Pairing: Sam Wilson x reader
Summary: You wake up and smell something coming from the kitchen
Word count: 579
A/N: This is my entry for day 20 of Samtember 2021, initiated by @samwilsonfest. The prompt for today is "Baking".
You woke up from the smell. The residential rooms, consisting each of a bedroom, bath and a small kitchenette and small living room, were spread on one side of the floor at the compound with the big communal kitchen and private living room (off limits for parties after an intervention by several people against Tony). And still, it smelled so strongly of chocolate and a little less so of something fruity, it wafted all the way to you.
In your pajamas, you stepped out into the hall, only to run into Scott.
“You smell that too, don’t you?” Scott yawned.
You nodded. In sleep induced silence you two went over to the kitchen. You were equally parts happy it was you and Scott who were the first in the kitchen and confused as to what and who you saw in there.
“Sam?” Scott sounded as disbelieving as you must have looked.
Sam turned around, flour on his cheek and hands speckled with short pastry. Behind and surrounding him were countless bowls filled with dough, what seemed to be food coloring, egg yolks and egg whites, there was a wooden board with chocolate covered strawberries drying, another with fondant waiting to be rolled, several layers of already baked dough waiting for the last step to become a cake and several baking dishes for brownies, cupcakes and yet more cakes. And then there were the open packages of flour, sugar, baking powder and everything else you could think of to need for baking.
“I’m gonna clean all this up, you know me” He said and thrust the rolling pin at you and Scott.
“You’re good man. Can we help?” Scott asked.
“You just wanna put a claim to the rest of the dough in the bowls” Sam pointed the rolling pin at Scott, “and you just want the cupcakes when they’re still steaming hot.”
“Guilty. So no help?” You wanted to know.
“Scott, can you fill the pans with the dough? Just put this batter here, the brownie batter in the pan with the high wall and this batter into the cupcake baking dish? Y/N, can you work on the layer cake? We’ll take blueberries, put them on the top of one layer, then the next layer on top, blueberries again and the last layer on top. Then comes butter cream around it all.”
You set to work on what Sam instructed you to do. He stood left of you and Scott to his left. Sam busied himself with creating decorations from fondant and occasionally painting something with the food coloring.
You were concentrating on evening out the butter cream, when you heard Sam sternly say: “No licking the spoons until all the pans are filled, Scott.”
“Sorry Cap. But there was only one cupcake space missing…”
You chuckled and finished the butter cream. The three of you worked together after that and with the last tray in the oven, you slumped on the stools by the kitchen island, just taking a minute before cleaning up.
“Sam? Want a spoon?” You held one up to him, a smaller one to Scott and took one for you.
All of you licked on your spoons when you heard a whimper behind you.
“What did you do to my kitchen?” Tony squeaked.
“You don’t even use it except for making coffee. Now there’s a surplus of cakes and cookies and brownies, so don’t whine. Here, have a spoon” You elbowed Tony in the ribs.
Hello! Requests are definitely open, even if I’m awfully slow! I feel bad at how slow these are coming out especially since there’s so many in waiting, but writing just hasn’t been on the table recently. Apologies for that!
But I’ve found the time and the motivation, so I decided to get this done! Thank you for your patience! This is such a cute idea, and it always makes me happy that people like the first parts enough to request a continuation. I had a lot of fun writing it, so I hope you readers like it too!
So, please enjoy the continuation of Purest Expression (also, you should probably read that one if you haven’t already, this fic heavily references it!) Also, I just thought the name was funny and I was in desperate need for one, so feel free to suggest others if you’ve got one!
Warnings: Talk of alcohol, but no drinking!
Word Count: 4,050
Summary: Check out the prompt above! :)
(Gif doesn’t belong to me, credit to the talented creator!)
You didn’t really remember a lot when you woke up. All you really knew was you'd drank far too much of that delicious cocktail, and that your brain was pounding in your head. This was quite possibly one of the worst hangovers you’d had, but honestly, you’d do it all over again to have another one of those space cocktails.
You rolled onto your back, lifting your hands to cover your eyes in an attempt to block out what little light managed to stream into the room. Your stomach churned at the movement, but it settled out easily enough after you didn’t move a muscle for a few minutes following your roll.
You relaxed back into the bed when your stomach settled down, and finally uncovered your eyes, staring up at the ceiling with a bleary gaze.
As you laid there, you tried to piece together the evening. The bits and pieces between arriving and having enough to drink that you could no longer walk a straight line.
You knew you’d gone out on the town with the Doctor—he'd been excited to show you things. He'd raved enthusiastically about the planet, and you’d listened along as your own excitement grew too. Then, you remember finally stepping out of the TARDIS and being completely astounded by this new planet, with all its colours, music and general liveliness.
The cute little bar wedged between two buildings; you remember that too. And of course, you remember the cocktail—you'd had two, or three, or... had it been four? You couldn’t really pinpoint it. The Doctor had said it was weaker than earth vodka, and maybe it was, but the after effects were definitely more intense to a human that human vodka was. That said you’d still be down for another drink or two before you left.
It was well worth the pain of a hangover to taste that drink again. Just the thought of it made your tastebuds tingle.
You let out a light laugh before rolling back over onto you side, but this time following it up with pulling yourself to a sitting position. The nausea was still there, but hardly noticeable; just a subtle warning to keep your movements slow and steady lest you start gagging.
Your head was still pounding, but you knew that wasn’t going to go away without pain killers, so you stumbled to your feet to go find the Doctor. He’d have something that could help, and at this point, you didn’t care what planet it came from, so long as it killed the raging headache and... well, didn’t kill you.
You found the Doctor in the kitchen of all places.
He was perched at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in front of him, as well as a book. He startled when you stepped into the room, breathing a light, “oh, (Y/N),” as a greeting.
You continued into the room, wobbling on your feet for just a second, “good morning,” you greeted in return, forcing a smile onto your lips despite the headache, “you don’t happen to have any pain killers do you?”
The Doctor frowned, “are you unwell?”
“Just a bit of a hangover,” you promised with a wave of your hand, “a little worse than an earth alcohol hangover, but it’s manageable. I’ll be fine, my head just really hurts.”
“Right, of course,” the Doctor nodded, pushing himself up and moving towards the cupboards. He rifled around the cabinets, reading labels of things and putting them back before he finally found what he was looking for, “these aren’t of your earth, but they are basically the same thing as your planet’s Advils. I’m sorry I don’t have anything that’ll help from your earth, I should really invest in some if I’m going to keep soliciting companions from earth.”
“Soliciting?” You snorted a laugh, which made you wince lightly, “really?”
“Well, I do tempt you humans away with the offer of the entirety of the universe, now, don’t I?” You smiled at the Doctor’s cheeky grin as he joined you at your side, setting the pill bottle in front of you to do with as you pleased, whether that was to ignore it, or take a couple, before he carried on to the counter. “No different really, I offer the universe in exchange for companionship, and I’m proud to say very few have ever declined. Now, would you like a tea, or coffee?”
“Jokes on the ones who declined, they’re really missing out,” you huffed out as you picked up the pill bottle, surveying over the list of ingredients. None looked too out of the world, but honestly, you’d do anything at this point to ease the thrum of your headache, so you uncapped the bottle, “surprise me.”
The Doctor turned back to flash you a grin from where he’d busied himself at the counter, “will do, my Dear.”
You shook a few pills into your hand from the bottle, eyeing them as if they were about to change colours or something similarly alien-like, but when none of that happened, you frowned, “how many do I take?”
“Well...” the Doctor turned thoughtfully to lean against the counter, “I’d say to start off with one and see if it does anything for you. There will be small differences from planet to planet, and we wouldn’t want you to overdose. After a half an hour you can try taking another pill if one doesn’t help.”
“Sounds good,” you popped a single pill into your mouth before you could hesitate. As if the Doctor was magic, he slid a mug of you go-to morning beverage towards you, and you washed the pill down with a sip of the perfectly prepared drink.
You savored the taste of your drink, sighing into the warmth. When you’d had a couple sips, you put the cap back on the pill bottle and slid the bottle to the center of the table. You watched the Doctor move around the small kitchen as he made himself another coffee before joining you at the table.
The two of you settled into a silence, thankfully. You hunched over the table, your elbows on the surface and your cheeks cupped in your palms, as the Doctor continued reading, but he looked like he was lost in his thoughts instead of actually reading.
“How long have you been up?” you asked slowly, squeezing your eyes shut before blinking them open again to see the Doctor’s gaze on you. “You’re kinda spacing out.”
“I’ve just... some things on my mind,” the Doctor admits with a tiny curl upwards of his lips. It didn’t really answer the question, but at the same time it did. You didn’t think the Doctor had even gone to sleep. “Has the headache eased at all?”
Your mouth formed an ‘o’ shape noticing suddenly that the headache was in fact almost gone. You hadn’t even realized, “yeah,” you informed with a laugh, “almost gone. I didn’t even notice—space things are so much better than earth things; the drugs and alcohol.”
“That would be a very worrying observation if I didn’t know exactly what you were talking about,” the Doctor snorted a laugh. You laughed along too, even if the statement was completely true—it had only been about ten minutes and the space Advil was already working wonders, where as the earth stuff could take anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes to actually kick in.
“So,” you drawled after another string of comfortable silence between the two of you, “what’s been on you mind then?”
The Doctor eyed you up and down briefly before sighing, running his fingers through his hair and making his already untamed locks stand up at odder angles, “I was just thinking about yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” you parroted under your breath. You’d been thinking about yesterday too. How could you not be? There were still gaps in time where you don’t really remember what happened. “What happened yesterday?”
“You don’t remember?” The Doctor blinked.
“No, I do,” you leaned back in your chair with a sigh, “well, most of it, I think. But some of it... I don’t know? It’s kind of a blur. I guess the cocktails started hitting me towards the end of the evening, I barely remember coming back.”
“You were a bit out of it,” the Doctor admits sheepishly, “glad I cut you off at three drinks then.”
“I could’ve handled more,” you scoffed, smiling widely in a teasing way.
The Doctor rolled his eyes, leaning forwards, closer to you as his voice dropped, “I do believe three is probably your limit, Love.”
You let out a bout of bright laughter and the Doctor smiled softly. You loved how easy it was to banter with the man—how the two of you were so comfortable with the other that you could tease back and forth like this.
