szaen

It was about time. Your boss announced that you'd been promoted and to say that you were happy was an understatement.

Eleven months — day by day, nine to five, even sometimes on Saturday mornings — you'd given work your all and you'd finally been compensated for your hard work but at the cost of what?

Your family. Your happiness. Your wife.

It was 9:39pm as you'd been driving home after getting a couple of drink with Kate and Yelena to celebrate, although you made sure not to drink enough to get drunk.

Once you stepped inside your and your family's home, you were greeted with a complete silence. It wasn't exactly surprising since it was past the twins' bedtime by now.

Walking in further, the sound of water flushing from the kitchen's sink could be heard. You'd gotten rid of your coat and shoes, knowing that your wife didn't like it when anyone went further inside the house with shoes from the outside on.

There she was, your beautiful auburn haired woman.

Even though, her back was facing you, you still thought she was the most beauteous human being on this earth. You walked up behind her, arms around her waist as you placed a kiss on her neck.

“Hello, darling.” you greeted, placing kisses on her shoulder too. “Missed you.”

She didn't answer and you didn't particularly pay attention at the moment but when you leaned in to kiss her cheek, she stepped away from your embrace to go dry her hands.

That's when you started noticing that something was off—because Wanda doesn't ignore you.

Well, she certainly has given you the silent treatment before but at least, you knew what you'd done. Although, you'd just gotten back home from work, what could you have possibly done wrong?

You decided not to ask and instead, “Long day?”

“If by long day you mean me picking up the boys from school, making lunch, working from home, and then cooking a very nice dinner that I had expected to share with my wife AND our kids but only for said wife to text me from her colleague's phone, saying that she'll be  getting drinks instead of coming home to her family? Yes, my love, it was a very long day.”

You can hear the harshness, next up, the disappointment, then the sarcasm in her tone very clearly and your entire being was immediately filled with culpability. She wasn't even looking at you. Her back was still what faced you.

“Wanda, baby, I'm really—”

“Save it. I don't want to hear it.”

“But I assure you that—”

She finally turns to look at you and you should be glad that she was finally visually acknowledging you but no, you're not. Not when she's looking at you like this, not when there's not even a smile on her face and the look in her eyes is not the usual happy, loving one but replaced by a hard, angry look  instead. “I told you, I don't want to hear it.”

You shut up. What else can you do? You don't wish to anger her further, anyway.

“I never once stopped you from doing what you wanted, because that's not how marriage works.” She says. “Marriage isn't about control or dominance but commitment, trust, love, care, honesty,  communication. And I'm not saying that you have failed at being or doing any of those things because you have, God, you have! Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, wearing this ring.”

She gestured at her left hand before keeping up on her speech.

“But do you know what you've been lacking?” you don't answer and let her do it instead because you're not sure if you're allowed to speak yet. “Presence. You're barely around, Y/N.”

For the first time tonight, she speaks your name and your heart simply shatters at her tone—it's not harsh or sarcastic anymore, even tho the disappointment remains—but it's sorrowful, broken.

And you're hit with a wave of remorse.

“I can handle you missing out of a date night or- or even an anniversary but—”

Shit.

Wanda's words drown to the back of your head as your stupid mind reminds you now instead of earlier. Tommy's big soccer game day was today and you'd fucking forgotten about it.

“Darling, please..” you try to step closer.

“No. No. You're not doing that. You're not going to apologize to me but to your son. You did him wrong, not me.” She tells you. “Do you know how upset he was? Thank God Pietro was there otherwise, he probably would've not played at all.”

“You know I didn't mean to forget about it—”

“But do I?” she asks you. “Because I'm not really sure I do.”

“It was a really long day, okay? It all went by so fast and my phone was off. I truly didn't mean to miss it, baby.”

She scoffs and throws the kitchen cloth she used to wipe her hands dry on the counter.

“If you're able to forget about your own son's game day, I wonder why you can't forget—even just for one day—about your job.”

You shake your head, “Sweetheart, you know it's not like that..”

“Don't bother, I know the answer.” She quips as she ignores your words. The Sokovian steps closer to you, and in any other circumstances, you would've been happily reaching out for her but you can't. “Because that's all you care about. In the morning, at night. You even forget to eat just because you're consumed by your damned job!”

“I'm doing it for us, you know this.” You state, poorly attempting to defend yourself and your actions. “So we can secure our backs, our children's backs.”

“Yes, but at the cost of what, huh? Said children. Me.”

“Wanda—”

“I want a divorce.”

Everything stilled as she uttered those words. Those dreadful, alarming words that made your heart sink within your lungs. It's only then, as she gestures to it, that you notice the piece of envelope by the kitchen table. It was as white as the marble table, hence why you had missed it.

For a moment, you felt as if your ears had failed you, as if you'd made that up and you found yourself hoping that indeed, for a second, you'd gone crazy and made all of that up.

But by the look in her eyes, that determined intonation of hers, you knew you were fucked.

Your first instinct is to utter a small, nervous laugh, “You c— You can't mean that, love. You don't mean that.”

“Yes. I can and I do.” She tells you as you feel the panic rise within you.

This can't be happening, you think to yourself, it must be a fucking fucked up nightmare.

“Wait, Wanda, wait, wait, just wait a second, baby, ee have to talk about this. Y-You can't just come up with this decision— I-I mean, think about everything we built together! Think about our boys!”

“That is exactly what I am doing, Y/N. You should've thought about them before you started prioritizing your job over them. Over us.” 

You felt a pit in your stomach at her words. She was right. You should've thought about the kind of impact working day and night would have on your family. But you hadn't and it was too late now.

I mean, how could you when you were simply doing what you thought was best for them. You didn't want Tommy and Billy to grow up like you. You wanted them to never have to worry about money because that was their parents' role and not theirs. You didn't want them to stress or worry about such things until they were old enough and/or parents themselves. You would give them the world if you could — that's how much you loved them.

And Wanda loved that about you.

But when it feels like loosing you in the process, she can't let herself bear it.

“You might as well marry your job now, since you love it so much to the point you spend the majority of your time working.”

Not even a second after she was done speaking, you'd dropped to your knees, your arms encircled her waist as your forehead rested against her stomach.

“You don't have to do this. Please don't do this, my love.” You hadn't even realized it but you had started crying by now. “Please, don't leave me. I can't do this without you, please. I love you, Wanda, I love you.”

The ginger didn't answer, she didn't move — not yet at least. As much as she was upset with you, it was challenging to see you cry like this, on your knees for her, without comforting you. But she had to. When she married you, she didn't sign up for piece of attention. Much less when you both decided to become parents — she wasn't going to let the kids see you be slowly pulled away from them because of your determination.

“I love you too, Y/N.” she tells you gently although, it's not as endearing as usual and you know that she's not saying this because she's forgiven you. “But it's not only you and I anymore. As I told you before, I would've handled it all if it was on me — buf you've been neglecting our children and I cannot handle it. Which is why I'm doing this.”

You look up at her, eyes already puffy and red, full of tears as you sniffle. “Just— please, let us talk about it, hm? Please, my love, please.”

She didn't look at you as she spoke, “We already did talk about it, Y/N. My decision is final. You'll have to give my lawyer an answer within the next 21 days. If not, I think you know what happens.”

Wanda removed your arms from around her so she could step out of your embrace and then left the kitchen, leaving you to drown in your sorrows on your own.

You start to think about everything. The path it took to loose the love of your life and your children. Because, no, it wasn't only about dinner or Tommy's game day you'd missed but it has been a continuous pattern : arriving late during parent-teacher meetings, missing some of Billy's karate practice because he wanted you to see how much he'd improved, or that time during the boys' birthday party you were supposed to go pick up the cake but you'd been called in to work due to an emergency instead and on top of that, you'd forgotten to warn Wanda about it. They waited a full hour until she'd called you. That evening, there was a huge argument and you'd slept in the boys' bedroom instead. The list is probably fuller.

.   .   .  .  .

You never would've imagined that this could've ever happened to you.

You always believed that Wanda and you were meant to last together until death does you both apart — as your vows sermonized. But, here you were.

It has been eleven days—a week and four days—since that teary evening. And your mind was only filled with the thoughts of those cursed divorce papers. Day and night, you dreaded the fact that clock kept ticking, time wasn't going to slow down for you, and soon enough, you'd have to agree and officially start the divorce process.

In those eleven days, not once have you slept by Wanda's side nor had she spoken to you.

Billy and Tommy started to notice that their moms weren't being their usual selves—clingy, kissing one another, or even teasing one another—Billy had asked you “Is Mamma upset with you?” and Tommy giggled it off, saying that his brother shouldn't worry because Mommy always makes Mama angry but that everything would be alright soon.

But oh wrong were they.

At that, you couldn't help yourself but started tearing up.

You had excused yourself and went to the bathroom to cry. Of course, you had to muffle it. They couldn't know that something was wrong. They couldn't hear you cry or they would start asking questions and you don't want to lie to them.

Nothing was ever going to be okay again, not unless you tried one last time to fix your mess.

You'd always been compentitive—both Wanda and you—to the point where, once, everything had been a competition and even now, you couldn't let Wanda win this. No. You couldn't let her go that easily.

So that was it. One last fight.

You had been sitting in your car for fifteen minutes now, revising your words carefully in your head. You weren't exactly in a position where you could ask for conditions but after a nice chat with your lawyer, you discovered that you had the rights. Even it sounded selfish, you would still use it because you don't give up easily. No, you're not a coward.

Not when it concerns her, at least.

Entering what would probably not be your home anymore, you carefully closed the door behind you and stepped inside. The bedroom was bathed in a soft glow from the bedside's lamp. Wanda was seated on the bed as she read a book, hair loose, glasses and a red sweater on. She seemed relaxed and you almost gave up and left because you didn't want to disturb her, but you didn't. You couldn't. If disturbing her meant repatching your marriage back together then so be it.

“Can we talk?”

She deliberately flipped the page of her book, not even sparing you a glance as she replied — her tone calm but distant, “I don't recall having anything to say to you.”

“No, probably not.” you agree before continuing. “Just as you haven't for the last eleven days. But about that, I think you will.”

You knew you were treading on eggshells from the glare she gave you  but she didn't say anything. Instead, her gaze traveled to the envelope you held between your right hand's fingers. She immediately recognized it. “I agree to the divorce.”

“It was about time.”

“Only after two months.” You continue and notice her gaze faltering oh so slightly. “Allow me two more months to be with you and our kids, after that, I promise to let you go without any hesitation.” if you still haven't changed your mind, is what you don't add.

“Please.” You pursue when she doesn't answer. You know where to press to get things to go your way. You know she still loves you and you know that deep down, even if she'll never admit it out loud, she wants you to fight for her, for the kids. “I love you, Wanda. I will never stop loving you. But you can't expect me to just let you go like this, not when I am not even prepared. So, please, this will be the last thing I ever request from you. Two months, and then you're free.”

She exhales but eventually nods reluctantly. “Fine. As if it would change anything — whatever.”

Her words hurt but you deserved them because you had been the one to hurt her first, and she's only returning the equivalent.

That night—after each and everyone's night routine—instead of going taking the couch or the guest bedroom, you went back to sleep in your shared bedroom, spooning her as she unwillingly let you.

.  .  .  .  .

From that moment on, every single minutes counted.

Every single movements, words, actions : it all mattered. You couldn't— no, wouldn't permit yourself to commit any mistakes because you knew it would mean being one step away from Wanda and two steps closer to the divorce.

As of now, spending your time with your family was your top priority. Because they were your happiness, your anchor, the reason why you were fulfilled in this life and if you lost them?

Well, nothing really mattered anymore.

You were, henceforth, on a clock.

During those 60 more days that Wanda approved of, you had to ensure everything would be in your favor in the end. You always did some things that would at least remind the Sokovian of the great times you spent together, of the life you had before everything went downhill.

First of, you took two months off work so you could be home 24/7. You decided to improve your cooking skills so you could make lunch and dinner for them. Obviously, the boys were the only one delighted by the meals as Wanda would either say that she wasn't hungry or that she had already eaten. That didn't stop you from giving up, anyway.

You continually cuddled her at night until the both of you fell asleep, regardless of the fact that she remained with her back facing you.

You'd still say wish her good night and let her know that you loved her albeit despite that she wouldn't answer.

Whenever the morning rolled by, you weren't by her side — not because you'd already left for the office but because you were getting the boys up and ready for school. You'd make breakfast for her and leave it on the table and when you returned from dropping off the boys, you'd find it still on the table, untouched.

She was both distant and quiet. Whenever you'd try to have a conversation with her, she'd always respond drily or not at all.

It has been going on like this for the first three weeks and it was really hard to handle. You didn't like the fact she was so close yet so far away from you.

.  .  .  .  .

“Guess what, little gremlins?” you exclaimed as you crouched down in front of your sons. They began to excitedly question you, demanding that you tell them what was going on.”

“I got us tickets for the zoo.”

Billy squealed and his brother followed. The said zoo had recently opened and they'd both been dying to go there for a while now but due to the lack of time you, couldn't and they didn't want to go without neither Wanda or you.

So now sounded like the perfect time.

It wasn just a simple zoo—it had an aquarium and some amusement park-like rides. Also, some classmates of theirs had been bragging about the hotdogs they served there.

First of, Wanda said that she couldn't come because she had some things to do with Pietro but then Billy started crying because of it. You tried to persuade him that if Mama was busy this time then you could still go a second time but when he'd yelled back at her, “No, I don't want next time. I want us all together now! We're barely all together. Why can't you both be like Morgan's parents.”

You felt Wanda's cold gaze and you brain kept mocking you, telling you that you deserved just that. Because it was your fault if you couldn't be like Morgan's parents or Nate's.

Nonetheless, she ended up cancelling her plans with her twin, which eventually led Billy calm down.

The entire drive there, your heart was thudding in your chest. Neither of you spoke, aside from your sons in the back seat. You desperately wanted to apologize but it wouldn't make a difference — if anything, it would just upset the auburn haired woman more.

That remorseful feeling you had during the drive disappeared the moment you heard the enthusiastic yells of the twins. They got to see real life wild animals for the first time in their six years of existence and it was timeless.

You'd gotten cotton candy first—they even got to choose which color they wanted—then, went on an educational tour. Afterwards, you did the rides.

After visiting the aquarium and getting the infamous hotdogs, which were indeed delicious, a photographer proposed to take a picture of you. You'd already agreed—Tommy and Billy too—before even asking Wanda if she was comfortable with it.

When you have her an apologetic look, she simply rolled her eyes and muttered a “Whatever.” then went to pose where the boys gestured to—in front of the giang water fountain—she was only doing this for the boys.

“What a beautiful family we have here.” An old passing by lady said, making you smile and thanked her.

Even though, now, you only had about a month left, you wished the four would remain just that — a happy, beautiful family.

.  .  .  .  .

That evening, you'd been the one to take care of the twins and get them to bed. It had been a long, eventful day and they were surely very tired. You marched inside the boys' room and first off went to Billy's bed since Tommy was still using the restroom.

“Hey, B. Ready for bed?”

“I don't know,” He counts “I think I would prefer watching cartoons right now.”

You let out a chuckle, “You would, wouldn't you? Well, I also know better. By the time you lay down, you'll be out like a light.”

“That's because I have amazing dreams awaiting for me. I can't be up too long or the night will pass.”

You laughed at his antics. He always has had a wild imagination, and who could blame him? That's a mindset for a six year old.

“About earlier, you shouldn't have gotten upset at Mama like this. You know she loves you and cares for you.”

“I do and I'm sorry.”

“You should be mad at me, Billy Bear. She's the one who's home with you and your brother all the time, not me. She's the one who constantly looks after you and you shouldn't hurt her like that, do you understand?”

“Yes, Mommy.”

“Good. You can say sorry to her tomorrow, yeah? I love you.”

As you predicted, within the next upcoming minutes, he falls asleep and you're not surprised by that.

Tommy exits the bathroom, his feet dragging him over to his bed. You follow suit, a gentle smile in your lips.

Tommy slides inside the sheets, and you expect the tucking in to go even smoother, if not quicker, than Billy's.

“Mommy, what's divroce?”

However, this question wasn't what you expected. At least not from your six years old son, at the crack of night. Your movements falter slightly at this interrogation and before too much time can go by and he starts to call for you again, your hands go back into motion — straightening the sheets as you speak.

“Where did you heard that from?” You gently ask him then proceed to correct him. “And it's a di-vor-ce, darling, not divroce.”

“Uncle Pietro. I heard him speak about it with i-don't-know-who on the phone when he picked us up from school the other day. Then I asked him about it and he said that it's when two married people get unmarried.”

Tommy is smart. Everyone knows it. And the fact that he was able to note all of that and say it to you again is shocking and not, at the same time.

“Are you and Mommy getting a divorce?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. Is it really that obvious that things aren't going well in your marriage anymore?

You can't lie to him, but you can't tell him the truth because it is all so complicated. The tears gather in your eyes—both from his words and because there's your auburn haired soon-to-be ex-wife in the back of your mind.

“I... want to be honest with you, Tommy.” You utter softly. “I really love your mom, with my whole heart. And sometimes, adults have disagreements, just like you do with Billy when he takes your toys without asking you first.”

“And is that what's happening with Mama?”

The corner of your lip shifts slightly, a waterly chuckle escaping your throat. “A bit, yes.” It's more than that — much more than that. But he's too young to understand, too sweet to be hit with reality of things just yet. “You should know that Mama loves you both very much and..every decision she'll ever take will always be for your you and your brother's well-being. I don't know for certain yet that we will proceed with a divorce so i can't give you an answer. But if it were to happen, I need you, along with your brother, to be strong and look after your mom for me. Could you do that?”

“Yes, Mommy. But I don't want you to leave us.”

“I know that, sweetheart. And I don't want to leave you either. But sometimes, things like that happen and there's nothing any of us can do.”

Your heart's hurting. He doesn't deserve this, Billy doesn't deserve this and much less, Wanda. You wish you could take it all back but it's only what it is — a wish.

Tears slid down your cheeks and Tommy brings his palm up, guiding it down your skin. “No tears, Mommy. I don't want you to cry.”

“Im sorry, my love.” You sniffle, wipping the tears away from your other cheek. You don't know if it's the sight of him that makes you still have a smile on your face or if it's just a natural reaction — either way, you're smiling while crying at the same time. “It's just... you're already so grown.”

Tommy grins, pleased by that. He doesn't want to stay little forever, obviously. Not that he could. “I love you, Mommy.”

You hug him and tell him you love him too. As slumber lulls him, you remain laying by his side, hugging him as hot tears silently slide down your cheeks. All you can do is stay here, wallow in on your sadness until you could calm down.

You know that they don't deserve to be in this situation. You know you don't deserve them. You know that if you could, you would take it all back and make things better. What you don't know is that your wife is right out of the door, listening to this conversation from the very beginning, and she just hates the way you're so good with words.

She hates the fact that even when she wants to despise you, you just manage to make her love you, even unknowingly. So when you step inside the bedroom, thirty minutes later after composing yourself, she's standing there, looking at you. Her green orbs filled with a look that crosses confusion between love and hate.

“You're enjoying this, aren't you? Making me want you even when you don't deserve it.” Her speech doesn't falter at the look of confusion on your face. “Tell me.”

You try to explain to her that you don't understand what she meant, but she doesn't let you. She's too angry for that. She's too sad for that. She's too disappointed for that. She's too in love for that. Somewhere along the line, you're close — closer than she's allowed you to be in weeks and it almost makes you cry. You missed her. All of her. And she missed you too.

She missed so much that even if you're both not on so great terms, even if you don't deserve it — she allows you to touch her. Her lips meet yours and it's not slow and soft, no—It's rushed. messy.

Somewhere along the way, your both on the bed. She's laying on her back while you're in between her legs. Your hands are working down past the hem of her sleep shorts, panties and landing right on her throbbing cunt. She's wet. She's been wanting this and you can't blame her. You've been wanting to touch her for a while and half of you feels glad that she's permitting this but the other half isn't. Because you don't want her to be angry at you. Because you know she's rushing this because she can't stand you. Because you wish you could make love to her and not fuck her.

Her sounds shifts between breathy gasps and whines. She's mostly trying to keep quiet for the kids. You fingers curls inside her and her back arches off the bed. Your busy your lips at her neck, marking her skin because it will probably be the last time this ever happens. Because soon, you'll never get to have her like this.

You mutter apologies, despite yourself, while pleasing her. Your mouth makes it way further down to her chest, latching on one nipple while rolling the other one in between the fingers of your unoccupied hand. Her fingernails dig into your shoulders as she moans. You switch and give her other nipple the same attention by your mouth. If it's for her, you can multitask.

After a while, she comes at your hand, chest heaving, sweat all over her forehead. She's beautiful every day but even more like this — cheeks flushed, lips parted as melodic moans escape them. You almost cry at it. But no, tonight was about her and only her.

The next day, you wake up alone in bed. Not that you expected her to be there cuddled in your arms, but it still hurt a little.

You make your way out of your shared bedroom and get the boys up and ready for school. Once they finish eating breakfast, the three of you are out and about for drop off.

Once you drop Tommy and Billy off at school, you drive your way back home.

Everything in the living room looks the same. You don't question it. 'Maybe she's going to spend the entire day out to avoid me, you think to yourself. Because, yes, when you're about to divorce, you don't let your soon-to-be ex wife fuck you. But you don't blame Wanda. You're thankful that she allowed you this one last time. What surprises you is the missing covered breakfast plate on the dining table. Wanda never ate nor touched any of the meals you've cooked ever since the divorce announcement.

Suddenly, a familiar voice resonates from behind you. “What's got you frozen over there?”

Your head whip in the voice's direction and you're met with the sight of Wanda. She's dressed in a sportswear, her reddish-brown curls are pulled in a messy bun and she's munching on the breakfast you kept aside for her.

Your lips part very slightly. Her chest area and neck area looks a bit damp — even after a run (which is obvious she went for) you can't help but think she's beautiful like this. You force yourself to snap out of it. She's talking to you for God's sake, for the first time in weeks, (and it doesn't concern the twins) she's initiating a talk. You clear your throat. “Uh, nothing, I was just... Nevermind. I didn't know you were out.”

Well, technically you did. But you couldn't exactly say "you didn't tell me you were going out." as if everything was still the same.

“I sent you a text. But it seems you didn't check your phone.”

You mentally curse yourself at her response. Of course, that damned device again. You can't feel it in your pockets, as a matter of fact, you know you didn't even have it in the car with you.

“Well, uhm, I didn't check it when I woke up..”

Your wife shrugs, not that she expected anything else. You never check your phone.

“I should've. I'm sorry. ” you add but she doesn't say anything. fuck.

Wanda simply goes to seat on the couch. She doesn't seem upset but you can't exactly read her.

“Is...” you begin hesitantly, unsure if making a conversation is a good move now. She spoke first, sure. But what if it should've stopped just at that. Nonetheless, you keep going. “Is it good?”

She sees you gesturing to the plated meal in her hands and she raises a brow, “I'm eating it, no?”

“Yeah.. yeah, you're um— yeah.”

You decide to let her be. Again, the last thing you want it to piss her off when she was finally addressing you more than a single word.

You don't dare mention what happened the night prior. You can't. She'll probably pull her walls back up fully again and that damned divorce would be certain.

. . . . .

For the two remaining weeks, the tension had dimmed.

It wasn't enough to indicate that Wanda had changed her mind but it was progress. Her blank expressions, eye rolls or annoyance at your mère presence seemed to cease. The two of you were talking and sitting all together during meals again even if it got awkward at times, but it was better than the past month and a half. She even let you take her out one night when the twins were over at Pietro's for the weekend. Also, she started facing you in bed again.

But there was just one slip—Wanda didn't mention the divorce papers.

At all.

Not even once in passing, while laying comfortably in her arms or while you brushed your teeths together in the early mornings.

And that was the reason why you couldn't fully relax.

You couldn't allow yourself to let your guard down, to stop worrying just yet because even if she didn't voice it and was seemingly considering you again, it didn't mean you were forgiven. It didn't mean she changed her mind. It didn't mean you wouldn't loose her, still.

So, while doing your best not ruin the good times you're having both as a couple and a family by showcasing your distress, you're slowly, sort of dying inside. Because without your wife, life doesn't make make sense.

Without your family, it's just you, wine and your thoughts.

But at the same time, you force yourself to enjoy it. You tell yourself that maybe—just maybe, it's all going to go away. Maybe it didn't even happen, that it simply was a cruel, regrettable nightmare to make you realize how of a shitty partner and parent you'd been.

However, it's definitely not just going to go away. It all comes crashing down once you allow yourself drown in those short-lived moments of happiness.

The calendar stares back at you — the due date circled in a red marker ink, as if mocking you. You had completely forgotten about . Today was the day you were supposed to let go of Wanda, with no difficulties, as promised.

It was cruel but simply what it was. Your own promise.

It was better to honor your own words, rather than make her have to remind you what you said.

So, you quickly finished cleaning around and began packing your stuff. Maybe she simply didn't bring it up because she doesn't love me anymore. Maybe she simply wanted to allow me— us a good time one last time to remember.

Half of your clothes are neatly packed already. You found yourself looking around what was once your shared safe space with your wife and tears gather in your eyes. You don't want to do this, you don't want things to end up like this but it is what it is. It's not like you didn't fight. You had but it simply wasn't enough to stop the divorce from happening and there was none else to blame.

You pick up the not-yet framed family picture on the shelf. The recent one you took at the zoo. It wasn't the happiest moment you've had but you knew you could take this without Wanda minding.

Your fingers trace her beautiful face as tears threaten to fall. This is certainly not going to do you any good but you know she has a better shot at being happy again, and that comforts you.

Because you'd be content as long as she's happy. Even if you weren't the origin of it.

As you kiss over Tommy and Billy's face, hot tears are streaming down your cheeks. “Mommy's sorry.” you mutter, kissing over their pictured faces over and over. “Mommy's really, really sorry.”

“Who are you talking to?” Your body goes rigid at the familiar tone. She's standing by the doorway, you can tell because your back is facing it and she's a few feet behind you. She wasn't supposed to be home just yet, was she. Fuck, you weren't even supposed to be there anymore. Now it's probably just going to cause another argument.

You take a breath, bringing your palms up to wipe away your tears. You only hope your eyes aren't red or puffy enough for her to notice you've been crying. You don't want her to think you're trying to make her feel sorry for you or pity you for something you're at fault for.

So, you quickly fold the picture and tuck it in the back pocket of your jeans. You nervously wipe your hands down your pants, finally turning to face her.

As predicted, she's standing in the bedroom's doorway, a confused look on her face and a .. flower bouquet in hands.

“I uhm .. I don't know if you recall but.. today's the last day of the two more months you allowed me to spend with you and the boys.. ” you approach delicately, as to not make her think you're trying to make her feel bad about it or something of sort, your voice shaky. “I was thinking I wouldn't let you waste your time by telling me I had to leave and just do it myself. I was just about to finish, if you could just.. allow me a few more minutes to get the rest of my stuff, then I'll lea—”

Wanda's arms fall at her side, the bouquet dropping right beside her feet.

You step forward, picking it up and holding it beside her hand again. “Wanda, your flowers..” you trail off once your eyes meet her again. You understand she'd done this just because she wanted to confirm her doubts. She wanted you closer so she could see your face. You simply looked away again, take a step back with a baby feeling of unease settling in the pit of your stomach.

“They're not mine, Y/N. These are yours.” She tells you, motioning at the bouquet. You blink, lips parting slightly. You don't know what to say, you weren't expecting this. Why would she bring you flowers?

“I.. ”

But you're unable to speak again. She's always been able to take your breath away. In every sense of the word. In any possible situation.

“Were you just going to leave? Without even taking to me first?”

“I.. I thought you'd want me gone by the time you came back, I figured it'd be better..”

“God, Y/N,” she exhales and you hear the shakiness in her voice. “We were finally doing better! We were finally being a family again. You didn't even know what was my final say!”

“You never once mentioned your decision about the divorce, Wanda.” you calmly retort. “I didn't want to assume you had changed your mind.”

“Oh, right, so you preferred assuming I'd want you—the mother of our children—gone just like that as if you were, I don't know, a parasite?”

“No..” a shake of head, a shaky tone. “No, no, it's— it's not like that, Wanda. I just wanted to make things easier for you. It was better than to already assume you'd want me again, since I hurt you a lot and as long as you hadn't said anything, the safest thing to do was this..”

You don't even notice it but tears are in your eyes again. There's a knot in your chest. A mix of feelings — worry, fear, sadness, panic. a rush of panic.

“Y/N, I don't want this divorce anymore..” she finally says, stepping closer.

A rush of relief floods you, but you're not completely out of it. You're tired, very tired. You blink a few times, exhaling, trying to stop what's starting to come.

Wanda immediately wraps her arms around you. You bury your face in her neck, allowing yourself to cry like you haven't been able to in a while. All that repressed pain? You're letting it all out.

“I'm sorry, baby, I'm so sorry.” she tells you, kissing your temple as she cries herself. Wanda doesn't feel at her best right now. She's seen how much of a toll it took on you. She's seen all the effort you made so she could forgive you. She knows you love her and would do anything for her. She just didn't know how bad it was. How broke you felt inside because you'd been a step away from loosing your why.

“No.” You shake your head, lifting your face away from her neck, sniffling. “Don't apologize. I didn't treat you and the boys right. I deserved this. You had to suffer for longer than I have. I'm sorry, Wanda.”

“I promise to do better from now on, ” you tell her again. “I'll spend more time with and the boys. I'll even quit.”

She shakes her own head, wipping your tears away. “You're not gonna do that. You love doing what you do, Y/N. I'm not going to take that away from you, it would be selfish. All I wanted was for you to realize that you also had us.”

“Are you sure? Because I want you to know that this job doesn't matter if I don't have you and the boys by my side—”

The carpet ends.

The noise fades.

You and Maya step into the ballroom and the first thing you see is glitter. Lights, dresses, a sea of power and pressurized fame. It smells like perfume and nerves and the expensive kind of fear.

The lights inside the ballroom are low and golden. Everything is quiet, almost reverent. Tables are set with flickering votives and tucked in name cards. Champagne glints in crystal flutes. You can feel the buzz of money and prestige humming beneath the polished elegance of it all.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She’s looking around at the studio heads brushing shoulders with actors in couture, publicists checking watches and Leonardo DiCaprio, fifteen feet away, already drinking.

She exhales, sharp. “Holy shit.”

You squeeze her hand.

She glances down at you, still in your gown, eyes ringed in shadow, face pale from the stress, and immediately refocuses.

“Hey,” she says softly, leaning in. “You did so good out there.”

You nod, lips twitching. “I need a chair… and maybe a snack”

“Yeah,” she whispers. “I got you.”

Her hand finds the small of your back, warm and steady, guiding you through the rows of tables. She’s still glancing around, a little stunned. Not in a starstruck way, just out of place.

“You okay?” you murmur.

She lets out a dry laugh. “I’ve never been this close to anything like this. I’m usually watching this from my apartment in sweatpants with a box of rice crackers.”

“You belong here.”

She presses her lips together, too emotional to answer.

You grip Maya’s hand tighter. She gives you a squeeze.

“There’s our table,” she murmurs. “Front, dead center like fucking royalty. Matt’s already waving.”

And he is, both arms in the air, champagne in hand like he’s trying to hail a cab in 1975.

You make your way over.

Patty’s already seated, resplendent in gold, glittering with confidence. She stands immediately, grabs you into a hug. “Honey. You look like you floated here on a storm cloud. I love it.”

“You look stunning,” you smiled softly.

“I am stunning,” she says, beaming. “And I’m nominated. I have never felt more emotionally fulfilled.”

Sal’s beside her, grinning. “Witch queen in the house!”

You blink.

“Sal’s high,” Patty explains behind her glass. “Ignore him. He means well.”

“I love you guys,” Sal adds, pointing at you with a breadstick.

You look down at the table ans smile when you see Maya’s name place “look it’s you” you point out and pick it up to save.

“Wait, you’re center?” Sal asks Maya, voice pitched high with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Maya raises a brow. “What, you thought I was gonna be in the back with you and the interns?”

Sal gapes. “You're the head of marketing.”

“And I’m dating the director of the hour,” Maya replies sweetly, her arms snug around you. “Maybe you’ve heard of her.”

Sal sinks into an empty seat with a theatrical groan. “I spent like… so much money to come tonight. I’m in the fucking overflow.”

Maya just smirks. “That sounds like a you problem.”

Matt’s next, standing just off to the side, a little flushed, a little awkward. He’s in a very expensive tux that doesn’t quite sit right.

“You made it!” He says.

You nod. “We did.”

He smiles big. Too big. “No matter what happens tonight, this movie… you, changed the studio.”

You smile thankfully and lean further into Maya.

Matt continues to hover, vibrating with anxiety.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

“Me? Yeah. No. Totally fine.” He fidgets with his cufflinks. “Just… big night.”

You finally sit down, trying not to wince, and Maya instantly crouches next to your chair, brushing the fabric of your gown so it settles right.

“You okay?” she murmurs.

“My joints hurt,” you admit quietly. “And I’m so tired.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Baby.”

She crouches immediately, reaching beneath the table to adjust the hem of your gown, fixing the drape so it doesn’t pull where it hurts. One hand smooths along your calf, her other finding your hand and lacing your fingers together under the tablecloth.

“Better?”

You nod, just barely. You don’t care who’s in the room. Not the press agents, not the stars, not the moguls seated behind you. None of it matters.

You just want your Maya.

Maya exhales, still kneeling beside you. She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

“I’m right here,” she whispers. “You just stay with me, yeah? We’ll get through it. One course, one category at a time.”

She stands slowly and takes her seat beside you, but not with the same poise she had on the carpet. Now she’s quiet. Smaller. She’s still shining, but with a careful kind of glow. The kind of glow of someone that knows they’re not supposed to be here.

She brushes her hand along your thigh, anchoring herself, anchoring you. Because she might be stunned, but you’re the reason she’s here. And she’s not about to forget that now.

The room starts to press in a little.

You’re seated now, dress settled, water glass half full, hands in your lap. Maya’s right beside you, sitting still, but you can feel her vibrating under the table. Her hand’s still resting lightly on your thigh, but her fingers are twitching.

She’s not looking at you, but looking around, scanning the room.

At first you think she’s just clocking the room like always. But then you feel the shift, the tension creeping into her shoulders. Her posture is straightening like she’s performing still, as if the cameras are still on her even though they’re not.

Her voice is quiet, barely a murmur. “Oh my god, that’s Demi Moore.”

You blink. “Where?”

She jerks her chin across the room. “By the ficus. Table with the Saint Laurent clutch. Holy shit.”

You follow her line of sight. You spot the hair, the dress, the cheekbones.

You shrug. “She looks nice.”

“She’s Demi Moore.” Maya hisses. “And Fincher’s behind us. I heard someone say Fincher. What the fuck is happening.”

You glance at her. And suddenly you see that she’s not just overwhelmed, she’s intimidated.

Maya Mason. Top of her field. Marketing savant. Usually the loudest bitch in any room but not here. Not at this table. Not when everyone else seems like they were born on red carpets like this.

And you… you don’t care about any of it. So you move quietly, naturally, like your bones have always known the shape of hers. You shift in your seat and gently climb onto her lap slowly and carefully, the skirt of your gown bunching slightly, and settle there, arms wrapping around her neck.

She freezes.

“Baby oh my god-”

You lean in, whisper against her ear. “Can I have a kiss?”

She stares at you.

You look at her wide eyed and pretty.

Her mouth twitches. “You want to make out with me while Demi Moore is three tables away?”

You nod.

Maya laughs, this stunned, breathless sound that’s half awe, half disbelief. “Jesus Christ, I love you.”

Her hands slide around your waist. Her head tilts. “You really don’t care about any of this, do you?”

You shake your head. “I care about you.”

That undoes her.

She cups your face gently, one gloved thumb brushing your cheek. And then she kisses you soft and deep, but careful. Like she’s trying to anchor herself to the one thing that feels real in the whole damn room.

When she pulls back, your eyes are still closed. Your breath warm against her jaw.

“I needed that,” you murmur.

“I know, baby.” Her hands stay on your waist. “You can stay right here for a few more minutes,” she says softly.

You nod and snuggle in closer.

The room buzzes around you, golden and glittering. But you’re only aware of her heartbeat, steady under your palm.

You barely register Matt sitting up straighter to face you again. “So… how you feeling?”

You blink at him. “Like my spine has collapsed.”

Maya kisses your shoulder. “She’s a trooper.”

Matt nods, doing his best “cool boss” face. “Right, yeah. No, it’s a lot. But you’re… y’know. You’re really doing it. Just… if you do win, obviously there’s no pressure, but like…”

You stare at him.

He trails off.

Maya barks out a laugh.

“Holy shit, are you nervous?” she says, sitting up slightly. “You think she’s not gonna mention you?”

Matt flushes. “I didn’t say that.”

Maya winks. “Babe, he’s spiraling. Should we practice your speech right now? Maybe something like: ‘I’d like to thank Continental Studios. And Matt. Specifically Matt. The best man in horror.’”

Matt groans. “You’re insufferable.”

But before Matt can spiral further, you see them.

Across the room, heading toward your table with purposeful grace is Tilda and Willem.

Your cast.

Your monsters.

Your muses.

Tilda is already extending her arms like you’re her long lost haunted child. Willem has the look of a man who might do a dramatic reading of your screenplay on stage just because he can.

“My darling,” Tilda murmurs as she sweeps you into her arms. “You’re here!”

You let yourself melt into the hug.

Tilda pulls back, takes your face in her hands. “ I’d do anything to work with you again.”

You nod, a little breathless. “Yes please.”

Maya’s standing just behind you, watching the whole thing, one hand over her heart.

The table is buzzing with conversation.

Tilda’s leaned in, gesturing wildly with a flute of champagne. “No, but you remember, when the fog machine broke during that lake scene and Willem just started howling into the mist like a banshee?”

“I became the mist,” Willem says proudly.

You laugh, real and loud, head tilted back.

“And that old cinema in Prague!” Tilda adds. “Where you made us watch that cursed vampire film on actual celluloid like we were in a séance!”

“It was a restored print,” you say, mock defensive.

Maya’s still sitting next to you, one hand resting on your leg under the table, the other wrapped around a glass of very expensive champagne. She’s watching you, listening and nodding when it feels appropriate, but she’s quiet.

You’re talking about Bergman now. Something about Hour of the Wolf. About the pacing. The lens choices. You reference a Romanian horror short from the ‘60s that only exists in two archives.

And Maya’s quiet.

You don’t notice at first. Not really. Until the table laughs at something and you glance over to share the look, and she’s not looking at you. She’s looking down at her drink. Her jaw tight. Her smile frozen in place.

You lean in, soft. “Hey. You okay?”

She nods, too fast. “Yeah, no. Totally.”

You study her. “Maya-”

She cuts you off, gentle but clipped. “You don’t have to worry. You’re in your element. It’s good.”

You blink. “You’re my element too.”

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it and squeezes back. But her eyes are somewhere else. She’s proud. She’s glowing. But maybe, just for this moment, she’s not in it with you.

You lean in. Whisper, “You’re the reason any of them even saw the film.”

She exhales through her nose.

You kiss her temple, quiet. “You’re my favorite part.”

She softens. Just a little. But the moment still lingers, like static.

Tilda’s mid story about some haunted castle Airbnb you all stayed in during the shoot when you shift your body just slightly, tilting toward Maya, hand still wrapped around hers under the table.

You glance up at her, voice soft. “Hey. You should tell them about the press day. The one where you made that festival exec cry.”

Maya blinks. “Wait, really?”

You smile. “You made them beg for our teaser slot.”

Willem perks up. “Now that’s a horror story I’d like to hear.”

Tilda lifts her glass. “To the woman who sold the darkness.”

Maya laughs, really laughs, her shoulders relaxing, eyes sparkling. “Okay, okay, but to be fair, that exec called the movie ‘niche’ and tried to offer us a 10 a.m. slot. I was legally obligated to ruin his day.”

Willem wheezes. “God I love her.”

And suddenly? She’s in. She’s throwing jabs with Willem, trading one liners with Patty, charming the entire table without even trying. She’s funny. Quick. Sharp. And she’s yours.

You sit back, hand resting on her knee, proud.

She catches your look, grins. “You’re staring.”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

She leans in, mock whispering. “Well yeah, look at me.”

The moment’s golden.

Willem just laughs. “Ah, young love.”

Maya’s laughing at something Patty said, something wildly inappropriate about a certain actor’s filler not settling, when she glances past you and does a visible double take.

“…No way.”

You follow her gaze toward the bar.

