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angeart · 3 months

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vampire scar ch1 story wip-

The area around them is dangerous; the night is quickly drawing in and the darkness is beginning to wield claws and teeth, bloodlust seeping into the air in sharp howls and snarls. Yet even then, entering unknown structures could be as dooming as staying inside. Four walls could as easily trap as protect. It’s always a gamble.

With that in mind, Grian still leads Mumbo towards the mansion that looms eerie and quiet and foreboding in front of them. With a little bit of luck, it will be abandoned, covered in dust and silence and bones.

He should’ve known better. They haven’t had luck in a long time.

The hinges creak when they ram into the huge, ornate front door to convince it to open. That’s promising. The grating sound is a song of disuse, and Grian considers it a good sign as they tumble inside and quickly shut the door behind them.

For a little bit, they just breathe and try to get their bearings. The entrance hall is huge, sprawling, running off in all kinds of directions. It’s hard to make out the detail of the interior; the only light is the swiftly dimming light coming in through the windows.

Grian fails to notice that the windows aren’t covered in grime. He fails to notice that the place is not in disarray, covered in spiderwebs. He fails to notice that the air isn’t stale and dusty.

“I—I think this looks good?” Mumbo looks around cautiously, keeping close to Grian in this unfamiliar space.

Grian breathes out a huff of relief, even though the sound is still coated with tension; his body refuses to relax, too many unknown variables still spinning through his mind. Anything could lurk in the dark corners and dozens of rooms, and they’re aware only of one singular escape route—and even that is slow and uncertain, hanging on rusty, unwilling hinges.

If he would be easily swayed with any shreds of things that faintly resemble comfort, they wouldn’t have survived this long.

So he doesn’t give in. He looks around, and he wishes it would be as simple as it seems. There’s a desperate yearning in him for something uncomplicated, for one night not filled with threats and dread and fear for their lives. How he wishes to be able to close his eyes and maybe, maybe sink into a soft bed and just sleep without being terrified of the possibility of not waking up in the morning—

This place is bound to have some soft beds.

Grian’s stomach twists at the thought. No, he tells himself. He can’t be stupid here. He can’t give in. They need to remain alert; they know nothing about this place.

“We should look around,” he suggests, voice taut.

“Yes. Definitely,” Mumbo agrees immediately, his eyes roaming the area. “Do you want to split up?”

Grian swivels on his heels to face him, an indignant scoff on his lips. “Split—Split up?! Mumbo!” he chastises. “You know that—“

Mumbo lifts his hands up defensively. “Alright, alright! I’m just saying, it’s a big place. Lots of ground to cover.”

Grian’s gaze is drawn off to the side, to the doors that line only one side of the room. So many options. So many possible traps. So many places for danger to hide in. “Okay,” he says slowly, trying to swallow the trepidation that grows thick in his throat. “We could—Maybe we could check adjacent rooms, stay near but check multiple places at once?” he suggests, even though everything in him prickles, unease nauseatingly settling over him.

“Yeah, okay,” Mumbo doesn’t sound convinced, but it was his idea in the first place, so he relents. “That sounds reasonable.”

Grian glares at him. It doesn’t sound very reasonable to him. But they’re both tired and searching this place inch by inch is going to take ages as-is. They have to make compromises, Grian knows this, but it doesn’t make it any easier. “Fine,” he sighs. “Which side do you want to start with?”

“It honestly makes no difference,” Mumbo remarks.

“Fine,” Grian repeats, a tad more irritably now. He’s tired, he’s tense, his danger-senses are tingling. He is high-strung, even though he tries to convince himself that they just found something safe, that they’re not out there without shelter, that this is good. “Here, then.” He walks to his left, towards the first set of rooms, and Mumbo immediately follows without a word.

They both fall into something familiar, something orchestrated and practiced. They move quietly, their steps soft, shoulders slightly hunched, one hand always hovering over a weapon in anticipation of a threat.

As soon as they reach the two sets of doors, they give each other a look and a small nod. Grian can see Mumbo bracing himself. He knows he’s doing the same thing.

And then he pushes the door open and steps over the threshold of a dark room.

At first, a feeling that he’s alone now sinks into him, even if Mumbo’s just a shout away. He thinks about how he’s going in blindly—they don’t even have torches or anything. Every shadow will make him jumpy, he fully expects this—

Except the room is not as dark as it should be.

And it certainly isn’t as empty as he’d hoped.

