome.
You wonder if this is what Natasha meant. Why she doesn't ever want anything more with anyone. Maybe, if you learn to do the same, you wouldn't have this ache in your chest anymore.
"I should get back," you add, your tone shifting just slightly enough to signal an ending.
There's a pause on the other end again, this one longer.
"What were you about to say?" Natasha asks, referring to earlier before you were interrupted.
You glance at your reflection once more. At the truth sitting just behind your eyes. At the words you almost let slip, the ones that would've changed something, even if only for a moment.
You straighten, pushing off the counter.
"It's nothing," you say, softer now, but steady. "I'll manage."
Another beat.
"…right," she replies, quieter this time.
You hesitate for half a second before adding softly.
"Enjoy your night, Natasha."
You hang up before she can respond. Before she can pull you back into that orbit again.
The silence that follows feels heavier than before.
For a moment, you just stand there, staring at your reflection, at the version of yourself that almost said something you can't take back.
Your chest feels tight. Not dramatic. Not overwhelming.
Just…heavy.
Like something quietly settling into place.
You exhale slowly, smoothing your expression, pushing everything down into something manageable.
Because out there, someone is waiting for you. Someone who chose to be here with you.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
By the time you step out into the cool night air with your date, something inside you has undeniably shifted.
The careful distance you maintained earlier has softened, dissolving into something far more natural and unforced. It becomes easier when you stop trying to define what this moment is supposed to mean, when you let go of the need to measure it against expectations or outcomes. Without that pressure, everything settles.
The conversation begins to flow with ease. There's no second-guessing, no pauses filled with overthinking. Your words come naturally, and so do hers.
At one point, she nudges her shoulder lightly against yours, teasing you about something you said earlier in the night. The gesture is small and playful, but it feels significant in its simplicity.
This time, you don't hesitate.
You respond instantly, matching her tone, letting yourself lean into the moment instead of analyzing it.
And it feels good.
There's no weight pressing against your chest, no lingering tension pulling at your thoughts. For once, your mind is quiet.
It's just two people enjoying each other's company without any expectations for more.
You hold onto that feeling as you continue walking. When you finally reach the front door of your apartment, your steps slow.
There's a brief pause as you stand there, your hand lingering on your keys. The small, familiar weight suddenly feels heavier, your pulse just slightly uneven as you turn back to face your date.
She's standing close, her expression open and soft. Still, there's an expectancy there too, not demanding or pressuring, but present enough that you can feel it.
You know this moment. You've been here before.
You could stop now, just like you always do. You could keep things simple. Say goodnight, thank her for the evening, and let this end the way so many others have—pleasant, harmless, and ultimately forgettable.
Just another attempt at love that eventually fades quietly into the background.
But then your thoughts drift.
You think of Natasha.
You think of the way she moves through moments like this. She never hesitates, never allows doubt to creep in and complicate something that could simply be. She doesn't overanalyze or assign meaning where none is needed.
She just acts.
And for once, you decide to do the same.
You lean in first.
The kiss begins softly, almost cautiously, as if both of you are testing the space between you. There's a moment of uncertainty, a quiet question in the way your lips meet.
But it doesn't stay that way.
She responds immediately, stepping closer to you as if there was never any doubt. Her hand finds your arm, then slides to your waist, grounding you in the moment. The warmth of her touch is undeniable, real in a way that pulls you further in.
You feel it, the closeness, the simple, human pull of proximity.
It isn't empty.
It isn't meaningless.
But it isn't her, either.
And maybe…it doesn't have to be.
Maybe this can be enough to let you forget, even for a moment.
You deepen the kiss, allowing yourself to get lost in it. You focus on the immediacy of the sensation, on something tangible and present, something that doesn't ask you to wait, to question, or to ache for something more.
Your hands curl lightly at her collar, pulling her closer.
For a brief moment, it almost works.
It almost quiets everything else.
You just need a little more time, a little more distraction.
When you pull back, your breath is uneven.
Your forehead hovers close to hers, the space between you charged but fragile. The words that come next feel uncertain in a way you hadn't planned for.
"Do you…" you start, your voice quieter now. You hesitate, then push through it. "Do you want to come in?"
There's a flicker of surprise in her expression, but then she nods, a small smile forming as she prepares to answer.
"Guess you didn't need saving, after all."
The voice cuts cleanly through the moment.
Your body reacts before your mind can catch up. Your shoulders tense, and your breath catches sharply as something cold settles beneath your skin.
Slowly, you turn your head.
Natasha stands a few steps away.
One hand is tucked casually into her jacket pocket, the other loosely holding a pack of beer at her side. Her posture is relaxed, but her expression doesn't match it.
There's something else there, something that immediately fills you with a sense of guilt.
Your date glances between the two of you, confusion quickly replacing the warmth that had been there moments ago.
"What is she talking about?" she asks, uncertain.
"No, it's not what you think—she's my friend. I called her earlier but—," you say quickly. Your words come out rushed and defensive, and without thinking, your body instinctively creates some space between you and her.
And just like that, the moment collapses.
"I think…" your date begins, then falters. Her gaze lingers on you, searching for something that isn't there anymore. "I think I should go."
You don't stop her. You don't even try.
"Yeah," you say quietly. "That's probably…a good idea."
She nods, offering you a polite smile that no longer carries the same warmth.
"Goodnight," she says, her hand brushing your arm one last time before she turns away.
Natasha doesn't acknowledge her at all as she walks past. Her attention is fixed entirely on you.
The elevator doors close with a soft ding, and silence fills the space she left behind.
You don't look at Natasha, your gaze fixed on the ground in front of you. But in reality, you don't have to. Not when you can feel her presence, pressing into the air around you.
"What are you doing here, Natasha?" you ask finally, your voice tight.
"Checking on you," she replies, as if it's the most natural response in the world.
You let out a short, humorless laugh and turn to face her fully.
"Checking on me," you repeat. "Right."
Her gaze flicks briefly toward where your date disappeared, then returns to you.
"That didn't seem like you," she says.
Something in your chest snaps.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
She steps closer, her expression tightening with confusion.
"What were you thinking?" she says more firmly. "Inviting someone you barely know to stay the night."
You scoff, shaking your head.
"Are you seriously judging me right now?" you shoot back. "Because that's exactly how you do things."
Her jaw tightens, just slightly.
"That's different."
"Why?" you challenge, stepping closer now. The frustration you've been holding back begins to surface, sharp and unfiltered. "Because it's you?"
"Because you don't—" she cuts herself off, exhaling sharply. "You don't see people like that. As a passing moment. You actually care."
"Well, you don't get to decide who I am, Natasha," you fire back, your voice rising. "Or what I'm allowed to do just because it doesn't fit whatever version of me you have in your head."
"That's not what this is," she says, her voice lower now, strained in a way you're not used to hearing.
"Then what is it?" you press.
Natasha doesn't answer.
And that silence is what pushes you over the edge.
"You always know exactly what to say," you continue, your voice sharper now, cutting through the space between you. "So what's wrong now, Natasha?"
"Stop," she warns, her tone low.
But you can't.
You're already too far in. You step closer before you can think better of it, crowding into her space, forcing her to look at you. She holds her ground for half a second, jaw tightening, until you shove at her shoulder with the next word out of your mouth.
"Come on," you push, bitterness creeping into your words. "Where's the charm? The part where you make this all make sense?"
At each push, she stumbles back without resistance. Again and again. Until her back hits the wall.
Your hand fists in the fabric of her jacket before you realize what you're doing, gripping tight, anchoring her there.
Natasha's breath hitches, so quiet it almost isn't there, but you feel it. That tiny fracture in her control. Her eyes flick down to your lips for half a second, then back up to your face, so quick that you might've imagined it.
But you know what you saw. You see it in her face. Time and time again.
The hesitation. The truth sitting just beneath the surface.
Your chest tightens, anger unraveling into something far more fragile.
"Say it," you demand, your voice faltering despite your effort to keep it steady. "Just—say it."
For a moment, neither of you moves.
You can feel the heat of her through the jacket, the steady rise and fall of her breathing, the tension coiled in her like a spring ready to snap. Close enough to see every flicker in her expression, every guarded thought trying to stay hidden.
And suddenly, you're exhausted.
Exhausted of the almosts. Of the half-answers. Of the way she looks at you like she's holding something back—something you're not allowed to hear.
Your grip loosens, and the energy to stand strong against her slowly drains.
"You've known for a while," you say more quietly now. "I know you do."
For the first time, Natasha can't meet your eyes.
You let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand across your face, wiping at the tear forming there.
"God, Natasha, just break my heart already so I can stop—"
"I love you."
For a moment, you're not even sure you heard the words correctly. Your eyes lock onto hers, searching in disbelief.
"What?"
Natasha stands in front of you without any trace of her usual composure. The charm she relies on is gone, along with the practiced deflection, leaving only something unguarded and terrifyingly real.
"I love you," she says again, her voice softer now.
Everything around you seems to fall silent, yet your heartbeat grows louder and faster, as if it cannot keep pace with what is happening.
This isn't how things were supposed to unfold.
You release a breath that nearly turns into a laugh of disbelief, your head shaking faintly.
"That is…" you begin, but the rest of the sentence never comes.
Nothing makes sense.
"You told me not to fall in love with you," you manage instead, your voice unsteady.
"I meant it."
"Then what the hell is this?"
Natasha exhales sharply, dragging a hand through her hair.
"It is exactly why I said it," she replies, her tone edged with frustration. "Because this is what happens."
She gestures between the two of you.
"It becomes complicated. It becomes messy. It…” She cuts herself off, her jaw tightening.
You watch her, your chest aching with the weight of it all.
"So what do you do?" you ask. "Pretend it's not there?"
Her silence is answer enough.
You step closer, slower this time, until there is barely any space left between you.
Your hands rise hesitantly, hovering for a brief moment before you gently cup her cheeks, tilting her face so she can't avoid your gaze.
"Why can't I love you, Natasha?" you ask, your voice quiet.
She swallows, and you see the exact instant her control slips before she surges forward and presses her lips to yours.
Somewhere nearby, the box of glass bottles hits the floor with a sharp sound, but neither of you reacts. Natasha's hands grip you firmly, pulling you closer until there is no distance left.
A soft sound escapes you, and she catches it, reversing your positions and pressing you back against the door instead. She holds you there, her body anchoring you in place, and kissing you again with a breathless urgency.
Her lips move along your jaw and then down to your neck, finding the exact place that draws a sharp intake of breath from you as she presses against the pulse there.
Your fingers are tangled in her hair now, keeping her close while you struggle to steady yourself.
Then just as suddenly, she stops. Natasha's head lowers, resting against you as she breathes heavily against your collarbone.
"Everything…" she murmurs. "Everyone I have ever cared about…"
She lifts her head, and the steadiness in her eyes is gone, replaced by something fragile and afraid. Her hand comes up to your face, her thumb brushing gently across your cheek.
"I always lose them," she says.
Your brows furrow as you take in her words before softening in understanding. Your hands slide to the back of her neck, fingers moving in slow, soothing circles against her skin.
"Natasha, I…" You hesitate, knowing there are promises you cannot make. Still, there is one truth you can offer. "I will always love you, Natasha."
No matter what happens after this moment, no matter if everything returns to what it was before, that will not change.
The conflict remains in her eyes over whether this is the correct choice.
You offer a small, reassuring smile and lift your hand to smooth the tension from her expression before cupping her face again.
"Hey, beautiful," you say gently. "Do you want to come home with me tonight?"
Natasha closes her eyes for a brief moment and rests her forehead against yours. A quiet, breathless laugh escapes her.
"That should not have worked," she mimics your comment from the other night, her gaze soft with fondness when she looks at you again.
Your eyes flick briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze, a playful grin forming.
"And yet, here you are."
She lets out a quiet, affectionate huff before kissing you again, opening the door behind you, and guiding you inside.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
You are not surprised when you wake and find the space beside you empty, even though you had fallen asleep wrapped in her arms. The sheets are cold now, the warmth of her body gone long enough for the emptiness to settle in completely.
Just like you said. Another almost. Another story that someone else will someday tell about Natasha Romanoff.
The difference is that you know what existed between the two of you was real. Natasha feels it too. You are certain of that much. She cares about you in a way that goes beyond fleeting affection or temporary comfort.
The problem is not whether she loves you. The problem is that she cannot bring herself to choose a life where she allows herself to keep that love.
With a quiet sigh, you push yourself out of bed and find your phone. Despite everything, concern still lingers heavily in your chest. You want to make sure she made it home safely, wherever "home" is for her.
You wander into the living room, staring at the empty message screen while trying to decide how to begin.
"Hey."
"God—Natasha!"
You jolt violently at the sound of her voice, clutching your phone tightly against your chest as your head snaps upward.
"Say something next time!" you blurt out, still breathless from the scare.
Natasha sits on your couch, though she looks nothing like the composed woman she usually is. Instead of lounging comfortably, she perches awkwardly on the very edge of the cushion, her posture tense, as though she expects to leave at any second.
A faint smile touches her lips as she watches your reaction with quiet amusement.
"I did say something."
You glare at her in silent reprimand before taking a slow breath in an attempt to steady your racing heartbeat. It does little to help. The panic fades quickly, replaced by something far warmer as Natasha's gaze drifts slowly over you as she waits. Her eyes move with deliberate attention, almost as though she is retracing every touch from the night before.
