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natsaffection · 1 day ago

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Redline. Pt 3 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N= 32, r=23), reflecting trauma, kinda sexual tension

Word count: 7,5k

A/N: part three!!! In the next one, we’ll focus more on the chemistry between Natasha and you. 🫢

Part 2

The rhythmic thud of a punching bag filled the space, the only sound aside from your controlled breathing as you threw another strike, then another. Your muscles ached, fire burning beneath your skin, but you didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. This was the only thing that made sense anymore, pushing yourself past the limits, past the doubt, past the thoughts you didn’t want to deal with.

Until the doors slammed open. The sound cut through the room like a gunshot. There was no controlled amusement this time. No smirk, no teasing remarks. Just pure, simmering rage. The kind that made the air feel too heavy, like the walls were closing in.

Natasha.

Yelena had followed behind her, though she kept a safer distance, arms crossed as she watched the impending execution unfold. Natasha’s gaze locked onto you, sharp as a blade against your throat.

“You missed the meeting.” she said, her voice quiet, far too calm for how angry she was. You rolled your shoulders, wiping sweat from your brow. “I was training.” Wrong answer. Natasha’s expression darkened, her jaw tightening as she took two slow, measured steps forward.

“And?” The single word was sharp, cutting, as if she was daring you to keep going.

You clenched your fists, keeping your ground. “And I thought it was more important than sitting in a room while PR tells me how to smile for a camera.”Natasha inhaled through her nose, slow, controlled, like she was restraining herself from snapping you in half.

“You thought?” Her voice was too smooth, too dangerous. “Let me make something very clear, because it seems you’ve already forgotten. You don’t get to think. You don’t get to decide what matters. I do. And when I say you show up, you show up. Do you understand me?”

You held her stare, the defiance still there, but your body tensed. Natasha saw it. Felt it. The resistance. The fight to not give in and she wouldn’t allow it.

“You think training gives you a free pass? That you can just ignore my orders and do whatever the fuck you want?” Natasha stepped closer, crowding into your space, forcing you to either hold your ground or back down. “Let me tell you something, dorogoy (sweetheart). You work for me. Not the other way around. I don’t care what you used to be, who you were before, or how good you think you are. In my world, you either fall in line or you get the fuck out.”

Your breath hitched. The air between you was suffocating. It wasn’t just the words, it was the way Natasha said them. The control in her voice, the absolute certainty that she meant every single thing. There was no bluff, no space to argue, no ground left to stand on.

You swallowed, your muscles still coiled with the need to fight back. But Natasha saw it..the way your jaw tightened, the way your fingers curled slightly, the way you were still resisting. And Natasha smirked. Slow. Cruel.

“You don’t like being told what to do, do you?” she murmured, tilting her head slightly, voice dipping into something almost amused. “I can see it..right there. You’re dying to argue. To push back. To prove something.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice just enough that it sent a shiver down your spine. “But you won’t. Not this time.”

Natasha studied you for a second longer, watching the way your body still fought not to react, still fought not to break.

“Now..” Natasha exhaled, her voice slow, taunting, the smirk still lingering. “Be a good girl and go shower.”

Your stomach twisted. You wanted to argue, wanted to throw back a response, wanted to not let her win. But you had already lost. You knew it. Natasha knew it. And she wasn’t going to let you forget it.

You swallowed hard, your jaw still clenched, body still trembling with frustration, exhaustion, and something else you didn’t want to name. You didn’t say a word, and you ou just grabbed your towel and walked away. Natasha smirked, watching you go. She had won. And you both knew it.

Yelena let out a slow breath, shaking her head slightly. “You know, she’s still adjusting, right?”

Natasha didn’t look at her. “I know.”

Yelena tilted her head. “And you could’ve gone easier on her.”

Natasha finally turned, meeting her gaze with a look that was pure Romanoff steel. “And what would that teach her?”

Yelena sighed, pushing off the doorframe. “You’re impossible.”

Natasha smirked. “And yet, she’ll be in the meeting on time now, won’t she?”

Yelena shook her head, muttering under her breath as she walked away. Natasha glanced back at the empty space where you had stood, where you had fought back, where you had finally..finally realized what it meant to work for Romanoff Racing. This wasn’t a team. This was Natasha’s empire. And you? You were learning exactly where you stood in it.

You arrived at the meeting on time. Not a second early. Not a second late. Exactly when you were supposed to. You weren’t about to give Natasha another excuse to put you through.

The tension in the room was thick, even before you stepped inside. Conversations were already in motion, staff members talking in low voices as data flashed across the massive LED screens. The polished glass table was covered with neatly arranged folders, stacks of reports, and the ever-present presence of Romanoff Racing’s insignia stamped on everything.

You took your seat near the middle of the table, arms crossed, jaw tight, resisting the urge to sink into your chair. The moment you settled, the meeting continued.

A PR executive stood, clicking through slides on the massive screen. Media coverage. Headlines. Reactions from the unveiling event. You already knew this would be bad. But fuck. Hearing it all at once was worse than you expected.

“Public reception has been…mixed.” the PR rep started carefully.The first slide displayed headlines from the biggest news outlets:

“Your Comeback: Redemption or Desperation?”

“Natasha Romanoff Bets Big on Fallen Driver, Will It Pay Off?”

“Dreykov Laughs Off Romanoff’s Signing: ‘She’s Damaged Goods.’”

You cringed. There it was. Right there. Every reason you had avoided coming back. The PR rep continued, voice calm, practiced, as if they weren’t presenting a full breakdown of your entire existence. “Online engagement has been high. Social media discussions are up 230%, and you’re currently the fourth most searched name in the industry.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose, not sure if that was a good thing or not. The slide changed again, screenshots of tweets, live TV commentary clips. Some were supportive. Some were brutal.

“She should’ve stayed gone. She’s never gonna be the same.”

“Romanoff must be insane. There were better drivers available.”

“This is a PR stunt, right? No way she’s actually racing again.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, forcing yourself to keep your expression neutral. You had heard worse. You had survived worse. But it still felt like a goddamn gut punch.

A press clip played on screen, Dreykov himself, sitting in front of flashing cameras, reporters hanging onto his every word.

“Romanoff’s choice? Interesting. Bold, I suppose. It’s always nice to see an old name come back, even if it’s… well. I just hope she finishes a full season this time.”

The words hit harder than they should have. A slow, mocking grin stretched across Dreykov’s face in the video, and you had to force yourself not to react. Because that? That was a very public, very intentional slap in the face. The clip ended, and the PR rep hesitated before clicking to the next slide—Walker. Because of course, they shoved a mic in his face the second the event ended.

You didn’t even need to see it. You already knew what kind of bullshit was about to come out of his mouth. “Am I surprised? A little. But hey, I wish her the best. I mean, she was great..once. Let’s see if she still has it, huh?”

The clip cut out. Silence settled over the room. You exhaled slowly, pressing your palms against your thighs to keep yourself from curling your fingers into fists. You weren’t surprised. You should’ve expected all of this. But it was one thing to think about it. And another thing to hear it out loud.

The PR rep cleared their throat. “Obviously, their strategy is to undermine the credibility of your return. They’re not outright attacking, but they’re implying doubt, planting the idea that you’re a risk.”

You almost laughed. Implying? They weren’t implying shit. They were saying it straight to your fucking face.

Natasha had been silent this entire time. But when she finally moved, it was just a shift in posture. One smooth, measured movement. Enough to make the entire room go still.

“Let them talk.”

Your eyes snapped toward her, but Natasha didn’t look at you. Didn’t look at anyone. She just watched the screen, unimpressed, unaffected.

“Let them doubt her.” Natasha continued, her voice almost lazy. “Let them laugh, let them underestimate her. It makes our job easier.”

The way she said it, like she had already won. Like none of this mattered. You wanted to believe that. You really did. But then—the conversation shifted. One of the PR executives sat forward, folding their hands. “That brings us to the next point. The press conference is in three days. We’ll need to start preparing her for it immediately.”

Your entire body tensed. You had been expecting it. You knew it had to happen eventually. But still, fuck. The PR rep continued, completely unaware of the way your stomach had just twisted itself into knots. “We’ll go through standard media training, responses to common questions, body language adjustments, phrasing techniques to redirect the narrative in your favor-”

You barely heard the rest. Because you already knew what the hottest topic was going to be. Your crash. It didn’t matter what they rehearsed, what Natasha’s team prepared for. The moment you stepped in front of the cameras, someone was going to ask. Someone was going to force you to talk about it.

And you didn’t know if you could. Natasha must have noticed the way you stiffened, because her eyes flickered toward you, studying you. You kept your gaze straight ahead. Didn’t react. Didn’t let yourself flinch. You weren’t going to give Natasha the satisfaction.

The meeting ended with a sharp nod from Natasha. No unnecessary closing remarks, no wasted words. Just business as usual.

Chairs scraped against the polished floor as people stood, gathering their notes and murmuring amongst themselves. You moved on instinct, standing as well, ready to get the hell out of there before anyone could expect you to give some kind of reaction to the media storm they had just dissected.

You were already halfway to the door when, “Sit down.”

Natasha’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. You froze. Slowly, you turned, your fingers twitching at your sides as you met Natasha’s gaze.

Everyone else was still filing out, but the room suddenly felt too big. Too quiet. You hesitated for only a second before forcing yourself to sit back down, your posture stiff, tense as hell. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask why. Because you already knew.

Natasha was still seated at the head of the table, watching you. Then, in one slow, calculated movement, she stood. She walked toward you, not with purpose, not in a rush, just pure control in every step.

You barely kept yourself from shifting under her gaze. Natasha reached the table, but instead of sitting in her chair, she pushed herself up onto it, one hand resting against the polished surface as she settled onto the edge, directly in front of you. Close. Too fucking close.

Green eyes studied you, not rushed, not impatient..just watching. You clenched your jaw. You hated that stare. The way Natasha could see things you didn’t say. The way she could strip you down to nothing without even opening her mouth.

The room was so silent now that you swore you could hear your own heartbeat. “You’re afraid of the press conference.”

You exhaled through your nose. “I’m not afraid.”

Natasha’s smirk was slow, cruel. “Liar.”

Your fingers twitched against the table. You didn’t respond. Didn’t argue. Because what was the point? Natasha already knew. And she was going to make damn sure you knew it too. She tilted her head slightly, eyes flicking over you like she was studying something fragile, something on the edge of breaking. “What are you afraid of?” Natasha asked, voice quieter now. Softer.

You swallowed. Where the fuck did you start? The press? The questions you knew they were going to ask? The fact that you didn’t have an answer for them? The fact that no matter how much you pretended otherwise, you still weren’t sure you belonged here? Or worse, what if they were right? What if you had come back for nothing? You inhaled slowly, voice tight when you finally spoke. “I already know what the questions will be.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Do you?”

You scoffed bitterly. “You do too. Everyone does. The crash. What happened that day. What went wrong. How I felt when I woke up in the hospital. How it felt to lose everything.” Your jaw tightened. “How it felt to…fight to get back here. If I even deserve to be back here.”

You stopped yourself before your voice shook. But Natasha caught it. She didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just watched. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your pants, gripping hard enough that you felt your nails pressing into your skin. “And then there’s them.” you muttered, voice lower now. “What my parents will think when they see me sitting in front of cameras again. What they’ll say when they hear the same questions, when they have to relive the same goddamn day all over again.”

The words came out faster than you intended. You hated yourself for admitting it. But Natasha didn’t look smug. Didn’t look satisfied. She was just listening. And somehow, that made it worse. Because if Natasha wanted to, she could take every single thing you just admitted and use it against you.

A long, slow silence stretched between you. Then, Natasha leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, eyes locked onto you like a challenge. “You survived all of it.” she murmured, voice smooth, even. “And you’re telling me a few cameras are what’s going to break you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because it wasn’t that simple. Natasha made it sound so easy. Like she hadn’t spent years avoiding this moment. Like the weight of the past wasn’t crawling up your spine every second you thought about stepping in front of the press.

“You..don’t get it..” you said, voice quieter than before.

Natasha hummed, the sound almost amused. “You think I don’t?” She tilted her head slightly, her voice dipping into something darker. “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be picked apart by the world? To have people who don’t know a damn thing about you decide who you are, what you’re worth?”

You clenched your jaw but said nothing. Because fuck. Natasha wasn’t wrong.

“You survived the fire.” Natasha continued, her voice almost too soft now, too careful. “You survived the months of rehab, of rebuilding yourself. And now, you’re sitting here, trying to tell me that a couple of journalists with microphones are the real problem?”

You hated how your throat felt tight. How your nails pressed harder into your palm. How Natasha was right. Again. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet Natasha’s steady, unyielding gaze. “And what if I don’t have an answer for them?”

Natasha smirked. And for the first time, it wasn’t cruel. It was patient. Amused. Like you had just asked a stupid fucking question. “Then you do what I do.” Natasha murmured, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned. “And what’s that?”

Natasha’s lips parted slightly, her smirk widening just enough to make something in your stomach twist. “You give them the answer you want them to hear.”

You exhaled slowly. Because fuck. That was probably the most Romanoff answer possible. Natasha straightened, finally standing, stretching her arms slightly before glancing down at you. “You’ll be fine.” she said, voice effortless, confident. Like it was already decided. And in a way..maybe it was.

You weren’t sure you believed her. But something about the way Natasha said it, so sure, so steady, made it feel a little less impossible.

You didn’t say anything after Natasha’s last remark. You just nodded, slow, measured, your jaw still tight like you were holding something back. Natasha took it for what it was, the closest thing to acceptance she was going to get. She let the silence stretch for another second before leaning back, tilting her head slightly. “You can go.”

You didn’t hesitate. You stood, pushing the chair back, muscles still tense from the entire conversation, and walked toward the door without looking back.

Natasha watched you leave, the faint trace of a smirk still playing at the edge of her lips. Because you could fight it all you wanted, but you were getting closer. Whether you realized it or not.

The garage was usually a place of noise. Machines humming, tools clinking against steel, mechanics shouting orders across the floor. The sound of progress, power, precision. But tonight? Tonight, it was silent.

Except for one person. Natasha had been walking through the complex when she noticed it, a figure near the car. She stopped just outside the garage entrance, leaning against the wall, keeping to the shadows as her eyes locked onto the scene in front of her.

You. Standing next to the GT car you would be driving soon. The car was sleek, lethal, polished under the dim lights of the garage. It was a machine that belonged to champions. A machine that demanded control.

And you were just standing there. Not touching it. Not inspecting it. Just watching it. You had headphones in, music spilling softly from them, blocking out the world. Your face was unreadable.

But your posture? Tense. Stiff. Natasha could read it like a book. This wasn’t excitement. This wasn’t confidence. This was doubt. Natasha didn’t move. Didn’t call out to you. She just watched.

Because this was the truth, wasn’t it? Not the version of you that stood in meetings, that threw sharp words back at her, that pretended like you weren’t thinking about every single thing that could go wrong. This was real. This was you, standing in the garage at midnight, alone, staring at the one thing that could either save you or destroy you.

Natasha tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. This was a crucial moment. And you didn’t even know you were being watched.

The next days came too fast. You barely slept. You had tried, laid in bed, stared at the ceiling, told yourself you were ready. But the truth? Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The press room was a sea of flashing lights, cameras, journalists packed together, waiting, ready. The air was thick with the low murmur of voices, the tension palpable even before the conference had begun. At the center of it all was a long, immaculate table with microphones set up, the Romanoff Racing logo flashing behind them on a massive LED screen.

And sitting at the head of it: Natasha. She was dressed perfectly, as always. Not a single detail out of place, her tailored suit sleek, her expression cold and unreadable. And beside her? You.

You had barely spoken since arriving. Barely breathed. Because the second you sat down in that chair, facing the crowd, you felt it. The weight. The expectation. The waiting.

The journalists wanted blood. And you were the easiest target in the room. Natasha shifted slightly beside you, adjusting her mic, and you could feel the glance she gave you. You didn’t look. Didn’t let yourself move. Because if you did, you might crack.

A moderator spoke into the microphone, giving the usual formalities. “Welcome, everyone, to the official Romanoff Racing press conference. We’ll start with pre-approved questions before opening the floor.”

You barely processed the first few questions. They were for Natasha-business-related, team-focused. She answered smoothly, effortlessly, as if she had already predicted every single thing they would ask.

Then..the shift. A journalist leaned forward, their voice cutting through the room. “A lot of fans were shocked to see your return to racing. What made you decide to come back?”

Your throat tightened. You expected this. You knew it was coming. But fuck, hearing it out loud…The microphone was too close, the lights too bright. You could feel the hundreds of eyes staring at you, waiting. You forced yourself to inhale.

“I never stopped thinking about racing.” you said, keeping your voice calm, steady. “It’s a part of me. It always has been.”

The journalist nodded, but their expression sharpened. “And yet, after your accident, you disappeared. No press, no interviews, nothing. Why now?”

Your fingers curled slightly under the table. Before you could answer, Natasha spoke. “She’s here because she’s a racer.” Natasha said smoothly, cutting through the noise like a blade. “And racers belong on the track. Next question.”

The journalist hesitated, like they wanted to push back, but they didn’t dare. Another question came, and another. Some were easy. Some were loaded.

And then..the moment you had been dreading. A woman in the second row leaned forward, microphone raised. “Y/n, after your accident, there was a lot of doubt about your ability to return to racing. Some experts believe you’re not the same driver you once were. Do you think you’re still capable of competing at the highest level?”

Silence. Your breath hitched. There it was. The one question you didn’t want to answer. The one moment that had haunted you for years, now laid bare in front of the world. You swore you could feel the room lean in. Waiting.

You opened your mouth, and nothing came out. Your pulse thundered in your ears. The flashes of cameras, the expectant looks, the fucking memory of it- The way the car had flipped. The fire. The medics pulling you out. The moment you stopped breathing.

Everything crashed down all at once.

Your hands pressed against your lap, digging into the fabric of your pants, trying to ground yourself, trying to breathe. But Natasha saw it. Of course, she saw it. She shifted slightly beside you, not visibly, not obviously, just enough that you could feel it. A reminder. A warning.

“She doesn’t-”

“No, wait.” you said, your voice firm. The room went dead silent. Natasha turned her head slightly, her sharp green eyes snapping to you. It wasn’t a warning. Not quite. It was more like..curiosity. Like she was waiting to see what the hell you thought you were doing.

You exhaled slowly, turning your gaze back to the journalist. You forced your voice to stay steady. “You want to know what happened after the crash?” you asked, leveling your stare at him.

“You think I lost something in that crash?”

Somewhere, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, someone shifting in their seat, but no one spoke. You could feel Natasha watching you, but you didn’t look at her. You kept your focus straight ahead.

“I lost the ability to move my legs for two months.”

A murmur rippled through the room. But you didn’t stop.

“I lost thirty pounds of muscle in eight weeks. I lost my ability to walk without help. I lost my grip strength. I lost my reaction time. I lost everything that made me a driver.”

Your fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into your palm, but your voice never wavered.

“I spent half a year relearning how to do basic human functions. And then another half a year relearning how sit properly in a car. And every single day, someone told me I couldn’t.”

You scanned the room, taking in the faces of the journalists who had written the headlines, the ones who had picked apart your downfall like vultures.

“Do you have any idea what it feels like to wake up and have your own body feel like a prison?”

The air was thick, suffocating. Natasha, the woman who always had something to say? Was silent.You let them sit in it. Let them feel the weight of the hell you had to survive.

“I built myself from the fucking ground up. And now? Now I’m here.”

You sat back, jaw set, gaze unwavering.

“So if you’re asking me if I think I’m still capable?Watch me.”

A few journalists shifted in their seats, uncomfortable. But you weren’t done. You leaned forward slightly, resting your elbows on the table, keeping your expression unreadable. “They were wrong. And now? I’m here.”

You let that hang in the air. You let them absorb it. Then, you leaned back, perfectly composed. “That answer your question?”

The journalist swallowed hard. “I- yes.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Because what else was there to say?

Another beat of silence. Then, Natasha smirked. Not mockingly. Not cruel. Just slightly impressed. She turned back to the room, one eyebrow raised. “Well, now that we’ve cleared that up, next question.”