It’s the far end of the room that’s flickering with dim, warm light. There’s a candle burning up, its flame a weak, dying thing. Grian’s eyes snag at it at first, drawn by the light like a moth to a flame. There’s something reassuring in the gentle, hot glow of a fire, just for a split second, until he pushes that instinct down and reminds himself that a fire he himself didn’t set is bound to burn him—

That’s when his gaze swerves to the side.

There’s a person there.

There’s a person.

Grian’s mind short-circuits for three precious seconds, before he reboots. Immediately, he hunches up more. His fingertips find his daggers, a tool as ready for stabbing as for throwing. The other person didn’t notice him yet—clearly, because they start humming some silly, jaunty, way-too-content melody as they look over what seems to be an old leather journal. The hum is interrupted only by huffs of laughter.

This gives Grian enough time to take the stranger in.

He doesn’t like what he finds.

Even in the candlelight, their skin is pale, and there’s an old, dried spot of blood near the corner of their mouth. They’re dressed up a bit too well for the reality they’re living in.

The candlelight glimmers, catches on something shiny and sharp.

A canine tooth.

Grian takes in a sharp breath. He straightens up, grabs a proper hold of one of the daggers, and he thinks in alarm of Mumbo in the other room—and sure, Mumbo didn’t call out yet, but if there’s one of these guys, there might be more, and—

And Grian needs to warn him right now, even at the cost of blowing his own stealth.

“Mumbo!” he calls out, and he belatedly wonders if this will just call more trouble to them than they can handle. “There’s a monster here!”

There’s a frightened gasp then, a jump and a thud of a journal that was sent flying and hit the floor.

“What?! Where?” An alarmed yelp that sounds across the space isn’t Mumbo’s voice. It’s the stranger’s voice—startled, deep, but oddly soft.

For a second, Grian thinks maybe he made a mistake. Maybe this person isn’t a monster, if this is their reaction?

The stranger spins around and his eyes land on Grian’s, their gaze locking. He holds a hand to his chest and he heaves a big breath, before he chuckles quietly, a tense and unsteady sound. “Gosh, you scared me.”

“I—what?” Grian stares uncomprehendingly at the reaction.

The man’s lips curl into a cherubic smile, then—innocent and bright and—

Definitely not harmless, given by the two sharp canines and the dried blood at the corner of his mouth.

This drives it in for Grian, erasing all doubts: this person is a vampire.

“Well hello there,” the man says, seamlessly slipping more confidence and charm into his voice, even if the edges of it still echo startled unease. “I didn’t realise I have guests!” His gaze jumps to somewhere past Grian’s shoulder. “How rude of me. Welcome!”

Something touches Grian’s back and he almost jumps out of his skin, shrieking at the touch.

“No! It’s just me!” Mumbo immediately tries to fix his mistake.

“God,” Grian breathes out deeply, everything in him ready to snap as he turns back towards the enigma of a vampire they’re now facing. At least he’s no longer alone in this. “He’s a vampire,” he murmurs to Mumbo, even though he’s fully aware his voice carries all the way across the room.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Mumbo notes, signs of distress colouring his voice.

“Now, now,” the man in front of them—the monster, the vampire—lifts his hands amicably. “There’s no need for alarm. I’m a vegetarian!” he offers cheerily.

Even though he says that, his gaze lingers on Grian in a way that makes a chill run down his spine.

“A vegetarian,” Grian repeats flatly. He isn’t sure why he’s even entertaining the idea; it’s completely absurd.

“Yes!” the man nods fervently, his smile spreading, all toothy and sharp. “I don’t eat anything with a face!”

The blood stain at the corner of his mouth says otherwise.

“I didn’t know that’s possible,” Mumbo exclaims from behind Grian, a little bit too naively for Grian’s comfort.

“Mumbo, there’s no way he’s telling the truth,” he grumbles at him, annoyed.

“No! No, I am!” the man insists. “I usually tear the face off first.”

He says it so simply, chuckling a little, it completely flabbergasts Grian.

“A—You what?” the words fall past his lips before he can think better of it.

“I tear the face off,” the man repeats with an unbothered shrug of his shoulder. It seems to take him another moment to register the apprehension of the other two people in the room, because he only belatedly hastily adds: “There’s nothing to worry about, really! I haven’t had guests in ages, I’m so happy to have you over!”