Heat creeps up the back of your neck, and you clear your throat softly.
"I thought you left," you admit.
Natasha shifts slightly where she sits, and her attention flickers toward the front door instead of you.
"I was going to," she says quietly. After a brief pause, she continues in an even softer voice. "But after nights like that…this is usually where I end up coming."
The confession carries an unfamiliar uncertainty, something small and vulnerable hidden beneath her usual composure. Like she's not sure if she's still allowed to do this.
Realization spreads through you slowly, and before you can stop it, warmth blooms in your chest. Out of every place Natasha could have chosen to run to, the place where she felt safest was here. With you.
You lean against the doorway for a moment, studying her quietly.
In the daylight, after everything that happened between you, she somehow looks younger like this. Not softer exactly. Just tired in a way that strips some of the sharpness from her edges.
Like she's waiting for the moment things become too real.
You move slowly toward the couch, giving her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. But she doesn't.
When you sit beside her, there's still space between you, just enough to give the other some room to decide what to do next.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
The silence isn't uncomfortable exactly. Just heavy with too many things finally sitting out in the open between you.
Natasha exhales quietly, her gaze fixed somewhere ahead instead of on you.
"You should know," she says at last, voice low, "I'm not good at this."
You glance toward her.
"That's a first. Natasha Romanoff, not being good at something?" you tease lightly.
A humorless smile flickers briefly across her mouth as she gives you a sideways glance. Her eyes linger on your face before her smile falls.
"I leave," she says plainly. "Sometimes for days. Sometimes longer." Her jaw tightens faintly. "Sometimes I can't explain where I've been. Sometimes I won't want to talk about it even when I can."
There's frustration buried beneath the words. Not at you.
At herself.
You stay quiet, letting her continue at her own pace.
Natasha leans forward slightly, forearms braced against her knees now.
"I don't…" She pauses, searching for words she clearly hates having to say aloud. "I don't know how to let someone depend on me like that."
There it is.
Not I don't want you.
Not I don't love you.
Just:
I don't know how to survive being loved.
Her hands clasp together tightly.
"And when things start feeling…" She stops again, exhales sharply through her nose. "Too important, my instinct is to run before I can lose it."
She turns to look at you. There's no charm in her expression now. No teasing smirk to hide behind.
Just honesty. Raw and uncomfortable.
"I meant what I said," Natasha says quietly. "About not falling in love with me."
Your chest aches a little hearing it now, not because it hurts, but because you finally understand what she was trying to do.
Protect you. Protect herself.
You lean back slightly into the couch, your eyes lowering for a moment as you gather your thoughts carefully.
"I know," you say softly.
Natasha's brows pull together slightly, almost like she expected resistance instead. Expected you to fight her on it.
You turn your head toward her again.
"I'm not going to sit here and tell you your fears aren't real, Natasha."
That gets her attention fully.
Because she's probably spent most of her life hearing some version of:
"Just trust me."
"It'll be different."
"You have to let people in."
As though fear is solved through persuasion.
But you don't try to take hers away.
"You've lost people," you say quietly. "You've spent your whole life surviving things most people can't even imagine." Your gaze softens. "Of course, loving someone feels terrifying to you."
Natasha stares at you silently. Almost startled.
You offer her a faint smile.
"I can't promise you that fear ever goes away," you admit. "And I can't promise I'll never get hurt either."
Her expression tightens slightly at that.
"But I can promise something else."
You shift a little closer now, slowly enough that she can move away if she needs to.
She doesn't.
Your voice lowers softly.
"You never have to earn a place with me."
The words land hard. You can see it immediately in the way Natasha stills.
"I mean it," you continue. "If all you can give me some days is showing up on my couch at three in the morning and sitting there in silence?" You shrug lightly. "Okay."
A shaky breath leaves her quietly.
"If you need space, I'll give it to you. If you come back, I'll still open the door."
Natasha's eyes drop briefly, emotions moving across her face too quickly to fully hide.
"And if one day you decide this is too much," you add carefully, "then we'll survive that too."
That one almost breaks her.
Because what you're offering isn't pressure.
It isn't an obligation.
It isn't forever demanded upfront.
It's safety.
A place where she doesn't have to perform usefulness or perfection in order to stay.
Your hand lifts hesitantly before resting lightly over hers.
"No matter what this becomes," you say quietly, "you will always have a place with me. As my best friend, as…" You smile faintly. "Something more complicated than that."
A soft laugh escapes Natasha then. Small and breathless and painfully fond all at once.
Her fingers tighten around yours before she finally looks at you again.
And for the first time, Natasha looks less afraid of being loved. Not unafraid.
Just less alone inside of your love.
~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~
a/n: this one got longer than I expected 😅, one day I won't chicken out on writing the sex scene like I originally planned (though it didn't felt like it needed it in the end). Again thank you for reading and now I disappear into my WIPs once more 😂
Characters: Isadora Capri (professor) x Female reader (student)
Synopsis: She likes to comfort you; she gets you a gift.
Tags: Fluff, soft, sweet, caring, student x teacher, comforting.
Word count: 566
Isadora Capri, the name that could make your heart sing… well, if hearts could sing. Isadora would argue they could.
“They tell us the stories that should be played and the logic from the brain which would be better off left alone at times,” she offered a soft admission, eyes meeting yours across the room.
She sat on the couch parallel, nails grazing the silver chain of her necklace just to dance around the pendant. It was her subconscious movements, the way her eyebrows would furrow, eyes shockingly wide, the soft tilt of her head, her shifting rings. She was a contradiction. unapologetically loud, yet her voice a calming anchor.
That’s what you fell in love with, a woman who is herself, lived a life you could never imagine… make something of herself, make something of you.
The two of you had done this, dozens of nights, a handful of full moons. Sat with the comfort of knowing she was there. A cold breeze sends a shiver down your spine. Instinctively, she moves to sit beside you, arm wraps over your shoulder, covering you with a blanket she had left folded during her previous visit.
The warmth of her hand on your thigh causes you to lean into her, head resting on her shoulder as she whispers everything you needed to hear. “You’re safe, darling, you’re such a good girl, I’ve got you.” The waft of her shampoo lulls you to sleep.
Just before you close your eyes, Isadora speaks, “Come on, my love,” softly taking your hand and walking you to your bed. She lies beside you, wrapping her arms around your body, stroking the hairs from your face.
“Hey,” she whispers, causing you to look past your shoulder, meeting her eyes. She smiles at your response, “I got you something,” before you can react or tell her off, she grabs a bag you didn’t see before. “It’s a little cheesy, but I wrapped it. Go on, open it.”
You roll over to face her fully, resting on your side, her smile only wider when you realize what it is. A soft wolf plush. “I got it so for the nights of the full moon,” she explains. As you bring it closer to yourself, the faint scent of her perfume can be recognized.
She scoots next to you, “I made it smell like me,” causing you to feel a flutter and your cheeks to flush.
Holding the plushie closer, a reply leaves your lips, “I love it-“. She cuts you off with a soft kiss against your lips, holding you. You were hers to cuddle.
“I know it can be scary when I’m in my wolf form. I wanted to show you I'm here for you even if I’m not physically.”
The act, such a kind one, felt like the winters as a kid when you drank cocoa to feel the comfort of home. She’s now your comfort, she’s now home to you.
You try to say this to her, but she just kisses your head, “I know love, thank you for accepting me as I am. I’ll think of you holding her” she motions to the plushie “every time the music in my head gets too harsh”.
The two of you grow more tired as the night darkens, her nails softly scraping your head, brushing through your hair till both of you fall asleep.
Everyone thinks we are together but they just can’t prove it like we always say “we’re just friends” (friends don’t look at each other with yearning looks like that) so on prank they we get locked together in a classroom
Isadora Capri x younger!professor!reader
Tags: teacher x teacher, wlw, age gap, FLUFF, love confessions
Warnings: none!
Word count: 3.8k
A/N: this ask was from a whileeee ago, I'm sorry that it took so long😭 anon if you're still here you're a real one, if not I don't blame you whdjejdj
But thank you very much for the request! I did love working on this one :)
"Are you and Ms. Capri dating?"
The question stops you from your writing on the school board, taken aback. It came from the back of the class, one of the overconfident students.
"I… what?"
"We can see the way you two look at each other." One of the students giggles. "So, are you?"
"I think that's none of your business." You cross your arms, lifting an eyebrow. "But no, we're not dating."
"Maybe you should." Another student huffs, sitting at the front. The immediate flush on their face tells you that it wasn't supposed to be said out loud.
"We're just friends. Nothing more."
"Friends don't make eyes at each other." The same student who asked the question adds, leaning back in her chair.
"Alright, that's quite enough." You pick up the chalk again and walk back to the school board. "Now where were we? Right, the earliest record of a werewolf in which a man transformed into a wolf was in the tale of Gilgamesh…"
—
Later that day during your break, you ran into the person your class was gossiping about.
"Isadora, hi! How's your day been so far?" You greet her, handing her her usual cup of tea. It had become routine for the two of you to spend your break together, finding a strange comfort in her presence. One thing you appreciated about her, was how she was a very attentive listener. She always remembered every single detail of the things you told her, while you yourself sometimes didn't even remember what you'd said the day before.
"Tiring." She sighs, gladly taking the drink. "If only my students were truly interested in my class and didn't just view it as a requirement in their studies."
You hum, just about finishing your own cup of coffee. "Tell me about it. Students aren't exactly lining up for history lessons, either."
"I can imagine." Isadora laughs. "It wasn't exactly my favorite subject."
"At least you were good at it." You chuckle.
"Yeah, mostly because it was connected to history of music classes. I wouldn't have remembered all the dates of events if I couldn't have connected it to music." She replies sincerely. You've started to notices how, sometimes, she tends to be very humble about herself. She should give herself more credit for the things she's achieved, especially when she was younger.
"Fair enough." You smile, looking behind Isadora and out the window. "It's lovely outside. Wanna get some fresh air?"
The older woman nods. "Sounds good."
Arriving at the courtyard, the both of you find a nice spot near the staircase, flooding with sunlight. You give a quick wave to a few other teachers you see across the courtyard, before sitting down next to Isadora on the small bench.
Out of the corner of you eye, you see a couple of students staring at you and your red headed colleague, apparently having gained their attention. You give them a raised eyebrow, causing the girls in the group to giggle before they turn back and talk among each other. You let out an amused huff, which didn't go unnoticed by the redhead besides you.
"What's so funny?" She smiles, looking at you with her big and, you couldn't deny, beautiful dark eyes.
"Oh, just-" You wave your hand dismissively. "students and their gossip. You know how it is."
If there's one thing you know about her, it's that she loves to gossip and she doesn't even try to hide it. She tilts her head, an amused smile playing on her lips. "Oh, gossip you say? What's it about?"
You lean in closer, lowering your voice just a bit. "Apparently, us."
The slight gasp she let out, seemingly unintentional, made you laugh. "What do you mean 'us'? What did they say?" She rapidly asked, looking rather impatient. The smile from before had turned into a frown, more curious than anything.
"Well, they thought…" You look away from her for just a brief moment, before making eye contact again. You felt your cheeks heat up as you continued. "They asked me if we were dating."
"Oh." She blinks for a moment, staring at you before a nervous laugh escapes her. "Wherever would they get that idea?"
"Right!" You laugh, hoping it didn't sound as strained to her as it did to you. You clear your throat, as you continue your small talk. "Anyway, how was your weekend?"
—
At first you hadn't paid it much mind, but now, a few days later, you couldn't stop thinking about the comment made by your students. Was it that obvious?
In truth, you did have a small crush on your colleague- one you really tried to hide, so they hadn't been entirely wrong. You just… didn't have the courage to ask her out yet. Nor were you sure if she was even interested in you, apart from being friendly colleagues.
You shook the thoughts away once again as you headed to your classroom. Your turned a corner, half lost in your thoughts, when you ran into a bunch of your students.
"Wednesday, Bianca." You greet the two girls at the front, one of which looks like she doesn't want to be included in the conversation. Behind them stands Ajax, looking a bit too smug for your liking. "Is something the matter?"
Bianca is the one to step forward. "Yes, well." She starts with a sigh. "We accidentally left our things in Ms. Capri's classroom, but she isn't there anymore and we can't find her anywhere… could you perhaps let us in?"
"What makes you think I have a key?"
"You don't need a key, Ms. L/N."
"… Right." You mutter. "Doesn't mean I can just go wherever I want. Maybe she locked it for a reason."
"Please?" Bianca uncharacteristically pouts as Wednesday crosses her arms, merely glaring at you.
You huff at their dramatics. "Okay, fine. But just this once."
"Thank you!" She beams.
The four of you make your way over to the music room. Upon closer inspection, the door seems… unlocked.
"Guess you didn't look for Ms. Capri hard enough." You shrug. You open the door and look inside, seeing Isadora standing at her desk, talking to Enid. You can't quite make out what they're saying, but Isadora is- as she usually does- gesturing with her hands as she talks.
Once she spots you, you give a little wave before fully opening the door and letting the other students in. "Ms. Capri." You smile as she frowns very adorably upon seeing you. "These three were apparently looking for you." You turn to them, waiting.
Bianca looks around briefly, too briefly to fully inspect the room, before turning back to you and your colleague. "It seems we were wrong. Sorry for bothering you, Ms. L/N. And you, Ms. Capri."