It’s Sal, his arm thrown around none other than Adam Scott, the two of them already halfway through their drinks and cackling like it’s a reunion special. Sal’s got his jacket half off, leaning into the bar like it’s his home turf. Adam’s gesturing wildly, like he’s telling a story from college and Sal slaps the marble with a wheeze of laughter.

Maya blinks. “Are you kidding me? That man is supposed to be heartbroken he’s in the back.”

Matt cranes his neck. “Is that… oh my god, is that Adam Scott? Didn’t he live on Sal’s couch for like six months?”

Maya shakes her head, amused. “Look at him. Giggling like he didn’t just spend thirty grand to be placed in Siberia. I swear to god, that man is indestructible.”

Then there is a shift, the house lights flicker once, the room quietening just slightly.

And Maya’s attention snaps toward the stage.

It’s starting.

You feel it in her breath before you hear it in the room, that tight inhale, the quick shift of her body beneath you, her arm tightening protectively around your waist. The food is rolled out, the cameras around the stage are turning. Applause builds in waves as the host walks out.

Maya leans in and kisses the back of your neck.

You don’t need to look to know her eyes are wide, heart racing.

She’s here.

You’re both really here.

The lights go down, and the ballroom stills. The opening music hits bright and triumphant, vaguely familiar. There’s a beat of applause, and then the host walks out to the mic, all teeth and sequins.

“Welcome to the Golden Globes! The only awards show where the bar opens before the first award!”

There is polite laughter as a camera pans across the room, you can feel the sweep of the live camera behind you.

Maya sits up straighter.

You? You’re focused on your plate, peeling apart the edges of a warm dinner roll and buttering it like none of this has anything to do with you.

The host grins. “What a night for cinema, huh? So many great films. So many iconic performances. So many bald white men being brave on screen.”

More laughter.

You glance up, amused, and take a bite of bread.

“I mean we had Glenn Close in The Remedy, we had Jodi Foster solving crime in True Detective, we had Tilda Swinton being buried alive in The Witch…”

Your head lifts slightly.

Maya chokes on her champagne.

The camera doesn’t pan to your table thank god, but heads turn, chuckles ripple through the room. Even Matt leans forward in his chair excitedly.

The host smirks.

“From the deeply twisted mind of Y/N Y/L/N, a horror film so unsettling I had to sleep with the lights on. And my husband. And my mom. And a crucifix.”

Laughter.

Maya’s hand slides under the table, clutching your thigh. She leans in, whispering, “Okay, but the press quote potential on that? I’m stealing that.”

You grin, cheeks full of bread. “Please don’t pitch during the Globes.”

Patty’s laughing. Matt’s watching you nervously, like he still doesn’t know whether you’re going to curse him or thank him.

You? You take another bite. Sip your water.

The host moves on. “Let’s get to the part where famous people clap for other famous people. Buckle up, Hollywood.”

The room applauds. The camera pans. The categories begin.

You rest your hand on Maya’s knee under the table.

She’s buzzing.

And this? This is only the beginning.

A few categories go by, Best Actor in a Limited Series, Best Animated Feature, something about Succession. The room claps politely, the speeches are short, the champagne is flowing.

You’re not really listening anymore. Because Maya’s hand is in yours under the table, her fingers warm and fidgety, and you’re tracing slow, lazy circles against her knuckles with your thumb.

“Hey,” she whispers, leaning close.

You glance over. Her eyes are still a little wide with that buzzed, slightly disbelieving energy that hasn’t left her since you asked her to be your plus one.

“You know,” she murmurs, “if someone told me when I started marketing that I’d be on the floor of the Golden Globes in full couture, next to a girl who makes movies about women getting their eyes eaten by crows, I would’ve assumed I was microdosing and misheard.”

You smirk. “You probably were.”

She grins. “That’s not not true.”

The host makes another joke onstage about Jeremy Allen White sweating through his tux, the room chuckles, but Maya’s attention is only half there. Her other hand is now gently stroking the back of yours, her fingertips lightly skimming your palm.

“You okay?” she murmurs. “You’re quiet.”

You nod, nudge your nose against her shoulder, still lazily playing with her fingers. “Just… don’t wanna be looked at.”

Maya softens. You don’t even need to explain. She just leans in, presses a kiss to the top of your head, then pulls your hand into her lap.

“You’re with me,” she says. “They can look all they want.”

You smile softly, feeling a little overwhelmed, and she gives your hand a little squeeze.

Then:

“Oh my god,” she breathes suddenly, eyeing the stage. “Is that… is that THE Rachel Weisz presenting?!”

You glance up just in time to catch Maya’s entire body going rigid. Her voice is a harsh whisper. “Babe. Babe, I need you to look at her. Look at her. The sleeve detail alone!”

You snort, covering your mouth to hide it, and lean back into her with a mischievous little whisper, “is this how I sound when I talk about prosthetic bone work?”

She looks scandalised. “First of all, your bone work is genius. Second of all, shut up, she’s talking.”

“Oh my god,” Maya murmurs again. “She’s wearing Loewe. I knew it. Look at the tailoring. Look at that structure. God, she’s unreal…”

You tilt your head, letting her ramble. It’s cute. For about six seconds.

Then you frown. “Maya.”

She doesn’t look at you, still eyeing the stage. “Mmhmm?”

You pout and tug gently at her hand in your lap. “Stop looking at Rachel Weisz.”

That gets her attention.

Her head snaps to you. “What?”

“Kiss me.”

Maya blinks in confusion then grins, wide and wicked.

“Ohhh,” she teases, leaning in just slightly. “Is someone a little jealous?”

You glare weakly. “I’m serious. I love you. I need attention.”

Maya chuckles, soft and smug, and tips forward to press a kiss to your cheek, then another to your jaw, her lips brushing so lightly they make your whole face warm.

“There,” she whispers. “Better?”

You nod, satisfied.

She reaches up and gently nudges your pout with her thumb. “Love you spooky.”

You smile sweetly. “Love you too.”

Maya’s eyes gleam. “Damn right you do.”

And just like that, you both dissolve into quiet laughter, your shoulders shaking against hers, the glittering industry world still spinning around you like set dressing. But you don’t care, you’re just two weirdos in love, curled around each other like talismans, holding hands like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

You curl into her again, victorious, and maybe still a tiny bit smug as Rachel Weisz finishes her bit on stage and Maya keeps her eyes only on you.

Another envelope is opened. Another round of applause. The night starts to settle into its rhythm of applause, speech, camera pan, refilling the champagne.

You nibble at your second bread roll.

Maya’s doing that thing where she pretends not to be watching you chew but is absolutely watching you chew. Like she can’t believe the woman who made The Witch, the movie that made people faint at Cannes, is currently hoarding carbs like a little Victorian orphan.

“Babe,” she murmurs, “I think you’re just eating out of anxiety.”

You glare. “I think you’re projecting.”

She raises her brows, shrugs, and pours you more water. “Don’t choke when Cate Blanchett walks back by. I can’t give you the Heimlich in this dress.”

You grin behind your hand.

Another round of categories. A few wins for streaming shows. Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series. Best Song from a Film.

You’re clapping politely, sipping your water, starting to feel the edges of overstimulation fray your nerves, but Maya’s hand is still in your lap, grounding you.

One of the presenters walks out and makes a joke that absolutely destroys the room. Something about an iconic meme. A TikTok sound. A viral campaign that everyone in the industry got obsessed with last year.

You frown.

“What?” you whisper to Maya.

She leans in. “That’s that TikTok thing, remember I had to change a campaign around it?”

Matt, two chairs down, gapes. “Wait. You don’t know the towel guy?”

You blink. “Is this a sex thing?”

The whole table erupts in laughter. Even Matt wheezes into his champagne flute.

Maya just beams, smoothing her hand along your thigh, clearly delighted.

“She doesn’t have social media,” she explains proudly. “My baby is from, like, a different time. She just watches old horror movies and lights candles and makes things that ruin people’s sleep.”

Willem wipes his eyes. “God, I love her.”

You’re flushing hard now, ducking your head, but Maya tips your chin up.

“Hey,” she murmurs, all heat and affection. “Don’t be embarrassed. I love that about you.”

You nudge her under the table, but she just kisses your temple and grins like she’s won something.

There’s a lull as the ceremony hits a commercial break. Stage lights dim. Waitstaff refill flutes of champagne and clear untouched starters. Somewhere, a camera operator stumbles and almost takes out a floral centerpiece.

You’re still, too still.

Maya watches your fingers twitch beneath the table, your knee bouncing ever so slightly, eyes fixed on the stage but not seeing it.

“Hey,” she murmurs, pressing her hand against your thigh. “You with me?”

You blink and nod, you’re not convincing anyone.

“C’mon.” Maya’s already standing.

You don’t question it, just slip your hand into hers and follow, weaving between tables and shoulder brushing celebrities until you reach the hallway. A security guard clocks you both and nods, letting Maya guide you toward one of the guest bathrooms without question.

The second you’re inside, under the quiet hum of too bright lights and echoing tile, you break. You grab her wrist, spin her gently, and push her back against the wall of the private dressing area. A breath, shaky in your chest. Then you’re kissing her hard.

Maya gasps, startled, but instantly melting into it. Her hands come up fast, cradling your jaw, her rings cool against your skin. She kisses you back like instinct, like oxygen, her mouth open and hungry, tongue sliding deep and sure as her body presses flush to yours.

You gasp into her mouth. “I needed… I just…”

“I know,” she breathes, kissing you again. “You’re okay. I got you.”

You fist your hands in the fabric of her couture. “Tell me again.”

Maya kisses along your jaw, your neck, her voice low and urgent between each brush of lips. “You’re brilliant. You’re terrifying. You’re the best fucking director in this entire room.”

You whimper.

She pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lips slick, breath ragged. “You don’t need to prove anything tonight. You already did.”

You swallow hard, still trembling. “Can I just… can I stay here with you? Just for a sec?”

“Always.” Her fingers slide through your hair. “I’ll stay here the whole night for you.”

You rest your forehead against hers, breathing her in. She smells of perfume, champagne and something so distinctively Maya that it makes you shiver.

You stay like that for a long moment with your foreheads pressed together, your breaths syncing, the world quiet behind the thick bathroom door.

Then Maya hums, soft and playful, brushing her nose against yours. “You really pulled me into a Golden Globes bathroom to make out like we’re at prom.”

You smile, still catching your breath, “Well… I am dating the hottest girl at the dance.”

That earns you a grin, it’s wide, crooked, a little stunned. She kisses you again, slower now like she’s savoring it, like she knows exactly what you need.

Her hands find your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the silk of your dress. You tilt your face up and melt into her, arms looped loosely around her neck, her body warm and solid beneath your hands.

“I hate this part,” you mumble against her lips.

“I know you do.” Her voice is gentle. “But you’re doing so good. You’ve barely scowled at anyone.”

“I scowled at Matt.”

“Matt doesn’t count.”

You chuckle, burying your face into the crook of her neck. She smells like expensive perfume and you. Like safety.

Her fingers rake through your hair, nails lightly grazing your scalp and making you practically purr.

“Baby,” she whispers, “you’re gonna win. I feel it.”

You whimper. “I don’t care about that.”

Maya pulls back slightly, enough to meet your eyes. “You don’t?”

You shake your head. “Not if you’re not there.”

Maya’s lips part, caught off guard, then her expression crumples into something soft and wrecked.

“Oh my god,” she murmurs. “You can’t just say shit like that to me when I’m already so in love with you. I’m fully gonna cry in custom couture.”

You kiss her again, and for once she lets you lead, her hands gentle and roaming as yours slide into her hair.

There’s a knock on the outer door, a polite two tap that signals a return to reality.

You sigh but you don’t move right away.

Maya kisses your cheek, your temple, the hollow beneath your jaw. “You ready?”

“No.”

She grins. “Okay. Then we go back when you’re ready.”

“…I’m ready if you hold my hand the whole time.”

“Deal. But only if I get to brag that my girl is the sick, twisted genius behind The Witch.”

You hum against her lips. “As long as I get to go home with you.”

“Baby,” she smirks, opening the door with her fingers laced tight through yours, “you always do.”

You and Maya slide back into your seats just as the house lights dim again. You’re flushed and glowing from the bathroom makeout, a little dizzy from the adrenaline, and then you spot it.

Dessert.

“Oh my god,” you whisper, eyes wide. “They brought out dessert while we were gone.”

Maya follows your gaze to the table. “And it’s the good kind. That’s a full size cake slice.”

You immediately grab your fork like it’s a lifeline. She laughs and nudges your leg under the table as you take a huge bite, eyes fluttering shut like you’ve reached nirvana.

Across the table, Patty’s deep in conversation with someone from the Silver Springs team. Matt’s refreshing his phone like it holds the secret to winning. Maya leans in to whisper, “I swear to god if you cry over cake but not over your movie, I’m taking the award home.”

“Jokes on you we live together” you mumble through a mouth full of cake.

You’re still mid chew when you see the next category appear on the screen.

‘Best Actress in a Motion Picture.’

Your eyes widen. You set your fork down. Maya grabs your hand, subtle under the tablecloth.

The presenter opens the envelope, smiling before she even says it.

“Tilda Swinton, The Witch.”

You feel the sound before you hear it, the wave of applause. Maya’s hand tightens around yours as the camera cuts to your table. Tilda rises with quiet elegance, gliding to the stage like some kind of ice goddess, silver hair slicked back, wearing something that looks like it belongs in a museum.

You’re still in stunned silence as she begins.

“I’d like to thank Continental Studios for backing such an unflinching, strange little monster of a film. And most of all, to Y/N,” she looks directly toward you, “my most beloved director.”

You freeze.

The camera pans to you. You blink fast. Maya squeezes your hand so tightly it almost hurts.

Tilda glances toward your table, her expression something between pride and kinship. “Thank you for trusting me. For haunting me. For reminding us that women are terrifying and holy, often at the same time.”

The applause is thunderous.

You try not to cry into your cake.

Maya leans in, pressing her lips to your cheek.

“You are her most beloved director,” she whispers. “And mine too.”

You turn your face toward her, kiss her slow and soft and grateful.

Patty blinks, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Jesus. She’s good.”

Matt is slack jawed beside her. “We made that. We’re smart. I told you guys. I said she was Rosemary’s Baby level good. I said it!”

You let Maya hold your hand as the applause dies down, your name still buzzing in your ears, your cake forgotten.

For now.

The ballroom hushes again as the next presenter steps up to the mic.

You can feel Maya shift beside you, her hand moving instinctively to rest against your leg under the table. Not in a way that’s noticeable, just enough pressure to ground you, thumb tracing back and forth. The table’s half distracted, half nervous. Patty’s fidgeting with her napkin. Matt is vibrating in place, pretending to be cool while clutching a flute of champagne.

“Next up,” the presenter says, smiling, “is Best Director, Motion Picture.”

The lights get dimmer and you can hear the pulse in your ears.

Maya leans in, whispering into your ear, “breathe, baby.”

The nominees appear on the screen above the stage, a rotating montage of heavy hitters.

“Christopher Nolan, The Protegé.”

The camera cuts to Christopher: calm, smiling, tuxedo so neat it was like it was printed on him.

“David Fincher, Bloodlines.”

A cheer goes up for David as a still is shown of him on location in Budapest.

“Bong Joon-ho, Mother Tongue.”

There is respectful applause and few excited whoops as a short video of him directing Robert Pattinson plays.

“Sofia Coppola, The White Season.”

There’s a round of an applause as her set pictures are shown. It’s elegant and understated.

“And Y/N Y/L/N, The Witch.”

The screen floods with your face. A still from behind the scenes: you in black, cloak like coat on set, chin tipped up as you give notes to Tilda, candlelight glowing behind you. You look terrifying yet composed.

But at the table, your fingers are trembling around your water glass.

The applause is louder than you expected, and it feels… different. It’s not just polite or just out of curiosity. It’s recognition.

Maya clutches your hand under the table. She’s holding her breath.

The presenter smiles again and opens the envelope. “The Golden Globe goes to…”

There is an agonising beat of silence.

“Y/N Y/L/N, The Witch.”

For a moment, nothing moves.

Then the table erupts.

Matt jumps up cheering, almost knocking his chair backward. Willem claps so loud he hits his wine glass and knocks it over. Someone behind you, probably Sal, yells “YES!”

But you don’t hear any of it.

You’re staring straight ahead, body stiff, lips parted like you’re waiting for a second name to be called, like this might be some kind of mistake.

And then Maya is already on her feet. Her chair scrapes loudly back against the carpet, and she’s in front of you, dropping to her knees.

“Baby,” she breathes, cupping your face. Her eyes are glassy, her voice wrecked with emotion. “You won. You won. That’s you.”

You blink at her. You still haven’t moved. She gives your thigh a quick tap, her marketing brain flickering back to life. “Okay, you gotta go. Cameras are on. You’re the spooky genius of the night. Let’s get you up there.”

Your legs wobble as you rise. Maya is immediately there, fixing your dress, adjusting the sleeve where it slipped, smoothing the edge of your dress with fast, expert hands. She looks you up and down like you’re not just her girlfriend, but her star. Her campaign. Her win.

Then she presses one last kiss to your temple, firm and reassuring.

“I’ll be right here,” she whispers. “Go get your trophy baby.”

You step away in a daze. The lights seem hotter now. The music swells gently behind you as you make your way toward the stage. You barely feel your feet, the tremble in your knees, the unbelievable pressure of a thousand eyes on your back.

Behind you, Maya sits down slowly, still beaming. Still stunned. She presses her palms together in front of her mouth like she’s holding a prayer there. Her mascara is already smudging.

Matt leans across the table, practically shaking.

“I told you,” he grins, dabbing at his eyes. “Our witch is going to win a fucking Oscar.”

Maya doesn’t answer. She’s watching you climb the steps like it’s the most important moment of her entire life.

You stand there for a moment, blinking under the heat of the lights, your name echoing around the ballroom.

The trophy is already in your hands. It’s heavy, solid and real. You stare at it like it might vanish from your hands.

The room fades into a soft blur, applause still echoing as you step up to the microphone. Your hands are shaking. You take a breath, steadying yourself.

A few chuckles ripple when you start with, “…I don’t… I don’t really… talk much. Like this.”

The room laughs gently, it feels encouraging. You glance out across the crowd to see famous faces like Cate Blanchett, Bong Joon-ho, Leonardo DiCaprio. Rachel Weisz is literally whispering something to Michelle Yeoh.

But all you can see is your table.

And Maya.

She’s sitting forward with both hands clasped over her lips, eyes shining, like she’s holding in all the love in the world.

You swallow and look back to the mic. “I just… I really thought I was coming here to support my wonderful cast and crew. So this is… yeah. Wow.”

More gentle laughter. Maya’s eyes crinkle, she knows your tone. You’re stalling because you’re about to cry.

You glance down at the trophy again.

“The Witch was the kind of story I never thought I’d get to tell. It’s dark. It’s female. It’s angry. It isn’t clean. But every single person who touched it believed in it.”

You take a breath.

“I want to thank the cast, Tilda and Willem, you are… holy. Thank you for trusting me. I want to thank the crew, especially the night shoots crew who had to trek through the woods with fog machines and a flock of goats for twelve weeks. I owe you everything.”

You’re interrupted by laughter.

“And of course, everyone at Continental, Matt, thank you for taking a risk on me. On this. You’ve let me be a complete little freak in a very expensive sandbox and I… I’m so grateful.”

Your fingers tighten around the trophy. Your voice softens.

“But most of all…”

You glance back at the table and straight to her.

“I want to thank the love of my life Maya Mason.”

Maya freezes. She blinks, visibly caught off guard. The room hushes.

Your voice doesn’t shake, not now.

“She’s the reason I got through this. She believed in me when I didn’t. She held me on the nights I was too scared to sleep, and fed me when I forgot to eat, and reminded me that the things that make me strange are the same things that make me worth listening to.”

Maya’s lip trembles.

“She never asks for the spotlight. She never takes credit. But she’s the smartest, strongest, most beautiful person I’ve ever known, and everything I do is better when she’s part of it.”

You smile shy and tearful. “So… thank you, Maya. I love you. This is for you.”

Maya is completely undone. Hands over her mouth. Shoulders trembling. She’s having a mascara meltdown and not even trying to hide it.

You give the tiniest little bow, your hands still shaking, and step away from the mic.

As you leave the stage, the music swells and Maya’s already half standing in her heels, her hands reaching for you before you’ve even reached the stairs.

You barely make it three steps off the stage before you hear her voice, breathless and wrecked.

“Baby!”

You turn, still blinking like you’re underwater.

And then she’s there. She throws her arms around you before the backstage handlers can even finish directing you. Her arms lock tight around your ribs, her face burying into your neck, her whole body trembling as she holds you like she might fall apart otherwise.

“Oh my god,” she’s whispering. “Oh my god. You did it. You fucking did it.”

Her lips brush against your jawline. You try to say something, anything, but she’s already kissing you, hard and desperate, right there in the wings.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” she breathes, her hands cupping your face now, fingers brushing your cheeks where your own tears are threatening to spill. “You just thanked me on national television, in a room with everyone in the fucking industry. You said I’m the love of your life-”

“You are,” you manage to whisper. “You are.”

That breaks her.

Maya lets out a choked sound, a half sob, half laugh, and hugs you again. It’s a full body, no space between you kind of hug. Her fingers sink into the back of your dress like she never wants to let go.

“I love you so much,” she mumbles into your neck, trying to laugh it off, but her voice is cracking too hard.

Her hands are in your hair now, her tears catching in the curls at your temple.

“You looked so nervous up there,” she breathes, smiling through tears. “But you still did it. You were brilliant.”

You nod, burying into her shoulder.

“You were the only one I could think about,” you say, voice raw.

Maya pulls back just enough to see your face and the look she gives you is devastating and overwhelmed, so in love she’s stupid with it.

“Marry me,” she blurts suddenly.

You freeze.

Maya stares at you.

Then bursts into laughter, half wheezing, half horrified, her hands flying to cover her face.

“I- fuck, I didn’t mean to say that right now,” she starts, already flustered, backpedaling like she’s terrified she’s ruined it.

But you don’t let her finish. You reach for her wrists and hold her there, grounding her.

“Yes,” you answer.

Her eyes go even wider.

You nod, barely able to breathe, still half stunned from the win, the stage, the kiss, the lights. But this part’s clear.

You wrap your arms around her neck and whisper it again, right into her ear, “yes.”

Maya breaks into a full body shudder. A sound escapes her chest that isn’t laughter or crying but something wild in between. Her hands cup the back of your head and she kisses you so hard you almost drop the damn trophy.

“You can’t say yes like that,” she breathes against your lips, trembling. “Not when I haven’t even got a ring, not when you just won a fucking Golden Globe, not when I look like a drowned raccoon-”

You kiss her. “You’re beautiful.”

“I’m a mess.”

“You’re mine.”

She lets out another teary laugh, pulls you in tight, and mumbles, “on my god. I proposed to the most brilliant woman alive at the Golden Globes.”

“Romantic as hell,” you whisper.

“I’m so in love with you it’s insane,” she says, wiping at her eyes. “I should be institutionalized.”

You grin. “I could definitely direct that.”

That makes her laugh so hard she hiccups and the moment’s completely, perfectly, yours.

The ballroom’s finally thinning out as the cameras stop rolling, designers and producers already drifting toward the valet, actors getting wrangled for afterparty interviews. The Vanity Fair party shuttles are rolling up outside.

You’re curled into Maya’s side, warm and exhausted, the weight of your trophy still tucked against your hip as she guides you toward the doors. Your feet hurt. Your joints ache. You’re vibrating with everything, the win, the adrenaline, the fact that Maya Mason asked you to marry her and you said yes.

“Y/N! Maya!” Matt’s voice cuts through the crowd, he’s weaving his way toward you, tie loose, hair a mess, holding a bottle of champagne under one arm like he’s still mid celebration.

Patty’s with him, glowing from Silver Springs’ win, in full party mode. Sal, sunglasses on inside and absolutely high, trails behind them.

“You guys coming to the after party?” Matt grins. “We’re on the list for the Vanity Fair party!”

“We’re not going,” Maya cuts in, sweet but firm.

They all blink at her.

“You’re not…” Matt blinks. “Wait. But you love an after party.”

“I do,” Maya says, already tugging you closer by the waist, her hand splayed wide and possessive over the small of your back. “But I love her more.”

You glance up at her looking grateful and flushed, and she just smiles down at you, soft and open, like she’s already home.

Patty narrows her eyes. “Wait… are you okay?”

“I’m great,” Maya says, beaming.

“Okay…” Patty says slowly, sipping her drink like she’s about to start psychoanalyzing. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

Sal frowns. “Wait, are you guys high?”

“No,” Maya says. “But thanks for assuming that the only reason I’d want to take my award winning girlfriend home and make out with her for six hours is drugs.”

You blink. “Six?”

“Minimum,” Maya says.

That gets a choke out of Matt. “Okay. Jesus. Yep. Go. Go now.”

Maya leans in toward Patty, whispers conspiratorially. “She doesn’t like parties. She likes me.”

Patty just raises her eyebrows like well, fair enough.

You squeeze Maya’s hand. “Have fun without us?”

“Oh we will,” Patty says, winking. “But clearly not as much as you two.”

Maya’s already steering you away, fingers laced tight with yours, like she can’t get you out of here fast enough.

The car’s waiting out front. She helps you in like you’re the crown fucking jewels.

She doesn’t even let go of your hand on the ride home.

The second the car door shuts, Maya exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.

“Oh my god,” she groans, yanking off her heels and tossing them toward the front like an exhausted war hero. “We did it. You did it. You fucking witch, I cannot believe you!”

You giggle, tucked against her side, still clutching your Golden Globe like it might vanish if you let go.

She grabs it.

“Gimme,” Maya says, eyes sparkling. “I need to take a photo of it on my lap like I’m the one who directed The Witch.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “You did the marketing campaign.”

“Exactly,” she grins, already lifting her phone. “Shut up and look proud.”

You do. She snaps three pictures, one cute, one smug, one aggressively unhinged with her sticking her tongue out while pretending to lick the trophy.

Then she’s scrolling.

“Okay. Okay. Let’s see these press pics,” she murmurs, the screen lighting up her face as she starts pulling from the Gettys. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Baby these are actually good. Do you know how rare that is?”

You lean into her shoulder as she zooms in on one of you both on the carpet, your face half hidden behind your hair as you laugh, Maya beaming in head to toe contours like she’s been doing this forever.

She saves it. Then another. And another. And then she posts one of her kissing your temple while you clutch the trophy, both of you mid-laugh.

**@mayamarketing: my girl won a golden globe.**

You glance over. “You posted it?”

She shrugs, smug. “The people needed to see.”

Then she kisses you again, soft and lingering, one hand cradling your jaw, the other still loosely holding your trophy.

“You know,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, “I am gonna propose properly. Ring and everything. It’s gonna be like… derangedly romantic. I’ll cry. You’ll cry. It’ll be perfect.”

You giggle, giddy and flushed and overwhelmed.

“Do it somewhere spooky,” you grin.

Her eyes sparkle. “Stop. Don’t give me ideas. I will.”

You kiss her again, slow and warm, and she sighs happily into it, her arms wrapping tight around you.

“God,” she whispers, pressing her nose to your cheek. “I love you so much. I can’t believe you said yes.”

“I can’t believe you asked,” you say.

She nuzzles you. “I was literally crying like a fucking loser. Very romantic.”

“Perfect,” you murmur. “Just like you.”

She melts. “Oh, fuck me.”

You smile and kiss her again.

Matt’s practically skipping down the hall, already mid speech before he and Quinn have even reached the door.

“This is it,” he says, clutching a burrito in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. “This is history. We’re about to see The Witch for the first time. Award season buzz before it even opens, critics are calling it, what was it Quinn? ‘an occult masterpiece?’”

Quinn, balancing a laptop against her chest and juggling a legal pad, grins. “Yeah. Or, like, ‘if Ingmar Bergman got into heavy metal.’ Which is… honestly kinda cooler.”

They’re buzzing, like kids sneaking into an R-rated movie, as they round the corner.

That’s where they spot Sal.

He’s leaning against the wall, sunglasses on indoors, nursing a bottle of water the way some men cling to life rafts. He raises one hand in greeting, winces at the overhead lights.

“You look like death,” Matt says.

Sal shrugs. “Yeah, well, I was celebrating team Open’s Golden Globes success until four a.m. My liver’s doing its own little Sundance right now.”

Quinn chuckles nervously. “You’re still excited, though, right?”

Sal pulls off his sunglasses just enough to glare at her. “I may be hungover, but I’m not dead. Of course I’m excited. It’s her. She doesn’t miss.”

And then, heels clicking, iced coffee sloshing, Maya Mason arrives.

She’s immaculate. Head to toe in designer gear: heeled boots, a bomber jacket, statement sunglasses pushed up into her hair. Incredibly long press on nails wrapped around a thirty two ounce iced coffee. She looks like she just stepped out of a campaign shoot and not into a screening room with cracked leather seats.

“Morning, bitches,” she drawls, sliding her sunglasses down to peer at them.

Matt blinks. “How are you already this put together?”

“Because unlike you,” Maya says, eyeing Sal pointedly, “I know how to hydrate and moisturize. Also? Big day. My girl’s first look. You think I’m going to show up looking like you?”

She takes a long sip of coffee, smug.

“She’s proud,” Quinn teases.

“That I am,” Maya says, tugging off her jacket and tossing it over a seat. She flops down like she’s at home. “I’ve seen pieces, I’ve heard the editor whispering about how gnarly it is… honestly? I’m proud. She’s about to ruin our mornings, and I cannot wait.”

Matt points at her. “Okay but like just so we’re clear, you’re not allowed to spin this into, like, a quirky Twitter moment. This is prestige horror.”

Maya grins, sharp and smug. “Babe. Please. Nobody spins prestige like me.”

The projector hums to life. The lights dim. They settle in with their coffees and snacks, buzzing with anticipation.

For the first time, they’re about to see The Witch.

The lights dim. The screen glows a sickly white.

The first ominous notes of the score rumble through the room, vibrating the worn leather recliners. The Continental logo fades into black.

Matt Remick leans forward in his seat, burrito wrapper crinkling in his hand. His eyes are already wide, like he’s at the premiere of his own life.

“This is it,” he whispers, half to himself, half to everyone. “This is the one. This is the moment. Our Rosemary’s Baby, our Exorcist, our…”

“Jerk off material for the year?” Sal mutters, slouched low with his sunglasses still on.

Matt ignores him. “Prestige horror. Critics are gonna eat this shit up.”

Quinn is practically bouncing two seats down, notebook in her lap but untouched. Her face is glowing in the light from the screen. “God, even the font on the title card is unsettling. She’s so deliberate with it. She knows exactly what she’s doing already.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sal agrees, but his voice is softer.

Maya shifts in her chair, legs crossed, massive iced coffee sweating on the armrest. She looks like she walked out of a campaign shoot and into a crusty little screening room. She glances over the rim of her cup, amused.

“You guys sound like you’re about to propose to her,” she says, smirking. “It’s the title card. Relax.”

“It’s not just the title card,” Quinn insists, eyes on the screen. “It’s the mood. It’s a statement. She’s… oh my god, listen to that composition.”

The opening shot unfolds into a bleak and misty treeline, static and unnervingly patient. The score hums like a warning under it.

Matt actually gasps. “Jesus. That’s cinema. That’s a vision.” He slaps Quinn’s arm. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of Variety calling me a tastemaker in three months.”

Maya rolls her eyes, sipping her coffee. “You’re unbearable.”

Sal groans. “I think it might be too early in the morning for horror. My stomach’s already queasy.”

“You’re hungover,” Maya shoots back. “That’s not her fault.”

Onscreen, a lone figure emerges in the fog, small, human, swallowed by the trees. The camera lingers long enough to be uncomfortable.

Quinn exhales like she’s in church. “God, that’s so bold.”

Matt clutches his burrito like it’s a baby. “This is our bold director. This is gonna be the movie they put in the obituaries when I die.”

“Sooner than later if you keep talking through the movie,” Maya deadpans.

The music swells. The forest darkens.

The movie has begun.

The first act rolls by in silence broken only by gasps, scribbles, and the occasional crunch of Matt’s burrito foil.

They see a farmhouse, candlelight, and shadows stretching too long on the walls. The sound design is relentless, whispers that scrape against the eardrum, a thrum in the floor like something’s underneath.

Matt is perched on the edge of his recliner, practically vibrating. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Do you hear that? That’s critics calling it ‘masterful sound design.’ That’s Variety putting us on their Best Of list. That’s-”

“Jesus, man,” Sal mutters. “It’s been twenty minutes. Chill.”

Quinn doesn’t even look away from the screen. She’s hugging her notebook to her chest, whispering praises, “she’s building it so well. This is insane.”

Maya’s half smiling, sipping her iced coffee like she’s trying not to laugh. “You’re all acting like you’ve never seen a horror movie before.”

Onscreen they focus on a figure in the woods. The sound of something wet tearing. The camera doesn’t flinch.

Quinn’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oh my god.”

“Holy shit,” Matt whispers, eyes wide.

The camera holds. The sound deepens. Something snaps. And then… they see mangled organs in a body begin to twitch.

Sal lurches forward, groaning. “Nope. Nope, I’m out.” He rips off his sunglasses, stumbles to his feet, and bolts for the bathroom. A second later the sound of him retching echoes down the hall.

Quinn whimpers, peeking through her fingers. “That was… that was so much. That was… god, it’s genius, but I think I’m gonna faint by the end of this.”

Matt presses a hand over his mouth, pale as paper. “Okay, okay, yeah, that was… maybe a little much for breakfast burrito viewing.”

Maya just sits there, wide eyed, lips parted. Then she lets out a stunned laugh, shaking her head.

“Jesus Christ,” she says, grinning despite her horror. “She really went there. My girl really just made that. At nine a.m. On a Tuesday.”

Quinn groans, collapsing back in her seat. “She’s either a genius or a sadist.”

Maya leans back, smug, tapping her iced coffee. “Both. That’s why I’m dating her.”

Sal staggers back in, blotchy and sweaty, muttering something about suing you for emotional distress. Matt still looks like he might be sick.

The room is silent when the scene ends. The screen fades to black for a beat, then moves on like nothing happened.

But the damage is done.

Matt has his burrito abandoned in his lap, his face gray. Quinn’s notebook is closed, her pen dropped onto the floor. Sal’s utter wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, sunglasses pushed crooked on his face.

Finally, Matt breaks.

“Okay. Okay. Nobody panic.” He’s wringing his hands, voice tight. “But… there’s no way. Absolutely no fucking way.”

Quinn’s still pale. “It’s… it’s brilliant. It’s visionary. But no cinema’s gonna touch a wide release with that kind of gore. You’d lose half the audience in ten seconds.”

Matt points like she’s proving his point. “Exactly! Exactly. And the Academy? Forget it. They’ll puke harder than Sal.”

“Hey,” Sal croaks, collapsing back into his chair. “That shit was medically unsafe. I almost died in there.”

Matt leans forward, desperate now. “We have to tell her to cut it. There’s no awards run with that scene in. We’re tanking the campaign before it even starts.”

Quinn nods reluctantly, chewing her lip. “Yeah. As much as I worship her? We have to. It’s just… it’s too far.”

All eyes slide to Maya.

She’s been quiet, sipping her iced coffee, staring at the blank screen with her sunglasses dangling from her fingers. When she finally speaks, her voice is lower, more careful.

“She’s a genius. She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

Matt groans. “Maya.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Maya cuts in, sharp. “It was a lot. Like, a lot. I don’t know if I ever wanna look at ground beef again. But she made it that way for a reason. She doesn’t put shit in by accident.”

Quinn tilts her head. “So you think we just… leave it?”

Maya sighs, dragging a hand through her hair. “I think…” She pauses. “I think if you’re gonna tell her to cut it, it can’t be me. I sell the movie. I don’t give notes. That’s not my lane.”

Sal groans. “God, she’s right. She’s always right. But somebody’s gotta do it.”

Matt’s already shaking his head, panicked. “Not me. She already thinks I’m the corporate sellout. If I say it, I’m dead to her. Sal, you were the one who puked.”

Sal glares. “Yeah, and? That’s why I’m the last person who can bring it up.”

They all turn back to Maya.

She raises her hands, iced coffee still in one. “Don’t even look at me. No fucking way. She’s my girlfriend, not my client. You want me to tell her to cut the scene she probably bled for? No. I like sleeping at night.”

Matt rubs his temples. “Jesus Christ. We’re screwed.”

The room falls into uneasy silence. The movie keeps playing, but no one’s watching anymore, they’re all just trying to figure out who’s going to break the news to you.

The movie rolls on in silence. None of them are watching anymore. They’re all just staring at the screen like it’s a bomb about to go off.

Finally, Matt blurts, “Okay, so. Who’s telling her?”

“Not it,” Quinn says instantly, hands up.

“Same,” Sal mutters, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. “Not my circus, not my vomit inducing monkeys.”

Matt whirls on him. “Sal, you’re literally the one who puked! It has to be you.”

“Which is exactly why it can’t be me,” Sal shoots back, voice hoarse. “She’ll think I’m weak. She’ll think I can’t handle her vision. I’ll never get another invite to set again.”

“You already don’t go to set,” Maya cuts in flatly.

Sal waves a hand. “Still. Principle of the thing.”

Matt turns to Quinn, desperate. “Quinn. You’re the young, fresh exec. She respects you. You’re thoughtful, you’re-”

Quinn’s already shaking her head. “Nope. She’ll think I’m pandering to marketing data. She’ll never forgive me. This movie is her baby, and she’ll see me as the one trying to take the scissors to it.”

Maya snorts. “Well, yeah. Because you would be.”

Quinn glares. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t start,” Maya says, sipping her coffee.

Matt throws up his hands. “Alright, so what, then? We just don’t tell her? We pretend the vomit never happened?”

“I’m fine with that.” Sal shrugs.

“Yeah, sure, until she screens it in Toronto and the entire audience bolts for the exits,” Matt snaps. “Then what? You think the Academy voters are gonna sit through that?”

“God, shut up,” Maya interrupts, rolling her eyes. “You sound like me and I don’t like it.”

Matt points at her. “You. You should tell her. She trusts you. She loves you. If anyone can get away with it, it’s you.”

Maya laughs incredulously. “Ohhh, no. No, no, no. You want me to look my girlfriend in the eyes and say, ‘Hey, baby, remember that scene you shot for three days and poured your soul into,? Yeah, cut it.’ Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Come on, Maya,” Matt pleads, sweating. “You’re her safe place! She’ll take it from you!”

“Exactly,” Maya fires back. “Which is why I’m not doing it. I’m not ruining that.”

Quinn leans forward. “Matt, you’re the boss. It has to be you.”

Matt looks horrified. “No. No, no, no. She already thinks I’m a corporate hack! If I give her the note, she’ll put a curse on me.”

“She’s not a real witch,” Quinn mutters.

“She is a witch!” Matt says, panicked.

Sal groans, tipping his head back. “God, this is like jury duty.”

They all sit there, glaring at each other, trapped in a perfect Continental stalemate. Everyone knows the note has to be given. And no one wants to be the one to give it.

The movie flickers on, ignored. The room is still buzzing with the echo of Sal’s retching and Matt’s spiraling.

“Look,” Matt says, running both hands through his hair. “Someone has to do it. If we sit on our hands, we’re basically letting her walk into a PR buzzsaw. Who’s gonna do it?”

“Not me,” Sal groans. “I’m still tasting bile.”

“Not helping,” Matt whines.

“I’ll do it,” Quinn blurts, suddenly sharp. Everyone turns. She lifts her chin. “Fine. I’ll tell her. Whatever. She doesn’t need to like me. She can hate me. That’s fine. I can live with that.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

Then Maya slowly lowers her iced coffee, raises one perfect eyebrow, and says, calm but lethal, “watch it, Hackett. You’re talking about my girlfriend.”

Quinn freezes, backpedals immediately. “I didn’t mean… I wasn’t saying she’s not… I just meant…”

Maya leans back, smirking now. “Yeah, I know what you meant. But let’s get one thing clear: you give her a note like that, and she’ll hate you for life. And honestly?” She shrugs, casual. “I’d let her.”

Quinn blinks. “So… you agree the scene’s too much?”

Maya exhales, stares at the ceiling for a beat. “Yeah. It’s a lot. It’s probably too much. Sal puked, for Christ’s sake. But it’s not my job to fix it.”

Matt jumps in, desperate. “Okay, so Quinn, you’ll do it?”

Quinn swallows hard, looking from Matt’s panicked face to Maya’s sharp grin. “I…” she wilts a little. “Maybe.”

Sal groans. “Oh, this is gonna be a bloodbath.”

The credits roll. The screen fades to black. No one claps.