As if to prove his point, your head gave a warning thrum of pain that drew a shallow breath from you, “yeah,” you shook the pain off, “you’re probably right about three being my space-cocktail limit.”
The Doctor shook his head fondly at you as he settled back in his chair, “so, anything you’d like to know about yesterday? I did promise I’d tell you anything you’d like to know?”
You thought back to what you remembered about yesterday: the walk from the TARDIS to the bar, the ideal seating at the bar, those amazing rainbow cocktails that tasted like dreams. Drinking and chatting and laughing with the Doctor—splitting a plate of chips that were unbelievably delicious... and then... well, the space English the TARDIS didn’t bother translating for you.
“What was the bartender saying to you?”
The Doctor drew in a breath as his cheeks dusted the faintest pink, “nothing important, I assure.”
“C’mon,” you pouted, cradling your half drank, significantly cooled drink between your hands as you leaned towards the Doctor this time, “you said you promised to tell me about yesterday, right?”
The man chewed at his lip, subdued, but clearly trying to figure out the best course of action, “alright, well, we... I suppose we were acting a tad bit... involved? And... some assumptions were made about us by the barkeep.”
“Involved how?” you raised a questioning eyebrow. “And... what kind of assumptions?”
“Involved involved,” the Doctor cleared his throat, eyeing your level of understanding before rubbing his forehead and adding, “uhm, romantically involved. Those were, well, the main assumptions made as well.”
You gaped for a second before a thought came back to you suddenly, “he kept calling us lovers.”
“Yes,” the Doctor managed a light, fond smile, “I did try to explain it to him: us, our companionship—but, well, he... he didn’t believe me.”
“He didn’t believe you?” You repeated back, surprised.
“No,” the Doctor laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “he made some pretty solid points in favor of us being romantically involved too, actually.”
“Oh yeah?” you teased, “and what points might those be?”
“Well, we were sitting fairly close--”
“As friends do,” the excuse came easily. The Doctor raised an eyebrow, but continued on like you hadn’t spoken.
“--I was hovering close to you, I suppose... A bit at least--”
“You were worried about me,” you interjected with a fond eyeroll at how wrong the bartender had been. Lovers? Come on, no way. You guys were... you were friends. Obviously. Though the thought of the Doctor hovering over you, making sure you were okay warmed your heart.
“--we leaned into each other’s sides, uhm, multiple times throughout the evening--”
You struggled for an excuse for that one, you did tend to lean into his space, not that the Doctor ever seemed to mind. And he liked to press into your personal space as well—neither of you really cared about proximity, so you managed a one shouldered shrug, “it was just loud in the bar, hard to hear each other.”
“--and, well, he pointed out I was staring at you occasionally; odd for him to have noticed, when I didn’t even realize I was doing it.”
You couldn’t come up with an excuse for that one, eyebrows furrowing in confusion that made your breath catch in the weirdest way. He’d been staring at you? Why did that make you feel so happy?
“And then the fact that you returned the stare when I wasn’t looking. Honestly, that barkeep spent more time watching us than he did working last night, I’m sure.” The Doctor let out a playful scoff, genuinely amused that the bartender had put more time into them than his job.
You however, were suddenly caught up in the information.
He’d been staring at you when you weren’t looking—fondly, you were sure, if it had caught the bartender’s attention and led him to believe the two of you were in a relationship. Then there was the fact that you were staring at him in return? You’d been caught by someone staring at the Doctor? You knew you did it sometimes, how could you not? He was a good-looking, kind, compassionate man who liked your company. Just being with him made your heart speed up.
“That doesn’t mean we’re a couple,” you forced yourself to say, even if... well, you were questioning it just slightly. You knew, of course, that the two of you weren’t a couple but... “That bartender was just bored and looking too far into us, I’m sure he was doing it to everyone...”
“Of course not, surely we’d know if we were, right?” the Doctor agreed with a light grin. The grin only lingered for a second before it faltered and he chewed at his bottom lip. You were about to question it, but he spoke again before you could, “but, well, I suppose there is the song he had to go off of as well.”
“The song?” You questioned before it all flooded back—well, most of it, at least, “we were on a stage. We... we sang together. Was that a karaoke bar or something?”
“We were,” the Doctor ducked his head in a nod, “we... did. And it, well, it was kind of like your earth karaoke bar. Do you remember anything about it?”
You tried to remember, you know the Doctor explained it last night after he’d gotten the information from the barkeeper, but you still don’t really know. And you’re sure there were bits and pieces that he didn’t tell you last night as well. So, you shook your head.
“Right,” the man nodded, settling his elbows on the tabletop as he held his chin up, “well, the concept of the song ritual we were roped into performing is that you sing whatever song best corresponds to what you think about your peer. I’m not exactly sure how it works to be honest, the expression through song is just strong.”
“So, whatever I felt about you would be... conveyed through a song?”
“Yes.” The Doctor gives a light nod.
“And whatever you felt about me would... would also be?”
“Indeed,” his head tilts as he surveys you, trying to piece together where you were going with this string of questions.
“But... we sang a duet, didn’t we?” You furrowed your eyebrows, running a finger along the rim of your mug. You faintly remembered chiming in with the Doctor’s song, instantly knowing the new lines to his song despite not knowing his lines, or the actual song. “Does that happen? What... what does it mean?”
“Well,” the Doctor cleared his throat, looking nervous. “It does happen, it’s just, well, it’s rare? I suppose. The barkeeper, just before we left, told me that the last time he saw a duet happen during the expression through song ceremony was when he was a child.”
“Wow, okay,” you bit the inside of your cheek. You had a feeling you knew what it meant, and the thought made your cheeks heat up, but you asked anyways, “what does a duet mean?”
“Well, generally speaking...” the Doctor shot you a small, crooked smile, “it means that we feel exactly the same way about each other. Exactly the same to the point that our expression would be through the same song, at the same time.”
“Wow,” you couldn’t help but repeat, “that’s... wow. So it really is unusual then? Why did it happen to us? Was it a fluke?”
“No, don’t think so,” the Doctor shakes his head, a blush rising to his cheeks as his fingers tap against the table, “something like that would be hard to fake, so I doubt it was a fluke. We chose the song—deep in our subconscious when thinking of the other... I mean... I didn’t know the lyrics beforehand, did you?”
“No,” you breathed out, fingers fiddling with your empty mug, “I don’t even think I remember the lyrics now. They were just... in my head when they needed to be. I didn’t even know your lines of the song. It’s weird that we were the people that got the duet—random visitors.”
“It was the same for me,” the Doctor sends you a small smile, “I think few people view their... companion the same way their companion views them. It seems highly unlikely that any two people can feel the exact same way...”
You’re not sure why, but there’s something different about the way the Doctor says companion this time around. Maybe he holds a different fondness than you’re used to, or perhaps some other reason, but there’s an unfamiliar warmth in the word.
“But we did,” you whisper, looking up momentarily and catching the Doctor’s eyes before dropping your gaze back to your cup.
“But we did,” the Doctor repeats, just slightly louder than you. Like he too can’t wrap his brain around it. There’s a pause before the Doctor’s clearing his throat, forcing a crooked smile onto his lips. “Well, I promised you we head to the shops for some alcohol and other treats, didn’t I?”
The Doctor stands, moving swiftly towards the door without looking back.
“I meant it, you know?” You speak before you even realize you’re speaking. You don’t see the Doctor stop, since you’re facing the other direction, but you hear his steps come to a halt, feet planting in spot.
He doesn’t say anything for a second, which prompts you on, “I do need you.”
He still doesn’t say anything, or move, so you stand and gather both your mug and his own, walking in the opposite direction from him towards the sink. You set the mugs in but don’t touch the faucet, instead mumbling a soft, “I want you.”
You’re not even sure if he’d still there anymore, or if he’d taken you moving as his cue to escape. You don’t turn to look, afraid to not find him there, so instead you whisper what little of your lyrics from yesterday that you remember, “come on back to me.”
Another moment of silence drags in before you hear the Doctor moving. His steps are quick, and you think he’s leaving out the door when suddenly hands are on your waist and he’s swiftly turning you around and gently pushing you against the edge of the counter beside the sink.
You manage to muffle your surprise as his lips press against yours, soft but urgently all the same.
You melt into his lips, eyes slipping shut as his hands leave your waist, one wrapping around your middle, as the other rises to cup at your jaw. It spurs you on too, your arms wrapping around his neck and pulling him just slightest bit close, to which he blindly follows your lead.
You don’t pull away until the need to breath outweighs how good it feels to be kissing him.
You both gasp for breath, but neither of you pull away, lips still touching the faintest bit, “I didn’t think you even remembered the lyrics... how... intimate the duet was...” It’s the first thing the Doctor’s said since trying to flee the room.
You slowly open your eyes, catching his eyes waiting to make contact and a smile pulls at your lips. You pull away a bit, pushing your forehead against his, “I didn’t really remember the lyrics until just now, but I never forgot the feeling of singing them to you, and hearing you singing them back to me.”
The arm around your waist tightens around you, “I didn’t know you felt the same way,” the Doctor whispers. “I didn’t want to... make you uncomfortable, or chase you away. And then you woke up this morning, and didn’t remember anything with the hangover, so I... was going to let it go.”
You’re sure you make a noise of protest, maybe even disappointment, but you only assume because the Doctor lets out a chuckle before stealing another kiss that you’re more than happy to give.
When he goes to pull back, you snake your hand up to hold him in place, mumbling softly against his lips the last of your lyrics, a message he’d sure to understand, “I love you sundown.”
The Doctor freezes against you pulling back just enough to look into your eyes before a smile creeps onto his face. You smile at his smile, watching him fondly as his head tilts in that adorable way, affection bright in his eyes, “and I, you, my Love.”
You melt at the words leaning into him and pressing your head against his chest, fitted perfectly under his chin like a puzzle piece. Your arms wrap around him, and his move to hold you against himself just as you had done to him seconds earlier.
You stay like that for a while—you're not sure how long. You feel protected tucked against the Doctor, and it’s a feeling you’re never going to forget.
“How’s your head?” he asks softly above you, the voice after so long of nothing by his steady heart beats startles you. The Doctor presses an apologetic kiss to the top of your head.
“Better,” you decide, nuzzling closer to him, “why?”