Isadora furrows her eyebrows. "I'm… not quite sure what you mean, Ms. Barclay. But you're never a bother."
Of course she manages to say the sweetest thing possible.
"Agreed." You say, giving her and the two other students- who have been awfully quiet, behind her a brief smile. "We should leave Enid and Ms. Capri to their earlier conversation." You motion towards the door, waiting for them.
"Actually!" The young werewolf behind you interjects, causing you to jump slightly as she had been silent this whole time. "Our conversation was just about done before you came in." Her gaze locks with Wednesday. "We should probably head back to our dorm, don't you think? With that test coming up and all."
Wednesday only gives her a slight nod, but that's all the affirmation the blonde needs. Enid skips over to Wednesday and stands next to her, a hand quietly slipping in the other's not going unnoticed by you.
"That's right! That… test." Ajax finally speaks, voice a little shaky. Bianca stares at him with wide eyes for a brief moment, making him smile awkwardly. The siren rolls her eyes, bumping her shoulder against him a little harshly as she passes him- though a hint of a smile is showing on her face as she turns to you briefly.
"Thank you again for the help, Ms. L/N."
"Anytime." You quip back.
"Bye, Ms. Capri!" Enid yells just as she passes through the door, practically dragging Wednesday behind her, followed closely by the other two students.
You turn to Isadora as they leave, having to hold back the laugh at the rather comedic sight. You hear the students close the door to the classroom behind them, leaving just the two of you.
"That was… something." You say to your colleague who's still standing behind her desk, not having moved an inch. Her hand is placed on the desk, resting on a bunch of papers.
"Yeah. I'm…" She lets out a laugh, finally moving from the spot. "We weren't even done talking yet." The redhead motions towards the papers. "I was only halfway through explaining the upcoming assignment."
A soft click can be heard then, echoing through the classroom. Both of you look to the side, the sound seemingly coming from the door.
"What was that?" You question, turning back to Isadora.
"I think that was the door." The redhead frowns, eyes not moving from said door. "Probably nothing." She adds, muttering, as she makes her way over the wooden door. She tries to pull once, twice, even a third time but it won't budge.
"It's locked."
"I can see that."
"Guys. This isn't funny!" Isadora raises her voice as she speaks, knocking on the door. "Unlock this at once."
"I don't think that's gonna help." You grimace. "It's prank day, remember?"
The redhead stops, turning to you. "Oh." She sighs. "That's right. It completely slipped my mind."
You slide past her, shoulders briefly touching and you try to open the door as well. Once again, it's completely shut and unmoving. You huff and cross your arms, thinking about what to do next.
Both of you are deep in your thoughts, looking around the room for other ideas. Window jumping might be an option, but it would be a rather embarrassing one. Not to mention a painful one, with the music room being on the second floor.
Just as you turn your head to scan the room again, you catch Isadora staring at you- her expression soft with lips slightly turned upwards. When your gazes lock, you both immediately look another way as you feel your cheeks heating up.
You clear your throat, suddenly remembering what Bianca said to you earlier. "I suppose I could try opening it with my powers."
"Please don't break the lock while you do so." Isadora says in an even tone. You roll your eyes but smile nonetheless.
"Of course not, dear." You joke, noticing her eyes growing slightly wider at the comment.
You frown lightly but don't comment on it and turn to the door. You place your hand over the lock, feeling the mechanics and switches within as you try to pinpoint which one you have to push up. You try a couple of times, but still nothing happens.
"They must have put something in the lock to block me from moving it." You grumble, trying the door handle one final time before giving up entirely. "It's no use."
You think again for a moment. "Can't you like, pull it open?"
"Y/N, I won't break a perfectly good door."
"Oh come on." You groan, head falling back. "We won't get out otherwise. We'll be stuck here until they decide it's enough. If they don't forget about us."
The two of you go back and forth on ideas, some ideas even worse than others. Eventually you give up, since the good music teacher doesn't want to destroy anything in her precious classroom. Not even something as simple as a lock on the door.
You were starting to think she wanted to be locked in here with you.
What a stupid thought. Of course that wasn't the case.
"I have no idea why this would be a funny prank." Isadora huffs, interrupting your thoughts.
"I do." You answer truthfully. The words flew out of your mouth before you even realized.
Isadora looks at you expectantly, eyebrows shooting up and knitting together. A gesture you've found yourself melting over.
"They think we're secretly dating. Remember, I told you a couple of days ago how they asked me about it in class?" You say as the redhead nods, so you continue. "I think they're just teasing us for that. They probably think it's funny."
"Right. But that's just- you know, ridiculous." Isadora mutters, letting out a small laugh and turning away from you. You could swear you saw her face turning red.
"R- right." You laugh softly, also looking at anything but her.
"Although…" The redhead suddenly perks up, a hint of a smile on her face as she turns back to you. Your eyes widen, not sure what to say next. Did she just-
She walks closer to you again, faces close as she whispers under her breath. "I'm positive they're just waiting for us to, you know, 'confess' to each other. Knowing Enid Sinclair, she'll use her enhanced hearing to listen in on us."
You're too flustered to say anything, drowning in her dark eyes and process the intimacy of this position. Isadora is slightly taller than you, so she has to bend down just a little. It makes it seem as if she's towering over you, lingering over you like-
"So how about we just confess to each other?" The music teacher continues, unaware of your flustering.
"We do what?" You blink, finally looking at her without drowning in those pretty eyes.
Suddenly, Isadora seems to get a little shy, face turning a soft shade of pink and eyes widening ever so slightly. "Confess. Fake confess, I mean. Since- you know, we don't have actual feelings for each other. B-but this way we can hopefully get out." She ends it on a laugh, one that sounded strained more than anything else.
Hearing her tell you she doesn't have actual feelings for you breaks your heart a little, but you don't linger on it for too long. Isadora, apparently, wants to get out of this room with you. If that's her wish, you'll gladly help her.
You'd do anything for her.
"Yes. Okay." You breathe, stepping away from her and closing your eyes briefly, before they land on her again upon opening. "Let's try that." You still whisper, forcing a smile.
Isadora nods, lips tugging upwards hesitantly before clearing her throat, raising her voice. "Y/N, there's something I'd like to say. Something I've been meaning to say for a while now…"
"Isa?" You fake a frown, one that's not entirely fake since she sounds very sincere. Is she just this good at acting or-
"I've just- I could never find the right time to tell you this. But, maybe there will never be a right time for it." She takes a pause, licking her lips. "Y/N, I…" Another pause, building up the tension. It feels like you're in one of those cheesy romantic movies with these dramatic interruptions. The thought of it almost made you laugh.
"You know you can tell me anything." You answered honestly, the words coming out much easier than you expected.
Isadora steps closer, eyes not tearing away from yours for even a moment as she carefully takes your hand in hers. "I like you, Y/N. I mean- I really like you." A soft laugh escapes her. "I think I might be… in love with you." She ends her confession by biting her lip. You love the way her eyebrows knit together as she does so, forming a little crinkle between them.
You blink, any words you were about to say catching in your throat. You know this is a fake confession, yet your heart made a little jump at her words.
"I know this is all so sudden." Isadora continues, voice lower now. "And you don't have to give me an answer if you don't want to."
You take a short, deep breath as you finally lean more into her. "I'm just not sure what to say, because…" You let out a soft sigh, preparing yourself for your so-called 'fake'— but very real, confession. "I love you too, Isadora. I think I've loved you for some time now. I was just too scared to admit it."
Something in her expression changes. It's subtle, almost unnoticeable, but you can see it. Her eyes linger on you, moving to your lips for a moment before her gaze connects with yours again.
"Y/N…" She breathes, her voice sweet and raspy. The redhead slowly leans in closer, pupils blown wide as you feel yourself gravitate towards her as well.
"Isadora, what-"
Then her plump and soft lips connect with yours and taking away any words on your tongue, starting off gentle and careful before the kiss becomes hungrier. She chases your lips, a hand makes it's way to your lower back, pulling you deeper into the kiss. You hands move to her hips, holding onto her tighter as your lips move in tandem.
For a moment you forget everything around you, just melting into the feeling of her. The way her breath hitches slightly as you move, the way her hands on your hip and lower back pull you flush to her.
If she hadn't been the one to break the kiss, you might have never stopped.
Both of you gasp for air as you pull away, resting your forehead against hers while closing your eyes. It takes a moment before Isadora speaks up.
"Either you're very good at acting or that wasn't much of a fake confession after all." You can hear the smile in her tone.
"Me?" You let out a laugh, pulling back to look at her properly. Her eyes are still wild, her hair is slightly tussled and lips swollen from making out. "I could say the same to you." A laugh escapes her, too. "I wasn't the one that leaned in." You tease further.
"How could I not when you gave me those puppy eyes? You looked so adorable." She admits, voice barely above a whisper. "And I guess I realized you weren't pretending after all."
"And were you?" You swallow, feeling your heart beat faster at the question. "Pretending?"
Isadora shakes her head, arms coming to snake around your neck and resting on your shoulders. "Not even for a moment."
You grin uncontrollably at that and pull her into another kiss, short and sweet this time. Before you can say anything else, the door is thrown open with a flourish.
"I knew it!" Enid squeals as you and Isadora managed to pull away from each other just in time, before the students could see anything. "I told you guys something was going on between them!"
Isadora had moved herself about three feet away from you in the blink of an eye and you can't help but laugh at her attempt to compose herself. As if the evidence of what you'd just done wasn't as clear as day.
You try and help her, crossing your arms and staring down the small group of students. "We're standing right here, Ms. Sinclair." You say, keeping your voice calm and steady.
"Enid Sinclair." Isadora hisses, voice commanding. Apparently she has recollected herself and isn't in the mood to play nice. "Pulling a prank on your teachers is one thing, but locking them up is another entirely!"
"But we helped you both!" Enid argues with a whine, slowly shuffling to stand behind Wednesday, who merely exchanges looks with Bianca. The latter just looks entirely amused at the scene. "You confessed to each other!" The young werewolf continues to argue.
"So you were listening in on us?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. The blonde cringes at that.
"I stopped at some point after confessing…" She answers, making a face as she speaks. Bianca and Ajax snicker among themselves next to her and you have to hold back a laugh as well at the young werewolf's expression.
"She wanted to make sure there were no accidents." Wednesday chimes in, her voice showing no emotion. Enid stands behind her now, nodding along with her words.
"How considerate of you." Isadora's words are sharp, sarcasm evident in her tone. "But that won't get you out of detention. I'll see you here in my office after your classes."
"Okay, Ms. Capri." Enid mutters. A hint of a smile appears on her face, before adding. "Totally worth it, though."
"Oh, absolutely." Bianca adds with a slight huff. "Respectfully, we couldn't see you two pining over one another any longer."
"It was becoming so obvious." Ajax laughs.
A laugh finally escapes you then, turning the attention towards you. "You have to admit, Isa, it was rather effective this way." At your laugh, she can't help but smile.
"I suppose so." The music teacher mumbles with slight amusement.
"Regardless," You continue, focusing on the students again. "You'll be joining Ms. Sinclair in detention as well. All three of you."
There's a collection of groans and muttering, but no one argues against you. You exchange glances with Isadora, who softly smiles at you.
Enid then steps up, voice a little quieter now. "Can we still continue that assignment explanation, Ms. Capri?" She asks rather sheepishly.
The redhead sighs, but nods anyway. "Of course. We can do that now, if you have time."
"Yes, please. Thank you!" The blonde beams again. You watch her give Wednesday's hand a little squeeze before making her way over to the music teacher.
"We'll leave you both to it then." You nod towards Isadora, before turning to the other three students. "Come on, off you go." You lead them out of the music room, softly closing the door behind you. You turn to see the three of them still standing there, waiting for you.
"Don't you guys have a class to get to?" You chuckle while frowning slightly.
"Yep." Bianca smiles. "We have your class next, Ms. L/N."
"Oh." You blink, before realizing the time. "You're right. Follow me then."
You lead them down the hallway that leads to your classroom. Wednesday is walking beside you as Bianca and Ajax walk a few feet behind you both. Knowing Wednesday won't make too big a deal out of it, you lean in slightly and whisper to her. "I do suppose a thank you is in order, though."
She doesn't answer at first, only giving you a single, acknowledging nod. It takes a few seconds before she speaks. "I will convey your thankfulness towards Enid."
"Thanks." You chuckle, arriving at the classroom. Prank day might have turned out different than you initially thought, but you're thankful it did.
Tags: fem reader, wlw, age difference, legal age gap, mature themes, werewolf x witch, slowburn(?)
Summary: After finishing her studies abroad and deciding to visit her family, Y/N Addams unexpectedly finds herself a job at Nevermore as a teacher's aide. The eldest of the renowned Addams family expected many things upon her return to the school, but falling for the new music teacher wasn't one of them.
Word Count: 3k
A/N: It's been ages since I first announced this fic but it's finally heree lmao. The prologue is rather long, but I do hope y'all enjoy this!! <3
Read on Wattpad | Ao3
The dark, tall gates approached fast, making your heart pound slightly faster in your chest. It had been some time since you'd last seen your family and though you knew they'd welcome you with open arms, it still made you rather nervous.
Lurch had picked you up from the airport, driving you all the way back to your old school. You'd heard what had happened there last year involving your little sister— probably every former student had heard of it, and you were curious what the school was like now. Especially now that Principal Weems was gone.
As the gates opened and the car drove through, you took a deep breath— feeling both excited and nervous to see your family again.
