#demon!nat

That’s how Natasha explained the sudden change, anyway.

“I’m able to conceal parts of my true form so I can blend in. It’s not really something I usually have to think about. Involuntary,” Natasha demonstrated, and you watched with curiosity as her horns vanished in a small puff of black smoke, then slowly reformed again. Your dumbfounded expression made her smirk, but it fell as she furrowed her eyebrows in her own confusion. “But, I’ve never accidentally revealed myself like that before. At least not for a couple hundred years.”

It really is your luck that the first woman to ever show interest in you is, quite literally, a demon from Hell.

And yet, you’re still here. Staring at her in the face as if she didn’t just tell you that she wasn’t born, but rather emerged from the darkness, engulfed in flames, clawing at the vessel she’s found herself tied to.

“What do you expect me to say?” You ask, somehow still bold even after learning that Natasha could probably tear you limb from limb.

“Honestly, I don’t know. I didn’t expect you to still be here. I expected you to run the second you realized my horns were showing. Or pass out. ” Natasha remarks plainly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why’d you stay?”

You shrug, tucking your arms close to your chest. “Why haven’t you killed me? Or eaten my soul? Or whatever it is demons do.”

“Glad you think so highly of me,” Natasha scoffs.

“Sorry. I’ve never exactly talked with a demon before,” you maintain enough composure to roll your eyes, banking on the fact that Natasha seems to like your attitude enough to not take it upon herself to pluck your eyeballs from your skill and serve them up on toothpicks like the barbecue soaked meatballs the church ladies always serve.

Plus, you’re sure if she had intended to kill you, she would’ve done so the second your fingers accidentally danced along the ridges of her horns.

“I’m only half-offended, sweetheart,” Natasha dares to reach out and poke your side teasingly. You don’t jerk away, as she expected, but you still look at the place they touched as if waiting for it to burn you. “Trust me, that’s not the worst thing ever said about me. But don’t worry, I don’t do that. Not anymore at least.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I was less kind for the first hundred years of my existence,” she explains vaguely. “Boredom and anger got the better of me. It satisfied me for a while. But you can only torture souls so many times before it starts feeling like a 9-to-5.”

You stare at her blankly, unsure what to do with this new information. Natasha takes pity on you and changes the subject.

“You just love dodging questions to get me to talk, don’t you?”

Maybe pity was a strong word.

“I don’t know why I’m still here, okay?” You huff. “Other than the whole demon thing, it’s not like you’ve given me a reason to run. Plus, that explains some of your other…quirks.”

Natasha watches your body language carefully as you turn away from her to collect your thoughts. She stands up, a few inches taller than she seemed before, you notice, and holds out her hand to you.

“All this talking about my old day job has me starving. How about we get some lunch?”

---

When Natasha suggested lunch, you did not expect to find yourself being shoved against the wall of your apartment, the bag of McDonald’s that the two of you picked up long forgotten on the countertop.

Natasha’s lips worked feverishly against your neck, and you moaned at the sudden feeling of sharp fangs against your skin.

“F-fuck…Natasha.”

“Did I hurt you?” Natasha pulls away from your body, looking at you for any signs of distress. You shake your head.

“No. No, you didn’t,” you pant, running your fingers along her jaw. Her sharp teeth poke out from her parted lips, and a sudden wave of impulsiveness hits you as you glide your thumb over her bottom lip, pulling her mouth open wider.

Natasha, to your surprise, allows you to explore. She watches your face shift in fascination as your fingers graze over the apex of her fangs.

You gasp as you feel Natasha’s tongue lap against two of your fingers, breath getting heavy as you realize that fangs aren’t the only new addition to her demonic maw. She somehow still manages to look smug as she wraps her tongue around the length of your fingers. Once, twice, three times you watch it loop around your digits.

“Shit,” you groan, imagining what else her tongue could do as she pulls away, leaving your fingers damp with her spit. “Do you show that off to every girl you see?”