Matt claps once anyway, too loud. “Incredible. Amazing. Genius. But… yeah. So here’s the plan.”

He turns to Maya, eyes wide. “You call her. Invite her to lunch. Then Quinn slips in and delivers the note. Easy.”

“Excuse me?” Maya says, narrowing her eyes.

“Come on,” Matt pleads. “She’ll pick up if you call. She always picks up if you call. And she’ll actually show up.”

Quinn, who just ten minutes ago was all ‘fine, I’ll do it,’ now looks like she’s staring down a firing squad. “Wait, wait, wait. So I’m just… I’m just supposed to walk into lunch and drop that bomb? ‘Hey, great to see you, by the way your masterpiece is unwatchable, enjoy your lunch’?”

Sal, pale and sweaty, groans. “I already puked in the bathroom. What do you want from me? I did my part.”

Maya snorts. “You didn’t do shit, Sal. You just redecorated the bathroom with your stomach lining.”

Quinn shoots her a panicked look. “Maya. Seriously. Is she going to kill me?”

“Yup,” Maya says, way too cheerful, digging her phone out of her pocket. “And I’m gonna sit there and watch.”

Matt points a finger like he’s orchestrated a master plan. “Perfect. Perfect! Maya softens her up, Quinn delivers the note, Sal backs her up, and I…” he falters, glancing between their faces. “I supervise.”

“You hide,” Maya corrects, thumbing through her contacts.

Matt doesn’t deny it.

Maya sighs, puts the phone on speaker, and leans back in her chair, grinning. “Alright. Watch the master at work.”

She hits call. The phone rings.

Across the table, Quinn looks like she’s about to throw up next to Sal.

Maya looks at them, whispering as the line connects. “Easy. Lunch invite. Then, Hackett, you’re on.”

Maya lounges back in her chair, one ankle crossed over her knee, iced coffee balanced against her thigh. The phone rings on speaker.

Your voice comes through, a little muffled, like you’ve just woken up. “Mm? Baby?”

The whole table jerks at the intimacy. Matt slaps Sal’s arm to shut him up before he can snicker.

Maya smirks, her voice dropping low, warm. “Morning, cryptid. You still in bed?”

“I was,” you mumble. “Now I’m not. Why’re you calling on speaker? Who’s there?”

Maya shoots a warning look at the table. “No one important. Just the usual idiots. Don’t worry about it.”

You yawn. “Mm. What’s up?”

Maya leans forward, resting her chin in her palm, eyes locked on Quinn who looks like she’s about to faint. “Thought you might wanna come by for lunch. My treat. Continental cafeteria’s doing… I dunno, something vaguely edible. Or we can order in. Whatever you want.”

There’s a beat before you reply softly, “you just miss me.”

Maya grins. “Obviously. You caught me.”

Sal makes a gagging noise. Maya flips him off without breaking eye contact with the phone.

On the other end, you giggle. “Okay. Lunch. What time?”

“Soon as you can get here,” Maya says. “Bring your scary little notebook. You can scribble witch symbols on it and terrify the interns.”

“Stop,” you laugh, embarrassed.

“Never,” Maya shoots back. “Alright, baby. See you soon.”

She hangs up before you can protest further, tossing her phone onto the table with a self satisfied smirk.

Matt beams like a kid at Disneyland. “Perfect! She’s coming. Now, Quinn, you-”

Quinn’s already shaking her head, panicked. “I can’t do this. No way. She’s going to hate me. She’ll never forgive me.”

Maya raises her brows. “Welcome to the big leagues, Hackett. Eat shit.”

Quinn groans, burying her face in her hands.

Sal leans back, grinning weakly. “This is gonna be a bloodbath.”

The team migrates to a conference room in Continental's main building and within minutes the table is littered with coffee cups. The four of them wait, jittery like kids about to be caught doing something wrong.

Through the glass wall, they see you coming down the hall, scarf looped messily around your neck, hair a little wild, notebook tucked under your arm. You look tired, but there’s that unmistakable spark that is both soft, witchy, and completely yourself.

Sal follows the look and snorts, then says the first thing that jumps into his mouth, loud enough for the table to hear, “how can someone that hot think of something that disgusting?”

The sentence lands like a dropped plate.

For a second there’s awkward laughter, the kind that cracks because everyone’s embarrassed for the remark, and the room teeters.

Maya’s face changes before the insult lands fully. Her jaw tightens.

“Watch it,” she says, slow and cold.

Sal tries to recover, hands waving. “I didn’t mean-”

“You did,” Maya says. Her voice is level but sharp enough to bruise. “And if you ever call her disgusting again, I will personally make your life very uncomfortable. Got it?”

Sal throws up his hands. “Hey, no disrespect. I’m just saying: beautiful woman, absolute freak brain. It’s… impressive.”

Matt groans, pacing. “Okay, can we not objectify her right before we try to give her the worst note of her life? Jesus.”

Quinn hugs her notebook tighter. Her knee is bouncing under the table, the bravado she had earlier draining by the second. “God, she’s here. She’s really coming in here. I’m actually gonna be sick.”

Maya doesn’t smirk this time. She just stares at you through the glass as you approach, her fingers drumming against her iced coffee. Shes beginning to look rattled.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “She is. And she’s not gonna like this.”

Matt forces a grin, but his voice cracks. “It’ll be fine! We’re just… supportive colleagues having lunch. Then Quinn delivers the note, quick and clean. In and out.”

Quinn shoots him a panicked look. “Clean? There’s nothing clean about this.”

Maya doesn’t take her eyes off you. Her jaw is set, but her chest is tight. “You’re about to break her heart over a scene she killed herself to get right. Don’t screw it up.”

And then the door handle rattles.

You’re here.

The door swings open. The air in the room tightens. You hover for a second in the doorway, your bag clutched to your chest. The overhead fluorescents feel too harsh. For a moment, you almost look like you might turn around and leave.

But then Maya’s up out of her chair.

“Hey, baby.” She strides over, all warmth and certainty, and before you can second guess yourself she’s got her arms around you, pulling you in tight.

You go stiff at first, shy in front of the others, but it only lasts a beat. Her perfume, the press of her mouth against your temple, the strength of her hold, you melt against her like you always do, breathing her in, clinging back.

She tips your chin up and kisses you, soft and grounding. “God, I missed you.”

Your cheeks heat, your voice small. “So… you saw the movie?”

Maya smiles at you like you hung the stars. “Yeah, we saw it.”

You duck your head, shy, teeth catching your lip. “Did you… like it?”

The table shifts awkwardly. Matt’s halfway between clapping his hands together and sweating through his shirt. Quinn looks like she’s going to faint.

And then Sal, never knowing when to shut up, chuckles nervously. “Yeah, uh… I didn’t know spinal cords could, uh… do that.”

The room goes dead silent.

Maya’s head whips toward him, glare sharp enough to slice through glass. “Sal.”

He lifts both hands, backpedaling. “I’m just saying! It was… educational.”

You blink, confused, glancing between them. The shy little smile on your lips falters.

Maya smooths her hand down your back, pulling you close again, voice softer now, meant only for you. “Don’t listen to him. He’s an idiot. You were brilliant.”

You stay close to Maya, half hidden against her chest, her fingers rubbing slow circles into your back. Her iced coffee sits forgotten on the table, right now she only cares about keeping you steady.

Matt clears his throat loudly, eyes darting toward Quinn like a director trying to cue an actor.

Quinn sits stiff in her chair, wide eyed and frozen.

Matt mouths: Now.

Quinn shakes her head in fear.

Matt widens his eyes, more desperate and mouths out ‘NOW’.

Quinn swallows, turns beet red… and blurts “I… uh… I have to pee. Really bad.”

Before anyone can stop her, she bolts out of her chair, notebook clattering to the floor, and makes a break for the hallway.

Sal stares after her for a beat, then sighs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” He grabs his water bottle and hustles after her.

Matt throws his hands up, groaning. “Quinn! Don’t-… ugh, goddammit!” He scrambles after them both, muttering, “We’re never gonna survive this,” as the door swings shut behind him.

The conference room falls quiet.

You blink, still tucked against Maya, baffled. “Did Quinn just run away?”

Maya exhales, brushing her lips against your hairline. “Yup.”

“Why?”

She hesitates for too long. “She’s… uh… shy?”

You tilt your head back, narrowing your eyes.

Maya gives you a crooked little smile, her thumb stroking your cheek. “Don’t worry about it, baby. They’re idiots. All of them. I’ve got you.”

Maya nudges the door open with her hip, keeping an arm firm around your waist as she takes you to her office. Her office is classic Maya Mason chaos: garment bags draped over the couch, a stack of sneaker boxes in the corner, mood boards pinned to the wall. A half empty bottle of perfume sits next to a pile of movie poster mock ups on her desk.

“C’mere,” she murmurs, steering you toward the couch. She pulls you down with her, tucking you into her side like she’s been waiting all morning just to do this.

You curl in, shy smile flickering back. “They’re acting so weird today.”

“Mm, they’re always weird,” Maya says, kissing your temple. “Don’t waste brain cells on them. You want sushi? Tacos? Dumplings? I’ll order whatever you want.”

You shrug, melting into her chest. “Surprise me.”

“Dangerous words,” she teases, but she’s already pulling her phone out, one arm still tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair between tapping out an order. “Okay, food’s on the way. Now you don’t move until it gets here. Doctor’s orders.”

You laugh softly, sinking deeper into her.

Maya strokes your arm, eyes softening as she studies you and for a second her smile slips. She knows what’s coming. She knows how much it’ll sting and she hates it. So she just holds you tighter, pressing her cheek against the top of your head like she can protect you from what’s waiting outside.

Meanwhile Matt slumps into a chair, rubbing his temples. “Okay. So, round two: who’s actually gonna do it? Because she’s here, she’s in the building, and if we keep dodging, it’s gonna look worse.”

Sal cracks open his water, takes a long gulp, then gestures at Maya’s empty chair. “It should be her. It’s a marketing problem. Gore this extreme is a distribution note, not a creative one. Mason should handle it.”

Quinn whirls on him, eyes wide. “Absolutely not. Are you insane? She sleeps with her. That’s a conflict of interest!”

Sal smirks, amused. “So? Pillow talk’s still a form of communication.”

Quinn looks like she might combust. “No, Sal, that’s not how this works! You can’t ask someone to give a career defining note to their girlfriend. It’s unprofessional. And cruel.”

Matt throws his hands up. “Great, so what, it’s me? Again? Everyone already thinks I’m the corporate monster! I can’t take another hit, I need her to like me.”

Sal rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Matt, it’s not a date, it’s a note.”

“Yes, but she’s terrifying,” Matt snaps back. “If I tell her to cut that scene, she’ll never look me in the eye again. She’ll hate me. I can’t!”

Quinn cuts him off, near hysterical. “Don’t look at me either! I’m the baby of the group. She’ll eat me alive. I’m a creative exec, not development. She doesn’t want me telling her what to do.”

Sal groans. “God, you’re all useless.”

Quinn jabs a finger at him. “Then you do it!”

“Hell no,” Sal says instantly. “I already puked. My body’s made my statement.”

They all glare at each other, the stalemate somehow worse than before.

“Perfect,” Matt mutters. “Not one of us can tell a director to trim a scene. Real professional.”

You’re still curled against Maya on her couch, the smell of takeout filling the room. Pad Thai in your lap, dumplings on the coffee table. Maya’s got one arm around you, chopsticks in her other hand, stealing bites from your carton every time you’re distracted.

It feels warm and safe like maybe the weird vibe from earlier was just in your head.

Then the door bangs open.

Sal bursts in first, followed by Matt, then Quinn hovering in the doorway like she’s hoping the floor will swallow her whole.

Sal points at you, pale but animated. “I vomited!”

You freeze, fork dangling mid air. Noodles slip back into the carton with a soft splat.

Your eyes widen. “Okay? And… why did I need that information?”

Quinn winces, covering her face. Matt jumps in, flapping his hands. “What he means is, he had a very strong physical reaction to your movie. Like, visceral! Impactful! A sign of how powerful it is!”

Sal shakes his head. “No. I mean I puked. In the bathroom. Violently.”

Your face twists. “Oh my god.”

Maya’s arm tightens around you. Her gaze snaps to Sal, sharp and lethal. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Matt tries again, sweating bullets. “It’s a good thing! Sort of! Like… people are gonna talk about how shocking and intense it is. Award voters love a story.”

Quinn groans softly in the doorway, “Oh my god, kill me now,” under her breath.

You look between all of them, completely bewildered, Pad Thai forgotten in your lap. “What the hell is happening right now?”

Maya strokes your arm, jaw tight. “Exactly what I’d like to know.”

You sit on the couch, the carton of Pad Thai abandoned in your lap, staring at them like they’ve just staged an intervention. Maya’s arm is tight around you, her body angled like a shield, but the room is pure chaos.

Matt’s pacing, sweating through his shirt. “Okay, okay, everybody calm down, this is fine, this is totally fine!”

Sal throws up his hands. “It’s not fine, I puked! You think Toronto wants vomit stories in the press?”

Quinn groans, clutching her notebook like a life raft. “Can we please just do this without bitching out?!”

“Shut up, Hackett!” Sal snaps. “You were supposed to say it at lunch, not chicken out!”

“I didn’t chicken out, I panicked,” Quinn fires back.

Matt claps his hands desperately. “Guys, focus! We just have to-”

You slam your pad Thai down, noodles splattering across the lid. “Enough! Just give me the note.”

The room freezes.

They all glance at each other. Then at Maya. Then back at you.

Finally, Quinn blurts, “It’s the gross scene. The… spinal cord thing. They think it’s too much for wide release.”

You blink. The words hang heavy, echoing.

Sal chimes in quickly, defensive. “It’s not just us! It’s literally biology! My body rejected it!”

Matt adds, “We’re only saying this because we love the movie, okay? It’s brilliant, it’s genius, but we can’t win awards if half the audience faints in the aisles.”

Quinn nods frantically. “We all agree. Even…” she falters, then blurts it out, “even Maya said so.”

Your head whips toward her with wide eyes, your breath caught. “…You hated my movie?”

Maya’s whole body stiffens. Her jaw drops, seething. “Are you kidding me?” She rounds on the others, voice cracking sharp as glass. “Don’t you dare drag me into this! That’s not what I said, and you know it!”

Matt raises his hands, panicked. “Okay, technically she didn’t-”

“Technically?!” Maya snaps. “I defended her. I said she put it there for a reason. Don’t twist my words because you’re too chickenshit to deliver a note!”

The air is electric. You stare at her, hurt in your eyes.

“…So you did think it was too much,” you whisper.

The air is sharp enough to slice.

Maya crouches in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes fierce but pleading. “Baby. Listen to me. I love you. I believe in you. But that scene?” She swallows hard. “You need to get rid of it. It’ll kill your movie before it even has a chance.”

Your chest twists. “What about the orchard scene, then?”

Matt blinks. “The what?”

Sal frowns. “There was an orchard?”

Quinn tilts her head. “…Was that before or after the spinal cord thing?”

Your jaw drops. “…Oh my god. You didn’t even watch the rest of the film.”

Silence. Matt coughs, sheepish. “We were… distracted.”

Sal shrugs, unapologetic. “I was in the bathroom. Dying.”

Your gaze whips to Maya, the one anchor you thought you had. “…You saw it though. Right?”

Her face falters, just for a beat but enough.

“Maya?”

She presses her lips together, guilt flashing across her features.

“I…” she shakes her head, hair falling into her face. “Baby, I’m sorry. I got stuck on that scene too. I was thinking about release strategy, about how to protect you, and I…” her voice breaks. “I didn’t watch past it.”

The words land like a stone in your chest.

Your eyes shine wide, hurt. “You… didn’t see my movie?”

Maya’s whole body flinches, her hands tightening on your knees. “No, baby, I saw it. I saw enough. I know what you were doing, I know the brilliance-”

But you’re already pulling back, the food forgotten, and the air between you split open.

When you finally speak, your voice is soft, almost too soft, trembling but cutting through the room sharper than any shout.

“You gave me a note… without even finishing the movie?”

Matt shifts in his chair. Sal coughs. Quinn stares hard at her notebook. None of them answer.

You swallow, eyes glassy, hands twisting in your lap. “You watch the whole film. Then you give notes. That’s how it works. You don’t just stop halfway. That’s…” your throat closes. “That’s not respect.”

Maya is already shaking her head, moving closer, her hand reaching for yours. “Baby, no, I wasn’t trying to disrespect you. I was trying to protect you.”

Your eyes lift to hers, wide, devastated. You pull back just enough that her hand misses. “You didn’t protect me. You brought me here so someone else could say it. You lied.”

Maya freezes, the word ‘lied’ hitting her like a stone. “No. No, baby girl, I swear, it wasn’t like that.” Her voice is breaking now, rushed and panicked. “They were panicking, they made a plan, and I-I thought if I stayed close, I could soften the blow. I was trying to be on your side.”

Your breath hitches, your voice catching on the edge of tears. “But you weren’t. You didn’t even see the rest of the film. You didn’t see me.”

The room is still. You sit curled in on yourself, a soft, witchy silhouette fraying at the edges, and Maya is crouched in front of you, looking like she might come apart just trying to reach you.

You sit for a long second, feeling the room tilt around you. The sound of their voices becomes distant, like someone speaking in the next room.

Then you inhale. The breath pulls something together inside you that feels older than anything on those leather chairs: an old carefulness, the way you learned to be small so the world wouldn’t break you further.

You stand up without drama. Everyone looks up at once.

“Okay.” Your voice is small at first, then flattens into something that carries. “Consider the scene cut.”

Quinn opens her mouth to thank you then thinks better of speaking. Matt’s hands go to his face. Sal makes a sound that’s part relief, part apology.

You fold your hands in front of you and keep your gaze level. “And if you have other notes, if you decide to finish the film at some stage, send me an email. Don’t ambush me during my lunch.”

Maya’s eyes widen, and for a second she looks like someone seeing a faultline open in the floor beneath them. She lunges forward, the protective instinct raw and immediate.

“Baby, don’t go,” she starts, voice thin with panic.

You don’t raise your voice. You only say, quietly, “I’ll see you at home.”

And then you walk out with a kind of slow, exhausted dignity that makes the chaos in the room behind you seem suddenly childish and small.

The door clicks shut.

For a heartbeat the conference room stays suspended then the sound breaks. Maya’s face fractures in an instant, the fierce, private fury of someone betrayed and terrified taking over.

Maya spins on them, eyes wild. “Are you kidding me? What the fuck was that?”

Matt tries, “Maya…”

She cuts him off, loud and sharp. “No. No, no, no. Don’t Maya me. You dragged her in here, you blindsided her, you made her feel like some intern with a bad first draft. She’s your fucking director.”

Quinn stammers, “We were just trying-”

“Oh my god, Quinn, don’t. Just don’t.” Maya’s pacing now, yanking her iced coffee off the table, gesturing with it like a weapon. “She trusted us. And what did we do? We turned it into some shitty ambush lunch.”

Sal mutters, “I didn’t even want to give the note!”

“Yeah, no shit, Sal, you didn’t want to help, you just vomited. Congratulations. Very helpful.”

Matt runs a hand down his face. “It wasn’t supposed to-”

Maya wheels on him. “Oh my god, Remick, you think that matters? She left here thinking I lied to her. Me. And you know what? She’s right. Because I went along with this stupid little plan, and now…” she breaks off, shaking her head, voice dropping. “Now I’m gonna spend my evening trying to fix her because you three couldn’t grow a pair and give a goddamn note like adults.”

Maya grabs her iced coffee, half melted and waves it like a knife. “You want to give her notes? Fine. Watch the rest of the fucking film first.”

And with that, she storms out, heels clicking like gunfire down the hall.

~

The house dim except for the light bleeding from your office. The rest of the apartment feels still, heavy with the day. Maya shuts the door behind her like she’s afraid even the click of the latch will set something off.

She’s been dreading this since the second you walked out. Her stomach’s been in knots all day.

“Mama’s home,” she mutters to herself, rubbing her forehead, trying to muster bravado. But it dies quickly.

She follows the glow down the hall. Your office door is cracked. She pushes it open gently.

You’re at your desk, hunched over a notebook, pen scratching fast. Candles burn low on the bookshelf, shadows long on the walls. The screen beside you shows your timeline pulled apart, scenes reshuffled. You don’t look up.

Her heart sinks.

Maya leans on the doorframe, arms crossed like she’s bracing herself. “You’re already rewriting.”

You nod once, not stopping your pen. “It needed replacing, right? Might as well start now.”

The words are soft, almost casual, but your voice carries the quiet weight of someone who’s already folded hurt into work.

Maya’s chest aches. She crosses the room, slow, like you’re a deer she doesn’t want to spook. “Baby…”

You finally glance up. Your eyes are rimmed, tired, but steady. “What?”

Maya falters, chewing her lip. All day she’d rehearsed lines, jokes, apologies, all spin, but now it all feels paper thin. “I hate that you’re in here doing this because of me. Because of us.”

Your pen pauses, fingers twitching over the page. The silence stretches.

You begin writing again, eyes down, the scratch of your pen filling the silence. “Well,” you say softly, almost offhand. “You gave me the note. Eventually. And it needs fixing.”

Maya winces like the words hit her ribs. “Baby…”

You finally set the pen down, lean back in your chair. Your face is calm, but your eyes… they’re bruised with hurt. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Maya crosses the room in three strides, hands flexing like she doesn’t know what to do with them. “It was a shitty move. I should’ve had your back and I didn’t. And I’ve hated myself for it all day.”

You don’t answer, you just watch her like she’s under a microscope.

“Please don’t pull away from me. Not you.”

And before she can think twice, she’s climbing right into your lap, knees bracketing your thighs, her weight settling over you like she belongs there. She cups your face in both hands, frantic kisses pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth.

“Don’t be mad at Mommy,” she whispers against your lips, a shaky grin breaking through the guilt. “C’mon, baby girl, punish me later, just please, not this.”

Your breath catches, your hands hovering uncertainly at her waist. The switch is dizzying: her, the one always in control, now clinging to you like you’re the only ground she’s got left.

She kisses you again, slow this time, her thumb tracing under your eye. “I’ll fix it. Whatever it takes. Just don’t shut me out.”

You are sitting at the desk with the lamp low and your notebook open. Maya is curled against you, knees draped over either side of your thighs, one arm hooked around your neck. Her weight is warm and familiar; her breath smells like cold coffee and something sweet. For a while the simple press of her against you is almost a salve.

Then the ache you’ve been holding all day tightens into something you can’t stand anymore. It brings on the steady need for space you can always recognize in yourself.

You move your hand very gently along her side and, when she looks up, you keep your voice soft. “I need to be alone in my office for a while.”

Her face changes like someone flipped a light switch. For half a second she looks like she’s going to make a joke, be the deflective Maya you know, and then the panic sets in, you can see it in her wide eyes and the way her breath catches.

“Don’t be like this,” she says fast, the edges of the words frayed. “Baby you can’t just… don’t make me-” she scrambles, too quick, trying to find the right thing to say. Her fingers fumble at the collar of your shirt as if physical contact could stop the sentence you’ve already made.

You reach up and cup her cheek, thumb trembling against her skin. “I’m not punishing you. I just… I need to be by myself for a while.”

Maya’s mouth snaps shut. She’s always been the loud one, the fixer, the person who moves to fill the empty space, and now she freezes, because this is not a problem she can make go away. For one awful beat she looks stranded.

Then, in that half second where she kicks on performance to hide her panic, she forces a smile too bright for the low light.

“Fine. Fine.” Her voice is sharp and too loud in the quiet room. She slides off your lap robotically.

She stands, hands on the edge of the desk as if she needs it to steady herself. “I’ll be in the living room. Text me when you want company. Or when you want me to beg. I can beg. I have… begging in my repertoire.” The attempt at humor is brittle.

You pick up your pen. You don’t tell her to stay or come back. You only look at the page and let the silence stretch.

Maya swallows, the joke gone. For a second her bravado cracks and she steps close again, like she might try one more time to wedge herself into your orbit. “Baby, please…” she begins, voice small.

“Please Maya I just need some space for while”

She blows out a breath, mutters, “Fine,” and walks out. The office door closes softly behind her.

You sit with the lamp haloing the page, the scratch of your pen the only sound. Outside, Maya paces the apartment like an animal in a room it can’t rearrange. You hear the occasional curse, very Maya, and then the apartment settles into a heavy quiet.

The apartment is hushed except for the low hum of the heating and the faint tap tap of nails on glass. Maya’s propped up against the headboard, hair piled messily on top of her head, glasses sliding down her nose. The glow of her iPad makes her look like a ghost of herself, a hoodie zipped up over her tank top, her bare legs tucked under the duvet. She’s been ‘working’ for hours but hasn’t gotten through a single deck.

Down the hall, the click of your keyboard stops. You hit send on the email to Matt, a clean, neutral list of proposed changes, no warmth, but no bitterness. Just business. Then you close the laptop and sit there for a second, staring at your hands, before finally pushing back from the desk.

You peel off your clothes as you walk toward the bedroom, each movement slow from the day’s weight. When you step inside, Maya glances up from the iPad, shoulders hitching automatically like she’s been caught. The nervous smile that flickers across her mouth doesn’t reach her eyes.

You don’t say anything. You pull your sweatshirt over your head, drop it on the chair, unclip your bra, and slide out of your skirt until you’re down to a soft tank and underwear. The room smells like her shampoo.

Maya sets the iPad down on the nightstand without looking at the screen. “Hey,” she says quietly, like she’s testing the sound. “You done?”

You nod once. “Sent Matt the email.”

She swallows. “Okay.”

You climb into bed, the sheets cool against your skin. For a heartbeat you hesitate at your edge of the mattress. Then you slide across the space between you and curl into her side, head on her shoulder.

Maya’s arm comes around you instantly, reflexively, like her body’s been waiting all night for that signal. She exhales into your hair, the tension in her chest loosening just enough to breathe. She presses a small, tentative kiss to your forehead.

“Hi, baby,” she murmurs. “Thank you for coming to bed.”

You nod against her, eyes closing. Her fingers find the back of your neck, rubbing slow circles there, the way she always does when she’s trying to soothe you without words. The glow of the iPad fades behind her, forgotten.

Maya’s arm tightens around you, her mouth brushing the top of your head. “Baby… listen, I-”

But the words tangle, because you’re already shaking. A small, muffled sound presses into her chest, wetting the cotton of her hoodie. You’re crying the quiet tears you’ve been holding back all day.

Maya stills, her throat closing. Her instinct is always words, always spin, always fix, but this time she doesn’t push. She just folds both arms around you and holds on like she’ll never let go.

Your voice is thin and broken against her. “I know… I know studios want changes. I know it’s not personal. I just… you didn’t even finish it. And then all of them-” you stop, your shoulders curling in tight. “It was too much. It was all just… too much.”

Maya presses her lips hard to your hair, eyes burning. “Oh, baby girl…” She rocks you a little without even realising, thumb rubbing over your shoulder. “I fucked it up. I did. I thought I was protecting you, and I only made it worse. I’m so sorry.”

You don’t answer. You just cry quietly into her chest, letting it come out in little tremors and breaths.

Maya holds you through it, one hand stroking your hair, the other wrapped protectively over your waist. She doesn’t fill the air with chatter this time. She just lets you feel it, her heartbeat steady under your cheek, her presence solid even when she’s terrified she’s lost some part of you.

Eventually, your breathing evens, the tears drying on her shirt. Maya kisses your temple softly, whispering, “I’ve got you. Always. Even when I fuck up, I’ve got you.”

Your face is still hidden against her chest, her hoodie damp beneath your cheek. You sniff once, a small sound, then another.

“I love you,” you whisper.

Maya’s arms tighten around you instantly, as if she can pull you back from every bad moment by sheer force. Her chin rests on the crown of your head; you can feel her swallow hard before she speaks.

“Oh, baby…” her voice is low, rougher than usual, the words landing soft and sure. “I love you. I’m here. I’m right here.”

She keeps rubbing your back, slow circles. Her thumbs brush under your eyes, wiping at the wetness there. “Breathe with me, yeah? Just us, right here.”

You nod against her, eyes closing, letting the sound of her heartbeat and her steady breathing anchor you. She rocks you a little, kisses your hairline again.

“I’m here, my spooky girl,” she murmurs. “Even when I mess it up, I’m here.”

Her hands are warm on your back, her mouth at your temple, whispering it again until it’s a rhythm: “I love you. I’m here. I’m here.”

The two of you stay like that, curled together in the low glow of the bedside lamp, until the shaking in your shoulders eases and you’re just breathing against her skin, held tight.

~

The light is pale and watery through the blinds, the kind that makes the room feel quieter than usual. You’re still tucked under Maya’s arm, head heavy on her chest. She’s awake, rubbing slow circles into your back, her glasses perched on her nose, iPad abandoned on the nightstand.

“Hey, baby,” she murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You feelin’ a little better?”

You nod, small and sleepy, and nuzzle closer into her warmth.

She exhales, relief in the sound, and strokes your hair back from your face. “Good. Because…” she pauses, a little grin tugging at her mouth, “Matt emailed me at, like, two a.m. He loves the changes you proposed. Totally back on board.”

Your eyes flicker open, still heavy, and you nod. “Okay. I can do that.”

Maya tilts her head to press a kiss against your temple. “Of course you can. You’re brilliant.” She squeezes you tighter against her, rocking you just slightly.

Then she pulls back a little, studying your face. “So, what do you say? Forget the world, stay in, watch movies in bed? Just you, me, and a Costco-sized box of Sour Patch Kids?”

The corner of your mouth lifts, shy but real. You nod.

“Yeah?” she teases softly, eyes sparkling. “That a yes?”

You nod again, pressing your face into her neck, hiding your smile there.

Maya grins, tucking you close against her chest like she’s never letting you go. “Good girl. That’s the plan then.”

She kisses the top of your head, one hand still stroking your back, the two of you cocooned in the soft morning light, the world outside irrelevant.

The day drifts by in a blur of blankets and the faint hum of movies playing low on the TV. You barely keep track of what’s on, old black and whites, some comfort junk, the odd horror Maya pretends to mock but clings tighter through.

Mostly it’s just the two of you, wrapped around each other in the tangle of sheets. Her legs looped with yours, her arm hooked firm around your waist, your head tucked under her chin. Every time you stir or shift, Maya presses another kiss into your hair, your cheek, your shoulder, like she’s reminding both of you she’s still there.

You let yourself sink into it, the rhythm of her breath, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the rise and fall of her chest under your cheek. The safe space builds itself out of nothing but the two of you, no studios, no notes, no fights. Just warmth.

By evening, the outside world has shrunk to a dim whisper behind the curtains. You’re tangled together, half asleep, your hand caught in hers.

Matt Remick bursts into the conference room like he’s just come from war… or worse, a breakfast meeting with Griffin.

He’s got that look. Wide eyes, rumpled blazer, the smell of overpriced oat milk clinging to him like defeat. But he’s grinning like he just found the last golden ticket in Hollywood. “Big news,” he says. “Huge news.”

The team’s already waiting, Sal is sprawled in his usual seat with a breakfast burrito and a hangover, Quinn tapping away on her tablet with one AirPod in, and Patty Leigh sipping tea like she’s three seconds away from biting someone.

Sal doesn’t look up from his phone. “You always say that and it’s never huge man.”

“No,” Matt says, too pumped to be insulted. “No, this is real.”

Patty sighs and sets her tea down with careful grace. “What is it Matthew? You look like you’re about to wet yourself.”

Matt drops his phone on the table, screen facing up. It’s paused on a still from Wolves at the Well, that shot, the one with the lake and the antlers and the girl screaming underwater. Instantly recognizable. Instantly iconic.

“She’s looking for a studio,” Matt announces, reverent. “She’s looking for a studio.”

Quinn looks up. “Who is?”

Matt lets the silence drag just long enough to be dramatic. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

A pause.

Quinn straightens. “Wait. Seriously?”

Patty’s brows raise, skeptical but intrigued. “She’s leaving her indie? I thought she was some kind of cursed forest nymph who only works with companies run out of moss-covered cabins.”

Matt is glowing now. “Nope. Word is she’s looking for a studio. Not an indie label, not some moody investor with a fetish for Icelandic grief dramas. A studio. She wants scale. Reach. And after Wolves exploded? She’s got leverage. She wants to tell bigger stories and still keep control. We can offer that.”

Patty leans back, calculating. “How sure are you?”

“I’ve got three sources,” Matt says. “And her agent’s being cagey, which means it’s real.”

Quinn stares at him. “She’s the biggest thing in film right now. Her movie’s still breaking streaming records. If she’s even considering going big…”

“She is,” Matt says. “And I want her here.”

Silence.

Patty lifts a brow. “You really think she’s going to give up witchy obscurity for a studio boardroom?”

Matt grins. “Not for any studio. But this one? If we pitch it right? We can blow A24 out of the fucking water.”

Patty leans back, amused. “And who, pray tell, is going to convince her?”

Sal whistles low. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the plan?”

Matt points around the room like he’s handing out weapons in a war room.

“Quinn- I want everything. Press, panels, podcast interviews. Get inside her head. I want to know what she wants before she does.”

“On it.”

“Sal- find out who else is sniffing around. What they’re offering, who she’s talking to. No one moves without us knowing about it.”

Sal nods, already typing on his phone.

Matt turns to Patty. “You’re producing the pitch. She’s not a ‘take her to lunch and flatter her’ type. She’ll want vision. Integrity. Respect. Sell her on what we aren’t.”

Patty gives a slow, dangerous smile. “I do love a challenge.”

Then Matt turns to Maya.

And the energy shifts.

She hasn’t spoken. Head to toe in Louis Vuitton streetwear, tight ponytail, three rings on each finger, legs crossed like she’s not even paying attention. But her jaw tightens at the sound of your name.

She’s already read your new script. She read it in bed while you lay next to her, legs tangled with hers, chewing the end of a pencil and asking if she thought the ending was too kind. She didn’t answer. She kissed you instead.

“You marketed Wolves at the Well,” Matt says. “She loved that campaign. She said it was the only time her work didn’t feel… diluted.”

Maya says nothing.

“She trusted you,” Matt continues. “You get her tone. You get her weird, terrifying mind. If anyone can figure out how to bring her in, it’s you.”

Maya exhales slowly. “She doesn’t do meetings. She doesn’t do people.”

Matt shrugs. “Then don’t make it feel like a meeting. Make it feel like whatever the hell she needs it to be. We just need her to talk to us.”

Maya tilts her head. “You want a horror film with a ten-minute silent sequence where a woman stares into a mirror and rips her teeth out one by one, and you think I’m the key to selling it?”

Matt grins. “Exactly. And I think you’ve still got a line to her.”

Her eyes narrow. “What makes you think that?”

Matt shrugs. “Because if I were her, and I trusted anyone in this hellhole, it’d be you.”

A beat.

Maya leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

~

The boardroom becomes a war room.

Matt’s pacing again, sleeves rolled up like that helps him think. He’s surrounded by stacks of folders, half-eaten pastries, open laptops, and a terrifying number of Post-it notes.

“We can’t find her,” he says, hands in his hair. “I mean, what the fuck, we cannot find her. Where does she go when she disappears between projects?” he demands. “Nobody just vanishes anymore.”

“She does,” Quinn says, flicking through a spreadsheet. “She doesn’t have a personal Instagram, hasn’t been seen at a public event in eight months, and there’s literally one known address on file, some cabin in Northern California that may or may not exist.”

“She’s not completely off the grid,” Sal argues, waving his phone. “She liked a tweet two weeks ago.”

Matt spins on him. “What tweet?”

“It was about practical effects in horror. But the tweet got deleted, so…”

“So she’s alive, but elusive.” Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

Sal doesn’t even look up from his screen. “No publicist, no assistant, no active socials. Her website is literally a black screen with a Latin quote and a candle that burns out if you hover over it too long.”

“That’s performance art, not contact information!” Matt snaps.

Patty sips her tea. “She’s a ghost with awards.”

Matt slams a file down. “I promised Griffin we were talking to her this week. I called her the next big thing. The anti-Marvel. The future of smart cinema. He said, and I quote, ‘We need her in the building before A24 eats our souls and pisses out another Oscar.’”

Patty doesn’t blink. “And you told him you had this in the bag didn’t you?”

“I panicked!” Matt throws his arms up. “And now we’re screwed.”

He turns, wild-eyed, to Maya, who’s lounging in her chair with one knee up, chewing on the end of a pen and looking like this is the most fun she’s had in months.

“You marketed her last movie,” Matt clings to the one link he has to you. “You got her. You understood her. You got into her head. If anyone knows where she might be, it's you.”

Maya stretches slowly, deliberately, and shrugs. “Maybe she’s just… busy. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Quinn blinks. “Isn’t she developing something?”

“She’s always developing something,” Sal mutters. “The question is where. And with who.”

Matt’s pacing again. “We’re talking about the woman who made a horror movie about intergenerational trauma and demonic taxidermy and made it a hit. She’s brilliant. She’s unstable. She’s perfect. And she’s missing.”

Patty tilts her head. “She’s not missing. She’s choosing not to be seen.”

Matt points at her like she just unlocked the final puzzle piece. “YES. Exactly. She’s choosing. And we need to give her a reason to choose us. We need bait. Blood in the water. Something that says, ‘We get it. We’re not like the others. We won’t sand down your edges.’”

Sal sighs. “You’ve got a weird artsy cinephile boner for this woman haven’t you?”

Quinn looks toward Maya. “Seriously though… no leads at all?”

Maya shrugs again, slower this time. “Maybe I didn’t leave the door open far enough.”

Matt groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. We are so fucked.”

Maya just smiles. Calm. Knowing. Not offering anything. Not rushing. Not helping. Not yet.

Hours pass.

The conference room gets darker as the sun goes down, but no one bothers with the lights. The glow from laptops and phones and half-dead chargers is enough. A shrine to failure, if you asked Maya, which, blessedly, no one does.

Quinn ks scrolling with the intensity of someone hacking into the Pentagon. “Okay, I found a podcast she did anonymously five years ago under a fake name. I think it’s her because she mentions a childhood fear of mirrors and references a book no one else ever talks about-”

Matt cuts her off. “Is there an email?”

“No,” Quinn says, without missing a beat.

Sal’s got three tabs open: Reddit, IMDbPro, and a very messy spreadsheet titled WITCH LEADS. “Someone swears they saw her in Prague. Someone else thinks she’s living in a commune in upstate New York.”

Matt looks physically ill. “I told Griffin we had momentum.”

Patty snorts from where she’s taken up residence at the head of the table, reading over a dog-eared draft of one of your old scripts. “She is actively avoiding being found. This is artful silence. Intentional disappearance. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s playing divine to be untouched.”

“She has to want something,” Matt insists, like he’s trying to manifest you. “People don’t vanish unless they want to be chased.”

“Or left alone,” Quinn offers gently.

Matt groans and flops into a chair. “Why does she have to be like this?”

Maya, still perched like a cat on the edge of her chair, flips her pen between her fingers. “Because if she wasn’t like this, you wouldn’t want her half as much.”

The room stills for a beat.

Matt narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

Maya lifts a brow. “A little.”

“You know something,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You’re being weirdly calm.”

“I’m always calm,” she lies.

Quinn glances over. “Seriously, Maya, no old contacts? No secret email? No unlisted number?”

Maya yawns. “If I did, don’t you think I’d have used it by now?”

Patty side-eyes her. “Would you?”

Maya doesn’t answer. Because the truth is: she hasn’t even tried. Not really. She could send one message. Just one. And you’d answer. But where’s the fun in that?

~

Three long, caffeine-stained, sleep-deprived days since Matt declared, loud and confident, that you were in play.

You were not in play. You’re hovering above like a spectral deity, ignoring every pitch deck and soft outreach like none of it matters, which, to you, it probably doesn’t.

Griffin is starting to hover. “Any updates?” has turned into “When will I see something?” and now it’s morphing into ‘The Scary Tone’ that sharp, glossy warning that means the countdown has started.

Matt is in executive hell.

So he does the only thing he can do to cope: gets drunk and high with Sal and spirals through someone else’s movie.

Before the film, though, they hit up a spot Sal swears will “cure all emotional disease”, a high-end Italian place in West Hollywood that’s all mood lighting, rich velvet, and wine lists the size of novellas.

They meet at a high-end Italian place with dark velvet booths, moody jazz, and wine lists thicker than a studio script rewrite.

“I can’t believe she’s ghosting us,” Matt says, sinking into the booth. “Us, Sal. She makes one demonic deer movie and suddenly we’re not worthy of her divine witch vibes?”

Sal takes a sip of red wine and shrugs. “You knew what you were getting into. This is why I date Pilates instructors.”

