a work by @vivsribbon | ݁ᛪ༙ | warnings - none!
synopsis - A quiet late-night conversation about immortality forces Natalie and you to talk about what it really means to choose forever—without either of them fully knowing if they’re ready for it.
smut fluff angst | side note - first fic in like 2 weeks give me some grace
The first time she says it, it’s a joke.
You almost miss it.
There’s a cigarette hanging loose between her fingers, ash threatening to fall onto the already ruined carpet of the motel room. The TV hums low, something mindless flickering across it—some late-night rerun she isn’t actually watching.
You’re sitting by the window, out of habit more than necessity. The curtains are drawn tight, but you still feel better there. Further from the door. Closer to an exit.
Natalie exhales, smoke curling toward the ceiling.
“You ever think about just… making it easier?” she says.
You glance at her, slow. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter. Like she doesn’t care if you answer or not.
“You know.” A small pause. “Turn me.”
It lands soft.
Too soft.
You don’t react immediately—not because it doesn’t matter, but because it does. Because things that matter, you’ve learned, are the ones you have to be careful with.
So you just look at her.
She doesn’t look back.
“Funny,” you say, after a second.
“Yeah,” she agrees quickly. Too quickly. “Hilarious.”
And that’s it.
It passes.
Or at least—she pretends it does.
⸻
The second time isn’t a joke.
It happens weeks later, maybe months. Time blurs when you don’t track it the same way anymore, and Natalie doesn’t keep count of anything she doesn’t have to.
She’s sitting on the hood of her car this time, boots scuffed, one leg bouncing faintly. It’s late—early, technically—but the sky is still dark enough that you can stand a few feet away without worrying about the horizon.
There’s a tension in her shoulders you recognize.
Not new. Just… sharper.
“You’re staring again,” she mutters.
“I’m thinking.”
“Yeah?” She flicks her lighter open, shut, open again. “Dangerous.”
You almost smile.
Almost.
“What’s wrong?” you ask.
“Nothing.”
You don’t respond to that. Just wait.
She huffs a quiet laugh, like she knew you wouldn’t.
“Just—” She cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “It’s stupid.”
“It isn’t.”
“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.”
“I don’t have to.”
That earns you a look. Sharp, quick, searching.
“God, you’re annoying,” she says.
“Mm.”
She looks away again.
Silence stretches. The kind that isn’t comfortable, but isn’t unbearable either. Just… there.
Then—
“You should turn me.”
No joke this time.
No shrug to soften it.
Just dropped between you like something solid.
You don’t answer.
And that—more than anything—is what makes her tense.
Natalie lets out a breath, rough. “Okay, cool. Yeah. Just ignore me, that’s—great.”
“I’m not ignoring you."
“Really?” She hops off the hood, pacing once, twice. “Because it kinda feels like you are.”
You stay where you are.
“I’m thinking.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually true.”
“Yeah, well—” She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Sometimes it’d be nice if you just said something.”
You tilt your head slightly. “You want an answer right now.”
“I want something right now.”
Her voice cracks just enough to notice.
That changes things.
You push off from where you’re leaning, closing the distance a little—not too much. You’ve learned she doesn’t like feeling cornered.
“This isn’t a small thing, Natalie.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Her eyes flash. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then why are you acting like it’s casual?”
“I’m not—” She cuts herself off, biting down on the rest of it. “I’m not acting like anything.”
“You said it like you were asking for a cigarette.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
She stares at you, something raw flickering under the anger.
“Okay, fine,” she snaps. “You want me to say it right?”
You don’t interrupt.
She laughs, short and humorless.
“I don’t wanna die,” she says.
There it is.
Not dramatic. Not loud.
Just… honest.
The air shifts.
You feel it the way you feel everything—subtle, immediate, impossible to ignore.
Natalie looks away, jaw tight.
“Happy?” she mutters. “That better?”
“No,” you say quietly.
That makes her look back.
“Why not?”
“Because that isn’t what you asked.”
Her expression twists. “It’s part of it.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Close enough.”
“It isn’t.”
“God—” She drags her hands down her face. “Why do you have to make everything so—complicated?”
“Because it is complicated.”
“It doesn’t have to be.”
You step closer now, just a little.
“It does,” you say. “You’re asking me to change what you are. Forever.”
“And?” she shoots back. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad.”
“Then what are you saying?”
You hesitate.
That’s rare.
She notices immediately.
“…oh,” she says, quieter now. “You don’t want to.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Her shoulders pull in, defensive in a way that looks almost like she’s bracing for impact.
“I knew it was stupid,” she mutters. “Forget it.”