“We’re—“ Grian’s mind spins as he tries to process this. “Guests? Over? What? No!”

“Oh.” The man’s shoulders slump in immense sadness—it reeks of solitude, of disappointment, of such sheer unhappiness that it stabs at Grian’s heart.

He knows this is wrong. He knows vampires are charming and manipulative. He knows they have their ways of pulling in their prey, before they inevitably sink their teeth into flesh and bleed them dry. And yet—

And yet.

Something in his heart can’t bear the look of this stranger looking so small and abandoned. Maybe because he himself knows what it feels like, first-hand. Maybe because he knows that if it wasn’t for Mumbo, he’d be completely lost. He can’t begin to imagine staying in a big, empty, dark place all alone for—how long?

His feelings keep snagging on something hot, like that flickering flame of a candle. Something that burns through his veins, singes his heart. Something unsteady and dangerous.

He didn’t know vampires could look lonely.

He hates himself for that swell of empathy. He hates the momentary loss of control. He knows they’re being played now.

“Look, pal,” he starts, and it’s cautious. He takes a step back, meets Mumbo’s chest and hopes the man realises this is their cue to retreat. “I appreciate the offer, but we’re not staying. Sorry to intrude, we’ll—uh, we’ll leave you to it.” Whatever the it was.

The man is still looking directly at him. There’s something yearning in his eyes. Something heartbroken. He seems to shrink further as he tears his gaze away. “Okay,” he says in a small voice.

Mumbo makes an unhappy noise in the back of his throat. He’s still blocking Grian’s retreat.

“Mumbo,” Grian hisses at him.

“Yeah, right, I just—“ Mumbo stammers, indecision wild in his veins. He takes a tentative half-step away, feeling Grian immediately crowd his space again, pressing against him to retreat further.

The man—no, not man, the vampire—looks towards the window contemplatively, before his gaze flicks back to them. “You want to leave?”

“Yes,” Grian confirms immediately. “We’re just gonna go—“

“Where?” the vampire asks, an odd, unreadable inflection in his voice as he takes a singular step forward.

Grian twitches. “Out,” he replies, his voice strained. He presses further against Mumbo, and thankfully Mumbo moves, takes three steps, enough to get them out of the room, but not too many to still be able to catch and steady Grian at the unexpected loss of security.

The vampire’s eyebrows pull to a concerned scowl. “But it’s dangerous.”

He says it so simply. So staggeringly simply.

The worst thing about it is, he’s not wrong.

Grian pauses and contemplates this for a moment, then. The outside poses a million potential unknown threats. Here, they’re facing a vampire, but they know how to handle vampires. They could handle one of them. They could— This could still be their best option.

“Are you alone?” he ventures tentatively.

The vampire gives him a look that says it all. “Yes,” he admits, and it’s not charming, it’s not confident. It’s shaky and it’s open and it’s wounded. Maybe a little bit afraid. “I—Is it so bad I don’t want to be, for a little bit? I promise I’m not dangerous,” he slides straight to bargaining. “You can sleep here! I could, I probably have some food you could eat. I won’t do anything to you, I just—I—“

He looks so, so lost.

“Grian?” Mumbo says quietly, and it comes out a bit wobbly and emotional.

That’s the thing that breaks Grian’s own dangerous tilt of judgement. He looks over his shoulder sharply, frowning. “You can’t be serious.”

“W—well, I mean—“ Mumbo fumbles for words, trying to get some rationality out of his heart. “It’s better than the outside?”

Grian side-eyes the vampire. “We should just kill him.”

“Kill?” the vampire repeats in alarm; the word is laced with false laughter, as if he tried to spin it into a joke. It rings hollow, anxious, untrue. “Noooo, no, there’s no need for that! I like living thank-you-very-much!”

“Living,” Grian repeats flatly, challengingly. “You’re not alive.”

“I am!” the vampire protests vehemently. “I breathe and I bleed and I can die.” He pauses, ponders briefly if making that one point in particular was smart. “I—Well. I can starve and all that and, and, I have feelings!”

Grian stares at him blankly. Something in him is unconvinced, but his heart bashes itself against his ribcage in attempted empathy anyway. “This can't be happening,” he mutters dismally.

“Look, I can, I can show you around! You can decide then! It’s just me here, all alone, there’s plenty of space for you even if you want me to stay away! I can go to a different wing or—or something. I’m sure we can come to some sort of arrangement?” he proposes, his voice hasty and desperate. “I just. You don’t have to leave.”