“Only the ones I like.”

“Oh, so you finally admit you like me, huh?”

“Fine, yes, whatever. Now shut up before I change my mind,” Natasha sighs as she presses her lips to yours once more. Her hands graze down your body, squeezing your thighs with affection before tucking her hands under them to lift you up. You’re startled by how effortlessly she’s holding you against the wall, but you suppose that maybe demons come with extra muscles too.

Just like before, you attempt to run your fingers through her hair. But this time, the sudden, hard keratin of her horns doesn’t surprise you. Instead, you curiously stroke along the ridges as Natasha returns to kissing your neck, no longer holding back from leaving bites and bruises along your skin.

Natasha shivers and groans against your skin as your hand strokes her right horn, and you giggle at how sensitive they appear to be.

“You like that?” You ask, stroking the other horn the same way. Natasha growls at you, a deep rumble in her chest - but her blown out pupils betray her.

“You’re so annoying.”

---

It’s kind of unnerving to you how easily you’re able to slip back into your casual routine the weeks following the revelation that Natasha wasn’t human.

The only real change to the normalcy of your quiet life is that now you can’t seem to shake Natasha even outside of when she’s bothering you at church.

(“Shouldn’t you, like, dissolve upon entering the sanctuary or something?”

“I can’t believe how weak you humans think we are.”)

She’s constantly at your apartment, lounging on the couch watching reality shows or almost breaking your microwave by leaving forks and spoons on her plate.

For a demon who’s supposedly lived among humans for couple hundred years, Natasha seems blissfully out of touch with the most mundane things.

“My job was killing humans, not learning about their appliances,” Natasha explains when you ask her why she seems hellbent on setting your kitchen on fire. “It’s not my fault your species makes shitty technology. This thing can heat up a whole meal but can’t handle a little aluminum? Bullshit.”

“Are you planning on killing me?” You ask casually from your spot on the kitchen island, legs swinging and almost kicking Natasha’s tail as it whips behind her.

Since you found out, you told Natasha you didn’t mind if she was in “demon mode” while you were in the safety of your home (“Though honestly, people might just think you’re cosplaying”).

“Don’t be stupid.”

“It’s a fair question.”

“Fine. No, I’m not planning on killing you,” Natasha rolls her eyes and leans on the counter to face you, picking at her claws - a nervous habit you’ve noticed. “But, I reserve the right to change my mind if you keep annoying me.”

---

“This place is so fancy, Natasha. Are you sure you want to pay for all of this?” Your wallet cowers at the prices etched into the menu you’re holding. “Do you even have a job?”

“I used to get paid in gold, angel. I’ve got enough savings to treat you to a nice dinner,” Natasha hums against her wine glass. It stains around her mouth with a deep, blood-red that you can’t help but want to kiss away.

“Dessert too?”

“I thought we could have dessert at home,” Natasha’s green eyes flash red with desire, a sight that startled you at first, but you’ve grown to love because it means that she’s feeling particularly primal tonight.

“That eye thing of yours takes some getting used to,” you admit.

“Does it scare you?”

“No, it makes me feel things though.”

“Do I scare you?”

“Loaded question,” you quirk your eyebrow at her, taking a sip of your drink. Natasha shrugs and places her face in her hand, waiting for your answer. “Admittedly, you kind of scared me even before the whole ‘being born in the pits of Hell’ thing. So, honestly, it wasn’t that much of a jump. But, no, not anymore. You make me feel things, though.”

“Hm.” Natasha is generally hard to read, but maybe it’s the atmosphere of the night that makes her put her guard down long enough to smile and say, “You make me feel things too, angel.”

The two of you chat for some time, as appetizers and entrees come and go, leaving the two of you full and content. Natasha takes a sip of her third glass of wine, metabolism from Hell having no need to worry about the alcohol clouding her senses enough to not be able to drive you home, regarding you as you recount a story from your last semester of college.