And just like that, the press conference moved on. The press conference wrapped up soon after, but the weight of what had just happened lingered in the air. You had taken control of the narrative. You had spoken for yourself. And for the first time since stepping into Romanoff Racing, you hadn’t let Natasha speak for you.

The journalists left in a flurry of movement, camera crews packing up, murmurs spreading across the room as headlines were already being written. You didn’t move right away. Your hands were still pressed against your lap, knuckles faintly white. You weren’t shaking. But you weren’t steady, either.

Natasha stood slowly, adjusting the cuffs of her tailored suit, her every movement calm, practiced. She didn’t turn to you right away. Instead, she let the tension settle, let the weight of the moment hang between you. Yelena was the first to break the silence.

“Well. That was unexpected.” she muttered, throwing a grape from the snack tray into her mouth. She glanced between you and Natasha, one eyebrow raised. “And you’re still alive. That’s a miracle.”

You finally looked at Natasha. She was already watching you. There was something in her eyes, sharp, calculating. And yet, she wasn’t mad. She tilted her head slightly, stepping closer, lowering her voice just enough that only you could hear.

“You surprised me.”

You weren’t sure if that was a compliment. You swallowed, shifting slightly in your seat. “I wasn’t trying to.”

Natasha hummed, amused. “You’re learning how to play the game.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’m not playing a game.”

Natasha’s smirk deepened, and fuck, that was a dangerous look.

“Sure you’re not.” she murmured, her voice too smooth, too knowing. You hated how your stomach twisted at the way Natasha looked at you, like you were more interesting than before. Like you had just stepped into a new level of control, and Natasha was enjoying it.

Yelena cleared her throat, clearly done with the tension. “Alright, before one of you murders the other or something worse happens, what’s next?”

Natasha finally looked away from you, as if she had decided this conversation was over.

“We keep control of the media. We don’t react to Dreykov’s team. We move forward.”

She turned back to you, her green eyes flashing with something unreadable. “And you? You prepare for your first race.”

Your breath hitched. Because fuck. That was next. No more press. No more talk. It was time to get back into the car. For real.

——

The racetrack buzzed with energy- a chaotic storm of activity. Mechanics shouted instructions over roaring engines, and the stands were already packed, a mass of color and noise. It felt familiar, yet foreign at the same time.

You took a deep breath as you approached the Romanoff Racing GT car waiting for you in the garage. It gleamed under the bright lights, looking sleek and dangerous, built for speed, built to win. Your heartbeat picked up, nerves mixing with adrenaline as you stepped toward it.

Natasha was already there, headset on, posture straight, her presence radiating authority. She didn’t speak immediately, just observed as you settled yourself into the racing seat, pulling the harness tight over your shoulders.

Then, her voice came through clearly over the team radio. “Radio check, Y/n. Do you copy?”

You adjusted your helmet slightly, pressing the comm button on your steering wheel. “Loud and clear.”

There was a slight pause. “Good. Systems check?”

Your eyes flicked over the dash, scanning the familiar indicators. The lights blinked back at you, everything perfect, everything waiting. “Systems all green.” you responded evenly.

“Copy that.” Natasha replied smoothly. You could hear the background noise behind her, the engineers confirming fuel, tire pressure, engine temperature, and everything else that mattered. But Natasha’s voice remained steady, almost reassuring in its calm authority. “Standby for track clearance.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling the vibration of the engine beneath you, your grip tightening around the wheel as your pulse quickened. Your heart was hammering now, anticipation building.

“Alright.” Natasha finally said, voice lowering just enough to feel like she was speaking directly into your ear alone. “It’s just you and the car now. Focus. Trust yourself. Let’s show them what you can do.”

Those words settled something inside your chest. You felt steadier, more certain, as you flipped the ignition switch. The engine roared to life, raw power vibrating through the cockpit, through your bones, filling your veins with fire.

Mechanics cleared away, giving you space as you slowly guided the car from the garage toward the track entrance. Your breathing steadied with each passing second, your world narrowing until it was nothing but the track stretching ahead.

The final instructions came through your headset. “Track is clear. Take it out.”

You didn’t hesitate. You pressed the throttle, and the car surged forward, cutting through the air with a precision and power you hadn’t felt in years. And just like that, everything else fell away.

It was just you, the car, and the track. The car hummed beneath you like a living thing, every shift of the throttle sending a pulse of raw energy through your bones. It had been a while since you’d driven something this powerful. And fuck..you felt it.

You eased into the first few turns, warming up the tires, testing the brakes, feeling out the balance of the machine you had just been handed. The steering was sensitive, the throttle was brutal, and the sheer speed of it all?

You let out a slow breath as you took another corner, muttering under your breath. “Goddamn, you’re fast.”

You adjusted your grip on the wheel, rolling your shoulders as you pushed just a little harder into the next straight. The car responded immediately, roaring under your hands, begging to be let loose.

You smirked slightly. “I hear you.”

The radio crackled in your ear. Natasha’s voice, smooth and controlled. “How’s it feeling?”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you took another turn, still feeling out the car’s behavior. “Like a wild animal.” you muttered. “One wrong move, and I think it’ll kill me.”

You heard a chuckle from the radio. “Good.”

Of course, Natasha fucking Romanoff would say that. You rolled your eyes, shifting your weight as you lined up for the last sector, pushing just a little more. The car gripped beautifully, the back end barely twitching as you found the perfect exit.

The lap wasn’t fast, but it wasn’t supposed to be. You were getting used to it. Letting the car tell you what it wanted. Listening. You reached the final straight and slowed, bringing yourself to a stop at the grid, right before the traffic lights.

The engine rumbled beneath you, waiting. You flexed your fingers against the wheel, inhaling deeply.

The first light flickered on. Then the second. Then the third. You tightened your grip. Everything in your body coiled, ready to launch.

The fourth. The fifth.

And then- green.

You slammed the throttle down. The first few laps had been clean. You had found your rhythm, felt the car beneath you, learned its language. You had danced with the machine, not fought it. Every turn, every straight, every shift..perfect.

The moment you pulled out of the pit lane, Natasha’s voice was in your ear.

“We’ll start simple. Build heat in the tires. Weave down the straight.”

Your hands moved before she finished speaking, the car already shifting left and right, smooth, controlled. You could hear the faint sound of engineers in the background, data being recorded, but your focus was on the car, on the way it responded, on how the weight transferred with each movement. Natasha didn’t react. She simply continued.

“Turn 3, keep the throttle steady before braking. No coasting.”

You followed the instruction exactly, the front tires gripping as you carried speed into the corner, braking later than your instincts wanted, but exactly how she would have demanded.

“Better.” she murmured, voice clipped, all business. You kept going, each sector executed with precision, every command from Natasha met with immediate response. She was directing, you were following.

And then, you did it before she could say it. The upcoming chicane was tight, demanding a quick flick of the wheel, a perfectly timed shift in weight. Before Natasha could give the instruction, before her voice could even breathe into your ear.

It lasted less than a second, but it was there. A pause. A hesitation. Then the radio crackled. “Good.”

No approval, no compliment. Just that single sound, laced with something unreadable. She picked up again, her voice neutral. “Don’t get cocky. Turn 9, brake harder or you’ll compromise the exit.” And just like that, the rhythm returned.

You didn’t push. You didn’t acknowledge what had happened. You just followed orders again, steady and controlled, as if nothing had changed.

But then, the car twitched. Just a little. A fraction of instability. The back tires twitched in a high-speed section, and for a second, your body reacted before your mind could. You barely even had to correct it, the car settled almost immediately, but it was already too late.

The sound in your head, metal screaming, tires screeching, the gut-wrenching silence that had come before the crash..It slammed into you, full force.

Your chest locked up. Your breathing hitched, and before you knew it… You were slowing down. Your hands gripped the wheel too tight. Your heart was hammering. The track around you warped, the air too thick, the inside of the cockpit too fucking small.

Natasha’s voice cut in, sharp, controlled, but tinged with something harder. “What are you doing? Keep pushing.”

Your fingers twitched over the radio switch. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Natasha’s voice came again, this time lower, firmer. “Y/n, talk to me.”

No. Your stomach twisted. The sounds in your head were too loud, too consuming, too goddamn real. So you did the only thing you could think of… You cut the radio. A sharp click, and silence filled the cockpit. Natasha was gone.

In the control room, the moment the radio went dead, Natasha stood up so fast her chair nearly toppled over. Her team froze. The tension in the room turned suffocating. She whipped her head toward one of the engineers. “Tell me she did not just cut me off.”

The man stammered, eyes flicking to the radio log. “…She cut you off.”

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her fingers curled into fists. The cameras showed your car stopped dead on the track. Not stalled. Not damaged. Just stopped. Natasha’s chest burned with rage. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She had calculated everything… pushed you just enough.

Had she miscalculated? Had she pushed too fucking far? She turned sharply, already storming for the exit. “Unbelievable.”

Yelena grabbed her arm. “Wait.”

Natasha spun on her, fury in her eyes. “She just stopped on the fucking track, Yelena! I’m going down there!”

Yelena, for once, didn’t smirk. She looked at the monitors, at you. “She’s panicking, Nat…”

Then, she got an idea. She pulled out her phone, scrolling fast. “She always has headphones in before a race, right?”

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Yelena didn’t answer. Instead, she connected her phone to the main speaker system. The engineers looked confused, but Yelena smirked as she hit play.

And suddenly, music flooded the track. The second the music blasted through your headset, your mind snapped back into reality. The engine was still roaring beneath you, the car vibrating with power, but the sound, the fucking sound..didn’t belong here. It didn’t belong in the cockpit, in the race, in your head. It was your playlist, your music, your ritual before a race, and now it was bleeding through your carefully controlled silence like a blade.

Your breath caught. Then it hit. Yelena. Your grip on the wheel tightened. Your pulse pounded, heat climbing up your spine, something sharp and furious breaking through the fog that had been suffocating you just moments before. You flicked the radio back on, voice ice-cold, clipped.

“Turn that off.”

The pit crew was silent for a moment before Yelena’s voice came through, casual as ever, utterly unfazed. “Oh hey, there you are. Took you long enough.”

Your jaw locked. Your body was still in overdrive, still burning, still balancing on the razor-thin edge between control and complete fucking chaos. “I said turn it off!”

Before Yelena could respond, before you could breathe, another voice crashed into your headset like a gunshot. “You think this is a fucking joke?”

Her voice hit like whiplash, slicing through the cockpit, leaving no space for you to breathe. “You shut me out? On my track? In my car?”

Your grip on the wheel tightened. “Do you have any idea how many people would kill for this opportunity? How many drivers I could’ve picked instead of wasting my time on you?”

Your stomach twisted, your chest tight with frustration, with rage, with the need to fight back, but you couldn’t.

“You’re wasting my time.” Every word was sharp, biting, dragging through you like a blade. “You’re driving like you’re afraid, like you don’t belong here. And maybe you don’t.”

Your jaw locked. “You don’t get to turn me off when things get uncomfortable. That’s not how this works. That’s not how I work. You either keep up, or you get the fuck out of my car.”

The rage in your chest boiled over. Your breath came hot and sharp, your heart hammering against your ribs as the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “Fuck you.”

And the radio went silent again.

"S-She turned you off again."

Natasha's head snapped toward the screen, her eyes wild and boiling. She shoved back from the desk, her chair nearly toppling over as she pushed to her feet. A girl? A fucking girl was giving her this much trouble? On her track? In her car? A slow, low growl rumbled from deep in her chest, her nails digging into her palms. "Fix. It."

One of the engineers hesitated. "We, uh- we can override the headset, but she can shut it down again.."

Natasha's nostrils flared, her breathing coming short, clipped. "Then override it again. And again. And again! I don't give a shit how many times it takes! Get me back in her head!!"

The static crackled back into your headset, “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Her voice was razor-sharp, dripping with controlled rage. “You’re in my car, on my track, acting like a fucking brat?”

You knew the trick, it wasn’t without reason that you had been one of the best mechanics for years. So, you turned the radio off again.

The engineers in the control room flinched as Natasha ripped the headset off, her movements violent, lethal, uncontrollable. “Done. I’m fucking done.”

Her chest heaved, eyes burning with something between rage and disappointment. Yelena, watching from the side, chewing on a protein bar like she wasn’t witnessing an absolute meltdown, tilted her head. “You sure?”

Natasha shot her a look that could’ve set the entire control room on fire. “I don’t repeat myself.” She grabbed her phone, already dialing management. “Get the contract ready. I want it on my desk. Now.”

No hesitation. She turned, already storming toward the exit. She was done. Done with the attitude. Done with the defiance. Done with you. Then, A beep. A new sector time update. An engineer swallowed hard, staring at the screen. “Uh..boss-”

Natasha didn’t stop. Didn’t care. Then—Another beep. The numbers changed. “She just broke Walker’s lap record.” Natasha stopped. Yelena smirked. “Oh. That’s interesting.”

Natasha turned, slowly, like she couldn’t quite believe what she just heard. Another update. “She just broke the second record.” Her heartbeat roared. The control room was silent. Everyone watching. Waiting. The third sector. Another record.

Natasha’s jaw locked. Her hand clenched around the phone, the unfinished call abandoned. Because now? Now she wasn’t leaving. Now? She was watching.

You were going faster. Faster. Faster than anyone had gone before on this track. Your hands flexed over the wheel, your body moving on pure instinct. Every turn, every shift, flawless. You weren’t driving to prove something anymore. You were driving because fuck her. Fuck Natasha’s doubt. Fuck Walker’s legacy. Fuck every single person who thought you were done.

Lap after lap, the speed increased. Natasha barely had time to react. You were coming in too fast. Way too fast. Her breath hitched. Her instincts kicked in. Her hand shot toward the console, her finger hovering over the radio switch, ready to step in, to stop you from making a mistake that would end this entire session in a wreck. She had seen this before. This was the moment where drivers panicked. Where their talent collapsed under pressure.

“Y/n-”

You didn’t panic. You didn’t flinch. You owned it. The weight transferred seamlessly, the balance perfect, the tires gripping the apex at the last possible second—And Natasha watched as you took the smoothest, most precise fucking corner she had ever seen.

Her breath hitched. Yelena, beside her, let out a low whistle. “That was kinda sexy.”

Natasha didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t speak. Because for the first time, she wasn’t sure if she had just created a monster. Or if she had finally found the driver she had been looking for.

The tires screeched as you pulled into the pit lane, the scent of burning rubber and overheated brakes clinging to the air. Your pulse was still racing, every inch of your body vibrating with adrenaline, sweat sticking to your skin beneath the fireproof suit.

The cockpit ripped open. Natasha. Storming. Fuming. Burning. Before you could even move—before you could even reach for the harness, she grabbed you. Yanked you out of the car like you weighed nothing. Your boots hit the pavement hard, but you barely had time to react before..

Her hands fisting into your fire suit, dragging you closer, shoving you up against the side of the car. Her grip was tight, possessive, unforgiving. And when she spoke? She was livid.

“You do not turn me off!”

Your breath hitched. “You do not shut me out!”

Her voice was low, dangerous, vibrating with barely restrained rage. Your chest tightened. You tried to speak. “Natasha, I-”

“Shut up!!”

Her fingers tightened, her nails digging into the fabric of your suit. “I don’t give a fuck what’s going through that reckless little brain of yours. I don’t care what you think you’re proving. You work for me.”

Her breath was hot, her lips barely inches from yours, her eyes a dark, consuming fire. “And you do what the fuck I tell you to do!”

You clenched your jaw, your stomach twisting in something between anger and the unshakable feeling that she was enjoying this. And then, her smirk. It was barely there, just the faintest tilt of her lips, but you felt it.

“You wanna prove something?” Her voice dipped lower, smoother..too smooth. “Then do it on my terms. Not by acting like a brat who can’t handle being told what to do.”

Your body tensed. Your fingers twitched, fighting every goddamn instinct to shove her away, to push back, to match her fire with your own. You opened your mouth. “I-”

But her grip yanked you forward before the words could come out. “No!”

Your breath caught in your throat. “You don’t get to speak right now!”

Her voice was a whisper now. Sharp. Slow. Dangerous. The heat between you was suffocating. The world outside didn’t exist anymore. Just her hands on your suit. Her body, pressing you back against the car. The anger crackling between you like a live wire.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos. “Y/n?”

Your body froze. Your head snapped to the side. And there he was. Your father. Standing at the edge of the pit. Watching everything. Your stomach plummeted. Natasha didn’t let go immediately. No. She let her fingers linger for just a second longer, her eyes flicking over to your father with a slow, lazy amusement.

But instead of stepping away, she straightened your fire suit. Her touch slower than necessary, smoothing down the fabric, fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your collarbone. Her hands brushed down the front of your torso, flattening the creases with a touch so deliberate, so calculated, it made your entire body go rigid.

And when she finally spoke? It was for your ears only. “If I knew Daddy was coming to watch, I would’ve made you struggle a little more.”

Your pulse spiked. Natasha hummed, smirking like she had just won something. She took a step back. Calm. Controlled. Untouchable. She pulled out her phone as she passed Yelena, not even breaking stride as she spoke into it, her voice bored, detached. “Take the contract off my table.”

Then she hung up. And just like that, she was gone.

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha smut #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha #natasha romanov smut #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff smut #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov

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unholyhelbig · 21 hours ago

Note

Can we please please PLEASE have part two of Brackish?

Title: Brackish [Part Two] | Read Part One Here

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanov/Romanoff

Word Count: 3454

Warnings: Mentions of torture, mentions of mind control, mentions of ice baths, cannon typical violence, nightmares, physical testing, murder, KGB conditioning, Horrible grammar I don't proofread!

Summary: Agent Romanoff is sent into an interrogation room to break the only prisoner they pull from a Hydra compound, but things don't go exactly as planned.

[A/n: Totally wasn't expecting the response the first part got, thank you so much! Truthfully this ask and the draft was sitting in my inbox for months. This is just a bunch of fluff. I don't know where to take it from here. Hopefully you enjoy!]

You’d woken up screaming, something that never bothered Daniel Whitehall. There were stretching corridors that were damp from broken pipes and water buildup. It smelled thickly of metal and never offered any kind of warmth. It carried your agony like a music box, or a greeting card. It had amused him- his men. So, you did your best to swallow your distress. But sometimes it was impossible to tamp things down in the bridge between sleep and alertness.

It had been three days and you still expected to be jerked back into the reality. A frigid tub of ice and metal under Whitehall’s hand. You must have lost your grip on reality and the Avengers Tower, Agent Romanoff and her rigid kindness, was all a mental tactic, to account for the trauma. You’d finally been broken.

But no: Right now, as you woke up screaming as the hours rolled into the fourth day, she was there. The bed was too soft. You’d learned, and sleep did not come easy. But you drifted off in spurts and woke with air caught in your throat. Never yelling. Never in such a panic.

You didn’t remember what had startled you, but there was a cool hand against your cheek and another one splayed against your chest and worried green eyes peering into yours. You moved to fight back, wanted to push the limbs away until you realized who they belonged to. Until you breathed in that polished scent.

“Sorry, I’m sorry” You whispered, your fingers ghosting over her wrists.

She was a busy woman. You’d realized that over the past 72 hours. Agent Romanoff was in high demand, her signature was required on countless documents and many with downturned eyes stalked up to her with a nervousness that you didn’t quite understand but, you were beginning to.

After some persistent pushing from Natasha on the second day, you’d agreed to blood tests, to EKG’s and other medical trials to make sure you were relatively healthy after years of captivity. She’d promised to stay, and she did. While a certain heat and embarrassment colored your cheeks at the unspoken request, she saved your dignity that morning by not brining it up.

Natasha frowned, didn’t say anything but applied a short pressure to your jaw with her thumb before guiding a glass of water to your hand as she lowered herself to the bed. “Sip this, all of it until it’s gone. Don’t gulp, it’ll hurt your stomach.”

You nodded, doing as you were told. She watched you carefully until you finished the glass. You wanted to cower under her scrutiny, but your heartrate had slowed by the time you’d drained the water and she’d taken it the moment it was empty, her hand on your knee as a grounding source. She was like that, you’d learned, attentive and able to read what you needed though you’d not found your voice to ask.