Something about the way he says it chips away at Grian’s resolve, strips his caution, leaves him feeling incredibly human in arguably the worst way possible when confronted with a charming monster. Still, he hears himself say, “Okay.”

The vampire perks up immediately. “Okay!” he echoes.

“Okay?” Mumbo repeats with more alarm and unsteadiness.

Grian shoots him a look. “I thought you wanted to do this?”

“W—Well, yes, I just. I didn’t expect you to agree?” he admits sheepishly.

“Mumbo.” Grian is looking at him with a deep frown. “Do you want to stay or do you want to leave?”

“I—I don’t know!” Mumbo cries, indecisiveness rushing wildly through his veins. More than anything, he doesn’t want to be culpable for this decision and its repercussions.

Grian sighs and lets his gaze slide away. If Mumbo can’t bear the weight of this decision, it now falls back on Grian. It’s a familiar weight. It’s something he needs to shoulder, their fate, their pitfalls. The inevitable guilt of it all. The feeling that whatever he decides might just guide Mumbo to his demise.

He meets the gaze of the vampire, as steadily as he can manage. “Give us the tour.”

Without hesitation, the vampire moves forward, towards the door, towards the room’s exit, towards the rest of the mansion—

Grian flinches at the sudden approach and stumbles a couple of steps back, pulling Mumbo with him, keeping the taller man protectively behind him.

It makes the vampire pause. “Okay,” he says slowly. “I think we need to lay some ground rules. First of all, introductions. That always helps! I’m Scar!”

Grian blinks, his throat dry with the abruptness of his panic reaction. With the preposterousness of this situation.

“And you are?” the vampire—Scar—prompts.

“I—I’m Mumbo, and this is Grian,” Mumbo stammers for both of them.

Scar’s eyes spark up and he gives a big smile. “Wonderful! I’m happy to meet you!” The words are silky, charming in a way that lets them easily burrow underneath skin without notice. They’re honest, too, and maybe that’s where they draw their power from—because Scar truly is lonely, in such a deep, raw way, and there’s nothing if not pure relief that his new guests decided to not immediately leave.

He’s tired of feeling like a monster. He’s tired of being alone, unloved, unwanted.

He’s tired of feeling like these old, cracked, dusty walls—empty and abandoned.

His heart beats in his chest in a wild waltz as he approaches the strangers-no-more again, this time careful about where he steps and how close he gets. He maintains a safe distance, giving a tight smile as he passes them, before taking big steps into the open space.

He spins there, buzzing with theatrics and more than a smidge of showmanship, spreading his arms wide. “This is my mansion.”

It’s very easy, Grian finds, to give in. To let Scar reel him in and pull him along. His body follows unquestioningly, taking in room after room after room, dizzyingly trying to slot the information and not get lost amidst it all—his survival instincts scream at him, but the rest of him is just plain tired and, honestly, a little bit lulled after he watches Scar for a while.

Because Scar isn’t lithe and agile, strong and immovable. He isn’t as charming as one would expect of a vampire, either, even if he’s rambly and his tongue is undeniably tinged with silver. He’s cheerful and he’s giggly and he’s, for the lack of a better word, endearing. But more than that, he’s clumsy and forgetful and edging just on the side of nervous.

It puts Grian ill-at-ease, because this isn't what a vampire should be, and that means Grian can't predict him, doesn't know what to expect.

And yet he keeps following him, watching him, listening to him.

He should try to pay more attention to the mansion tour and less to the man, maybe. The layout is important. He needs to know exit routes, and the possible sources of danger.

But isn’t Scar a source of danger? Living—or so he claims—and moving and very much capable of harm?

So what if Grian’s gaze lingers on him a little bit too much? What if he focuses on his body language and his tone more than the walls that surround them?

He tells himself it’s only because he’s being wary.

“You can sleep here,” Scar finally says in a room that has two huge beds, at the very end of the mansion. The hallway that leads to the room ends with a backdoor exit, an easy way out if they feel trapped or—Scar very much wants to not think about it, even if it’s an option he offers freely—if they decide to sneak out.

Scar walks towards the fireplace and he fiddles for a while, struggling to get it lit.

“Here, I can help,” Mumbo offers, moving forward. He produces flint and steel, reaching for the fireplace.

Grian watches Scar flinch away.