“Natalie—”
“Just drop it, okay?” She turns away, heading back toward the driver’s side of the car. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
You move faster than she expects, catching her wrist—not tight, just enough to stop her.
She freezes.
“Don’t,” she says, low.
“I’m not letting you walk away from this.”
“Watch me.”
She tries to pull free.
You don’t let go.
Not forcefully. Just… steady.
“That’s not what this is,” you say.
“Then what is it?”
You search for the right words.
You’ve had centuries to learn language, and somehow it still fails you at the worst times.
“It’s not about whether I want to,” you say finally.
She stills, just slightly.
“Then what?”
“It’s about what it means.”
Natalie lets out a sharp breath. “It means I don’t get old. It means I don’t—” She cuts herself off again. “It means I stay."
You shake your head.
“No,” you say. “It means you change.”
“Yeah, into you.”
“That’s not the same thing as staying.”
She goes quiet.
You soften your grip, but don’t let go entirely.
“You think this fixes things,” you continue. “You think it makes everything easier.”
“It would.”
“It wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
There’s no arrogance in it. Just certainty.
That’s what gets to her.
Natalie turns fully now, facing you.
“Then tell me,” she says. “Tell me why it’s so terrible.”
“I didn’t say it was terrible."
“Then stop dancing around it and just—say it.”
You hold her gaze.
“For you?” you say. “Or for me?”
She hesitates.
“…both.”
That’s honest.
You can work with honest.
“For you,” you say slowly, “it means losing things you don’t even realize you have yet.”
“Like what?”
“Time,” you answer immediately.
She scoffs. “Yeah, I’m really making great use of that right now.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“The point is you don’t get it back once it’s gone.”
“And I don’t get it back if I die either.”
You don’t flinch.
“I know.”
Silence.
Heavy. Pressing.
She looks at you like she’s waiting for something—an argument, maybe. A contradiction.
You don’t give her one.
Because she isn’t wrong.
That’s the problem.
“I’ve watched people make this choice,” you say after a moment. “For the wrong reasons.”
“And you think I am?”
“I think you’re scared.”
Her expression hardens. “Yeah? So what if I am?”
“Fear isn’t a good foundation for forever.”
“Neither is—what, whatever this is?” She gestures between you. “Because that’s what this feels like sometimes. Temporary.”
That lands.
You feel it in the way your grip tightens just slightly before you catch yourself.
Natalie notices.
“Yeah,” she says, quieter now. “That got you, huh?”
“You think I see this as temporary?”
“I think you can,” she says. “You get to.”
“That’s not true, baby.”
“It is.” Her voice shakes, just barely. “You don’t have to worry about running out of time. I do.”
You don’t respond immediately.
Because this—this is the part she’s been circling around.
Not death.
Not really.
It’s what comes before it.
“You think I haven’t thought about that?” you ask softly.
She looks at you, uncertain now.
“You think I don’t notice every time something changes?” you continue. “Every time you get a little more tired. A little more—”
“Don’t,” she cuts in sharply.
You stop.
She swallows hard, looking away.
“…don’t say it like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m already—” She exhales, frustrated. “Just don’t.”
You nod once.
Fair.
“I know what’s coming,” you say instead. “For you.”
“Then why wouldn’t you fix it?”
Because it isn’t that simple.
Because nothing ever is.
“Because I don’t know if that’s what you actually want,” you say.
“I just told you it is.”
“You told me you don’t want to die.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“Why not?”
You hesitate again.
And this time, when you speak, it’s quieter.
“Because wanting to live isn’t the same as wanting this life.”
She goes still.
The words settle between you, heavier than anything before.
Natalie’s voice, when she speaks again, is smaller.
“…and if it is?”
You meet her eyes.
“Then I need to hear you say it like you mean it.”
A long pause.
The kind that stretches until it almost snaps.
She looks at you like she’s trying to decide something. Like she’s weighing it.
Then—
“I want it,” she says.
Simple.
Clear.
But not careless this time.
“I want to stay,” she adds, after a second. “With you. Like this. Not—” She gestures vaguely. “Not counting down to something.”
You study her.
Looking for hesitation. For doubt.
There is some.
There should be.
But there’s something else too.
Something steadier.
“…okay,” you say.
She blinks.
“Okay?” she repeats.
“Okay.”
“That’s it?” There’s disbelief creeping in now. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know—maybe a little more than okay?”
You almost smile.
Almost.
“I’m not saying yes,” you clarify.
Her expression drops slightly.
“But I’m not saying no either.”
“That’s… not helpful.”
“It’s honest.”
She exhales, frustrated again—but less sharp this time.