“Well, I did promise we’d check out the shops, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I almost forgot about that,” you laugh, finally pulling away. The Doctor unwraps his hand begrudgingly, frowning as he does so. You let out a laugh, slipping your hand into his. “I wanna see the shops before we leave this evening. We’ve gotta get some of that vodka.”
“I see more hangovers in your near future,” the Doctor snorts as he leads you along by the hand.
“Oh, and, we should definitely pick up a gift for the bartender from last night,” you add, ignoring the Doctor’s teasing jab at your weak human alcohol tolerance.
“Well, without his instance that we sing, and his instance that we were a couple, none of this,” you gesture down to your interlocked hands as the two of you step out of the TARDIS and onto the busy, colourful streets, “would’ve happened.”
The Doctor’s quiet for a second as the two of you fall into step. “There’s nothing in the universe that can ever thank him enough for what he’s done,” the man softly admits, giving your hand an adoring squeeze that drives his words home.
Your cheeks heat up as you tuck yourself in his side. He moves easily to accommodate you, releasing your hand to wrap his arm over your shoulders instead. You move your hand to squeeze around his waist, grinning as you respond cheekily, “I don’t know, Doctor, the space vodka is pretty good...”
The man sputters at your response, glancing at you with a raised eyebrow, “I was being all cute and you’re comparing the gift of our newfound relationship to vodka?” the man questions, genuinely dumbfounded.
You give a one shouldered shrug at his side, giggling at his reaction. It wasn’t long until the man was letting out a fond sigh, thumb stroking against your collarbone, “what am I going to do with you?”
The tease in his words has you smiling. There really is nothing in the universe that seems equivalent to the gift the bartender bestowed to you, but... yeah, a bottle of space vodka was a nice start.
Hello again! Hopefully you liked this continuation. Not sure if it kept to the prompt exactly, I got a bit carried away writing it, but nonetheless, I hope it was good! Feel free to prompt again if it wasn’t what you were looking for, as always!
I’ll try to keep up with the prompts but idk how well I’ll be able to manage between life and the other works in other fandoms. Anyways, hope you have a great morning/day/night!
Pairing- Taylor Swift x Reader ; Louis Tomlinson x Harry Styles (reader is a singer and actress) (reader and Harry are gay and besties)
Description- After sharing a lovely Picnic play or more like double date, it's now time to say goodbye for a while again.
Y/Ig/n Your Instagram name
A/n- Find part 1 here! Part 3 will probably be a one-shot :) Also, this small one is just to connect part 1 and 3. Enjoy! <3
Liked by Girl In Red, Louis Tomlinson and others
Y/Ig/n I might be far but never gone lovie
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Taylor Swift @/HarryStyles Keep her safe for your own safety.
↳Harry Styles @/LouisTomlinson When were you gonna say this to her?
y/n fan 1 What ....thehellisgoingon?
Harry fan 1 I didn’t know they were in a long distance relationship?
Megan Thee Stallion Wishing you the best gurl <3
Shawn Mendes Guys!! She knows me and my songs!!
Liked by Taylor Swift, Florence Pugh and others
Louis Tomlinson last night before we leave this fucking lovely city
View all comments!
Louis fan 1 He just cannot write a sentence without a curse word.
Y/Ig/n uh uh we are coming here again
Harry Styles Wasn’t I lovely enough for you to notice how lovely was the city?
↳ Louis Tomlinson ....stop fucking with me
Taylor fan 1 Taylor is like- SURPRISE BITCHES
Florence Pugh The movie was real good dang
↳ Taylor Swift XD
Liked by Stephen Amell, Harry Styles and others
Taylor Swift The skate boards are difficult for @/Y/Ig/n to handle...
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Ingrid Michaelson Make sure you don’t get hit by a car or something.
Louis Tomlinson Nice deo @/Y/Ig/n
↳ Y/Ig/n Fanks luv
Harry fan 2 Harry looks so done with Taylor lmao
Y/Ig/n Louis is so busy in posing to notice the troubles we are having.
y/n fan 2 This is a type of photo to be shared on birthdays...
Liked by Y/Ig/n, Paul Wesely and others
Harry Styles Distance gives us a reason to love harder.
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Louis Tomlinson and to that harder, if you know what I mean ;)
↳ Louis fan 2 help-
Taylor fan 3 They are matching bro..
Lizzo Mah boys (tell me where my gurls at)
↳ Y/Ig/n Taking their pictures..
Paul Wesley Nice coats men
↳ Ian Somerhalder Wrong group man
↳ Y/Ig/n Leave the pal alone, he’s interacting with his favourites!
↳ Ian Somerhalder Let me serve him a flight across the room :)
↳ Paul Wesley no thanks <3
You're Invited to Spencer and Y/N Reid's Wedding!!
Date: October 4th
Time: 3pm est
Where: Rossi's backyard, Reception to follow the Ceremony, the happy couple will join you after photos at 4:30. Open bar (Penelope's making cocktails please have a DD)
**this is for @starry-eyed-spence and @bxbyjjsupremacy's Criminal Minds Fanfiction Week, Day 4: Alternate ending to an episode using 7.01 It Takes A Village | I'm so excited to be participating in this soon<3
Part 1: Amethyst You So Much | 6.3k
Spencer has had a crush on Y/N since she started working at the bau. She only ever works the night shift after a case, handling all the aftermath gracefully. one night, Spencer stays back and they strike up a conversation about rocks, causing their feelings to dig a little deeper.
Part 2: Of Quartz I Will | NSFW | 6k
after 2 years of dating, Spencer decides it's finally time to get Y/N something to match her Amethyst bracelet.
Part 3: Crystal Clear | NSFW| ?
With Emily finally back from the dead, it seems like the best time for Y/N and Spencer to vow to love each other till death do us part.
“This whole thing gave me an ulcer,” Emily adds, “please don’t give me another one. Please come to Rossi’s tomorrow night?”
Spencer sighs. Leaning back on his plane seat and closing his book, “it’s my wedding, of course, I’ll be there.”
Her eyes widen, “how did you know?”
“She’s my wife, I’m not sure if you’ve ever met her but she talks very loudly on the phone… I’ve heard every conversation she’s had this week through the baby monitor because she thinks planning and breastfeeding at 3am is a great way to multi-task as if the monitor isn’t on.”
Emily laughs, “she has mom brain now.”
Spencer smiles again, “I just wish you were here to see her when she was a newborn, she was so tiny I couldn’t believe someone could be so small?”
Emily smiles back, “I’ll be sure to be here for the second one.”
Spencer's eyes widen and his head tilts, “that might not be for a while… one is enough I think id like to sleep a bit more before we bring in a second in, I’m exhausted.”
She hums, “I always knew you’d be a good dad, though. I’m so happy for you both.”
“Do you want to be my best man?”
“Seriously?” She gasps, “you wouldn’t want Morgan or Hotch?”
He shakes his head, “I love them, they’re like brothers to me, but I think you’re my best friend other than Y/N.”
“Awe,” she lays a hand on her heart. “Spencer, I’m honoured you’d pick me. I love being best friends with you.”
“I don’t suppose you have something green or purple to wear tomorrow?” He teases, “Y/N will be pissed if you’re up there and no on theme.”
Emily just laughs, she missed him way more than she let herself, feeling a bit overwhelmed with emotion. “I love you, Spence, I hope you always know that.”
“I know,” he nods, “I don’t say it enough, I realized that when you were gone. But I love you, all of you actually.”
She smiles fondly, pressing her lips together as she relaxes in her seat, “we know.”
Thinking about Scaramouche having a marking on his neck from his days as a prototype puppet of the Raiden Shogun’s; it might be a barcode or simply an electro sigil stamped upon his skin. Also thinking of Scaramouche trusting you enough to show you the marking, and trying not to squirm away or moan when you press kisses there.
pairing: arthur morgan x genderless reader (some parts somewhat imply the reader may be female, but can still completely be read as any gender)
summary: you start hanging around with the van der linde gang, and find yourself growing attached
word count: 1,485
notes: so my vision here is to just... write along with the game as i play it? imagining that the reader is actually there for the story (for the most part) as it is written. lets see how it goes lol. it's short but i just wanted to get the reader involved with the gang before the infamous blackwater ferry job. ;)
By 1899, the age of outlaws and gunslingers was at an end. America was becoming a land of laws… Even the west had mostly been tamed. A few gangs still roamed, but they were being hunted down and destroyed.
You were one of these gunslingers. Never a person of high moral standing, necessarily, you found yourself in predicaments as a teenager that led you to a certain way of life. It was hard work, you were considered scum to most nowadays, and civilians were praying for the opportunity to see you swing. But boy, the money was good.
Living this lifestyle also meant not keeping many friends around. You were lonely often, but lonely was always better than getting killed by a so-called “friend” for the price set on your head.
One particular night, however, you did find yourself a friend. After a very peculiar group rolled into Blackwater early one afternoon, you met a nice young girl named Jenny. Jenny Kirk. She stormed into the saloon seemingly searching for a good conversation. Funny enough, she found it with you.
The two of you spent a decent bit of time talking about the town and what little you had known about it, you chose to test the waters. “I don’t know if you’d know anybody interested… but I know a guy who needs a few extra guns for a… project he’s got.” This was all it took to cultivate a new relationship with these folks. You met each member slowly, nearly one-by-one. After a few jobs you really started to take a liking to these people. You got close with the women first, and hung around every now and then to help out with chores. You didn’t mind having people to talk to every now and then, but you always kept a good distance. Stopping in and hanging out for a day or two, only to leave shortly thereafter and reside in the woods… never more than a few miles away though. You began to care for these folks, and wanted to be close enough that you could hear gunshots if they were to be fired.
Today was one of those days. You were standing next to Jenny, stringing laundry up on the clothesline as she handed it to you. Not far off in the camp, three of the men in the group, Dutch, Arthur, and Micah, were all talking in harsh, but low voices. You held your breath, trying hard to focus on their conversation and what they were so irritated about. “Arthur don’t like Micah’s plan. Robbin’ a ship or somethin’.” Jenny said quietly, “That Micah is a real jerk.” She concluded. “You can say that again”.