His lips purse, taking in the scene. The beds are a comfort they weren’t able to indulge in for a long time. So is the fire, deep at night. A source of light and warmth. There’s a clear exit. Nobody else is in the building. Nothing about this screams it’s a trap.

And they know how to kill vampires, if push comes to shove.

But they can’t do it if they’re asleep.

He stares at Scar, his gaze prickling the vampire until he turns around and their gazes meet.

Scar offers a tentative, shy smile.

“If there’s anything else you guys need, just let me know,” Scar says then, the words easy on his tongue, unhesitatingly willing to provide for them.

Grian frowns. “What do you need?” he questions instead. “What do you want from us?”

“Nothing!” Scar says immediately.

Grian dismally thinks that’s the first lie he’s heard from him. It’s so easy to identify, it makes everything else startlingly slot in as truth. The awareness of it makes him feel destabilised at his core. He sways a little in his spot, reaches out for the bed frame for support. “That’s—No,” he says weakly, too aware of the green eyes boring into him. “You definitely want something.”

There it is. That heartbreak.

He didn’t know vampires could project heartbreak so well.

Project? Or feel?

Grian finds with increasing panic that he can no longer tell the difference. None of this makes sense. None of this should be happening.

The fire crackles, strong and alive, lapping at the air and throwing a warm, flickering glow over the room as Mumbo takes a step away from it.

“Oh, you did it!” Scar perks up, his eyes squinting in a smile he throws Mumbo’s way. “That’s wonderful, thank you for your help!”

“Well, I mean, it’s for us, right?” Mumbo sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “And it was easy enough.”

“It always gives me trouble,” Scar admits freely, “dealing with fire. A bit scary, if you ask me.”

“You’re a vampire,” Grian notes flatly. It comes out blank and rough, his suspicions warring with his emotions. “Fire harms you.”

“Yes, well,” Scar meets his gaze. “I like how it glows. I like the warmth.”

Grian continues to stare at him, because he isn’t sure how to actually process all of that. Instead, he takes a breath and presses: “You didn’t answer the question.”

Scar blinks. “What question?”

Grian frowns, but doesn’t relent. “What do you want from us?”

Scar’s gaze shifts to the fireplace. “The fire harms you, too,” he says, and it’s soft and contemplative, but makes everything in Grian prickle with a warning. “You also get hungry,” Scar continues. “And you need rest, and you need—“ he falls quiet.

“We need?” Mumbo prompts, and he sounds so gentle, so careful.

It makes Scar lift his gaze to him, meet his eyes. There’s hesitation in him, some unknown emotions swirling up, raw and threatening. He swallows hard, before prying his gaze away. “You need safety,” Scar continues, even though his voice is clearly strained, “and I can give you that.”

“What for,” Grian insists. “What do you want for it.”

Green eyes shift to him, and somehow Grian’s heart picks up speed, feeling irrationally guilty at having asked.

“I don’t want anything,” Scar repeats, his voice wavering and quiet.

“Surely you must want something out of this,” Grian insists, even though there’s a lump in his throat and he feels terrible.

Scar looks away, then. He severs their connection, making Grian reel at the sudden lack of it.

“I just,” Scar says, and it’s a half-sigh, it’s a half-whisper, it’s a quiet, tentative, cracked confession. “I thought it might be nice to have some company for a little bit.”

It’s so soft, so vulnerable that it makes Grian feel like the ground was pulled from underneath him. Emotions sway him at the sight of the man—the vampire, he reminds himself futilely—so hunched over and sad.

He knows how feeling alone in a world that no longer wants you feels like.

He just didn’t count on monsters having actual feelings.

He didn’t count on monsters looking so human.

His heart clogs his throat and he finds himself speechless.

“Were you—“ Mumbo tries to say something, but his voice falters as soon as Scar’s gaze lands on him. There’s a moment of silence, before Mumbo regathers his courage and finishes: “Were you alone for long?”

Scar’s shoulders sag at that. He seems to be crushed underneath some invisible weight. “Yeah,” he says, and the word barely manages to make it past his lips, daunted and small.

Grian feels his heart slam sharply against his ribs at the confession.

“W—well,” Mumbo looks over at Grian, catching his gaze. He’s hesitant and unsure, but clearly willing and wanting to offer something.

Grian’s eyebrows pull into a frown. His emotions scream one thing at him, but every remaining shred of rationality screams something else. It’s an overwhelming cacophony and he knows he’s the one who’s expected to make the decisions—and then bear the weight of them going wrong—yet he finds himself feeling lost and adrift at this.