---
You had barely taken a step outside of the vehicle before a force came crashing against you, almost making you stumble backwards. You didn't even need to look properly to know who it was.
"Pugsley!" You exclaim, immediately returning his rather tight embrace.
"Y/n!" He pulls back, a stupid smile on his face. "Did you bring me anything?"
Of course that's the first thing on his mind.
You hum, taking your backpack from the car seat behind you as you pull out a glass encasement, with a skull carefully situated inside. "From the Paris catacombs." You gently hand it to him, grimacing when grabs onto it a little too harshly. "It took some bribing and convincing, but they let me leave with one. It's great for rituals." Then you lower your voice, whispering. "It's supposed to be haunted."
You didn't think his smile could've been any brighter. "I'm gonna use this first chance I get. Thanks, big sis!"
He stares at the item as he makes way for the rest of the family. Your parents are, as per usual, standing tightly next to one another as Wednesday is a few feet away from them, the usual unreadable expression on her face.
"Darling!" Your mother says, opening her arms in greeting. She walks up to you same as you do, meeting you in the middle as she wraps you in a loving embrace.
"Hey, mom." You mutter against her shoulder, the woman being a head taller than you.
"It's been far too long." She smiles, slowly placing a kiss in your hair.
"Yeah, but I'm here now." You pull away, looking up at her with a small smile. Your mother looks at you proudly one more time, thumb running over your cheek, before stepping away and letting your father greet you.
He's usually much calmer in his greetings, knowing you don't like making a fuss out of things— much like your younger sibling, who is still giving you a judging stare from a distance. Your father gives you a light hug, muttering something along the lines of 'my little death flower' before pulling back, gently squeezing your cheek with one hand.
Then comes your younger sister. Ever since deciding you wanted to complete your studies abroad, she's been acting… different towards you. Not in her usual 'Wednesday' way, but as if she's trying to distance herself from you. When you were away, you didn't feel like bringing it up. Now that you're back, you are considering it, though you know forcing Wednesday into a conversation like that is probably not a good idea. You might just bring it up and wait for her to come to you, like you've always done.
Though her expression wouldn't betray her, you can see the gears turning in her head, pondering her next move.
When she was little, she was more like Pugsley in terms of excitement. She'd hug you tightly whenever you got home from school— or from anywhere really, acting like you'd been gone for weeks instead of hours. She barely left your side then, so curious about how you performed your spells or how you managed to craft enchanted potions from the most basic ingredients, but she was mostly interested in your tarot reading sessions.
And now? Now, she was rarely seen at your side.
You realize she's still just standing there, hands intertwined and calmly resting in front of her. You decide to make the decision easier for her.
"Hey, Wednesday." You give her a wave, not moving forward. "Good to see you again. I've missed you." You try giving her a smile, but all that does is earn you an eye-roll before she takes off towards the school again.
"Don't worry, my darling." Your mother comes up behind you, resting a hand on your shoulder. "Wednesday has been like that for a while now. Just give it time."
You used to laugh at your parents' nicknames and words of endearment, but now they feel rather comforting again. "Yeah you're probably right." You sigh, eyes still looking at the spot where your sister disappeared.
"Let's get you settled in, hm?" Your mother suggests, feeling her hand move off your shoulder.
You'd expected them to step back into the car. Instead, you watch as your father says something to Lurch. The tall man proceeds to take your luggage out of the car to carry with him. Your mother motions for you to follow her, your father and brother trailing behind.
Again you're taken by surprise when, instead of walking up to the school, she takes you down a different path. You eventually end up at a beautiful cottage, one that doesn't strike as familiar to you. The garden, though unkempt, is large and pretty. The cottage looks cozy, yet it's larger than you expected once you step inside. It looks like they're still busy redecorating the place, most of the walls painted with black— the pink still peeking through in certain places. The furniture has already been replaced you assume, recognizing your parents' taste in them— even from underneath the protective sheet placed over them.
It reminds you a little bit of home.
"The new principal has asked me to chair the Gala Fundraising Committee." You mother explains, voice low and steady. "That's why we'll live here for the time being."
"That sounds wonderful, Mom." You smile gently, in truth only half listening to her words. You're still taking in all these… changes. Everything that has happened while you were away.
"Are you okay?" Your mother asks carefully. She doesn't reach for you, but lingers in her spot behind you. "You seem saddened, sweetheart."
You let out a small sigh, turning to her. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just…" You take a moment to look around, before looking up at her. "I just have no idea what to do next."
"I know, Y/N." Your mother steps closer to you, hand coming up to gently hold your chin. "But don't despair. Your father and I are always here for you, whatever your next step will be. There's no rush to it." She smiles at you, head tilting lightly.
One thing you love about your mother more than anything, is how gentle and caring she is. Sometimes she can be a little much, sure, but you quickly learned in your study years that not every parent cares this much about their children. Even Grandmama barely shows her affection this openly.
"Thank you, Mama." You carefully smile back. "I might just stay for a few days and then head back to the house, if you and dad don't mind." That way, you can figure out what to do next in your life in peace and quiet— no school children around to distract you.
"Of course, darling." Your mother hums. Then a thought crosses her mind, clear in her change of expression. "If you're done unpacking, we can go to the school if you'd like. I'm sure Pugsley and Wednesday would love to show you their rooms."
Pugsley maybe, Wednesday… probably not. "Yeah, that sounds fun." You weren't really in the mood to go after such a long day of travel, but you didn't have to strength to argue, either.
"Wonderful." She nods, stepping away from you and clasping her hands together. "Let's unpack, then."
You, your mother and Lurch proceed to carry your bags to the small guest bedroom in the cottage. It initially was an office, your mother told you, but they converted it into a bedroom after finding out you'd be coming back. The room was already painted black with hints of green, a queen sized bed pushed against the far wall to the left— while the wardrobe was on the right hand side alongside a neat, dark oak desk. Next to the desk, in the middle of the room, was a small bookcase that worked as a kind of divider for the space. The room itself was adorned with dark wood as well, two large beams hanging overhead while a faint flower pattern could be seen on the wallpaper. You spot a few black roses here and there alongside some other greenery on the desk and next to your bed— your mother undoubtedly having put those there.
After unpacking most of what you deemed would be necessary the next few days, you head over to the school together with your mother. You're a little nervous, though you don't exactly know why since you don't even go to this school anymore.
The large castle looms before you, bringing back memories of your time there. Not to say they were bad per se, you learned a lot in your time there and you're still in contact with some of your classmates from time to time. But you felt lonely. Witches— real witches, ones that had actual magical properties and didn't just do parlor tricks— were a rare type of outcast. They could control the elements, to a certain extent, and use enchantments on potions (or people, if needed). At the time, you were the only one at the school and truly connecting with others was hard.
Now you were wondering if there were any at the school right now. Perhaps you could talk to them a bit. Make them feel less… isolated.
Pugsley is the first to show you around his dorm. It's the same one your father stayed at, something you remember him talking about while you were here. Your brother mentions someone named 'Eugene' being his roommate along with a few others. He seems so thrilled to make friends here and your cold heart warms slightly at the sight of it.
Your mother had excused herself sometime after getting here, telling you she needed to discuss something with the new principal for her new position at the school. This left you and your little brother alone, who was eager to hear about your stories from your time in Europe, spanning from French cathedrals to Romanian castles and everything between.
"I've got powers now, too."
"What?" You blink, his sudden announcement throwing you off.
"Mom and Dad didn't tell you?" He frowns, before grinning. "I've got powers like uncle Fester." He points his finger towards a small vase in the room, mostly likely not his, and a bolt of electricity shoots from his hand and shattering the vase along with the flower that rested inside. You wince slightly as it falls half burned towards the ground.
"Pugsley…" You mutter with a small sigh. You stand up, carefully grasping the damaged flower and turning it carefully in your hand. Pieces of the char-coaled remains fall into your palm, turning to ash.
"Right, sorry." He looks at you, giving you a sheepish smile as he raises his shoulders. "Forgot about the nature thing."
"It's fine, really." You focus on the small flower, helping it regain it's energy as you say a small incantation in your head. The ashes float back into their original positions, turning solid and green again as the flower springs back to life. Satisfied with yourself, you take the flower and place it in a different vase. Then you turn to your little brother again. "But I'm happy you discovered you new powers, Pugsley. They're awesome." You smile, ruffling his hair even though he is now actually taller than you.
"They are, right?" The boy grins proudly.
A few of his dorm mates return a short while after that. You quickly introduce yourself, before taking your leave and deciding to head over to Wednesday's dorm.
You're not even out of the hallway yet before you run into an older looking man wearing glasses, a cheesy Nevermore shirt and a way too peppy expression. You recall your mother telling you about the new principal and he seems to tick all those boxes.
"Are you lost, young lady?" The man asks with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
You shake your head. "No, sir. Just visiting family."
"Ah, that's why I couldn't quite recognize you." He replies, resting his hands in front of him. "You must be Y/N Addams, I assume? Your family informed me you'd be visiting soon."
"Oh." You didn't know it was so important to mention your visit to the principal. "Yeah, that's me."
Usually you don't mind having small talk with people, but this man just has this… odd energy around him. Not to say that that is immediately a sign of a person being bad, exactly. You just can't quite place it, which is… strange.
"It's good to see alumni like yourself return to the school once more. It brings a smile to my face." He explains, the smile he was talking about being apparent on his face. "Let me be one of the first to welcome you back to Nevermore, Ms. Addams."
You give him a small smile in return. "Thank you, Principal…" You think for a moment. "Dort, was it?"
"That's correct." He lets out a small chuckle. "Apologies for not introducing myself," The principal holds out his hand, waiting for you to take it. You reach out and take it, lightly shaking his hand. "I'm Barry Dort, the new principal of Nevermore."
"Y/N Addams, as you know." You say. "Nice to meet you, sir."
"Likewise." The man lets go of your hand. "Your mother was talking about you earlier. She mentioned you graduated recently?" You give him a nod as he continues. "First of all, my congratulations! Finishing university is no easy feat. Second, I have a proposition that might interest you… Would you mind following me to my office?"
You were supposed to visit Wednesday, but from her reaction earlier today, you're sure she didn't mind if you visited later. Or… not at all.
"Sure." You shrug a little, before following him down the hallways. You remember vaguely where the headmaster's office was located, at that time Weems was still the principal.
He motions for you to sit in the chair as he rounds the desk, taking a seat in his own chair opposite of you. "So," He starts, clearing his throat. "As you surely must have heard by now, last year we had some… incidents. A hyde on the loose, a normie teacher out for revenge… Weems made quite the mess of it all." He huffs, the irritation visible on his face. Your hand gripped the armrest a little tighter, fingers digging into the soft fabric.
Yes, last year was a mess from what you'd heard. But you can't blame it all on one woman— especially not one that gave her life to save the school in the end.
Dort doesn't seem to notice your reaction or he just didn't care for it, as he continued his speech. "As you can imagine, it's been a struggle to rebuild the school after all that. So far we've managed, but some of the teachers have been working overtime— managing more classes than usual and even working on the weekends to prepare classes. Not to mention when a teacher calls in sick…" The man sighs, rather dramatically. "Unfortunately, I don't have the budget to hire another teacher to help out. I do, however, have just enough funds to hire a teacher's aide. That's where you come in, Ms. Addams."
He points towards you with something of a flourish, making you frown. You did study Psychology and knew how to communicate with students or recognize certain behaviors, but you didn't know a lot about teaching itself…
"How exactly would I be able to help?"
"Glad you ask." The man smiles, a small stack of papers from one of the drawers. "I've taken the liberty of going through your files of your time here, at Nevermore, as well as discuss your previous study with your parents."
"… You did?"
"And I've come to the conclusion that you could be a great asset to the school." His smile has not faltered once during his talk. "You could assist teachers where needed, help grading assignments or briefly take over lessons in case of absence. Students would primarily come to you if they face any problems, but don't feel comfortable enough to communicate this to a teacher. It would be a smaller step for students to talk to you."
"That's… I feel honored that you'd ask me for that position, Principal Dort, but I'm not so sure about it yet."
Dort seems entirely unbothered by your comment. "It would only be a temporary job, of course. One year at the most, I'd say. But this way you can work and figure out what the next step for your future will be."
How does he even know about that? How much did your mother tell him? "I just don't think I have the skills to-"
"Principal Dort!" There's a brief knock, before a voice calls from the corridors. You couldn't even turn in time to see the door thrown open, a flurry of red curls and leopard print bursting in. "I think we should reschedule the camping trip now that we know there will be a full-" The woman stops in her tracks, blinking. "…moon."
Your gaze connected with hers— dark, beautiful eyes meeting yours and you could swear the world around you froze.
She's the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.
Maybe you will take that job after all, if it meant working alongside her.
Hi hi! Would you please be willing to write a Brona Croft x reader fic? I feel like she’s criminally underwritten for, haha.
But I was thinking maaaaybe like she’s living down the hall from R in the apartment she lived in S1 but the moment they really bond could be like R overhearing a coughing fit and asking if she wants tea or something like that and then from there they ✨fall in love✨
Brona Croft x Reader
a/n— Sorry it took so long idek how it did I worked on it nonstop for three days straight…tbf tho it is really long……hopefully it doesnt disappoint
Word count: 6.7k
The mariners inn was a stingy place. Much like most of London. Creaky wooden floors, cheap alcohol that burned more then it should and poor old motel rooms with walls thinner than paper that couldnt hold in heat no matter the conditions.