“…so what, I just wait?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
You step closer, closing the remaining distance.
This time, she doesn’t pull away.
“We take time with it,” you say. “We don’t rush something that can’t be undone.”
She studies your face, searching.
“And if I change my mind?”
“Then you change your mind.”
“And if you do?”
You tilt your head slightly.
“I won’t.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Confident.”
“Certain.”
That earns you a look.
Not annoyed.
Not angry.
Just… softer.
“God,” she mutters. “You’re impossible.”
“Mm.”
A beat.
Then, quieter—
“…you’d really do it?”
“If it’s what you truly want,” you say. “Yes.”
The answer hits her harder than anything else you’ve said.
You can see it.
The way her shoulders drop just slightly. The way her breathing evens out.
Relief.
It’s subtle, but it’s there.
Natalie looks down, shaking her head a little.
“Shit,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“I thought you were gonna say no.”
“I know.”
She glances back up at you.
“…why didn’t you?”
Because you love her.
You don’t say it.
Not like that.
Instead—
“Because you asked like it mattered,” you say.
She holds your gaze for a long second.
Then—
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “It does.”
Your hand is still around her wrist.
You loosen your grip, letting your fingers slide down until you’re just holding her hand instead.
She lets you.
Doesn’t make a comment. Doesn’t pull away.
Just… stays.
For now, that’s enough.
Not forever.
Not a promise.
But something close to it
Everything settles after that.
Not completely—but enough that the sharp edge of it dulls into something quieter. Something you can both stand in without it cutting.
Your hand is still around hers.
You don’t remember deciding to hold it—just that you are, thumb resting faintly against her wrist, feeling the steady pulse there. Fast. Human.
Natalie notices.
Of course she does.
Her eyes flick down, then back up to your face, something unreadable flickering there.
“You always do that,” she says.
“Do what?”
“Hold on like I’m gonna disappear.”
You don’t answer.
Because she’s not wrong.
She lets out a small breath through her nose, not quite a laugh.
“Bit dramatic,” she adds, but there’s no bite to it.
“Mm.”
A pause.
Then, quieter—
“I’m still here.”
“I know.”
But your hand doesn’t move.
For a second, it looks like she’s going to pull away—habit, maybe. Instinct. Instead, she shifts closer.
Not all the way.
Just enough that the space between you changes.
Her free hand comes up, hovering for a moment like she’s not sure what she’s doing with it, before it lands against your jacket, gripping the fabric lightly.
You feel that too.
Every small, unnecessary thing.
“You’re thinking again,” she murmurs.
“Yeah.”
“About this?”
“About you.”
She huffs softly. “Bad idea.”
“Usually.”
That almost gets a smile out of her.
Almost.
There’s a beat where neither of you moves.
Then—
“Hey,” she says.
You look at her.
She’s already looking at you.
Closer than before.
Not careful about it.
Not asking, either.
It’s quick, the way it happens—not rushed, just… decided.
Her hand tightens in your jacket and she leans in, pressing her mouth to yours like she’s trying to interrupt something. Not gentle, not rough—just a little off-center, a little impatient.
You still for half a second.
Then respond.
Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand properly, fingers threading through hers as you tilt your head just enough to meet her properly this time.
It’s not clean.
There’s a slight clash of teeth at first, a quiet exhale from her that turns into something sharper when you don’t pull away.
She doesn’t either.
If anything, she leans in harder.
It’s not slow. Not careful.
It feels like something that’s been sitting under everything else finally getting out—frustration, relief, all of it tangled together.
Her hand slides up from your jacket to your collar, tugging slightly, grounding herself.
You move your free hand to her jaw, not soft enough to be hesitant, just steady—holding her there when she shifts like she might pull back.
She doesn’t.
Not really.
She just breaks for a second, breath uneven, forehead almost brushing yours.
“Still thinking?” she mutters.
“Yeah.”
“Annoying.”
“Mm.”
There’s the faintest ghost of a smile from her this time.
Then she kisses you again.
Shorter. More deliberate.
Less like she’s trying to prove something—more like she’s decided something.
When she pulls back this time, she doesn’t go far.
Just enough to look at you.
“…don’t make me regret asking,” she says quietly.
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know I won’t do it lightly.”
She studies your face, searching for doubt.
Finds none.
“…okay,” she says.
It’s softer than before.
Not a challenge this time.
Just acceptance.
Her hand slips back down, but she doesn’t let go completely—fingers catching yours again, loose but intentional.
You don’t move away.
Neither does she.
And for now, that’s as close to certain as either of you gets.
taglist - @eliastarzz