You, with your poor human body, are clearly feeling the effects of the fruity drinks you’ve had. Natasha keeps sending death looks to people who glance over at you when you get excited and start talking too loudly, completely unaware of your growing volume.

When you’ve finally finished up, Natasha sweeps the check away from you before you can even look at the damage done, laughing as you give her a pout. As she leads you outside, you feel a few raindrops hit your face, gliding down your cheek before Natasha’s finger catches them as she traces your face.

The streetlight makes the light rain shimmer as it falls, illuminating Natasha like a halo. The space on her head where her horns usually are looks so out of place to you now that you’re so used to seeing them, running your hands along them, tracing them gently as she sleeps in your arms.

“What are you thinking so hard about there, angel?” Natasha asks since you’ve stopped walking to admire her.

“Why’d you suddenly decide to do this? Fancy date and all.”

The whole night was wonderful, but it wasn’t planned out in the slightest. Natasha had decided suddenly when you two were debating what place to order delivery from that she wanted to mix it up. So, she told you to put on your nicest clothes, drove you in her convertible (she wouldn’t admit it, but she doesn’t want to put you in danger by riding her motorcycle with you) out to the city, and seemingly at random chose one of the most upscale restaurants she could find.

“What, just cuz I’m a demon means I can’t do something nice?” Natasha teases.

You shove her playfully and start walking again, scanning the packed street for wherever Natasha parked the car. “Well, you’re not exactly the romantic type. And considering your favorite food seems to be the lo mein from the little take-out place near my apartments, I doubt you were just really craving filet mignon.”

“Not romantic, huh?” Natasha snorts. “That’s an understatement. Consider it your compensation for spending so much time with me lately.”

“For someone so cocky, you talk a lot of shit about yourself,” you say bluntly.

“Most people tend to run the other direction when they see me, sweetheart. And that’s before seeing the horns.”

“Well, I think the horns are cute,” you hum. “Frame your face nicely.”

“I guess that makes one person. Where the hell did we park?” Natasha stops in her tracks and scratches her head, looking at the street lined with cars.

“Oh, I see it!” You point about half a block down.

The chatter from the bar next to you grows louder as the door swings open, a group of men exiting and getting far too close to you and Natasha for either of your likings.

They’re clearly drunk, laughing, and pushing each other around, completely disregarding the fact that there are other people on the sidewalk. Natasha shakes her head and takes your hand, leading you away from them and towards the car, but the noise follows you. You sense Natasha’s growing annoyance as her grip on your hand grows tighter, and she seems to pull you closer to her as well.

Steps away from the safety of Natasha’s car, you flinch as you hear one of the men shout, “Hey, ladies! Need a third?”

“Why, is your wife looking for some fun?” Natasha doesn’t even bother making eye contact, pulling her keys from her pocket, never letting go of your hand.

“What’d you say to me, bitch?” The man is suddenly in your and Natasha’s space, the rest of his friends seem to be distracted further down the block, either not noticing him harassing you or completely uncaring.

“Oh, sorry, I already asked your wife about it last week. I meant to ask if your mom was interested,” Natasha growls, stepping fully in front of you before you even get a good look at the guy.

“Fuck you,” he spits, alcohol on his breath hitting your senses. “Maybe your little girlfriend will be nicer to me. What d’ya say, baby?”

“Don’t even fucking look at them.” Natasha’s grip on your hand starts to hurt, and you tense when you feel her nails grow into sharp claws. She let’s go of you, but not before the talons scrape your skin, leaving hard red lines in their wake.

All of this is lost on her as she shoves the man backward, with an otherworldly force. His back hits the brick wall of the building behind him, and you can hear something crack. The smoke that signal’s Natasha’s changing forms starts to take over her entire body, not just where her horns and tail appear like you’re used to seeing, an eerie red light engulfing the street. Any passersby that were still nearby have run at the sight of it, almost as if they were forcibly repelled.