You’d been living there for a month now, working there for much longer. The pay was good, and the owners of the business respected you. So much so that when they heard you had no home, they offered up one of their motel rooms.
Finally free from the stress of finding a place to stay, you began focusing on your work. Tending to thirsty sailors in need of a drink, normal working men who needed to get away from their families, and the other people who took residency in the motel.
None of them stuck, none were there long enough for you to even learn their names.
But there was one person, she came not long after you moved in, she stayed in the room right next to yours. For the first two weeks she was here you learned almost nothing about her except that she had a cough and a very infrequent schedule.
She left her room at odd times. Sometimes late at night, sometimes the middle of the day. There wasnt much a chance to see her, let alone get to know her.
Though one thing you learned quickly— Since the first night she arrived she was coughing, nothing bad at first; a minute or two at night and never in the day, but slowly over time it had been getting worse.
This past week has been different however. She came and sat at the bar almost every day, having three shots and small talking with whoever was serving her which was almost always you.
Over three days you learned her name, and she told you why she was in London. Brona croft. She recently travelled here in hopes of escaping poverty, famine and disease in ireland.
Quickly, you both became acquainted. Speaking briefly late at night when she would return from her nights out, making fun of some of the men who came in and discussing small surface level topics like the weather and how prices varied across london.
You grew fond of her quickly, despite your routine with her being nothing more then serving her a drink, talking, taking her money and then saying goodbye. You found yourself waiting for the moments she would come down the stairs, admiring parts about her like her hair and accent. found yourself smiling at the thought of her while you cleaned, imagining far fetched scenarios about her while you walked through the snowy streets of London.
The rest of the week passed by in a blur, and the next one after that, the only special thing happening over fourteen days being yours and Bronas growing relationship. Nights had started getting significantly colder, some nights not even fire could keep the small room warm.
You spent your time behind the bar, serving, cleaning and counting money. At night, you were awakened by Brona coughing, which had become a sort of alarm, reminding you to keep the fireplace full and lit.
The cough had gotten worse over the week, what was once three minutes of coughing for the whole night had turned into well over five.
It was disturbing to say the least, you already worked harsh hours and hardly got any sleep and ontop of that any sleep you did get was restless because of the cold, but you couldnt help feeling bad for her. Knowing that she was sick and not getting any better. It made the time she would visit with you feel almost…intimate, in a way.
You and her werent particularily close, in between the strange line of acquaintences and friends. So to be awake with her at night, listening to something nobody wants anyone to hear come out of them. To be awake with her while the rest of London was sound asleep? It made you feel closer to her then she probably felt to you.
On one particularly cold night, You were woken up atleast seven times to the sound of Bronas coughing and sleepily walking around her room, her feet weighing down on the wood shaking the wall between you, clattering the porcelain accessories on the shelves attached.
By morning, getting up felt like trying to free yourself from quick sand. You went to work as normal, fighting all day to keep the exhaustion masked and your brain functional.
You found yourself constantly looking up to Bronas door, waiting for the moment it would squeal open like it did every day. Waiting for her to come and sit at the bar. Waiting for the toothy smile she greeted you with.
But it never came. Shadows danced across the floor, the sun melted the ice and frost off the windows and eventually it became dark. It got busier in the pub, Men cycled through it, getting way more drunk then they should and being unbelievably rowdy.
By the end of your shift, you still hadnt seen Brona and had served so many drinks it felt like your joints had been glued together. Tired, and a bit dissappointed you slack on cleaning the bar, smiling innocently as you walked by the woman taking over for you.
You flopped onto the thin mattress as soon as you got into your room, not bothering to change your dress or make yourself something to eat.
kicking off your shoes you slip under the covers, relishing in the feeling of comforting fabric weighing you down. You sigh as relief washes over you, the tension of the day leaving your body and pulling you deep into sleep.
Some time later, you’re woken up by Brona hacking. It sounded different tonight, louder, more strained and prolonged, occassionally going quiet but never fully stopping.
Eyes heavy, you close them again, waiting patiently for it to pause or stop like usual, counting up the seconds in your head. By the time you reach 120, Brona is yet to stop coughing at all.
You open your eyes wide, pushing through the fuzzy dryness it causes and sit up, listening longer trying to decide if you should see if she needs anything.
Only when she starts desperately gasping for air between coughs do you make your decision and get out of bed.
Sliding into slippers, you cross the room and open the door, cringing at how loud it was. As you walk the short distance to Bronas room, you look down at the pub, seeing and hearing men taking shots and slamming the glass back down onto the bar-top, playing games, and sliding tips to the poor woman serving them.
When you reach Brona’s door, you lift your hand to knock, ignoring the way cool, biting air drafted across your ankles. The coughing muffles almost immedietly, the sound of bare feet on wood following a moment later. You press your lips together briefly, feeling your heart squeeze itself in anticipation.
The hinges squeak slightly as the door is pulled open. Your eyebrows knitting together when you see Brona, who’s clearly fighting back the urge to cough. A hankerchief is clutched in her hand, and her lips lack their usual color.
“Are you alright..?” You ask, hands clasping eachother tightly while you watch Brona jerk and tense with the effort to hold back her cough.
She opens her mouth to speak, nodding her head along, but before she can a cough forces itself out of her, the strength of it causing her to double over as it pushes all the air out of her lungs. Hastily she covers her mouth with the hankerchief and straightens herself. wiping the fabric across her lips before bracing her hand on the doorframe.
“Fine,” She gasps, pressing her lips together tightly as she swallows.
You look at her skeptically, nodding your head as she uses her shoulder to wipe the side of her face. “D-do you need anything?” You ask after a moment of awkward silence, shifting your weight nervously.
Brona shakes her head quickly, squeezing her eyes shut as she fights off another cough, hand squeezing the frame of the door in anticipation.
Worry and sympathy weave their way through your body, seeing the woman who was usually so put together and lively look so colorless and lethargic.
“I’ll get you something” You say, taking a hesitant step back before turning away the second you saw Bronas eyes lock on you. Not wanting her to answer.
Your cheeks burn red as you walk down the stairs in your slippers, even though nobody was going to notice nor remember.
Hastily, you walk past the bar and down a short hallway, turning into a dark and cluttered room filled with boxes and boxes of alcohol and fancy glasses.
You search around, looking for the kettles and mugs you knew were kept in there. When you find them, you rush quickly back upstairs, stopping briefly in your room to grab herbs and a teabag. When you step back out, you find Bronas door half open, the sound of strained coughs pouring out faintly.
Slowly, you open it, watching as light pours into the darkened room. When you step inside, Brona is at the table, doubled over on a chair. One hand holds her stomach, clutching at the threadbare fabric covering it. The other gripping the edge of the table.
Her coughs are short and strained, her body not pausing long enough to let her breathe.
You close the door behind you, turning the lights on and walking over to the kitchenette, trying to get done filling the kettle with water and getting it boiling quick so you can go over to Brona.
Once you have the kettle set to boil, you make your way across the room silently, watching as the red haired woman rubs her forehead and catches her breath.
As you got closer, standing behind her now, you could hear the high pitched hollowness that emitted with every exhale.
you lift your hand up to her back, hesitating before bracing your other on her shoulder and slowly pressing your palm flat and rubbing firm circles.
Brona turns her head to the side, looking at you over her shoulder, “What are you doing?” She asks defensively, her voice gravelly.
You dont respond, instead reaching infront of her and tapping lightly under her collarbone. “Pat your chest,”
The chair Brona sits on protests as her weight shifts, her hand coming up to her chest, hovering above it for a moment before she starts patting.
“Good,” You murmur giving her shoulder a squeeze before stepping back. “Keep doing that.” You add, walking away from her to the kettle. As you pour warm water into the mug, Brona clears her throat, the sound bubbly and rattling.
When You glance behind you, you catch a glimpse of the older woman holding her hankerchief to her mouth again as she spit up phlegm.
Dropping the teabag into the water, you dunked it repeatedly before sprinkling in a series of herbs and slowly making your way back to Brona, walking up beside her and holding the mug out for her.
She looks up at you skeptically, eyebrows creased together as she takes the cup in both hands. “What is it?” She asks, resting it in her lap.
“Green tea,” you say as you pull out a second chair and sit down across from her “…and herbs that should…help”
She looks down at the cup, dipping her index finger into the liquid before bringing it to her lips and taking a sip, her nose crinkling at the taste of it.
“You dont like it” You point out, a small smile spreading across your face.
“I hate it” She replies, setting the mug down on the table beside her before looking down at her lap.
You hum in response, turning to look towards the closed door as someone walked by, a sailor probably spending the night.
“Do I wake you?” Brona asks suddenly, tilting her head slightly.
You stare back at her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes. Would it hurt her feelings if you said yes? Were you even close enough to be honest?
Instead of speaking you nod your head, pressing your lips together nervously.
Brona nods back, bringing her lip between her teeth and looking around the room nervously.
Noticing her behavior, you change the topic, crossing your legs before speaking. “I didnt see you today…”
Brona inhales sharply, the wheezing having went away almost entirely. She waves her hand, kissing her teeth before speaking.
“Aye,“ A pause as she turns, resting her elbows on the table. “Its this cough, got real bad this morning,” She says, pointing to her bed which had a noticeable red stain on the pillow.
“ ‘S been like that all day…” resigned she drops her head, letting it rest on her hands. “Makin’ me fight myself for air, stupid thing”
You nod in response, reaching out and pushing the mug towards her, watching her fingers wrap around it and lift it to her lips.
While she drinks, you let your eyes wander around the room. Her bed consists of a faded pink blanket and a pillow that looks so dirty its more brown then anything. Across the small room is a fireplace, containing a small flickering flame that wouldnt even warm a hand.
“Your fire is going out,” you say, watching the flame dance across its last piece of fuel.
Your eyes flicker over to Brona whos staring at the small fire with her finger between her teeth. Her eyebrows knit together tightly in an expression you couldnt read.
“Are you alright?”
Bronas eyebrows raise quickly, her hand dropping into her lap, looking down for a moment before snapping her head up to look back at the fire with glinting eyes.
“Its just that was my last piece of coal,” She says lowly, her accent sounding thicker then it had just a moment ago. “Guess ill be quite cold tonight…”
“I-“ You open your mouth to speak, already in the motion of standing up before Brona interrupts you.
“Stop,” She says firmly, her eyes glaring up at you. “I dont need you doin’ anything more, you’ve already given me more than I can return”
You got coal and firewood for free from your boss, he keeps it all stored behind the hearth in the pub, always telling you to take what you need. You never do though in fear of being the reason it would run out. But it wouldnt be a problem if she…took some and gave it to one of the guests right?
Standing awkwardly now, you look down at the woman, hand fidgeting with the uneven surface of the table.
“I was going to say I have more than enough coal for me…and theres actual wood downstairs im allowed to have—“ You say meekly, cheeks flushing in embarrassment.
“You should go now,” Brona replies after a moment, motioning to the door “You came because of the cough, im not coughing now so…please.”
You stick your tongue out to wet your bottom lip, looking to the side. Angry at yourself for making her feel the way she did, angry for doing to much. Embarrassed and sad from the rejection.
Finally, you respond. Nodding your head and stepping away from the table. “Okay,” You murmur “I’m sorry”
You turn around swiftly, making your way towards the door. As you turn the doorknob you cast your gaze towards Brona. Smiling weakly at her before stepping out.
.☘︎ ݁˖
The rest of the night you’re tossing and turning in your bed, trying to make yourself fall asleep, trying to make your brain shut down.
Eventually you did end up falling asleep, waking up to the sun shining on your face. Opening your eyes you squint at the brightness, using your hand to block the bright light as you sat up.
The blanket pooled around your hips, letting cold air surround your upper body. Goosebumps bloomed all across your body as you slipped out of the bed, walking across the small room to get ready for your shift.
Walking down the stairs, your hands bunched in the skirt of your dress, you see your boss standing behind the bar a shiny glass in his hand.
He greets you, setting the cup down onto the bar top. It echoed out into the room, causing some of the passed out men to stir. You walk onto the platform that housed the series of tables and men, smirking at your boss as you come up behind one of them, grabbing the glass out of his hand and flicking the back of his head.
His snoring stops abruptly as he shoots upright. Looking around confused for a moment before he stood up and went over to the bar, his heavy boots hitting the floor percussively.
You continue walking, flicking mens heads and taking their glasses. When theyre all awake, and most preparing to leave, you make your way across the pub, setting the glasses down in the sink that was filled with warm water.
As you clean the glasses, you cant help but replay the night. infact it wouldnt leave your head no matter what. Rubbing her back, feeling the warmth of her body beneath your skin, making tea for her and encouraging her to drink it, how she wasnt keen on letting you care, but still allowing it anyways.
A smile spreads across your face, uncontrollable and big while something fluttered in your stomach. You pushed aside the negative aspects of the night, only focusing on the parts that made butterflies bite the inside of your stomach.
Then, the sound of your bosses voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “What are you smiling at?” He says, a big smirk plastered on his face.
Caught of guard, a glass slips out of your hand, splashing into the water and clanging against the bottom of the sink. You pick it up quickly, holding it tightly in your hand as you looked over to him.
“Oh nothing just… Just thinking”
“Uhuh” He says, looking at her warily.