You winked at Jenny and moseyed your way over to the gathering, inserting yourself into their conversation. “Hey fellas.” You smirked, enjoying the irritated look on Arthur’s face, specifically. “What’re we talkin’ about?” Dutch, of course, relinquished in your presence. “Ohhhh… Somethin’ big darlin’. Somethin’... Profitable.” He danced on each word as he slid his arm around you and gestured out toward the waterline. “Somethin’ dangerous.” He flirted, narrowing his eyes at you. From the corner of your eye you see Arthur glace over to Molly, Dutch’s ‘better half’. She was distracted. “Dangerous, eh Dutch? I’m in.” You smiled, locking eyes with Arthur. “I wish you’d wait for Hosea and I, Dutch.” Arthur pleaded, “I don’t like the idea of not bein’ there to help.” Micah scoffed. “Relaaaax, cowpoke.” He teased. “We’re all men here. We can handle ourselves.” Arthur shook his head and walked off, grumbling something that sounded like “Not all of us”. You followed after him.
You and Arthur enjoyed each other’s company on occasion, and you would actually consider him a friend. He was a kind man, once you got to know him. He didn’t take kindly to outsiders, but after seeing how much you were beginning to care for the gang, he loosened up some. The two of you went out camping alone once, on a hunting trip. He shared his story about his former love, Mary, over a beer. You sympathized with him. You had a similar situation a very long time ago. You were young, in love, and had no idea just how hard living this life would be. Your partner realized after a few blissful months that they just couldn’t bear to be with someone who may never make it home. Someone who chooses such a life, who thrives in it... Your night with Arthur ended well. You ended up getting a little too drunk, and used the chilled night air as an excuse to share the tent. Nothing out of line happened, but the two of you slept back to back, using each other’s body heat. It was the closest either of you had been to another person in a very long time.
You trailed behind Arthur as he walked away from Dutch and Micah. “You sure do follow me around a lot.” He observed, glancing over his shoulder at you. “Does that bother you?” You asked. “Guess not.” He replied, cracking a smile.
You walked for a minute until you reached Arthur’s tent. He picked up one of his guns and began to clean it, sitting down on his cot. You plopped down next to him, crossing your legs. “Why don’t you like the boat job?” You asked, fiddling with a stain on your jeans. “Dutch ain’t bein’ smart about it. He knows Hosea and I will be out of town, but Micah is… pressurin’ him it seems.”
“I only knew y’all for a few months now but… That seems out of character for Dutch.”
“It is. But…” He sighed, “I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”
You nodded. “Sure.”
“Anyway… Where you been? Haven’t seen ya ‘round in a while.”
“Oh, you know. Little bit of everywhere.” You smiled at him, knowing full well you were only a few miles away.
“Well, it’s good to have ya back for a few days.” He returned the grin, standing and returning the gun to his holster. “I have to run some mail into town… You following?”
“As usual.” You stood up, winking at him.
“As usual.” He chuckled softly.
You never did get a straight answer on the ferry job from Dutch, so you ended up just going with Arthur and Hosea. Not necessarily because they needed you, but because you had nothing better to do. Admittedly, you were becoming attached to Arthur. He was kind to you, and you enjoyed his presence. The three of you were on schedule to make it back into Blackwater by the time they should be finished with the heist anyways.
The leads that Hosea had found were solid, as always. The group rode together back toward town, cracking jokes and poking fun at one another. At some point, the laughter died down enough for Arthur and you to hear the gunshots coming from town. “Shit.” He said, speeding up to get there quicker. “That doesn’t sound good.” Hosea stated.
“Thank goodness you all rode in when you did.” Dutch mentioned as he passed you, carrying boxes to the wagons. You were helping pack as well. The job had gone horribly wrong and you, along with Arthur and Hosea, showed up just in time to shoot the gang out of trouble. “I’ve never seen so many lawmen in one place.” You replied.
You swung back towards Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson after loading up the boxes you were carrying. Jenny got shot, badly. She wasn’t looking too good. You didn’t have time to worry much, and she was in good hands. Besides, poor Lenny was worrying enough for the both of you. You kissed her on the forehead. “Hang in there kid.” You said quietly to your friend.
“Come on now everyone, we need to move!” Dutch hollered, climbing up onto the wagon next to Hosea.
The ride up into the mountains was a quick one. There was no time to stop, as the Pinkertons were in total pursuit. Really, the gang will be lucky to escape. You rode ahead with Arthur once you ascended to the snowy mountaintops, the two of you going as quickly as you could. Through the horrendous blizzard you managed to find the remains of an old mining town. You and Arthur quickly checked the buildings to assure everything was clear. When you met back at your horses to go find the gang, he seemed to be scowling at you. “You alright?” You asked.
“Guess you’re really one of us now. Law ain’t gonna forget you were riding with us back there.”
“You don’t seem too happy about it.”
“I can’t say I am.”
Your face fell.
“You’re too good for this life, kid.”
You rolled your eyes as you started back towards the group. “Too late now, Morgan.”
⚠️ Dead By Daylight - The Shape: Rated R: Not Safe For Work
Masterlist — Patreon — KoFi
The fog is thick tonight.
It has been a normal run so far. The screaming doesn’t even bother you anymore. The well of fear that runs deep within your stomach isn’t even bothering you tonight.
You just minded your business honestly. You did what you could for your fellow survivors but only if you happened to be with a minimum of one other person. If it was just you saving the day, no way! You could never do that.
You looked over your shoulder as a chill shot up the back of your spine. “Hello?” You called out instinctively, still bad at remembering the rules of this different world. You put a hand over your mouth and cursed yourself before turning away from the generator you were working on. You scanned the area before focusing on a shape within the darkness.
You squint your eyes to try to see clearer but the fog just rolled through heavier. You stood up now, completely on edge before walking off. You felt like that area was just bad luck now. You probably saw a shadow or another survivor sneaking through. It wasn’t the killer, it wasn’t whoever that sick fuck was today.
You rubbed the back of your neck as it felt like somebody was just breathing on you. You shuddered at the thought and picked up your step before stupidly bursting into a run. There was absolutely no reason you should be moving so fast but something just felt wrong.
You screamed, the air in your throat burning as you were lifted off the ground and carried off. “No! No! Not me!” You banged on the back of his jumpsuit, slamming down as hard as you could. There was nothing you could do. He had the tightest hold on you. You yanked on the back of his head and pulled a mask off, a gasp forcing itself right out of your body as you see what’s in your hand.
“The shape!” You yell as loudly as possible, hopefully spreading the news for any others that you were close.
Michael Myers drops you on your ass. You fall to the ground with your back to the dirt, all the air leaving your lungs immediately. You squeeze your eyes shut and wrap your arms around yourself to protect your body. The pain is making every nerve ending light up like the Fourth of July. When you come back to your senses, Michael stands before you with his mask on his head again. You stared up at him as he took a huge step over you before grabbing the back of your shirt, dragging you backwards. You scream and cry out for help, for anyone to find you as he drags you through the dirt and into a snack. The ground changes beneath you and soon you are being moved down stairs, body being abused every step of the way.
You are thrown in the middle of the basement. You go scrambling backwards, going past the hooks in the middle of the room to the back, clawing at the wall as if there's a way out. You bounce from locker to locker, throwing them open as Michael watches you. He tilts his head as he witnesses the hope leaving you. You press your back against the wall and stare back at him. You have heard rumors of survivors being able to make it out alive through some unconventional methods. You’re shaking like a leaf but you try to gain some sort of confidence. Your hands press together in front of you as you begin to beg. “Please let me go. I’ll do whatever you want, Mr. Myers.”
He continues to stand there, a looming presence as always. You shakily move forward to stand in front of him. “Please! Just let me go back to the campfire. I will not touch any generators. I won’t get in your way.”
Michael just continues to stare down at you, silently watching you embarrass yourself. Your hands go to his jumpsuit and pick at it, not even knowing what to do. “Show me the ropes, please. I’ve never done this before. Isn’t there anything you want?” You grip into the blue fabric and tug on it, delirium setting in. You were desperate for a way home. You dug deep, searching for anything to work. “I love you, Michael.” You reached up and cupped his mask face, humming softly as you stared up to meet his gaze. “It’s okay, it really is. I’m here. It’s just me and you. No one else. I promise.”
Michael moved quickly, grabbing you by the throat and forcing you into the air. You grabbed his hand and struggled in his grasp until he forced you against the wall to the left of the room. He let you hang in his grip and you felt heavier and heavier as time went ticking forward. He suddenly dropped you and you collapsed like a sheet of paper, folding underneath yourself. You looked back up to find Michael removing his jumpsuit, skin slowly exposed as he moved. The man was more built than you ever realized. He pulled it down his waist before grabbing you and hauled you back up on your feet. He cupped your face and turned it side to side as you were once again shaking like a leaf. He pressed his face towards yours to press your foreheads together. He kept you still, close to him before he went for your clothes, ripping the front of your shirt. Michael pulled you close, allowing him to feel skin on skin contact. You almost felt like he was cherishing this moment.
Michael flipped you around after making the initial first contact before you were tugged on some more, fabric getting torn from your legs. He forced everything off of your body, leaving you in the nude until he pressed back against you. You could tell there was nothing separating the two of you when he moved against you, something hard pressing into your back as his hands roamed over your body. There was an explorative feeling to his hands as they traced your curves, just getting used to being around another soul without causing death in his wake.
His hands stroked the sides of your breasts, heart ramming against your rib cage as he felt them in his palms. You could feel the calluses against your skin as his fingers moved. The shame was heating your face up which shot sparks out to other parts of your body. Your eyes flickered to the sides, looking towards the lockers before glancing towards the stairs. You see nothing before Michael’s fingers find your nipples, hard from the attention and the air. Noises escape your lips as Michael is anything but gentle. He pulls on them, forcing your hips against his erection as you press your hands against the wall in front of you. You moan out as he pulls again, the sound echoing off the walls. Michael is greatly interested in these sounds as he pulls over and over again. He is unused to hearing these noises as well as the feeling of something hot and wet grinding against him.
Michael is feeling too good to release you from his attention. His hands leave your breasts and you're left lonely only for a little while until he flips you back around to face you. His hands go between your legs as his forehead pressed against yours again. He spreads your legs and moves between them again, feeling everywhere and getting coated in your natural lubricants. His fingers investigate until you gasp, pupils completely blown as you make eye contact with him. He’s stimulating your clit, watching as you squirm under his touch and react to the way that he makes you feel.