“What the hell?” The man groans, probably hoping the sight in front of him is due to the throbbing in his skull.

“Hell is about right.” You hear Natasha’s voice before you see her, coming out as a deep rasp that almost feels like it’s coming from inside your head rather than from the city sidewalk before you.

Or, rather, before you see the hulking beast that emerges from the smoke. You swallow hard, taking in the massive body, covered in a coat of deep red fur. Its massive hands jerk out swiftly, bashing in the wall above the man who looks like he’s about to pass out from fear, the bricks crumbling as if they were made of styrofoam.

“Nat?” Your voice is quiet, almost as if you’re afraid that your Natasha is no longer present in the monster in front of you.

However, the ears of the beast quirk up, brushing against its curled horns. It turns to face you, a wolf-ish face with fangs jutting out now in your full view. You see the man take this opportunity to high-tail it out of there, probably going to report what he saw to the police who will never believe him. Your focus lies on the monster slowly creeping toward you, though, a third eye in the center of its forehead giving you a peek at your frightened expression.

“Natasha?” You ask again, holding your hand out hesitantly. Its eyes close as it brushes its face against your hand slowly, as to not alarm you. You smile a bit, smoothing your hand over the surprisingly soft fur, causing a deep rumbling sound to erupt from the demon’s chest.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like this,” Natasha’s voice rasps in your mind again - the fang-filled mouth of the beast however remains still. You shake your head, reaching out to run your hands along her horns like you’ve grown accustomed to. She nuzzles her face against the spot where her claws cut you. “And I’m sorry for hurting you. I never meant to--”

“You were protecting me.”

“Still,” Natasha snorts, a huff of warm air from her snout hitting you solidly, smelling oddly similar to the smoke that lingers when you blow out a candle. “Are you scared of me again?”

“Maybe a little. But, I kind of like it.”

---

The rain beats softly against your window, the sound being the only piece of the outside world that you’re even remotely aware of. You’re curled up against Natasha, still in her monstrous form, listening to the deep rumbling of her breathing.

You had asked her when you finally got back to your apartment to see it again. Natasha had been incredibly quiet the whole ride home, obviously trying to figure out whether you would change your mind and run screaming from her once you were back safely.

“You know you don’t have to do this for me,” she explained, avoiding eye contact as you both shed your nice clothes and changed into pajamas. “It’s not like you’re going to have to get used to that form. That was a special case. An accident.”

“You really have trouble controlling that around me, huh?” You give her a soft smile, and she scrunches her nose up in annoyance at you. “I want to, Natasha. I…your fur is very soft, you know.”

You stroke her side, feeling that soft fur that hides bulky muscles underneath. Natasha has always been very warm, but she’s practically a space heater in this form. She turns her attention from the television back to you.

“You okay?” Her head tilts curiously - rather cutely, actually.

“Yeah, just thinking.”

“A dangerous activity.”

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m thinking about?”

“I figured you’d tell me either way,” if Natasha could properly smirk in this form, you’re sure she would.

“You’re so annoying,” you roll your eyes. “I was just thinking about how weird this all is.”

“I don’t see what’s weird about a ten-foot demon cuddling with you while you watch MasterChef,” Natasha says. You laugh and shove her legs from where they were folded up on the tough. She grunts a complaint, but you ignore it, shuffling so you’re sitting in her lap, her fur tickling your mostly bare thighs.

When she’s sitting upright, you’re barely able to reach her head unless she leans down. Her hands come to rest on your hips almost reflexively, but there’s hesitance there. They could easily wrap around the entirety of your thighs, and the thought sends heat through your body. Natasha blinks at you, obviously trying to figure out what you’re up to.

You guide her to lean down, running your fingers along the floppy part of her pointed ears and over her horns. She sighs at the contact, leaning further into your touch.

“Just as I thought,” you grin. “Still just as sensitive.”

“Bold words from someone I could crush into dust with one hand tied behind my back,” Natasha grumbles, but there’s no sting to her words.