Mumbo holds his gaze for a moment longer, before he lets it swivel back to Scar. “We’ve actually never really talked to a vampire before.”

“No,” Scar shakes his head in immediate sympathy. “I wouldn’t imagine you would. They’re not a friendly bunch.”

Something about that statement stabs at Grian’s heart, his eyes still locked on Scar. “Then… Why are you talking to us?”

Scar’s gaze meets his and, again, it makes Grian's heart trip over itself.

“Because I want friends?” he says, and it’s so open and vulnerable and his voice is thick with emotions, cracking and failing him at the end of his miserable sentence.

Grian takes a sharp breath, fumblingly attempting to remind himself that vampires are dangerous and they’re charmers and they’re manipulators and—

“You can’t mean that,” he says in the end, the words a little bit hoarse.

Scar blinks, confused. “What?”

Grian shakes his head vehemently. “You’re a vampire. We’re just food for you.”

Scar’s eyebrows twitch into a frown, before they smooth out and his face stretches into a smirk. “You do have faces, don’t you? I told you I don’t eat anything with a face.”

“But you could, you know,” Mumbo steps in, “rip the face off or something, as you said.”

Scar’s gaze anchors into his, a displeased curl to his mouth. “I don’t eat my friends.”

“But we’re not friends,” Grian chimes in.

“We could be,” Scar suggests easily, unaware of how threatening that sounds.

(... tbc?)

------- as the title states, this is a wip of a potential story that was put on the backburner because my hands are full. if you want to know more about what kind of things are meant to happen in this au (atm it's just a collection of ideas, rather than any specific outline), or are curious about anything else, feel free to ask! and let me know what you think about it so far <3

if you're curious where this au came from, i recommend you to watch random encounter's "resident enis" videos (there are two). i'm sure you'll see my vision. (the line about not eating anything with a face is there kjxnbkj.)

this was written on a whim and for the longest time, i kept calling it "silly vampire scar au" (in the spirits of resident enis), even though i know the au devolves—as per usual—into heavier topics and angst. it's set in a world riddled with monsters, it's a survival story, pretty much.

fun fact: the working title of this au is called "Silly Vampire Mr GoodTimes"

i need a better name for it though, "vampire scar au" is so generic, and sure it does have a vampire scar in it, but it's not exclusively about him... but i have no idea what else to call it/how to title it (rip) (pls help-)

#ange writes #i saw the votes #you guys wanted this #well here it is #i wrote this months ago #but the au still lives in my head #i just have too many projects #but hopefully one day this will be something!#let me know how you like it :3 #vampire scar #vampire scar au #oh also #speaking of where inspiration was yoinked from #the idea that vampires are weak to fire was borrowed from carry on

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unknownimagineblog · 1 year

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Into the Widow’s Nest // N.R

Warning(s): minor sexual themes, cursing, angst

The morning sun filtered through your curtains, and you stifled your yawn in an attempt to not wake the other person who joined you in your bed. You rubbed your eye as you sat up, only to be met with a soft moan as the arms around your waist tightened.

You reached down to brush your fingers through your girlfriend’s hair as she nuzzled her face into your waist.

“Stay.” Natasha mumbled quietly, and you smiled at the warm feeling that surrounded both of you.

With a soft laugh, as your fingers continued to thread through her red hair you responded. “I deal with you disappearing for months on end, I think you can deal for a day without me.”

Finally releasing you, she rolled onto her back dramatically. Huffing, she said, “I can already feel myself going through withdrawal.”

“Some super spy you are.” You responded, noticing the playful glare she sent your way at your words. Pulling on your coat, you leaned across the bed to plant one final kiss upon her lips before your departure.

“Enjoy your day off, my love.” You whispered, and she smiled at your words.

“Have fun kissing ass.” She said, and you let out a laugh as you slapped her arm.

You worked as a diplomat, and as a result of your well known relationship with the Black Widow, a public relations expert for the Avengers to foreign nations. Natasha never failed to tease you about it.

Deciding you had time to humor your girlfriend a little longer, you circled the bed to grasp her wrists and place them above her head. Leaning in once again to hover over her, you could see the mischievous glint behind her eyes.

“I do it to keep the United Nations off your ass.” You said.

“They love to be on my ass.”