Your body says what your mouth refuses to. He stops playing with you only to lean down, grabbing your legs as he pulls you up to press you against your wall. He lines you up with his erection while your legs dangle over his strong arms. He slowly drops you down until his cock is between your legs, pressing into your entrance. Michael gives you a last long look before completely sheathing himself inside your warm, inviting cunt. Your mouth forms an o but no sound comes out. It’s just the breath in your lungs is gone. He watches your reaction as you start to wrap your mind around what is exactly happening here. He moves so the two of you are closer to the wall before just hammering into your body. Your mouth goes slack as it fills your guts, ramming in over and over. He’s large, ruthless, and makes you see stars. He’s touching your deepest parts of yourself, deeper than anyone has been before. You are being shaped just for his own pleasure.
Your arms are clutching his shoulders, nails digging into the flesh beneath them as he does not slow or falter. He starts to move his arms as he wants to get a better angle at things. You move your legs instantly, wrapping around his waist and bringing yourself closer to him to hide your face in his neck. His hands grips your ass and continues to work himself into a faster frenzy. You are just along for the ride, making happy noises against your better judgement as his girth is rubbing some amazing spots inside of you. You sneak a hand off his shoulder and push it between your bodies to run your clit. It feels good, he’s so forceful and no one else has been able to rearrange your insides quite like this. You’re getting louder and right in his ear as you're twitching around his member. You could easily see the end of the finish line for yourself here. You had never imagined being taken by Michael Meyers but it was something that you definitely wouldn’t regret.
“I’m coming, Michael.” You cried loudly and wrapped the other arm tighter around his neck, shoving his head into your shoulder and clawing your fingers into the back of his mask. “Oh my fucking god.”
Your eyes were rolling back into your head as you tensed up through your orgasm. Michael just doubled down in his efforts, prolonging your finish until you were begging him for something, not that you knew exactly what for but you just couldn’t stop talking. The man has endurance like no one could even imagine. He was destroying you slowly, starting with your no longer sane mind before moving to your pussy that will now be demanding him. He used the wall for leverage as heat filled your stomach. You thought it was over as the two of you were panting for air, neither moving for what felt like forever. Within the hazy mist of your mind, you realized that he was not softening. You stiffened within his arms, putting him on edge as he clutched you further. His hips began to move again as you are aware that he was not done with you.
What I probably should be doing rn is getting through all the asks I have in my inbox but not finishing this idea was bothering me for the past few weeks so here. I also want to do one for the side characters sometime
Also @backalleykat since they asked to be tagged 👌👌
Satan realizes he likes someone when he starts mimicking them
It doesn’t seem like anything important, but to him, a demon who spent most of his life searching for individuality, it’s huge
He pauses mid sentence one day, blinking in surprise as he realizes what he just said was the same thing you always did, and the realization that a few of his recent small habits came from you came right after
Did he really spend so much time observing you without even realizing it? Enough to pick up on your seemingly insignificant mannerisms?
Asmo’s just staring at him like ?? Cause he’s still standing there with his eyes wide 💀
After that realization, he suddenly can’t stop noticing every little thing you do. The way you walk, laugh, fidget, how you act when you’re nervous, or excited. He perks up immediately when he catches a sign of repressed anger, especially if it’s at Lucifer. Gotta see where that goes, ya know?
Eventually, you’re going to have to notice the amount of times he stares at you, only to quickly avert his gaze when you turn to look at him, a tint of red on his cheeks as he pretends to have been reading the whole time
Don’t bring it up though he will short circuit. He thinks he’s being sneaky
It’s also kinda ruining his life bc he’ll catch himself doing something he got from you in public or in the middle of a test and just… man he’s distracted now. How can you expect him to focus when the thought of you just entered his mind?
What’s worse, other people can probably see the flustered, panicked expression on his face as he scrambles to get back on task
You Are Killing This Man Softly
Asmo realizes he likes someone when he doesn’t think about himself around them
Ok, let me explain. In most situations, he’s always subconsciously thinking about how he looks in the moment, the way he acts, the words he’s saying. It’s not uncommon for him to move into an uncomfortable position or stand a certain way to ‘play up his natural beauty’
He’s constantly analyzing how other people are seeing him without even having to really think about it, it’s just an ingrained response at this point
After all, what if he wasn’t pretty? What if he loses all the people that have ever looked up at him in awe? What if he loses his only source of validation? What if he’s completely alone?
And most of all, how would you, the one person he puts above himself, have to say about it?
However, those thoughts seem to just… dissipate, when you two are alone
It’s not like he’s suddenly not insecure anymore, it’s more like he simply doesn’t think about it. When with you, all he can really focus on is the way your lips move, or that small spark in your eye when he says something that makes you laugh, and oh god, that laugh
Within 5 minutes tops, he’s doing things he wouldn’t be doing normally. Snorting when he laughs, saying things that are most definitely not cute or hot but plain stupid, sitting in unelegant, but comfortable, positions, and a goofy grin on his face, one that could only be pure and happy and, above all, genuine
Things that he’s usually suppressing the hell out of come out when you’re around. Which is strange, wouldn’t you be the person he wants to impress the most? Aren’t people usually overly conscious of themselves around someone they like?
In any case, seconds after you leave when his excitement dissipates and the memories start coming back to him, he freaks
HE REALLY JUST DID THAT. IN FRONT OF YOU. WHY DID HE DO THAT???
Gotta stare himself down in the mirror and scream bloody murder
Please just. Play with his hair and tell him he’s good enough. Let him have some fun and goof off without astronomical amounts of alcohol. Let him lay his head in your lap and dramatically rant about his day while you add in equally dramatic agreements
Not only will it be wildly appreciated and make him near feral, but he’ll definitely try doing a few favours back
Beel realizes he likes someone when he wants to impress them
He’s not exactly the type to care about what others think of him, let alone wanting to show off around them. He’s not Mammon, of course
So he was, undoubtably, quite confused as to why that changes around you
Picking up large objects that he really didn’t need to, working out twice as hard, saying some joke in a group of people and turning to you to gauge your reaction, then feeling heat bloom in his chest when you laugh or smile along, or the cold disappointment when you remain unfazed
He doesn’t realize it at first, but it seems that everyone else did. Even Luke mentioned it, pointing it out while Simeon smiled and agreed
Asmo, of course, was the most ruthless, constantly on his case about it and lowkey acts offended that he doesn’t try to impress him, too
He just tilted his head in confusion the first time it was brought up. Impress you? Why would he want to do that?
It suddenly hit him what exactly he wants from you. For you to be proud of him, proud to have him, for you to run your hands down his sides and tell him so with nothing but love and adoration in your eyes. It’s an embarrassing thought for him, but also a quite enticing one
He doesn’t deny it like SOME of the others. Instead, he accepts it, and continues to show off around you, this time with more self awareness
Belphie realizes he likes someone when he dreams about them
He’s said before that he doesn’t have many dreams, even with how often he’s sleeping. So when he does wake up with even the fuzziest of memories, it’s a bit of an exciting thing for him. Unfortunately, the only vivid ones he has are nightmares
However, lately, that began to change
It started while he was still up in the attic, when he would drift off after one of your visits, only to see your face again
He was confused at first. And, dare I say, a little angry. The only dream he had in the last few months and it’s about a human? A human that smiled down at him and laid next to him on the grass, looking up at the stars?
Why was he having these thoughts about you? Why would his subconscious throw him for a loop like this? And, most importantly, why did he feel so giddy when he woke up?
The more time he spent with you, the more he started to get it
With every evening spent napping in your lap, with every time you smiled and ruffled his hair, with that ethereal feeling he got just from seeing you first thing in the morning. Little by little, the realization was coming on to him
It finally hit on a strangely ordinary day, all but for the dream he just woke up from
‘Dream’ wouldn’t be the right word, it would be ‘nightmare’ or ‘night terror’. No matter what you called it, he woke up shaking, grabbing the nearest object and pulling it closer to him
He was too shaken up to fully he realize what he was doing, but he had already nuzzled into your neck and secured his arms tightly around your waist, eyes squeezed shut tightly that slowly relaxed when you finally reacted, sleepily burying your fingers in his hair
God, he hated feeling weak
So why did he feel so comfortable right now? Was he not at his most vulnerable?
He’s not stupid, he knows exactly what that meant
After that night, the dreams of you grew more frequent, but this time, they weren’t unwelcome. Through them, he was able to say and do things he would’ve never even considered while awake. No fear of rejection, am I right?
And let’s just say dream-you did their own fair share of things that left him not even being able to look you in the eye the next day
One day he’s gonna mess up and confuse talking to you irl as a dream, but that’s a story for another time
#obey me x reader #obey me shall we date #headcanons#hcs #satan x reader #obey me satan #asmodeus x reader #obey me asmodeus #beelzebub x reader #obey me beelzebub #belphegor x reader #obey me belphegor #asmo obey me #beel obey me #belphie obey me #gender neutral reader #fluff#reader insert #obey me mc #satan avatar of wrath #asmodeus avatar of lust #beelzebub avatar of gluttony #belphegor avatar of sloth #y/n #obey me swd #part 2 #obey me brothers
(tw for, exactly as the title says,making out lol)
His hands felt warm and clammy everywhere they touched.
Across your arms, over your shoulders, down your back.
He had you right where he wanted you—and by no means were you resisting.
Hank kept a strong grip with one appendage on your hip, the bone fitting nearly in his entire palm; keeping you firmly planted in his lap while he leaned back against what you called a “bed” (when in reality it was a roughed up mattress with a tattered blanket strewn across it). Your hands were on his sternum, sneaking beneath the confines of his coat; exploring the hidden world that was Hank J. Wimbleton’s chest with drifting fingers. Playing idly with his bandages, you feel Hank grunt against your mouth.
Things really weren’t escalating to this—at first. It was a simple, “hi, how are you” that turned into “what would your tongue feel like in my mouth.”
What was supposed to be a quick exchange of information turned into a necking fest, all because of Wimbleton’s ability to make you weak in the knees. The scratching of his nails gently clawing at the nape of your neck made you whine. Damn tease.
It was no different for Hank—the world’s (as far as he knew) most dangerous mercenary going stiff like an agent whose guts had just been pierced for a measly [grunt/human] like you? He would never have even considered being this close with someone had you not shown up some odd months ago. But that was just it—you did happen to show up. And you weren’t some measly [grunt/human].