There wasn’t a clock in the guest room. You didn’t know what time it was, but no morning light seeped through the crack in the door and sleep still clung to you like a heavy blanket. You let out a deep breath and pressed your head against the wall behind you, tempted to let your eyes droop shut, but stopped from the fear of another scream ripping through you.

“The nightmares won’t go away. They’ll come less and less, but they’ll always be there.” She swallowed audibly, ran her fingers over a raised pink scar from a blade, or a bullet, or some type of metal that could easily tear skin against her exposed muscle. “What you went through isn’t easily forgotten. You can manage the symptoms, push it to the back of your mind during your waking hours but it’s hard to fight that kind of thing when you’re asleep. You’re guard can’t always be up.”

You nodded, working your hand through your damp hair. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

“You didn’t” Natasha assured “Would you like me to stay?”

More than anything. It felt like crossing a line. There wasn’t a chair in the guest room. It was fairly sparce. A bed and a nightstand and lamp that had bathed you both in a soft golden glow. It would be easier to tell her no, to ask her to leave. But your chest wouldn’t forgive you for that.

So, you scooted over, looked at her expectantly, going as far to peel back the duvet. Natasha huffed out something akin to a laugh and laid in the spot that you had just vacated. You could feel the heat of her skin, the closeness of her as you lowered yourself down next to her. She paid you a mercy by turning the lamp off.

The two of you lay, shoulder to shoulder, breath synchronized. You couldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t. Your entire body was wound up. While Agent Romanoff’s presence was a balm, it also wound you up like a spring. You were conscious of every movement. Every twitch of your finger and tense of a muscle.

“It scares me that I can’t remember things.”

You could hear Natasha turn her head in the dark, the shift against the pillow. Her breath was warm against the side of your face. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your shirt, a stone on the center of your chest. You couldn’t remember feeling this comfortable- this at ease- in a long time.

“Do things come back when you sleep?”

It was her job, you knew, to pull things from you. In exchange for a bed and warm meal, you’d give her anything. She had quiet eyes and a quietness to her that gave away the fact that she was examining you methodically. But there was something else there that you couldn’t pinpoint. Something caring.

You turned onto your side, facing her, curling up more for your own comfort. “More of a feeling than a memory. Being there, I recall everything. Whitehall, his brainwashing, his tests and his tortures. His why’s and his motives are foggy. It was like he just wanted to inflict pain. But at his core. At Hydra’s core, I know that’s not true.”

Natasha adjusted on the bed, turned to face you. Inches apart. Her nose was close enough in the dark to bump against your own. Neither of you spoke for a moment, hands brushing closely like a bridge uncrossed.

“I worry that they changed me in way’s that can’t be unchanged, but can’t recall who I was before they’ve changed me. That they kept me alive because they were… succeeding in something that they hadn’t before.” You let out a heavy breath, it splayed hotly against Natasha’s chest, warmed her. “That deep down inside, something uncontrollable is there.”

Natasha made a small noise in the back of her throat that could only be described as a whimper. Tentatively, she’d shifted in the quiet, had found the edge of your jaw in the darkness and traced the sharpness of it with her touch. You let your eyes flutter shut, leaned into it.

Soon, her palm was against your cheek, warm from the prospect of sleep. Her hold soft as she pulled you forward, the initial shock of the swift movement replaced by that detergent scent and the instant comfort. An undignified grunt escaped you when you slotted so perfectly against Natasha’s front.

You’d learned rather quickly that she liked to show her protection.

When your blood had been drawn, the tech on the medical floor insisted of her credentials but quickly blanched with a glare from the Black Widow herself and the assured hand at the base of your spine. You’d shown your strength during the physical trials as they monitored your heartrate during a mile run, and Natasha had watched with a warning stare as another tech adjusted the censors.

And now, she wrapped her arms around your center and hooked her leg over your own. She was tense until she felt the coolness of your nose against her pulse point, the way you nuzzled against her, sighed into her comfort instead of tensed, as if she feared of rejection.

“We’ll figure it out.” Her voice was a rumble, your ear this close to her chest. “Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”

There was a sensor under your collarbone, one on either side of your chest, and another directly under your ribs. Two more that had been stuck to your abdomen. The adhesive was unbearably itchy, and you had half the mind to tear them away. A huff pulled uncomfortably at you. Another huff earned you a sharp glare from the woman wrapping your hands.

Natasha was on her knees for you. Not for you, but certainly in front of you. Either way it made you blush profusely. She worked with intention, making sure that the next trial they were putting you through was safe enough for you to participate in. A tech had offered to do this for her. For you. But she’d refused.

“Stop pouting, sweetheart. This is the last one and then they’ll leave you alone for at least the weekend.”

“Promise?”

Natasha sighed and her exhale was hot against the skin on your chest, forming a valley of goosebumps. You swallowed back a shiver. “No. Now sit back.”

You did as you were told, all the while, another SHIELD tech kept a keen eye on the both of you. Nameless, faceless, dressed in black. You almost preferred them this way. Whitehall was a constant for you, a villain that always signified a form of hurt and anguish. The constant revolving door of men and women made it impossible to link a test with a face.

Natasha was almost the opposite. You were starting to associate that piney, vanilla bergamot scent of hers with safety. It scared you. Her hands were assured and so were her movements. You were very aware that she had been with you nearly all hours of the day since you’d been pulled from the wreckage of all you’d known for possible years. Stockholm syndrome, some would call it.

You approached it with reckless abandon. You didn’t care. She was warmth. She was opposite of ice baths and frigid water that you choked on until you blacked out. She was lean muscle and healed scars and tender green eyes. She made it easier to think. She gave orders that were easy to follow: To sit back. To Stop Pouting. To Get some Sleep. You could do those things. Those things were easy.

“We’ll start at a weight of fifty and steadily increase until you cannot support the bar any further.” The nameless, dark-eyed man said, not looking up from his tablet. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable during the test, please alert me or Agent Romanoff. Do you have any questions?”

You shook your head, laid back on the cool bench and adjusted yourself until you stared up at the metal ceiling. It looked taller from this angle, impossible to reach. Black weights were saddled on either side. Agent Romanoff’s presence was at your six the entire time. Lingering, watching with careful and apt attention.

“Alright. You may begin. Make sure not to lock your arms.”

The bar was nothing in your hands, a slight nuisance, if anything. Ever-so-slowly the weight was increased: Fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty. All the way to 700 before another huff left your lungs, chin tipping towards Natasha as you stared up at her. Pouting. You were absolutely pouting.

They were being methodical about this, and that also meant it was taking ages. One of Natasha’s brows was quirked and she worried the nail of her thumb between her teeth as they upped the weight to a solid 1,000. You adjusted your hold on the bar. Nothing more, nothing less. There was no strain, no sweat. No spike in heartrate.

“Okay. I think we know enough.” Natasha finally barked. “Right?”

“But I-“

“Right?”

Sure, it had only been a few days, but you knew that tone and it was enough for the SHIELD agent to snap his jaw shut and for you to replace the bar before sitting back up. The test, you were sure, was far from over. But there was such a finality in the demand.

You knew you had some strength to you, sure. Daniel Whitehall wouldn’t keep you locked up the way he did, in a steel-enforced cell, if that weren’t the case. The binds you’d sometimes recall were much too thick for anyone that had the normal stamina, someone who could survive his trials. You don’t remember being tested like this before, your limits pushed.

The SHIELD agent tapped at his screen, letting out a non-committal noise “Well, your strength is remarkable. You say you don’t remember a thing? I think you could benefit from some memory recovery sensory therapy.”

Natasha rumbled in the back of her throat, snatching the tablet from the man before shoving him roughly from the room. You watched the display with raised brows, the protective edge to her that you knew was there, but hadn’t been privy to at this degree. He protested, but didn’t’ overtly stop her. Not even when she slammed and locked the door with the waggle of her fingers and the lowering of the blinds.

“The know at all’s from logistics get on my nerves.”

She wouldn’t look at you, instead clicking off the screen and throwing the tablet onto the counter. There was a light blush to her cheeks. You peeled off your shirt, almost in habit now, leaving you in nothing but one of the agencies issued sports bras. The adhesive was getting too irritating.

Your eyes lingered on her. “Uh-huh, is that all?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

But when those deep green eyes snapped up to yours, the way her breath hitched betrayed her. You’d effectively flustered the Black Widow herself and it brought a sort of heady confidence to you that you quite enjoyed. You ripped the sensor from below your ribcage away, the stickiness making an odd noise as it pulled away.

“I don’t know what you’re smirking about, what he was suggesting is out of the question. They’ve run enough tests on you to determine that Hydra didn’t place any type of chip in your brain. They didn’t change your bone density or alter your blood chemistry. With your added strength, your speed.” She closed the distance between you, ripping another sensor off with little abandon, her hands cold against your skin. “We’re looking at an infinity stone.”

You grunted under her touch, fingers soothing over the spot she’d just torn, a silent apology. “I don’t know what that means.”

“Wanda Maximoff, do you know her?”

You shook your head, remaining still as she moved to the next sensor. Agent Romanoff pulled with the same quickness as before, but was softer with her hands, instantly using the coolness of her palm to quiet the sting that soon followed. You’d given up peeling them away yourself. Instead, you peered up with her with watery eyes, blinking and doe-like. They’d melt her if you weren’t careful, and it seemed like you never were.

“Hydra conducted experiments on Wanda and her twin brother Pietro using something called the Mind Stone. A very powerful mineral that ultimately should have killed them, but it didn’t. It changed their DNA and gave them abilities. Pietro super-speed and Wanda the ability to manipulate the world around her.” Natasha’s voice was smooth as she spoke, the final sensor ripped away, you watched her do it, frowning at the red mark it left behind.

After a few moments of labored silence, she dragged her touch feather-light against your jaw and guided your attention back to her own. “They think Whitehall got ahold of the power stone, and they think it was used to torture you for years to replicate the success achieved with the Maximoff’s.”

“I don’t think he was very successful,”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your chin, not enough to wound, never enough, but a soft warning. “Nonsense. You’re more capable than you think.” Her thumb ran over the blush that was suddenly running across the bridge of your nose and your cheek. “Let’s take a break from all these boring trials. I want to show you something.”

There was a basement that resided below the cacophony of spruced up cells in the Avengers tower. You’d stood shoulder to shoulder with Agent Romanoff and watched as the numbers descended. Her scent had soothed you, even as the cold infiltrated the elevator and reminded you too much of a metal tub, safe for the water.

It jolted to a stop before the anxiety swirling in your lower belly could solidify. Natasha led you into another corridor that looked like all the other corridor’s in the tower. She walked with no urgency and you followed with the same pace. Finally, you reached another non-descript door, only accessed by the card on Agent Romanoff’s belt.

You were hit by the sharp scent of decaying paper, quiet leather and dust. There was a coolness here. A dull light that Natasha flicked on. A heaviness that reminded you of a library. There was a history here that told you it hadn’t been accessed in a long time.

Copy boxes lined bookshelves bracketed to the walls, a single table with a few chairs sat pushed in the corner. Natasha seemed to know exactly where she was going, exactly the files she was looking for. “We’re a multi-trillion-dollar organization, yet, all of the incriminating evidence about the Avengers exists in this singular room.”

You flinched, eyes meeting Natasha after she hauled the off-white box to the center of the table. You watched her carefully, not moving from your rooted spot at the edge of the doorway. You blinked at her, mouth slightly agape. She was trusting you with this. She was trusting you with this?

“Natasha you can��t… you don’t have to…”

“I want to. Come, sit.”

The chair was frigid against your skin, the whole room kept tepid to preserve the documents. Natasha sat adjacent to you, your knees brushing in a surge of warmth. Neither of you moved to pull away. She pushed the box to the far end and pulled out the first file, edging her fingers against the manila.

Before she could pry the cover back, you gripped her hand, squeezed it with fervor. “Wait, you can’t do this. Agent Romanoff, if you… if you tell me this, and I’m- if Whitehall did something that fundamentally changed me and I turn around and betray you, then I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

“Mm” She hummed, frowning down at the file. “There’s more to you than that.”

“And if there’s not? I don’t even have a name, and you’re about to trust me with everything from your past, everything you’ve worked so hard to scrub. I can’t let you do that.”

“You’re not letting me do anything, darling. I didn’t scrub anything, I embraced it.”

Her other hand engulfed the one that had covered the one that had grasped her own. You hadn’t realized that you were squeezing so hard for purchase. Goosebumps covered your entire body, and you were trying not to tremble. It felt as if your bones were trying to claw their way from your skin. You ground your teeth together to keep them from clacking.

Natasha’s hand left yours for only a moment, peeling the cover of the file back, moving it in between the both of you. “I was born in Stalingrad Russia, indoctrinated into the Red Room by a man named General Dreykov. The Red Room was a program designed to create sleeper agents utilized by the KGB. Young girls were taken against their wills and molded into perfect killing machines.”

Your thumb moved over her knuckles, scarred from years of strain. She grasped back, grounding herself.

“For years, I was just that. Ruthless. Cruel. I spilled an impossible amount of blood because that’s what I was trained to do. It was a cycle. Wake up, kill, sleep. Wake up, kill, sleep. Sometimes they’d throw a little torture in there just to spice things up.”

You knit your eyebrows together, a small whimper escaping you.

“Tough room.” Natasha gave you a sad smile “milaya devochka, eventually, someone saw through the dripping ledger and what Dreykov had done. They saw me. That made a world of difference when the programming I had was all I’d ever known.”

You swallowed thickly, fingers tracing a raised pink scar at the edge of her palm. You let out a shaky breath. “And you… can be that person for me?”

“I’d like to be.”

[Dt: @ima-gi--na-tion, @l0nelyish, @taliiiaasteria, @ahintofchaos, @redhoodte]

#Natasha Romanoff #Natasha Romanoff x reader #Natasha Romanoff x y/n #Natasha Romanoff x you #Natasha Romanov #Natasha Romanov x y/n #Natasha Romanov x you #Natasha Romanov x reader #Steve Rodgers #Tony Stark #Hydra reader #Natasha Romanoff x hydra reader #Marvel Fanfiction #Marvel #Reader insert #Natasha Romanoff x female Reader

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waltermis · 19 hours ago

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Easy

Natasha: You are not hard to love, quite the opposite in fact…

Y/N: *tears brimming her eyes* Easy to hate?

Natasha: What?! No! That's not—

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #mcu #marvel #avengers #avengers x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x female reader #black widow #black widow x reader

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downbadf0rficppl · 9 months ago

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love in the dark

Natasha Romanoff x F!Reader

Summary: You're used to being Natasha's in the dark, where no one can see you, but what if all the hiding causes insecurities to rear their head and make you question if you are even good enough for this job?

Word Count: 12.5K (CRAZY IK)

AN: Maybe - definitely - OOC Natasha, but I wanted to get my annoyance out somewhere. It's been a long week *crying face*. Anyway, I can't write anything angsty (dk if I would classify this as angst angst but ya know) without a lil bit of fluff at the end so yh. Also sorry that the plot is a bit shit - I haven't reread this and it was a lil bit word-vomity?? Will reread and edit eventually haha. HEA, hurt/comfort vibes? :P

Take your eyes off of me so I can leave

I'm far too ashamed to do it with you watching me

The dim light of morning filters through the curtains as you quietly gather your things, your heart a tangled mess of emotions you’d rather not confront. Natasha’s apartment is always neat—pristine, even in its chaos—but today it feels colder than usual. The aftermath of the night lingers in the air: the weight of intimacy, of bodies pressed together, of shared moments that somehow don't leave a mark, yet always seem to hang over you.

You move with practiced ease, pulling on your clothes, the soft rustle of fabric breaking the stillness. Natasha’s absence from the bed doesn’t surprise you; she’s already up, probably training or doing some task to keep herself distracted, to keep from thinking about the mission, about what happened, about anything. You don’t blame her. You’ve seen the way she handles it—how she compartmentalizes her emotions, how sex is the one thing she doesn’t keep in a box.

The door to her bathroom creaks open as you finish zipping your jacket. She doesn’t look at you, her hair damp from a quick shower, her expression unreadable, almost distant. She grabs her black leather jacket from the chair, pulls it on, and heads to the kitchen, the clink of mugs the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

You take a deep breath, gathering the courage to speak, but the words always seem to hang on the tip of your tongue, trapped behind something you don’t know how to say. You're younger—years younger—and Natasha... well, Natasha never gives anything away. Not in the way you want her to. Her walls are solid, built from years of training, of being a weapon. And you? You’re just a moment, a fleeting thing in her life.

You find her standing by the window now, her back to you, her figure outlined against the early light. She’s always like this after missions, like she’s trying to rid herself of the weight, trying to get back to being Natasha again, instead of... whatever else she’s forced to be.

“Thanks for last night,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn’t turn to face you, doesn’t even acknowledge your words immediately. Then, as if the silence is too much to bear, she speaks. “You should go. Goodnight, baby.” Her voice is low, steady, but there's an edge to it—something you can’t quite place.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

You turn to leave, but something inside you twists, a knot in your stomach that isn’t just from the awkwardness. It’s the realization that, for all the time you’ve spent together, nothing will ever change. This is just routine—an unspoken agreement between the two of you. She'll keep using you to forget, and you’ll keep pretending this isn’t affecting you.

But Natasha doesn’t ask you to stay, doesn’t even look at you as you make your way toward the door. When you reach the threshold, you steal one last glance at her. Her eyes are on the window again, her face set in that familiar, unreadable expression.

You leave without a word, the door clicking softly behind you, and the silence that follows is deafening.

This is never ending, we have been here before

But I can't stay this time, 'cause I don't love you anymore

The quiet hum of the helicarrier was almost calming, the steady vibrations of the engines beneath your feet grounding you after a chaotic mission. You’d never felt more alive than when you were out there—fighting, taking down the bad guys, doing what SHIELD trained you to do. But tonight, that adrenaline wasn’t enough to silence the nagging feeling inside of you. You kept replaying the moments from the mission—the moments with Natasha.

The mission had gone smoothly. You had worked well together, flowing seamlessly as a team, and Natasha had even given you a rare, approving glance when it was all over. It had been a high-stakes op, but everything had fallen into place. When the mission was debriefed, there had been laughter, light-hearted jokes exchanged between agents, but your thoughts kept drifting back to Natasha.

Her touch had lingered, just a moment longer than necessary, when she passed you your gear. Her eyes had met yours once, a flicker of something in them. It was fleeting, but it was enough to make you wonder. Maybe she feels it too, you thought. The way she looked at you, the way she spoke—there was an intimacy in it, a spark you couldn’t quite ignore.

The night had unfolded with a casual invitation to meet in her room. No big deal, she’d said. Just to grab a drink, just to relax. But when you entered her room, it felt different. You both shed the weight of the mission in the space between words, the tension between you growing as the night went on. Her touch had been slow, almost gentle, when it first brushed against your skin. You’d been hesitant, unsure of what was happening, but she seemed so confident, so sure.

It wasn’t until later—after you were tangled up in each other, breathless, skin flushed—that you felt that spark you had hoped for. Maybe she was just as interested, just as real about this as you were. It wasn’t just a mission anymore, not just two agents getting the job done. There was a connection. There was something between you.

But when you stepped out of her room the next morning, something shifted in the air. The way she had casually kissed you on the cheek before you left, the way she didn’t ask you to stay, didn’t look at you the way you hoped—none of it was what you imagined.

Later, you passed a group of agents gathered in a corner of the mess hall, talking in low voices. You’d barely paid them any mind, too focused on your own thoughts, but then you heard it.

“I wonder who Nat picked this time,” one of them had said, laughing.

“Probably one of the newbies who doesn’t know any better. Gets what she wants, and moves on. No strings attached.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, your heart sinking lower with every syllable. Natasha. Natasha Romanoff. The woman you had admired from a distance, the one you had trusted and looked up to, had just used you. And maybe—maybe you had been just another mission for her.

You couldn’t help but feel the sting of that realization. You had wanted more. You had convinced yourself that there was something more to it—that the way she held you, the way she whispered your name had meant something. But no. This was who she was. A lone wolf. Cold. Detached.