Matt ignores him. “You know what the worst part is? It’s not even rejection. It’s- it’s nothing. She hasn’t even acknowledged we exist. It’s like trying to cast a fucking spell and getting static.”

Sal leans back. “You’re mixing your metaphors, man. You need carbs. Or a Xanax.”

Matt raises his glass. “Or both.”

Matt waves for a martini like it’s a sedative. “She’s out there somewhere. I know it. And we’re gonna lose her. I can feel it.”

Sal shrugs, flipping open the menu. “Then let her go. Find another terrifying gay auteur.”

Matt glares. “She’s the terrifying auteur. There is no one else.”

But before Sal can mock him further, something shifts in the room.

Matt glances up and freezes. There, in a deep velvet booth lit by a golden sconce, sits Maya Mason.

All sharp cheekbones and matte lipstick, black Gucci suit jacket slung over her shoulders, wine glass in hand. Her posture says I’m relaxed, but her eyes are calculating, ever so slightly narrowed.

Matt freezes. Elbows Sal.

Sal glances over and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t peg her for this level of bougie.”

Matt perks up. “Oh my god. Maya’s here. Should we go over?”

Matt starts to stand.

And then… you appear.

A soft, sudden presence moving through the space like perfume flitting over from the bar like a dream or a hallucination or some kind of punishment designed specifically for Matt’s crumbling sanity. You’re wrapped in silk and leather, a drink in one hand, your expression easy and unhurried.

You’re glowing under the amber light, glass in hand, lips glossed. You walk toward the booth without a second of hesitation. You slide in beside Maya, lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek. She murmurs something, barely audible, but her arm wraps around your waist. You settle into her side like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

Matt’s mouth falls open. He grabs Sal’s arm, white-knuckled. “Is that…?”

“That’s her,” Sal breathes. “That’s her.”

“She’s been in the city this whole time?”

“In Maya’s lap.”

Matt blinks rapidly. “She’s the mystery of the industry. The director no one can contact. She communicates in riddles and metaphors and one-word emails and now she’s just… she’s just- here?!”

They both duck slightly behind the wine rack like two deeply uncool spies.

“Do we go over there?” Sal whispers.

“I can’t,” Matt hisses. “I’m wearing H&M.”

He peeks again. You’re laughing now, soft and warm, gently nudging Maya’s shoulder as you sip something golden from a heavy crystal glass. Maya says something and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You smile up at her like she built the sky.

Matt slumps back down, clutching his drink. “We’re dead. Griffin’s going to turn me into a chair.”

Sal mutters, “Holy shit.”

Maya glances up and sees them. Her smile drops a millimeter. Her eyes narrow. Fucking hell. She takes a long, slow sip of her drink. Not because she’s thirsty, but because she needs a second to breathe through the coming wave of Matt’s voice, emails, frantic walk-and-talks, and existential screeds about visionary cinema.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

Maya smiles at you, soft but thin. “Yeah. Just spotted something annoying.”

You turn, casually following her gaze, eyes landing on the two stunned men standing by the maître d’.

You clock them instantly.

Maya exhales, like this is exactly the kind of nonsense she’d been trying to avoid. She rubs your thigh under the table, gently, grounding.

“Listen…” she mutters. “Continental studio… Matt and Sal over there, they want to make your next movie.”

You blink again, surprised but not rattled. “They do?”

“They’re fucking gagging for it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is that why they look like they’re about to pass out?”

“Yup.”

You giggle softly and kiss her cheek. “How flattering.”

Maya sighs, resigned. “So much for a quiet night.” She holds Matt’s gaze for a beat. Then lifts her glass.

A quiet, unreadable toast.

Across the restaurant, Matt stares into the middle distance like he’s experiencing ego death. “I’m going to throw up,” Matt mutters.

Sal raises his wine. “To lesbian espionage.”

You’re halfway through dessert, some ridiculous tower of hazelnut praline and dark chocolate that Maya ordered “because you deserve nice things”, when the shadows shift beside your table.

You glance up.

Matt Remick is standing there, eyes wide, smile tight, like he’s just come face to face with a god and doesn’t know if he should bow or cry.

Sal’s with him. Two steps behind. A little too much wine, a little too confident.

“We’ve been trying to reach you!” Matt says, breathless.

Maya groans under her breath.

You blink. “Clearly.”

Matt laughs nervously, motioning at the booth. “Can we- uh- join you? Just for a minute. We don’t want to interrupt. Well, we are interrupting. But we don’t want to.”

You glance at Maya. She doesn’t say anything, just leans back, arms crossed, watching with the calm of a lion in tall grass.

You nod and gesture to the other side of the table. “Go on then.”

They slide in like two college freshmen sitting down with the headmistress.

Matt clears his throat. “First of all, let me just say… we’re huge fans. Everyone at the studio is. Your work is… it’s revolutionary.”

You give a polite, noncommittal nod. Maya sips her drink, unmoved.

Then Sal leans in, far too casually. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian!” he says, grinning. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that- I mean, honestly it’s my most searched porn tab.”

Matt physically recoils.

You blink. Once. Slowly.

Maya does not react. At all. Just shifts, placing her hand casually on your thigh under the table.

Sal keeps going, like a man joyfully flinging himself off a cliff. “No, seriously. I mean, it’s hot, right? You two together. Power couple. You got that dark academia meets streetwear vibe. Like if The Craft had a PR department.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head ever so slightly. “This,” you say flatly, “is who wants to make my movie?”

Matt slaps Sal’s shoulder hard enough to shake the table. “Ignore him. He’s… he’s not usually like this.”

Maya leans in then, finally. “Oh, no,” she says, voice syrupy with sarcasm. “He’s exactly like this.”

Matt’s smile stretches thinner. “We just wanted to let you know- if you’re developing something new, we would love to talk. No pressure, obviously, but our door is wide open.”

You study him for a moment, sipping your drink. You don’t answer right away. You just… let the silence grow. It stretches long enough that Matt starts to visibly sweat.

Then finally, you look at Maya. “I thought they were gonna be taller,” you say.

Maya snorts into her glass.

~

Maya’s been smirking the whole ride back. She kicked her heels off in the car, feet in your lap, your fingers tracing slow circles against her ankle while she casually recounted every second of Matt and Sal’s implosion over dinner like it was the highlight of her year.

“‘Didn’t know you were a lesbian!’” she says, mimicking Sal with a cartoonishly terrible voice. “‘It’s my most searched porn tab!’ Babe. Babe. I almost choked on my fuckin wine.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against the leather seat. “You loved it.”

“Oh, I loved watching you scare the shit out of them. I could feel Matt’s soul trying to exit through his eyeballs.”

You hum, smiling to yourself. “He really looked like he was meeting the cryptid he’s been chasing for years.”

Maya grins, sharp and smug. “And she was just sitting in my lap the whole time.”

Later, at home, you’re curled up in bed together. Maya’s shirt is unbuttoned, her skin warm against yours, one arm thrown over you like she’s never letting go. The lights are low. The city hums far below the windows.

She’s scrolling idly on her phone, probably reading headlines about someone else’s PR failure, when you shift closer, pressing your cheek to her collarbone.

“Maya?”

She hums in response, not looking away.

You trace your finger along the inside of her wrist, gentle. “Want me to pick your studio?”

That gets her attention. She lowers the phone and looks down at you.

Your eyes are soft, wide, full of something quiet and real. “Give you complete control over the marketing?” you ask, voice like silk. “Let you run the campaign. Do it your way. No committee. Just you.”

Maya stares at you for a moment. “You’d do that for me, baby?”

You nod, nuzzling into her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course I would.”

She exhales, long and slow, like she wasn’t expecting that to hit her so hard.

“Fuck,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “I really got you, huh?”

You nod again, smiling, utterly gone for her.

She kisses your forehead, her lips lingering. Then she pulls back just enough to look down at you with a slow grin. “Yeah?” she murmurs. “Alright, baby girl. I’ll set up the meeting.”

You smile, nodding, and then lean in again, just a little, just enough to brush your lips along her collarbone.

She freezes for a second.

You press another kiss, soft and slow, just below her throat.

“Baby,” she says, voice a warning, a whisper.

You don’t answer. You just kiss higher, up the slope of her neck, the angle of her jaw, your breath warm against her pulse. You feel the way her arm tightens around you, like she’s trying to stay cool, trying not to let on that she’s already halfway gone.

Then she turns her head, catches your mouth with hers. It starts soft, slow and indulgent, her fingers slipping into your hair as your lips move against hers in lazy, exploring rhythm. You tilt into her, pressing yourself closer, one hand slipping under the open edge of her shirt to rest against her stomach.

Maya deepens the kiss like she’s claiming it, her hand sliding down your back, pulling you more fully into her lap.

She breaks away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. “You get like this when you make big promises?” she murmurs, smiling against your mouth.

You smile back, lips brushing hers. “Only for you.”

She kisses you again, hungrier now. Less patient. You’re still curled into her lap, fingers splayed across the bare skin of her stomach under her unbuttoned shirt, your lips brushing slow, reverent kisses up her throat like you’re praying to her body with your mouth.

She lets you.

Lets you worship her like this, patient and slow, kisses trailing higher, deeper, lips barely parting, breath warm against the spot just below her jaw that always makes her shudder. And when she does, when her fingers tighten in your hair just a little, you smile against her skin.

“Fuckin’ brat,” she mutters, voice thick, but she’s already tilting her head to give you more.

You kiss her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

Then you pull back just enough to whisper, soft and saccharine, “Want you.”

Her hand slides down to your throat, not rough, just there. Just holding. “Yeah?” she murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin, tipping your face up to meet hers.

You nod, lips parted, eyes wide and open in that way that always makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Want me to take care of you, babygirl?”

“Please.”

She kisses you hard this time, no patience, no softness. Just heat and teeth and tongue. Her grip on your throat tightens a little as she pushes you back into the pillows, climbing over you, her knee parting your thighs with practiced ease.

“You offering me your film and this sweet little body in the same night?” she growls, voice low and dangerous, mouth dragging down your neck now. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You gasp as her teeth catch your collarbone. That makes her laugh, deep and warm, before her mouth returns to your skin.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, hot against your chest. “Mine to kiss, mine to fuck, mine to show off when the studio begs for your name and you’re sitting in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into her back, hips rising to meet her. “Yes, Maya…”

“You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes/ yes, I’ll be so good… ”

“You are good,” she purrs, trailing her hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping under your panties like you were made for her. “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”

And when her fingers finally slide into you, slow and deep, you cry out for her, high and sweet and already undone, and Maya grins like she just won. Because she did.

Her fingers are already inside you, deep and slow, dragging along that perfect spot that makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch in your throat. Maya’s body is draped over yours, shirt half-off, hair falling over her face as she watches you like she’s memorizing the way you fall apart.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “So sweet, baby. Can’t believe this perfect little thing belongs to me.”

Your hips rock up to meet her hand, helpless and greedy. “Maya…”

She curls her fingers just right and you gasp, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back against the pillows. “Uh-uh,” she says, voice sharp, dominant. Her free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me.”

You do. Because how could you not?

Her smirk softens at the edges. “Look at you,” she whispers. “So powerful out there. Untouchable. And now you’re under me, legs shaking, begging to come.”

You nod, desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, baby,” she coos. “I’ve got you.”

She fucks you with deliberate, punishing strokes that make your back arch, your nails claw at the sheets, your voice turn to broken little moans that only she gets to hear.

“Who makes you feel this good?” she demands, her mouth at your ear now, her pace unrelenting.

“You do,” you gasp. “You do, Maya!”

“That’s right.”

She doesn’t let up. Her thumb finds your clit, circling in slow, sinful rhythm as her fingers thrust deeper. You’re close. So close. And she knows it. She feels it.

“Come for me,” she commands, voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

And when you do, it crashes over you like fire, white-hot and consuming, your whole body shaking as you sob her name. She holds you through it, fingers still moving as you writhe beneath her, overstimulated and soaked.

You’re gasping, lips parted, body trembling and she still doesn’t stop.

“Again,” she says, quieter now. “I want one more.”

“M-Maya…” You’re already wrecked, legs weak, tears in your lashes.

But her hand doesn’t leave you. Her mouth kisses your throat, your cheek, your lips. Her eyes stay on yours.

“You said I had control, didn’t you?” she whispers.

You nod, crying out as she thrusts again. “Yes- yes- fuck- yes!”

“Good girl.”

You’re shaking.

Your chest is heaving, thighs soaked, voice cracked open into raw little gasps. And Maya still hasn’t let up. She hasn’t stopped touching you, hasn’t moved from where she’s curled against your body, fingers still inside you, lips still on your neck.

“Fuck, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked with praise. “You’re so good for me. So perfect like this.”

You can’t speak. Your throat is raw from moaning, your body so sensitive that even the smallest movement makes your hips twitch. But Maya isn’t finished. She licks into your mouth when you try to cry out again, muffling your moans with her kiss, letting your broken little sounds melt into her tongue as she keeps her rhythm steady.

“Come on, babygirl,” she says, voice molten. “One more for me. Just one more. You can do it. I’ve got you,” she purrs. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

You nod, tears spilling over as your eyes squeeze shut.

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Fucking take it.”

Your climax hits harder this time, like lightning, like something primal cracking loose inside you. You sob her name, the sound helpless, wrecked, as your body arches into hers and the pleasure rips through you like fire.

Maya doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling, gasping, pleading for her mouth instead of her fingers. She finally slows, eases her hand out, kisses your cheeks, your wet lashes, your trembling lips.

“Shhh,” she whispers, wrapping herself around you. “I’ve got you, baby. You did so good for me. So fucking good.”

You collapse into her, boneless and broken and safe. She pulls you close, her hands now stroking soft and slow down your back, murmuring against your hair, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you.”

The room is still hazy with the aftermath, your body soft, spent, sprawled across Maya’s chest as she strokes your hair with slow, possessive fingers.

You’re trembling in that delicious, floating way. Your skin feels fever-warm, your lips swollen from her kisses, your thighs aching from being held open so long. Every inch of you is humming, fucked out and fully hers.

And Maya?

Maya looks like a goddess. Lipstick smudged, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with satisfaction.

She presses a kiss to your hairline.

You breathe out her name like a prayer. “Maya…”

She hums, low and amused, fingers still stroking your spine. “That was sweet, baby. You took it so well.”

You nod, nuzzling closer. “Wanted to be good for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You were. You always are.”

There’s a pause. Then her fingers tighten a little in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. “But I think someone forgot her manners.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs instinctively press together.

“You gonna thank me properly?” she purrs, tilting your chin up to meet her eyes. “Or you gonna make me ask again?”

You whimper. “Want to. Want to thank you.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous, and shifts onto her back, guiding you between her thighs with the smooth confidence of someone who already knows what you’ll do. Who owns what you’ll do.

“Show me, then,” she says, voice all velvet and command. “Show me how grateful you are.”

You settle between her legs, kissing her thighs reverently, softly at first, until she threads her fingers through your hair and tugs you where she wants you.

She’s soaked for you. Already aching. And when your tongue finally drags over her, slow and sweet, she lets out a low, shuddering moan that makes your heart stutter.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice shaking now. “My good fucking girl.”

You lick into her like she’s holy, like this is your altar, and your worship is earned. You’re gentle, focused, letting her control the rhythm, her hand guiding your mouth, her hips twitching up against your tongue as she gets louder, messier, more desperate.

You moan against her, the sound sending vibrations straight through her.

“Fuck… fuck, yes- don’t stop, don’t you dare- ”

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clenching around your head, her voice shattering into a gasp of your name like it’s the only word she knows.

You stay there.

Kiss her through it. Lick her clean. Keep your mouth soft and open on her until she’s twitching, panting, tugging your hair to pull you off with a sharp hiss.

You look up at her, eyes shining, and whisper: “Thank you, I love you.”

Maya groans. “Fuck. Come here.”

She pulls you up, kisses you filthy, tasting herself on your tongue and rolls you into her arms, both of you ruined and radiant in the glow of it.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and golden, casting a soft glow over your skin as you stretch slowly beneath the sheets.

You’re still a little sore. Your thighs ache in that perfect way, your lips are swollen from kissing, and there’s a faint, delicious hum still rolling through your muscles, reminders of everything Maya did to you last night. How she took from you. How you gave her everything.

She’s already awake.

Propped against the headboard, hair mussed, one arm lazily draped around your waist as she scrolls her phone with the other hand, wearing only her open silk robe and a smirk that spells danger.

You blink up at her, sleep-heavy. “What’re you doing?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “Texting Matt.”

You groan and bury your face in her hip. “Poor man.”

She grins. “He’s fine. I’m giving him the gift of hope.”

You peek up. “What’d you say?”

Maya hits send with a little flourish, then turns the phone toward you.

<Maya: You’re getting your meeting. Wear something that doesn’t scream ‘desperation.’>

You burst into sleepy laughter, curling closer to her. “You’re so mean,” you mumble against her skin.

She strokes your hair. “He’ll live. Probably already printing t-shirts that say I Met Y/N Y/L/N and Survived.”

You giggle again, then go quiet.

Maya glances down. “What?”

You look up at her, eyes soft. “I’m glad it’s you.”

She pauses. Smile fading into something warmer, deeper.

“I know,” she says, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Me too.”

Then her phone buzzes. A message from Matt.

<Matt R: OH MY GOD. WHEN. HOW. WHERE. WHO DO I CALL. I’M READY.>

Maya sighs dramatically and locks her screen. “This is what I get for letting the masses know you’re mine.”

You hum, smug. “You love me.”

She kisses you. “I fucking do.”

~

The conference room is spotless. Brighter than usual. Like someone turned up the lights to overcompensate for the impending dread.

Matt Remick is pacing again.

Quinn’s at the end of the table, calm on the outside, but absolutely sweating through her blouse. Sal’s already had two coffees, half a croissant and is fidgeting so hard the table rattles.

And Maya? Maya’s lounging in her chair like this is a boredom exercise, one leg crossed over the other, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on even though they’re inside. Her expression is unreadable, cool and calm, the faintest smirk playing at her lips.

“She’s late,” Matt says, not for the first time.

“She’s not late,” Maya replies, not looking up. “She’s theatrical.”

Quinn eyes the door like it might explode open at any second. “Do we stand when she comes in?”

Matt actually considers it. “I don’t know, do we?!”

“She’s not the fucking Pope,” Maya mutters.

Sal’s bouncing his knee. “I think I’m gonna throw up. What if she hates the pitch? What if she says nothing and just leaves?”

“She won’t leave,” Maya says, now finally pulling off her sunglasses, revealing that infuriating glint in her eyes.

“How do you know?” Matt asks.

And that’s when they all hear it: the elevator ding.

Everyone freezes.

Maya uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. “She’s here,” she says.

Sal stands so fast he knocks his chair back.

Matt smooths his blazer, then immediately un-smooths it, then just gives up and wipes his palms on his trousers.

The footsteps echo down the hallway.

Quinn breathes out, once. “Okay. Show time.”

Maya leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee from her obnoxiously big Stanley cup like the goddess of chaos she is. “She’s gonna eat you alive,” she says, deadpan.

Matt doesn’t know if she’s joking.

And then the door opens. You enter the room like a shadow falling over water, quiet, poised, the kind of still that makes people hold their breath without realizing it. The moment you step through the door, the air shifts. Matt bolts upright. Quinn straightens her notes. Sal tries to stand but mostly fumbles his coffee.

Maya’s already sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, wearing a black Gucci hoodie layered over a YSL T-shirt, obscenely expensive sneakers up on the edge of the table like this is a meeting she couldn’t care less about. But her eyes don’t leave you. Not once.

You take the head of the table. Say nothing. Let them sweat.

Matt starts first, of course. “We are thrilled you’re here. Honestly, this… this means a lot.”

You blink.

He keeps going. “We’ve been talking internally about what kind of slate makes sense for where film is heading, where you’re heading. And your voice? We think it defines the next era.”

Quinn jumps in. “Your work doesn’t compromise, and neither do we. You’d have creative control, a team that gets the tone, the language, the darkness.”

“We’ll protect your process,” Matt adds quickly. “We want to empower you, not get in your way.”

“We’ll give you whatever you want,” Sal says, before realizing how that sounds. “I mean, not whatever, but like… most things. Within reason. Or- outside reason, if it’s, like, cool.”

You stare at him.

Maya pinches the bridge of her nose.

You sit at the head of the table, spine straight, legs crossed, eyes focused on a fixed point in the distance like you’re seeing something no one else in the room can.

The others: Matt, Sal, and Quinn, are still mid-pitch. Words flying, ideas piling up on top of each other, offers and promises and desperate energy all funneled toward you.

And you’re still.

Maya clocks it immediately. She hasn’t said a word since you walked in. Just sat quietly off to the side in her usual luxury streetwear combo, arms folded, eyes locked on you.

But when your fingers twitch on the armrest, barely, like a flicker of static, she moves. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just real. She stands, walks over, and places her hand on your back. Palm flat. Warm. Steady. Her other hand rests on your forearm. No words. No looks exchanged.

And you exhale.

Barely a sound. But Maya feels it.

Your shoulders loosen. Your eyes slip closed. Not all the way, just enough to quiet the noise. You lean into the touch. Just a little.

And that’s when Quinn sees it.

It clicks, not in some cinematic, revelatory way. Just quietly. All at once. You’re not mysterious because it’s your brand. You’re not untouchable because you’re trying to be.

You’re just… different.

Your silence isn’t curated. It’s instinct. The long pauses. The blank stares. The way you drift just slightly outside the rhythm of a room. You’re not avoiding them because you’re a diva. You’re avoiding them because you’re anxious.

Quinn glances at Maya who is now gently running her thumb along your arm, still facing forward like she doesn’t want to make a scene, and sees it for what it is.

This isn't a strategy. It’s care. Maya’s anchoring you while the others scramble to impress you. And it’s working.

Matt hasn’t noticed. He’s still going, talking fast, trying to pivot into something with buzzwords. Sal keeps jumping in with half-formed ideas.

But Quinn watches the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re finally able to breathe again.

And Maya? Maya just mutters, quiet enough for only you to hear: “You’re good, baby. They’re just noise.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Matt is mid-sentence, something about festival reach and global rights, his voice hitting that slightly manic pitch of a man dangling off the edge of a dream.

“- we’d leverage the marketing momentum of Wolves at the Well, of course, but frame this next project as your arrival. The next evolution of your vision, scaled but intact, and-”

“Matt,” Quinn says, calmly but firmly.

He falters. “What?”

She holds up a hand. “Just… give me a second.”

Sal blinks. “Wait, what-”

“No, seriously,” Quinn says, her eyes never leaving you. “Let’s stop. Right now.”

Everyone turns.

You haven’t moved. Still sitting there, Maya’s hand resting gently against your arm, your fingers now loosely curled into hers beneath the table. Your eyes are half-lidded, face soft but unreadable.

Quinn sees it again, the stillness, the disconnect, the focus. But also the touch point. Maya’s presence. The grounding.

Quinn leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s speaking across a sacred line. “We don’t want to pitch at you,” she says. “We want to work with you. However that looks.”

You blink slowly.

Matt looks confused. Sal is squinting like he’s missed half a conversation.

Maya says nothing. Just lets her thumb glide against your wrist again.

And that’s when you speak.

Quiet and measured like every word has to come out slowly, or else you’ll lose your nerve. “I want Maya to have everything she wants.”

Matt frowns. “What?”

You lift your gaze. Steady now. Direct. “I want her to have whatever she wants.”

A beat.

“I know you want me,” you continue, voice calm but unwavering. “But I only trust her.”

Silence. Not dramatic silence. Loaded silence. The kind that settles into every corner of the room and stays there.

Matt runs a hand through his hair, laughing, just once, like it escaped him. “Okay. Okay. Fine.”

Maya squeezes your hand under the table.

You sit there, spine straight, Maya’s hand still tucked gently over yours on the table. Matt looks stunned. Sal’s blinking like he missed a scene. Quinn is unreadable, but watching, always watching.

Then Maya clears her throat and stands. “Now give us the room.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She jerks her head toward the door. “Out. Five minutes.”

Quinn nods immediately, dragging Sal by the arm. Matt hesitates, glancing at you one last time before sighing and following.

The door clicks shut.

And no one hears footsteps retreating because of course they don’t leave. They stay just outside. Pressed up against the glass wall like they’ve got a right to any of what’s about to happen.

Inside? Maya turns to you, arms crossed, eyes soft, but still sharp enough to cut.

“You were fucking incredible,” she says, quiet and sure. “You know that, right?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. You’re up before you know it, rising from the chair like you’re being pulled to her.

Maya barely gets her arms open before you’re on her, hands in her hair, mouth on hers, kissing her like you need it to live. It’s not graceful. Not curated. It’s messy. Desperate. Honest.

She catches you easily. One hand on your waist, the other fisting in the back of your shirt as your mouth moves hot and hungry over hers.

You mumble against her lips, voice cracking, “I was shaking. I was shaking, Maya.”

“I know,” she says, kissing you again. Slower this time. “But they didn’t see it. You held the room. You made the call. You were fucking brilliant, baby.”

Your hands are everywhere, cupping her face, grabbing her shirt, trying to climb into her skin. “I hate meetings,” you breathe. “I hate rooms like this.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to hide.”

“I know,” she says, grounding her palm at the small of your back. “And you still did it.”

She kisses you again, rough and claiming, and you melt into it, letting her hold your weight like she always does. Her hand slides up your spine, holding you tight, kissing you like she’s proud. Like you’re hers. Like you always have been.

Outside the door, Matt whispers, “Are they… are they making out right now?”

Sal nods, reverent. “I think she just cried on her a little.”

Quinn’s smirking. “She chose Maya, not us.”

And inside?

Maya breaks the kiss only to murmur against your lips, her voice hoarse.“You want me to tell them you’ve made your decision?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Tell them I’m yours.”

Maya grins. “Oh, they know.”

The door swings open.

Maya strides out like a woman who’s just pulled off the heist of the century. She’s grinning. Smug. Unbothered. Lips a little redder than they were ten minutes ago.

Sal looks up, stunned. Quinn raises an eyebrow, already clocking the lipstick situation.

Matt shoots to his feet. “Well?”

“She said yes,” Maya says, without ceremony. “You can unclench now.”

Matt nearly wilts with relief. “Holy shit. Okay. Amazing. What do you need? What do we need to-”

“I want a proper budget,” Maya cuts in, already gathering her bag like she’s about to leave a crime scene. “None of this pretend-support bullshit. I want a full team, proper spend, launch runway, and I want control of the marketing. Not a taste. Not a ‘collaborative’ voice. Control.”

Matt nods, fast, desperate. “Yes. Fine. Whatever she needs.”

“Good,” Maya says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, grin spreading. “You can tell Griffin she’ll be in touch with a script by the end of the week.”

Sal blinks. “She’s already finished it?”

“She’s already writing a sequel,” Maya says, breezing past.

“And where are you going?” Quinn asks, voice amused, arms crossed.

Maya flashes a wicked grin as she opens the door. “I’ve got a meeting with Mackie and Ron Howard at the Sunset Tower in twenty. And then I’m taking my girl home.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “You’re- wait, what?”

But Maya’s already gone.

And behind her? You trail after her quietly, your fingers brushing hers. Head down. Lips kissed raw. You don’t say anything to the room as you leave.

You don’t need to.

Because Maya already said it all.

The SUV is silent, the tinted windows shielding you from the chaos you just left behind. The studio’s glass façade disappears behind you like a fading mirage.

Maya’s sitting beside you in the back seat, legs wide, arm slung lazily along the backrest behind your shoulders. Her other hand rests firmly on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, idle circles through the fabric of your trousers.

You haven’t said much since leaving.

You don’t need to.

She breaks the silence first. Voice low. Warm. Slightly smug. “You were a fucking machine in there.”

You laugh softly, head dropping to her shoulder. “I was shaking.”

“And still owned the room,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You didn’t just say yes to the deal, you dictated the terms. You looked Matt Remick in the face and said, ‘I trust her, not you.’ You could’ve spat in his latte and he still would’ve thanked you.”

You smile against her neck, quiet and dazed.

“I was just trying not to cry.”

Maya scoffs. “Yeah, well. You made me want to cry. Proud tears. Or maybe power-hungry tears. Still unclear.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, harder now.

“Seriously, though,” she says, glancing at you. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then her voice drops even lower. “You know what happens to good girls who hand me entire marketing budgets and creative control?”

You lift your head slowly, lips parted, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

“What?”

Maya leans in, grinning like the devil. “They get fucked stupid.”

~

The house is quiet when you get in.

Your shoes are off before you realize it. Your hands are a little shaky, your breathing shallow like you’ve just finished running, but it’s not fear. It’s the come-down. The crash after the biggest high of your life.

You’re going to direct your film. With a real budget. With real backing. And with Maya’s studio. You’re going to make your movie. And you didn’t cry. Not once.

You’re in the middle of the living room, fingers pressed to your lips like you’re still trying to convince yourself it’s real, when you feel her behind you.

Maya slides her arms around your waist from behind, her mouth at your neck. “You did it,” she whispers, low and sure.

You nod slowly. “I didn’t cry.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I talked. I said what I wanted. I told them to trust you.”

“You were perfect,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in it.

You turn in her arms to look at her, eyes wide and glossy. “I didn’t think I could-”

Maya cuts you off with a soft kiss. Then another. And then she pulls back, eyes dark. “You didn’t just do it,” she says. “You owned it. You handed me a whole fucking studio’s trust, like it was nothing. And you know what, baby?”

You shake your head, dizzy with her voice.

“I’m gonna make you feel everything tonight.”

She kisses you again, slower now, hands moving down your back to squeeze your ass as she walks you backward toward the bedroom.

“You trust me?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Good. Strip.”

Your breath catches.

Maya steps back just enough to pull her gucci hoodie off. Her bra’s black, expensive, perfect. Her eyes never leave yours.

You pull your shirt off slowly, fingers fumbling slightly, body humming. By the time your clothes hit the floor, she’s already reaching into the drawer by the bed.

When she turns back, she’s got the harness on, low-slung, black leather, heavy with promise. Her eyes burn into you as she adjusts the straps, slow and practiced.

You’re already trembling.

“Get on the bed,” she says. “Hands above your head.”

You obey.

You always obey for her.

She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips, kissing you deep, one hand cupping your jaw, the other tracing down your throat. “Still with me, babygirl?”

You nod, lips parted. “Always.”

And then she takes her time. Mouth on your neck. Then your chest. Her tongue curling around each nipple, licking and sucking until you’re whining, arching up into her, begging already and she hasn’t even touched you where you need it.

“You gonna let me fuck you slow?” she whispers, kissing down your stomach.

“Yes… please… ”

“Gonna let me take care of you?”

“Yes, Maya…”

She kisses your thighs reverently. Then slips a hand between them, parting you gently. She leans down, kisses your clit once, softly. Then again. Then sucks it just hard enough to make you gasp. By the time she slides the tip of the strap into you, you’re already panting, needy, hands gripping the sheets. And still she moves slowly. Inch by inch.

“You’re so tight for me, baby,” she murmurs, watching you fall apart. “So fucking wet.”

You moan, high and desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, babygirl. I got you.”

She fucks you with long, deep strokes, no rush, no teasing. Just possession. Her hand on your stomach to hold you down, her strap dragging against every perfect spot inside you as she watches you lose yourself beneath her.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours…I’m yours, Maya- fuck!”

“That’s right,” she growls, picking up the pace just slightly, her hips rolling into you in smooth, relentless rhythm. “All fucking mine.”

And when you come, crying out her name, back arching off the bed? She doesn’t stop. She kisses you through it. Fucking you deep and slow until you’re trembling, overstimulated, wrecked. Only then does she slow down, hands soft again, kisses returning to your chest, your face, your lips.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs. “You did so good. My perfect girl.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you collapse beneath her.

Safe.

Home.

And completely hers.

~

The room is low-lit and warm, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after. After the chaos. After the fight. After the fuck.

You’re both in bed.

You’re curled into her side, skin bare but for the threadbare Stevie Nicks tee you stole from her weeks ago and never gave back. Legs tangled under the sheets, arms wrapped around her waist like you’re anchoring yourself to something real.

Maya’s already half reclined, propped against a velvet pillow, silk YSL pyjamas buttoned down just enough to flash the edge of her collarbone. She’s got a facemask pulled up on top of her head like she forgot she meant to use it. Her phone’s on the nightstand. She hasn’t looked at it in an hour.

The only light comes from the old black-and-white horror film flickering across the flatscreen, The Haunting, or maybe Carnival of Souls, something you love with too much reverence for anyone else to touch.

You’re transfixed. Eyes wide. Body relaxed in the way it only ever is when Maya’s hand is resting between your shoulder blades, fingers moving in lazy, absent circles.

She watches the screen for a minute. Watches you watch the screen. Then she laughs softly under her breath. It’s affectionate. Disbelieving.

“Jesus,” she murmurs, lips ghosting against your hair. “I’m dating the next big name in cinema and she’s still just a little cryptid watching ghost films in my bed.”

You don’t even look at her. “I heard that.”

“I meant it.”

You hum, small and smug.

She shifts slightly, brushing her nose against the crown of your head.

You’re not talking. But your hand’s curled into the silk at her waist, absentmindedly twisting the fabric between your fingers like you’re grounding yourself there.

It makes her chest ache.

There are meetings waiting in her inbox. Contracts to finalize. An entire launch strategy to sketch out for a movie that doesn’t even exist on paper yet.

But none of it matters right now.

Because you, her strange, brilliant, batshit little artist, are asleep in her arms, breathing slowly, dreaming vividly, probably whispering storyboards in your head as you drift.

She smiles, slow and full, and tightens her arm around you.

And for a moment, just a moment, Maya Mason, queen of twenty-city press runs and million-dollar deadlines, just lies there. Holding her girl. Breathing in your soft weirdness. Letting herself be still.

And as the film plays on, grainy and echoing with ghostly screams, you mumble something into her neck. Something half-formed and sleepy.

“Fog machines…”

She stifles a laugh.

“Uh well, thanks for all your hard work. Uh, well…We cannot in good conscience continue filming, so we are officially stopping,” Matt told the production team, Matt stood there with his group. Quinn, Sal, Maya, and Tyler, all there as if it were the last supper or something. As you and the filming crew were supposed to watch like lost shepherds. The cops and detectives were all at the sidelines, waiting for someone to move out of place. To confess to being a serial killer maybe?

Your laugh broke through the crowd like a whip. A single manic noise in a frightful lot in Hollywood. You don’t see Maya smirk on stage. 

How many dead actors until a studio takes the hint and shuts the production down?

Three, it turned out, actually.

The FBI agent Vidal’s eyes were narrowed on you as you laughed inappropriately. She was sure you were guilty, which was comical, really. 

But then you weren’t being completely honest with Agent Vidal. You hadn’t mentioned the interesting communication you’d been having, the strange fucking phone calls, the gifts, what happened last night…

But you were desperate. 

You’d needed this movie, okay, half-truth.

Yes, you wanted to do this horror movie, and your career was in crisis. 

But it was deeper than that.

Sicker, if you were telling the truth.

The killer with the mask was on a rampage, but he was killing…bad people. 

People who were cruel to you on set. 

First was a casting director who implied you should blow him for the part.

Poor Mark was stabbed through both eyes with his member cut off. He’d been with the studio since the 70s. (And instantly replaced without a thought, but that’s LA for you).

The next day you got a letter with a single black rose.

Apologizing for the hideous remarks and saying that this admirer would never be so crass. That they would make love to you slowly. 

You didn’t tell the police, unsure why. Something felt wildly too revealing. You’d have to explain and - you didn’t want to.

Instead, you ate the story and placed the flower in a vase. 

Then, the excuses tacked ontop of each other. You stuck to your complicity. once the murder had passed, and the press got more excited for the film. You didn’t want to get into trouble for withholding evidence. 

The next week of filming, everyone was on edge, some even implying it was a stunt from the studio to boost marketing sales.

Then the next victim. The second was a costume artist who implied you’d been too fat to fit into the negligee for the opening running scene.

His fingers were found, and they were able to identify his body in a bad part of town, skinned like someone was partial to wearing him. Stabbing to his major arteries, slow bleed out.

At that point, rumor had spread that you might be behind it.

Cops watched you closely.  

A tail everywhere you’ve gone. 

That's when you’d gotten the first phone call.

“You liked my rose.” The voice asked, and you inhaled sharply. Not a person you recognized. You should hang up. You should call 911. You should at least lock your doors. Instead, you spun to look at the rose, and answered back like you were some stupid final girl in this horror movie;

“I’ve never been given a flower before.” You say too honestly.

“Not even for your school performances?” The voice was shrill, through some kind of voice jumbler.

Giving you the reality that you knew this person. Not recognized, but they were concerned enough to go to this length. Could it be someone on set playing a trick? No, how would they know about the rose unless it was the killer. 

Why were you impressed they’d gone to all this trouble? You were fucked up.

They were guilty, that this was wrong. 

“I should call the police.” You tried to reason with yourself more then the killer, but gripped your phone tighter.

The sinister answer was fast, not liking you pussying out. 

“No, no, no, not a good idea.” They threatened.

“What exactly is the endgame here?” You said, contemplating if you should try your pager. Page the studio or Agent Vidal, her card still on your kitchen table. 

“You.”

The phone line cracked, you feel cold sweat roll down your back. 

You don’t know how to answer that; they can’t be serious.

“That’s not very funny,” you reason back, and whatever voice scrambler did a little sadistic laugh. 

“What’s wrong? Don’t you like scary movies?” The voice sounded masculine, but something about this felt too smart; you imagined a woman. 

You move the landline phone away from your mouth for a minute, rubbing your lips together, trying to think of a way to not incriminate yourself. 

What if you gave the killer the wrong answer? What if you lied? What if you didn’t turn them in?

You bite your lip, but bring the bottom of the phone back to answer;

“Of course I do.” It would be dumb to lie as the person enrolled in the lead of a horror movie contract, and a franchise no less.

“What’s your favorite scary movie?” The voice asks, seeming to be enjoying themselves. 

“Why? Do you want a date night?” You snark back, and the laugh on the end sends your hair on edge. 

“I would love date night, but you’d have to follow the rules. And big stars like you, I’m afraid the femme fatale type doesn’t listen to rules. But would you, for me? In my spooky, scary mask, with my long knife, could you be a good girl for me?” The voice asks, and you hated how your breathing was coming out on the phone now. 

“I think I should hang up now.” You say, but the uncertainty is clear. And the killer just laughs again. 

“Don’t be boring, I know you're not boring. Don’t start now, tell me - would you behave for me? Would you lick the mask? Would you bend over in those black cute panties with your ass cheeks peaking out, and let me spank you? Or is that too vanilla- too girly for a woman of your needs?” The voice hits you right at your core, fuck this.

You look down, how could they see you were wearing your black panties? Were they inside the house? You look over at your kitchen window. Moving to pull the blinds down-

“Don’t, you’ll make me so sad.” The killer says.

You know what they do when they’re mad, you hate to see them sad.

You stood still staring out into the night, no lights to be see . Just pitch black outside your window.

“I knew you’d want to play. You’re just as bad as me.” You hear from the speaker, you're holding the phone like it’s a lifeline.

You still don’t hang up. You need to hang up. 

“I don’t want to play anymore.” You answer slowly, but you both know it’s a lie.

“Oh come on now, if you don’t play, you can’t win.” The caller tries to entice you.

“What could I possibly win that I’d want?” You snarl back but you already know.

“I’ve already given so many fun gifts, don’t you doubt me now. Not when you see how much I can make happen.” The threat gives you insight.

You're suddenly freezing cold in your hoodie and black panties, in your kitchen, waiting to die, waiting to be stabbed. 

You imagine the knife penetrating your skin, then the image bounces in your mind where your bleeding out with the phone in your hand and a knife in your chest. 

The image leaves, and the adrenaline washing through you is both alluring and horrifying. 

“Aren’t you a bit curious who I am?” They taunt and it’s killing you, you have to know. 

So much of your life you felt forgotten, looked over, ignored. Why else would you choose acting? To finally be seen.

But here was your secret admirer, your very first one. And they’d do anything for you…Perhaps that was so worth the gamble with your life. 

Your fingers grip the landline so hard your white knuckling it. 

“You’re not some sicko assistant tech or something, you work higher up.” You string it together and hear a hum through the speakers. They liked that.

“They’re my girl.” The caller says the praise, and it rocks your whole being. Why are you so fucked?

“You work at the studio.” You repeat it, like you can’t believe your actually getting somewhere. Suck it Agent Vidal, how far had she made it in the case? Fuck her perfect smile and sexy boobs, you were an actress making better headway then her. 

“You already said that kitten.”