You were [Name]. Sweet, tender, fiery [Name]... who just so happened to capture the heart and complete will of Nevada’s most wanted.
Hank presses you more firmly against him, driving his tongue deeper into your throat. You moan, grip tightening on his cloak while you lean into the wet metal where drool profusely dripped from Hank’s maw. He wanted this. He wanted you.
The cutting-in of static made you both break away with a gasp and a jolt. You stared at him while he stared at you, foggy minds trying to decipher what was going on.
“Hank,” 2B’s voice comes crackling in on their communication device. “Come in, Hank.” The very presence of 2BDamned made Hank groan. You snicker.
“Do you always have that thing turned on so loud?” You tease, Hank huffing his amusement.
“Only—for—emergencies,” Hank cranks out, voice scratchy—and raw. You hum.
“Better answer,” You tell him. Hank looks down at the device for a moment before taking the tech in his giant hand and crushing it to smithereens. You gape at him. “Hank!” You say incredulously, mouth hanging wide open. He only shrugs, and you swear if it weren’t for that metal jaw of his, he would be grinning.
“It—can-wait,” Hank garbles roughly, lowly. The way he pulls your hips in closer and fixes you with a look that could only be described as a hunter closing in on its’ prey tells you he’s serious. It makes you shiver.
You take in a small, deep breath. Well, if this is how he wanted to play things—you could too.
“C’mon then,” You provoke him, tugging on the hems of his coat with a curved smirk. If Hank had an engine, he would be revving at that.
He only pulls you in once more, mashing your mouth against what was left of his with fervor; making it known to you that you would not be leaving this spot for some time.
If you had known that you were gonna run into the loser of a guy you went on a first date with, you wouldn't have agreed to drinks at the bar with your girlfriends tonight. You would have kept your ass home and stayed in your pajamas and bonnet watching Living Single. Luckily, one of your friends was able to give you a heads up that he was looking for you. Apparently, blocking his number from your phone wasn't enough to prove that you weren't interested in a second date. You knew you were gonna have to step your game up if you were gonna get rid of this guy for good. When you spotted a tall and handsome stranger with short brown hair in a tapered style with a black long-sleeved jacket sitting at the bar by himself, you saw a way out.
You tell your friends you'll be right back and leave their table and head straight for the bar. You ask the bartender for a drink before you cautiously slide closer towards the handsome stranger. You think you're being subtle until you realize he's looking right at you. His eyes, which are a piercing shade of blue, nearly takes your breath away. It isn't until he speaks that you feel your heart skip a beat.
"Hi," He greets. "I'm Bucky," He greets you with a polite smile.
"(Name)," You return the smile before you push yourself to continue while the line of dialogue is open. "Mind if I ask you a favor?"
Bucky raises an eyebrow in curiosity wondering what sort of help a beautiful woman such as yourself needed that would require his assistance. When he sees the way your body tenses up when you lock eyes with another man standing on the other side of the room, he suddenly understands why you were asking for help.
"Kiss me," You urged, putting a hand over his own. "Please..."
Bucky looks at you for a moment completely thrown for a loop by your sudden and intimate request. However, when he sees the guy that has you so on edge approaching, he decides now isn't the time to ask questions or hesitate. He reaches out and gently places a hand behind the base of your neck, his eyes boring into yours.
"You got it, doll." He whispers before he leans forward, his lips meeting yours in a soft kiss.
You sharply inhale and your eyes flutter close as Bucky moves his gloved hand from behind your neck and cups your face using both hands to tilt your head as you kiss him back. The kiss initially starts off slow and sweet as you lean into it and allow yourself to enjoy the softness of his lips against yours. The combination of the taste of alcohol lingering on his lips and the scent of his cologne ignites a fire in you that leaves you wanting more. You reach out with both hands and grab fistfuls of his jacket as you part your lips and allow Bucky to slip his tongue inside your mouth. Warmth spread throughout your body as his tongue explores your mouth, a soft moan escaping your lips without even meaning to.
As your brain and lungs urge you to take a breath, you slowly break the kiss. Bucky’s chest rose and fell with rapid breaths, his lips now swollen and his face flushed from the kiss. You take a moment to look around the bar for the guy you’ve been avoiding. When you see that he was nowhere to be found, you sigh in relief.
"Thank you for, well… the kiss." You said, your heart still racing.
"No problem," Bucky said, straightening out his jacket.
summary: In daylight, Natasha Romanoff is your field partner. In the cover of the night, beneath the cloak of your dreaming, she is soft lips and strawberry-scented hair and green eyes that look at you like you could be enough. When a mission goes wrong, you cling to those dreams as Natasha’s worst nightmare unfolds. A friends-to-lovers, hurt/comfort fic with a happy ending.
author’s note: This is a commissioned fic written for @starksbabie. Nyx, I hope I did you and Nat some justice and that you enjoy this piece! Thank you so much for commissioning this work from me 🤍
warning(s): canon-level violence, brief mention/non-graphic depictions of torture, kidnapping, allusions to and mentions of a past abusive paternal-type relationship, probably a very poor understanding of Russian language, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort
word count: 5.1k
masterlist. ko-fi. library.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” She asks innocently enough through the wicked, upwards slanting of her lips.
“Like you’re trying to figure me out.”
“There is no try,” she quips, a perfect impression of Yoda that makes your own lips twitch up into a smile despite yourself. She slips back into her normal voice easily, low octaves that whisper things to make you blush in your dreams, and says, “You’re pretty easy to figure out.”
“Oh? You’re just that good, huh?”
“Have you ever considered that you’re an open book, printsessa?”
She beams, a white smile that splits across pink lips, as you scowl at her chosen endearment. “You wear your heart on your sleeve,” Natasha teases, but there’s a subtle softness to her gaze. “It’s not a bad thing.”
“Yeah,” you huff out in annoyance, rubbing at the sleep-carved lines in your cheek, “because it makes it easier for you to read my every thought, right?”
Green eyes, always framed by those long, dark lashes, flit to the warm spot on your cheek that had been pressed into the throw pillow just moments before. “Something like that,” she smiles. “You rest well?”
If only she knew.
“Yeah.” Shrugging the blanket from around your shoulders, you stretch away the remnants of sleep—remnants of tousled, auburn hair pushed aside to reveal the column of her neck, a sweet perfume at her pulse point, her heartbeat skipping beneath your lips— “Until you came in here and woke me up.”
“Sorry,” she apologizes sweetly, leaning against the doorframe. You suppose there were far worse things to wake to than Natasha Romanoff flickering on the dramatic, overhead lights of the compound’s living area. “Man in charge needs us upstairs.”
“So he sends the woman in charge to wake me?”
She smiles in a different way at that, eyes studying the rug at her feet. It’s sweet to see her like this—a bit flustered, just the most subtle dusting of pink at the apples of her cheek. There’s no espresso in the world that could fuel you like the thought that you’ve been the one to make her feel this way.
“I was the right woman for the job,” she shrugs, the smile never diminishing in its wattage on her face as you rise to meet her. “Steve knows I’m the only one equipped to deal with you first thing in the morning.”
You feign offense, catching sight of your ruffled appearance in the reflection from the windows that line the long, sterile white hallway of the compound. “I’m not that grouchy.”
“You are definitely that grouchy.”
The elevator dings as the steel doors slide open, Natasha stepping inside and you following at her heels. “What does he want, anyway?” You rub at your eyes with a larger frown than you’d intended, feeling Natasha’s smirk in your direction.
“See? Grouchy,” she teases, knocking her shoulder against yours playfully. “Think he’s got an assignment for us.”
You perk up at that. “Assignment? He tell you anything else?”
“Not much,” she admits, though there’s a gleam of something bright in her eyes, “but I might have overheard him mention something about Havana.”
“Havana…?” You repeat, a slow-growing smile at your lips. “You sure you heard ‘assignment’ and not ‘vacation’?”
“Pretty sure,” Natasha answers just as the doors slide open on the upper level to reveal a towering figure on the other side.
“Definitely not a vacation.” He unfolds his arms from across his broad chest to hand you a manila folder. “The two of you are bringing in Ikanov.”
Ikanov. You feel Natasha’s eyes sweeping across your side profile suddenly, studying your reaction. Schooling your face, you force out a laugh, following Steve’s retreat to the conference room. “And we think he’s in Havana? Doing what, smoking cigars and learning to salsa?”
“Don’t think Ikanov’s much for dancing,” Steve deadpans, pressing several keys on his laptop to pull up three-dimensional, holographic images and figures at the center of the conference table.
The familiar, lasered image of the man’s face, made transparent in light green, dances in Natasha’s pupils. “Torture, psychological warfare, selling state secrets… those are much more his thing.”
“And opium,” you add, narrowing your eyes at the man’s likeness. “Ikanov got his start on his father’s poppy fields.
“Really makes you wonder,” Steve begins, a hand at his hip, “how a guy like Grigoriy Ikanov manages to be spotted by two junior S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives on vacation.”
“At least someone’s going on vacation,” you grumble under your breath.
Steve ignores you, looking at Natasha pointedly. She hardly blinks as she says, “He doesn’t.”
You know what they’re implying because you’d already suspected as much yourself.
“He’s hoping we come for him.” The green, translucent angle of his jaw almost seems to sharpen menacingly from the conference table. You square your own mandible, correcting yourself. “Hoping I come for him.”
Steve’s eyes fix on you, bright blue in their confirmation. It’s a subtle gesture, but you don’t miss it. Neither does Natasha.
“She’s not bait on a hook, Steve.”
“No,” he shakes his head, “she’s a member of this team—only member of this team that Ikanov will negotiate with—and it’s her choice whether or not she wants to be on that jet to Havana.”
“Thought we didn’t negotiate.”
“We don’t. But we have to draw him out. Get him to show his face.”
She runs a hand through the auburn strands of hair that fall around her temple. “I don’t like this.”
By all accounts, you’re not a fan of this plan either, but instead of voicing that trepidation, you find yourself saying, “I can bring him in.”
Steve nods almost imperceptibly, and Natasha’s head swivels on her neck so quickly in your direction that you wonder if she might have whiplash.
“You don’t have to do this,” she tells you, a serious glint in her eyes. It matches the intonation of her voice.