“I know you could, Natasha,” you kiss her on the nose, which twitches in response. “But you won’t.”

Today, you’re lucky enough to not have to hand out pamphlets. Instead, you just get to help out in the kitchen as the old ladies prepare some food for everyone after service. The kitchen has several huge fans hooked up, so even with the heat from the appliances, it’s not nearly as bad as standing around elsewhere.

Plus, it’s always nice to listen to them chatter about silly things - like what their grandchildren have been up to or how funny it is that so many kids these days are dying their hair green - while you pop open canisters of readymade biscuits and plop them on a big baking sheet.

“You know, Barbara used to make biscuits fresh every week,” you hear one of them say over your shoulder.

“Oh, really? What happened?”

“She passed away last month, didn’t she?” The voice you’ve been wondering if you’d hear for days jerks your attention away from the dough in your hands.

The other ladies seem to feel uneasy around Natasha, which you kind of understand. Even other than her domineering, yet aloof attitude, she’s an old religious grandmother’s worst nightmare in her ripped - more like shredded - jeans and tight leather jacket that smells a bit like gasoline. Your kitchen companions move to the other side of the room and some even excuse themselves to go take food to the dining area.

“How did you know that?” You ask more accusingly than you really meant. If Natasha notices, she doesn’t seem to care.

“I stopped by the memorial,” Natasha says simply.

“Did you know her?”

“No.”

“You’re weird, you know that?”

“There’s that bite again. How am I weird, angel?” Natasha’s lip curls up in amusement. That nickname is starting to sound less cute and more condescending the more she uses it.

“You have this weird fascination with death,” you state plainly. Breaking your eye contact and finishing up the baking sheet of biscuits.

“Fascination? No,” Natasha shakes her head, leaning her back against the counter and watching your furrowed brow with great amusement. “Fascination is how I feel when I see someone who decides to spend their time helping old ladies make biscuits when they could be out having fun. Or sleeping in.”

“Maybe I like making biscuits.”

“Or, maybe you feel some sort of obligation to this place,” Natasha shrugs, chewing on the nail of her pinky finger. “Or you just need to feel useful.”

“Are you just going to stand there and psychoanalyze me? Or do you wanna help?” You huff, opening the oven and sticking the biscuits in. You stomp away from Natasha, rummaging through the fridge for butter. From behind you, you hear the timer for the first round of biscuits go off.

“I got it,” Natasha says.

You sigh, silently kicking yourself for being annoyed with Natasha. She didn’t seem to be saying these things aggressively, just matter-of-factly. But it just irritated you that maybe she was a little bit correct.

“Thanks, Nat,” you turn around and gasp when you see Natasha standing in the middle of the kitchen, staring at you blankly with the tray of biscuits in her hand. Her bare hand.

“Where should I put these?” She asks as if she wasn’t touching a pan that had just come out of a four hundred degree industrial oven.

“Down! Anywhere! Is your hand not literally burning right now? Jesus, Natasha!”

Natasha has barely put the tray down before you’re tugging her by her arm over to the large sink. You start rinsing her hand with cold water she just stares at you dumbly.

“It’s okay, it didn’t burn me,” she says. “I’ve got thick skin.”

“While I do agree with that statement...” you scoff, tracing your fingers over her calloused hand. You were about to add that you’re positive that she could not have been holding that tray without burning herself, but it appears that she’s right. There’s no evidence of even any redness on her pale skin. “Are you fireproof or something?”

“I told you, I’ve got thick skin. I thought maybe you were just ignoring me so you had an excuse to hold my hand.”

“What?” You flinch, dropping her hand as she laughs at you. “I was just trying to help!”

“It’s cute that you think I need you to help. I am fully capable of putting cold water on my own hand,” Natasha says with a smug look on her face. She dries her hand using the edge of her shirt, and you’re fighting the urge to glance at the exposed skin.

“Next time when you actually burn yourself, I’m not going to help you.”

