Marvel: The saiyan

The Malibu evening stretched into a calm twilight, the horizon fading into hues of lavender and deep indigo. Shallot stood at the edge of the cliffside lawn, his arms loosely crossed as the ocean breeze tugged at his hair. His tail swayed in a slow, lazy rhythm behind him, mirroring his thoughts. The day had been long—between Tony's training and the unexpected depth of his earlier conversation with Natasha, Shallot found himself yearning for the quiet solitude of his home.

When Natasha returned from the house, a bottle of water in hand, her sharp green eyes caught Shallot in her usual careful way—like she was always assessing something just beneath the surface.

"Heading out?" she asked, her voice calm but curious.

Shallot turned slightly, meeting her gaze. "Yeah," he said simply. "Figured it's time I head back. I've been here long enough, and I've got a few things waiting for me back home."

Natasha tilted her head just slightly, her gaze flickering up and down as if she were sizing him up. "Flying back, I assume?" she asked, her tone neutral but with the faintest trace of dry humor.

Shallot smirked faintly. "What can I say? It's faster than sitting in LA traffic. And I don't have the patience to listen to Stark's AI nag me about speeding in one of his cars."

Natasha allowed herself a small smile at that, her expression unreadable yet somehow lighter. "I wouldn't expect you to deal with mundane things like traffic."

Shallot shrugged. "Perks of being me." He paused for a moment, glancing toward the house, then back at her. His tail flicked once, thoughtfully. "Anyway, I thought I'd let you know before I left. Didn't want you to think I vanished without a word."

Natasha's lips quirked faintly—just barely enough to notice. For a man who seemed to value independence and distance, Shallot was surprisingly considerate in his own way. "Thanks for the heads-up," she said evenly, nodding once. "I'll be back at your place in a couple of hours."

"Take your time," Shallot replied, smirking as he stepped away from the lawn's edge. "Just don't snoop too much when you get there. I'd hate to find my spice cabinet alphabetized."

Natasha raised an eyebrow but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, she merely watched as Shallot bent his knees slightly and, without another word, shot into the sky. The air cracked like a whip as he launched upward, a faint ripple of wind rolling across the lawn. Within seconds, he was a blur against the horizon, disappearing into the fading light.

Natasha stood there for a moment longer, the breeze tugging at her hair. She capped her water bottle and let out a soft breath, her gaze lingering on the distant sky. "At least he told me," she murmured to herself, shaking her head faintly. There was something almost amusing about how he'd tried to make a considerate gesture seem casual—like he didn't want to admit he cared enough to bother.

Sliding into her car, Natasha started the engine and began the drive to Shallot's home. The coastal road wound like a silver ribbon along the cliffs, the ocean stretching endlessly to her right. It would be a quiet, almost peaceful ride, but Natasha's thoughts were anything but calm.

By the time Natasha pulled into Shallot's secluded property, the sun had fully dipped below the horizon, leaving the world bathed in moonlight and shadows. The forest around his home whispered faintly with the sound of wind rustling through the trees, and the soft hum of crickets filled the air.

Stepping out of her car, Natasha took a moment to observe the house from a distance. It was simple, yet its design carried a certain air of solitude and purpose—much like its owner.

The secluded property was shrouded in a serene stillness as night fell, the only sounds the whisper of wind in the trees and the rhythmic hum of the gravity chamber tucked away in the back of the house. Inside the chamber, however, there was nothing serene about the scene.

Shallot stood at the center of the reinforced room, his muscles taut, his body drenched in sweat as he unleashed a flurry of punches and kicks at blinding speed. The gravity had been cranked up to 20 times Earth's normal level, the weight pressing down on him with unrelenting force. Every movement was a challenge, every strike a test of his endurance and willpower.

The walls of the chamber trembled faintly with each impact, the muffled sound of his strikes reverberating through the thick steel. Shallot's breathing was steady but labored, his sharp black eyes narrowed in concentration as he pushed himself harder and harder. His tail lashed behind him like a whip, its movements mirroring the intensity of his focus.

"Faster," he muttered to himself, his voice low and gritty. "Stronger."

With a sudden burst of energy, Shallot leapt into the air, twisting mid-flight as he fired off a rapid series of ki blasts. The glowing orbs of energy streaked across the room, colliding with the reinforced walls in controlled explosions. The shockwaves rippled back toward him, but he barely flinched, his body absorbing the impact as he landed gracefully on the ground.

For hours, he continued this brutal regimen, the gravity pulling at every fiber of his being. Sweat dripped down his brow, his shirt clinging to his body as his muscles burned with exertion. But he welcomed the pain—it was a reminder of his limits, and a challenge to surpass them.