After that, the open room falls into a familiar silence. Both you and your boss working silently side by side, knowing exactly how to get things done without needing to speak.
Twenty minutes later, when you’re in the middle of wiping down the bar top and stools, an intrusive squeal rings out across the room, shattering the peaceful silence of the room.
You find your head snapping towards the sound before you even register what direction it came from, smiling when you see red curls bouncing down the stairs.
Brona smiles when she sees you her eyes following you as you walk behind the bar, grabbing a bowl and cloth off the top and setting them beside the sink.
Bracing your hands on the counter, you lift yourself up, leaning over until you were on your tippy toes, waiting almost eagerly for her to sit down.
“Your usual?” You ask when shes sat, already grabbing the open bottle and a shot glass.
She hums in response, occupied with slipping mesh gloves onto her hands.
As you pour the dark yellow liquid into the glass, you catch a glimpse of your boss watching you, an almost knowing half smile on his face as he serves a sad looking man.
You cast him a stern look before turning back to Brona, smiling softly as you place the glass down infront of her.
She mouths a thank you, pinching it between three fingers and drinking it. You watch as she throws her head back, watch her hair shift behind her shoulders and catch the morning light…
Faintly, you hear your boss call your name. You look over at him. “Collect her rent” He mouths, pointing towards Brona.
You nod and roll your eyes at him as you look back to Brona. Who was already looking at you.
Both of you stare intently at eachother, waiting for the other to speak. Usually conversation came so easily. One of you always had something to talk about, always knew what to say and how to say it.
You feel your ears begin to heat up, your eyes feeling as if they were being pulled back in your head. Snapping your eyes away, you clear your throat, arranging the bottles lined up infront of you despite them being perfectly fine.
“What are you doing today?” You ask, briefly looking up at her. Cringing at how silly the question was.
Brona sighs, resting her head on her hand and tapping the empty shot glass on the bar top. She didnt respond for a moment, instead watching you pretend to be doing something.
The silence, short as it was felt like it stretched on for much longer, and just as you were starting to think she wasnt going to answer, just as thoughts about how she must think you’re being nosy and bothersome began to creep in…she spoke.
“ ‘Ve got to work but…” She says, rubbing her hands together, pursing her lips briefly before her gaze locked back onto you. “Maybe when I come back We can have a drink together?”
Your mouth falls open briefly, your brain short circuiting. “I- uh..” you stutter, staring wide eyed at her. You felt your cheeks heating up and you just knew how red your face was.
“Y-yeah…that’d be nice…” You finally say, smiling nervously and looking down.
Theres no response from Brona right away, but you can feel her eyes on you. She clears her throat before hopping off the barstool. “Its the least I can do,” She says, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her dress “For…last night”
“Oh,” you respond, tilting your head up and smiling. “You dont have to repay me, Brona” You add, watching her as she takes a step back, her eyes trained on yours.
“I want to.” She mutters, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.
You nod again, silently agreeing with her as she takes another step back, her eyes not leaving yours. “I’ve got to go” She says, picking at her nails “Goodbye”
Leaning back on the counter, you watch her leave, chewing on your lip intently.
“Have you got her rent?” Your boss asks from across the bar.
You look over to him, pursing your lips and shaking your head. You watch him as he pours whiskey into a glass, handing it to the same sad man before he walked towards you.
“Get it,” He says before walking out of the bar and down the long hallway across from it.
You sigh, staring out the window. There wasnt much you could do all day, all the cleaning was already done, there was one lonely man sitting at the bar and ships dont usually start arriving until the early afternoon.
The next few hours, you spend pacing around the empty pub, keeping the fire going and pretending to be doing something important.
When you see ships coming in, and the sound of mens heavy boots outside the door, you body buzzes with the anticipation of finally having something to do.
-
The rest of the afternoon theres people coming and going steadily, some coming in to get drunk, most coming in for a quick drink after a long travel, people who work on the docks coming in to get out of the cold.
By evening, most of the tables are surrounded with people, their tops covered in shot glasses, cups and cards. You move from one side of the bar to the other, filling up glasses, taking dirty ones, all while keeping it clean.
Your shift ends just as Brona comes through the pub doors, you’re in the middle of washing dishes and listening to a drunk man tell you about the places hes travelled to, looking up at him to smile nod, maybe laugh. You glance up at Brona as she walks by, staring as she walks up the stairs before turning your attention back to the man, now focused not on what he was saying but instead when it was going to end.
He leaves not long after, someone had yelled at him to go and play a game, he stumbled across the room, leaving you to your last task of the night.
Five minutes later, Brona comes back down, sitting on the barstool across from you. You look up at her, smiling and mouthing a ‘Hi’
She smiles back, looking around the busy room almost nervously.
You notice. The way her eyebrows raise slightly, how her lips are pursed just barely.
“Ill be done in a moment, then we can…go?” You say, pulling a glass out of the soapy water and placing it down on a cloth next to you.
Brona doesnt respond, just nods and slides off the barstool, walking to up the stairs to her room without a word.
You furrow your eyebrows, confused by the way she was acting. Perhaps she was nervous. Afterall up until last night you both had never spoken to eachother unless you were behind the bar and she was buying drinks.
As you pull the drain to the sink, and grab a cloth to dry your hands, you hear a door screech from upstairs, recognizing it as Bronas immedietly. You look towards it, seeing her closing it softly, back turned to the pub while she held a handkerchief to her mouth. Faintly you could hear the sound of her coughing, though didnt pay much attention to it, finding yourself suddenly anxious about going out.
You walk around the bar, watching Brona ascend the stairs and walk towards the door, looking behind her and motioning to you to follow. You rush to catch up, not wanting to keep her waiting.
As you stepped outside you were hit with cold wind biting your cheeks. Neither of you spoke while you walked away from the pub, not until you were out of sight of the docks did one of you speak.
“I’m sorry about last night,” Brona says, fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve. “and any other night i’ve kept you up”
“Its alright” You respond softly, looking to her with a half smile while holding your hand up to a carriage approaching.
Both of you get into the carriage, sitting side by side, the sides of your legs touching, making you feel warm despite the cold.
The ride is spent in silence, neither of you making an effort to say anything. When you reach your destination — a pub across london — Brona gets out first, waiting for you to get out and walk beside her.
As you approach the building, you can hear music playing and people laughing and chatting loudly. Opening the door made it all more clear. Warmth surrounded you, burning your face and thawing your limbs as you walked close behind Brona towards the bar.
She leans herself over the counter, waving one of the bartenders over. “shot of whiskey,” She says to him, looking to you expectantly. “Ill have the same as you” you say quietly.
She turns back to the bartender quickly, holding up two fingers and smiling. “Make that two”
The sound of the man setting the small glasses down on the bar top is barely audible through all the noise in the room. Brona puts the glass to her lips, raising her eyebrows at you before throwing her head back.
You do the same though less gracefully, and with alot less confidence. Scrunching your face as you set the glass back down you speak, “How do you drink that every day”
“Makes me feel warmer when im outside” She says, circling her finger around the rim of the empty shot.
“You work outside?” You ask, eyes flickering to her hand briefly.
Brona looks at you with an expression that tells you you crossed a line. You clear your throat nervously, muttering an apology and averting your eyes.
Silence washes over both of you. Bronas eyes stay locked on you as you try to look anywhere but her, though allowing yourself to cast short glances.
Brona calls the bartender back over, getting him to fill hers and your glass again, repeating the same motion of bringing it to her lips and throwing her head back.
You dont touch the glass again, leaving it where it was, instead watching Brona, only looking away when her head comes down.
“Its noisy in here,” You say, smoothing the skirt of your dress over your knees, looking to the open room at all the people.
“Isnt that better?” Brona asks, leaning back just slightly.
You look back at her, raising your eyebrows. “Do you think its better?”
She looks down, taking a deep breath before looking back up. “Yes”
“Why?”
Brona looks around the room, to the men banging on a table and cheering, the numerous conversations spread out across the room, then, she turned back to you. “means ya dont have to think,” She says, smirking softly
“and you like that?” You reply, furrowing your eyebrows briefly and bringing your elbow to rest on the bar top.
Brona takes another shot before responding. “I do”
You nod, looking down to her lap, taking in the black and white of her skirt.
“I take it you dont like the noise?” She says, tilting her head down to try and meet your eyes with hers, “Or the alcohol” She smiles, stretching her arm out to grab your still full shot glass, throwing her head back for the fourth time before slipping off the barstool.
“Come, We’ll go somewhere else” She says, motioning with her head towards the door.
You follow her out, taking a deep breath and holding it before leaving the warmth of the room and stepping outside.
Brona leads you across the street, pointing to a display with a fancy dress in it. “Look at that thing” She says walking right up to the window, her eyes gleaming in the overhead light as she looks up at the dress. Then, her eyes wander down. “forty five pounds, look” She adds, tapping her finger on the glass.
“Thats…expensive” You reply, stepping closer, accidentally brushing your arm against hers.
She looks at you for a moment, a lingering smile on her face before she starts walking again. “Its ridiculous how much they charge for those things, nobody’s makin that much money”
You walk beside her, matching her pace as you listen, feeling your heart jump at the way her elbow touches yours briefly.
“And its only fabric” You add in, watching her face for a reaction, a small smile on your face as you wait.
“L—“ Brona starts, her hand shooting up to her chest as a short cough escapes her. “I—“ She tries again after a moment, though is interrupted again by another cough, and another.
She brings her handkerchief to her mouth, stopping in her tracks and turning away from you as she coughs harshly into the white fabric.
You watch her for a moment, trying to weigh the situation and figure out if she would be fine in a moment or if she was having another fit.
Her cough sounds worse than it did last night, perhaps its because this time theyre outside. But it sounds more wet, more wheezy.
After twenty seconds Brona stops coughing, spitting into the white cloth before turning around. “We should catch a carriage, find somewhere to go…This—“ Another interruption as a cough forcefully pushes itself out of her.
“Maybe we should go back to ‘Mariners inn…This cold isnt doing you any good and theres not much places we can go after dark”
“No-“ Brona tries to protest, though you swiftly cut her off, holding your hand up for a passing carriage.
“Yes, Brona…Its making you worse” You say, climbing into the carriage and holding your hand out for the woman.
Brona glares up at you, though it doesnt look angry. Not in the dark atleast. Still, she takes your hand, stepping into the carriage herself and sitting down.
This carriage is different then the last, there was enough room for you to sit face to face across from eachother.
You watch Brona, how the rims of her eyes are gleaming more then the rest. How she chews on the inside of her cheek and stares at the door.
“Are you alright?” You ask quietly, tapping her ankle with your shoe, watching as her eyes snap towards yours before darting away.
Not wanting to push her, you dont say anything else, instead fidgeting with your dress while you waited for Brona to talk, or to arrive back at the Mariners inn.
The rest of the carriage ride is silent, aside from Brona occassionally coughing. When you arrive at the docks, Brona gets out first, waiting for you to get out as well before walking.
You walk beside her, hands clasped together as you tried to ignore the wind nipping at exposed skin. As you approach the Inn, you turn your head to Brona, quickly becoming mesmerized by how her hair looked blowing in the wind.
“I had fun tonight” You say, opening the door to the raggedy building.
“Did you?” Brona replies distantly, stepping in after you.
You walked ahead of her, walking up the stairs quickly and going to her room, hand on the doorknob while you watched her come up the stairs, her dress bunched up in her hands so she wouldnt fall.
When shes close enough, you open the door slowly, not acknowledging how cold it was. “Miss Brona,” You say, bowing your head and crossing one arm over your stomach.
“Oh, get in the room” She says teasingly, grabbing your hand off the doorknob and pulling you inside.
She doesnt close the door behind her, instead she just walks across the room, her footsteps loud on the hollow floorboards. She comes back with the kettle you’d left there last night, setting it down on an accent table next to the door.
“You left this, Thought you’d want it back” She says, taking a step back.
You close the door, leaving it open an inch. “Its one from downstairs, I doubt anyone noticed it was even there”
Brona nods in response, her eyes trained onto your face.
You look back at her, waiting to see if she would actually say anything, though it never came, leaving you both staring at eachother. You wondered what she was thinking about, if she was also waiting for you to speak, or if she was thinking something entirely different.
You break the eye contact, looking towards the empty fireplace and then back to her.
“You still have no fire” You murmur, watching her eyebrows furrow at your words.
She sighs, seemingly annoyed, though her body said different. Her fingers picked at her thumbs, gripped onto her skirt.
“I could get you stuff for it, Brona.”
It was different then last night, she didnt cut you off and kick you out, instead she looked down, almost ashamed, though a gentle smile counteracted everything about what you thought she was feeling.
“I wont owe you for something so small” She says, shaking her head, her arms crossing over her chest.
“You wouldnt owe me anything.”
“Yes, I would.”
You watch her as she walks away, going to the window despite it being nothing more then a mirror.
Your eyes travel to her bed, looking at the thin quilt and threadbare sheet. You wanted to help her. Wanted her to be comfortable.
Taking a step forward, keeping your eyes locked on the back of Bronas head, opening your mouth to speak. Though you were cut off before you could even start, Bronas voice cutting through the silence of the room.
“If you’re going to insist you give me something, or let me borrow another, I dont want to hear it.”
You stay still for a moment, pursing your lips. One thing you learned about Brona in the short time you’ve known her is that she can be stubborn. Very stubborn. So maybe…
“Ill be right back” You say, taking a step back before turning fully, rushing down the stairs into the pub, going by the bar into the hallway and turning into a room. Wood and coal and matches.