“Sure you aren’t, angel.”

--

Natasha continues to pop up out of nowhere and bother you constantly. She kept showing up during the week at your work, making you give her samples of just about every ice cream flavor before settling on chocolate chip cookie dough every single time. Being on the clock, you couldn’t do much more than shoot glares at her every time she asked for “just one more” sample.

“Do you like, have a job or something?” You ask her one day while handing her a sample of cake batter ice cream (this is the third time she’s tasted it this week).

“Yeah, eating all your ice cream and being hot. Can I try the raspberry sorbet next?”

The next few Sundays were filled with Natasha as well. Whether you were helping out in the kitchen or passing out pamphlets to people, Natasha always found a way to hang around and poke fun at every single thing you do or say.

“What are you doing?” Natasha leans over the back of the pew you’re sitting in.

“Hush, people are listening to the sermon,” you whisper. Somehow - definitely not because you think it’s fun to hear Natasha make comments about the various parables that the priest spouts - you’ve come to enjoy sitting in the back of the sanctuary with her. Not with her, with her. Just close enough so you can hear her mumble about how “it doesn’t even make sense, how would someone become a pillar of salt.”

“You’re not.”

“I am listening, I’m just also embroidering.” You show her the pair of jeans that you’re working on. Natasha delicately touches the small leaf pattern you’ve stitched onto the back pocket. You watch her with amusement - she’s touching it with such hesitation, almost as if she’s afraid to mess up your work. “I’ve only just started learning, so I’m starting small.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Maybe it’s just because she’s whispering, but the genuine admiration in her tone leaves you wonderstruck. You mumble “thank you” and try to ignore the way Natasha is staring at you.

“It’s almost done. After I finish it, I can do something for you, if you’d like.”

“Do you think it would look stupid to put flames on my ass?”

Your giggling was promptly shushed by the old man in front of you, and Natasha flipping him off from behind didn’t help you stop.

--

The week following, somehow you’ve gotten yourself roped into taking some of the old chairs down from the dining hall down to the basement. Given the fact that you were the youngest person in the whole building though, you didn’t feel that bad about volunteering.

But after dropping the last couple of the chairs halfway down the stairs, you silently scream to yourself for being too damn nice and saying you could handle doing this on your own. You let the chairs drag behind you, banging them obnoxiously against the stairs and not caring that you’re probably disturbing people.

As you put them against the wall with a sigh, you hear heavy footsteps behind you.

“It’s okay, I’ve got everything!”

“Someone asked me to bring this table down.” You turn at the sound of Natasha’s voice, and you can’t help but let your mouth fall open as you see her with one long folding table thrown over one shoulder as if it were made of cardboard. Her tank top leaves none of her muscles hidden, and you have to mentally slap yourself for staring so hard. She drops the table unceremoniously, shaking her hand as she pinches her finger on one of the folding bits. “Well, technically they wanted you to come get it. But I told them you were busy enough.”

“Thank you, that was sweet of you,” you smile.

For once, you’re the one leaving Natasha flustered.

“I’m not sweet,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Sure, helping out old church ladies is just a hobby of yours.”

“No, that’s you,” Natasha shoots back. “I don’t do shit for them.”

“Then why are you always helping with things lately?” You roll your eyes. In the blink of an eye, you’re shoved against the brick wall behind you. You brace yourself for something - what that is, you’re not sure - but all that comes is a finger tilting your chin up. Natasha’s gaze is heavy, and if one of her hands wasn’t pinning your shoulder in place, you would probably be shrinking under it. “Nat? Did I do something wrong?”

To your surprise, she chuckles at that.

“You really are a dumb little human. So oblivious,” she says.

“Wh-” You try to ask her what the hell she’s talking about but are suddenly distracted by her tracing her thumb along your bottom lip. You no longer tremble with fear, but with the arousal that’s shooting through you straight to your core.

“I wouldn’t give this place two seconds of my time if you weren’t around here, angel.”