“Exactly.” You laughed, before pressing a soft kiss upon her cheek, then traveling down her neck. “You’re lucky I’m the jealous type, or I wouldn’t risk my career to fend them off so much.”

“How about you stay home, and I show you just how appreciative I am?” She asked. You released her hands, and Natasha used this opportunity to run them along your sides before reaching down to unbutton your coat. She captured your lips in a heated kiss, and before it had grown too intense, you pulled away.

You kicked your shoes off, before kneeling upon the bed to straddle her hips. You then captured her in a kiss much more intense than the one you had previously shared, causing her to arch her back in an attempt to gain more friction between you.

Pulling away again, you were breathless as you stared down at Natasha. She hadn’t faired much better against the effect you had on her, if her kiss swollen lips and red face were any indication.

You gripped her jaw between your fingers to turn her face, allowing yourself space to lay kisses upon her throat. Reaching that sweet spot upon her neck, you placed a kiss against it and didn’t fail to notice her begin to writhe beneath you.

“I could be a little late for work.” You hummed against her neck, and she sighed at the feeling. “I’ll just tell them it was a matter of national security that needed my immediate attention.”

Her hand began to make quick work of the buttons on your shirt, and relished at the feeling of your skin against her own. She was just about to strip you of your bra, until you were both interrupted by Natasha’s phone ringing.

You froze to stare at it, as if you could will the phone to stop ringing with your mind alone. Then you spoke up, “I swear, if that’s Fury calling you into work before I even get to-”

Natasha interrupted you by answering the call, and you glared at her from your position above her. She reached out a hand to caress her thumb against your exposed hip absentmindedly. “Yes, Director? I’m currently in the middle of something.”

“Tell your girlfriend to get off of you, then.” Fury’s voice spoke through the phone. “You two can fuck like bunnies after you complete your next mission.”

You huffed after overhearing bits of his statement, and Natasha was disappointed to watch as you began to button your shirt once again. Stepping off the bed, you leaned over to place a chaste kiss upon her lips.

“I’ll see you later. I love you.” You whispered just for her to hear, and she smiled.

“I love you too.” She said, sitting up in the bed to watch as you left the apartment. After hearing the door lock behind you, she decided to continue the conversation with the director.

“You know there are other Avengers who are able to complete missions? You don’t have to keep sending me.” Natasha told him.

“The Red Room is still operational.” He said, and he hummed at the sound of her almost inaudible gasp. “Knew that was going to change your tune.”

“That’s impossible.” She said quickly. “I killed Dreykov, there’s no way.”

Natasha remembered the mission in Budapest, it wasn’t hard to forget.

She met you there, after she and Clint had taken refuge at the embassy to await extraction. You came to them with charming smiles that enticed the foreign diplomats, and a warm demeanor. But you seemed exhausted, and below your facade lay a burnt out woman.

“This is the last time I’ll stick my neck out for you.” You had told Clint as you both marched down the pristine hallways with Natasha on your heels. “It’s hard to explain away a massive explosion in the center of the city.”

Clint patted your tense shoulder with a laugh, and you sighed. “Come on, we bring an excitement to this job that you’ve never had before!”

“I like when my job is unexciting.” You said with a dry laugh, and a shake of your head. “Usually, that means the world isn’t teetering on impending doom.”

Natasha finally made her presence known behind you, causing you both to stop and turn toward her.

“Your knuckles are raw, and your nail beds are tore.” Natasha observed, causing you to glance between her and Clint. “Why?”

“Recovering the bodies you left behind.” You said, your tone much more tense than before. “Cant just leave an obvious strike against a Russian dignitary that reeks of American influence out in the open.”

“He’s dead?” She asked, gripping your arm harshly to prevent you from continuing down the hallway. You turned quickly with a harsh glare upon your brow, and you slapped her hand away.

“Yes.” You answered, your voice even more tense then your posture. “I saw his corpse with my own eyes.”

Natasha watched as your back disappeared down the hallway, and Clint cleared his throat in an attempt to diffuse the tension surrounding his companion.

“Maybe keep in her good graces?” Clint said, tapping his shoulder against her own. “She’s saved my ass more than I could count, so she’s a good ally. Give her a chance.”

Apparently, Natasha had taken giving you a chance a bit too far, considering you both shared an apartment now and woke up in the same bed almost every morning. Clint was floored when Natasha shared the news, but was rather happy for the occasion.