You didn’t say anything, of course. You just nodded, forcing yourself to accept what you had heard, forcing yourself to forget what had happened the night before. The optimism you had clung to began to die right then and there. This wasn’t a relationship. This wasn’t something that could grow or change.

You walked back to your quarters, the weight of the mission—and your heartache—settling in your chest. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe it was easier to be just one of the many in a string of forgettable faces. The night with Natasha had been a blip. No more, no less.

The next time you saw her, you kept your distance, smiled a little tighter, and allowed the walls to go up. There was no point in hoping for something more when you knew exactly how this worked. She was always a few steps ahead of you, always thinking of the next mission, the next fight, never lingering too long in one place.

And you? You learned to accept that. No strings attached. No expectations. Just the way things were.

Please, stay where you are

Don't come any closer

The clang of metal against metal echoed through the training room as you and Natasha sparred. The fight was almost second nature now—quick jabs, swift dodges, and the occasional, playful taunt thrown into the mix. You'd gotten better at handling the pressure, but still, when it came to Natasha, it was hard not to feel like you were always playing catch-up. She was faster, stronger, more experienced. Sometimes, it seemed like she was born to fight.

You threw a punch, aiming for her midsection, but she dodged it with effortless grace, countering with a sharp jab to your ribs. You grunted, stumbling back a step, but you didn’t let it throw you off. You pressed forward, more determined now.

“Not bad,” Natasha said with a smirk, her voice light. “But you’re still weak. You need me to save you again, huh?” She laughed, a glint of mischief in her eyes.

It was a joke, you knew that, or at least, you thought you did. But something about her words hit you differently today. You weren’t in the mood to laugh. You had been pushing yourself hard in training, trying to prove that you could handle it on your own, that you weren’t just some rookie who was always under Natasha’s shadow.

You took a deep breath, trying to shake off the growing frustration that bubbled in your chest. You swung again, but this time, you missed her entirely. She dodged it effortlessly and caught your wrist in a hold that felt too tight.

“Still not enough,” she teased, raising an eyebrow. “Maybe I should give you some more training lessons. You know, to make sure I don’t have to keep saving you.”

The joke, the lightness in her voice, it only made you more upset. “Maybe I don’t need saving,” you snapped, trying to pull your wrist free from her grip, your temper flaring. “Maybe I can handle things on my own for once.”

Natasha’s smirk faltered, but she kept her hold firm. “Maybe I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Deep down you knew it was a joke, but it wasn’t funny to you—not today. Not when you already felt the weight of everyone’s whispers hanging over you like a shadow. She’s only here because she’s sleeping with Natasha. She’s nothing without her. Every agent seemed to think the same thing. Even some of your own teammates seemed to treat you like you were just an afterthought, a placeholder who only got the mission because of who you knew, not because of your skill.

You had always tried to prove them wrong. But when Natasha said things like that, it felt like all your efforts were for nothing. Like all of it was just... a joke.

You yanked your arm out of her grip and stepped back, glaring at her. “I don’t need you to save me, Natasha. I don’t need anyone.”

Her expression shifted, the playful edge in her eyes dimming. She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t. She didn’t hear the things you heard, didn’t feel the weight of the judgment you carried every day. To her, this was just another training session, another moment of playful teasing. But to you? It was like being backed into a corner, your confidence slowly slipping away with every word.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Natasha said, her voice sharp now. “You know I’m just messing with you. Stop getting so moody.”

It stung more than it should’ve. You clenched your fists at your sides, holding back the urge to walk out of the room, to leave her there without another word.

But you didn’t. You just stood there, feeling the walls close in around you.

“You don’t get it, do you?” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady. “You think I’m just here for the fun of it. That I can’t do anything without you. You don’t even see it.”

Natasha’s brows furrowed, and she let out a frustrated sigh, dropping her stance. “You’re being overly sensitive.”

You felt the words cut deep, the sting of her dismissal more painful than you wanted to admit. The last thing you wanted was for her to see you as some emotional mess. But it was too late. You could feel the heat rising in your chest, the ache of being ignored, dismissed, and reduced to nothing more than a pawn in her world.

“Fine,” you snapped, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Maybe I should just go. You don’t need to deal with my mood anymore.”

Natasha didn’t even flinch at your outburst. Instead, she looked at you with a cold indifference. “Then fuck off,” she said bluntly, as if you were just another irritation, another moment she couldn’t be bothered with.

The words hit you like a slap. You froze for a moment, trying to make sense of it. She didn’t get it. She didn’t understand why you were so angry, why you felt so small in that moment. And you realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that maybe she never would.

You turned and walked away without another word, your chest tight, your emotions a storm inside of you. You didn’t even know where you were going, but you couldn’t stay there, not with her. Not now.

Don't try to change my mind

I'm being cruel to be kind

The words hit like a slap in the face.

You hadn’t meant to overhear it. You had only walked into the SHIELD briefing room to check on some mission updates when Agent Ryder’s voice cut through the air, low but unmistakable.

You could feel the sting of his dismissive tone reverberating in your bones. Nepotism. The word had echoed in your head long after he’d left, taunting you. You knew the truth—your guardian wasn’t some high-ranking official, wasn’t some big shot with connections—but still, how could they say that? How could they reduce your hard work to just that? To nothing but the connections you didn’t even ask for?

You had always tried to prove yourself. Every mission, every task, every step forward was to show you deserved to be here, that you weren’t just some token agent or a pawn in a bigger game. You had trained harder than anyone. You had put in the hours, learned everything you could, sacrificed the same as everyone else. But still, every time you turned around, someone else was whispering behind your back, casting doubt on your worth.

And then there was Natasha. Her teasing had been the last straw. You had tried to laugh it off, to pretend it didn’t bother you, but you knew deep down that the way she dismissed you—it was just another reminder that you were expendable. You weren’t one of them. You were just... a mistake in the system.

So when you walked into the training room the next morning and saw Natasha leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking as relaxed and confident as ever, something inside you snapped.

You didn’t go to her like you usually did. You didn’t smile, didn’t offer the usual greeting. Instead, you simply nodded once, cold and distant.

“Something wrong?” Natasha asked, raising an eyebrow as she stepped forward.

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned away from her, grabbing your gear and adjusting it with deliberate care. The silence stretched between you both. You could feel her eyes on you, studying you, waiting for an explanation, but you didn’t owe her one. Not anymore. Not after everything.

“You’re still upset about yesterday, huh?” Natasha’s voice was softer now, but there was an edge to it. A warning, maybe. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

You ignored her, shoving your focus back into the task at hand, determined not to let her see the way your chest tightened. You didn’t want to feel weak. You didn’t want her to know how much her words hurt. You were done with this—done with pretending, done with leaning on her. You were going to prove yourself. You had to.

A few moments passed before Natasha stepped closer, frustration creeping into her tone. “If you don’t stop this, we’re going to have a problem.”

You turned to face her then, finally looking her in the eyes, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “No. We’re not going to have a problem. I’m done with this.” You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. “I’m done with you. I’m tired of being treated like I’m some kind of charity case. Like I don’t belong here unless I’m under your shadow.”

Natasha’s face shifted, confusion flashing in her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t get it, do you?” You took a step back, your voice rising in frustration. “You think it’s funny, don’t you? All of it. The way you make fun of me. Like it’s just a joke. Well, it’s not. I’ve been busting my ass here, and all you do is remind me that everyone thinks I’m just some charity case. Nepotism. You think that’s a joke? You think I need you to save me?”

Natasha’s expression hardened, her gaze flickering to the side, and then back to you. She crossed her arms, clearly trying to hold her composure. But there was something in her eyes—something tight, something hurt.

“Is this about yesterday?” she asked, her tone sharper now, but there was a hint of concern buried underneath. “You’re overreacting.”

“I’m not overreacting!” You shot back, unable to hold it in anymore. “You don’t get to dismiss me and then act like nothing happened. I’m not some... some... tool for you to use whenever you want. I’m not some kid you get to play with and forget about when it’s convenient.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, thick with tension. Natasha’s jaw tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. “You think this is about me using you? You think I’m using you? Is that what you really think?”

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yeah. That’s what I think.”

Natasha’s eyes flickered with anger, her usual calm demeanor slipping for just a moment. She shook her head, disbelief and frustration written all over her face. “You’ve got it all wrong. But fine, if that’s how you feel, then go ahead. Go prove yourself, like you keep saying you will. But don’t come crawling back to me when you realize you can’t do it alone.”

The words stung, but it was the way she turned and walked away—cold, final—that hit you the hardest. You felt the knot in your chest tighten, but you didn’t call after her. You couldn’t.

You spent the rest of the day avoiding her, your mind racing with doubt and anger. It wasn’t about the mission, not really. It was about feeling like you were fighting a battle on your own, with no one in your corner. The more you tried to distance yourself, the more you realized how much you needed her, even if it hurt to admit it.

But you were stubborn. You had to prove to yourself that you weren’t just here because of someone else. You weren’t going to be Natasha’s shadow anymore.

You couldn’t.

You have given me something that I can't live without

You mustn't underestimate that when you are in doubt

The morning briefing had gone smoothly, the usual debriefing about mission parameters, objectives, and exit strategies. But there was an undercurrent of tension you couldn’t shake. It was just a solo mission—nothing too difficult, Natasha had said, and you knew the protocol well. But the moment she had pulled out, just hours before takeoff, something in your gut twisted.

"It doesn't need to be a two-person mission," Natasha had said with her usual casual smile, but it hadn’t reached her eyes. "It’s easy. You’ve got this." Her voice had sounded almost dismissive, as if she hadn’t been training with you for months, as if she didn’t know how much you relied on her presence during missions. You knew Natasha wasn’t one for emotional goodbyes, but the absence of that small gesture—her usual good luck kiss before every mission—felt like a sign. You had never gone on a mission without one, and now, as you stood alone in the SHIELD hangar, you realized just how much you had come to rely on it.

She hadn’t even given you a heads-up, hadn’t said goodbye with her usual teasing smirk or reassuring look. It’s an easy mission, you told yourself. You don’t need her this time. But the unease in your chest told you otherwise.

You tugged the straps of your gear tighter, glancing once more at the aircraft. The mission was supposed to be straightforward: infiltrate a small criminal syndicate operating out of a hidden base in the mountains, retrieve intel, and get out. You’d handled worse. But you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that something was off. Your instincts were screaming at you, and for once, you weren’t willing to ignore them.

You checked your wristwatch again. The flight would take a few hours, leaving you with time to prepare mentally, but all you could think about was Natasha. The way she had waved you off with barely a second glance, as if you didn’t matter enough for a goodbye. You tried not to dwell on it. After all, Natasha didn’t do sentiment. But the emptiness in your chest was hard to ignore.

Maybe she’s just busy. Maybe she’s just focused on something else. But none of that helped. You were used to her being there with you, a reassuring presence by your side. You needed her, especially when the missions were dangerous—especially when you felt the weight of the world bearing down on you. But now, you were alone, and that felt heavier than you expected.

As the helicopter’s engines roared to life, you settled back into your seat, trying to center yourself. This mission wasn’t supposed to be difficult. You could do this alone, you kept telling yourself. But something about it didn’t feel right. Maybe it was Natasha pulling out at the last minute. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't given you her usual kiss for luck, the one that always helped you steady your nerves before a mission. But whatever it was, it gnawed at you. Your instincts were telling you to watch your back. Something wasn’t adding up.

By the time you arrived at the drop zone, the helicopter had been quiet for too long. The mountainside stretched ahead, vast and intimidating, and the cold wind carried the promise of danger. You could see the hidden compound from the air—well-guarded, heavily fortified, and far from any backup. A simple mission, Natasha had called it.

You didn’t believe that for a second.

The drop was smooth, and you quickly moved into position, your boots crunching against the frozen ground. The area around the compound was still and eerily quiet. Too quiet. No guards on patrol. No sign of life. It didn’t make sense, but you pushed the unease aside. You had a job to do.

You made your way toward the compound, slipping into the shadows, the cold air biting at your skin. Every step felt calculated, but the tension in your shoulders refused to loosen. You kept glancing over your shoulder, as if expecting Natasha to appear and tell you everything was fine, that this was just another mission to add to the books.

But she wasn’t there.

You reached the compound’s perimeter and found the first guard’s post abandoned, his gear left behind but no sign of a struggle. There was no time to waste. You slipped inside, working quickly to disable the security systems and hack into the mainframe. The room you’d accessed was silent, save for the whir of the computers. As you pulled the intel from the servers, the cold feeling in your gut only grew.

Something wasn’t right. Your instincts had been spot-on—this mission had been a setup.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. You froze, turning off the monitor and moving swiftly toward the exit. You didn’t have time to think. You just had to get out. The sudden realization hit you like a punch in the stomach—Natasha wasn’t here for a reason. She’d known this mission wasn’t as easy as it seemed. And now you were paying the price for going in blind, without her by your side.

Your heart pounded as you sprinted for cover, your mind racing. Every corner you turned felt like a trap. The compound was alive with activity now. You could hear voices, shouts, the sounds of boots hitting the concrete floor.

I should’ve known better. I shouldn’t have trusted this mission without her.

You ducked into an alcove, pressing your back to the cold wall, your breath shallow. The door to the room you’d just vacated opened with a quiet click, and a group of armed men poured in, searching for you. The walls seemed to close in on you as the adrenaline kicked in. You had to move, had to get out, or you would be trapped.

Suddenly, your body started to droop, collapsing against the wall behind. The last thing you saw before everything went dark was long red hair tied into a bun.

But I don't want to carry on like everything is fine

The longer we ignore it, all the more that we will fight

You woke to the sting of cold water splashing across your face, the shock of it making your body jerk awake, muscles aching with the memory of the fight. The pain was sharp, gnawing at your ribs and shoulders, each breath a struggle. The world around you was blurred, and all you could focus on was the weight pressing down on your chest.

Your eyes opened, blurry at first, and then the details started to sharpen: concrete walls, dim lighting, and the cold, oppressive silence that clung to the room. There were metal chairs around you, all empty but one. The leader of the enemy force, a tall man with a face carved from stone, stood before you, a smug look on his face as he held the bucket that had been your rude awakening.

He tossed the remaining ice water in your direction, a small slosh hitting your face as he watched you with cold, calculating eyes. “You’re a tough one,” he said in a low, mocking voice. “I didn’t think you’d last this long. But everyone cracks eventually, don’t they?”

Your throat was dry, and your tongue felt like it was made of sandpaper. You could feel the blood caked on your face, the bruises that were already starting to swell. But despite the pain, despite the overwhelming urge to break, you held your ground. You glared up at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear in your eyes.

“You’ve got nothing to say?” the man sneered. “You SHIELD agents are all the same. So loyal. So stupid. You’re all just waiting for your little friends to come save you, aren’t you?”

Your lips pressed together tightly, and you refused to let a single word slip from them. You couldn’t afford to give him anything. Not a single piece of intel, not even a whimper. You knew that if you did, it would all be over.

He stepped closer, placing a booted foot against your thigh, forcing you back against the cold concrete. The pressure was almost unbearable, but you didn’t flinch. The silence between you both stretched, thick and heavy, until he finally gave a humorless laugh and straightened up. “I can wait. All of you are the same. Eventually, you’ll break.”

But you didn’t.

The next few days bled together in a haze of cold, pain, and isolation. The room was a blur of steel, concrete, and fluorescent lights. There were no windows, no sense of time. Your body was sore, covered in cuts and bruises, and the hunger gnawed at you. But you couldn’t give in. Not now. Not when you knew someone would come for you.

They’ll come. They have to.

Every time they came in, it was the same—questions, threats, taunts. And every time, you remained silent. You couldn’t let them know how desperate you were. You couldn’t let them see you break. Even if every part of you screamed for help, you stayed resolute, hoping that somehow, someone would find you, someone would come and end this.

But no one did.

It was only when the fourth day passed, when the darkness of the room had become your world, that you started to feel the weight of your own mind closing in. The silence, the isolation, the constant threat of pain—it started to take a toll on you. The hunger gnawed at your insides, and your thoughts drifted in and out. You could still hear his voice echoing in your head: They’ll come for you. They’ll come...

It was on the sixth day that it happened. A crack in the door. The low hum of voices. The sound of boots. You didn’t move at first, couldn’t. But then, just like that, the door swung open, and a small team of SHIELD agents burst in, guns drawn. They moved quickly, efficiently, sweeping the room and securing the area. You didn’t even have the energy to react as they cut through the restraints on your wrists and helped you to your feet.

"Hey, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” one of them murmured, gently pulling you into their arms.

But the words didn’t register. You could hear them, but it was like they were coming from another world. You felt light-headed, your body numb, the weight of everything that had happened pressing down on you. Your mouth was dry, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

The next few days were a blur of recovery, of medical checks and debriefings that you couldn’t bring yourself to respond to. Every word felt like it was coming from a place far outside of you, and you couldn’t find the strength to answer.

In the quiet, isolated room they had put you in at the base, you sat in silence, staring blankly at the wall. Every noise around you felt too loud. Every touch too much. They gave you time to recover, but you couldn’t shake the heaviness in your chest. Your mind had shut down, your body running on autopilot.

There were no words. You couldn’t bring yourself to speak. The trauma, the isolation, everything that had happened—it left you feeling hollow. Broken.

You didn’t speak at all for days, your body recovering, but your mind still trapped in the darkness of that cold room. The cold man’s words echoed in your head. You’re all waiting for someone to come save you.

But even as the team tried to coax you into talking, even as they brought you your favorite food and gave you the space to recover, the silence remained.

Natasha didn’t come. She wasn’t there when you needed her, and the weight of that felt heavier than any physical wound. It wasn’t her fault. You knew that. But somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were still alone.

Your recovery was slow. You weren’t the same person when you were finally cleared to leave the facility. There was a coldness in your eyes, a distance in your posture. The silence you had once embraced had become a shield, and now, it was all you had.

Natasha had visited you once during your recovery. She hadn’t said much, just sat in silence beside you. But even when she reached out to touch your hand, you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The trauma had built walls too high, too thick to break. And no one, not even Natasha, could find their way through.

You were alive, yes. But the silence that followed felt like it would never end.

Please, don't fall apart

I can't face your breaking heart

The sterile scent of the hospital room, the constant hum of machines, and the bright, white lights overhead did little to make you feel at ease. You stared at the ceiling, your gaze unfocused, your mind a swirling mess of everything that had happened. You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything. You didn’t feel like you were living—just existing, going through the motions. Every movement felt like an effort, and the space around you felt too small, too suffocating.

You hadn’t spoken since the rescue. Not to anyone. The silence, once a comfort, had become a prison you couldn’t escape. Your throat was raw from the lack of words, and when you closed your eyes, you could still see the cold walls of that room, the mocking face of the enemy leader, and the weight of the isolation pressing down on you.

The door opened, and you didn’t look up. You knew who it was before the first words even registered.

“Are you seriously ignoring me?”

The voice was sharp, familiar, cutting through the fog that had settled around your brain. Natasha.

You didn't respond. You couldn’t. Your mind was screaming for you to stay quiet, to not let her in, because the moment you spoke, you knew it would shatter the wall you’d built to protect yourself. But Natasha didn’t wait for a response. She stormed into the room, her boots heavy on the floor, her expression tight with frustration.

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days,” Natasha continued, her voice rising with every word. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been? I can’t believe you’re acting like this. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like a damn child, and I’m done with it. I don’t have time for this immature bullshit, especially from you.”

Your chest tightened, a knot of anger and confusion building inside you, but you refused to show it. You couldn’t. You knew better than to let her see the storm inside you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t follow your schedule,” you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion. You couldn’t bring yourself to add any more, any more than the words that barely scraped out. Sorry for being alive, sorry for failing.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she took a few steps closer, standing at the side of your bed. Her face was hard, her anger not hiding the concern that still flickered beneath. “You think this is easy for me, too? That I just get to pretend nothing happened? That I’m supposed to just let you wallow in here like—like this?” Her voice broke slightly, but she quickly regained her composure. “This is fucking ridiculous, and I’m not going to stand here and watch you ruin everything you’ve worked for. Do you understand me? You’re going to lose everything.”