Finally, when the clock in the chamber showed it was nearing midnight, Shallot deactivated the controls. The hum of the machinery faded, and the gravity returned to normal. He stood there for a moment, catching his breath, his chest rising and falling as the tension in his body began to ease.

"That's enough for today," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. His tail flicked lazily behind him as he grabbed a towel from a nearby bench, wiping the sweat from his face. The familiar ache in his muscles was oddly satisfying—a sign that he'd pushed himself closer to his next threshold.

Shallot stepped out of the chamber, the cool night air hitting him like a refreshing wave. The house was quiet, its windows glowing faintly with warm light. As he made his way toward the back door, his sharp senses picked up on something unexpected—the faint aroma of food wafting through the air.

His eyebrows furrowed slightly in curiosity. Did Natasha… cook?

Shallot stepped into the house, his boots making faint thuds against the wooden floor. Warm light spilled from the kitchen, and there stood Natasha Romanoff, standing by the stove with an air of practiced calm. She wore a simple black sweater and fitted pants, her red hair tied back in a ponytail that swung slightly as she worked.

The table was set, though in a practical and unassuming way—two plates, utensils, and a large bowl of something steaming in the center. From the savory aroma wafting through the room, Shallot could tell it was some kind of hearty stew. Likely improvised with whatever ingredients Natasha had managed to pull together from his kitchen.

She turned slightly at the sound of the door opening, her sharp green eyes meeting his. "You're back," she said simply, her tone neutral but carrying a note of acknowledgment.

Shallot paused for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the scene. "What's all this?" he asked, curiosity flickering in his voice as he stepped closer.

"You've been training for hours," Natasha replied matter-of-factly, turning back to stir the pot on the stove. "Figured you'd be hungry. And considering the amount you eat, I thought I'd save you the trouble of tearing through your own fridge like a wild animal."

Shallot raised an eyebrow, his tail flicking behind him in a slow, idle rhythm. "Didn't know cooking was part of a spy's skill set," he said, a teasing smirk playing at his lips.

Natasha smirked faintly, not looking up from the pot. "It's not. But I've picked up a few things over the years. You'd be surprised how often cooking comes in handy."

Leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, Shallot watched her quietly. There was something about the sight of Natasha cooking in his kitchen that was strangely... unexpected. For someone as sharp and deliberate as her, this small act of consideration felt out of place but welcome. The movies he'd seen in his past life hadn't quite prepared him for the person she was in reality—layered, practical, and, in moments like this, unexpectedly thoughtful.

"Well," Shallot said after a moment, his voice softening slightly, "thanks. I wasn't expecting this."

Natasha turned off the stove and began ladling the stew into two bowls. "Don't mention it," she said, setting the bowls down on the table. "Seriously—don't. I'm not doing this to be nice. Just figured you'd be less insufferable if you weren't starving."

Shallot chuckled, a low and genuine sound. "Sure. Whatever you say, Romanoff."

"Natasha," she corrected, glancing at him briefly. "You can call me Natasha."

That caught Shallot off guard, though he didn't let it show. He nodded slightly, his smirk softening as he took a seat at the table. "Alright, Natasha," he said, tasting the name as if testing it out.

They sat in a comfortable silence as Shallot dug into the stew. His sharp senses immediately picked up on the flavors—simple but well-balanced. He glanced at Natasha, a hint of approval in his expression. "Not bad," he said, his tone carrying a faint edge of teasing. "For a spy."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, her expression cool and unbothered. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should," Shallot replied with a grin, his tail swishing lazily behind him. He continued eating, his usual voracious appetite taking over. Natasha watched him for a moment, her gaze unreadable, before turning her attention back to her own bowl.

When they finished, Shallot leaned back in his chair, letting out a contented sigh. "Alright," he said, standing up and grabbing his empty bowl. "That hit the spot. Thanks for that."

Natasha shrugged, standing as well. "You can thank me by not leaving your kitchen looking like a war zone next time you decide to cook."

Shallot winced slightly, recalling the mess he'd left behind the day before when he'd thrown together a massive meal post-training. "Fair deal," he said with a smirk, placing his bowl in the sink.

Natasha began tidying up the table as Shallot stretched, his muscles still carrying the ache from hours of training in the gravity chamber. "I'm hitting the shower," he said casually, heading toward the hallway. "Try not to rearrange my entire kitchen while I'm gone."

Natasha smirked faintly, not looking up from the table. "No promises."