“I do. I want to do this. It’s been… a long time coming. I need to see this through.”
There’s a flash—just a flash, a millisecond of measured surprise—across her face, and then she reigns in her features and nods.
“Okay,” is all she says. It’s all she needs to say. The emerald green revere in her eyes tells you the rest.
Steve seems to study the look shared between the two of you before rising to his feet. “We all good here?”
You tear your eyes away from Natasha’s before answering. “We’re good.”
“Good.” He types something into his phone before tucking it away into his pocket. Natasha’s phone buzzes on the table. Coordinates. “Wheels up in forty.”
“Doesn’t leave much time to pack.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he admits, the hint of a smile subduing the serious set of his jaw. “Pack light. Tony wants everyone back by Tuesday night.”
Another shared look. “What’s Tuesday night?”
“Secretary of State’s coming to tour the facilities.” He gestures to the modern, spacious building surrounding you. “Along with several members of the press.”
“Want to see where the Avenger’s lay their heads?”
Steve’s mouth twitches.
“Something like that.”
Just enough light filters in through the holes in the ceiling to reveal dust-covered furniture, faded audacious patterns of orange and green from an era long-gone. Relics of a time when the hotel lobby had been bustling with tourists and travelers, a revolving door of people and their luggage and chatter in tow.
The rusted metallic bell at the desk looks like it hasn’t been rung in decades. At your side, your finger itches to push it down and hear it ring.
You long for a noise, any noise, that isn’t your heart beating wildly in your chest.
Natasha’s voice crackles over the device in your ear, the answer to the unspoken request. “Anything in the lobby?”
“No,” you shake your head. Force of habit. “Just a lot of dust. Doesn’t look like anyone’s been here in a while.”
Doesn’t look like Ikanov’s been here, you correct yourself.
“Stairwell was pretty spooky. Got a few more rooms to clear here. Want to meet me on the third floor?”
A faded, framed map of the building catches your eye on the wall opposite the front desk. Your finger traces a path just down the hall and to the left.
“Want to check out the spa first.”
“Oh, a spa.” There’s no doubt that she’s wearing a playful smile on plump, pursed lips somewhere above you. “Fancy.”
“Maybe fifty years ago.”
The carpet cushions the tread of your boots as you trek down the hallway. You try to smooth down the goosebumps that have risen on your forearms as you focus on Natasha’s voice in your ear. “Think we could convince Tony to put a spa in the compound?”
The laugh that rolls off your tongue is easy, if not strained by the eerie scene ahead. Wallpaper peels off the wall in places, like a mask that’s been pulled off a face. Formerly golden picture frames tilt off-balance. Smiling faces peer behind glass in the darkness. How many ghosts of them are watching you march through their tomb?
“I don’t know about we,” you tell her, “but I think you could convince him.”
There’s a genuine curiosity in her voice when she asks, “Why’s that?”
The hallway opens up to your left, a wooden door just ahead. There’s signage, in Spanish, letting you know that you’ve reached the abandoned spa.
“I don’t know.” You fight the urge to shrug, squaring your shoulders instead. The knob is cold against your fingertips. “You’re good at getting what you want.”
She’s silent as you push your way into the room.
To your surprise, you’re met with foliage-veiled natural light. The ceiling is glass—broken and shattered in a few places, but preserved remarkably well over all—and reminiscent of a greenhouse. Vines cover parts of the wall, snaking across the floor. Chaises are covered in fallen leaves along what used to be the poolside. The pool, dark and murky, sits half-filled in the center of the room.
The humidity is thick.
Condensation covers the floor-to-ceiling windows, reducing the overgrowth outside to nothing more than dark green shapes. The sense of eeriness dissipates the longer you take in the sight of the abandoned bathhouse, its softly lit corners an unthreatening contrast to the hallway just beyond the door.
“Nat,” you call almost in awe into your ear device. “You’ve gotta see this spa. It’s like something straight out of Jurassic Park… like Jurassic Park after it’s been abandoned for fifty years.”
You’re relieved to hear the familiar twinge of teasing in her voice when she answers. “And you’ve checked for any dinosaurs?”
“Lucky for us, the last two dinosaurs known to roam the earth are back at the compound.”
She laughs into the receiver, and you’re glad she can’t see the wide smile that breaks across your face at the sound. It’s rare noise, Natasha Romanoff’s real laugh, and it’s among one you’d draw from her lips every day if you could.
“That was a good one. Should tell it to Sam when we get back.”
A subtle yellow blinking catches your attention from across the room—fireflies. “Think it’s one of those ‘had to be there’ things.” Careful to avoid puddles of brown stagnant water that’ve filled holes in broken tiles, you dance along the edges of the pool. “Might not land the same.”
“Mhm,” she responds, and you can hear the kicking in of a door somewhere upstairs. “Guess it works better staying between the two of us.”
The fireflies flicker again, just feet away from you. Between the two of us. Natasha had told you once, when it had been just the two of you, about how she’d catch fireflies just to release them as a child. She had smiled, her eyes looking somewhere beyond your head.
She rarely smiled when she talked about the past.
Cupping your hands, you reach out slowly as not to spook it and capture the blinking bug. A soft glow emits from the cracks between your fingers.
“Nat, you won’t believe—”
A pair of hands around your throat suffocate the words in your mouth.
Your own hands fly to your neck, fingernails clawing for a release. Their painted edges are futile against leather gloves. The firefly flutters past your face, higher and higher towards the glass ceiling. Towards where Nat searches the floors somewhere above you.
Between thrashing and the kicking of your feet, you hear her calling your name.
With every blow you deliver to your attacker’s head, with every crack of your boot against their knees, with every unanswered call, her voice grows more panicked. When was the last time you heard Nat panic?
In the darkness that begins to cloud your vision, the tail of the firefly winks at you, bidding you goodnight.
The throbbing between your eyes wakes you, a groan falling from your lips as you blink against the light of day.
It’s not until you attempt to shut out the light with a hand against your eyes that you fully come to wake. Your wrists, heavy with the weight of metal chains, are pinned behind your back. The bed you lie atop is not your own.
A throat clears from the corner of the room, and when you lift your head towards the source, your heart comes to an abrupt stop in your chest.
“Ah,” he says, closing the open book in his lap. “You are awake. Good morning, daughter.”
If your heart resumes its work inside your ribcage, it’s because it’s been shocked into motion by rage. Decades of pent-up rage. Sharp, whittled rage that had not had a target until now.
“I’m not your daughter,” you spit.
His face reveals nothing. “Forgive me. Even after so many years, I forget you are now the child of Nicholas Fury.”
A disgusted laugh escapes you. “I’m no one’s child. You made sure of that.”
“You forget who has raised you.”
“No.” The chains rattle with the violent shaking of your head. “No, never. How could I forget who raised me? What you raised me to be?”
He crosses the room in seconds. The decades have not made him any less deadly.
When his fist connects with your cheek, you bite back a yelp. The taste of blood on your tongue does little to remind you that you are no longer a child in your father’s—in Ikanov’s—home.
His hands are cold as they squeeze your neck.
“I raised you,” he relaxes his fingers, “to run the Ferma beside me. To be an equal. My equal. And you threw it away, ran away from home like a scared little child, and for what? That eyesore Tony Stark builds in New York?”
“The farm is no home,” you croak, skin burning with indignation. Home is auburn. It’s strawberry fields and shared looks and a soft touch. “It will never be home again.”
“Yes.” The only sign of his anger is the violence; nothing has changed. “You made sure of that, didn’t you, daughter? Now, I will make sure you have no place to call home.”
Not even his brows furrow with the effort of choking the consciousness from you.
The light above your head blinks.
It reminds you of the firefly, of Natasha and the way she would seem to lose herself in recalling how it felt to have the power to trap the luminescent little bugs between her fingers and then make the decision to let them go.
“You need a new bulb.”
Your first language feels foreign on your tongue. Decades of disuse had dulled the sharp edges of the syllables, made clumsy your consonants. Years of only the best private schools and tutors, and you hardly spoke the language anymore.
Years ago, Natasha had hidden a smile behind her scarf in Belarus when first hearing you speak your mother tongue.
“What?” you had snipped at her, embarrassed to use the language in front of another native speaker.
“Nothing,” she had said, neutralizing her face in an instant. It bothered you, then, that you could still read a repressed amusement in her eyes. Later, at the safe house, she had sat next to you on the sofa after watching you read with some interest.
“You talk like a diplomat.”
Looking up from your book, you had fixed her with an incredulous stare. Did she truly not know who you were?
“Or the daughter of an Ikanov?”
She was impossible to read. Or at least, she had been then. Maybe she still was. It seemed you were only ever able to decipher the story in her features when Natasha was being a willing narrator.
“A daughter of a king,” she had said in Russian, all quick vowels on a rushed tongue.
“A kingpin is not a king,” you had replied, the harshness of your tone still not hastening the more refined, drawn out syllables of the accent.
She had smirked. The lipstick from the day had long been wiped away, but the color still stained her lips. The red had remained in the creases of the skin. The way her lips had drawn up into her smile, the way it had set your skin aflame, had infuriated you.
“But still,” she’d gestured to you, perfectly postured against the high back of the couch, “a printsessa.”
And even after the contempt for Natasha’s lips had faded into something more like longing, the epithet had remained.
It followed you as your upbringing had, as unshakable as the hand you held your gun in, aiming the way Grigoriy had taught you. Back straight, both eyes open. Steady on inhale, finger the trigger on exhale.
“I am sorry for the disappointment,” he said from the lone chair in the corner of the room. “The business is not so prosperous. Not much money to be made when there is no land to grow the product, yes? This estate is the best father can manage.”
“Would be cozier if you’d remove my restraints.”
“Do not be so petulant,” he chides. “I did not raise you to complain. This is the American way of life rubbing off on you.”
“I’ve been chained to a bed for three days.”
He ignores you. “I should have never let you study there. That is when you turned against me.”
“Columbia had nothing to do with me running away. That was all you.”
“I save you from the orphanage. You want for nothing—the best schools, the best clothes, the best trainings. You had a pony, devochka.”
“You put me in the orphanage,” you spit. “Forgive me for being ungrateful that you saved me from it.”
“You are not angry with me, girl. You are angry with them—a mother and a father who valued the drug more than their child.”