The sting of her words cut deep, but it was the accusation in her tone that truly hit you. The one that had been festering in your chest ever since you’d been dragged out of that hellhole. You weren’t who you thought you were. You weren’t the person who deserved this life. The dream job, the recognition, the chance to be someone worth a damn—none of it was meant for you. Not after everything that had happened. You weren’t strong enough to keep it all, to be who they thought you were. And Natasha—Natasha, who had always been a silent pillar of strength for you, was now reminding you how easily it could all be taken away.

Her words stung. Immature... Ruin everything... You could feel the weight of her disappointment settle into your chest like a stone, heavier than anything you had ever felt.

And then, it clicked.

The final straw broke. Natasha didn’t understand. She didn’t understand the extent of what had happened to you—the isolation, the pain, the days spent waiting for someone to find you, and the crushing feeling that no one would. You were broken, and she was treating it like it was just a phase. That you just needed to snap out of it.

But you couldn’t.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed, the pain from your injuries flaring in protest, but you pushed through. You weren’t sure where you were going, but you couldn’t stay here any longer. You had to leave. You had to escape the judgment, the expectations. You couldn’t pretend to be strong anymore.

“Don’t walk away from me!” Natasha snapped, but you were already moving. You couldn’t be near her right now. The anger, the betrayal—it was all too much.

Ignoring her calls, you grabbed the nearest coat, not caring that it didn’t quite fit right, and you made your way out of the room. You could hear her following you, her footsteps echoing behind you, but you didn’t turn around. You didn’t owe her anything anymore.

You didn’t owe anyone anything.

It didn’t take long to get to the secure office where you had to sign a few papers before they cleared your discharge. You barely registered the words the agent at the desk was saying. You barely noticed the fact that your fingers were trembling. You only had one thing on your mind—the resignation letter you had been drafting in your head for days.

You placed it on the desk in front of the agent, your hands shaking slightly as you slid the paper over to them. The words were short and to the point, and they made everything feel so final. So irreversible.

“I’m resigning,” you said, voice hoarse. “Effective immediately.”

The agent didn’t ask questions. They just nodded, their face unreadable, and then went about processing the paperwork. You watched, numb, as the reality of it all settled over you like a weight that you could never lift. You had dreamed of this job for so long, had worked so hard to get here, only to throw it all away because you didn’t deserve it anymore.

And in that moment, you felt everything you’d been holding in for weeks. The grief. The betrayal. The isolation. It all came rushing back, but you didn’t cry. You couldn’t cry. The numbness, the emptiness, it was all you had now.

You stood up, turning away from the desk, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a sense of finality wash over you. No turning back.

It wasn’t until you were almost out the door that you heard Natasha’s voice again, this time softer, more desperate. “Wait.”

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and the world outside felt both too big and too small at the same time. You were alone now. Completely, irrevocably alone.

And somehow, that felt like the only truth you could rely on anymore.

I'm trying to be brave

Stop asking me to stay

Clint’s sharp eyes caught you before you could make it out of the door, his footsteps quick as he crossed the hallway. He was dressed in his usual casual gear, a quiver slung over his shoulder, his expression a mix of concern and frustration.

“Hey, wait,” Clint said, his voice softer than it usually was when he called someone out. You didn’t stop. Your feet kept moving, your heart hammering as you tried to escape. But Clint was relentless. He grabbed your arm gently but firmly, turning you around to face him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with something like disappointment. “You can’t just walk out on everything. Nat’s worried sick.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, exhausted. “I don’t need anyone’s pity,” you muttered, your voice strained. “Not hers, not anyone's. Just... just leave me alone.”

Clint studied you for a moment, his eyes narrowing with understanding. Then, without warning, he pulled you into a quieter corner, away from the main corridors, where he knew you wouldn’t be overheard.

"Look," Clint said, his voice lower now, softer but still firm, "I don’t know what kind of crap Nat's been feeding you, but I can tell you're hurting. You think you can just walk away from everything, like it’ll make things better? You think that's gonna fix anything?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t bring yourself to. But Clint didn’t need an answer.

“I hear things,” Clint went on. “I’ve been around long enough to know when someone’s trying to hide something. And I’ve been in the rafters during most of those 'training' sessions with Nat. You think you’re the only one who feels small, huh?” His voice turned bitter, a subtle edge to it. “You think you’re the only one she’s pushed away?”

You stared at him, shocked, unable to respond. Clint saw right through you. He knew what was happening, and he wasn’t going to let it slide.

“She’s been messing with your head, hasn’t she?” Clint said. “Somehow, you think you’re not good enough, that you don’t belong here. You think everything you’ve done has been handed to you on a silver platter because of her. Well, let me tell you something—that’s not true.”

Your chest tightened at his words, but you still didn’t speak. It was like you couldn’t find the words. The guilt, the shame, the feeling of never measuring up to the expectations—they all churned in your stomach.

Clint let out a long, frustrated sigh, his eyes softening. “You’re good enough,” he said, his tone firm, but there was an understanding there that made your throat tighten. “You’ve earned every bit of your place here. And if she can't see that, then she's the one who’s in the wrong. It’s not about who you know or who you're sleeping with. You’re here because of you. Don’t you ever forget that.”

You felt the tears welling up, but you forced them back, swallowing the lump in your throat. Clint’s words had landed hard, and it was like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding was finally being released. But before you could say anything, Clint stepped closer, lowering his voice even more.

“Natasha…” Clint trailed off, his jaw tightening. “She’s been a mess lately. She’s scared—scared of losing you, scared of messing things up. But she doesn’t know how to apologize for anything. She’s been pushing you away because she’s too afraid to admit what she’s done. So yeah, she's been selfish. But you can’t just run away from everything. You deserve better than that."

Your heart twisted at his words, and for a moment, you felt that familiar pang of wanting to believe everything he said. But the hurt was still there, the feeling of being abandoned in your most vulnerable moment. You didn’t trust yourself enough to believe that you were the one who mattered.

Clint left you with a small pat on your shoulder - he couldn’t blame you for wanting to leave, he just wanted you to know the truth that Nat definitely wasn’t going to tell you. Now to chew her out. It didn’t take long for Clint to find her. Natasha was pacing the hall just outside, her face etched with frustration. The second Clint approached her, she shot him a glare.

“Where the hell is she?” Natasha demanded, her voice tight with anxiety. “You didn’t—”

Clint held up a hand to stop her. “Sit down,” he ordered. “And listen. I’m done with you thinking you can just brush this off like it’s nothing.”

Natasha’s jaw clenched, but she stood still. Clint’s eyes were hard, and for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t holding back.

“You’ve been treating her like shit, Natasha,” Clint continued, his voice rising just enough to get her attention. “You think she’s the problem? That she’s just acting ‘immature’ or ‘childish’? Look around you for two seconds. You’ve been pushing her away, making her feel like she’s not good enough, like she doesn’t deserve anything she’s worked for. You’ve been feeding her insecurities—her real ones—with your own mess. And, she’s traumatised. Those guys out there, the ones that tortured her for six days because she went in without an extraction plan”

Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but Clint cut her off with a sharp motion.

“I hear things,” Clint said. “I’m up in the rafters sometimes. I hear the crap that other people say about her when they think no one’s listening. They question her place on the team because her dad was an officer in Fury’s good graces, or because they think you play favourites with her. They don’t realise that you’ve got something else going on, but all that shit compounded. You’ve made one of our best agents question everything about herself.”

Natasha’s face went pale, her expression shifting from anger to guilt in an instant. “Clint, I—”

“You’re lucky she didn’t quit sooner, Natasha. You’ve been so wrapped up in your own bullshit that you didn’t see how bad she was hurting.” Clint’s words hit like a slap. “Now go find her. And you better make this right, because if you don’t Fury is gonna be pissed.” The ‘and I’ went unspoken.

We're not the only ones, I don't regret a thing

Every word I've said, you know I'll always mean

Natasha stopped at the entrance of Tony’s stupid ‘serenity garden’. It was the last place she had left to look, and it looked like luck was on her side. You were sitting on one of the benches in the corner, your back to her as you stared into the depths of the Koi pond. It was like you were a part of the landscape now, blending into the tranquility of the place. Natasha felt her throat tighten at the sight. You looked so small, so vulnerable, so distant. She had never seen you like this—not once. It was always her who had the walls up, not you.

She took a cautious step forward, the grass underfoot crunching softly as she neared you.

Natasha called your name softly, her voice hesitant, like she was testing the waters. You didn’t respond immediately, and for a brief second, Natasha was unsure if you had even heard her. The silence between you felt thick, almost unbearable. She sat down beside you, not too close, but close enough that she hoped you could feel her presence.

It wasn’t the same as before—when she had always known what to say to you, when her words had always been sure, always laced with a confidence that kept her safe. But now? Now she had no idea how to begin. Her usual sharp tongue had failed her. There were no easy words to break the ice this time, no snarky jokes to hide behind. Only you—and the wreckage she had left in her wake.

You turned your head just slightly, enough to see her. The surprise in your eyes caught her off guard. You’re surprised to see me here, Natasha realized. You didn’t expect her to come. You didn’t expect her to care enough to seek you out.

And for the first time ever, Natasha didn’t know what to say.

Her mind was racing, every thought colliding into the next. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. She glanced at you, her expression filled with uncertainty. She could feel the weight of everything she had said, everything she had done, everything she had failed to do. The words that had always come so easily to her were nowhere to be found now. It was as if the depth of your hurt had trapped her, left her speechless, helpless.

You, on the other hand, hadn’t moved, hadn’t turned to face her entirely, but your gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than usual. You could sense her struggle—Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, speechless for the first time in your memory.

“Nat?” you finally said, the question carrying more weight than it should. You almost didn’t recognize your own voice, hoarse and small, like the person you had been before all of this had come crashing down.

She looked at you, the smallest glimmer of relief flickering in her eyes, but it was quickly replaced with the same guilt she had been carrying for days now.

“I…” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

You blinked at her, surprised. This was the first time you’d ever seen Natasha lost for words. You’d always been the one fumbling for the right thing to say, the one who couldn’t figure out how to get past the pain. But she—Natasha Romanoff, the one who always had control, always knew how to navigate even the most dangerous situations—she was the one who was struggling now.

It was like the world had shifted, and the unshakable woman you had always known had suddenly become... human.

It is the world to me that you are in my life

But I want to live and not just survive

Her voice was soft, as if the weight of everything she had been holding was finally catching up with her. “I messed up,” she said quietly. “I messed up, baby. And I... I don’t know how to make it right.”

Your chest ached as her words hit you. The vulnerability in her eyes was raw, and it took everything in you to keep the tears from falling.

“I’ve been a mess,” Natasha continued, her eyes looking straight ahead, not daring to meet yours. “I didn’t realize how badly I was hurting you... And I was so wrapped up in my own shit that I just—I pushed you away. I thought you’d be fine. I thought you’d understand. But I see now that I made everything worse.”

You swallowed, the words feeling like they weighed a ton in your chest. You couldn’t speak, not yet. But you turned your head slightly to face her, your gaze still unreadable.

“I never wanted to make you feel like you don’t belong here,” Natasha said, her voice breaking slightly. “I never wanted you to think that you were here because of me, or that you weren’t good enough.” Her lips tightened, frustration and regret flooding her features. “I just—I didn’t know how to deal with my own feelings. And I made you think I didn’t care. But I do. I care. I care about you more than you could ever know.”

The silence stretched out between you both, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Natasha felt small. Her pride, her strength—all the things that had always defined her—were gone, stripped away by the vulnerability of this moment.

You glanced at her, studying her face. It was like you were seeing her for the first time—broken, fragile, and unsure.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to feel the smallest sliver of hope.

“I don’t know if you can fix this,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “But I need you to know something, Natasha. I needed you. And you—you—were the one who turned away.”

Her chest tightened at the weight of your words, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded slowly, accepting the truth, knowing it wasn’t something that could be undone in a moment. The air between you and Natasha felt heavy with words you couldn’t articulate. You had remained silent for so long, allowing her apology to linger in the air like a fragile thing—something too delicate to touch, to hold onto. But now, with the weight of her words pressing down on you, you couldn’t remain silent any longer.

“I’m leaving,” you said, the words steady, though they felt like they weighed a thousand pounds in your chest. You weren’t sure why you were telling her this now, but you had to. You had to make it real, to take control of something in your life again.

“I’m transferring,” you added, your voice quiet but firm. “I’m going to Quantico. I’ll be working with the FBI as a consultant. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing, but... I don’t deserve to be here anymore. I got the hint.”

The words felt like a confession, a goodbye you hadn’t yet found the courage to say. There had been so many dreams—so many things you’d imagined for yourself at SHIELD. You had fought for them, worked tirelessly, sacrificed for them. But now, they felt like they were slipping away.

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. She didn’t even look at you. Her eyes were fixed on the ground, like she was trying to find the words. You knew what she’d say. She’d tell you that you were making a mistake, that you had so much potential. But it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would fix what had been broken.

You could feel the emotions swirling inside of you, but you had already made your decision. It was easier to walk away, easier than confronting everything that had gone wrong.

But then, she spoke. And it was different from anything you’d expected.

“You’re the best SHIELD has to offer,” Natasha said, her voice steady, though there was an underlying urgency in it. “You’re the best agent we’ve got, baby. I... I don’t think you see it. You’ve done things that people can’t even dream of. You’ve proven yourself time and time again. You’ve earned your place here. And I know I haven’t made it easy for you, but you belong here.”

Her words hung in the air, and for a moment, you couldn’t quite comprehend what she was saying. Her voice was fierce now, insistent, and you could hear the raw sincerity in it. But none of it felt real. None of it felt true, not in the way you needed it to.

“I don’t believe you,” you said, your voice quiet, almost lost in the distance between you. “I don’t think I’ve ever truly belonged here. Not in the way you think. I’m not you, Nat. I’m not cut from the same cloth. I’m just—me. And I’ve been holding on to a dream that doesn’t fit. Not anymore.”

Natasha’s expression faltered. She opened her mouth to say something, but the words died on her tongue. She could feel your resolve, could see how broken you were, how done you seemed. It was like you had already left—mentally, emotionally, even before physically walking away.

Her chest tightened. “Baby, listen—"

But you shook your head, cutting her off. “Whatever you’re going to say, Nat, I’ve heard it all.” You inhaled sharply, the words rushing out. “And I’ve finally started hearing what’s been said. And now I’m seeing what’s been true all along. I’m not enough, no matter how hard I try. No matter how much I give. And you... you’ve made it clear that I’ll never be anything but a second choice. I was just a comfort to you, a distraction. You made me feel like I needed to prove myself—like I needed to earn my place, but I did. I did, and it never mattered.”

There was a pause. Natasha’s lips trembled, the harshness of your words sinking in. She knew she had been wrong, knew she had made everything worse. But hearing you speak this way—so broken, so defeated—it shattered something deep inside her.

"Please..." Natasha's voice faltered, her tough exterior cracking. She reached out toward you, but the gesture was hesitant, unsure. “I never meant for it to be like this. I never wanted to make you feel—”

You pulled away, standing up slowly, the decision final in your mind. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made my choice. I’m leaving. And I don’t think you’ll miss me that much anyway. It’s easier to pretend like you don’t need anyone than to admit you might be wrong about something.”

That's why I can't love you in the dark

It feels like we're oceans apart

Before you could take another step, you felt a hand grip yours. Warm, strong, and unyielding. Natasha had caught up with you, her fingers laced around yours, holding you in place. You didn’t turn around. You weren’t sure you wanted to face her again, not after everything that had been said, not after the rawness that she had exposed.

Natasha’s voice was softer now as she called your name, more vulnerable than you’d ever heard it. “Please, just—don’t walk away yet.”

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse, but it was hard when every part of you wanted to run. You didn’t stop, but neither did she.

Her grip tightened, pulling you back just a little, her touch sending a mix of warmth and tension straight through you. When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t the confident agent you were used to, the one who had always kept her emotions under lock and key. There was something different now, something uncertain, almost as if she wasn’t sure of her place in your world anymore.

“I’ve messed up,” Natasha continued, her voice shaking with emotion. “I know I pushed you too hard. I know I made you feel like you weren’t enough, like you didn’t belong here, and... I did that because I wanted you to be the best. I wanted you to be safe. I was afraid that if anything happened to you—if I lost you on a mission, I—I don’t think I could survive it.”

You could feel her breath, the rise and fall of her chest close behind you, but you didn’t turn around. Not yet. Her words hit you like a wave crashing into the shore, raw and jagged, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to process them.

“I pushed you because I was scared. And in trying to protect you... I ended up pushing you away,” she whispered, the confession hanging in the air, the depth of it too much to ignore. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I was so so wrong.”

The air between you both was thick with everything she had just said, and you stood there for a long moment, processing it all. But it wasn’t enough, not yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to face her—not yet.

“I don’t know how to forgive you for this, Natasha,” you said, your voice a mixture of anger and hurt. It wasn’t snark this time, no biting sarcasm, just raw emotion. "The only time something terrible happened to me, something that almost killed me, was when you abandoned me. You made the call. You didn’t show up. I was out there, all alone, and you weren’t there when I needed you most.”

Your chest tightened as you spoke, the hurt pouring out like it always had, but now it was different. Now, it wasn’t just anger. It was a deep, aching sadness that threatened to drown you. And despite yourself, you couldn’t stop the words from coming. “You made me feel like I wasn’t worth it. Like I wasn’t worth anything.”

You could feel Natasha’s breath hitch behind you, the weight of your words striking her deep. She didn’t say anything at first, and when you finally turned around, you saw the truth in her eyes—guilt, sorrow, and a pain you hadn’t expected. The sight of it, the way her face crumpled in on itself, broke something inside you.

Her hand fell away from yours, but it wasn’t because she wanted to let go. It was because she was shaking, trembling with emotion that she could no longer hold in. And then you saw it—tears. Two, maybe three, glistening on her cheeks. Natasha Romanoff, the unshakable Black Widow, was crying.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she whispered, her voice quivering. “I didn’t. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to make you feel abandoned. I... I couldn’t bear the thought of you in danger. But... I hurt you worse by pushing you away.”

For the first time in all the years you’d known her, you saw Natasha unraveling in front of you, breaking apart piece by piece. It felt almost cruel, to see her like this after everything you’d been through. But as much as your heart ached for her, you couldn’t bring yourself to forgive her. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“You can’t just apologize and expect everything to be okay, Nat,” you said, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “You hurt me. You made me feel worthless, like I wasn’t enough. And when it mattered the most... when I was out there fighting to survive, you turned your back on me.”

Natasha flinched at the force of your words. They were like a punch to the gut, and you saw how much it hurt her to hear them. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep pretending that everything would just magically be okay.

“I know,” Natasha said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know. And I can’t take that back. I can’t make up for it. But... I just need you to know, I care. I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know you care,” you said softly, but your voice still carried that edge of distance. “But that’s not enough anymore. I don’t know how to keep going back to the way things were. I can’t keep coming back to you only to be left in the dark again.”

There was a long silence, the kind that seemed to stretch on forever, and Natasha stood there, her shoulders slumped, her eyes filled with unshed tears. She was broken, but that didn’t change the fact that what she’d done had hurt you in ways you weren’t sure could ever heal.

“You’re right,” she said finally, voice cracked. “You deserve more than this. You deserve better. Someone who won’t make you feel like you have to earn their care, someone who won’t turn their back when things get hard.”

You stood there, feeling the weight of the finality in her words, and for a long time, you didn’t know what to say. You looked at her—the broken woman in front of you—and you realized that, despite everything, despite all the hurt, you didn’t want to stay. You needed to walk away. For yourself.

“I need to walk away, Natasha,” you said quietly, your voice steady but firm. “I don’t know what we were, what we are anymore. But I can’t do this anymore.”

You turned towards the exit, your steps unfaltering as you walked away. Natasha half expected - hoped - you’d turn around and run to her. But you didn’t. You walked away, slowly, your footsteps fading into the distance, away from SHIELD and away from her.

There is so much space between us

Baby, we're already defeated

A year later…

It was a quiet evening when you walked into the bar after a long day, your mind still buzzing with the details of your latest case. Quantico was different to SHIELD in almost every way. The people were different, the procedures were different, but you found that - after getting into the swing of things - it wasn’t worse. Just different.