“I’m not your kitten, I’m not your girl, now tell me who the fuck you are?” You spit out, taking a step closer to the window, hoping they can see you now.

“Oooh, look at you. I knew you had guts, knew it before the silly director saw you. Knew it before the studio got word of you. But seeing you here in your little panties mean mugging me, well this really gets me going.” The caller said excited, and you got a gross idea. 

“Fuck please don’t be Matt or Sal, I’ll never be able to unimagine that. Sal already gives me the creeps.” You feel like you might throw up, another laugh on the line. 

“No, remember I have power, real power, not a simpleton. Pay attention, or I’ll have to make this more painful.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. 

“Is that what your going to do, hurt me?” You swallow drly, and you can see your reflection in the window. 

There’s a pause.

“Do you fear that, it doesn’t sound like you do. How cute. Is that what you want, pain? Would that make you quiver?” The voice jumbler can’t hide how the killers voice deepens. You’ve made them aroused. 

You twist around you, grabbing the cord of the phone like it might save you. You rock back on your heels, ready to turn away.

“You aren’t even here, I’m not-I’m not going to dirty talk on the phone-to-to a murderer! I’m not flirting some sex game-” 

“Isn’t it though?” The ask hits you in the chest, your heart pounds. 

“I’m hanging up.” You sound less and less sure, and the psycho on the other end knows it. 

“No your not, you’re mine. We both knew that before you even answered the phone.” The caller says and you bite your lip so hard it bleeds. 

Neither of you say a word. 

You scrunch your toes and stare into the night imagining what they might look like. 

“Pull your underwear down.” 

It wasn’t a question. The killer was telling you, in the middle of the night, in front of the window.

You slowly raise your left hand, your thumb playing with the elastic, a bit of your pubic hair peaking out. 

That was the first time. 

The first of many, so many calls, so much touching. So many things you swore you’d enver do. 

Your pulled back into the present day as FBI Agent Vidal walks in front of Matt now, and she’s eyeing you more than the crowd. 

The third victim had been found, Sal. He’d evidently made a remark about you needing to do more ‘nude work.’ They’d taken his body off of the Hollywood sign, guess he finally got instead of gave some of the ‘D,’ he was so found of talking about. 

You’d stared at the photo’s this morning, the stab wounds were consistent. 

Your admirer was dramatic if not reliable. 

You never should have mentioned Sal, had you wanted this?

“If you have any information, please come forward. If you are hiding something or aiding in this killer in any way-” Vidal’s trying to make you feel the heat. But you disasociate as her lips move. Unaware of the head of marketing watching you just as closely. Her blue eyes remembering what you looked like bent over naked, screaming and moaning as you were inscructed where to put the closepins. As you ruined yourself for a masked crazed lunatic…..with a knife.

Agent Vidal tried to say something about how if everyone co-operates this will all be over soon. 

They were all wrong. It won’t stop it. 

Your lover won’t stop until she’s satisfied, and they weren’t smart enough to catch them.

You were biased of course….

But then…..after last night, you don’t know if you want this ever to end. 

Fuck you don’t know anything after last night….

Everything had changed;

You’d been waiting by the phone, only no call. 

Everynight they called, every single night. 

So you waited by the tv, it quietly playing a slasher film. You were already, your panties on and nothing else. 

Something must have been broken inside of you, that you didn’t care about anything else anymore. Not acting, not the studio worrying about this stupid film. 

Your mind was consumed.

You stared at your corded phone like it was the only thing that could save you. 

You were past hating yourself for craving their attention. Past being embarrassed while you defiled yourself for their enjoyment. 

Something about the carnage, all that murder in your name…. delighted you. 

The clock ticked on the wall. 

The phone didn’t ring. 

You waited. 

You would learn in the morning why your admirer was so late. Traffic from the Hollywood Sign wasn’t easy at any time of night. 

You tried so hard to stay awake, but your eyes got heavy staring at that phone. Sleep stole you before your killer could ring. 

You woke up with a start, grabbing the phone to answer it, only to have dreamt it run in the first place. 

The dial tone was practically taunting you. 

“Hello? Hello?” You said to the phone lines to no one. But still the dial tone run like a bad dream. 

You put it down and groan, attempting to wipe the sleep from your eyes. This would be the first night of not hearing a word from the killer. 

Your monster. 

You decide to go to bed, no use enjoying the feeling of being stood up. 

Yawning and half asleep already, you carry your exhaustion out of the living room, towards the hall with your bedroom. 

You don’t get that feeling that happens in horror movies, where something is off. Don’t notice a change in your surroundings. 

You walk into your bedroom, confused why all the blankets are gone, the candles lit, rose petals on the ground. 

You spin on your heel and run towards the front door, only to see a figure step out. 

The mask was nightmare fuel, simple, yet the deep black eyes gave you nothing. 

No idea what emotion was held. Long mouth something akin to a psychotic childs drawing. A halloween mask, the terrifying figure was taller than you. Wearing a black robe and boots. 

They pulled from behind their back a long black knife, you stepped back. 

This is the part where you run. 

You watched as your intruder didn’t step forward, didn’t lunge, didn’t cut you up. 

You took a shaky breath opening your mouth to say something, anything. 

You’d asked for date night, it seemed your admirer had delivered. 

You tried to calm yourself but your heart was pounding in your ears and you were somewhere between excited and mortified. 

The killer tilted their head to the side, like a dog who is trying to understand a command. 

“You-You came.” You say lamely and instantly wish you’d been more creative. 

Your intruder tilted their head back, walked forward slowly, knife raised to the side, you walked backwards. 

Unsure why you weren’t picking up speed, weren’t screaming bloody murder. 

But you walk all the way back to your bedroom, with it’s flicker candlelight, the rosepedals are softer then kittens cheeks under your feet. 

Your butt hits the end of your bed and you almost stumble but manage to catch yourself. 

The masked assailant walks the distance until they’re body bumps against yours.

You’re sure it’s a woman now, her chest presses against yours, up close like that - you can smell expensive perfume and something….salty? No what was that? It was…Coppper, it was…blood?

They lunge forward and you stay still as your killer stabs your bed with the nine inch blade.

You jump but don’t run, the gloved hand grabs your throat, and it’s wet - bloody. 

You don’t move an inch, terrified it’s about to be the end, terrified you’ll wake up and this will be another hot dream. 

But as the masked killer’s bloody hands moves down your neck, smearing the sticky substance down your throat, down down - she pushes down your underwear. 

You must look like some sort of bad fingerpainting, but the message was clear. 

You were staying still, silent, as your admirer marked you. 

She grabbed the end of your top and ripped it through the middle, you gulped and she watched the way your red coated throat bobbed. 

Her greedy hands pushed the fucked fabric until your breasts were hers to play with. 

The black gloves cupping them, pinching and twisting, making you try your best not to moan. 

The masked head tilts, like she’s learning you, learning how to play your body. 

You bite your lip trying not to make noise, not to lose it, but as your nipples were now crimson and her hands roamed freeling down your rib cage, you thought this might be the most alive you have ever felt. 

On the verge of death. 

You try not to yelp when the voice scrambler finally makes it’s appearance again, and the masked individual sounds just like the phone calls. 

“I thought you wanted date night?” It says dripping with charm. 

You are too scared to laugh, but too horny to scream, of course now’s the time she makes a joke. 

“Take off the mask, I want to see you.” You say with more confidence than you thought possible. 

Your hand reaches out and she pulls back. 

“I thought you liked the mask? Kitty doesn’t like my games anymore?” Your bloody killer is so flirty you are already dripping wet and somehow covered in someones blood. Who’s you don’t question, too busy with your tits out, nipples hard as diamonds. 

“You wanted me, you have me. I think I’ve proven I’m not going to the cops, please?” Your voice cracks at the end, your killers thumbs go back to your nipples. As if she’s mesmerized by you, now you feel powerful. 

Her gloved fingers pinch your nipples painfully and your knees buckle just a bit, but your masked woman won’t let you fall yet. 

Even through the voice machine, you hear her anger.

“I’m not scared of your horny Agent Vidal, she couldn’t make you cum. Not like I have. And you know better to play with dead things. She will get got on her own time.” The masked killer gave you the clue, a little treat. What was that phrasing? Who else said things like ‘get got?’ 

“You’d kill her, just to-”

Her mask comes impossibly closer to you, and your eyes widen at just how intimidating she is. 

“I’ve killed so many more, for so much less. You have a way about you, my little muse.” 

You can practically hear her smiling. 

You could unpack that later, you’re too selfish you have to ask;

“I want to-” You start but stop, feeling stupid. 

“Do it.” Your lover says so strong it fills you with something. 

You lift your face  up, heavy brath, hesitant, afraid she would deny you like past lovers.

But your staring into the black holes of a dark mask. Souless, empty, and unyielding. 

You’ve never felt more alight. Every nerve ending on fire. 

You place a kiss on the white plastic jaw, once. 

The moan you hear is both from the voice changer, and in her chest. 

It gives you a head high. 

The blood starts to dry on your skin, you are baptised.

You kiss down the jaw once, twice, then you feel bold. 

You let your tongue lick the black fabric, and feel a hard wet muscle through the fabric lick back. 

You both moan now.

Adam and God’s first touch.

Two wet tongues ready to devour each other whole, with that thin barrier.

You’re fucked. 

The bloody glove grabs the back of your head, your hair fisted, you scalp burns. 

You whine, missing the wet tongue more than oxygen.

“You didn’t say you liked the room, easy kitten. All in good time. But you promised me you’d ride me. I think it’s time you make good on that, don’t you think?” She tells you, and you look down to her crotch and she laughs. 

“Uh uh, turn around my little star. I have something thicker for you to ride.” Your masked terror tells you, spinning you with the foce of her grip. 

You see the knife, jet black blade, sticking out of your mattress. 

You shudder, a full body reaction. 

“Go on superstar, show me.”

“Cap, civilian on your six o’clock.”

“Impossible. There was no one there two minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, check again. I can see her still as a statue.”

Now, you were about to resign to your poor, unfortunate fate. You saw something faintly reminiscent of an alien with a sword-thing bulldozing straight towards you, aiming for your untimely demise, and you thought oh! great, i wouldn’t have to embarrass myself in front of the panelists.

Well that would’ve been the plan, if not for a certain super-soldier-serum-infused captain sliding over to save your ass and a lone arrow whirling straight to the alien-thing’s brain—blowing it cleanly off with a loud baam!

You saw guts. Purpley, goey, guts.

Were those intestines?

Oh my god, why the fuck was it chunky?

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

“Do not ask me the color of anything.” You whispered, brain still too pretty to function, staring at the person carrying you into… safety? You don’t know anymore. At some point, you thought cyan and turquoise were the same thing—and you used to be very particular with colors. Like five minutes ago, when you hadn’t seen an alien’s flying guts in 4k resolution.

Then your eyes drifted to your—for lack of better terms—now-unmasked-carrier.

Damn, why does he look like that—in a good way, but like why?

He looked insanely familiar, too. Mhmn…

It wasn’t until a debris-filled road made him slightly trip, almost loosening his grasp on you—shaking your insides. Not the good kind. “Oh god, I think I’ll hurl my dinner.” Whispering, your grip involuntarily tightened on his neck, heart immediately dropping to your ass as it pounded heavily in your eardrums. Hey, at least you got your senses back. Barely. But a win is a win.

It was afternoon. 2:54 pm, to be exact.

Meanwhile Steve Rogers just thinks he (unfortunately) picked up a mildly pathetic chick. And he would’ve brushed it off, if not for his soul-mark—coincidentally placed below your frozen-in-fear hand—burning like a bitch. It’s the only reason why he tripped; after all, nothing could deter the captain when he’s saving lives. Not even a lone pebble deliberately placed to screw him over (the pebble did nothing, it was innocent).

“You’re safe, don’t worry.” Steve couldn’t help but reassure the stranger. His instincts automatically made his mouth spew the words without thinking of the consequences—if there were even consequences. It’s normal to comfort strangers, he thinks. More so if the stranger was his soulmate, he thi—no, he backtracks. “I got you.”

“I mean, I would hope so.” You replied without thinking, eyes trailing to stare ahead of you, blinking once, twice—then whimpered involuntarily when you caught a glimpse of a heinous-looking gigantic alien that looked exactly like it was pulled from your worst nightmares. “Okay, no matter what you do, do not look back. Please.”

Normally, he would’ve listened. Because Steve treats warnings with careful precaution—he’d learnt that from his military days. But he hadn’t been doing things as he normally would for the past ten minutes. You’re the anomaly. He’s actively choosing to blame you.

“What?” Steve momentarily stopped, confusion coating his features as he subtly tried to turn.

When he did, what he saw was an ugly fucking alien beelining straight to where he was currently standing—all towering and fucking ugly. “What the fuck.” He whispered, staring at the god-awful centipede-like creature. Well, if the centipede was 10x angry and 10000x bigger. Did he mention ugly?

Subtlety be damned, you still felt the light shift—and, swear to god—you felt him freeze. “Do not look ba—I told you not to look back!” You panicked. And panicked was an understatement as your painted nails dug into his soft flesh.

And then he’s sprinting. Oh god, he’s sprinting.

Not away, no. Oh no, you would’ve fallen for that handsome, bulky stranger if he was.

He was sprinting towards it. With the sole intention of killing it off with his well-painted shield and brute force.

You think he had forgotten the fact that he was still carrying you—the quote-unquote innocent civilian he was supposed to rescue. He didn’t. He very clearly whispered a hold on tight—I’ll make this quick, while shifting you securely in his hold. And then you thought you met god.

Not that god, the other god. The one who screams another! while breaking a mug-god. The one who preaches those who are worthy could lift the hammer-god. The one who—yeah, you get the gist. It’s damn Thor Odinson, the God of Thunder-god.

You were hammered, but not hammered enough to the point that you’d forgotten Chris Hemsworth gorgeously portrayed that handsome male specimen—that’s, well, currently standing in front of you, striking that god-awful fuck-ass creature-thing. “Are you alright?”

You would’ve swooned. Really, you would’ve. If only you weren’t—you know—creating impossible hypotheses you never thought would’ve been created, due to the sheer absurdity of ever thinking about it, like, at all.

Great, now you don’t even know what the absolute fuck you were thinking.

At least now you’re assured that you aren’t made by A.I. Because if you don’t even know what you’re thinking, what makes you think a chatbot would?

But to simplify:

The one carrying you + painted shield + reassuring phrases + very captivating plump ass = Captain-America-slash-Steve-Motherfucking-Rogers

The one who bitch-slapped a creature + gorgeous long blond locks + hammer god = God-of-Thunder-slash-Thor-choke-me-with-those-bulky-biceps-Odinson

(America’s Ass + Golden Retriever God) + Chaos n’ Destruction + n = The Avengers

Now this leads to three utterly substantial statements of the problem—with their mind-fucking, corresponding hypotheses. Let’s delve deeper, shall we?

01. You had gone clinically insane, hyper-realistically imagining impossible scenarios from ypur severe lack of sleep.

Ha₁: You don’t need to defend your research no more; you’re insane.

Ho₁: You’re more prone to being admitted to the mental asylum, saying goodbye to your family and the friends you’ve made along the way.

02. You had somehow been transported into a parallel-slash-alternate reality due to the sudden clockwise shifting of the Earth’s axis.

Ha₂: The professors who laughed at you for proposing this as your research title can now suck your juicy fuckin’ ass.

Ho₂: They literally can’t; you (accidentally) altered a timeline (or universe, rather) you weren’t supposed to be in.

03. You died, finally biting the dust after an umpteen number of all-nighters and caffeine-induced psychosis.

Ha₃: You died. In theory.

Ho₃: You died. In practice.

With those written (in your head) SoPs, you arrived at approximately three (3) conclusions. Either you’ve gone insane (unlikely), or Earth said fuck you in tagalog then spun in reverse (maybe likely), or you’ve died from caffeine-induced overdose (please don’t be likely).

Either way, one thing’s for certain: you’re fucked.

[next part]

˚　　　　✦　　　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　　 . ✦　　　 　˚　　　　 . ★⋆. 　　　.   　　˚　✭　 　　*　　 　　✦　　　.　　.　　　✦　˚ 　　　　 ˚　.˚　　　　　✭　.　　. 　 ˚　.　　　　 　　 　　　　 ✦

okay hear me out, in my defense, i got lazy editing my masterlist okay. making banners (although satisfying) sucks the soul outta me (like how i wish leon would). so then i started writing like a drabble, then the drabble became a story, then the story became a chapter, then i started making a banner, then the next thing i knew, this post was already drafted lololol. Leon will be making a comeback soon, i have like *checks notes* 10 wips of that guy he's not going ANYWHERE. anywhoo, i truly do miss these guys so i thought, why not make a classic avengers polyfic? rbs & comments for kisses, as always, ily

There were certain things everyone at university knew to be true. The library would always be packed during exam season. The coffee on campus tasted like burnt dirt. And if you ever spotted Natasha Romanoff walking across the quad, chances were you wouldn't find her alone. Somewhere within arm's reach was you, laughing at something she'd whispered, wearing her hoodie or athlete jacket despite owning plenty of your own, or absentmindedly reaching for her hand as though it had always belonged there.

The first thing people noticed about Natasha Romanoff was her confidence and her cocky nature (and she looked good but that was obvious). And the second thing was that she looked at you like you hung the moon and stars. It was the kind of love that didn't seem forced or performative. She would wait outside your lectures with your favorite drink, kiss your forehead before her track practice, and somehow convince you to skip studying just long enough to watch the sunset from the roof of your residence hall. And you did all of that, because you were deeply in love with her, that and Wanda said you were uptight and needed to loosen up.

You and Natasha were practically inseparable from the day you met, well that was a stretch but it was true in its own way. It all began when you were carrying a large suitcase with a box in one arm. You had been moving into your dorm suite and with your mom, still downstairs talking the RA's ear off, you basically had to do all of the heavy carrying alone. It was fine until you accidentally bumped into someone which resulted in you dropping the box that held most of your belongings.

"Shit. I'm sorry." You exhaled, bending over to pick the fallen goods up. What you weren't expecting was for the person to reach over and help pick your stuff up. You looked up to find a redhead holding the pink teddy bear your father had gifted you as a child before he passed away. Smooth. Heat flooded your cheeks as the redhead scanned the small teddy bear before giving you a smirk.

"Cute." She mumbled as you stood up before picking the box up from the floor. She straightened up and handed you the fluffy toy, hands grazing against your own in the process.

"You in this suite?" She asked and you gave a simple nod because at that moment you could not muster the courage to talk to the extremely good looking person that was standing in front of you. This would be the person you'd share a suite with? Woah.

"Natasha. Looks like we're roommates."

"Y/n." You replied with another curt nod. Natasha chuckled before pulling the heavy box out of your arms without asking. You raised an eyebrow as she opened the door. You took in the place. It was quite simple. There was the kitchen, a living room that had a small couch and the bathroom. On the other side were doors to what you assumed to be the bedrooms.

Natasha walked over to the empty bedroom. Your bedroom.

"You don't talk much huh?" You shrugged your shoulders while grabbing your suitcase and wheeling it in.

"Guess we'll get along great then."

"I...thank you." You stammered and the redhead gave you a look that sent flutters down your spine to your core.

"No problem." She set the box down onto the mattress and looked at you.

"I'll see you later then." Before you could reply, Natasha was out of your room, probably making her way to yours. You released a short breath before your mother stumbled into the suite, waving the RA (who'd been forced to carry the rest of your bags) into your room.

___

Later that day, you were already deep in organization mode. Classes didn't start for another two weeks, but your bedroom was immaculate. Bed made with crisp sheets, books stacked by subject on the desk, clothes folded and color coded in the closet, and your bookbag already packed with notebooks, pens, and a color coded syllabus you'd printed early. Perfection was control. Control was survival.

The redhead sauntered in like she owned the place, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, athletic shorts riding low on her hips, black tank top stretched across toned shoulders and arms. Her hair was messy in that deliberately effortless way, green eyes scanning the room with a lazy smirk.

"Damn, roomie. You moving in or building a museum?" She dropped her bag right in the middle of the floor, kicking off her sneakers without bothering to line them up. One landed near your perfectly arranged shoes.

You stared, jaw tight. Rude.

"Some of us like being prepared. You planning on living out of that bag all semester?" Natasha laughed, that low, cocky and flopped onto the unmade bed across from yours, arms behind her head.

"Relax, princess. It's college. Lighten up." She watched you reorganize the bag she'd slightly disturbed, clearly amused. You then proceeded to throw her own shoe back towards her which she caught with grace.

"Please refrain from coming into my room and leaving a mess." You explained.

"You always this wound up? Or is it just for me?" You hated her immediately. That smirk. That easy confidence. The way her masculine energy filled the room and made your carefully ordered world feel... disrupted.

And later that night, after you'd politely (but firmly) asked her to move her shit off the floor for the third time, she leaned against your desk while you were triple checking your planner.

"Is this cocky attitude the one that gets you girls?" You snapped, not even looking up.

"Because it's not working on me."

Natasha's grin widened, slow and dangerous.

"Who said I was trying to get you, sweetheart?" You gave Natasha a pointed look before you moved back to organizing your stuff. At least then you'd be able to put some order into your life unlike the redhead who just smirked and left your room.

__

Living with Natasha was a mission to say the least. If it weren't for the fact that she was awfully good looking, you'd really hate the redhead. You two had been living together for almost a month. At first, it was somewhat fine. You tolerated Natasha because she was civil and respected the rules and boundaries you came up with. But then, Natasha being Natasha had managed to get in your head after a while.

With that cocky attitude of hers, she thrived on driving you to the brink of insanity. Most days, Natasha would come back from her track practice, throw her bag on the kitchen counter before making her way into the bathroom to shower. You'd scold her occasionally about being messy, and she'd shrug it off by saying you needed to loosen up a little. You'd tell her to fuck off and then she'd smirk and call you "princess". You hated her. You hated her chaos. You hated her for being so attractive.

One late afternoon you'd come back to the apartment after having a long day of attending general biology, a statistics class and intro to psych. You walked in to find Natasha blending her usual protein shake. She was dressed in a black tank top and Grey sweatpants, hair wet probably from a shower. She glanced up at you, lips twisting into that smirk of hers once she set the lid onto the blender.

"Rough day princess?" You rolled your eyes while grabbing a glass from the cupboard above Natasha. For a moment you two were pressed up against one another before you stepped back to fill your glass with water.

"I told you to stop calling me that." You said after taking a sip from the glass and Natasha simply placed a spoon inside the sink. She turned to look at you, eyes scanning you from head to toe.

"What?"

"You look stressed."

"I am. Spent six hours with no break on campus." You finished the cup before rinsing it and placing it inside the sink.

"Make sure you clean up afterwards Romanoff."You mumbled before grabbing your backpack and heading to your room. Natasha watched you leave, eyes tracing the curve of your hips and your ass. She bit the inside of her cheek, hands gripping the counter top before accidentally dropping the spoon.

You looked back to find the redhead scratching the back of her neck while pretending like she had not been watching you walk away. Afterwards you slid into your room to take a light nap before you eventually had to study.

___

That same night you were on your bed, textbooks lined up in front of you as you made notes for your Intro to Psychology class. You'd opened the door to your bedroom because you needed the fresh air that your window  was failing to provide.

Eventually you set the highlighter down to stretch. Your back was turned so you hadn't noticed the redhead that was leaning against your bedroom door. Natasha was about to make a comment but when a sliver of smooth skin showed and a soft almost moan like sound escaped your lips, Natasha swallowed the comment but that cockiness of hers remained.

She knocked on your door to get your attention before walking in and plopping on the empty side of your bed.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." You said sarcastically as she flipped through the thick textbook on your bed.

"Don't you have other things to do? Or I don't know, other girls to bother?"

"Why bother other people when I could just bother you? Besides I enjoy toying with you."

"You're such a menace."

"And you're insatiable." She retorted. You scoffed before getting up to put your notes into their color coded files. Natasha watched you with interest, one arm propped underneath her head while the other set the textbook down.

"You ever do anything else aside from color coding and organizing everything?"

"An organized life brings success Natasha."

"Huh. Y/n, we've been living together for almost two months and I've never seen you do anything remotely college like." You scoffed, moving towards your bed, ready to pull the redhead off of your bed but when accidentally bumped into your desk, it sent your small pouch bag onto the floor before the contents fell out.

Natasha's eyes trailed down before you could react, eyes widening and lips twisting into a huge grin. You scrambled down, picking the two perfectly rolled joints, weed flower, lighter and grinder up.

"Holy shit. Didn't think you had it in you." Natasha had managed to take one joint from you, assessing it with pure fascination before you grabbed it out of her hands.

"Give me that."

"Princess perfect is actually a stoner? Wow, impressive." She raised  a brow, leaning onto your pillow as you shoved the pouch back into it's secret spot that you'd probably have to change later.

"Can you get out of my room?"

"Relax princess. I'm not judging you."

"I would not care if you did anyway." Natasha hummed then finally took the cue to leave.

"Alright then, I'll let you be." You exhaled once Natasha left your room but her scent was still clinging onto your pillow and her room. That night you struggled to sleep. You'd spent almost twenty minutes just tossing and turning before looking at the clock.

02:00

You sighed and rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling for a good five minutes. But instead of fighting with sleep, you got out of bed, your bare feet padding against the cold bamboo flooring of your bedroom as you grabbed your slippers and put them on.

Natasha found you in the kitchen a few minutes later. She watched you boil water before pouring it into the cup and stirring it. Eventually she spoke up.

"Couldn't sleep?" You shook your head and she stepped closer.

"Me neither." You grabbed another cup, pouring hot water inside before placing one of the chamomile teabags inside.

"Is this one of your health focus tea brands?" You gave Natasha a look and she grabbed the mug before bringing it up to her lips. She took a sip and hummed.

"That's actually good."

"Anything is better than whatever concoctions you make for protein." Natasha laughed, actually laughed, not one of those half chuckles she gave after throwing one of her ridiculous and dry jokes.

You spent twenty minutes like that. Just talking about small things, like how the wind outside was crazier than usual, or how loud the neighbors were and even how school was going for you two. Nothing deep but also not surface level small talk. Somewhere along the line, the cups had gotten empty and both you and Natasha had migrated to the small couch in the living area.

She'd currently been talking about the upcoming track selections and how nervous she was.

"I think you'll do great."

"Yeah? And how do you know that?" She pushed and you shrugged.

"Dunno, guess I can kind of see it. You have a nice and lean frame."

"Is this you flirting with me princess?"

"Jesus, only you'd be capable of turning a compliment into something that would fill your ego." You smacked your lips and Natasha's grin only widened.

Eventually the topics shifted onto a much more personal level. But Natasha never spoke about her own life. Instead she asked you questions and you answered, keeping it vague but respectful. And eventually you both drifted to your own bedrooms, but not before Natasha stopped you.

"Thanks. That was really... good."

"You're welcome." You both stood in the hallway, looking up at one another before she eventually stepped back, almost bumping the wall in the process. You just shook your head with a small laugh and disappeared into your own bedroom.

___

A week after that early morning, Natasha had come back from another brutal track practice. She found you sitting on your bed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration while you mindlessly bit the cap of your pen.

"Hey." She said, breaking you out of the frustrating trance you were in.

"Want to take a break?" She asked, eyebrows wiggling with what could only be mischief. You looked up and swallowed. Your eyes trailed down her sweaty frame, lean muscles and when you looked up you found the redhead waiting with that smirk of hers.

"I have a lot of work to do."

"Come on princess, don't be like that." You almost fought her but Natasha wasn't one to let things go. So you eventually sighed and slid your book from your lap and onto the bed.

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you take a shower." Natasha gave you one of her crooked smiles.

"What, you don't think I look good like this?"

"Shower or get out of my room." She eventually raised her hands up in surrender but left to go shower, mumbling how she'd be done in an hour.

That's how you found yourself walking with Natasha to some building behind the athletics complex. At first you fought her, mumbling how you had to be back soon because you were busy. But Natasha shut you down once she held up a fat joint, the words dying down fast.

"Huh, who would've thought that's all I needed to do to shut you up." She'd remarked while you shoved her shoulder.

"Shut up and let's go."

And that's how you found yourself sitting on a bench facing trees with off campus apartments. You two sat next to one another, watching the streets bustle with students going out for the night while others came back from the library. Natasha pulled out a simple black lighter before placing the joint in between her pink lips. You really never thought you'd envy a joint but here you were.

You watched her take a drag before exhaling the earthy smoke. You hated yourself for feeling this way about Natasha. She was cocky, egotistical, sometimes messy and annoying. But at the same time, she was also hot, funny and again, really fucking hot.

You were eventually pulled out of your thoughts when she leaned forward to hand you the joint. You accepted it before bringing it up to your own lips and inhaling the earthy smoke. Your body melted as the smoke curled around the both of you. You coughed once then took another inhale. Natasha didn't make fun of you, but she also did not wipe that smirk off of her face. You two sat there in silence for almost fifteen minutes before the weed finally settled deep within your bodies.

The high was smooth and calm. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off of your shoulder as you leaned back against the wall. Within a few minutes you started talking. Really talking. About nothing and everything. Natasha watched your lips moved as you rambled on about something. She threw one of her dry jokes and you laughed. She liked the fact that you laughed. Your laugh sounded nice.

"You're fun like this." She said and you turned to look at her.

"That seems awfully backhanded."

"No, you're always locked in your bedroom so much that I never get to speak to you unless you're scolding me." All you could do was shrug your shoulders. I mean what else could you say?

"I know you think I'm uptight, but I'm not." You'd spoken up after a while of comfortable silence. Natasha turned around and looked at you properly this time. The way your curls framed your face, the way your skin shone under the campus lights and the way you seemed to always be in thought no matter the time. You looked really good. So good that Natasha wanted to lean in and kiss you. But all she did was clear her throat.

"We should go." She said, already standing up and offering her hand to help guide you up. You took it without saying anything this time. Her hand was warm, and it felt nice. You two walked back in comfortable silence, the high making the walk intense in the best way.

When the two of you reached your apartment, you gave Natasha a small shove with your shoulder again.

"Thanks. This actually really helped."

"No problem." You two stood there in the hallway before you nodded then walked into your bedroom and closed the door.

___

After that night, it sort of became a habit. You and Natasha would walk to the athletics complex, sit there while smoking and talking about stuff. Sometimes you'd just sit there in silence and watch nature take its course.

After a particularly long day of classes and practice, Natasha came back to the dorm with a fat, perfectly rolled blunt and that signature cocky smirk.

"Round two, princess. You in? Or are you too scared I'll corrupt your perfect little routine?" You rolled your eyes but agreed. The two of you ended up on the quiet grassy area behind the athletics building again, sitting on a blanket under the stars. The first hit already loosened the tension between you. By the time the blunt was half gone, you were both properly crossed, all giggly, warm, and hyper aware of each other.

You were lying on your back, looking up at the sky, when Natasha rolled onto her side and propped her head on her hand. Her red hair fell messily around her face, green eyes dark and intense as they traced over your body.

"You're really fucking hot when you're relaxed, you know that?" She murmured, her voice lower than usual. You turned your head, heart beating faster.

"You're only saying that because you're high."

"Nah." She leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away.

"I've been thinking about this since the day your grinder fell out." The kiss started soft. It was tentative, tasting like weed and cherry lip balm. Then it deepened fast. Natasha's hand slid under your hoodie, palm hot against your warm skin as she cupped your breast. You moaned into her mouth, fingers threading through her red hair and tugging.

Things escalated quickly. She pulled you on top of her, hands gripping your ass as you straddled her hips. The high made everything feel slow and intense at the same time. You ground against her, hands still tugging red hair while her own hands played with your breasts. She pinched a nipple and you moaned louder into her mouth. But you eventually pulled back.

"We can't." Natasha looked up at you with dark eyes and swollen lips.

"Not outside. Someone could see us." You sat up whe fixing your hoodie.

You stood up on shaky legs almost tumbling back down onto her lap and Natasha laughed.

"Damn, already falling for me." She retorted and you kicked her shin. She groaned.

"Fair enough." She mumbled. With your help, Natasha stood up and picked the blanket she'd laid down along with her small bag that carried all of her miscellaneous stuff.

The walk back to your suite was charged with electricity and the leftover tension from before amplified by the high. When you reached the suite, she set the things down before turning to face you. You took a step back until you hit the kitchen counter.

"We should probably talk about the kiss." Natasha raised a singular brow.

"Talk?" You nodded.

"Y-yeah. Talk." Natasha stepped closer hands making their way around your waist.

"You seriously want to talk?" She pulled you closer to her and you gasped.

"N-Nat."

"I don't think you want to talk." She leaned forward, her lips inches away from yours.

"Nat..." You whispered, voice trembling.

"Yeah princess?" You closed your eyes and opened them again to find her green ones watching.

"Kiss me." She didn't need anymore convincing, her lips found yours.

This time the kiss was heated, all the built up frustration from your days and the tension that had been simmering between you two for the past few weeks now being poured out into this kiss. Natasha pressed you further into the wall before she wedged her thigh in between your legs. The moan you let out was muffled by her lips but it still managed to send heat down to Natasha's own core.

"I want to hear you make that sound again." She'd whispered against your lips, her hands roaming around your waist but still remaining respectful. The realization alone sent flutters down your own stomach. You ground yourself against her thighs, and Natasha took the opportunity to grip onto your ass, pulling you closer. With strong arms, Natasha picked you up and led you to the nearest room which was your bedroom.

She carried you into your bedroom, foot closing your door right after before "gently" placing you onto your neatly made bed.

"Hey, careful-"

"These sheets are gonna be messed up when I'm done with you anyways. Should be the least of your worries." She leaned forward to kiss you again, and you pulled her against you. Her hands slid under your hoodie, pushing it up. You let her pull it off, then your t-shirt underneath, heart pounding with desire.

That's when she saw them. The faint silvery scars on your upper arms and across the softer skin below your collarbones caught the low lamplight. You froze once you'd noticed the change in her expression. Shame hit like ice water through the haze. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide, curls falling forward as you curled in on yourself.

"I think you should maybe leave." Just then Natasha grabbed your wrists, pulling you even closer. She didn't say anything, she didn't have to say anything. She'd seen them in passing when you were changing and she accidentally caught a glimpse of your body from behind (you were late for class after accidentally spilling coffee on your shirt and you'd forgotten to close the door).

Natasha simply pressed a kiss onto the jagged marks on your upper arms and the smaller ones on your collarbone. Your once tense body relaxed as she kept pressing kisses from your collarbone and onto your neck. You eventually leaned back, letting Natasha continue kissing and biting the smooth skin. She eventually found the sweet spot that had you letting out the softest sounds that made her suck and bite even more.

More clothes came off before you were both on your bed naked. At one point you'd stopped to lecture Natasha for carelessly throwing her hoodie onto the floor but that stopped once she'd started trailing her lips downwards until she was in between your thighs. She slipped your panties off a little until the black lace was out of her way, still hanging around your ankle but far enough for her to work.

Natasha slid her left finger in between your now swollen and aching slit. And it felt good.

"Stop teasing."

"Whatever you say princess." Her tongue slid into your soaking cunt, slightly calloused hands pulling you closer so she could feast on your pussy. You threw your head back as Natasha threw one leg over her shoulder, the same one that held the lace panties before they eventually fell onto the floor next to her hoodie.

Natasha moaned at the taste of your arousal, tongue finding it's rhythm inside of you.

"W-wow." Was all you could breathlessly moan and Natasha moaned in between your legs.

"Yeah?" She whispered mouth still working you open before she introduced a finger. Natasha slid her index finger inside of you which made you buck further into her mouth.

"Tell me how it feels." She worked the finger inside of you, the obscene sound of your pussy getting fucked, filling the walls of your bedroom.

"Good."

"I think you can do better than that." Natasha curled the finger which made you moan out loud. Her tongue was hot and confident as she dragged it through your folds, exploring before focusing on your clit. She sucked the sensitive bud into her mouth, tongue flicking fast and firm. She then added a second finger, curling them in a "come hither" motion.

"You always get this wet y/n?" She teased as her finger slid in and out of you so effortlessly. You shook your head.

"Yeah? Just for me?" She continued stroking her fingers inside of you, hitting the spongy spot inside of you that made you see stars.

"Your tongue feels so fucking good. Fuck, Nat-" You gasped, hips bucking. She held you down with one strong arm across your waist, red hair tickling your thighs as she ate you out like she was starving. The wet, obscene sounds continued to fill the small bedroom, her tongue lapping and sucking, fingers thrusting deep and curling against that spot inside you. You gripped her hair tight, thighs trembling around her head. The high made everything feel overwhelming and perfect at the same time. Every lick, every curl of her fingers sent sparks up your spine.

She looked up at you while she worked, her green eyes locked on yours, lips and chin shiny with your wetness. The sight alone nearly made you come alone.

"You taste so fucking good y/n." She groaned against your pussy, then dove back in harder. She sucked your clit rhythmically while her fingers fucked you faster, curling just right. Your back arched hard off the bed.

"Nat, shit... I'm gonna...fuck!" She didn't stop. She moaned into you, the vibration pushing you over the edge.

You came hard on her tongue, thighs clamping around her head, a broken moan of her name spilling from your lips as your pussy clenched around her fingers. Natasha kept licking you through it, slower and gentler, until your legs were shaking and you were pushing at her head from the overstimulation. She finally pulled back, lips shiny, and crawled up your body with a satisfied smirk. She kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

"You good, princess?" She asked, voice husky. You could barely speak, still catching your breath. You just nodded and pulled her back down for another kiss.

You were still panting, thighs twitching from the aftershocks as Natasha crawled up your body with that satisfied, cocky smirk. Her lips and chin were shiny with your wetness, green eyes dark with hunger. Before she could say anything smug, you grabbed her by the shoulders and flipped her onto her back. The high made you bold.

"My turn." You murmured, voice husky.

Natasha's eyebrows rose, but her smirk widened as she spread her legs for you.

"Yeah? Show me what you got, princess." You kissed her hard, tasting yourself on her tongue, then started moving down her body. You sucked marks into her pale neck and collarbone, then lower, taking one of her nipples into your mouth while your hand slid between her thighs. She was soaked. You groaned against her skin when your fingers met all that slick heat.

"Fuck, you're wet." You breathed, almost surprised. Natasha let out a low chuckle that turned into a moan when you kissed down her toned stomach and settled between her legs. You didn't tease. You dove straight in. You licked a slow, broad stripe up her pussy, savoring the taste of her. Natasha's hips jerked, one hand flying to your curls. You licked again, firmer this time, tongue dragging through her folds before circling her clit.

"Shit, yeah just like that." She groaned, thighs tensing around your head.

You got more confident. You sucked her clit into your mouth, flicking your tongue fast while sliding two fingers inside her. She was tight and dripping, clenching around your fingers as you curled them upward. The wet sounds were loud in the small bedroom of yours, obscene and yet so addictive.

Natasha's usual cocky control started slipping. Her red hair was messy against the pillow, hips rolling up into your mouth as she cursed under her breath.

"Fuck, y/n... your mouth feels so fucking good."

You moaned against her pussy, the vibration making her gasp. You fucked her harder with your fingers, sucking and licking her clit with messy enthusiasm, completely lost in the high and the taste of her. You looked up at her while you worked to make her cum. Her green eyes half lidded, lips parted, chest heaving. She looked wrecked. It was hot as hell.

You added a third finger, thrusting deep and steady while your tongue worked her clit relentlessly. Natasha's grip on your curls tightened, her thighs starting to tremble.

"Don't stop, please, fuck, I'm close-" You didn't. You sucked harder, curled your fingers just right, and moaned against her as she came.

Natasha came with a low, broken groan, hips bucking against your face as her pussy clenched hard around your fingers. You kept licking her through it, slower and gentler, until her thighs stopped shaking and she tugged weakly at your hair.

You finally pulled back, lips shiny, and crawled up her body. Natasha immediately yanked you down into a messy kiss, tasting herself on your tongue.

"Damn. " She muttered against your lips, still breathing hard.

"You're really good at that." You laughed breathlessly, collapsing beside her. She pulled you close, one arm slung around your waist, both of you sweaty and hazy from the weed and the orgasms.

Neither of you said much after that. Just tangled limbs, lazy kisses, and the quiet satisfaction after making each other cum.

___

Sunlight filtered through the blinds the next morning. You woke up naked in your own bed, but Natasha's arm was slung possessively over your waist and her red hair was tickling your shoulder.

For a second, the memories hit you. The shared blunt, her mouth between your thighs, the way you'd moaned her name, how good she'd felt. Your own leg in between her thighs. Your face heated instantly.

You carefully slipped out from under her arm, grabbed one of the oversized t-shirts from the floor which so happened to be hers, and tiptoed to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Back to normal. You had a 10 a.m. lecture. You also had notes to review. What happened was just... a one time thing. Spontaneous. Roommates with benefits didn't mean mornings had to be weird. Right?