You grabbed as much as you could hold, kicking the door open and walking back down the hall, smiling at your boss as you walked by the bar.
When you reached Bronas door, you could see her. Sitting on the edge of the bed wiping her handkerchief over her mouth. Using your leg to open the door, you watch Bronas head snap ip to you.
You walk inside, towards the fireplace, setting the wood and coal down infront of it.
“What are you doing, I told you not to!” Brona says, closing the front door and storming over.
Strategically you place the wood and coal in the fire box before picking up the box of matches, fumbling with it trying to get it to open.
Brona kneels down beside you, her knees knocking onto the wooden floor. “Unbelievable” she mumbles, grabbing the box out of your hand, opening it and handing it back to you.
You dont respond, striking the match against the box until it lights and then throwing it into the pile of wood and coal.
Just as you look over to Brona, she starts coughing. Her handerkief doesnt cover her mouth in time and blood splatters onto the wood infront of her.
“Jesus christ” you say, turning yourself towards her, watching as she doubles over coughing, choking on whatever she was coughing up when she tries to breathe.
You can see her start to panic when it happens, her eyes widening as each inhale wheezes and does almost nothing to bring new air into her lungs. Her free hand starts to flail, searching for something.
You reach up quickly, grabbing her hand, shocked by how tightly she hangs on. What were you even supposed to do in this situation? She was scared, unable to breathe while also having any air she did get pushed out of her.
Hesitently, you shift closer so your knee was touching her thigh and placed your hand on her back, rubbing side to side.
You kept her hand steady, keeping it from flailing around in your grip. “Its okay” You say quietly, unsure of what else to do or say.
A minute later Bronas done coughing, and is breathing normally again, though her hand stays clutched in yours as she catches her breath.
“Do-“ You start, though Brona cuts you off.
“Please dont” She says, squeezing your hand lightly. She looks at the fire infront of her, watching the flame swallow its fuel.
Both of you sit in silence after that, both of you sit and watch the fire, feel it burning your face. Brona starts shivering slightly as the room gets warmer, as her the hand clutched in yours goes from cold to warm.
The only sound in the room is Bronas heavy breathing, the fire crackling and the distant sound of a busy pub. The only thing in your mind is the light, warm and peaceful feeling in your chest, the feeling of wood beneath your knees, and how perfect this moment was.
Then, faintly, you hear and feel Brona shifting, you start to turn your head towards her, but are met with her hair covering the bottom half of your face, and the feeling of her head resting on your shoulder.
A tightness wraps around your heart, and it feels like ants and butterflies are having a war in your stomach. You go still, processing what was happening.
Turning your head back to the fire, you cast your eyes down, seeing bronas eyelashes disappearing and reapearring as she blinks. Then, you heard something. Gentle and so so quiet. It almost wasnt there, so quiet that if you werent looking at Brona, you wouldnt have heard it.
A/N: Feel free to leave requests if you have any x
Read on AO3 | Wattpad
[Reader is a teacher as well]
Something was up with Isadora and you couldn't quite figure out what it was.
You two had been 'official' for about a month now. At school, you would hold back a bit, but you'd still give each other a quick kiss or a hug or find each other during breaks.
Today, however, she seemed very... affectionate.
Whenever you ran into her in the hallway, she'd kiss you. Deeply.
During break time, she'd kiss you. Every minute or so.
When you were just done talking to a student, she'd run up to you and give you a quick kiss before leaving again, leaving you rather flustered.
Wednesday's face after witnessing that hilarious, though.
You couldn't quite understand why she was this way today. Perhaps it was something werewolf related? You wondered if it had anything to do with werewolves going into heat. She talked about it before but you hadn't actually seen it happening to her yet.
...
No. That, you would notice.
Regardless, it was worth asking about later.
For the rest of the day, you let it all slide. It wasn't like you could complain about it, you definitely liked it. It was just a little different, being so affectionate in public.
Finally, at the end of your workday, you go to find her. The first place to look is, of course, her classroom where she teaches music. You find her there, still teaching a class. You stand at the door and give her a small smile and a wave, earning a wink from her in return. A few students seemed to notice and started to giggle and talk among themselves, to which you decided that perhaps it was better to wait in the corridor instead.
After walking up and down the stairs, looking at the world outside and staring at the same two paintings in the hallway, the class finally ended. The students who passed you would greet you with a smile, before turning back to their gossip. No doubt you and Miss Capri were one of the topics.
Once the wave of students pass, you make your way back to the classroom where you find Isadora perched on a desk with her legs crossed and leaning back with one hand for support, already waiting for you. You can't help but smile at her as her free hand twirls a strand of her hair.
"What brings you here, my love?" She teases, tilting her head.
"Do I need an excuse to visit my girlfriend?" Smirking, you walk up to her and stop just in front of her. You hold out your hand so she can gracefully hop off the table. Right after doing so, her hand slides up your arm and around your neck as she pulls you in for yet another kiss, tongue hungrily running over your lips. You're even sure you heard her moan.
Now you're starting to doubt that maybe she is in heat.
When the both of you catch your breath, you take the opportunity to question her about it. "Darling-"
"Hm?" Her eyes move between your lips and eyes as she bites her bottom lip.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always." The redhead whispers, her enticing tone unmissable.
"And please don't take this the wrong way," You know how quick she is to start overthinking. "But you've been very... public with your displays of affection today. Why is that?"
"What, I can't show people that I love you?" She practically pouts, making you chuckle.
"Of course you can, darling. But this is just so sudden. I thought we said to take it easy on that during work hours."
"Well maybe I don't want that anymore." Her gaze once again falls to you lips, her face mere inches from yours.
But you don't fall for it. You might not have know her for that long, but you certainly know when she tries avoiding the topic. "You could have informed me on that decision." You quip.
Her lips lock onto yours again and you can't help but melt into it.
How does she keep getting away with that?
Reluctantly and gently, you pull away from her.
You continue the earlier conversation, which she seems to want to avoid. It's not like you're trying to push her to answer it, you know she would tell you to stop if this were the case, but you're curious as to why she is avoiding the topic. She's usually very straightforward. "Is it a werewolf thing? I know you talked about being in heat before but that sounded way more intense than this and-"
"Oh! No, that's not it at all, honey." Her arms wrap around your neck, hands playing with your hair. You let your hands fall to her waist.
"So it is something?"
Her eyebrows shoot up. "No-"
"Yes." You challenge, pulling her closer.
"Okay, okay. I'll tell you." She lightly hits your shoulder. "But don't laugh."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
"Well?"
"I..." She licks her lips. "I liked the taste of your chapstick."
It takes everything in you not to laugh. "My... chapstick?"
"Yes. It tastes like cotton candy." From the look on her face you can already tell that she knows you're holding back a laugh. "You can laugh if you want." She whispers, the curves of her mouth turning upwards ever so slightly.
Instead of full out laughing, you just chuckle. "It's just- I was so sure it was werewolf related. But this is so much cuter."
That comment makes her blush as she briefly stares at her hands. "It somewhat is? That delicious scent made it easier to find you... But not easier to keep my hands off of you."
You take her hands in yours when you notice she started to fiddle with her rings. "Seems I will have to use it more often, then." You whisper to her, planting a quick kiss on her lips. "Ready to leave?" You say a little louder, realizing you're still in the music hall.
"With you? Always, my love." She answers, quickly grabbing her coat before walking back to you, taking your hand as the two of you walk out of the classroom.
A/N: My god its been a while since I last wrote anything. Apologies if this is somewhat bad xD trying to get back into it and the English language escaped me multiple times while writing this. Still, hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading xx
A/N: this was supposed to be a short one but it turned out to be 2k+ words lmao but hope you enjoy!! <3
If there was one thing you hadn't expected today, it would be snow.
It had been sunny all day. A little chilly, perhaps, but no sign of rain or snow. There wasn't even a cloud in the sky.
And now it was snowing.
And freezing.
And you had, today of all days, forgotten your jacket.
You stood at the counter, a damp rag slowly running over the surface to clean the last bit of dirt and dust from it when you look outside. The darkness has settled, tiny dots of white falling from the sky, shimmering in the streetlights.
"Shit." You mutter, finishing up cleaning. You put away the dirty mugs and glasses, scanning the coffee shop. You see an older couple, a bunch of teens and a middle aged woman still sitting in the booths. It's almost closing time, so you're gonna have to let them know it's time to leave, since your colleague is nowhere to be found.
You start with the elderly couple, who kindly smile at you in understanding as you tell them you're closing up soon. They leave shortly after you tell them, for which you are grateful.
Then comes the bunch of teens hanging around, five in total and all boys. They've been eyeing you since the beginning of your shift but you didn't pay them much mind. They came here every so often while you were working, laughing and whispering amongst themselves, turning cocky while you took their order. Now it was no different as you told them it was closing time and you asked them to leave. They talked back for a while, mostly playful, but definitely working on your nerves until they backed down and wished you a good evening as they left.
The last customer was a middle aged woman. She was leaning over a bunch of papers on the table, ginger curls falling over her shoulder and obscuring her face- lost in her thoughts as she didn't even hear you approach her.
"Miss?" You speak carefully and softly, trying not to scare her. Despite your carefulness, the woman still jolts slightly at your voice. She moves the hair from her face, looking up to you with large, dark and pretty eyes.
"Yes?" The redhead frowns, her voice sounding sweet yet slightly raspy.
You clear your throat, collecting yourself. "The coffee shop closes soon, Miss."
"Ah, is it that late already?" The woman softly chuckles, starting to collect the papers in front of her. "I hadn't realized the time…" You look over briefly and see some music sheets as well as what looks to be papers that have just been graded.
A teacher, perhaps.
"Do you need help cleaning this up, Miss…?"
"Capri. Miss Capri." She half smiles, shoving the papers back into the folder beside her. "Oh, but do call me Isadora, please. And no, I can manage but thank you."
The words escape faster than you could comprehent, or stop it for that matter. "Isadora is a beautiful name."
The redhead halts her movements just for a second, gaze locking with yours. "Thank you, darling." Her eyes briefly scan your face, stopping momentarily at your lips before they move back to lock eyes with you again. Then she gives you a quick, almost tight-lipped smile before continuing to clear out the booth. "Y/N is a lovely name, too." She adds smoothly.
"How did you-"
She laughs, the sound lighter than when you heard her speak. "Your name card, honey."
Another nickname, another fluttering feeling within you. "R- right. Of course." You laugh awkwardly. "Well, if there's nothing else…"
"Actually," Isadora reaches out, gently grabbing your forearm. "Would you mind if I used the restroom quickly before you close?"
Her touch is making you shiver. "Not at all. I still need to put some things away, so no need to rush." You explain, feeling the warmth of her hand on your skin. "It's just through there." Her hand still lingers on your arm and you don't dare to move it- don't want to move it, so you use your other arm to point in the direction of the restrooms. It probably looks a little clumsy.
She hums slowly, letting go of you and elegantly standing up in one swift movement.
You stand there, unmoving, until she reaches her destination, only then realizing that you were staring at her.
Shaking your head to clear your thoughts away, you quickly put away the last few cups into the dishwasher. Your colleague finally emerges then, seemingly unbothered by his extended absence just now. He checks the schedule for tomorrow and then says his goodbyes when you explain to him that you're waiting on a customer. He just shrugs as the notion, muttering a small 'see you tomorrow' and takes his leave.
The woman had, in the meantime, emerged from the restroom again. She'd packed all her things and cleared out the booth, heading for the door. "Have a good night." The redhaired woman smiles at you before stepping out.
"You too." You say after her, rather meekly. You doubt she had even heard it.
Taking one last look at the cafe and making sure the backdoor is locked, you also head out quickly. Without a jacket.
Into the cold.
To your surprise, Miss Capri was still standing on the sidewalk, looking down at her phone. When you close the door a little too hard behind you, her gaze turns towards you. Her eyes briefly scan your figure, settling on your midsection. You feel your cheeks heat up and quickly turn around to hide it, locking the front door.
"Aren't you cold? It's freezing." The redhead frowns, watching you as you lock the shop.
"I forgot to bring my jacket." You answer quickly, putting the key into your backpocket and turning back to her. You wrap you arms around yourself, trying to stay warm. "My car is close, I'll be fine."
"Here, darling." Isadora shrugs her fur coat off her shoulders and holds it out to you. "Take my coat. I don't really need it anyway."
You blink, not quite understanding why she wouldn't need a coat in this weather herself. "Thank you, but why-"
"Please, just take it." Her voice is firm, but her eyes are pleading. You can't help but nod, about to reach forward when she takes a step closer to you instead. She holds the coat up in both her hands, eyes never leaving yours. "May I?"
"Y-yeah, sure." You manage to get out. She hums lowly as she moves the coat around you, standing impossibly close. Isadora tilts her head slightly, letting the soft fabric rest on your shoulders as you can practically feel her hot breath on your skin.
While she's busy adjusting her coat on your figure, you take a brief moment to look at her from the short distance between you two. Her perfect eyebrows are lightly knitted together, concentrated. You notice the hint of a reddish tone coloring the tip of her nose and cheeks, mixed with her natural but very light freckles. Her plump lips, painted a peachy nude colour, slightly pursed.