The dim lighting of the bar, the hum of conversation, the clink of glasses—it was a familiar comfort now, one that made you feel grounded after the chaos of your job. You ordered a drink and leaned against the bar, letting your shoulders drop, the weight of the day lifting slowly.

That was when you saw her.

Natasha Romanoff, standing across the room, her back slightly to you as she talked to a stranger at the bar. But even from behind, something about her caught your attention. She looked different. Older, somehow. More... mature. The woman you had known was always poised, confident, and untouchable—but there was something in the way she held herself now that made her feel more human. Vulnerable, even.

Her hair was different too—shorter, sleek, straight, a stark contrast to the wavy red that had once framed her face. She had always been beautiful, but now she seemed to radiate something else—something quieter, more grounded.

You stared for a moment, unsure if you were seeing things right, but as she turned to glance around the bar, her eyes met yours. Recognition hit her almost immediately, and she froze for a second, her expression flickering with surprise. Then, just as quickly, it softened.

Her voice was a little hoarse as she whispered your name, almost like she hadn’t expected to see you here, or maybe she hadn’t heard your name in so long that saying it felt foreign.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched her—really looked at her—before taking a slow step forward. “Natasha.” Your voice was calm, composed. Different from the way you used to say her name with that sense of longing, of wanting something that wasn’t ever going to be.

She gave a small, tentative smile, the kind that spoke volumes about how much time had passed, about how many things had been left unsaid between you. "You look... good," she said, her eyes flickering over you.

It was an understatement. You felt good. You felt like you were finally living a life that wasn’t defined by the weight of the past, by the mistakes you’d made and the ones others had made for you.

“I could say the same about you,” you replied, with a small smile of your own. “You look different. I like it.”

“Yeah.” She ran a hand through her new, shorter hair, a nervous habit, before looking back at you. “A lot’s changed.”

“Clearly,” you said, glancing around. You couldn’t help but take in the way she stood—so different from the woman who had always been so self-assured, so used to being in control of every situation. But in a way, it made her more real, more approachable.

The two of you stood there for a moment, the air between you awkward but not uncomfortable, as if neither of you knew where to start. It was Natasha who broke the silence first.

“So, how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice softer than you remembered it. “Really?”

You raised an eyebrow at her, unsure if she even knew what really meant anymore, after everything. But it was a simple enough question. And you’d spent the last year being honest with yourself, so why not? “I’m doing alright. Different. Moving on. Got a new job at Quantico. Therapy’s been helping. I’m in a better place now.”

Natasha nodded, though you saw the flicker of something behind her eyes—a mix of regret, of longing, maybe. “I’m glad to hear that. I’ve... I’ve been trying to do the same. It’s been a long year. Things haven’t been easy, but I think I’m getting there.”

You studied her for a moment, your expression unreadable. The quiet honesty in her voice made you want to believe that she was trying. You could see it now. She had changed too.

“You’re still working for SHIELD?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation casual, as if the past didn’t hang over both of you like a thick, invisible cloud.

She nodded, but there was a hesitation in her movements. “Sort of. I’ve been taking a step back, working in a different capacity now. More... behind the scenes. I guess I’m trying to figure out who I am, outside of all the missions, the work.”

It hit you—she was no longer the same person either. The intensity in her eyes had softened, and there was a certain sadness to her that you hadn’t seen before. She seemed tired in a way that wasn’t physical—tired of running, of hiding behind the façade she had built. You hadn’t seen this version of her before, and in some ways, you almost didn’t know how to react.

“So... what now?” you asked, the question feeling lighter than it should. “Now that we’re both here, like this.”

Natasha’s eyes met yours, and there was a long pause, the weight of everything that had passed between you hanging heavily in the air. And then, almost as if on instinct, you spoke.

“Do you want to come back to my place?” You offered the invitation like it was just a reflex—like things could go back to the way they were, the comfort of those old habits, the way things had felt when it was just the two of you, before everything had gone sideways.

She looked at you for a long moment, and you saw the conflict in her eyes. She was torn, and you could see in her eyes, that something was playing on her mind.

“No.”

Everything changed me

And I don't think you can save me

The words hit you like a jolt, a shock of electricity shooting through your chest. Natasha’s eyes were steady on yours now, no longer hesitant, no longer uncertain. There was a firmness in her voice that you hadn’t heard in a long time—a quiet confidence that seemed to say she’d finally found something worth fighting for. And for the first time in a long time, you saw Natasha Romanoff not as the untouchable spy, not as the woman who had left you behind, but as someone real, someone who had learned from her mistakes.

“I’m not going to make the same mistake twice,” she said, her voice low but with an undeniable certainty. “If you want me, I’m going to do it properly this time. No more running, no more half-heartedness. I’ve hurt you, and I won’t do it again. But this time, it’s going to be on our terms. If that’s okay with you.”

You stared at her for a long moment, taking in the gravity of what she was saying, the weight of the promise she was offering. For so long, you’d wondered if this day would ever come. The idea of this—of her asking—had seemed impossible, a distant dream you never thought you’d reach.

And yet, here she was, standing before you, offering a chance to try again. A real chance.

“Dinner tomorrow?” she asked, her lips curving into a small, tentative smile. “If you're free?”

You didn’t have to think long. The question felt so simple, so natural, in a way that almost made you want to laugh at how easy it seemed compared to everything that had come before.

"Yeah," you said, the answer escaping your lips before your mind had fully processed it. "I’m free."

Natasha’s smile deepened, the corners of her eyes softening as she took in your response. It was a quiet victory for her—one that meant more than words could convey. She wasn’t expecting you to forgive her immediately, or to trust her completely. But she was willing to try, and that was more than she had ever given before.

“I’ll pick you up,” she said softly, her voice almost shy now. “I’ll make sure it’s a good night.”

You nodded, still processing the fact that she was here, still standing in front of you, willing to do what she hadn’t done before. And for the first time in a long while, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was something worth saving between the two of you.

“Sounds good,” you replied, a quiet confidence settling in your own chest. “Tomorrow then.”

With that, Natasha gave you one last look, a small, genuine smile gracing her face, before she turned and walked out of the bar. You stood there for a moment longer, feeling the weight of everything that had happened between you two, and then, for the first time in a while, you allowed yourself to feel something else—hope.

Tomorrow. You were willing to see where it could go. And maybe, just maybe, Natasha Romanoff was going to do it right this time.

You saved me.

The evening had been everything and nothing like you expected.

Dinner was at a beautiful, upscale restaurant with soft candlelight flickering across polished wood tables, glasses of wine that felt far too expensive, and Natasha—sitting across from you, more present than she had ever been. She wasn’t the untouchable agent, the mysterious woman who kept her emotions locked away. She was Natasha, just Natasha, in the soft glow of the candlelight, her laughter filling the space between the two of you, the lightness in her eyes almost enough to make you forget the weight of the years spent apart.

The night had been filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed without effort, as though the years of silence hadn’t really existed. But it had. They had.

And yet, here you were, sitting across from her in a place that made your own paycheck look laughable, eating food that was far too rich for your taste, and all you could think about was how right this felt. You hadn’t expected it to be this natural, this easy to fall back into old rhythms, the way she looked at you like you were the only person in the room. And by the time you were back at your apartment, after a night of shared glances and a warmth between you that neither of you had ever truly experienced before, you couldn’t deny it anymore.

You wanted her. You needed her. And maybe, just maybe, you were ready to give her another chance, to let her love you, to let yourself love her again.

The moment your door clicked shut behind you both, Natasha pulled you into her, her lips capturing yours with an urgency that felt foreign, yet so familiar. There was no hesitation this time, no walls between you. Her hands roamed to your sides, pulling you closer, as though she couldn’t get enough. You met her halfway, losing yourself in the kiss, in the warmth of her touch, the way she made you feel like everything would be okay.

It wasn’t just the kiss though. It was what she said in between—her voice breaking the quiet with a rawness you hadn’t expected.

“I love you,” Natasha whispered against your lips, her hands tender as they traced over the curve of your jaw, as though she was afraid to let go. “I love you. And I never want to keep you hidden again. I’m done pretending I don’t need you. You’re everything.”

Her words hit you like a wave. They didn’t come with the weight of shame or regret this time. They were just the truth—simple, honest, and real. She loved you. After everything, after all the mistakes, she still loved you.

You breathed out a soft laugh, a tear slipping down your cheek at the raw vulnerability in her voice. She reached up, brushing it away with her thumb, as if she could erase the past for you, make everything better with that one gentle gesture.

“I’ve missed you,” you said quietly, your voice catching in your throat. “I’ve missed this.”

Natasha smiled, a single finger running down your cheek. "I don't want to hide you anymore. Let me love you in the light."

fin.

#natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female reader

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youngsadlesbian · 2 days ago

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BORN FOR THIS

pairing: natasha romanoff x bucky barnes x daughter!reader

summary: growing up as the daughter of natasha romanoff and bucky barnes, you prove your brilliance and earn your place among the avengers.

a/n: it's been a long time since i wrote anything for buckynat x daughter!reader so here it is.

word count: 914

warnings: just fluffy <3

Being the daughter of two of the world’s most dangerous spies came with a lot of expectations. People assumed you’d be a perfect soldier, a flawless fighter, or maybe an expert in covert operations. But you were none of those things—at least, not in the way they expected.

Your mind was your greatest weapon.

It started with a Hydra firewall.

You were twelve, sitting in the Avengers Tower’s common room, absently hacking into a secure system while eating a bowl of cereal.

Steve, Bucky, and Natasha were sitting nearby, discussing an upcoming mission. They were stuck on a major issue: Hydra had encrypted files that could expose their newest operation, and no one—not even Tony—had been able to break through their security.

"FRIDAY, any progress?" Natasha asked, crossing her arms.

"Negative. Decryption process remains incomplete. Estimated time: seventy-two hours."

Bucky groaned. "We don’t have seventy-two hours."

You looked up from your tablet. "What are you trying to get into?"

"Classified," Natasha said automatically.

You rolled your eyes and turned the screen toward them. "You mean this?"

There was a long silence.

Steve nearly choked on his coffee. "How the hell—?"

Bucky snatched the tablet from your hands. Sure enough, the encrypted Hydra files were right there, already decrypted.

Natasha blinked. "You cracked the encryption?"

You shrugged. "It wasn’t that hard. They used a basic 256-bit cipher. Amateurs."

Tony chose that exact moment to walk in. "Hey, who’s been messing with my—" He froze as he saw what was on the screen. His face went through at least four different emotions before he turned to you, eyes wide. "Wait. Wait, wait. You cracked the Hydra encryption? The one I spent a week trying to get through?"

You nodded. "Yeah, but to be fair, they used a weak key. If you tweak the algorithm to—"

"Okay, nope. I refuse to be shown up by a twelve-year-old," Tony declared. "This is unacceptable."

Steve just stared at you. "How long did it take you?"

You tilted your head, thinking. "Maybe… ten minutes?"

Natasha looked genuinely impressed.

Bucky looked horrified.

Tony groaned. "I hate this. I hate this."

At fourteen, you had another brilliant (but completely ridiculous) idea.

The mission was in Madripoor. The Avengers needed to infiltrate a high-tech facility, but security was tight. No one could get past the biometric scanners without raising alarms.

The team spent hours brainstorming. Then you walked in, half-asleep, holding a bag of chips.

"Why don’t you just trigger a system-wide false alarm first?" you suggested between bites.

Everyone turned to look at you.

You chewed slowly. "I mean… if the whole system freaks out first, no one will notice when you actually break in. Hydra will think it's just another system malfunction."

Silence.

Bruce adjusted his glasses. "Technically, that could work."

"That’s insane," Clint muttered.

"It’s also brilliant," Natasha said.

Tony groaned. "Okay, fine. Let's try the kid’s dumb idea."

It worked.

And no one ever called your ideas dumb again.

By the time you were fifteen, it was clear that you weren’t just "the kid of two super-spies." You were an asset.

So when a mission required an undercover agent who could blend in as an ordinary teenager, you were the perfect candidate.

Natasha was against it.

"No. Absolutely not."

"Nat," Bucky sighed, "she’s the best option."

"She’s fifteen," Natasha snapped.

"She’s also better at this than half the team," Tony added. "I mean, let’s be real, she’s already saved our asses multiple times."

You sat there, watching as your parents debated your fate.

Finally, you crossed your arms. "You do realize I’m in the room, right?"

Natasha sighed, rubbing her temples. "You’re not ready for this."

You met her gaze, unwavering. "Yes, I am."

She studied you for a long moment. Then, finally, she nodded. "Fine. But if anything happens to you—"

Bucky cut in. "—we’ll burn the whole damn place down."

That was the only reassurance they needed.

The mission went too well.

You slipped in undetected, blending in as just another teenager at an elite school. You befriended the target’s daughter, gained access to restricted areas, and managed to get crucial intel without setting off a single alarm.

Everything was fine—until it wasn’t.

The second Hydra caught wind of an intruder, all hell broke loose.

Gunfire. Alarms. Agents swarming the building.

You could hear Natasha’s panicked voice over the comms. "Where is she?"

You didn’t have time to respond. You were already running.

A Hydra agent lunged at you, but you were faster. You ducked, disarmed him, and took him down before he could blink.

Natasha and Bucky reached you just in time to see it.

You turned to them, slightly out of breath. "Hi."

Natasha’s eyes flickered to the unconscious agent. "Did you—?"

"Yeah."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bucky grinned. "That’s my girl."

Natasha sighed. "God help us all."

But you caught the tiny smirk she tried to hide.

After the mission, things changed.

No one treated you like a kid anymore. Not even Tony.

You had a seat at the table. You had a voice in the room. You were an Avenger.

And as you sat there, watching Natasha and Bucky exchange knowing glances, you realized—

This was where you were meant to be.

#bucky barnes x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #buckynat x reader #bucky barnes x natasha romanoff x reader #avengers #mcu #marvel

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sunschay · 2 days ago

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The Anger of the Soul | Natasha Romanoff! x Gender Neutral Rogers Reader.

After an unsuccessful mission, the reader ends up having trouble controlling their own anger and injures their hands. Natasha takes care of their injuries and feelings, and everything ends up going beyond what she planned.

Note: This is my first oneshot so forgive me for any spelling mistakes below, I hope you enjoy this.

Warnings: None.

Fluff, soft angst.

Word count: 1,4 K

The shrill sound of ambulance sirens was too much for their ears. All that blood, that dirty earth, building debris and rubble on the ground, it was too much. The mission had failed. An excruciating pain spreading through their wrist brought them back to reality, staring at the empty gym ahead. They had failed and the guilt would consume them until it corroded their nervous system, until it drove them to the limit. But Y/n already felt at the deepest limit.

“Ugh!” They growled, landing blow after blow on the poor punching bag in front of them.

There was something deep down in Y/n's mind that told them that the failure of the mission was their own fault, that everything there had resulted from their incompetence and misery. A strong kick knocked the bag to the floor, previously hanging by a thin sports rope under the gray ceiling of the gym, and they began to remove the bandages from their hands quickly.

Their knuckles were raw, not only from the combat on their mission, but also from their little conflict with their own punching bag. Y/n sat down exhaustedly on the nearest bench, broad shoulders rising and falling along with their tired chest, their forehead sweaty and their once hopeful eyes now staring at a fixed point in the darkness of their own twisted mind. Footsteps sounded down the center hallway and they looked up furiously to see a red-haired female figure enter the gym.

“You shouldn't take this out on yourself, Rogers.” Natasha scolded seriously, approaching to help them remove the bandages and holding their wrists.

Natasha stood there, small bruises on her face, almost nonexistent. She was wearing a simple black tank top, tight uniform pants, boots, and still had her holster on, a revolver tucked into her waistband. Her red hair was impeccable as always, her green eyes worried and confused.

The cuts on their hands and knuckles were deep, dried blood marking their pale skin like some of the many battle scars they carried with them. Y/n shook her head, lowering her gaze from them and trying to avoid Romanoff's gaze on their faces, she intimidated them and she knew it.

“We could have done better. I failed at everything ” They groaned, getting up from the bench to go to the nearby bathroom and stick their hands under the cold water, trying their best to ignore the excruciating pain of every tiny cut and bruise.

“We all fail, that doesn't mean the weight of the world has to be on your shoulders alone. You are my friend. Let me help.” The redhead asked as she approached again, carefully grabbing her friend's wrists.

No words came out of Rogers' mouth. They went back to the gym and sat under the bench while they allowed Natasha to clean the rest of the dried blood with a damp cloth, using a small tweezer to catch small shards of glass lost in the mission. Her eyes were beautiful and Y/N hated to think about it, they were friends. But they felt for her, things that friends shouldn't feel, and they would suppress it as soon as possible.

“I know you hurt the rest of your body, take off your shirt so I can take a look.” Natasha asked calmly and politely, placing the blood-soaked cloth in a pot of water, watching the clear water turn bright red.

They took off their shirts, their eyes going anywhere and in any direction other than Natasha's. It seemed unusual in a way. Natasha was very respectful and skeptical, of course, but they still weren't used to simply taking off their shirts in front of her. It was somehow exposed. Romanoff noticed some bruises on Y/n's body, moving away to get some ice packs and some painkiller.

“You don't have to do this, I don't want to be a burden, Nat.” She heard them speak again, her red eyebrows arching before looking at them deeply.

“If you say you're a burden again, I'll give you a black eye myself.” The redhead whispered, her serious green eyes staring into theirs and then she sat down on the bench too.

Natasha applied some of the cold ointment to her hands, carefully working it into Rogers' skin, massaging their tense shoulders and squeezing, hearing a few exhausted sighs in response. She subtly pressed the muscle in their bicep, biting her lip to keep the unprofessional thoughts from entering her mind.

“Your hands are divine.” Natasha heard Rogers' soft whisper and smiled mentally, continuing the little massage.

“Focus, Rogers.” She teased, her fingers trailing down the middle of their back.

She felt them tense and then she quickly removed her fingers, seeing a cluster of deep scars in the middle of their spines. She already knew that S/n had those scars. War scars. Some were old, some they had earned during all their missions as the Avengers. Natasha swallowed hard, pressing the ice pack to one of the deep, violent bruises on their arm, trying to breathe calmly as she helped her friend.

“I feel so angry that even breathing feels wrong.” They whisper, their voices deep and hoarse with so much fury kept inside and stored inside themselves.

“..I don't want to feel like this anymore, but all I want most of the time is to break things. Without fear of the consequences, just break and smash anything that dares to move, Sam got hurt today because of me. ” They shook their heads, jaw clenching tightly.

“No, he didn't! He got hurt because we were too far away to catch him and you carried him to the safest spot yourself. Y/n, you saved him.” Natasha corrected them, her warm hand cupping their faces with a simple, subtle touch.

Y/n felt a small shiver at Romanoff's touch, their faces softening little by little and they slowly moistened their lips. Natasha's touch was like being on the edge of paradise. It was like a pure feeling, the purest and sweetest feeling in the world, an inevitable cliché that not even the redhead knew the power she had.

“This anger consumes you. This anger makes you sick. We need to take care of it.” Natasha slid her hand over the middle of their chests, the sound of rapid heartbeats making her eyes close quickly.

“I know exactly what destroys my anger, what calms and numbs my fury. I don't need anything else.” Rogers stated, their dark eyes flicking between Natasha's eyes and her lips.

Natasha blinked in confusion, not taking a single step away from them. She watched Rogers lean closer, their now soft breath landing on Romanoff's porcelain face. And then, with a firm, slow movement, their fingers gripped her slender waist, pulling her close before pressing their lips to hers.

Natasha's lips were full, soft as lying on a lawn full of fresh roses. The feel of her skin on theirs sent a shock through both their bodies, which were in a state of deep frenzy. Romanoff closed her eyes, her hand instinctively grabbing their shoulder, squeezing gently before returning the kiss with passion, her body starting to burn in flames.

Y/n kept one hand on her waist, the other long hand snaking down the agent's body until it sank into her red hair, her fingers getting lost in the fiery, red softness. Natasha let out a small gasp when their tongues met for the first time, the innocence of the first kiss slowly escaping between silent lines.