The thin band of patience—the one you had always been taught to stretch from ear-to-ear around your father, to save face and tie down your pain—snaps at the mention of your parents.
“I am nothing but angry with you,” you seethe. “You have imprisoned me my entire life. I am not your daughter—I am your prisoner, and you have taken me from the only family—”
“You are my daughter!” He yells, and you still. Never have you heard Grigoriy Ikanov raise his voice. He did not react, not even when taking a life, and certainly not when speaking to you. Every inch of your body chills as if your blood has been replaced with the ice in his eyes. “And you will return home with me!”
There is a threat in his promise that sends your head swimming.
Not another word falls from your lips. You are the obedient daughter, the quiet child who speaks Russian in drawn out syllables and low vowels, once more. A born-diplomat.
When you fall asleep, your wrists sore at your back, you dream of hair as red as the poppy fields that you burn.
When you wake, it’s not to the sound of pages of a novel turning.
For the first time in days, Ikanov’s face is not the first thing you see when lifting your head. Instead, you are greeted by an empty armchair and the sound of helicopter blades overhead.
The curtains at the window are drawn, blocking your view of whatever is happening outside. You’re not even certain of what exists outside of these four walls and the sole exit-free bathroom you’ve been confined to over the last four days.
Perhaps he was moving you, somewhere far away from Havana. Somewhere they’d never find you. Home, he’d said. You will return home.
Truthfully, for all you know, Havana could already be hundreds of miles away. Natasha and the others could be hundreds of miles away.
With the threat that’d been leveled, maybe that was for the better.
The helicopter seems to fly closer. Somewhere in the distance, maybe twenty or thirty feet to the west, there’s the squealing of tires. Heavy—armored?—doors slam shut. Subdued shouting, like orders being given, cut through the air.
Something was happening just beyond those curtains, and whatever it was, you were chained to endure it. A prisoner to a fate you’d spent the better half of your life trying to escape.
A door beyond your four-walled cell creaks open. The open sores at your wrists scream in response.
Your heart stutters in your chest.
“Do you think she’s here?”
“Rostova wasn’t lying.”
Your voice—once all carefully drawn out, proper sounds—is rough and clumsy when you call out for her. “Natasha?”
Silent footsteps give way into a hurried pace, the door swinging open on its hinges to reveal two familiar faces at the threshold. They both wear new worry lines just above their brows. The newest wrinkle on Sam’s forehead matches the placement of an open cut on your face.
Natasha kneels at your bedside, and you’re nearly intoxicated by the smell of her shampoo. Strawberries.
“Sam,” she calls out, voice even despite the urgency that rounds out her eyes. “Chains.”
When the metal clamps around your wrists are freed, falling to the ground with a heavy clink, you don’t move. “Natasha?” you call again, uncertain if this is yet another dream.
She helps you up, mindful of the stiffness in your arms. You notice how she lingers on the bleeding, raw skin of your wrists before meeting your eyes again.
“Hey,” she greets you, voice soft. Soft like when she talks about Ohio.
She doesn’t look past your head.
“How did you—?” You blink, looking from concerned green eyes to concerned brown eyes. “Where’s Ikanov?”
“In custody. At the embassy with Steve,” she says, ghost of a smile on her lips. You’ve never wished so badly to be haunted. “Whose Russian actually sounds a lot like yours.”
You might laugh if your mind wasn’t racing.
“Rostova?” you ask suddenly, remembering the name she’d spoken earlier. “Oksana Rostova?”
Sam nods, looking between the two of you. “You know her?”
“My father—Ikanov,” you correct, “did dealings with her. Years ago. Before she was elected to the Assembly.”
“Not a member of the Assembly anymore,” Sam explains. “Got a cushy gig at the State Department.”
In response to your eyes widening, Sam adds, “401k, pension, and access to the Avengers’ compound.”
I will make sure you have no place to call home.
Your breath catches in your throat. “What happened?”
Natasha’s hand is reassuring atop your own, her thumb careful to avoid the tender skin below your palm.
“Not much. Rostova folded last night. Told Ross everything.” When you raise a surprised brow, she explains, “Guess Ikanov doesn’t have the capital to purchase loyalty these days.”
You nod slowly, taking the information in. “He said he wanted me to come home.”
Green eyes roam your face for a moment. You can’t read them.
“I know,” she says finally. Gently, she pulls your arm over her shoulder, helping you to your feet. Sam comes to support your other side. “Let’s get you home, okay?”
Home. New York. The room down the hall from Natasha’s.
You allow them to lead you out of the room, the ceiling light winking all the while.
“Go on,” you tell her, catching her eye from the other end of the couch as you set your book aside.
Natasha had been watching you scan each worn page, an amused gleam alighting her eyes.
She hadn’t left you alone in the week that you’d been home. The first two nights after you’d been cleared by medical, she’d stood in your doorway, watching with that guarded look on her face as you’d struggled to apply fresh gauze to the wound across your cheek
Finally, she’d dropped the veil. “Here, let me,” she had said, a softness muting the emerald of her eyes to a jade green. She was silent as she tore a strip, placing it gently over the angry, swollen skin.
“Thank you. I couldn’t get it to stick.”
She’d smiled, smoothing over the material with the flat of her thumb. “Well, you’re used to having servants to do that sort of thing. It’s the least I could do.”
She was so close that you could see every healed-over scar that dimpled and dotted her face. It took all you had to resist from leaning forward, closing the gap, and kissing all that teasing straight from her tongue.
“Shut up,” you’d said instead.
Natasha had shown up at your door every night after that to apply fresh gauze and bandages.
Every day, she’d find you in the common area curled up with a book. She rarely asked questions, and she always had reading material of her own with her—an ever-changing rotation of manila files.
She was subtle. Her eyes would wander in your direction infrequently, an unspoken spark of pleasure in them as they’d pass you over. But you knew her well enough to know that if Natasha Romanoff didn’t want you to know she was watching you, you’d never feel her gaze upon you.
Subtle was her intention.
“Go ahead.” You let your blanket fall loosely around your shoulders, turning to face her. “I know you’ve been dying to say it.”
She blinks almost innocently at you. “Say what?”
“Something about the way I’m sitting.”
Her face changes in an instant. Truthfully, it’s a fascinating thing to watch. Natasha wore expressions like masks, picking and choosing what to display at a moment’s notice. It was rare that she decided to wear no face covering at all.
Your heart jumpstarts at the sight of her, features relaxed. Unguarded. Vulnerable, a subtle shade of pink tinting her cheeks.
She’s beautiful. She’s always beautiful, but like this, she’s beautiful in the way that makes your heart ache.
“I’m just amazed,” she says, and you don’t miss the note of sincerity in her tone. “You spent a week lying down chained to a bed and come home to sit on the couch like the Queen of England. Really, it’s amazing.”
“It’s not my fault that you slouch.”
She sits up a bit straighter. “I don’t slouch.”
“You do,” you grin. “But I don’t fault you for it.”
“Thanks for that.” She relaxes again, moving in a bit closer. “Really kind of you, considering I didn’t exactly have a posture tutor growing up.”
“An etiquette tutor,” you correct her.
A soft smile graces her lips as she examines the throw pillow that divides you. The silence is comfortable.
“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she begins slowly, studying you beneath dark lashes, “if you wanted me to quit with the whole ‘printsessa’ thing. Is it too much?”
It surprises you how quickly you answer. “No–no, it’s not too much.”
“Are you sure?”
You nod, fingers fiddling with the frayed ends of the blanket. “You know, I used to hate it when you called me that.”
The green of her eyes gleam as you laugh. “But now, I kind of like it.”
I fell in love with you, you want to say. “It started to feel less like an insult,” you explain instead.
“It never was.”
You arch an eyebrow in her direction.
“I knew you were Ikanov’s daughter,” she admits, “in Belarus. I’ve known since Fury signed the papers on your orders.”
“And I knew what that meant. Who you could be. Being raised by a man like that, no one would’ve been surprised if you’d turned out to be a monster. I wanted to see for myself.”
“And what did you see?”
“That you’re everything and nothing like I thought you’d be. Proper and poised. Your Russian is perfect if not formal—a sign of good tutors and an expensive education. Capable, raised to operate a multi-billion dollar drug enterprise before you’d learned to ride a bike. Surprisingly unguarded and easy to read. A sense of humor. Deeply loyal.”
“You got all of that from three days in Belarus?”
The corner of her mouth slides upwards. “Like I said: easy to read.”
When you return the smile, her eyes flicker to your lips for a moment. There’s something in them, when they finally meet your gaze again, that you can’t quite place. There’s a new shade of green in her irises.
“I can never tell what you’re thinking.”
“I could tell you, if it helps.”
She leans forward, and it’s so subtle you almost don’t notice it. But nothing is truly subtle with Natasha.
“What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking,” she begins, her voice an octave deeper. Somehow, it’s even sweeter than the voice she whispers in your dreams. “That I’ve wanted to kiss you since Belarus, and it’d be a real shame to not follow through now.”
“That would be a shame.”
They’re a catalyst, those words.
Natasha leans forward, and you meet her in the middle. Her lips are soft and warm against yours, her hands gentle in cupping the sides of your face. The pad of her thumb runs a line along the gauze she placed across your cheek last night.
Soft, auburn hair weaves between your fingers.
When she pulls away and your eyes flutter open, you realize that in your dreams, you’d never imagined the aftermath of this moment.
Natasha Romanoff has never looked so beautiful. Green eyes are half-lidded, irises brimming with unadulterated affection. Her lips, slightly swollen and red, are drawn back to reveal a smile—her smile. She wears no mask.
It is as if she’s cupped her hands around your face and, in capturing you between her fingers, has set herself free.
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#veterans may know this but I at one point had a WIP reader insert x gaster fic #which I of course abandoned and it never got remotely near romance #bc I’m paranoid and always need to over justify any inserts value in a fictional characters life to justify romance #so it’s like chapters and chapters and chapters of nothing #ANYWAY. I at one point was rewriting it and I just found ch1 of the rewrite in the docs #(the only chapter I finished rewriting mind you) #and one it’s actually very good #I would’ve done the numbers in the 2016 ao3 reader insert undertale community #two I made the insert a philosophy major before I knew or cared about philosophy in a meaningful way #and guess what I am now :O one of those