"There, all done." The woman smiles, gaze on you again. You let out a shaky breath, only now noticing her hands still resting gently on your shoulders, feeling yourself slowly starting to warm up under the soft fur.
You manage a smile in return. "Thanks." That's all you can mutter right now, fully entranced by the woman before you. Though, you can't quite comprehend how the cold doesn't seem to bother her in the slightest. "What about you? Won't you be cold?"
The redhead chuckles, shaking her head. "Don't worry. I'll be fine." She takes a step back, giving you space. "Let me walk you to your car."
You can't even find yourself to refuse, despite only knowing this woman from the few times she visited the coffee shop. "Sure, okay, uh… this way." You point to your right, her left.
"Oh, wonderful. Mine is too." She smiles warmly before letting you lead the way and falling in step beside you. A comfortable silence falls between you two, watching the snow slowly cover everything in a thin white blanket. When you look to the side, you see Isadora staring at the pavement, her breath rhythmically passing her lips and turning into small clouds upon hitting the cold air. Her hair is fuzzy from the weather, small flakes of white mixed with ginger locks.
A question suddenly pops up in your mind, one you meant to ask back at the coffee shop.
"Isadora?"
"Hm?" She hums, her lips turning upward into a kind smile as she raises an eyebrow, looking at you.
You hug the coat closer to you, feeling a chilly breeze pass you. "I saw you were grading papers at the cafe. Are you a teacher?" You question. You wanted to ask if she was a music teacher, seeing how there were also music sheets lying around. But once your gaze found hers, words suddenly seemed to leave you.
"You're perceptive, aren't you, sweetheart?" Isadora smiles, voice sounding oh-so sweet. You didn't find it that perceptive, but the way she spoke to you made you blush nonetheless. "Yes, I'm a teacher. A music teacher, to be precise."
"Where do you teach?"
She remains silent for a moment, as if contemplating. "Nevermore Academy."
You look at her with slight surprise. "As in, the school for outcasts?"
The woman nods. "The very one."
You've heard vague tales about the school, only knowing for certain that it was the school for outcasts. You'd seen some of the students and faculty at the coffee shop regularly, they all just seem… normal to you. But you wouldn't have guessed Isadora was part of the staff too.
"Are you, like, an outcast too?" You ask her gently, trying not to sound accusing. You notice the music teachers starts spinning the rings on her fingers, looking away from you and seemingly holding an internal debate on what to answer.
Then you also realize…
"Is that why you're not currently freezing to death?"
At that, a laugh escapes her. A genuine, wholehearted laugh. "Yes, it does have to do with that." Her gaze turns back to you, a slight hesitation in her eyes. "I'm a werewolf."
"Oh." You blink, before letting out an amused chuckle. "That's… not what I would have guessed." You're having a hard time imagining this kind and beautiful woman as a big, scary werewolf. "But I guess that makes sense. Werewolves are… hot-blooded, right?"
"Mhm." She hums, turning away from you briefly to look at the snow falling around you. You could've sworn her cheeks were turning a warmer color. "Which is why I technically don't need my fur coat, but it's just… comforting, in a way."
"Well, I'm currently very grateful you brought one." You snicker, wrapping the coat closer around your frame. The older woman looks at you thoughtfully, head slightly tilted as if lost in her thoughts. The way she looks at you makes your face heat up, deciding to look in front of you instead before it becomes too obvious.
Only now do you notice that you walked past your car already. You turn around, seeing the vehicle stand a short distance behind you. You clear your throat, slowly coming to a halt. "We, uh, walked too far. My car is over there." You give a slight nod towards the direction your car is in.
Isadora blinks once, then twice, before speaking. "Oh, that was fast." It comes out sounding a little downcast. "Mine's a little further, but let me walk you to yours."
She's already been so nice to you and she just continues to do so. "You've already done so much, you don't have to-"
"I want to." She answers, faster than even she could comprehend. "Can't have you catching a cold at the last minute, sweetheart." The redhead quickly adds with a half laugh.
You just nod and smile, that fuzzy feeling within you coming back once more. The two of you walk over to your car, an older Volkswagen from the early 2000's, where you unfortunately have to part ways.
You unlock your car with a click, then turning towards her. She's stood closer now, carefully raising her hands to indicate she's removing her cost from you. She rounds you, standing behind you now as the fur coat slips off your shoulders.
You instantly feel cold without it, shivering on the spot. You turn to face her again, mumbling your words. "Thanks again for lending me your coat."
"Any time." The music teachers answers, tone starting to sound low and sultry. Your face is close to hers, feeling your body gravitate towards her, the urge to lean in and-
The ringing from her phone cuts through the moment, interrupting you. Isadora looks away, frowning and- rather unfortunately- steps back. You let out a shaky breath, recollecting yourself.
"Sorry." She smiles weakly, eyes locked on her phone as she reads. "It's the headmaster, informing us about the new curfew rules." Then she looks at you again with those dark and beautiful eyes that truly stand out in the snowy surroundings. "I should head back."
"Y-yeah. I should head home too." You reach for the doorhandle behind you. "Get home safely. Or, well, to Nevermore I suppose."
The older woman puts away her phone as she swiftly slips into her own fur coat again. "You as well." She's about to walk away, until a thought pops up in her head. "Are you working again tomorrow?"
"Yup, same time as usual."
Her face seems to light up at that. "Great. See you tomorrow, then."
A smile tugs on your lips as you answer. "See you tomorrow."
Then she takes her leave, walking quickly and disappearing around the corner. You step into your car, turning it on as fast as you can to get yourself to warm up.
As you drive off, there's only one thing, one person, on your mind.
Summary: Isadora doesn't want to go camping alone, so you gladly agree to be a chaperone.
Word Count: 1.6k
Warnings: Slight blood mention
Pairing: Isadora Capri x Reader
The sun was high in the sky as students milled around the campsite. They were too excited for their own good, already causing a large number of fires and breaking a tuition’s worth of property. It was moments like that where you were more than happy you weren’t a teacher anymore. It was no longer your responsibility to corral the children into behaving.
Well. It shouldn’t be your responsibility.
“Have I mentioned how thankful I am that you agreed to join our trip?”
You plastered a smile onto your face before turning around to greet Principle Dort. He was… kind, you supposed. A little too extreme on his “anti-Normie” stance, but you supposed it wasn’t unwarranted. Though you weren’t the biggest fan of his leading style. Perhaps you had no leg to stand on.
“Isadora relayed the message,” you said politely. Numerous times, you thought but kept to yourself.
“I know you’re retired,” he said with a shrug, “but we could always use more chaperons.”
An explosion sounded in the distance. Neither of you flinched.
“I’ll always answer Nevermore’s call,” you answered.
“Where is Isadora, if you don’t mind my asking.”
Howls echoed through the unsettled air.
“I believe she’s giving the pack a pep talk,” you hummed. “Since someone planned the trip during a full moon.”
You were being petty and you didn’t care. It wasn’t safe to be camping when immature wolves were present. The lupine cages would only do so much to the unbridled rage of a few hundred pounds of raw werewolf. And you knew Dort was the decision maker at Nevermore.
“With you and Miss Capri around, I’m sure they’ll be just fine,” he said with a smile before walking off without a backwards glance.
“Fine like a bull in a china shop,” you grumbled, your smile falling.
With Dort out of the way, you started making your rounds amongst the students. You gave a polite wave toward the Addamses; they were quite peculiar, but very sweet. Maybe you could convince Isadora to invite them over for dinner some time. Based off the cookies their butler had offered you, you would need to figure out a meal with bugs. Maybe worms? Okay, maybe you didn’t need to invite them for dinner, tea would work just fine.
Enid Sinclair ran up to you from across the camp. You liked that girl; she was kind and genuine. Isadora’s words nagged at the back of your mind, but you locked them back up. The girl was sweet, and you wouldn’t dare say anything to her until Isadora was ready.
“Have you seen Miss Capri?” Enid asked after giving a polite little wave and smile.
“I thought she had been with all of you,” you admitted. Clearly I was wrong. “Did you need her for something?”
“Oh, not really,” she said, her hands clasping behind her back. A common gesture, you realised. “Just wanted to see if she was going to the campfire tonight.”
She likes her, you thought to yourself. Not that it was difficult to believe. Everyone liked Isadora, even Miss Addams (though you heard she refused to admit such a thing. Adorable). It was in her voice, her mannerisms that kept the students calm and level-headed. She kept you calm, that was for sure. Her heart could win over the heartless.
You missed her.
“She wouldn’t miss it for the world,” you said.
Enid’s shoulders fell with relief. You would need to remember to tell Isadora just how much of an impact she was already making. With any hope, she would believe you and keep her head high. The students needed her as badly as she needed them.
“Can you tell her I’ll save her a seat?” Enid asked.
You couldn’t help smiling at the girl’s words. “Of course I will.”
“Thank you!”
You laughed to yourself as Enid practically skipped away. Oh, Isadora would have a good laugh about her favourite student’s antics. Though, you weren’t the biggest fan of Enid’s words. You had wanted to sit next to Isadora. Well, at least you shared her tent. That would have to do for the weekend.
After the events of the morning, which of course had to involve trouble with non-Outcasts (you didn’t particularly enjoy calling them Normies; it felt wrong), you wanted nothing more than to go back to the tent and have some tea with Isadora. Nothing dramatic, no desire for anything more, just a quiet moment away from the commotion. You weren’t used to the noise anymore, opting instead for peace and silence.
None of which could be found in anyone associated with Nevermore.
Someone bumped into your shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” you both mumbled before your ears perked up. “I was looking for you.”
Isadora smiled softly. “What a coincidence.”
“Walk me to the tent?” You asked.
Her arm slipped comfortably around your own. Almost instantly the heat enveloped your skin, leaving you feeling clammy. You never minded that she ran hot. In fact, you had called her your personal space heater on your first date. A silly nickname that stuck on those cold nights when you couldn’t help but stick your freezing feet on her warm legs.
“Miss Sinclair was looking for you,” you said as you both walked slowly toward your shared tent.
“Was it an emergency?” Isadora asked quickly.
“Oh yeah,” you said seriously. “She wanted to make sure you sat next to her at the campfire tonight.”
A warm slap left a tingle on your forearm. “That’s not funny.”
“That’s not what you constitute an emergency?”
“Not even close,” she chuckled. “Though I believe that means you’re no longer my date tonight.”
“A small sacrifice to pay for a child’s happiness,” you teased.
“I think Miss Sinclair can share,” she whispered.
There was no way to evade every student that had attended the trip. They were everywhere, infesting every inch of space like roaches. And Isadora ensured she said hello to every single one of them as you walked. Their eyes lit up as she approached, giving more enthusiasm in their replies than you thought teenagers capable of anymore. Certainly you had never gotten such a reaction when you taught. In another time, envy would’ve situated itself within your heart.
But you knew Isadora. You knew the lengths she went to give back, even when she felt the most selfish. Nothing about her was cruel. She was a lone wolf, sure, but not unkind. All she longed for, whether she admitted it or not, was a pack. You weren’t much of a pack, being only one person, but it was a start. She was finding herself the unknowing leader of the young wolves at Nevermore, even if she didn’t realise it.
“The children adore you,” you said only after entering the tent and securing the entrance. Not that it did much good; soundproof, the flimsy fabric was not.
“Some of them just need a little more guidance than others,” she said.
Her eyes sparkled every time she talked of her students. You wondered if she realised it.
“You’ve gone soft, Miss Capri,” you said.
You reached forward, grasping her forearms until you could pull her closer. Her laughter tickled your ears in the best way. You would kill to hear the sound whenever you wanted. Nothing was a better cure. Her warmth leaked through your clothes, causing the already unbearable heat to become utterly horrific. You didn’t care.
“Wolves aren’t soft.”
“You’re a wolf,” you said, planting a gentle kiss on her forehead and reveling in the heat. “And you’re plenty soft.”
“Only for the right person.” Her eyes glistened in the lamplight. She was beautiful.
“Would that be me?” You asked even though you already knew the answer.
Isadora was one for talking her feelings through. Whether they were good or bad, she wanted to talk about it, and you never stopped her. But when it came to this, to showing her love? She was speechless, opting instead to use her actions instead. You liked that.
She leaned forward and pressed the gentlest whisper of a kiss on your lips. Her nails extended, digging into the flesh of your forearms until droplets of blood pooled around the small wounds. She hummed softly against your skin; she tasted of sweet tea.
“It’s always you,” she whispered.
Not if Enid has any say in it, you kept to yourself. Enid was a sweet kid who needed a mother, and Isadora filled that hole. You would never bring it up to either of them. They both needed each other in more ways than they could accept. You knew Isadora was yours; she just needed to be a mentor.
The gentle twang of guitar strings echoed through the air of the camp. Muffled by the tent, you could imagine it was coming through a broken phone speaker, quiet but soulful. It would be time for the campfire soon, and you would have to relinquish your spot by Isadora’s side.
You pulled her closer until her chest pressed against yours. Instinct dictated her arms wrap around your neck and yours around her waist. Isadora was truly a wonderful dancer, but she did nothing more than sway back and forth with you. Nothing fancy, just an intimate moment before having to exit the safe confines of the tent and return to the real world.
“Thank you for being here,” she mumbled against your neck before leaving a soft kiss against the tender flesh.
You pulled her tighter and pressed a returning kiss to the top of her head.
janainaart
theartofmadeline
baratheonpilled
ellievsbear
2087