“You are the solution. You are the cure for my rage, Nat.” Rogers whispered, their lower lip being slowly bitten by Natasha.

“Before I thought we shouldn't rush so much... now all I need is you, no matter how long it takes.” Romanoff sighed, feeling a small trickle of saliva leave their lips.

They turned as soon as they heard footsteps, still glued to each other when a Steve entered the room, half in uniform, stained with blood and with cuts on his face. He looked suspiciously between the two, his mouth slightly open in an 'O' and then took a deep breath.

“I think I'd better come back later.” Their brother announced, his face slightly red and his blond hair completely disheveled.

“Great idea, Steve.” Y/n shook her head, hearing an embarrassed laugh from Natasha.

They felt Natasha's arms snake around their shoulders, her sweet yet mysterious scent filling their senses, their body that was once tense and completely filled with anger now softened. Calm. Tranquil. A well of tranquility, literally. All Y/n really needed was Natasha with them. They needed her, not just to control their anger. They needed her because their souls were destined for each other, and that would never change.

“Okay. You can relax now.” Natasha murmured, tightening her embrace around them.

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #marvel #black widow #ucm #natasha romanoff x you #marvel heroes #steve rogers

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urdreamydoodles · 7 hours ago

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MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

You Protect The Marvel Comics Characters By Punching Someone Who Speaks Badly About Them

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

Peter Parker aka. Spider-Man

- Peter Parker has been insulted more times than he can count. He’s been called a menace, a failure, a joke. He’s used to it, laughs it off even when it cuts deep. But when he hears the sharp crack of your fist connecting with someone’s jaw—when he realizes that you did that for him—his world tilts on its axis.

- “Oh no. Oh no no no.” His first instinct is to grab you, to get you out of there before this turns into something worse. You just punched someone for him. He’s supposed to be the one protecting you, not the other way around. His heart is hammering—part fear, part something softer, warmer.

- He rushes to your side, hands hovering, unsure if he should scold you or kiss you right there in the street. The person you hit is groaning, cradling their face, and Peter is torn between feeling bad for them and wanting to tell them they deserved it. (Because they did. They did.)

- “Okay, that was… something,” he says, eyes darting between you and the stunned crowd. “Not that I don’t appreciate the backup, but—y’know, punching people usually gets me into trouble.” His voice is light, joking, but there’s something else in his gaze—awe, affection, something deeper than words.

- Later, when he’s patching up your knuckles with the gentlest hands, he murmurs, “No one’s ever fought for me like that.” And when he finally meets your gaze, soft and unguarded, you see it—the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most incredible thing in the universe.

Tony Stark aka. Iron Man

- Tony Stark has heard it all. The insults, the backhanded compliments, the jealous jabs from people who will never be him. Normally, he drowns it out with charm and a drink in hand. But then—then—your fist connects with someone’s face, and the world stops.

- For a moment, he just stares. Blinking. Processing. Did you really just punch someone for him? Then, slowly—a slow-spreading, wicked smirk. Because holy hell, that was the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

- “Well, well, well.” He steps forward, slipping an arm around your shoulders like you’re some kind of victorious gladiator. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.” He’s eating this up, reveling in it, in the way you didn’t hesitate, in the way you stood up for him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

- The guy on the ground groans, and Tony glances down, unimpressed. “Next time, try using words, buddy. Or, y’know, just accept that I’m better than you.” Then he turns back to you, tilting his head. “Not that I’m complaining, but—what was that? You got a thing for defending handsome billionaires, or am I just lucky?”

- Later, when the adrenaline fades, he brushes a knuckle over your bruised hand, voice quieter. “No one ever does that for me.” And it’s not teasing anymore, not deflection—just something real. Something raw. And for once, Tony Stark is at a loss for words.

Steve Rogers aka. Captain America

- Steve Rogers has always fought his own battles. From the alleys of Brooklyn to the battlefields of war, he’s used to standing his ground—used to taking the hits for the people he loves. But this? This is something else entirely.

- One second, he’s turning the other cheek, trying to walk away from the insult. The next, there’s the sharp, unmistakable sound of impact—your fist driving straight into the jaw of the person who dared speak ill of him.

- “Hey—!” His hands are on you immediately, pulling you back before things escalate, before this turns into something worse. But his heart—his heart is a drumbeat against his ribs, because you fought for him. He should tell you it was reckless, that you didn’t have to, but all he can do is stare at you, his throat tight with something he can’t name.

- “That wasn’t necessary,” he says, but there’s no scolding in his voice, only something soft, something incredibly fond. Because no one ever fights for him. Not like that. Not without hesitation.

- Later, when you’re sitting together, nursing your sore hand, he finally murmurs, “Thank you.” And when he looks at you, there’s a warmth in his blue eyes that says more than words ever could—a depth of feeling that leaves you breathless.

Thor aka. God of Thunder

- Thor is used to insults. They roll off his back like rain on a battlefield, drowned out by the thunder in his veins. But when he hears the crack of your fist colliding with flesh— when he realizes you have struck someone in his name— he does not laugh. He is in awe.

- “By the gods!” His voice is both a boom of delight and a whisper of reverence. He steps toward you, eyes shining with something almost worshipful. You are fire, you are fury, you are glorious.

- And then he throws his head back and laughs, loud and full of joy. “A mighty warrior indeed! You honor me, my lady.” He clasps your hand, ignoring the bruises blooming on your knuckles, lifting it as though you have just won a great battle.

- The fool who insulted him scrambles away, but Thor does not spare them a glance. No, his attention is entirely on you. On this magnificent, fearless mortal who would strike in his name. And suddenly, the air around you feels different. Charged. Alive.

- Later, when the revelry has died down, he turns to you, voice softer. “You are… remarkable.” And when he looks at you, it is with the kind of devotion that only gods can give.

Loki aka. God of Mischief

- Loki is no stranger to cruelty. Words have been his weapons, his shields, his burdens. But when someone speaks ill of him— when they dare to drag his name through the dirt—he expects only one thing: to be alone in the aftermath.

- And then you hit them. Hard.

- He blinks. Once. Twice. Shock flickers across his face, unreadable and raw. He watches as you stand, fists clenched, gaze burning with something primal, something protective. And for the first time in centuries, Loki does not know what to say.

- “You—” His voice is different. Lower. There is no mockery, no amusement, only a sharp, jagged edge of something he does not let himself feel. You have fought for him. Him. And the realization shakes him.

- Later, when you’re alone, he traces the bruises on your knuckles with something dangerously close to reverence. “You are a fool,” he whispers, but his fingers linger, his breath unsteady. “A reckless, maddening fool.” And then, softer—so quiet you almost don’t hear it—“And I think I am doomed to love you for it.”

Clint Barton aka. Hawkeye

- Clint Barton is used to being underestimated. People see the bow, the lack of powers, and assume he’s less. They talk about him like he’s a joke, like he doesn’t belong among gods and super-soldiers. He lets it roll off his back—until you don’t.

- The sound of your fist cracking against a jaw cuts through the noise of the bar, and suddenly, the air is electric. You did that for him. Not because he asked, not because you had to—but because someone insulted him, and that was unacceptable to you.

- “Whoa—hey, hey, hold up!” Clint is beside you in an instant, half-laughing, half-terrified. His hands hover near yours, concern flickering in his sharp blue eyes. You’re pissed. It’s kind of the best thing he’s ever seen.

- The guy on the floor is groaning, but Clint isn’t paying attention to them anymore. No, his focus is on you—on your clenched fists, the fire still burning in your gaze. You’re beautiful like this, fierce and unwavering, and he’s absolutely, irreversibly doomed.

- Later, when he’s wrapping your bruised knuckles in an old bandana, he grins, soft and lopsided. “You know, I usually do the whole reckless, getting-into-fights thing. But I gotta say—kinda nice having someone in my corner for once.” And the way he looks at you then? Like you hung the goddamn stars.

Natasha Romanoff aka. Black Widow

- Natasha Romanoff has been called a monster, a traitor, a woman who can never be trusted. She’s lived a life of whispers behind her back, of sideways glances and careful distance. She’s learned to endure it. But she never expected you to lash out in her defense.

- The impact of your punch is sharp, decisive— a clean, perfect strike that she would have been proud of. And yet, it startles her. Not because you hit them, but because you lost control for her.

- “You didn’t have to do that.” Her voice is smooth, but there’s something unreadable in her expression—something unfamiliar. She’s used to people fighting beside her, but no one has ever fought for her. Not like this.

- She grips your wrist before you can throw another punch, thumb grazing the pulse point there. “Look at me,” she murmurs. And when you do, she sees it—the fire in you, the defiance, the unwavering loyalty. And it does something to her, something she can’t quite name.

- Later, in the quiet of a dimly lit room, she traces the bruise on your knuckles with the barest touch. “You’re dangerous,” she murmurs, lips curving slightly. And for the first time in a long time, she thinks—maybe she wants to be protected, too.

Bucky Barnes aka. Winter Soldier

- Bucky Barnes knows what people say about him. A killer. A weapon. A man who should have died decades ago. He doesn’t argue. He knows what he’s done. He doesn’t expect anyone to defend him.

- But then—you do. And not with words. With fists.

- The moment your knuckles connect with skin, he’s there. He’s fast, instinctive, grabbing you by the wrist before you can swing again. His heart is pounding. Not out of fear—but something deeper, something he can’t afford to name.

- “Why did you do that?” His voice is rough, almost accusing. But you don’t waver. You stand your ground, breathing heavy, eyes blazing with defiance. It hits him then—no one has ever done this for him. Not Steve, not anyone.

- Later, he sits beside you in the quiet, his metal fingers ghosting over your bruised knuckles. “You don’t have to fight for me,” he murmurs, voice almost broken. And when you reply—“Then who will?”—he feels something shift in his chest, something old and aching and terrifyingly new.

Matthew Murdock aka. Daredevil

- Matt Murdock hears the insult before it’s even fully formed—the venom in the voice, the disdain dripping from every syllable. He’s heard it before, about his blindness, about his law career, about the devil that lurks beneath the surface. He expects to ignore it.

- What he doesn’t expect is the sharp, sudden sound of your fist connecting with someone’s jaw.

- His head tilts slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He felt you coil before the strike, heard your heartbeat spike. You didn’t hesitate. And God help him, that does something to him.

- “That wasn’t very lawyerly of you.” He steps close, voice low and teasing, but there’s something else there too—something reverent. His fingers brush against yours, light as a whisper, like he’s memorizing the shape of your defiance.

- Later, in the sanctity of his apartment, he takes your injured hand in his own, running careful fingertips over bruised skin. “I don’t need saving,” he murmurs, though the way his breath hitches when you squeeze his hand says otherwise. And when you reply—“Too bad. You’ve got me anyway.”—his world tilts, just a little.

Frank Castle aka. The Punisher

- Frank Castle is a ghost, a monster, a cautionary tale. He’s used to people spitting his name like it’s a curse. He doesn’t care. He’s beyond caring.

- But then you punch someone in the face for speaking ill of him—and everything stops.

- The guy drops like a stone, groaning, and Frank… laughs. It’s not a soft sound. It’s dark, rough, something almost dangerous. He steps forward, crowding into your space, looking down at you like you’re something holy and terrible and his.

- “You got a mean right hook, sweetheart.” His voice is low, amused, but there’s something else there—something molten, something raw. He doesn’t say it, but he’s never had someone do this for him. Never had someone choose him so recklessly, so violently.

- Later, when you’re both alone, he leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes dark. “You don’t fight my battles.” His voice is a growl, but there’s no real anger behind it. And when you meet his gaze, unyielding, he exhales sharply. Because if anyone in this world deserved someone like you fighting for them—he knows it sure as hell ain’t him. But he wants it anyway.

Marc Spector aka. Moon Knight

- Marc Spector is used to being called insane. A broken mind, a fractured man, a violent, unhinged vigilante. The whispers follow him everywhere, behind his back and to his face. He doesn’t defend himself—because what would be the point?

- But then, you do. And not just with words. With your fists. The impact is sharp, the sound of bone on bone cutting through the murmur of the street like a gunshot. The moment is frozen. And Marc? He stares.

- He should pull you away, should tell you not to waste your breath, should laugh it off like it doesn’t matter. But he can’t. Because no one has ever done this for him. Not for Marc Spector. Not for the man beneath the mask.

- “You really shouldn’t have done that.” His voice is low, but there’s something almost reverent in the way he says it. His gloved fingers graze your bruised knuckles, and the moonlight catches in his dark eyes—like he’s seeing something holy.

- Later, he watches you from across the room, arms crossed, jaw tight. You stood up for him. You fought for him. And now, all he can think about is how much he wants to fight for you.

Johnny Storm aka. Human Torch

- Johnny Storm is used to the attention. The praise, the criticism, the headlines that reduce him to nothing more than a pretty face and a flame. He shrugs it off. Pretends it doesn’t sting.

- But then, he hears your voice—furious, unwavering, like a flame catching oxygen. And before he can turn, you swing. The guy stumbles back, clutching their jaw, and the entire room erupts.

- “Oh. My. God.” Johnny is somehow both horrified and absolutely delighted. He stares at you like you just set the whole world on fire. Because you did. And you did it for him.

- “I didn’t know you had that in you,” he grins, stepping closer. There’s something in his voice—something deep, awed, almost breathless. Because no one has ever burned quite like you.

- Later, when the adrenaline wears off, he’s grinning like an idiot, watching you ice your knuckles. And when you catch him staring, he just shrugs. “What? It’s kinda hot when you punch people for me.”

Reed Richards aka. Mister Fantastic

- Reed Richards has heard every insult in the book. Detached. Cold. Unfeeling. They don’t understand how his mind works, how his thoughts stretch beyond the present moment, beyond normal comprehension. He’s used to it.

- But you? You aren’t. The second someone spits out something vile, dismissive, cruel, your fist is already flying before Reed can even process what’s happening.

- “Oh.” That’s all he says at first, blinking as if recalibrating. He hadn’t expected—this. You. Your anger, your unwavering defense, the fire in your eyes. It’s an equation he hadn’t considered. And now, he can’t stop solving for it.

- “Violence isn’t necessary,” he murmurs, but he’s already taking your hand, stretching his fingers around your bruised knuckles, memorizing the shape of your loyalty.

- Later, he watches you—studying, calculating, analyzing. But for once, the question isn’t why. It’s how he ever lived without you.

Felicia Hardy aka. Black Cat

- Felicia Hardy doesn’t need protecting. She’s spent her life clawing her way out of trouble, slipping through shadows, dodging every snare. She laughs in the face of danger, purrs at the edge of chaos.

- But then—you hit someone. For her. And everything stops.

- She should be amused. Should smirk and tease and call you reckless. But instead—she just stares. Because no one, not once in her life, has ever thrown a punch for her. Not like this.

- “Darling, you really are full of surprises.” She steps close, a slow, predatory movement, her fingers tilting your chin up. There’s something wicked in her smirk—but her eyes? Her eyes are soft.

- Later, she finds herself watching you more than she should. Running a gloved hand over your bruised knuckles, feeling something dangerously close to devotion. And for the first time, Felicia Hardy wonders what it would be like to be caught.

Stephen Strange aka. Doctor Strange

- Stephen Strange is used to arrogance. His own, and the world’s. He’s used to people whispering behind his back, questioning, doubting, scoffing. He doesn’t care. Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

- But when someone speaks ill of him in front of you? You react before he does. The crack of your fist against their jaw is startlingly satisfying. And suddenly, the entire universe shifts.

- “You—” He stops himself. Adjusts his cloak. Exhales sharply. He should be chastising you, telling you to hold your temper, to rise above it. But instead, he’s looking at you like you just rewrote the laws of reality.

- “You didn’t have to do that.” His voice is careful, but his fingers are gentle when they brush against your bruised knuckles. He’s spent a lifetime mastering control—so why does it slip when you’re around?

- Later, he finds himself summoning bandages with magic, hands lingering longer than necessary. And when you smirk, teasing—“Was that a thank you, Doctor?”—he only hums, a small, knowing smile playing at his lips. Because maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t mind needing you.

Namor aka. The Sub-Mariner

- Namor is used to disrespect. The surface world dares to look down on him, on Atlantis, on the very ocean that sustains their miserable existence. He tolerates it only because he must. But when someone speaks ill of him in your presence, they are met with something he does not expect—your fist.

- The blow lands sharply, flesh against bone, a declaration of war in its own right. Namor watches, silver eyes narrowing, his body rigid with something unnameable. It is not anger. No, anger is familiar. This? This is something else.

- “You strike for me?” His voice is velvet over steel, laced with the kind of dangerous curiosity that comes before a storm. His people have fought wars in his name. But this? This is different. This is you.

- He moves toward you, slow, deliberate, fingers tilting your chin up. There is no hesitation when he speaks next. “You are worthy of a crown.” And the way he says it—it is not a compliment. It is a fact.

- Later, the sea sings your name. And though he will not say it outright, he watches you differently now—like a king who has found the one thing worth more than his throne.

Johnny Blaze aka. Ghost Rider

- Johnny Blaze has been called many things. Freak. Monster. Hellspawn. He doesn’t care—not anymore. He’s spent too long carrying his curse, dragging his soul behind him like a dying star.

- But then you hit someone. For him. Your knuckles split skin, the sound echoing in the dim light of the bar, and for the first time in a long time, Johnny forgets how to breathe.

- “Shit.” The word is barely a breath. You turn to him, fist still clenched, shoulders tight with fury, and Johnny? Johnny just stares. Because no one, not in his entire damn life, has ever thrown a punch in his name.

- “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he mutters, but there’s something dangerous behind his voice—something that flickers like an ember waiting to catch. He should stop this, should tell you he’s not worth it. But instead, his fingers brush over your bruised knuckles like a prayer.

- Later, he watches you from his bike, the engine growling beneath him, his heart doing the same. And when he finally speaks, voice rough, almost shy, it’s only to say: “Next time, lemme do the hitting.”

Eddie Brock & Venom aka. Venom

- Eddie Brock has heard it all before. Loser. Washed-up. Parasite. He grits his teeth and lets it slide, because what else is new? Venom, on the other hand, is far less patient.

- But before either of them can react—you do. Your fist cracks against the jaw of the one who dared to insult him, and suddenly, everything goes still.

- “Did you just—?” Eddie’s eyes go wide. Venom, however, purrs with delight.

- “They are ours,” the symbiote rumbles, voice sliding through Eddie’s skull like liquid night. “They fight for us.” Eddie wants to argue, to tell Venom to shut up, but he can’t, because he’s too busy watching you, heart pounding, something terrifying and warm curling in his chest.

- Later, he doesn’t bring it up—but Venom does. “We like them,” the voice whispers, thick with amusement. Eddie doesn’t respond. He just glances at you, hands tightening into fists, and thinks: Yeah. We do.

T’Challa aka. Black Panther

- T’Challa has faced enemies greater than words. He has fought battles with his hands, his mind, his heart. He does not concern himself with petty insults.

- But you do. The second you hear someone speak his name with disrespect, your body moves before your mind does. The punch lands with precision, trained and true—a warrior’s strike.

- He should chastise you. Should remind you that his reputation needs no defense. But when he looks at you—fire in your eyes, your breath sharp, your hands still clenched—he feels something stir beneath his ribs.

- “Impressive,” he murmurs, stepping closer. He does not touch you, not yet, but the space between you hums with electricity. He sees you differently now—not just as an ally. As something more.

- Later, as he watches you spar in the Wakandan training grounds, his mind drifts back to that moment. You fought for him. And T’Challa? T’Challa is not used to losing battles—but he is certain he is about to lose this one.

Elektra Natchios aka. Elektra

- Elektra is used to being hated. She does not care. She exists between life and death, between shadow and steel. She does not need protection.

- But then, you hit someone. For her. And Elektra? She does not know what to do with that.

- She watches as the body crumples to the floor, watches as you shake out your fist, anger still radiating from every inch of you. Something slow and dark unfurls in her chest.

- “Foolish,” she murmurs, stepping forward. But her voice is soft. Her fingers graze your wrist, her eyes searching yours for something she refuses to name. “But… admirable.”

- Later, she finds herself lingering near you more than usual, watching, waiting. You fought for her. And Elektra Natchios has spent her entire life surviving—but now, she wonders what it would be like to be worth saving.