You then walked back to your bedroom, ready to organize everything for the day. You were already at your desk in her t-shirt and panties, frantically reorganizing your color-coded planners and pretending last night hadn't happened, when Natasha finally stirred. She stretched like a cat, the sheet slipping down her pale, toned body. When she saw you at your desk, already in full type A mode, her lips curved into that infuriating cocky smirk.

"Morning, princess." She said, voice still raspy from sleep and smoke.

"Running away already?"

"I have class." You replied, not looking at her. You straightened your pens with more force than necessary.

"And you should probably clean up your bedroom, I walked passed it and it looks like a tornado hit it."

Natasha chuckled lowly and sat up, not bothering to cover herself.

"Cute. You're back to scolding me like nothing happened. Like I didn't have my tongue buried in your pussy last night."  Your pen froze mid air. Heat rushed through you at the crude reminder. You turned slowly, trying to look unaffected.

"It was just sex, Natasha. We were high. It doesn't have to be a thing."

She stood up, completely naked, and walked over to you with that effortless athletic swagger. She stopped right behind your chair, leaning down so her breath brushed your ear.

"You can pretend all you want." She murmured, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"But I still remember how you sounded when you came on my face. How you gripped my hair and begged for more." You shivered. Your thighs pressed together involuntarily. Damn her.

You stood up abruptly, putting distance between you.

"I'm not begging. And I have to get ready for class."  Natasha just smirked wider, clearly enjoying how flustered you were. She reached out and tugged lightly on the hem of the t-shirt you were wearing, her t-shirt.

"Keep it." She said.

"Looks better on you anyway." You grabbed your towel and practically fled to the bathroom, heart racing and skin still tingling from her proximity. You could hear her low laugh behind you.

The entire day, you tried to focus on lectures. Tried to pretend it was nothing. But Natasha's words kept echoing in your head. The memory of her mouth. Her fingers. How ridiculously good she was.

By the time you got back to the dorm that evening, you were tense and annoyed at how easily she'd gotten under your skin again.Natasha was sprawled on the living room couch in shorts and a sports bra, looking far too pleased with herself when you walked in.

"Still pretending, princess?" She asked, raising an eyebrow. You dropped your bag onto the kicthen counter and crossed your arms.

"You're impossible." She grinned and crooked a finger at you.

"Come here and I'll show you just how impossible I can be."

"I'm not easy Natasha."

"I never said you were. And quite frankly I enjoy it when you fight me, it's like our very own foreplay." You huffed in annoyance and turned around to grab a glass of water. Anything to help distract you from the girl sitting behind you. But that failed when you felt Natasha's presence and warmth behind you. You felt her hand tuck your hair aside before she pressed a kiss onto your neck.

"Tell me you didn't enjoy last night."

"Natasha I have work to do."

"Yeah? And there's something else I'd like to do now too. You."

"Smooth." But you weren't exactly pulling away when she wrapped her arms around your waist. And when she started kissing down your neck, you were already leaning against her, head thrown back, ass press firmly against her front.

It lasted approximately five minutes before you were led into her bedroom, gripping her red hair while riding her face with vigorous speed. The soft sounds of your moans bouncing off of her bedroom walls.

___

The next morning, you woke up first. The dorm was quiet except for Natasha's soft breathing. You were still in her bed, naked under the sheets, body pleasantly sore in places that made your face burn with memory. The joint you'd smokes in her room, her mouth on you, the way you'd moaned without shame... it all came rushing back.

You slipped out carefully, grabbed the first shirt you could find (hers, again), and went straight to your bedroom and sat by your desk. Back to normal. You started reorganizing your notes with sharp, precise movements, trying to shove the entire night into a neat little box labeled "Mistake."

Natasha woke up about twenty minutes later. She stretched, the sheet falling to her waist, and smirked the second she saw you already in full planner mode once she'd reached your door.

"Morning, princess." She drawled, voice still rough from sleep.

"You're up early again. Trying to pretend you weren't riding my face last night?"

You didn't look at her.

"I have a lecture later today. And your bedroom is a disaster again. Can you at least try to keep your shit contained now that we're... whatever this is?"

Natasha chuckled, completely unbothered by her own nudity. She walked over and leaned against your desk, arms crossed, watching you straighten pens with way too much focus.

"You're cute when you're in denial." She said.

"All tense and bratty like I didn't make you come three times."  Your grip tightened on the edge of the desk. Heat flared low in your belly despite yourself.

"It was all just fun okay, Natasha. Don't make it weird."

She leaned down closer, red hair falling forward, green eyes amused.

"Weird? You mean like how you're wearing my shirt right now? Or how wet you already are just from me standing here?" 

"You're in my bedroom naked."

"Yeah, and you like it." You finally looked up, glaring.

"You're so fucking cocky." That was all it took. Natasha grabbed you by the waist, spun you around, and bent you over your own desk in one smooth motion. Your carefully stacked planners and notes went flying again as she pressed up behind you.

"Yeah?" She murmured against your ear, yanking your her shirt up over your ass.

"Keep scolding me then. See what happens."

You tried to snap back, but the words died when she dropped to her knees and buried her tongue in your pussy from behind without any warning. She ate you out like she was proving a point. One that was messy, confident, and relentless. Her hands spread your cheeks as her tongue licked and sucked, two fingers pushing inside you deep. You gripped the far edge of the desk hard, biting your lip to stay quiet, but soft moans still escaped. She didn't stop until you came hard, thighs shaking, forehead pressed against the wood. Natasha stood up, wiped her mouth, and leaned over you.

"Still think it was just the weed?" She asked, voice smug. You were breathless, annoyed, and already wanting more.

"Just shut up and fuck me properly." You muttered.

___

The pattern became frequent. After the third night, you and Natasha stopped pretending like this was nothing, especially when the sex was just way to good to pretend. So you both agreed on being roommates with benefits. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it, that's what it was.

When you told your close friend Wanda about it, she'd given you a look that said she wasn't all for it.

"These never end well y/n." You sighed as you two neared your favorite café.

"I know but its not like we can avoid one another Wans. I mean we live together for Pete's sake."

"Pete's sake?" Wanda teased and you rolled your eyes.

"Point is, we can't avoid it. Besides the sex is good." You shrugged and Wanda chuckled while opening the door.

You and Natasha began the rhythm. Whenever you had a bad day from pre-med classes, all she needed to do was look you in the eye, before she was guiding you onto the nearest surface and burying her face between your legs. Or whenever she had a bad practice, all you needed to do was pull her by her hoodie before laying her on the bed and fucking her with your fingers.

It was good, spontaneous and convenient. Neither of you had bothered to label it let alone think about it. This was all just the harmless kind of fun people have in college. Yeah. Just fun.

___

It was a Thursday night in mid November. You'd had one of those days. The kind where everything felt heavy. A brutal organic chemistry midterm you weren't sure you'd passed, followed by a phone call with your mom that dragged up old memories of your dad. You came back to the suite quiet and closed off, and this time it was the kind of quiet that usually meant you'd bury yourself in planners and books until the feelings went away.

Natasha was already there, sprawled on the couch in a tank top and shorts after practice. She noticed immediately. Instead of her usual cocky greeting or grabbing you for a quick fuck, she sat up from the couch and watched you drop your bag onto the kitchen counter and start reorganizing the contents in your bag with sharp, tense movements.

"You're spiraling." She said simply.

"I'm fine Natasha." You mumbled but your voice wavered. You weren't fine. You kept moving things around, trying to regain control. Natasha got up, crossed the room, and gently took the stack of notes from your hands.

"Hey." She said softly.

"Stop." You tried to pull away, but she set the notes down and tugged you toward her bedroom instead. No heat. No smirk. Just her strong arms guiding you down until you were both lying there, facing each other.

You expected her to kiss you, to turn it into sex like always. That's what this was supposed to be, just benefits. Release. Nothing more. But she didn't. Natasha just pulled you closer until your head rested on her chest. One hand stroked slowly through your curls, the other rubbing gentle circles on your back. The silence stretched, comfortable and heavy at the same time.

"You don't have to be okay all the time." She murmured after a while. Her voice was quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"Not with me." Something in your chest cracked. You hadn't let anyone see this version of you in years. The scared girl who still felt the guilt and pressure from home, who built walls of order so the world couldn't take anything else away.

But here, in the dim dorm light with Natasha's heartbeat steady under your ear, the walls felt exhausting.

You didn't cry. You just breathed her in. The faint scent of her body wash and the gym. And you just let yourself be held. After a long stretch of silence, Natasha spoke again.

"Wanna get something to eat?" All you did was nod, but Natasha held you for longer. She didn't want to stop.

___

Natasha slammed the door harder than necessary when she got back. You looked up from the couch, highlighter paused mid sentence. She was limping noticeably, jaw clenched, a fresh bruise blooming on her left cheekbone. Her duffel bag hit the floor with a thud, followed by one sneaker, then the other, right in the middle of the room.

"Bad day?" You asked carefully.

"Understatement." She grunted, wincing as she tried to put weight on her right ankle.

"Some rookie on the team decided to play hero during drills. I took the fall. Coach reamed me out anyway. Then my phone started blowing up with family shit. Perfect fucking day."

She looked pissed off at the world. You knew that look. It was the same one she got right before she usually pushed you up against a wall to blow off steam. But tonight she just walked into her room and dropped onto her bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended her. You closed your notebook and stood up before making your way into her room.

"Don't." She muttered when she saw you moving.

"I'm not really in the mood for your organizing lecture right now."

"I wasn't going to lecture you." You grabbed the ice pack from the fridge a towel, and the first aid kit that you kept in your room. Then you knelt in front of her without asking.

Natasha watched you silently as you gently lifted her injured foot into your lap and wrapped the ice pack around her swollen ankle. Your touch was careful but firm. You didn't say anything about the mess she'd made or the shoes in the middle of the floor. You just worked quietly, dabbing the bruise on her cheek with a cool cloth next. She stayed tense for the first few minutes, like she was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then something in her shoulders finally loosened.

"Thanks."  She said gruffly, almost like the word hurt to say. You finished securing the wrap and looked up at her.

"You don't always have to be the tough one, you know." Natasha let out a bitter little laugh.

"Yeah? Tell that to everyone who needs something from me." Instead of answering with words, you climbed onto the bed beside her and gently pulled her down. She resisted for half a second out of habit, then let you maneuver her so she was curled against your side, head resting on your chest.

This was new territory.

Natasha Romanoff, the girl who always had to be the strong, cocky one, let herself be held. She shifted until she was fully tucked into you, face buried in the crook of your neck, one arm slung over your waist. You wrapped both arms around her, one hand slowly stroking up and down her back.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held her while she breathed through the shitty day.

Eventually, she mumbled against your skin.

"I hate this ankle. And my family. And today."

"I know." You whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the top of her red hair. You stayed like that for over an hour. No sex. No teasing. Just you holding her while she let herself be vulnerable for once.

Later, when you both shifted to get more comfortable, Natasha turned over so her back was pressed against your front. You instinctively curled around her, becoming the big spoon. Your arm wrapped around her waist, your chest to her back, legs carefully tangled so you wouldn't bump her injured ankle.

Natasha let out a long, shaky breath and relaxed completely into you, the little spoon for the first time.

"Never thought I'd let anyone hold me like this." She admitted quietly into the dark. You hugged her a little tighter.

"Get used to it."  She didn't reply, but her hand found yours and laced your fingers together over her stomach.

___

The shift happened gradually. You and Natasha still continued to have sex on occasions (more often than you'd like to admit) but underneath it all, something began brewing. Sometimes you caught yourself watching Natasha. Like the one Saturday morning where she offered to make you breakfast to deal with your hangover. Both of you had gone out the night before to some house party.

Natasha had to actually drag you out after you'd been locked in your bedroom for seven hours straight. You'd complained about it, so much that Natasha had to pick you up and out of the chair. You dropped your weight on purpose, forcing Natasha to practically drag you out of the chair.

"Stop deadweighting." Natasha grunted, readjusting her grip.

"I'm not." you lied, immediately slouching even harder. Natasha eventually gave up and threw you into your bed.

Natasha opened your closet, ruffling through the clothes inside. You sat up and frowned.

"What are you doing? Stop that. You're making a mess!" You scolded but Natasha didn't listen. She continued rummaging until she pulled out a black dress before handing it to you.

"Here, put this on."

"Why this?"

"Because I've never seen you in it and it looks easier to take off. Now get dressed." Without another word, Natasha left you to go get ready. And well, obviously you got dressed.

The party was loud enough to make conversation optional. Music thumped through the walls of the frat house, bass vibrating beneath your sneakers as bodies squeezed past one another with red cups and slurred laughter. Someone had already spilled something sticky across the kitchen floor.

"This was worth dragging you out for." Natasha teased, nudging your shoulder. You rolled your eyes.

"I'm still convinced I would've had a better night in bed."

"You say that every time."

"And every time I'm right." Natasha laughed, that soft laugh she only seemed to have around you, and she disappeared toward the kitchen, returning a minute later with two drinks.

"I remembered." She said, handing you the one without the cranberry flavored vodka. You frowned.

"You remembered?"

"You hate cranberry."

"Oh." You accepted the cup, suddenly aware that she'd never once asked you to remind her.

Hours blurred together. You danced with your friends. Natasha disappeared into conversations with her teammates. Every so often your eyes found each other across the room. Neither of you acknowledged it. Because there was nothing to acknowledge.

Then someone wrapped an arm around your waist. A guy from one of your statistics tutorials.

"You've been hiding all semester." He grinned.

"Dance with me?" You shrugged your shoulders.

"Sure." It wasn't anything serious. It was just dancing. No harm in that right?

You laughed at one of his terrible jokes, swaying absentmindedly with the music. Across the room, Natasha's smile faltered. Her teammate was halfway through telling a story before Natasha realized she hadn't heard a single word.

Who was that? Why was his hand there? And why...Why did it bother her?She scoffed quietly to herself. Ridiculous. You weren't together. Hell, you weren't even dating. You were roommates who occasionally slept together. That was all. So why did she suddenly want to march over there and pry his hand off your waist-

"You okay?" Natasha blinked.

"Hm?"

"You've been staring for like... five minutes."

"I wasn't staring." She said which wasn't exactly a lie.  Her teammate followed her gaze.

"Oh." Natasha immediately looked away.

"Oh?"

"You've got it bad."

"I literally don't."

"Romanoff."

"We're just roommates."

"...Who have sex."

"...With boundaries." Her teammate snorted into her drink.

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

When the song changed, you excused yourself for some air. The backyard was cooler, quieter. You leaned against the railing, breathing. A few seconds later the back door opened.

"You disappear a lot princess." You didn't have to turn around.

"I like quiet." Natasha stepped beside you, her warmth grounding you in the moment.  Neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't awkward. It was... comfortable, like it always was whenever you say with Natasha.

Your shoulders brushed. Neither of you moved away.

"You cold?" Natasha asked.

"A little." Without thinking, she shrugged off her jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

"You'll freeze."

"So will you."

"I run hot." You smiled and let out a small chuckle.

"You always have an answer."

"One of us has to." Another silence.

Your fingers found the sleeve of her jacket, absentmindedly rubbing the fabric between your thumb and forefinger.

"You know..." Natasha said quietly.

"Hm?"

"I think you're the only person I actually like coming to these things with." You looked at her. She looked back. For just a second.

Long enough for something unfamiliar to settle between you. Not desire. That part had always been easy. This was...Different. Neither of you had a name for it yet. So, naturally, you both looked away first.

By the time the two of you stumbled back to the apartment, it was well past two in the morning. Natasha fumbled with the keys, muttering something under her breath when she missed the lock for the third time.

"You've got the hand-eye coordination of a professional athlete," you deadpanned.

"I've been drinking."

"You've had two vodka cranberries."

"They were... strong vodka cranberries." The door finally clicked open. You kicked your shoes off the moment you stepped inside, groaning at the relief.

"I am never wearing heels again."

"You say that every time."

"And this time I mean it." Natasha only smiled. It was domestic in a way that neither of you cared to acknowledge.

You disappeared into your room long enough to swap your dress for an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts. By the time you emerged, Natasha was already in the kitchen, two glasses of water sitting on the counter.

"Hydrate." She said, sliding one toward you. You raised an eyebrow.

"What?"

"Nothing." You said, with a small shake of your head.

"What?"

"It's just..." You took the glass, unable to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

"You're weirdly caring." Natasha scoffed.

"I'm preventing your hangover. Selfish reasons."

"Mhm."

"I'm serious." She pushed.

"Sure you are." The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It rarely was anymore. You leaned against opposite sides of the counter, lazily sipping water while the refrigerator hummed in the background.

"You disappeared for a while tonight," Natasha said eventually.

"So did you."

"I was talking to my teammates."

"I noticed." She hesitated but then she spoke up again.

"...That guy."

"What guy?"

"The one you were dancing with." You blinked.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"He asked me to dance."

"I saw." You couldn't help the teasing smile that spread across your face.

"Were you jealous?" Natasha answered far too quickly.

"No."

"You hesitated."

"I didn't."

"You literally did."

"I was thinking."

"About?"

"How annoying you are." You laughed, shaking your head as you walked past her.

"You were jealous."

"I wasn't."

"You so were." Before you could make it another step, Natasha caught your wrist. Not tightly. Just enough to stop you. The apartment fell quiet.

You looked down at her hand, then back up at her. Neither of you spoke. It would've been so easy to let go. Instead, her thumb brushed absentmindedly against your skin. A thoughtless gesture. One she'd probably deny remembering in the morning.

"You've got glitter on your face princess." She murmured.

"Oh." She reached up before you could react. Her fingers barely skimmed your cheek. One tiny fleck of silver caught on her fingertip.

"There." Neither of you moved. You were standing far too close now. Close enough to hear each other breathe.

Close enough that you could count the freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose. Natasha swallowed.

"We should probably go to bed."

"Probably." Neither of you did. For one suspended moment, the world seemed to wait with you. Then Natasha stepped back first.

"Goodnight."

"Night, Nat." Your bedroom door clicked shut behind you. Only then did Natasha let out the breath she'd been holding.

"This is getting dangerous." She whispered to the empty apartment. And in your room, sitting on the edge of your bed, you whispered the exact same thing.

And now, Natasha stood at the small counter in just a tank top and sleep shorts, red hair tied up loosely with strands falling around her face. She moved carefully because of her ankle, but she was focused, cracking eggs into the pan, buttering toast, cutting up an apple she must have grabbed from somewhere. Two plates were already set out.

You stood, leaning against the wall and just watching Natasha move. There was something about the sight that made your chest ache with a deep, quiet yearning. Natasha Romanoff, the girl who left chaos everywhere she went, who swore she didn't do soft things was currently making you breakfast.

After last night. After she'd watched that guy flirt with you at the party with that tight jaw and sharp eyes. After she'd pulled you close on the dance floor like she couldn't stand anyone else near you. After the almost moment at the door where she'd looked at you like she wanted to say something she couldn't. You wanted to crawl back under the covers of your bed and hide from how much you felt.

Instead, you straightened up and padded over quietly. Natasha glanced at you when you leaned against the doorway. For a second her green eyes softened, almost vulnerable, before she looked back at the pan.

"Morning." She said, voice a little rough. "Figured you'd be hungover. Sit." You sat at the tiny table.

She brought over a plate, perfectly cooked eggs, buttered toast, sliced apple, and a glass of water with ibuprofen next to it. She set it down in front of you like it was nothing, then sat across from you with her own plate.

You stared at the food for a long moment. She made this for you.

The girl who usually left protein shakers on your desk and teased you about your planners had gotten up early (or stayed up) to do something nice. No teasing comment. No smirk. Just quiet care.

The yearning hit you harder than it ever had. You wanted this version of her every morning. The one who noticed when you were overwhelmed. The one who got jealous but didn't make it your problem. The one who held you on bad nights and let you hold her on hers. You wanted to reach across the table and touch her hand. You wanted to tell her how much it meant. But you stayed silent, because saying it out loud would make it too real.

Natasha kept stealing glances at you while she ate. Her eyes lingered on your messy curls, on the way you were still wearing last night's shirt. There was a tension in her shoulders, like she was holding something back. Like she was fighting the same pull you were. The silence between you felt heavy with everything unsaid.

You wanted to be closer to her. You wanted her to pull you into her lap and hold you like she had the other night. You wanted to bury your face in her neck and breathe her in until the fear of loving someone this much went away. Instead, you took a bite of the eggs.

"They're good." You said softly.

Natasha's lips twitched into a small, almost shy smile.

"Yeah?" You nodded, heart aching with how much you were already falling.

She didn't need to say anything. The breakfast, the quiet way she watched you, the way her foot gently brushed yours under the table, it was all there.

And you were terrified by how badly you wanted to keep it.

___

The party that Wanda was throwing was loud and crowded, but Natasha couldn’t take her eyes off you. She seemed worried because you weren't acting like yourself.  She noticed it first in the bathroom hallway. You’d stepped away for a minute, and when she followed a little later, she caught you in the mirror. Your face was twisted. A quick flash of disgust and shame as you looked at your reflection, arms subtly crossing over your chest like you wanted to disappear. You fixed your expression fast, but Natasha saw it. She felt it like a punch to the gut and said nothing. Not then.

Later, back in the main room, it got worse. You were sitting beside her on the couch, but you weren’t really there. Your arms stayed crossed tight over your chest. Your shoulders curved inward. You laughed when your friends joked but it was hollow. Natasha watched you slowly disappear into your head, picking at the sleeve of your shirt, trying to hide pieces of yourself she already knew were beautiful.

It killed her.

The walk home was quiet, the cold night air sharp between you. Natasha’s hand brushed yours a few times but she didn’t grab it. She just stayed close, jaw tight, heart doing something complicated and heavy in her chest.

The second the door to your suite closed, she couldn’t hold back anymore.

She stepped forward and pulled you into her arms right there in the middle of the living room.

No words. No teasing. No rush to turn it into sex. Just Natasha wrapping herself around you completely. One arm slid around your waist, the other hand cradling the back of your head as she tucked your face gently into the crook of her neck. She held you like she was trying to shield you from the whole world. It was strong, steady, and warm.

You froze for half a second, then melted. Your arms came up slowly, wrapping around her back, fingers clutching the fabric of her hoodie like she might vanish. Natasha’s chin rested on top of your head. She breathed you in, slow and deep, her heartbeat strong against your cheek.

The silence was thick with everything unsaid. She could feel the tension still lingering in your body, the way you were trying so hard to shrink yourself. It made her chest ache with a fierce, protective kind of yearning. She wanted to tell you how fucking perfect you were. How she hated that you ever looked at yourself like that. How she’d been falling for you for weeks now. For the girl who scolded her about messes and still took care of her when her ankle was fucked up. For the girl who let her see the cracks even when it scared her.

But she didn’t speak. She just held you tighter, one hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back while the other stayed buried in your curls. The butterflies in her stomach were violent. This wasn’t benefits anymore. This was her wanting to be the person who made you feel safe enough to stop hiding. You pressed closer, face buried deeper into her neck, breathing her in like she was the only steady thing in your chaotic world. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure she could feel it.

You were terrified by how much you needed this. How much you needed her. The girl whose chaos kept breaking your control and somehow made you feel more alive than your perfect plans ever had. Neither of you let go. You stood there in the middle of the living room for what felt like forever, wrapped up in each other, hearts racing with quiet, terrifying yearning. The kind of closeness that felt bigger than sex. Bigger than just roommates with benefits. This was just two girls falling slowly, deeply, and helplessly into something neither of them could stop anymore.

Later that night, you laid in Natasha's bed. No heat except for the warmth her body provided. She held you tightly as you both watched tiktoks on your phone. It seemed very intimate, the lines were crossing. But as Natasha pressed a kiss onto the top of your head before laughing at some video on your phone, you knew that you wanted to feel this more. You wanted her. Deeply.

___

2026

You were sitting in the bedroom of your off campus room, pre-med textbooks gathered around you like weapons. The room smelt of Redbull, the incense sticks you'd lit up to relax you and help you study (which failed) alongside your iPad. Luna, your cat, was perched on the other side of the bed, her gaze focused on your stressful form. She tried to help by making the occasional biscuit but that ended with her taking a short nap inside of your sheets. Lucky.

You groaned, throwing your head back before closing your textbook. Just then, your phone buzzed with a notification. You glanced at it and found her name on your screen. Your stomach shrank.

Natasha

Fans want more content. You up for it?

You clenched your jaw, heart slamming against your ribs. You wanted to type, tell her to fuck off but you didn't have enough fight in you anymore. It still hurt deeply. It was as if Natasha had pulled your entire heart out with her hands before smashing it into bits and pieces. The tears were already gathering in your eyes. How could she just waltz back into your life after every fucking thing? You should have blocked her, deleted her number even but instead, you just typed.

You

Why are you texting me?

Natasha

Just wanted to see if you're up for it. I miss you.

The notification preview told you everything you needed to know. You read it once, twice, then swiped it away without ever opening the conversation. You laughed bitterly before switching your phone off for the night. You grabbed your books and iPad to place them aside. You weren't in the right mind space to do any studying.

Luna moved closer, tucking herself underneath your arm once you were settled. You switched the lights off and stared at the ceiling. How dare she.

But when you woke up the next morning, the message was edited this time. Still there, just that last phrase "I miss you" was gone. Coward.

___

It was a rainy Friday morning. The storm kept everyone inside. You were curled up on the couch with a textbook, trying to focus. Natasha had been restless, pacing the living room until she finally gave up and dropped down beside you.

Without asking, she lifted your legs into her lap and started massaging your calves with strong, careful hands. You glanced at her, surprised.

"You’re always tense." She said quietly, not looking at you.

"Figured I’d help." You didn’t argue. The steady pressure of her thumbs felt too good. After a while, you put the book down and just watched her. The focused crease between her brows. The way her red hair fell into her face. The quiet gentleness she only seemed to show when it was just the two of you.

Natasha caught you staring and smirked, but it was softer than usual. She kept rubbing your legs long after they stopped aching, like she didn’t want to stop touching you.

There were other moments where natasha and you realized that this was beyond just benefits. Like the time where she helped you study. It was 2 a.m. You were at the kitchen table surrounded by flashcards, eyes burning. Natasha should’ve been asleep in her room, but she wandered out in an oversized hoodie and sat across from you.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stole one of your highlighters and started quizzing you in a low, patient voice. Every time you got an answer right, she’d give you a small, proud smile that made your stomach flip.

When you finally slumped forward in exhaustion, she stood up, came around the table, and pulled you into a hug from behind. Her arms wrapped around your shoulders, chin resting on your head.

"You’re gonna kill this exam." She murmured.

"But you need sleep, princess." You leaned back into her, letting yourself be held. In that moment, with her warmth surrounding you and the quiet of the dorm at night, you realized how much you craved her presence. Not just the sex. Her steadiness. The way she made the weight on your shoulders feel a little lighter.

Or the other time when you woke up to the sound of the door closing. Natasha had gone out early despite the cold and came back with two coffees. Yours made exactly how you liked it, with the right amount of oat milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon on top. She set it on your nightstand and tried to sneak back out, but you caught her wrist.

"You didn’t have to." You said, voice still sleepy. Natasha shrugged, looking almost shy for once.

"I wanted to." She lingered in your doorway, watching as you took the first sip. The quiet fondness in her eyes made your heart do something dangerous. You wanted to pull her into your bed and hold her. You wanted to tell her how much these small things meant. Instead, you just smiled at her over the cup, and she smiled back. A smile that was small, real, and full of unspoken yearning.

Late November, you stormed into the shared living room after a long day and the sight made your jaw clench. Natasha’s protein shaker was tipped over on the counter, leaking across the surface. Her duffel bag had exploded near the couch, knee pads and shoes scattered. One of her hoodies was draped over the back of the chair you always used.

"Natasha! "you said sharply, setting your bag down.

" This is shared space. I’ve asked you so many times. I need things a certain way out here. I can’t keep cleaning up after you every single day-" She stepped out of her room, still in her tank top and shorts from practice, green eyes darkening the moment she heard your tone.

Instead of snapping back, she walked straight toward you with purpose. You expected her to kiss you roughly like usual, to turn the scolding into angry sex. But this time she stopped right in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her.

"Keep going." She murmured, voice low. "Tell me how much I’m ruining your perfect little world." You opened your mouth to continue the lecture, but the look in her eyes made the words die. There was hunger there, yes, but also something deeper. Something almost reverent.

She took your hand and pulled you into your bedroom, kicking the door shut behind her. The second you were inside, she lifted you onto your desk in one smooth motion. Your perfectly stacked planners, color coded notes, and highlighters went tumbling to the floor in a chaotic rainbow mess as she shoved them aside. The sight of your carefully controlled space being disrupted by her sent a shiver through you.Natasha kissed you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt, but she was slower than usual. More deliberate. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.

"I want to fuck you with the strap tonight." She said quietly, voice rough."

"If you’ll let me." Your breath caught. You’d never let anyone do that before. It felt big. Vulnerable. Trusting someone that deeply with your body, especially Natasha, the girl whose chaos kept cracking your walls, was terrifying.

But you trusted her. You nodded, swallowing hard.

"Okay."  Natasha’s eyes softened for a moment, something like awe flickering across her face. She kissed you again, slower this time, like she understood what you were giving her. She took her time undressing you, kissing every new inch of skin she revealed. When you were naked on the desk, she grabbed the strap from where it had started living in your room and buckled it on carefully. Then she stepped between your spread thighs, slicking the thick toy.

"You sure?" She asked, voice gentler than you’d ever heard it during sex.

"Yes." You whispered, gripping the edge of the desk.

"I want it to be you." The trust in your voice made her exhale shakily. She pressed the head against your entrance and pushed in slowly, watching your face the entire time. You gasped at the stretch, fingers digging into her shoulders. Natasha stilled, letting you adjust, one hand stroking your thigh soothingly while the other brushed a curl from your face.

"Fuck, you look so beautiful." She breathed, voice strained with how much she was holding back. Once you nodded, she started moving, deep, rolling thrusts that gradually built in intensity. Every snap of her hips knocked more of your organized notes and planners to the floor, the chaos of her presence completely overtaking your control.

But you didn’t care. You wrapped your legs around her waist, pulling her deeper, moaning softly against her neck. The sex was heated, yes, her hips snapping harder as she got lost in it. But it was layered with something much more intimate. The eye contact. The way she whispered “I’ve got you” every time you gasped at a particularly deep thrust. The way her hands held you like you were precious.

You came hard around the strap, trembling in her arms, a broken moan of her name spilling from your lips. Natasha followed soon after, grinding deep and shuddering against you, burying her face in your neck.

Afterward, she stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard amid the scattered wreckage of your desk.

She pulled back just enough to look at you, green eyes dark and full of quiet wonder. The trust you’d just given her, letting her be the first to take you like that, hung heavy and beautiful between you. Neither of you said it out loud. But the feelings were there, growing stronger with every passing day, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

___

You and Natasha walked through the carnival, shoulders occasionally brushing. It was supposed to be a group hangout, but when Carol and Wanda coincidentally excused themselves because they had plans they'd forgotten about, it was just you and Natasha. You didn't mind it though, especially because you enjoyed being around her. As friends.

"Still can't believe you've never been to these things before." You shrugged.

"Never had the time."

"Well, now you do, so let's make sure you have fun princess." She wrapped an arm around your shoulders before guiding you further in. You melted into her embrace, especially when she pulled away and you still smelt like her perfume. The carnival was small but lively. Twinkling lights strung between booths, the distant screams from the Ferris wheel, and the smell of fried dough and popcorn in the cold night air.

Natasha kept stealing glances at you, her red hair peeking out from under a black beanie, green eyes bright under the colorful lights. First stop was the food stalls. Natasha insisted on buying you a massive stick of cotton candy. You laughed when she tore off a piece and tried to feed it to you, both of you giggling as the sugar melted on your tongues. She won a small stuffed keychain at the ring toss and immediately hooked it onto your bag.

"Souvenir." She said, smirking.

You retaliated by dragging her onto the Tilt-A-Whirl. She pretended to be unaffected the whole time, but when you got off she was a little green and dramatically leaned on you for support.

"You’re enjoying this way too much." She grumbled, but her arm stayed around your shoulders.

The real moment came at the basketball shootout booth. Natasha’s eyes lit up when she saw the giant prizes hanging above the counter  Especially the oversized, soft brown teddy bear with a red bow.

"Watch this." She said, cracking her knuckles with exaggerated confidence. You leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her with an amused smile. She paid for three shots and stepped up, rolling her shoulders like she was back on the volleyball court.

First shot, swish. Second shot, nothing but net. Third shot, she paused, glanced at you, then sank it perfectly. The guy running the booth looked shocked. Natasha just smirked, pointing up at the big bear.

"That one." He handed it over with a defeated sigh. Natasha turned to you, holding the giant teddy bear like it weighed nothing, her cheeks slightly pink from the cold and the small victory.

"Here." She said, pushing it into your arms.

"For my favorite control freak." You smacked your lips but accepted it gratefully.  You hugged the soft bear to your chest, half laughing, half melting. It was huge, almost as tall as your torso and ridiculously cute. But it wasn’t really about the bear.

It was the way Natasha watched you, green eyes soft and warm under the carnival lights. The quiet pride on her face. The way she’d gone out of her way to win it just to see you smile. You clutched the teddy bear tighter, butterflies exploding in your stomach.

"Thank you." You said softly, stepping closer until you could rest your forehead against her shoulder for a second.

"I love it." Natasha’s hand came up to rub your back, lingering there. She didn’t tease you this time. She just held you for a moment, the chaotic carnival noise fading into the background.

Later, as you walked back toward campus with the giant bear tucked under your arm (and Natasha’s arm around your waist), you kept stealing glances at her.

When you got to the apartment, you set the teddy bear down before being pulled into her arms. She kissed you softly, like you were made of glass and you wrapped your arms around her neck. Somehow you landed up on the couch. You both smoked in the living room with the window cracked and the fan on, laughing at nothing until the giggles faded into comfortable silence. The high settled deep, warm and floaty, lowering every defense you both usually kept up.

Somehow you ended up in the tiny shared bathroom, clothes already half off from making out against the wall. Natasha turned on the shower, and you both stepped under the hot spray together, bodies pressing close in the small space.

Water cascaded over you, your warm skin against her pale, athletic frame. Steam filled the air. Natasha had you pinned gently against the tiles, kissing you slow and deep, her hands sliding over your waist, your hips, your thighs. The high made every touch feel electric and endless. The laughter had died down. What was left was something heavier.

Natasha pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. Water dripped from her red hair onto your shoulders. Her green eyes were dark, pupils blown, but the look in them wasn’t just lust anymore. It was soft. Adoring. Almost overwhelmed. She brushed a wet curl from your face with trembling fingers.

"I love you." She whispered, voice rough and raw under the sound of the water.

"Fuck, Y/N… I’m so in love with you it scares me." The words hung between you, real and terrifying. Your heart slammed against your ribs. You cupped her face with both hands, thumbs stroking her wet cheeks as you searched her eyes. The yearning you’d been feeling for weeks, the quiet pull every time she held you, every time she looked at you like you were more than just benefits, crashed over you all at once.

"I love you too." You breathed, voice shaking.

"I didn’t want to. I wasn’t supposed to fall this hard… but I’m so in love with you, Natasha." The kiss that followed was slow, deep, and full of everything you’d both been trying not to feel.

Hands roamed with new tenderness, not rushing toward sex, just touching, holding, memorizing. Natasha’s arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you impossibly closer under the spray. You clung to her like she might disappear.

You stayed in the shower until the water turned cold, trading soft kisses and quiet “I love you”s between shaky breaths, hearts racing with the terrifying, beautiful weight of what you’d just admitted.

When you finally stepped out, still wrapped in towels, skin damp and warm, you and Natasha stumbled into her bed, giggling and kissing like you couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you. The “I love you”s from the shower still echoed in the air, making everything feel electric and terrifyingly soft at the same time.

Natasha pulled you on top of her, hands sliding under your towel to caress your bare skin. The kiss deepened, slow and reverent, tongues brushing lazily. You could feel how much she was trembling, not from nerves, but from the weight of what you’d both just admitted.

"I love you." She whispered again against your lips, like she needed to taste the words.

"I love you too." You breathed, smiling into the kiss. She gently rolled you onto your back and settled between your legs, but instead of reaching for the strap or going down on you, she shifted higher. Her thigh pressed between yours as she hovered above you, red hair falling around both of you like a curtain.

"Can I…?" She asked softly, eyes searching yours.

"I want to feel all of you." You understood. You nodded, heart racing. Natasha lowered herself until your bodies aligned perfectly. It was wet, warm, and slick against each other. The first slide of her pussy against yours made you both gasp. She interlaced your fingers, pressing your hands into the mattress on either side of your head, holding you there as she started moving.

It was slow at first. Gentle rolls of her hips, grinding her clit against yours in a delicious, intimate rhythm. The sensation was overwhelming, slick heat, perfect pressure, the way your bodies fit together so naturally. You looked up at her and couldn’t look away.

Natasha’s green eyes were locked on yours, full of so much love and awe it made your chest ache. Her lips were parted, cheeks flushed, red hair messy and damp. Every slow grind pulled soft, breathy moans from both of you.

"I love you." She whispered again, squeezing your hands tighter as she rolled her hips in a slow circle.

"So much."  You let out a shaky giggle, overwhelmed by how good it felt, how right it felt.

"I love you too… fuck, Nat-" She laughed softly too, the sound breaking into a moan when you tilted your hips up to meet her. The giggles turned into breathy, loving sounds as the pleasure built. Your fingers stayed tightly laced, thumbs stroking each other’s skin.

You couldn’t stop looking at each other.

Every roll of her hips, every slick slide of your clits together, every shared gasp, it was intimate in a way you’d never experienced before. Beautiful. Vulnerable. Full of love.

Natasha leaned down to kiss you, still moving, still grinding in that perfect rhythm. The kiss was messy and sweet, full of smiles and little giggles when your noses bumped or when the pleasure made you both tremble.

"You feel so good." She whispered against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours.

"I can’t believe you’re mine." You squeezed her hands harder, legs wrapping around her as the pressure built higher.

"I’m yours. All yours." The orgasm came slowly, beautifully, washing over both of you at nearly the same time. You came with a soft, broken moan, clenching and shuddering against her. Natasha followed right after, hips stuttering, a quiet “I love you” spilling from her lips as she trembled above you. You stayed like that for a long time afterward, foreheads pressed together, fingers still intertwined, breathing each other in. Soft giggles bubbled up between lazy kisses as the high and the afterglow mixed together.

Later, while music played softly from the speaker in your room, Natasha held you in her arms, fingers drawing lazy patterns onto your skin.

"I wasn't always like this you know." You mumbled before untucking your head from her neck. Natasha never stopped drawing patterns but her focus shifted to you.

"One morning I'd been late to school because I spent the night before prepping for this debate tournament, nationals actually." You paused then continued.

"I panicked but my dad said he didn't mind dropping them off for me. He left work, picked them up but..." Your voice cracked.

"He got into an accident and died on the spot." Natasha stopped drawing but she held you tighter.

"If I had just stuck to my usual routine, stuck to the order that I know instead of just...he still could've been alive."

"Y/n..." Natasha started but you shook your head.

"I know, it's not my fault but the thought never leaves my head. He saved people you know, traveled the world to help sick families. If only I'd been careful enough, I could've saved him too." You let out a dry chuckle.

"It's why I'm studying medicine too. I don't know, maybe if I save other people's lives, it will somewhat fill the hole of taking his life."

"I started hurting myself after that. But even that wasn't enough... That's why I love having things in order so much. Control is good, safe. Things don't get taken away if they're planned. B-but with you, you just bring this chaos. You make me feel like I don't have to suffocate with this persona." She wiped the tears that had fallen down your cheek away as you continued to talk.

"I never wanted to let anyone else in because I'm scared of having someone I love so deeply get taken away from me. But you and your cocky self managed to break in." Natasha let out her own laugh, soft and warm. She let out a soft sigh before looking up at the ceiling.

"My family isn't so great either. Dad was never present, moms an alcoholic who had two children and we were barely getting by." She paused and looked down at you, as if she couldn't believe that she was actually telling someone about this.

"I was always the stronger one you know. Had to raise my sister and practically keep my mother from spiraling too. She wasn't abusive or anything but it's hard caring for other people when you don't even have the capacity to care for yourself. I wasn't that smart in school either but I had these killer legs. " You laughed despite the tears sitting in your eyes.