She sighed once she pressed your contact, preparing herself to break the news to you. Natasha always hated telling you about her missions, not that you took it hard, but the disappointment in your voice always felt like it was tearing at her heartstrings.

“Hey Nat, what’s up?” You answered in a rather chipper tone, obviously still driving to work.

“I’m going to be headed out on a mission.” She said simply, and she heard you sigh. “It should only be a few weeks, well, at least I hope it is.”

“Yeah.. I wasn’t too confident you’d be home later after Fury’s call.” You said. “It sounded urgent.”

“It is.”

“Anything I need to be prepared for?”

“No..” Natasha trailed off, and you hummed in an obvious indication that you hadn’t believed her. You then wished each other goodbye before ending the call.

—

Natasha wasn’t particularly happy to find herself within the Red Room once again, but none of the widows had made any move to stop her as she snuck through the hallways. If they had spotted her, they simply stared at her like scared animals rather than deadly assassins. It caused an uncertain feeling to begin cooling around her stomach.

She tracked the hallways to Dreykov’s office, and her feeling of unease only continued to grow due to the lack of resistance she had been met with.

Entering the office, she trained her gun upon Dreykov the moment he had came within her eyesight. It caused him to sigh at the sight of her, but raised his hands in a mock surrender.

“Natalia.” He greeted as he stood, then motioned to the chair at the front of the desk. “Just the person I was looking for.”

Natasha scoffed at his words, but lowered her pistol once she noticed the man was unguarded, and unarmed. She did not take the seat he offered.“What’s this all about?”

“A favor.” Dreykov said, and held up an authoritative hand to prevent Natasha from interrupting. “I need someone killed.”

“Why not send a widow to do that for you?” Natasha quipped, and she could watch as a vein steadily began to bulge upon his forehead in anger.

“The widows no longer listen to me.” He answered as if such information was common knowledge, and she was silly for asking such a thing. She looked at him with confusion crossing her brow, but he continued. “There’s a new director. I’m simply a figurehead to take blame if the Red Room were to ever fall.”

Natasha stared at him with skepticism. She wasn’t exactly convinced Dreykov had been pulled from his position within the Red Room, and everything about this proposition seemed suspicious.

“I know this seems questionable.” He said, almost as if he could hear Natasha’s thoughts. “But, if you complete this for me, I will release Yelena Belova from the widow program.”

Natasha seemed to battle within herself for a moment, trying to decide if what she was going to accept was worth it. She could simply put a bullet into Dreykov, and break her sister out now. But that also meant risking, if Dreykov is speaking the truth, forcing the acting director into hiding.

“I’ll do it.” She finally muttered, and he seemed to excite at her words.

“It’s my oldest daughter.” Dreykov said, seemingly answer the question at the top of Natasha’s tongue. He was working at pulling various drawers within the desk open, and unlocking secret locks but he continued to explain. “After the explosion took Antonia’s life, something had broken within her. Her entire life’s purpose was to protect her younger sister, and she had failed.”

Natasha cringed at the mention of Dreykov’s younger daughter, and her mind had managed to memorize almost every feature of her face in those last moments before she instructed Clint to light the fuse. Sometimes that memory was triggered by everyday experiences, but she never realized what it was exactly stemming from.

“She manipulated the committee of foreign dignitaries that sponsor the Red Room into believing that I was no longer a proper fit for the job.” He said. “They instated her as director without question.”

“That’s great, and all, but I’ve never even met your oldest-” Natasha began, but was interrupted by Dreykov once again.

“Why don’t you see for yourself, Natalia?” He asked, motioning to the large glass panel behind her.

She had begun to grow annoyed at the interaction, but humored the man by turning toward where he had indicated. When she had seen the target Dreykov had been referring to, she felt as if her lungs had been squeezed of all their air.

Upon the large glass screen was a video of you, with Natasha in your shared apartment. You were both slow dancing in the kitchen, and Natasha remembered she accidentally burnt the dinner because she had been so lost in you.

Now she realized that maybe you had never gotten lost within your love for her, unlike what she had for you. You had simply clung to Natasha for the desperate need to keep her on a short leash, otherwise she might discover your true identity.

You were Dreykov’s daughter.

#y’all forgot i was an angst writer after that fluff didn’t y’all?#well here it is #avengers #avengers x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanoff imagine #Natasha Romanoff x reader #x reader insert #I’m not super proud of this one

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