Your breath catches as she starts leaning in, but you let her take control, guiding your lips to hers and immediately pressing her whole body against your own as they connect. She kisses you with an intensity that has you quivering and tugging at her shirt to bring her impossibly closer.

Natasha’s teeth nip at your bottom lip, and you gasp because of how sharp her teeth feel against you. Natasha takes that opportunity to push her tongue into your mouth, greedily taking everything that you’ll give her.

You feel a million degrees hotter all of a sudden, but chalk it up to the warm body pressed against your own. Natasha’s hands pull at your hips, leaving both of you grinding against each other and moaning at the friction. Her nails dig into you, and you swear you feel them pierce through the fabric of your pants.

Natasha growls deep in her chest, and your knees practically buckle at the sound, mumbling a “Fuck, Nat” against her lips.

“Watch that mouth, baby,” Natasha smiles against your lips. “We’re in the House of God, after all.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Mhmm.”

You bring your hands up to tangle in her hair, but you stop cold when your fingers run against something hard and ridged. Your hesitation must have been palpable because Natasha pulls back and looks at you with worried eyes.

Worried eyes that suddenly look a lot redder than her usual deep green.

“Something wrong, angel?”

“Nat, have you always had horns?”

Dead silence falls over the two of you, both unable to process everything that’s happening, both still tangled in each other.

This is a routine you’ve become accustomed to, exchanging niceties with the people who have known you since you were toddling, but that you’ve never had a conversation past how you were enjoying your classes.

Honestly, you thought that you’d stop volunteering at the church your parents forced you to attend growing up once you started college, imagining moving on to fancy internships or spending summers backpacking through Europe so that you could post obnoxious photos about studying abroad on Instagram. But, sometimes dreams stay dreams for now.

It’s not all bad. You get plenty of good food from the sweet old ladies who won’t take “no thank you, I’m full” for an answer. Also, they send you little cash gifts for your birthday and other holidays or celebrations. So when the preacher (an old family friend) asked if you’d continue helping when you were home for the summer, you didn’t see any real reason to say no.

Plus, it’s only once a week. It gives you a chance to work part-time at the little ice-cream shop that sits in the strip mall across the street from the church during the week.

God, you’d give anything to be locked in the walk-in freezer right about now.

“Excuse me,” a voice pulls you from your thoughts.

“Oh, sorry,” you tear your eyes away from the stained glass window that you had zoned out on. Standing in front of you is a woman you’ve never seen before. She’s tall, definitely at least six feet, and with fiery red hair that matches the heat of the summer air surrounding you. Ironically enough, she doesn’t look like she’s broken a sweat at all. Which seems impossible given the leather jacket she’s sporting. “Did you want a pamphlet?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” she smiles, taking the one you hold out to her. She scans the two pages while she’s standing there, and you feel awkward in the silence.

“Are you new? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before. But I’ve also only been back from my last college semester for about a month, so maybe we just haven’t crossed paths yet.”

The woman studies you for a moment, obviously sizing you up. Whatever she’s considering must end in your favor because she holds her hand out for you to shake.

“Natasha. You can call me Nat. I’ve come here a couple of times, but not super consistently. If I find good company though, maybe I’ll consider converting.”

You introduce yourself as you shake her hand, oblivious to the subtle sarcasm in her tone.

“I’m probably not the best choice to convert you. I only stick around because the reception always has really good snacks.”

A bark of laughter erupts from Natasha’s chest, causing a few of the other members to send looks your way. You give them a sheepish look, but Natasha isn’t paying them any mind.

“That’s cute. Still, maybe I’ll see you around more later.” Natasha makes her way to the very back of the sanctuary, flops down dramatically, and props her combat boots up on the empty pew in front of her. She’s so far away from anyone else that nobody notices enough to scold her for it.

It’s been well over a decade since you’ve cared enough to pay attention to the sermon, but luckily today it’s kept short because everyone is practically filling up the room with a pool full of sweat.