Shallot rolled his eyes playfully as he disappeared down the hall. The faint sound of the bathroom door closing followed shortly after, then the echo of the faucet turning on.

Shallot stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over his body and washing away the sweat and tension of the day. He tilted his head back, letting the spray hit his face as steam filled the room. His muscles began to loosen under the heat, though his mind remained active, turning over the day's events.

The sparring session with Tony had been productive—he was getting better, slowly but surely. But what stuck with Shallot more was Natasha. Her gesture tonight wasn't something he'd expected. It was small, yes, but meaningful in a way he hadn't been prepared for. Someone going out of their way to think of him—it wasn't something he'd experienced often, if at all.

"Natasha Romanoff, huh," Shallot muttered to himself, the water muffling his voice. His tail twitched slightly as he let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "A spy who cooks. Who would've guessed?"

He shook his head, letting the water wash over him for a while longer before finally turning off the faucet. Steam clung to his skin as he stepped out, grabbing a towel and drying off. As much as he valued his independence, he couldn't deny a small sense of gratitude for the strange companionship forming between him, Tony, and now Natasha.

The days began to blur into a steady rhythm, each one marked by a sense of purpose and progress. Shallot's routine had become almost second nature—a blend of discipline, teaching, and solitary training that filled every hour with focus.

Each morning, Shallot would head out to Stark Industries, where Tony awaited him, his trademark wit often masking the sweat and nerves that came with their brutal training sessions. Shallot pushed Stark hard—harder than anyone had ever dared to—but Stark was improving. Slowly but surely, his punches became sharper, his instincts more refined. Natasha, as always, accompanied them, her sharp gaze a constant presence as she observed both Shallot's teaching and Tony's growth. Though she rarely spoke during the sessions, Shallot could tell she was analyzing everything, storing it away in that calculating mind of hers.

By noon, Shallot would return to his secluded home, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path as he walked through the familiar woods. And, as if by silent agreement, Natasha would follow shortly after. Over time, she'd made it her habit to cook lunch for him, her efficient movements in the kitchen a surprisingly domestic contrast to her reputation as the Black Widow. Shallot never asked her to do it, but he wasn't about to complain. The meals, simple yet hearty, always hit the spot after his morning exertions.

Each afternoon and evening, the house would fall into its own rhythm. While Natasha occupied herself—sometimes working on reports, other times simply reading a book—Shallot would retreat to his gravity chamber. The metallic hum of the advanced machinery filled the air as Shallot pushed his body to its absolute limits.

The gravity chamber had become his sanctuary, a place where he could focus entirely on his own development. He divided his training into two distinct halves. The first half was dedicated to pushing his body to its physical peak—enhancing his speed, endurance, and raw power in the chamber's crushing artificial gravity. Sweat poured down his face and muscles burned, but Shallot thrived under the pressure, the Saiyan drive within him feeding off the intensity.

The second half of the night was dedicated to a more technical goal—the mastery of the Multi-Form Technique. It was a skill he'd dabbled with before but had never fully refined. The technique required an immense amount of precision, splitting his ki into multiple, autonomous clones that could act independently without diluting their combat effectiveness. The strain was unlike anything else—splitting his energy and focus felt like trying to hold multiple conversations at once while running a marathon. But Shallot refused to stop. Each night, he pushed himself a little further, his control improving with every session. The idea of fully mastering the technique intrigued him—it wasn't just about multiplying his strength; it was about strategy, versatility, and unlocking a new level of combat potential.

Meanwhile, Tony's life outside of training had taken a dramatic turn. A few weeks into their routine, Tony had stepped onto the stage during a press conference and, with his usual flair, revealed to the world: "I am Iron Man."

The revelation had sent shockwaves through the media, but Stark, ever the showman, thrived under the attention. Between their training sessions, Tony regularly donned his suit and went out into the world to fulfill his newfound role as a hero. He was clumsy at first, fumbling in some situations and over-relying on the suit's capabilities, but Shallot had seen the steady growth. Tony's confidence in his abilities as Iron Man was increasing—not just because of the suit, but because of the man inside it.

And then, there was Natasha. She was a constant presence in Shallot's life now. At first, her role as Fury's spy felt like a shadow hanging over his home, but over time, that dynamic shifted. She wasn't just watching him anymore. Somewhere along the line, the edges softened. She'd become… familiar. Whether it was the shared meals, the quiet moments of conversation, or simply her stoic companionship, Shallot had grown used to her presence. 

Two months later,

Author's note : there won't be a chapter tomorrow sorry, don't forget to feed me power stones. This chapter is also quite short, sorry.