"In middle school, I worked at some shops just to be able to afford secondhand spikes. They weren't quality but I turned them into something great. In high school I was luckier, I had this coach who believed in me. Bought me my real first pair of spikes. Even though they barely fit me, I still keep them with me to remember why I'm here."

"Are those the blue ones hanging on your walls?" You asked and she nodded.

"Yeah. Coach always said I'd go far. But he also said I'd have to let go and let someone in. Never believed him. That was until I met you." You didn't say anything but you tucked your head back underneath her chin. She held you closer, as if she were trying to become one with you. And you let her, because in this room, it was just the two of you existing in this messy thing you called life.

___

2026

The sound of footsteps nearing the door had your heart slamming against your ribs. Eventually the door open and you were met with the redhead standing in sweats and a black top. She looked unfairly good but you pushed that down.

"Hey." You gave her a short nod and she opened her door wider, letting you step inside.

"I'm glad you said yes."

"Cut the small talk Natasha. We're just here to film." Natasha flinched at the use of her full name laced with venom. It sounded so wrong coming from you but she nodded before scratching the back of her neck.

"I set up in my bedroom." You let Natasha lead you through her off campus apartment into her bedroom before setting your bag down.

You stripped out of your jeans and sweater, until you were just in pink underwear. Natasha had been fidgeting with the camera settings until she saw your body. The sight alone was able to send a wave of heat down her body but it also brought back ugly and unwanted memories. She swallowed the thoughts down before pressing record.

You both had eventually agreed to film one last video together. After the breakup, you hadn't exactly deleted the page you created together. The breakup was too messy to even approach this conversation so you left the site up.

Six months after the breakup you finally gathered the courage to log back in. It felt like a knife was being twisted inside of your heart as you replayed a video. It wasn't out of lust, no. This was from the intimacy of the videos. Watching the way Natasha held you, caressed you touched you, fucked you, made love to you, brought so much pain to you because she left. After building something so beautiful, she packed up her things and left as if all of what you'd built together was just a phase. You remember getting so wasted that night, that you almost sent her a drunken text about how she fucked you over. But that ended with your head inside of the toilet throwing up from the thought of speaking to her again. Not even the alcohol could destroy you the way she did.

Two month later, you went back and released a video alone. It made money yeah but the comments were the same.

Where's Natasha?

Did you guys break up?

Bring back red, you two were so amazing together.

You wanted to log off and delete the account then but you didn't. And now, almost a year and a half after the breakup, you were sitting on your heartbreakers bed.

You two eventually fucked. When her hands first touched you, it felt like coming back home after a long holiday. She made you feel good, you moaned for the camera, had your share of orgasms, gave Natasha hers, allowed her to fuck you with the strap but never in missionary and cow girl. Anything that avoided prolonged eye contact (even though that had been your favorite back then).

After the both of you had your last orgasm, you let her kiss you and praise you, but that was all for the camera (fans loved the aftercare that she provided. It was rare to see and that's what made you two such a hit). After that you got up and got dressed. Natasha watched you but you could tell there was a lot on her mind that she wanted to say.

"I'll post it tonight. Whatever comes in we split 50/50." You'd explained after slinging your bag onto your shoulder.

"You seriously won't talk to me?"

" You did all of the talking back then. I have nothing to say to you. Delete my number and forget about me." You left her apartment after that but you both knew that this was far from over.

___

The fans loved the video. Comments begged to have more. And when Natasha sent another text.

Natasha

Money was good. We could film another one.

She was right, the money was so good, you were able to get the new edition of Gray's Anatomy for Students for medical school.

___

It was sophomore year of college. Both you and Natasha were lucky enough to get another shared suite. And the first thing you both did was christen the entire suite.

"I missed you so fucking much during summer break." She whispered against your lips, hands already picking you up and placing you onto the kitchen counter.

"Loved those photos and videos that you sent." She murmured, lips sucking against her neck, you moaned but when Natasha tried to push you further onto the countertop, you paused.

"How clean is this surface?" You dodged her kiss turning around to assess the counter top Natasha placed you on.

Natasha only sighed in a mixture of sexual frustration and love.

"I'm sorry Nat but you're not about to fuck me on a dirty surface." Natasha whined as you climbed off and sauntered over to get cleaning products in your bedroom.

"The sooner you help me, the sooner I get to show you lingerie I got!" Natasha practically ran into the room to help you after that. Your new home was a mixture of both of you. Natasha seldom left her things around anymore but you still lectured her most days. She let you just because she knew it would end up with you gripping the nearest surface while her head was in between your thighs.

The relationship blossomed beautifully. You two even had polaroid pictures of one another behind your phone case after Wanda had sneakily taken one with her camera. You got the picture of the two of you kissing while Natasha got the one of the two of you looking so lovesick, it was disgusting.

"For your crazy kids someday." She remarked after handing you the two copies.

You walked around on campus during the day and at night, holding hands and talking about nothing and everything. You pulled her into study sessions at the library that started with either of you testing one another on your modules and ended with the two of you sneakily making out in the section tucked far away that no one visited while her hand slowly made it's way up your thigh. Most times you'd swat her hand away but it would end up inside you anyway, Natasha watching you with this smitten look.

Some nights, after coming back home late from a study session with friends, you'd slip into her bed and watch her sleep. The sight alone was able to ground you but recently she had this habit of faking sleep just to scare you.

"Boo!" You shrieked and threw your head back in frustration as Natasha poked your stomach.

"What the fuck Nat?! Stop that!" Natasha only chuckled in response to your reaction.

"Stop watching me sleep you weirdo." You'd shove her head back when she leaned in for a kiss but that only ended with your legs wrapped around her shoulders while her mouth was in between your thighs telling you that she'd rather watch you cum instead.

On a whim, you had posted a video on tiktok about you and Natasha. Nothing out of the ordinary, just the two of you lip syncing to some new trending song while her hands roamed around your waist. It was harmless really but it started getting people's attention.

You wouldn't say that you and Natasha are the typical "tiktok" couple but watching the two of you do some trend or lip sync or even just harmlessly post one another was really something people enjoyed watching one of the videos that had gotten a lot of attention was the one where couples were sitting in a car and trying some takeout.  Now neither of you had a car but that didn't stop you. Instead, you'd set up your phone in your room (because yours was the aesthetic and Natasha's room was a mess).

The video was simple. You recorded the two of you holding up different things taking bites and sharing the foods. But then it would fade to the two of you making out. The first kiss was soft. Natasha leaned in, cupping your jaw as she kissed you softly. It was slow, sweet, and intimate  your eyes fluttering closed, one hand resting on her thigh. You smiled into the kiss before pulling back. You both continued eating like nothing happened. The second one was much hotter.

Natasha had her hand fisted in your curls, kissing you hard. You bit down on her bottom lip, tugging it visibly between your teeth. Natasha groaned into your mouth, the sound low and rough. The kiss was aggressive, needy, her free hand gripping your thigh tightly. When you finally pulled back, her lip was red and slightly swollen.

You both turned back to the camera, a little breathless.

"These spicy dumplings are no joke." You said, voice slightly husky.

"Super flavorful. 9/10 from me." Natasha licked her bitten lip.

"Yeah… really fucking good. 9.5."

The third and final one faded in with you already straddling Natasha’s lap. You were kissing her deeply, her hands resting on your hips as she tilted her head to kiss you harder. It was slow, passionate, and full of heat. Soft sounds escaping as your bodies moved subtly together. You pulled back just enough to look at her, both of you smiling against each other’s lips.

You turned toward the camera, still in her lap.

"Overall verdict?" You said, a little flushed.

"This place is a strong 9.5 out of 10. We’re ordering from here again for sure."  Natasha looked straight into the lens, one hand still possessively on your thigh.

"Highly recommend." She added, voice low and satisfied.

"10/10 experience." The video ended with both of you smiling at the camera, the takeout boxes scattered around you.

The soft moments mixed with the heated ones and the way you two looked at each other like no one else existed, made the fans lose their minds in the comments. Comments varied, some calling you a cute couple or something alike. While some were bolder and friskier.

"Drop the twitter"

"Can we watch"

You remember the night you'd shown the comments to Natasha. You were laying on top of her, scrolling through the comments before showing her your phone. She just laughed.

"I mean we'd look good." The topic ended there.

But the love for filming intensified. There was something so satisfying about filming your sexual activities. She'd hold the phone while taking you from behind. There was something so tantalizing about her pale hand gripping onto your ass, hips pounding hard enough to send your ass rippling like water. You'd moan into the pillow hands gripping the pillow while throwing your ass back to meet her thrusts.

"You look so fucking good baby. Throw that ass back f'me, yeah just like that." You'd moan in response.

"Tell me how deep I'm in baby."

"So f...deep." Natasha slapped your ass, spurring you on.

"Yeah? Feel my cock deep in your pussy?"

"Feel you everywhere, in my stomach." She fastened her pace, the new strap hitting deeper inside of your pussy. You came fast, the sound of your melodic moans sending Natasha into her own orgasm.

Your filmed videos varied like that. Either you'd record her in between your legs, sucking and fingering you while talking filthy to the camera. Or her in between your legs shoulders propped onto her shoulders as you gripped the counter top. She'd kiss down your thighs, lick your leg kiss a toe then go back to sucking in between your clit. Other videos ranged between you fingering her, riding her cowgirl or even of the two of you touching yourselves in front of her. But your videos weren't the only thing growing.

The love and vulnerability between you two grew too. After she'd come back from a horrible athlete tournament, third place, though it was good, Natasha screwed up the last run and was almost disqualified.

You ran her a bath, let her soak before giving her a massage. You then spent a long time just massaging her legs, focusing on the calves and quads.

"You're good no matter what Nat. You're the best runner I know. " You'd praise. You worked slow circles into the knot in her calf before moving to her hamstring.

"Relax." You murmured, lifting her leg into a passive hamstring stretch.

That night Natasha let go and let you fuck her with the strap. The sight of he laying back, red hair spilled across the pillow as you thrust into her filled your heart with so much warmth.

"You're so beautiful Nat." She pulled you in for a kiss and came with you playing with her tits while kissing her deeply.

That night you laid together, listening to the shared Playlist you made together. Natasha's eyes were filled with love as she mindlessly played with your curls.

"Falling in love with you is like discovering a new favorite song. Every time I think I've heard the best part, I listen again... and somehow find another reason to love it." She whispered. You stared at her.

"...What?" Natasha smiled sheepishly.

"I said falling in love with you is like finding a new favorite song." Your heart felt impossibly full. You searched her face as if trying to figure out how someone could say something so effortlessly beautiful.

"That's... " You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"Probably the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me." Natasha's cheeks flushed.

"Yeah?" You slipped your arms around her waist.

"Yeah."

___

The first fight was over something stupid really. It was after you agreed to meet Natasha after your last class of the day (where you had to write an exam about statistics which you weren't really succeeding. So you really expected Natasha to be there because she knew what this meant to you.

You checked your phone for the twelfth time in fifteen minutes. Nothing. No text. No missed call. Just the lock screen staring back at you with an empty notification bar. Students poured out of the lecture hall in clusters, laughing as they made plans for the afternoon. One by one, the crowd around you began to thin.

You stayed where you were. Natasha had promised she'd be here.

"You waiting for someone?" You looked over at one of your classmates.

"Yeah."

"They're running late?"

"...I guess." Another five minutes passed.

Then twenty. You sighed, slipping your phone back into your pocket. Maybe she'd forgotten. The thought stung more than you cared to admit. Just as you turned to leave, a familiar voice called your name.

"There you are." You looked up.

Natasha jogged toward you, her track bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. A sheen of sweat clung to her forehead, and her hair had almost completely escaped its ponytail.

"Sorry." She said between breaths. "Practice ran over." You stared at her.

"You could've texted."

"I know."

"You said you'd be here."

"I did." Another pause. Natasha rubbed the back of her neck.

"Coach kept us longer than expected."

You waited. She didn't say anything else. No apology. No acknowledgment that you'd been standing there for almost forty minutes wondering where she was. Instead, she flashed that easy grin.

"C'mon." You didn't move. She frowned.

"What?"

"I waited for you."

"I know."

"And?" Natasha shrugged.

"It wasn't a big deal." Silence.

The smile slipped from her face the second she saw yours.

"It wasn't..." you repeated quietly.

"I mean-"

"It wasn't a big deal?"

"No, that's not what I-"

"You made me wait nearly forty minutes."

"I got held up."

"I know that."

"Then why are you mad?"

You let out a short laugh. Not because anything was funny. Because you couldn't believe she was missing the point.

"I'm not mad because you were late."

"Then-"

"I'm mad because you couldn't take ten seconds to tell me."

Natasha opened her mouth. Closed it.

"I was busy."

"You were too busy to send one text?"

"I just forgot." The words landed harder than either of you expected. Forgot. You looked away first.

"If it's not a big deal to you..." You adjusted your bag onto your shoulder.

"Then I don't really have anything else to say."

"Hey-" You walked past her. She reached for your wrist. You slipped out of reach before she could touch you.

For the first time since you'd met her you left Natasha Romanoff standing there alone.

___

The apartment had never been so quiet. Usually, one of you always had something to say.

A joke. A complaint about assignments. An argument over whose turn it was to do the dishes.

Now:

"Morning."

"Mhm."

"You heading to class?"

"Yep."

"...Okay." Natasha watched your bedroom door click shut. She hated it. She hated how you wouldn't even look at her.

By lunchtime she'd already sent three messages.

Nat 🕷️

Still mad?

Nat 🕷️

I'm sorry.

Nat 🕷️

Can we talk?

You'd read every single one from the notification preview. You never opened the chat. That somehow felt worse.

The next morning, another knock sounded against your bedroom door. You ignored it. A second knock. And then you heard her voice.

"I brought a peace offering." Silence.

"It's coffee." Nothing.

"And one of those stupid blueberry muffins you always complain are overpriced but still buy." Your hand froze halfway through zipping your backpack.

"Go away."

"I'd rather not." You opened the door. Natasha stood there holding a takeaway tray in one hand and a small paper bag in the other.

"You look tired."

"I slept fine."

"Liar." You reached for the coffee. Natasha pulled it back.

"Not until you hear me out." You narrowed your eyes.

"You're annoying."

"I've been told." You folded your arms.

"Talk."The confidence she'd worn so effortlessly for the last two days disappeared. She looked... nervous.

"I was wrong." You stayed silent.

"I should've texted." Silence.

"I knew you were waiting for me." Another pause.

"And I made you feel like... like it didn't matter." Your expression softened but only slightly. Natasha took a careful step closer.

"I wasn't thinking."

"No." You said quietly.

"You weren't." She nodded.

"I know."

"I kept checking my phone."

"I know."

"I thought maybe you'd forgotten about the fact that I needed you." Her face fell.

"I didn't."

"I know that now." Another silence settled between you. This one wasn't angry. Just honest.

"You hurt my feelings, Nat." The words came out smaller than you'd intended. Natasha's shoulders slumped.

"I'm sorry." No excuses. No jokes. No trying to make you laugh. Just two words.

"I'm really sorry." You looked at the coffee again. Then at her.

"You got my order right?" A tiny smile tugged at Natasha's lips.

"Extra caramel."

"And?"

"Oat milk."

"And?"

"No whipped cream." You took the cup from her hand.

"Good." Natasha let out the breath she'd been holding.

"So..."

"So?"

"Am I forgiven?"

You took a long sip before answering.

"You're on probation." She laughed.

"I can work with probation." You tried to keep your face straight. You really did.

But the corner of your mouth betrayed you. Natasha caught it immediately.

"There it is."

"What?"

"That smile."

"I'm not smiling."

"You are."

"I'm literally not."

"You absolutely are." You rolled your eyes, finally looking at her properly for the first time in two days.

"Shut up." Natasha smiled back. god, she'd missed hearing you say that.

___

You woke up to Natasha’s warm body curled around yours, her arm slung over your waist and her face buried in your neck. For a moment you just stayed there, soaking in the quiet comfort of her breathing against your skin. Then reality hit. It was a Tuesday. Your birthday. And you had an 8 AM lecture.

You pressed a soft kiss to her lips, smiling when she sleepily kissed you back.

"Gotta go." You whispered.

"See you later."

Natasha mumbled something incoherent and pulled you closer for one more kiss before letting you slip out of bed. You got ready quickly, leaving her dozing under the covers, and headed out without making a big deal about the day. Birthdays had never been special. They were just another weekday.

The second the door closed, Natasha was wide awake. She’d been planning this for weeks. Under her bed was a plain cardboard box she’d been secretly filling. She pulled it out and spent the next few hours arranging everything with more care than she’d ever admit to. It was nothing expensive, just things she knew you’d love. She got you a stack of your favorite snacks (including the weird spicy chips you pretended not to like but always stole from her), a soft oversized black hoodie she’d "borrowed" from the athletics store because she knew you liked wearing her clothes, a delicate gold bracelet with a tiny star charm, a new sleek black grinder, and a small bag of good weed flower she’d saved up for.

But the part that took the longest, the part she was most nervous about, were the flowers.

Natasha sat cross legged on her bed for almost three hours, tongue poking out in concentration, twisting colorful pipe cleaners into little flowers. Her fingers ached. Some of them came out crooked. A few petals were lopsided. But she kept going, making a small, imperfect bouquet in your favorite colors. When she was done, she put them in an empty mug and set everything on your desk with a simple handwritten note:

“You deserve to feel special today. Happy Birthday, princess. From Nat”

She wasn’t cocky about it. No smirk. No teasing. She just wanted you to feel loved on a day you’d told her once meant nothing.

You came back from your afternoon classes exhausted and expecting nothing. You pushed open the door and stopped dead in your tracks. The living room was softly lit. On your desk sat a wrapped box and the most ridiculous, colorful bouquet of pipe cleaner flowers you’d ever seen. Natasha stood in the middle of the room, hands in her hoodie pockets, looking almost nervous. Her usual cocky energy was completely gone. She just looked at you with soft green eyes, waiting.

"Happy birthday. " She said quietly. You walked over slowly, picking up one of the pipe cleaner flowers. It was messy and imperfect and so obviously made by her hands that your throat tightened.

"You made these?" You asked, voice small.

"Took me three hours." She admitted with a shy little laugh.

"They’re kinda ugly, but… I wanted to make you something myself." You opened the box next. Every single item inside hit you right in the chest. The hoodie. The bracelet. The snacks. The new grinder and weed. All chosen because she knew you. Because she’d been paying attention. Tears welled up before you could stop them.

Natasha stepped forward and pulled you into her arms without hesitation. She held you tight, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles on your back.

"I know birthdays aren’t a big thing for you." She murmured into your hair.

"But I wanted this one to be different. You deserve to be celebrated, Y/N. You deserve someone who notices the little things and wants to make you smile."

You hugged her back fiercely, burying your face in her neck as a few tears slipped free.

"No one’s ever done anything like this for me." You whispered, voice thick.

Natasha held you even tighter, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head.

"Well, get used to it." She said softly. "Because I’m gonna make sure every birthday from now on feels like you matter." You stayed wrapped up in her for a long time, the pipe cleaner flowers and thoughtful box on the desk behind you. For the first time in years, your birthday didn’t feel like just another day. It felt like love. Real, warm, and beautifully overwhelming.

___

2026

You don't know how you let yourself be roped back into her bed, but here you were, moaning and letting Natasha fuck you like old times. The camera caught everything. The way she pulled you closer just to bury her mouth in between her legs, how your fingers pulled her hair, pulling her impossibly closer, or how she kissed your thighs like she still had the control to do that. And you let her, because part of you really wanted to reminisce about the good times. About what used to be. About her...

When you were done, you got dressed like you usually did after this.

"You posted another video of yourself." She started, you paused. Then she spoke and you almost didn't hear her.

"It was beautiful." Another pause.

"I miss you." You clenched your jaw, fighting the emotions down.

"You don't get to do that."

"Y/n, at least talk to me. Please, just give me a chance to talk." The laugh you let out was so bitter it made Natasha flinch.

"Why won't you just give me a chance to talk y/n, please I'm begging you. Baby I'm begging you."

"Why?!" You finally turned to look at Natasha. She looked devastated.

___

2025

The rain thrummed violently against the window to your shared off campus apartment. The sound should have been grounding you at this moment but your kind was a storm. And your heart? It was raging from unshed tears and unsaid words.

Lately things with Natasha were extremely rocky. It was like you were treading on thin ice. At first you chalked it up to her grad school applications and her regional tournament. But you were starting to believe it was more than that.

Natasha was distant, quiet and guarded. You tried to talk to her but it either ended in a fight where she'd leave and come back smelling like alcohol or with the two of you fucking before going to sleep facing the walls. That's not what you wanted. You wanted your Natasha back. But she was so gone.

Even the sex, it was still good but she barely paid attention to you anymore. She wouldn't look at you with those adoring eyes anymore, now it was filled with anger. Not to you, never to you. But you still felt it. Either that or she'd stare into the distance. She'd fuck you like she was trying to punish you for something you didn't do, then slip into bed without giving you the aftercare you emotionally needed.

That's how you found yourself sitting on the countertop. The food you'd cooked had gone cold and the lingerie piece you'd bought sat untouched underneath your robe. Natasha was late. Again. You'd tolerated the countless of times she was late back then but on your fourth anniversary?? You'd drawn the line there.

Natasha stepped into the apartment, hair and clothes soaked before throwing her bag down onto the floor. She took her spikes off and set them aside before turning to find you waiting for her.

"Oh. I thought I told you you didn't have to wait up."

"Seriously?" You exclaimed. She sighed in annoyance.

"Y/n, please don't start this right now, I'm not in the mood."

"Bullshit Natasha, you're never in the mood anymore!" You hopped down, robe slipping off your shoulder and she noticed.

"Okay are we gonna fuck or what because I'd rather get to that now."

You shook your head, tears blinding your vision.

"What's today Nat huh? Tell me." She paused and frowned.

"I don't know what you're talking about." You laughed.

"It's our fucking anniversary Nat!" You watched the realization hit her before she spoke.

"I forgot."

"Yes, like you're forgetting everything else about me. Natasha I haven't seen or spoke to you properly for more than two weeks. You're just-"

"Don't do that bullshit now y/n! What... have you been secretly writing this in your little planners? Have you been waiting to throw this in my face? I'm busy y/n, I'm sorry I don't have time to entertain you like I could when we were fucking nineteen years old."

"I'm not asking for a lot. All I'm asking for is for my girlfriend to kiss me on the cheek and fuck me like I actually matter to her." You raised your voice and she shook her head.

The fight escelated.

"I can't keep carrying this relationship on my back Nat. It's like I'm the only one in this relationship. It's fucking one sided.. I love you Natasha I really do but I can't suffocate like this anymore. Do you even love me?"

"I never asked you to carry us y/n, you put that on yourself. I'm not some fucking thing you can organize and fix to be in your perfect life."

"I never said that I wanted you to be perfect, I just want you to be present! Are you even fucking listening to me or am I just some body you get to fuck and leave huh? Cause I'm so convenient for you the moment you want us to film a video and get money but then you're back to drinking and acting like I don't exist. " It sounded ugly, but you had been feeling like that for a while now.

"I have family shit okay y/n! My families fucking breaking apart and I've got no one or nothing to keep me from fucking spiraling." You froze, by now the tears were falling freely.

"Then talk to me baby, please. I want to help you but you need to let me in."

"I don’t need you to fix me, Y/N. Stop trying to organize my trauma like it’s a fucking syllabus." That stung.

"I’m not trying to fix you. I’m trying to love you. But you won’t let me. You fuck me, you laugh with me on camera, but the second it gets real, you shut down."

Natasha stood, voice cold with that old cocky edge sharpened by pain.

"Maybe we were always better as a show. Hot couple on campus OnlyFans. Perfect on TikTok. In real life? You need order. I bring chaos. We’re ruining each other."

You cried. She didn’t. Words flew, accusations about her emotional unavailability, your rigidity. She accused you of no understanding family. Like the time you two fought about Natasha just giving her mom the some money from cash she'd been saving up for after college. You retaliated buy saying she never let you in. How she only told you half truths. Like the time she pulled away early senior year.

Her mom had a bad relapse. Overdose scare that landed her in the hospital. Yelena called in a panic at 2 a.m., and Natasha drove six hours without telling you the full story. She came back three days later, hollow eyed and closed off. Practice became her escape. She’d return to the apartment late, smelling like sweat and exhaustion, and the sex turned into what it did. The angry, distant, missionary with her eyes fixed on the wall while she thrust into you like she was punishing the helplessness she felt.

And still you gave her all of you but now she couldn't even give one bit of herself to you.

"You want me to spill every ugly detail so you can organize it into neat little boxes? Fix me like one of your fucking syllabi?" Her voice rose.

"My mom almost died again last week, Yelena’s spiraling, and I’m supposed to what, come home and play perfect girlfriend while pretending I’m not drowning? You have no idea what that pressure feels like."

"I don’t?” Your voice cracked, tears burning behind your eyes.

"I’ve been carrying us for months, Natasha. Planning around your moods, making excuses for why you’re distant, waiting up after your ‘family calls’ like some pathetic side character in your chaos. I love you. I loved planning a future with you. But you look at me during sex like I’m not even there anymore. Do you know how that felt? To feel invisible to the person who used to make me feel seen?" The words hung heavy. Natasha’s jaw clenched, her athletic frame rigid.

"You need everything perfect and scheduled. I bring mess. I ruin things. Maybe I should just stop pretending I can be what you want."  That broke something in you.

"You’re a coward." You whispered, voice shaking with hurt and fury. Tears spilled over now, hot on your cheeks.

"You’re using your family as an excuse to run. I never asked you to be perfect. I just asked you to let me in. To stay. But you’d rather fuck me like an escape and leave me picking up the pieces than actually love me back the way I deserve."

Natasha flinched like you’d hit her. For a second, her eyes softened, regret flashing through the anger, but she doubled down, voice low and final.

"Then maybe stop waiting for me to be someone I’m not." She turned away, grabbing her duffel bag from the closet.

"I’m done ruining your perfect order." You froze.

"Baby please don't do this." But Natasha continued packing as if you weren't standing there. She packed her protein shakers, spikes a few clothes and other necessities. Every movement felt like another crack in your chest.  At the door, she paused, hand on the knob, red hair curtaining half her face.

"I did love you." She said quietly, without turning around.

"Still do. That’s why I have to leave."

The door clicked shut behind her.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t collapse right away. You just stood in the middle of the living room, arms wrapped around yourself, feeling the silence press in like a weight. The apartment, once shared chaos and love, felt too big, too empty, too perfectly organized without her mess disrupting it. Your chest ached with a hollow pain that made it hard to breathe. Tears came in waves as you sank onto the couch, pulling your knees up. She’d chosen her walls. Her family ghosts. Her escape.

And you? You were left with the brutal truth. Loving Natasha Romanoff had been the most beautiful, terrifying disruption of your life. Now it was over, and you had to rebuild your order around the giant hole she’d left behind.

You cried until your eyes were raw. Then you got up, wiped your face, and started reorganizing the apartment the next morning, erasing every trace of her while your heart stayed shattered.

You blocked Natasha after that then deleted your number, but you couldn't log into that account. Not yet at least.

The weeks after the breakup were hell on a shared campus. You threw yourself into your pre-med grind harder than ever, color coded schedules, extra lab hours, anything to avoid the places where Natasha might appear. But it was impossible. The university was big, but your worlds overlapped too much.

The first run in happened three days after she moved out. You were grabbing coffee at the student union when she walked in with two track teammates. Your eyes locked across the room. Natasha froze mid step, green eyes widening with raw guilt before she schooled it into that old neutral mask. You turned away first, heart hammering, and walked out without your drink. Your hands shook the entire way back to your apartment.

You spent the entire night sitting on the shower floor crying and watching blood run down the drain. The blade was left on the bathroom counter but the pain remained in your heart.

You could no longer function anymore. It was as if your body was on autopilot. You couldn't listen to music anymore, that just reminded you of Natasha. Getting high was no longer an option anymore because the high only brought back memories. So many of them that you ended up hurling your guts out before curling into a ball and crying. Your apartment became a mess. What was once neat and organized became untidy. Back then you would've cleaned it but now you just sat in the chaos because at least then you could be reminded of Natasha.

And having shared friends made it worse.  Your friend group had basically fused over the years. Mutual friends from parties, late night study sessions, and track tournaments. The first group hangout after the split was brutal.

It was a casual bonfire at someone’s off campus house. You almost didn’t go, but you refused to let her exile you from your people. Natasha was already there when you arrived, red hair loose, wearing the black hoodie you used to steal. She was laughing at something a teammate said, but the moment she saw you, the laugh died.

You sat on the opposite side of the fire, surrounded by friends who were visibly uncomfortable. The group chat had been suspiciously quiet about "the situation." Conversations felt forced. Someone tried to tell a story from sophomore year involving both of you, then trailed off awkwardly.

Natasha’s eyes kept finding yours across the flames, heavy, regretful, full of everything she wouldn’t say. You hated how much you still wanted to walk over and touch her. You hated even more that she looked like she wanted the same. When you got up to leave early, she followed you to the edge of the yard.

"Y/n-"

"Don’t." Your voice was ice.

"You made your choice. Live with it." She didn’t follow after that.

You saw her everywhere. At the athletics center when you cut through to get to the library. She’d be coming out of practice, sweaty and flushed, duffel bag over her shoulder. Sometimes she’d nod. Sometimes she’d just watch you walk by with that haunted look. In the dining hall. One time you were with friends and she was two tables away.

At mutual friends’ birthdays. One party got especially messy when someone who was too drunk asked loudly.

"So when are you two getting back together? The chemistry was insane." You left. Natasha stayed and got wasted. She ended up in someone else's bed but even then she felt distant and hollow.

"You should talk to whoever it is." The girl said the next morning.

"What are you talking about?"

"Whoever she was, she's clearly still haunting you." Natasha let the girl out of her apartment but five minutes later she had a bottle of alcohol in her hand, stating at the polaroid Wanda once too of the two of you as if she could teleport back to that day, just to feel you in her arms again. She spent the day crying and went back to the shared account just to see your face again.

You both kept up appearances. Natasha threw herself harder into track practice and grad school applications. You buried yourself in research and solo content that paid the bills but felt hollow. The OnlyFans account stayed dormant, neither of you posted anything couple related, and fans noticed the silence.

The pain was constant but quiet. You missed her in the small ways. No more protein shakes magically appearing, no cocky texts making you roll your eyes, no warm body disrupting your perfectly made bed. Some nights you’d stare at old TikToks (private now) and cry. Other nights you’d fuck yourself with the vibrator she’d left behind, hating how you whispered her name when you came.

Natasha looked like shit for a while too, thinner, quieter, the cocky energy dimmed. Mutual friends said she wasn’t dating anyone. She wasn’t even hooking up. Just… existing. You both became experts at polite distance. Civil nods in public. Short, surface level conversations when forced by group settings. Never alone. Never touching. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

Even at her big track tournament. Natasha had do drag herself there. She wasn't even excited to run but she had to because her scholarship was riding on it, and with her grades slipping, she couldn't afford another mishap.

Natasha was anxious as she tied the laces to her spikes up. She scanned the crowd, half expecting to find you there. And to her surprise you were. You guys locked eyes, her heart stuttered but then you looked away. It hurt but you still showed up. And that pushed Natasha to run like her life depended on it.

She won first place but it felt hollow. Because even when cheerleaders, friends and teammates surrounded her to congratulate her, she wanted nothing more than your attention. For you to be running down and throwing yourself in her hands, exclaiming that you were proud of her while wearing her jacket and kissing her face.

But when she looked back at the bleachers, you were already gone.

___

2026

"Fuck you Natasha. You don't get to come into my life and expect everything to go back to the way it was." Natasha flinched but she stood stronger.

"I know. I'm sorry. But I need you y/n. I miss you. I thought it would be better to be our own people but fuck..." She paused and rubbed her neck.

"I'm not even a person without you."

___

It was hard it really was but you two missed one another. You agreed to meet up at a coffee shop. One coffee just to talk and no funny business. She looked ecstatic when you told her that.

That's how you ended up fixing things with one another again. It took some time, a lot of time but soon enough you two were falling in love again. You didn't just fall back into her arms again. You made Natasha earn you. If she wanted you that badly then she'd earn you, fight for you, love you the way you deserved.

And it worked. You two ended up dating five months later. You went on for two years. It was like falling in love all over again. It was beautiful, messy and fragile but with Natasha it all felt worth it. The next two years were genuinely good. You graduated pre-med and started med school. Natasha finished her degree and took a coaching job at a local club while figuring out her future. You moved into a nicer apartment together. There were trips, lazy mornings with coffee and Luna demanding breakfast, passionate nights where she still fucked you like she needed you more than air, and quiet ones where you just held each other.

You even filmed a few more videos together, not for the money anymore, but because the trust had returned and it felt fun again. But something was… off. It wasn’t dramatic. There were no massive fights like senior year. No distance.  And yet it never quite reached the effortless magic you both remembered from freshman, sophomore and junior year. You were both trying so hard, too hard, to make it what it used to be. The nostalgia became weight instead of warmth. You were in love with the memory of each other as much as the real person in front of you. Stuck. You two loved each other but you weren't in love anymore.

The final conversation happened after a quiet fight. It started over something small, you reorganizing the kitchen again because her post practice mess triggered old anxieties, and her snapping that she felt like she was always walking on eggshells in your “perfect” space. It escalated into the living room, voices raised but not screaming.

"I feel like I’m failing you again." Natasha said, running a hand through her red hair. She looked tired.

"Like no matter how much I try, I can’t give you that version of us you remember." You sat on the couch, Luna jumping into your lap like she sensed the shift. Your chest ached.

"I feel the same." You admitted, voice cracking.

"I love you. I really do. You’re still the only person who makes me feel this alive. But… it’s not working the way we want it to. We’re both holding on because the love is real, but we’re not the same people who fell in love in that freshman dorm. I keep waiting for it to feel like it did back then, and I think you are too." Natasha sat beside you, careful not to crowd Luna. She took your hand, the touch still familiar, still warm.

" I keep thinking if I just try harder, get better at the family stuff, stop bringing any chaos… it’ll click again." She said quietly.

"But that’s not fair to either of us. I love you enough to admit this isn’t what we both deserve anymore. We’re good together. But we’re not right anymore."

Tears slipped down your cheeks. Luna purred loudly, pressing against your stomach as if offering comfort.

"I hate this." You whispered.

"But I think you’re right. We’ve been trying to recreate something beautiful instead of building something new. And it’s exhausting us both." You talked for hours that night. Really talked. About the good times (freshman year stoner giggles in the shower, the way she used to make you laugh until your sides hurt, the electric chemistry that started it all). About the pain (senior year, the breakup, the campus ghosts). About how much you’d both grown.

By the end, you were curled against her, Luna between you like a fluffy mediator, both of you crying quietly.

"I don’t want to lose you completely,” Natasha said, voice thick.

"You’re still one of the most important people in my life. Maybe… we figure out how to be friends? Real friends. Without forcing the romance." You nodded against her shoulder.

"Friends. It hurts like hell right now, but I think that’s what we need."

The breakup was kind. No slammed doors. No bitterness. You helped each other move her things out over a weekend, sharing memories and even laughing through tears when Luna tried to “help” by sitting in every box.

You stayed close. Group hangouts were no longer awkward. Natasha still came over sometimes, just for dinner or to watch movies with you and Luna. The romantic tension faded into something softer, warmer. She was still your person, just in a different way. You dated other people eventually. So did she. But no one ever quite matched what you had.

Years later, when people asked about your college love story, you’d smile and say.

"We burned bright. Really bright. And when it was time, we let it settle into embers instead of forcing the fire. She’s still family."

You know how your favorite song builds and builds until it reaches that one perfect moment? The moment that makes you close your eyes every single time you hear it. But even after that, the music doesn't stay there forever. It softens. It quiets. Eventually, it comes to an end.

Maybe that's all you two ever were. Not a song that ended too soon. Not one that went on for too long. Just one that reached its peak... and knew when it was time to fade.

After that first night, her fingers inside you, your legs shaking, her whispering ‘that’s it, baby, let me play with you’ while you cried into her shoulder, something shifted. Something permanent.

You’ve always been soft and sweet. Nervous about taking up too much space. But ever since that night, you’ve started taking up her space, curled into her arms, trembling under her hands, aching for her when she so much as brushes her thigh against yours on the couch.

And Agatha?

Agatha’s obsessed.

She watches you now with this quiet, reverent hunger like you’re something sacred she’s allowed to ruin. She’s never been with a girl like you before. So young. So untouched. And fuck if she doesn’t love every single second of it.

You’d never even been touched before her, not like that. And she makes sure you remember it every night her hands are on you, when she’s knuckle deep inside you on the couch whispering ‘this is mine now, yeah?’, or when you’re straddling her lap with your panties already soaked, crying her name into her mouth as she grinds her cock against your swollen little clit and praises you for how needy you get.

You’ve learned to jerk her off the way she likes. You’re still shy about it, but she guides you gently, voice low and filthy as you stroke her under the covers, all while your own hips squirm against her thigh like you can’t help yourself.

And God, you can’t help yourself.

She’s ruined you.

You grind in your sleep now. You wake up panting with slick between your thighs and her name already on your lips. You rub yourself on her cock without thinking, without words, just this soft moan and wide eyes and a hitch in your breath like you need her there to breathe.

But you still haven’t fucked.

Not properly. Not yet.

You’ve talked about it… God, you’ve begged for it. She’s been hard so many nights, you’ve felt her twitching between your legs, felt her pulse through her boxers as you grind down with tears in your eyes from how badly you want her inside you.

But she won’t do it rushed and she refuses your first time to be when you’re both exhausted from work. She wants to take her time with you, just like you deserve. But neither of you have had the time.

Agatha’s been stuck on night shifts for nearly two weeks now, her schedule flipped, her hours brutal. She leaves for work just as you’re getting home from the clinic, worn out and sore after another day of surgeries and emergency call outs. She kisses you on the couch, cups your face, fingers your cunt slow and steady until you’re a mess in her lap, but she never goes further than that.

You fall asleep curled in her sheets, empty and aching, her cock hard and untouched because you were too tired to do more than whimper against her neck.

And it’s killing you both.

You feel it in every glance. Every brush of her hand against your lower back. Every sigh when she finds you half asleep in her hoodie on the sofa with no panties on because you thought she’d be home in time to fuck you and you didn’t want to waste time getting undressed.

You’ve started crying when she grinds against you now.

It just happens, the overwhelmed little gasps, the way your body shakes when she gets close, the way you sob into her chest when she pulls away because she can’t give you what you need yet. And it’s not just because of the way she touches you. It’s because of everything she won’t do. Because she’s waiting for the right moment. Because she wants your first time to be perfect.

And that’s what’s driving you both insane.

This slow burn of bodies and boundaries and exhausted schedules has been building now for days. Weeks. You’re losing your mind with it and she’s right there with you. It’s only a matter of time before someone snaps.

Tonight you don’t even hear the car pull up when Agatha gets home.

You both decided you’d stay over to spend the evening together. So you’re curled on the couch, swaddled in Agatha’s old flannel, mindlessly scrolling on your phone with the TV humming low in the background. It’s nearly nine, later than you’d hoped but earlier than her usual shift ends lately, and you’re about to give up and text her that you miss her again when the lock clicks and the front door opens.

You sit up fast.

Agatha steps inside, and your heart jumps into your throat. Her hair’s mussed, her button down slightly rumpled, coat half off already like she’d been tugging it off on the porch. She looks wrecked but when her eyes land on you, it’s like she’s de-aged a decade.

“Hey, baby,” she murmurs, already soft.

You squeal and scramble off the couch, bolting across the room and throwing your arms around her, burying your face in her chest with a giddy little sound.

“You’re early!”

She laughs, low and surprised, and wraps her arms around you tight, rocking you back and forth like she’s missed you just as much.

“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters into your hair, but her hands are already smoothing down your spine, one settling low on your ass, fingers flexing.

You’re wearing nothing but one of her old flannels and a soft pair of cotton panties, and she notices immediately.

“No pants, huh?”

You look up at her, wide eyed, breath a little caught. “Didn’t think you’d be home yet…”

“Lucky me.” Agatha hums, cupping your jaw.

You don’t make it to the couch.

She lifts you up in one smooth motion, kissing you hard and open mouthed, her tongue licking into you like she’s starved. You cling to her, arms around her neck, legs locked around her hips. She stumbles you back against the wall, grinding her cock up between your thighs until it drags perfectly against your soaked panties and makes you moan into her mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” she groans, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, her voice shaking, “been thinkin’ about you all fucking day.”

You whimper as she thrusts up again, slow and firm. Her cock rubs against your clit through the thin fabric, and you arch, hips stuttering against her.

“Agatha!”