You occasionally sneak a peek over your shoulder, glancing at Natasha. It’s hard to see since you’re rather close to the front, but you’re almost positive that she was staring at you. You whip your head back and try to ignore the fluttering in your chest at the thought of all of Natasha’s attention being on you. At least, by the time service finishes up, you look back again and she’s just straight up asleep in the pew.

You consider going to wake her up and tell her that there’s probably some donuts the two of you can steal, but ultimately you decide not to. There’s something...off about Natasha. Something about the way she just kept staring at you even after being caught, studying you like she was preparing to dissect you.

Unnerving. Intimidating. An unnamed emotion that causes you to feel even hotter than you were already.

This mix of energies has completely muddled up your senses, and you really can’t decide if this stranger is someone you should try to befriend or run like Hell from.

All of these thoughts are pushed from your mind for most of the week. You’re just happy to be able to work somewhere that has to stay cold. During your break, you sneak a little cup of your favorite ice cream for yourself and decide to go for a walk to stretch your legs a bit.

As you exit the shop, you see a motorcycle parked by the fence of the church. You’ve never even seen anyone ride a motorcycle through the tiny town, so it piques your curiosity. You take your ice cream, praying that it doesn’t melt, and wander over.

The church is locked today, so it must be someone visiting the small cemetery off in the side yard. You push the already ajar gate open all the way, surprised at the sight you’re greeted with. Even though her back is to you, the red hair is unmistakably Natasha’s.

“I don’t think that people usually appreciate you sitting on their graves, you know,” you point out. Natasha turns to you, but she looks completely unsurprised by your presence, almost like she knew you were coming.

“What if I knew them?” Natasha quips, spinning around in her perched position to face you, propping one knee up to rest her cheek on.

“Oh, well,” you fumble a bit. “In that case, I guess that would probably be okay.”

Natasha smirks at your squirming.

“I think I’ll be fine then.”

“Was it a family member?” You ask gently, even though Natasha seems completely nonchalant about the fact that she’s hanging out alone in a graveyard.

“No, not family. Don’t really know what you’d call us,” Natasha hums. “Certainly not friends. I only knew them right at the end of it all.”

“Oh.”

The silence in the air is thick, and you really have no idea how to continue from here. You cope by shoveling a couple of spoonfuls of ice cream into your mouth, and Natasha chuckles at you.

“You’re cute, you know that?”

“I...thank you,” you don’t even attempt to hide how flustered the compliment gets you.

“So, what’s your deal? You don’t seem super into the whole religion thing. Why hang around here?”

“I should ask you the same thing,” you raise your eyebrow at her.

“Ah, the angel has a bit of a bite after all,” Natasha grins. You ignore her teasing and just wait for her answer. “I have a...complicated relationship with religion. For a lot of reasons. I’ve always liked the architecture though. Stained glass? A true gift to humanity. It should be used everywhere.”

“Are you telling me that you’re coming to church just to admire the windows?” You laugh.

“Gotta have something to do on Sundays,” she shrugs. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Similar answer to you, really,” you mumble through your last spoonful of ice cream. It’s mostly melted by now, so half of it ends up running down your chin. You curse to yourself for not grabbing a napkin.

“You’re spilling everywhere,” Natasha says. Before you can even react, Natasha grabs your chin. This is the most sexually charged moment that you’ve had in months, and it just had to be the weird hot chick who spends her afternoons in the cemetery. She pulls a handkerchief seemingly from thin air and wipes the ice cream from your face. Finally, she lets go of your face, but not before mumbling, “Messy little thing.”

As you try to start up your brain again with a coherent response, your phone starts buzzing in your back pocket.

“Ah, shit. My break is over, I have to go.”

“Shame, I was hoping I’d get to clean up more of your messes,” Natasha sighs dramatically. You just roll your eyes. “Will I see you Sunday?”

“I don’t know, will you?”