“I know, baby,” she pants, kissing you again, “I know, I know.”

She’s so hard it hurts, grinding against you with purpose now, dragging out whines from your throat with every pass. You clutch at her shoulders, overwhelmed and wet already, more than ready.

‘This is it’ you can’t help but think, ‘this is finally it.’

She rests her cock directly along your heat, pressing you to the wall with her full weight. The tip catches against the curve of your panties, and her voice breaks with it.

“You want me to fuck you, baby?” she breathes against your lips, eyes wide and starved.

“Yes please…”

And then…

RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRING.

Her emergency wok ringtone.

You both freeze.

Agatha doesn’t move for a second, doesn’t even breathe. The phone buzzes again louder this time, vibrating from where it’s been abandoned on the side table by the door.

You’re still trembling in her arms. Her cock is still right there, leaking through her briefs, pressed to your soaked cunt.

She growls under her breath.

“Fuck.”

You cling to her tighter. “No, don’t answer it. Just ignore it, please?”

She kisses you once, hard, then groans and sets you down gently. You whimper when her heat leaves yours, when the loss of her weight makes your legs weak.

“I have to, baby,” she mutters, jaw tight, already reaching for the phone. “If they’re calling this late, it’s bad.”

You stand there flushed, tears stinging behind your eyes because this was finally going to be it, and now you’re alone again, aching and empty and so fucking tired of waiting.

Agatha answers the phone, growling a clipped, “Harkness,” and listens.

Her shoulders tense.

“…I’ll be right there.”

And just like that, Agatha is gone and you’re curled up in her bed, still in her flannel, still wet between the thighs.

You don’t bother changing, you just crawl into her sheets and tuck yourself into the spot where she usually sleeps, dragging her pillow under your cheek and breathing her in like it might quiet the ache in your chest.

It doesn’t.

You’re trying not to cry.

You know it’s not her fault. You know the job comes first, that she had to go, that someone out there is probably hurt or missing or dead. And still the weight of it all crashes over you, the emotional whiplash of being so close, so ready, finally ready, and then… it’s over.

The clock reads 22:06. Her emergency phone rang exactly seventeen minutes ago.

Your own phone buzzes.

~ Agatha: Baby I’m so fucking sorry x you okay? ~

You sniffle and back type with shaking fingers.

~ Y/N: I miss you already xxxx ~

Her reply is instant.

~ Agatha: Oh sweetheart, my poor baby x ~

~ Agatha: I know, it’s killing me too x you were so ready, weren’t you? ~

You bite your lip and nod, even though she can’t see you.

~ Y/N: I really was ready Aggie 🥺xoxo ~

There’s a long pause. You can picture her now, probably sitting in the front seat of the squad car, one hand in her lap, the other clenched around the phone, jaw set, guilt swimming in her chest like cement.

~ Agatha: You have no idea how much I wanted you, babygirl x ~

~ Agaha: I was two seconds away from being inside you ~

~ Agaha: I wanted to fill you up so deep ~

~ Agaha: Stretch you open ~

~ Agaha: Watch your eyes roll back ~

~ Agaha: Wanted to fuck you while you cried for me ~

You gasp, burying your face into her pillow.

~ Agaha: You’re still wet for me, baby? ~

You squirm under the blankets, heart pounding.

~ Y/N: Uh huh xo ~

~ Agaha: you wanna touch yourself honey? ~

You bite your lip softly.

~ Y/N: Agatha I can’t 🥺it’s not the same xx I just want you here ~

The reply comes slower this time.

~ Agaha: That’s my girl ~

~ Agaha: Fuck, I’m so lucky ~

~ Agaha: Soon, baby I swear x I’m gonna take you so slow the first time x ~

~ Agaha: Gonna make it so good you’ll never want anyone else xx I’ll make you mine forever ~

You don’t realize you’re crying again until the tears slip hot onto your cheek, soaking into her pillow. You curl tighter into her bed, phone clutched to your chest, heart aching and full.

Because despite it all, despite the shift, the delay, the need that’s eating you alive, you still feel wanted. Still feel hers, still feel safe even when she’s not there.

~

You really went all out.

The table is set, candles flickering. Her favorite wine is breathing on the counter. There’s a playlist you made humming softly through the speakers, something slow and smoky. There’s even dessert chilling in the fridge, something from the fancy bakery you had to preorder a day in advance.

Agatha is freshly showered, in her softest t-shirt and boxers, her hair damp and skin warm, looking at you like you’re her entire world. She leans in and kisses your cheek as you bring the food to the table.

“Smells amazing, baby,” she murmurs, eyes shining. “And you look…”

Her gaze sweeps over your little black slip dress, the lace peeking out at the edges of your thighs. She exhales like she’s seeing heaven itself.

“Fuck.”

You beam, cheeks warm. “Figured I’d make an effort.”

Agatha takes your hand before you sit and brings it to her lips to kiss your knuckles like you’re some precious girl from another time.

“You’re beautiful,” she murmurs.

You both sit to start the meal. You’re halfway through the meal when you notice the heat simmering behind her eyes, the way she’s stopped eating and started watching you instead. One hand is resting low on her thigh under the table. The other is clenching her wine glass like it’s keeping her grounded.

“You’re staring,” you murmur shyly.

“‘Course I am,” she says, low and rough. “You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your heart flutters.

You take a deep breath. “Agatha?”

“Yeah, baby?”

You wet your lips, taking a stabling breath before admitting “I want tonight to be the night.”

She freezes. Her fingers curl tighter around the stem of her wine glass. Her eyes go dark.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’ve never been more sure.”

She exhales, long and slow, eyes roaming your face like she’s trying to memorize every freckle, every eyelash, every curve of your mouth.

Then she stands to come to your side of the table. She kneels in front of your chair and places both hands on your bare thighs, steady and warm.

“I’m gonna take such good care of you,” she says, voice rough, reverent. “Gonna make it perfect, baby. I swear.”

You lean down to kiss her. You’re both already shaking with anticipation. Her fingers stroke softly up the inside of your thighs…

And then your phone rings.

You pause.

Agatha growls under her breath, already reaching for your waist again. “Ignore it.”

But the ringtone makes your stomach twist.

It’s the clinic. Not reception, the emergency line.

“I have to,” you whisper.

Agatha sees your face fall.

“No, no, baby don’t answer…”

But you already are, pressing the phone to your ear with trembling fingers.

“This is Dr. Y/N.”

There’s a panicked voice on the other end. A golden retriever hit by a car. There’s internal bleeding and you’re the only vet in the county certified to perform this particular abdominal procedure.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes tops.”

When you hang up, Agatha’s already sitting back, her jaw clenched, cock straining under her boxers, eyes closed like she’s trying not to scream.

“I’m so sorry.” You whisper.

She stands slowly and pulls you into her arms.

“I get it, baby,” she says hoarsely. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” you say, eyes glassy. “You were finally home. I was ready. I wanted tonight to be our night.”

Agatha kisses your hair, presses your face to her chest.

“And it will be,” she promises, brushing your back. “Not tonight. But soon. Soon, baby. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for you.”

~

Agatha’s on the sofa, one hand lazily stroking Señor Scratchy as he dozes across her lap, the other cradling a lukewarm mug of coffee she hasn’t touched in half an hour. The living room is quiet, the TV muted, just the hum of the fridge and the soft sigh of wind outside.

She’s still wound tight from the other night, still aching from every almost, every breathless moment she had to let go of. Her cock’s been hard off and on for hours, just from thinking about the way you looked at her across that dinner table with those doe eyes and sweet little voice saying 'I want tonight to be the night’.

So when the knock comes, it startles her. It’s nearly dark out, you weren’t supposed to finish until much later. She frowns and sets her mug down, scratching behind Señor Scratchy’s ears before gently sliding him off her lap.

“Alright, alright,” she mutters, tugging her joggers up a little and heading for the door.

She pulls it open and freezes.

You’re standing there in one of her hoodies, its sleeves swallowing your hands, your cheeks pink from the autumn air, smiling bright and soft.

“I got off early.” You explain happily.

Agatha stares. Then physically groans before grabbing you by the hips and lifting you into her arms like it costs her nothing.

You squeal, giggling, arms wrapping around her neck as your feet leave the ground.

“Baby,” she breathes against your neck. “You’re here.”

“I’m here,” you whisper back.

“I thought,” she starts, but she’s already kissing you. “Fuck, I thought I was gonna have to wait ‘til the weekend to see you.”

“Nope,” you grin, nuzzling close. “Just me and you. All weekend.”

“Oh, baby… you don’t know what you’ve just done.” She growls softly.

Then, she kicks the door shut behind you, carrying you straight into the bedroom without even asking, and mutters “tonight’s the fucking night.”

You giggle against her neck, flushed pink and soft as she presses kisses down your jaw.

She carries you to the bedroom like she’s starving for you, becuase fucking he’ll she’s been waiting for this.

And you let her. Because you have been waiting too. And now you’re ready.

Before you can say another word you’re flat on your back, trembling already. Her hands are warm on your bare thighs, having pulled your scrubs off greedily to get to bare skin. She’s kissed every inch of you through every nervous giggle and shaky breath, and now she’s knelt between your legs, looking like she might lose her mind from how soft and sweet you are for her.

“Baby,” she rasps, eyes flicking down to your soaked panties between your parted thighs. “You sure?”

You nod, breath shaky. Your fingers twist in her T-shirt. “I don’t wanna be with anyone else but you.” You admit softly.

Agatha exhales like she’s trying to hold herself together with duct tape and prayer.

“You know I’m not gonna last long,” she murmurs, pressing her forehead to your knee. “Not if you keep looking at me like that. You’re… fuck, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted.”

She leans in, brushing her lips across your stomach, her hands skimming your hips as she tugs your underwear down slowly. She’s reverent with every inch of you.

But it’s when she pulls away to fumble with her bedside drawer when you whisper “Don’t need to use one. I went on birth control a few weeks ago. W-when I found out about you. I wanted to be ready…”

Agatha freezes.

Her breath leaves her like she’s been punched.

“You what?”

You swallow, eyes wide. “I… I wanted you to be my first. Properly. And I didn’t want anything between us.”

Agatha sits back on her heels, hand in her hair. She looks wrecked. “You went on the pill for me?”

You nod nervously, shy that you’ve done the wrong thing by admitting you wanted her bare for your first time taking her.

And when she leans over you again, her eyes dark, mouth parted, you see a look of desperation in her face you hadn’t seen before.

“You want me bare,” she whispers. “You want me, my cock, inside you for the first time ever. Nothing between us.”

Your voice is a whisper. “Please?”

Agatha’s mouth crashes into yours. She’s kissing you hard, hands trembling as they cradle your face, your hips. Her cock throbs hot and thick between your legs, and when she pulls back, it’s only to groan.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

Her fingers trail gently between your thighs, already glistening from how wet you are for her.

“All for me,” she murmurs, kissing your hip. “So fucking sweet for me. My good girl.”

You whimper, soft and shaky, and she coos, eyes fluttering shut like she might actually come from this alone.

Her thumb finds your clit, starts drawing slow, teasing circles. And when she slides a finger in slowly your whole body jolts.

“Ohh!” You gasp.

“I know, baby,” she whispers. “I know. You’re doing so good.”

She moves so slowly, just one finger at first, kissing you through the stretch. You feel impossibly tight and she’s trying not to lose it.

“You’ve never been touched like this,” she groans, voice shaking. “No one’s ever… fuck, baby.”

You nod, eyes glassy. “Just you.”

That does it. She lets her forehead drop to your thigh with a strained, guttural sound and works in a second finger, curling them slightly to open you up.

“God, you’re gripping me so tight,” she groans. “You feel perfect, baby. So fucking perfect.”

Her cock is hard and heavy, resting against your thigh as she fingers you, and you can feel how she’s throbbing, how much this is affecting her. But she doesn’t rush. She just keeps stroking, kissing, whispering to you.

“Relax for me,” she says softly, lips at your temple. “Let me get you ready, sweetheart. Gotta stretch my pretty baby out, yeah?”

You nod, lips parted, tears clinging to your lashes as her fingers pump slow and steady, coaxing your body open. You’re panting, squirming, moaning her name between gasps, and she’s so proud of you.

“That’s it. That’s my girl. Fuck, look at you.”

She eventually slides her fingers out and strokes them over your pussy once more, watching your hips jerk.

“Think you’re ready for me?” she whispers. “You want my cock, baby?”

You nod, flushed and whimpering. “Yes. Please.”

She lines up, guiding her tip to your entrance, practically shaking with restraint. She cups your cheek, kisses your lips, then your eyelids.

“Deep breath for me,” she murmurs. “I’m gonna go real slow.”

And then she starts to push in. It’s so much. Her cock is big and thick, stretching you inch by inch, and you’re gasping for air, clinging to her shoulders. Your body trembles, hips tensing around her.

“Shhh, shhh, I’ve got you,” she breathes, lips to your jaw. “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re mine.”

She pauses halfway in, letting you adjust. “You’re doing so good. I promise it’ll start to feel better soon, okay? Just relax and let me in, babygirl.”

You tilt your hips, desperate for more of her, and she groans like she’s dying. She sinks deeper until her hips are flush against yours and she’s inside you, her virgin girl, finally hers.

“Oh my fucking God,” she rasps, her face buried in your neck. “Oh honey, you’re not a virgin anymore. You’re mine.”

You’re crying. You feel so full, so emotional, so overwhelmed. But you nod, clutching her closer.

“M’not a virgin,” you whisper. “I’m yours.”

She doesn’t move at first. She just holds herself there, buried to the hilt inside you, her hips trembling with restraint. Her cock throbs, twitching deep in your soaked, swollen cunt and you can feel it all: the weight, the fullness, the slow ache of being stretched for the first time.

Your thighs are shaking. Your eyes are wet. Your arms are wound tight around her shoulders like you’re afraid to let go.

And Agatha is gone.

“Look at you,” she whispers, cupping your face in both hands. Her voice breaks. “You’re taking it so well, babygirl. I’m so proud of my girl.”

You whimper softly, too full to speak, too overwhelmed to think. All you can do is breathe and blink up at her, lips trembling.

She kisses you. Slow, soft, deep.

And then, finally, she rocks her hips back just enough for the head of her cock to press against your tightest spot again, and then she pushes back in, slow and careful.

You cry out from the pressure, the shock, the stretch.

Agatha moans, head falling forward into your neck.

“Oh fuck, baby. You feel like heaven. You feel… fuck. You were made for me.”

She grinds in deep again, bottoming out slowly, her cock filling you so completely it makes your vision blur.

“Still okay?” she pants, barely holding back.

You nod, teary-eyed, your voice barely a whisper. “Feels so… full.”

Her eyes flutter shut. She kisses your cheek, your temple, your eyelids.

“You are full, my love,” she whispers. “All the way. You’re doing so good. So tight for me.”

She starts to move again. Out, then back in, a gentle rhythm like she’s afraid you’ll break.

But you don’t, you melt.

Your legs fall open wider, your hands clawing weakly at her back, and the next time she thrusts, you moan.

“Ohh Agatha…”

That breaks her.

She kisses you hard, hips stuttering just a little, and begins to move again, but this time smoother. A little deeper. Still gentle, still careful, but more needy now. Her cock glides inside you like it was meant to be there, every stroke pressing into your softest spots.

“You’re mine now,” she breathes into your mouth. “No one else. No one’s ever touched you. No one ever will.”

You nod, voice breaking. “Only you.”

“Only me,” she growls. “You’re gonna come on this cock, babygirl. Gonna feel so good honey.”

She slides a hand down to your clit, starts circling it gently with her thumb, and the combination makes you arch, sobbing into her shoulder.

“Agatha!”

“That’s it,” she whispers, her voice wrecked with need. “Let go for me. Let me feel you.”

You’re crying now, overwhelmed and overstimulated, feeling so full of her. And when you finally come, clenching down around her cock, wailing her name like it’s the only word you know, Agatha’s whole body shudders.

“Holy fuck,” she groans, slowing her thrusts just enough to keep you riding it out. “That’s my girl. My good, sweet girl.”

You’re still shaking, but she’s still hard inside you and you know she’s not finished yet.

“You can take more,” she whispers, kissing the tears off your cheeks. “Can’t you, baby?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes… please. Don’t stop.”

You’re still shaking. Still wet and open around her cock, your thighs trembling from the first orgasm, and Agatha hasn’t moved an inch.

She’s still buried to the hilt inside you, cradling your head in her hand, brushing your tears away with her thumb, staring down at you like you’ve just made her believe in God.

“Look at you,” she whispers, voice thick and wrecked. “You’re still fluttering, baby. Fuck my girl’s still coming down huh?”

You whimper softly, blinking up at her, lips trembling.

“Don’t stop,” you breathe, dazed.

Agatha leans down, kisses your cheek, your eyelids, your damp lashes.

“Can’t ,” she murmurs. “You feel too fucking good. I’m not ready to let go of this pussy yet. Not when you’ve been so brave for me.”

She begins to move again. Slow at first, grinding deep, just circling her hips until her cock is grinding against your most tender spots. You gasp, arching softly under her, your hips twitching, almost trying to squirm away.

But Agatha’s hands hold you firm.

“Shh, shh, I know, I know,” she murmurs, kissing your forehead. “You’re sensitive now, huh? All wet and messy for me. But you’re gonna take another one for me, aren’t you, baby?”

You nod, barely able to speak. Your fingers curl into her biceps. “Y-Yeah.”

“That’s my good girl.”

And then she starts fucking you again, deeper this time, her thrusts dragging out of you with aching pressure before sinking all the way back in, her hips rocking into yours with a little more weight now. Every stroke pushes a choked moan from your lips.

Agatha watches your face the entire time.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cry,” she groans, fucking into you slow and deep. “You know that? Fuck. You’re perfect. Warm, tight, mine.”

You whimper, clinging to her, your body arching helplessly under the pressure. “Love you”

“That’s it honey,” she breathes, cupping your jaw. “I love you too. I want to see you fall apart for me.”

Her thumb finds your clit again, slow circles syncing with her thrusts, and you sob into her shoulder, hips shaking uncontrollably now, every nerve ending overstimulated and burning.

“You’re gonna come again for me,” she whispers, nuzzling your ear. “Just like that. Come on baby let it happen.”

You cry out, arching up into her, your whole body shaking as the second orgasm crashes through you harder than the first, tears streaming down your cheeks, thighs trembling around her hips, your cunt clenching so hard around her cock that Agatha shouts, losing rhythm as she grabs your hips tight and buries herself as deep as she can go.

“Oh my God,” she groans. “You’re, fuck, you’re milking me, baby. Jesus Christ.”

You’re still crying, your arms flung around her neck, every breath a sob, every muscle fluttering.

Agatha holds herself still, her cock twitching deep inside you, and she kisses your mouth hard like she can’t believe you’re real.

“You’re mine,” she pants. “Forever. You hear me?”

“F-forever,” you cry, tears slipping down your cheeks, lips parting to kiss her again.

And then you feel it.

She groans and comes deep inside you, full-body shudders rocking her frame as she pumps you full. Her hands are everywhere, your hips, your cheeks, your breasts, like she can’t hold enough of you at once.

“Oh fuck, yes. That’s it. Take it all, babygirl. Take every drop.”

She doesn’t pull out right away. Instead, she stays inside you, kissing you gently, reverently.

“Look at my girl,” she whispers against your lips. “Took me so well. First time, and you made me lose my fucking mind.”

You’re dazed, wet, trembling in her arms.

Agatha smiles and strokes your hair.

“You okay, baby?”

You nod, whispering softly, “I love you.”

And Agatha groans like that’s the final blow. She kisses you again, holds you close, still buried deep inside her girl, her virgin no longer.

You’re still trembling when she finally eases you onto her chest.

Her cock slips free with a slow drag, and you gasp, whimpering softly as the feeling of emptiness hits you. Agatha hushes you instantly, pulling you close, tucking your face into her neck like she’s trying to make you a part of her.

Her hand strokes your spine, long and slow, her other gently cupping your thigh, soothing where it still twitches from overstimulation.

“You did so good for me, baby,” she whispers against your temple. “God, you were perfect. My perfect girl.”

You sniffle a little, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with tears and pleasure and something even deeper, that sharp and dizzy ache of being known. Of being loved.

You press a kiss to her chest, just above her breast.

“I was kinda scared at first,” you admit softly, voice small. “But I wanted it to be you. I want to be with you in every way.”

Agatha exhales hard like she’s been holding her breath for weeks. Her hand cups the back of your head.

“Of course it was gonna be me,” she murmurs. “No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to have you like this.”

You look up at her, eyes big and watery and shining.

“I just…” you falter, biting your lip. “I don’t want you to get bored of me. I want to be together forever.”

Agatha’s face crumbles. She pulls you tighter against her chest, kissing your hair, your cheek, your shoulder, anywhere she can reach.

“Baby,” she says, rough and low. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love you. I love you. There’s nothing in this whole fucked-up world that could ever make me stop.”

You sniff again, trying to smile even though your lip wobbles. “Promise?”

She lifts your chin and kisses you, deep and tender.

“Promise,” she whispers, against your mouth. “I’m yours. Forever.”

You melt right there on her chest, arms curled around her ribs, aching and full and fucked out and loved.

Her strong hands stroke over your back.

“Gonna take care of you now,” she says. “Clean you up, order some food, anything my baby wants.”

You giggle against her skin. “Even sushi?”

She groans like it’s physically painful, but smiles anyway.

“Even raw fuckin fish. My baby gets what she wants.”

“I just want you.” You sigh, snuggling in again.

“You have me.” She presses a kiss to your forehead, her voice thick with love. “You’ve always had me.”

Hours later the sheets are soft and tangled. The pizza box you both agreed on ordering is abandoned on the dresser. The bedroom window’s cracked open to let in the cool night air, but neither of you notice the breeze.

You’re asleep on Agatha’s chest, curled into her like a kitten, lips parted, one arm draped over her stomach. Your other hand is still loosely curled near your face, your lashes soft against your cheek.

You look so soft and young. You are young. And Agatha? Agatha can’t stop looking at you.

She strokes her fingers through your hair, slow and careful so she won’t wake you. Her other hand rests low on your back, thumb moving absently over the dip of your spine.

There’s a dull ache still between her legs, a deep, pleasant throb reminding her she’s still half hard even now. But she doesn’t move or chase relief. She just watches you.

Her girl.

Her baby.

Her sweet, perfect little thing who trusted her with everything.

She never thought she’d have this. Not again. Not after all the years, all the damage, all the dead ends.

But here you are.

Asleep on her chest, wearing one of her old t-shirts and nothing else. Her scent all over you, her name in your mouth even now, the faintest whisper of “Agatha” breathed out between soft little sighs.

Agatha blinks slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She’s had women before. A lot of them. She’s loved a few too, or at least

thought she had. But this? This is different.

This is real.

This is coming home to warm lights and soft kisses and your voice calling out “hi baby” when she walks through the door.

This is you curled up on her lap in your silly little summer dresses, feeding her strawberries and giggling when she pretends to bite your fingers.

This is your toothbrush next to hers.

This is your face when she slid the ring on your finger.

This is forever.

And it terrifies her.

Because if she loses this, if she loses you, there won’t be anything after. She knows it in her bones. She won’t survive it.

But lying here, holding you like this, she thinks maybe she doesn’t have to worry so much.

Because you’re still here, warm and soft in her arms, safe and loved and hers.

You murmur something in your sleep, something that sounds like her name, and she smiles, kisses the top of your head, and tucks the blanket up around your shoulders.

“I got you,” she whispers, barely audible. “Forever, baby.”

The door opens wide enough for Wanda and Natasha to fall into his line of sight.

“You are very lucky she wants to talk to you,” Wanda glares at the man.

Tony hasn't taken his eyes off of you, “I know.”

The blonde clears his throat, “Can we come in?”

You step to the side, and the two men enter the home.

The door closes behind them. There's a finality in it. This gets resolved now or someone will die. You all knew it even if no one was saying it.

You're the one who everyone follows as you move towards the dining room. You move around the space freely grabbing some glasses and a bottle of rum out of the liquor cabinet .

The rest take their places around the dining table.

“Am I the only one who needs a drink?”

“I'll take one,” your father answers.

You pour into three glasses. Though she doesn't answer, you know Natasha wants one.

After what can be described as a gulp of rum, you sit your glass against the table.

“Start talking,” you clear any type of emotions from your face.

Tony swallows loudly. He nods once, before fidgeting with the watch on his wrist. “I never intended to fall in love with any one. My family- our family, has been involved in mob culture for generations. So growing up, I'd always known that I'd inherit this lifestyle. I never wanted to force a person into this.”

The sigh that leaves him is rough. You study the way his face falls. The hatred in his gaze as he focuses on the wooden table.

“Then I met your mother. She was easy to love. So easy, that I didn't realize what I had brought unto her until it was too late. I told Anne about everything, I thought maybe knowing what I had to do would deter her. It didn't. She was stubborn,” he almost chuckles when he says the last part.

Your fingers clench a few times but you stay calm, “Very stubborn.”

“Truth is that I never wanted to get rid of her. I was being selfish by indulging in a relationship with her without thinking of the consequences. That changed when she became pregnant.”

You pause, “How long were you together for?”

He doesn't hesitate, “6 years publicly, 9 if we're counting the period when we couldn't see each other.”

“After the court case,” Natasha interjects.

“After the incident,” he corrects her. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My competition spotted her with my brother. It was supposed to be a normal exchange of goods, but I had gotten sloppy.”

“Sloppy how?”

He looks at Wanda, holding eye contact. “In this line of work it's dangerous to care about people. It's even more foolish to let people know who you care about.”

“They spotted her,” Wanda fills in.

“My pregnant girlfriend and my brother. Deal wasn't going how they wanted, so they shot at them. Arno basically used his body as a shield to protect her. That day I decided that they were safer away from me. I talked to my people in the system to sort everything out.”

“Just like that?” You swirl your drink in your hand.

“My brother was shot 4 times. The love of my life, who was carrying my kid, could've died. Of course it was just like that. I set them up away from me, new look, new identities, it was basically a fresh start.”

You finish your drink. “What about me?”

“I was there when you were born. Not in the room when it happened, but I did get to hold you after. One look at you and I knew…” he pauses and you can see him fighting to be honest.

Steve places his hand on his boyfriend's shoulder in comfort, “The truth.”

“I knew I was out of my depth. I couldn't protect, I couldn't provide, fuck I didn’t know how to be a father. I was scared of failing. Arno on the other hand, when he looked at you…it was paternal. It's like he knew he'd do anything to keep you safe. I resented him for it. I started to think that maybe he and Anne had something. It was a stupid thought but at that point I had already sent them off to their fake married life together. That's what really ended the relationship between your mother and I. I sent her to live a life with a man I was jealous of.”

“Did you have him killed?”

He answers definitively, “No. My brother was a better man than me. Yes, I was jealous, but he was taking care of my family. Taking him out would've put you both in danger. He was killed by a dirty cop. Arno was an informant. The cop said my brother gave him bad information, made him look suspicious to the station. He shot him over it.”

“Why didn't you show after he was killed. I heard my mom talking to you, telling you that you should be there,” your grip on the glass tightens.

“For what? To put a larger target on your back?” Tony defends his actions.

Your gaze hardens, “In case you forgot my mother was killed anyway and I was framed for her murder. I don't know how much of the case you saw, but I almost died in police custody.”

“Within 24 hours the man who did it was dead.”

You chuckle bitterly, “10 years of my life. You didn't even have to be a father, you could've still gotten my name cleared.”

He falters, “I know. I was scared but that's no excuse. I wasn't protecting you, I was protecting myself from something like this. Kid, I'm not a good guy. I'm bad at being vulnerable, I'm even worse when I actually care about someone. I make all the wrong choices and decisions. The distance is for my safety because I hate the idea that I'm the one who caused the harm.”

You stand a little straighter, “So you're a coward.”

His jaw clenches, “I wouldn't be here now if I was.”

You shake your head, “You're here because you don't want Wanda to kill you.”

“I'm here because I'm sorry. I'm done pretending that I did the right thing. I ruined your life and I regret it.”

You know there's honesty in his words. You can tell by the look in his eyes. The desperation, the despair, the guilt, they all swim through his irises.

It's then that you realize that nothing he says will make you pity him.

“You didn't ruin my life. I won't give you that much credit. I-” you try to begin your own speech but Wanda places her hand over yours.

The look in her eyes is predatory. It's almost worse than when she was beating Tony in the courthouse. There's something more unhinged there.

It should scare you.

“You're still lying,” she says coolly.

“Wanda-” her wife tries, but the mob boss pays Natasha no mind.

You see Tony fidget under her gaze.

“Come on Maximoff, he's-”

Her gaze cuts through the blonde man's voice, “It's Don Maximoff and it would be in your best interest to never interrupt me again.”

“You can't talk to him like that,” Tony’s voice waivers when he speaks.

Wanda pulls her gun out and aims it at Steve. The entire room stills.

“You trying to give me orders in my house? You pathetic excuse for a man. I was almost buying this bullshit you were selling. It sounds honest, it sounds like accountability but then I remembered something. I spoke to both of the officers to persuade them into appearing in court.”

Tony pales immediately. He looks sick and you can see panic enveloping his features.

“When I was beating the truth out of Vin Gonzales he told me that you were involved. How would he know that unless you were actively involved in this situation? You're here in my kitchen, trying to sell authenticity without honesty and the thought of that makes me pretty upset.”

“Tony,” Steve says his name.

Tony doesn't look at his boyfriend.

The blonde stands in anger slamming his fist on the table, “Look at me.”

The dark haired man just shakes his head. Steve scoffs and turns his attention towards Wanda.

“Don Maximoff, I truly apologize but this doesn't have anything to do with me. I don't want anything to do with this anymore. I would like to be excused.”

There's a small smile forming on Wanda’s lips. “Tony, your noble man is about to walk out on you. Anything to say to him, who knows if you'll be seeing him again.”

“Steven, I'm sorry.” He doesn't bring his gaze up.

“You seem like a decent man Steve. So go out into the world and keep being decent, don't make me regret letting you leave this room,” Wanda warns him.

“Thank you Don Maximoff,” he bows his head to her.

Natasha walks him out of the room leaving the three of you momentarily.

“Stark, I'm going to be honest with you. The only reason you don't have a bullet in your head right now is because my girl deserves an explanation. She deserves the truth. You want to tell her or do you want me to tell you what I think?”

“I didn't have Anne killed,” he takes a long pause. The kind that sucks the air out of a room. Natasha comes back before he finishes the sentence. “But I had you arrested for her murder.”

No one moves for a long time. You blink once…twice… three times. It's the harsh reality that you didn't expect.

Tony's looking at the table . Wanda's looking at Tony. You're looking somewhere past him. Natasha is looking at you.

She's first to notice the twitch of your hand. It happens so fast no one can react when you slam Tony's head into the mahogany wood.

You jump across the table and push him down. You strike him over and over again. It's damn near identical to what happened with Pietro. Except now you're screaming and your vision is blurred by tears.

“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!”

His hands are only up trying to protect his already injured face.

Wanda simply watches you. Natasha on the other hand begins to approach. She places her hand on your shoulder, it stops your swing mid air.

She wraps her arms around you and then you're collapsing into her hold. The sobs that rack your body are violent. Your throat burns and your fists ache.

“How could you?” The words scrape their way up your throat.

Tony lay flat on his back, barely breathing. He swallows thickly, it pains him to do it.

“I wanted to watch over you without being involved,” he wheezes as he attempts to sit up. “I could keep tabs on you without revealing myself. At the time-”

“Shut up!” You squeeze your eyes closed.

He stops talking immediately.

“I don't want anything to do with you. I got my answers and I don't need shit else from you. If you value your life you'll stay away from me, Tony. This is the only chance I'm giving you to walk away. You should take it before my girlfriend blows your brains out all over the kitchen floor.”

He scrambles to his feet as best as he can. For a moment it looks like he's going to say something, but then he thinks better of it. His walk is staggered and he pauses every few steps to get his balance.

“If I see you again I'll kill you,” Wanda threatens him one last time.

“I know,” is the last thing he says in your line of sight.

When you hear the front door close, it's like you can breathe again.

“Detka,” Natasha says softly.

Your nails dig into your palms and you begin to shake again. You want to scream again but your throat feels raw.

Natasha slips her hand into one of yours. You let her. Your hands are covered in a mixture of Tony's blood and your own.

“His jaw is sharp,” you respond to her.

Wanda comes around with a small bag of ice. She gets down to your level, placing the bag on your split knuckles.

You rest your head on Wanda’s shoulder. Natasha drags a hand through your hair in an attempt to soothe you.

“We have you baby,” Wanda kisses the top of your head. “It's over now. He's not going to hurt you anymore.”

“He's a dead man if he even has the courage to think about you,” Natasha's voice has a dangerous rasp to it.

You don't say anything, you don't know what to say.

Natasha and Wanda share a look with each other. They're trying to work out what they want to do in this situation.

“Baby how about we get cleaned up?” Wanda searches your eyes for confirmation.

You nod slightly, slowly standing. They each take one of your hands. They lead you to the bathroom.

You let them undress you. You don't know how you feel. There's anger but not enough of it. It hurts but you don't know what to do about it. There's no resolution to any of it.

You were wrong when you said he didn't ruin your life. You can't believe that anyone would do what he did. The cruel part is that you don't even want him to suffer. You don't want him dead. You just want him to stay away from you and your family.

“Y/n sweetheart?” Wanda’s warm hand on your cheek brings you back from your thoughts.

You see the worry in her eyes. It works to ground you even more. You place your lips against hers in a chaste kiss.

“I'm okay,” you hold her gaze.

“Are you sure?” Natasha says from behind you.

You crane your neck to give her the same reassuring kiss.

“Yes.”

In the shower you feel the weight of the day going down the drain. Somewhere between your thoughts and their hands you placate yourself knowing that this is your new life.

You'll never step foot in a cell again. You never have to feel unwanted or like a burden. There are people who love and support you unconditionally. He tried to keep you from building a community, but family found you anyway.

Your friends never gave up on you. Wanda and Natasha will never give up on you. From this point on, there is no moment in the past 10 years that is at all comparable to your current situation.

When you're comfortable and out of the shower, you can still feel Wanda and Natasha’s cautious nature around you. They do not want to provoke you, but they're unsure of what you exactly need.

“I love you,” you say it out in the open.

“We love you too.”

You look at them, “You make me happy. This makes me happy. I can't change what's happened to me. It's not something I'll be able to ever forget and that's okay. Being with both of you makes it okay. For the first time in a long time, I don't feel like I'm making choices based solely on my survival. There aren't any consequences to my emotions. I feel safe and I didn't know that I could still feel that way before I met you.”

Wanda’s mouth opens and closes as she attempts to find the right words to say. She looks at her wife who also seems to be in a stunned silence.

“To make you feel that way means everything to us malyshka,” Natasha takes your hand in hers.

“From that first letter you wrote, I knew that you would mean more to us than just a favor for Peter and Kate. We admire everything about you Y/n. Your strength, your softness, your talent, your shortcomings, your anger, your resilience, your intelligence, and stubbornness; all of it, all of you,” Wanda takes your other hand.

“I didn’t think it was possible for me to love anyone as much as I love Wanda. It was a scary thought to entertain and to be honest I did not want to entertain it at all. But you just made it so easy to fall in love with you,” Natasha’s doesn't tear her eyes from you.

“She's right. I knew as soon as I saw you that I could love you. Natasha was very hesitant, rightfully so. I was a little less hesitant because the only other time I feel like I do around you, is when I'm around her,” Wanda adds.

Together their words fill you with warmth. This time when the tears come, laughter follows. It's light and airy coming through your lips.

They hold you in their arms.

“Here I am trying to let you know I'm okay and now I'm crying again,” you joke.

“It's perfectly fine if you aren't okay Y/n,” Natasha reassures you.

“I know, but I promise that I am.”

Wanda treads carefully, “Even with what he said?”

“Fuck Tony. Maybe there was a time in my life where I needed him, where I would've wanted him around, but that time is over. I have everything I need right here.”

“We can give you the world if you want it Y/n,” the mob boss sounds as serious as a heart attack.

You kiss her on the cheek, then do the same to the lawyer.

“I don't need the world. I just need this, here, with you.”

Natasha squeezes you tighter, “Then you'll have it for as long as you want it.”

“Well I'm not planning on giving it up any time soon,” you say smugly.

“Good, because I'm sort of hoping you want this forever,” Wanda gazes lovingly into your eyes.

That same warmth emanates from your eyes. Your heart beats a little faster in your chest. You think of all the things you could possibly respond with. The most clever answer is a simple one. It's something that you hope to say to both of them one day in the distant future. The words you end up saying just make sense; they ignite something beautiful in both the women. It fills them with endless possibilities and hopes for the future.

“I do.”

Just like that Wanda and Natasha are on the same page. They'll do anything to hear you say those words again.

“We are extremely inclusive here, as you can see. By our clear token hire.” Principal Ava boasted like she was the most progressive. In a public school, in Philly you suppose maybe your being hired was novel.

You’d hoped none of the staff would dwell on this one little fact about you.

The camera swung to you in the break room.

“Stop calling him that.” Barba snapped, as your shoulders curled as if you could hide yourself and your lunch.

“It’s offensive, and that’s coming from the gay hire.” Jacob adds mid bite, coffee stain on his own papers as he sat at the opposite table.

You tried to ignore the cameras and focus on your notebook with the lesson plan. But Ava kept speaking, and you slunk even further in your seat. Desperate to melt into the disgusting floor.

“You will recognize him from my TikToks. We hired an attractive trans man who’s yummy! But I didn’t say that cuz I’m in love yal.” Ava adds and cups her heart, and then poses for the camera.

“This feels wrong,” Janine said to Gregory who was eyeing the camera, uncomfortable as ever. “Should we do something?”

You grabbed your stuff, slung your bag over your shoulder, stuffing the papers under your arm and taking the black coffee with you.

You slipped out the door just as Melissa entered the break room, stopping just by you, a little closer than she’d allow many to stand near.

“Hey Buzz where off to at this hour? Not doing your second cup of too much sugar, not enough coffee, are you?” The red head teased but you shook your head and moved away from the door.

Making a mad dash into the hall and away from the lights and cameras.

“What did you do to him? He’s the nicest hire we’ve ever had and you go scarin’ em! AYE! GET THOSE CAMERAS OUT OF MY FACE BEFORE I TURN YE INTO POLPETTONE!” Melissa shouts so loud you hear it at the end of the hallway.

Already imagining what Jeanine's face is doing at that offended scowl. The definition of a teacher's pet even after she became one.

But you won’t slow down, you open your door and enjoy the comfort of silence.

Your cartoon sneakers squeaking as you round your desk. Your eyeglasses hang from the cream thermal you're wearing. And luckily its too early for anyone to need you. Dropping the thick stack of papers and notes for this week. You're careful not to bump the Pixar memorabilia figurines off the top of your desk, or the long luscious plants you’d had since your first day of teaching six years ago. The vines are thick and love your newest classroom.

You take the corded headphones hanging on your shoulder and put them in your ears.

Enjoying the beats of ABBA, you shoulder the window a little too hard and it works. The pop is satisfying. The frame bending just enough for you to jack it open.

It was humid as all Hell this summer, and as June heat hit your windows like a greenhouse. You tried to enjoy the small movement of air, as the morning noises bumbled outside.

Your smile curled as ABBA’s Chiquitita swelled from the headphones into your system.

Chiquitita, you and I know

How the heartaches come and they go and the scars they're leavin'

You'll be dancin' once again and the pain will end

You will have no time for grievin'

Chiquitita, you and I cry

But the sun is still in the sky and shinin' above you

Let me hear you sing once more like you did before

Sing a new song, Chiquitita

You hum and even sway a little as you dance out the bad feelings, you couldn’t let the kids feel what you just went through. It wasn’t their fault.

Being a transgender teacher didn’t change your mission, if anything it made it all the more important.

No kid left behind in the public school system, not on your watch. You weren’t as perky as Janine, but you certainly understood the hustle. You’d been bulled through your whole life for being born wrong. Now that you realized you hadn’t been, that there was beauty in hormones and gender euphoria. Finding yourself on a different path then others. That was all okay.

Now you wouldn’t let another kid walk around with that kind of weight on their backs.

So you hung equal signs, and made after school hobby groups, you bought with your tiny paycheck art supplies. And you wouldn’t give up on those little faces that you saw every morning.

So you danced it out as you passed out packets to start the kids off with some fun word puzzles to learn keyterms for this week. On the whiteboard you drew Woody and Buzz jumping together over the math question for the day.

And even went as far as to sing as you swayed and created your own dopamine.

Oblivious to the red headed teacher who was twice your age smirking as she watched you enamored.