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wannabe-fic-writer · 2 days ago

Text

Be Mine - Chapter 2

Summary: With work out of the way for the time being, you’re able to spend your time on more interesting things.

Warnings: Minor Language, Sexual tension

* * * * * * *

Work consumes you in the following weeks, leaving you confined to either your office at the company or your office at home.

Aside from the needed breaks to eat and shower, all of your time is taken up.

The non white collar aspect of your work had your head very deep in the books. Despite having numerous people running the business of your other establishments you still very much had to manage the finances of all of them. It was up to you to decide how to spend the money that was coming in, between paying all your people and allocating the appropriate amount of funds to each business, you were swamped.

The very legal business you were running saw to it that you had endless paperwork and video call meetings to handle, which led to consulting with your CFO and, at times, members of your board of directors. Kissing their asses was nowhere on the list of things you enjoyed doing at work but you did what needed to be done to continue prospering in all your business ventures.

“Miss Udaku I assure you, you have my full backing. The clowns who oversee my international relations aren’t always the brightest.” Your tone remains smooth, a charming smile thrown in to help assuage the Wakandan woman’s frustrations.

Hard brown eyes remain narrow, the woman leaning back against her sleek leather office chair with her arms crossed. After a pause her accented voice speaks up,“ if they don’t know how to handle things I would rather not go through them in our future dealings.”

You nod,“ I will send you my personal contacts as soon as possible. No middlemen, you will always speak directly with me.”

That seems to chip away at the attitude she had when she first called. A curt nod is given to you as her shoulders relax in the slightest.“ Their little run around game has set my operations back by weeks.”

“I understand, and I apologize for that.” Your hands clasp together as you lean forward on your desk.“ I am more than willing to offer my finances and resources to you. I believe a good friend of mine has some prototypes that would be of good use to you and your project.”

“Prototype of what?” Her voice holds controlled intrigue and you know you’ve gotten her exactly where you need her.

Your gaze shifts from the monitor on your wall to the door as it opens, Steve stepping in with two cups in hand. The instant the slightest whiff of the caffeine in the cup hits your nose, you nearly groan.

Before you get lost in your need for caffeine, you focus on the woman on your monitor.“ Nano tech. Top of the line and very exclusive.”

She’s silent. Then she smirks.“ How soon can you get it to me?”

“Three days tops. I’ll make sure it’s more than a big enough sample.” You assure, giving her a smile that she returns.

A few minutes are spent hashing out the finer details of the deal but she’s satisfied with it in the end, so you hang up feeling accomplished.

With a heavy sigh, you collapse back onto your couch. Steve crosses the room and hands the coffee cup over, watching as you take a long sip and drop your head back.

“Long day huh boss?” Steve drops back into the armchair beside the couch.

You huff, finally opening your eyes then nodding.“ I had to convince Xu Xialing not to terminate our contract and just finished talking Shuri Udaku out of looking elsewhere for a partnership. Between the two, my INT. department is completely fucking up. Now I’m going to have to kiss Stark’s ass to get my hands on a sample of Nano tech.”

“Good luck with that.” Steve snorts, knowing how difficult the billionaire could be. His massive ego and sarcasm is mainly to do with that, otherwise he’s not as much of a pain.

Sighing, you take another sip of coffee just as your phone pings. It’s no doubt just a notification reminding you of yet another meeting, one probably less important than the ones you’ve already had today but still something that you planned to handle.

You get up to go check it, finding that it’s exactly what you thought it was. It’s a pitch meeting. Technically speaking, you could have whatever presentation there is sent to you or you can send your assistant and she could handle taking notes for you and you could go over them at home tonight or tomorrow.

“You know,” Steve pipes up, turning in the chair a little,“ Buck wanted us to swing by tonight.”

“Oh is that so?” Amusement laces your tone.“ I’m almost positive that the invitation was mainly extended to you.”

The blonde can’t deny that, of course his boyfriend wanted to see him. But you’re also his friend and they both love spending time with you. That, however, wouldn’t be quite convincing enough for a workaholic such as yourself.

“True. But he’d still love to see you,” his blue eyes divert to his cup of coffee,“ and I believe a certain redhead is working tonight.”

Now that, that certainly grabbed your attention. Your gaze slowly pans from the papers on your desk to the man sitting across the office. There’s a knowing look on his face that makes your eyebrows raise.“ Do you have something to say, Rogers?”

With a small smirk he says,“ just that I noticed the way you watched her dance. We’ve seen dozens of girls on that stage but none caught your attention quite like she did.” Your jaw drops in the slightest at his words, eyebrows practically shooting into your hairline.“ It’s either her or we drop by the bar and see if the other redhead shows up. I saw you slip her your personal number.”

“Steven,” you pause to come up with a response which just makes him laugh softly,“ I have no clue what you’re talking about.” Is your best comeback.

He snorts, then stands and walks over.“ Come on boss,” a gentle hand lands on your shoulder as he looks down at you,“ time for a break. A real one.” He adds when he sees you about to rebuttal.

The two of you enter a stare down. If you weren’t trying to intimidate him with your glare, you might’ve outright laughed at the situation. The moment reminded you of your earlier days together.

You and Steve have known each other since your freshman year in high school, having met in a class you shared and finding out you had many things in common, the two of you became best friends fairly fast. He was the kind of person you knew would be a lifelong friend and you were right.

Through the years you noticed that you were far more well off money wise than he was. In freshman year of college, his parents passed and his finances got worse. He was struggling to get by and was close to dropping out of school when you had what you deemed the most brilliant idea ever.

At the time, you were a pain in your parents’ asses. You knew of the family business and understood the dangers it presented to you, but you also believed you could handle yourself and you hated having black suited men follow you around campus. This always led to you ditching the bodyguards they assigned to you.

Your idea was for Steve to become your bodyguard. You trusted him with your life already and he wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb in school, your parents also saw him as a son so that was a plus. It was considerably easy to convince them with the promise of behaving added to your request.

Steve was soon trained by your parents’ best guards and has been your guard ever since. The two of you have gone through more life or death situations than most best friends but those moments only drew you closer. In between those scenarios, were the ones such as this, the two of you trying to convince each other to do something.

This time around, it’s Steve who wins your stare down.

“Alright, fine. We can go see your boyfriend.” You grumble, shutting your laptop and collecting your stuff before following a smiling Steve out of the office.

On your way down to the car, Steve’s idle chatter fading to the background, your mind wanders to the topic of conversation in your office.

Steve was absolutely right. Since the moment you saw her step on stage, Natasha has been in your head.

Her attitude towards you wasn’t surprising, she no doubt dealt with a bunch of rich assholes all day and wasn’t impressed in the slightest that you owned the club. Your charm might not have meant much either. It seemed you got her with your comment on her eyes though, but you just chalk that surprise up to the fact that she’s probably used to sexual compliments on her body rather than genuine ones regarding anything else.

Yes, you did admire her body because she’s drop dead gorgeous. But you especially couldn’t get the image of those green eyes and that little smirk out of your head. The sound of her sultry voice also plagued you, it being something you wanted to hear again.

Alongside her was the redhead from the piano bar, Wanda. She too was gorgeous, but her looks weren’t the focus of your thoughts on her. She was also mysterious, maybe even more so than Natasha. Her marriage failed and she seems to like strawberry margaritas, and that’s all you knew. You want to know more but the likelihood of her ever calling some random stranger from a bar for “a distraction” was very low.

Work kept you from obsessing over the women, but they crept into your mind whenever the opportunity arose.

A knock on your window startles you from your thoughts. Steve’s expectant expression meets your eyes through the tinted glass and you realize you’d made it to the club, not even sure how’d you gotten into the car with the way you were so lost in thought.

Throwing the door open, you get out, adjusting your suit jacket and the collar of your shirt.

“Everything okay?” Steve asks, brows pinched together.

You respond with,“ just peachy,” delivering a slap to his arm before you make your way towards the club.

The place is much more packed tonight, which is expected with it being a Friday evening. Much like last time, music plays from the speakers scattered around the building, dim lights add to the ambience.

Bucky is quick to approach and you give him a greeting, falling into brief idle catch up before you b-line for the bar, leaving the two men to their alone time.

The bartender is quick to approach, taking your drink order and making it along with a few other cocktails. Once you have the whiskey sour, you turn to the stage. One of the new girls is gyrating and twerking to a fast paced song, the men surrounding the stage throw cash and shout vulgarly at her.

A roll of your eyes accompanies a sigh. Crossing the floor, you plop down onto the cushions of a luxurious leather couch in the corner. It’s no better than the couch in your office but the change of scenery does. . . something, so you sink into the couch, head laid back with your eyes closed.

It’s far from silent here and the chatter gets louder when Bucky and Steve join you in your section. The shift of music suggests a change in dancers and the type of music lets you know you won’t be much interested in who is on stage.

With the occasional sip of your drink and an eventual refill, you unwind in the slightest. A waitress comes by and you hear Steve place an order, your ideal meal from here being listed among the others.

As you’re sitting there, a part of you wishes you’d just gone home. Your bed would be a million times comfier, you might’ve actually fallen asleep. Steve might not have agreed though, knowing that you somehow would have made your way into your office.

The thought of going home is quickly dashed when a familiarly sultry voice sounds from above you.

“You look stressed sugar, want a dance?” Her voice is accompanied by the feeling of her hand trailing up your arm to your shoulder.

Smirking, you crack your eyes open to look at the redhead standing right in front of you. When you lift your head, face no longer bathed in darkness, you can see the way she falters ever so slightly: smirk replaced by a small frown of surprise.

Purposely, you wait to respond, using that time to both drink in her appearance and make her sweat a little.

“Now that you mention it, I’d love a dance.” Your hand lifts, palm facing up, waiting to see if she’ll take it.

Her hand smoothly slips into yours and she shifts to hold it properly. Standing up, you let her guide you away from the section, eyes catching onto the sway of her hips.

The private rooms are down the hallway parallel to the one occupied by the staff/office area. It’s a slight shift in scenery: the walls aren’t as dark, the lights a little brighter, and the music more seductive than raunchy.

Natasha takes you into one of the rooms, the curtain being drawn shut after you’ve both entered. The back wall is curved, a plush black sectional fitting perfectly into the space. In the middle of the semi-circular sectional is a golden pole, sitting on a platform underneath a ring of light.

The redhead raises an expectant eyebrow at you, with a chuckle you walk over to the couch and sit down, spreading your legs as your eyes roam over the room.

“I’m surprised it took you so long to come back.” Comes her voice, making you look at her with blatant shock.

Shifting to sit up straighter, you ask,“ and why is that?”

With a shrug to appear nonchalant, she presses a few buttons on the panel on the wall, plunging the room in a dark red light as she responds,“ this is your business. And with the way some of the girls spoke about you, you’re here often.”

A light chuckle falls from your lips, head shaking.“ Often huh?” You then stand and cross over to the bar cart to fix two drinks.“ What exactly is often meant to mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugs again, trying not to look awkward as she steps onto the small platform to wait by the pole,“ one a week maybe.”

You nod.“ Well I certainly don’t come often. This isn’t my only business and even if it were, I trust Bucky and Melina to run things without me hovering.”

Turning back, you allow a small frown to fall over your features. Admittedly, her expecting you to actually want a dance is fair, given that’s what you said. But in truth, that’s not what you accepted her offer for.

“You don’t have to,” setting the glasses on the table, you hold your hand out to her,“ dance I mean.” She hesitates, eyes narrowed suspiciously.“ Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoy watching you, but I really said yes so that we could talk.”

“What, are you going to fire me?” She remains on the platform, watching you as if your response will determine if she takes your hand or not.

Shaking your head, you tell her,“ not at all. I just- our first meeting left me curious, I want to know you, Natasha.”

As you partly expected, the denial of you firing her results in her taking your hand and allowing you to guide her to the couch. The two of you sit, drinks in hands seconds later. While she remains upright, back perfectly straight against the back cushion, you tuck one leg under yourself, uncaring of the wrinkles the position will cause in your suit.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” is your immediate and honest response, followed by a sip of your drink.“ But perhaps we could start with whatever your willinging to share.”

You certainly never missed her hesitance toward you, attributing that to her not trusting you or your intentions. She’s likely met many men in a position such as yours who had very clear intentions that were far from what yours are. She’s probably heard a million and one lies from people trying to get something from her that she wasn’t happy with giving. If she’s anything like the other girls, she has every reason to question people.

“I’m 30 years old, I live in Manhattan-”

“Okay, okay, maybe we can try something I didn’t read in your employment file. Like uh, what is your favorite song?”

The inconsequential question makes her laugh quietly. Head shaking, she tells you,“ at the moment, I’ve been kind of obsessed with Cheap Thrills.”

“By Sia?”

“That’s the one,” the smile she gives is borderline shy.“ I like the beat and it puts me in a good mood.”

When you smile, there’s nothing but genuineness in it. So much so that Natasha cracks a real smile for the first time.

Shifting closer, her knee brushes against yours, as she leans her shoulder against the back of the couch.“ What’s yours?” Green eyes shine slightly with intrigue.

You laugh softly and answer honestly,“ I’ve been a little obsessed with Something Just Like This by the Chainsmokers.”

“Ooo, I really like that one.” In a completely unexpected display of how much she likes the song, Natasha begins to softly sings the lyrics of one of your favorite songs.

As if you weren’t fully captivated by her before, your jaw slackens and your eyebrows raise in the slightest, every shred of your attention now solely devoted to watching and listening to her sing. If anyone else were in the room, they would say you full on had heart eyes while looking at the woman.

Her singing voice is soft but still carries the heaviness that her speaking voice has.

Whatever metaphorical spell she casted on when you first saw her dancing, you fall further under it at this moment.

A knock from the other side of the curtain pulls you out of your reverie and stops Natasha from singing. Both your gazes snap to the offending sound and, admittedly annoyed at being interrupted, you bark out a,“ what?”

“We gotta go boss, it’s urgent.” Comes the voice of Steve.

Cursing, you tell him you’ll be right out, before you down the rest of your drink and stand. Natasha follows suit, setting her glass on the table and adjusting her set.

Not wanting to just walk out, you turn to her.“ I’ll likely be too busy to come back this week but I’d still like to see you again, soon.”

Gazing at her expression makes you frown slightly as it appears to revert to what it was before you came in here together, her walls are back up and her skepticism has returned.

“Look, Natasha,” the way her name rolls off your tongue has green eyes snapping to yours unwaveringly,“ I understand your reluctance to believe me when I say that I want to get to know you. This place has a certain clientele and unfortunately, the men who frequent here are a dime a dozen-”

“And you aren’t?” Her tone is clipped but you don’t let it deter you.

“Not at all.”

She lets out a disbelieving huff.“ So, you’re not looking for some way younger than you, blonde little thing that you can take to all your important events and show off?” She challenges.

“Definitely not. Flaunting has never been my thing, I’m quite selfish in that way,” you admit, slipping your hands into your pockets.“ When I find a remarkable work of art, I buy it and keep it to myself.”

One of her perfectly arched brows quirks up.“ So you wish to buy me?”

You can’t help but chuckle at that. You certainly didn't think getting her to believe you would be easy and you were right in thinking so.“ No. My only wish is to earn your time, your trust, your respect. And prove myself worthy of keeping it.”

It’s clear that your words take her by surprise, even though she clearly tries to hide it. For the first time in minutes, her gaze drops from yours.“ How would you earn it?”

“Well, I could tell you but given that my words don’t hold much weight with you as of yet, I’d prefer to show you.” Slightly tilting your head down, you catch her eye, offering a small smile.“ I just need one chance.”

Another knock sounds, more urgently and you huff, knowing you can’t stay any longer. You’re sure that, given another minute or two, you’d be able to sway her.

Just before you draw the curtain, she speaks up.“ Lunch, tomorrow at 1, the bistro over on 5th.”

“I’ll be there at 12:45.” You respond, shooting a wink over your shoulder at her.

Due to your back being turned, you don’t see the little smile that Natasha pulls.

#mcu #mcu x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #marvel mafia au #mafia au #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader

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ilovewandanat · 3 days ago

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😭😭😭

Hello, I saw that you have your requests open (and I love your writings) so...

You can do a ff where reader and Natasha are getting divorced. Reader is starting to date someone else, while Natasha still can't get over her… but of course, with a happy ending. please?

💕

Another Chance

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: When another door closes, another opens, right?

Angst | Fluff | 2.3K |

Translation: dorogoy (sweetheart), YA lyublyu vas (I love you)

AC: Wrote this while my friend was passed out asleep snoring so freaking loud!

"Nat please! it's almost been 12 months! I need you to just sign the damn divorce papers" you spoke sternly with your arms crossed while looking at the red head who stood defeated in front of you. "I've been busy, I'm sorry" she mumbled as she searched the top drawer of her office for a pen. Any excuse to prolong the awaited divorce with a stack of mixed pens sitting in the pen holder in front of her. "You keep saying that Nat" you replied with a roll of your eyes.

It wasn't easy 11 months ago when you placed the papers on Natasha's side of the bed before you left to stay with your best friend. After countless nights of arguments and drunken words being thrown between the two of you, it was time to admit that your marriage had fallen apart. After every heated fight you would lock yourself away in the bathroom with tears streaming down your face as you wondered how on earth the two of you had gone to this point. Screaming at each other over things that simply didn't matter after 5 minutes. You never asked for Natasha to give up most of her workload, she did it purely because she loved you, but you saw in her eyes how much she missed being on missions with her other family.

Most nights you'd come home from work to the shared home dark and painfully quiet with the bedroom light on and the door closed. Not even getting a simple hello was even to start an argument between the two of you. As the tension went on, the more Natasha closed herself off and then you found yourself coming home to an empty house, only to be woken up in the early hours of the morning when Natasha would stumble into the bedroom smelling of booze and cigarette.

"Here!" You grabbed a pen from the holder and placed it on top of the white stack of paper with printed words, "just sign them, please".

"Can't we work this out?" Natasha looked up at you with eyes of hurt, "this isn't like us" she added. "Natasha please, I don't want to go through this again…we tried. We did the therapy, and it didn't do anything…I need to move on, I want to move on" you admitted as you took a slight step back away from her desk. Natasha sighed as she threw herself onto the chair as she took another quick look over the agreement, her eyes locked onto the only signature on them. "You'll have to get another one drafted up" she spoke, breaking the silence. You frowned and shook your head, "No more stalling Natasha, please I just need you to sign them so I can finally go on a –"you paused quickly before finishing your sentence. Natasha slowly looked up at you, placing the blue pen gently back on the paper.

"So, you can what?" She asked, searching your eyes for the answer she could only wish wasn't true. "It doesn't matter" you mumbled with sorry in your tone. "Are you seeing somebody?" Natasha asked with a slight tilt of her head. Your eyes dropped for a moment knowing you couldn't hide the fresh relationship with your new partner any longer. "Yeah" you nodded as your eyes reconnected with Natasha's, only then did you finally see something shift inside her. "Oh" she grabbed the pen, "well, I'm uh, I'm happy for you" she added before placing the bed back into the pen holder. "Thanks" you smiled ever so softly.

"I can't sign these; I don't agree to them anymore. We need to get them redone" she spoke with a stern voice as she placed the papers back into the yellow envelope. "What are you talking about? We both agreed to split everything 50/50" you frowned. "That was before I decided to go back to work full time – "

"Wait, when did that happen?" You asked, cutting her off.

"A few weeks ago, I needed it" she replied as she stood from her desk and reached out to hand you the envelope. "I don't need the house, or the joint bank account, I don't want anything. You can have it all" she added.

"Natasha! That'll take weeks to redo! I don't care what you do with your half, sell the house for all I care but please… just sign the papers" you said, refusing to take the divorce papers from her hand. "I'm sorry, I'll contact my lawyer first thing in the morning and ask them to do it as soon as they can"

You could see there was no fighting Natasha on this one when her eyes flickered to your feet and her hand still reached out for you. With a sigh you snatched the envelope and shoved it back into your handbag, "I really thought you'd finally see how much this hurts! We're not the same anymore Natasha, we don't love each other. We fought all the time…then you started drinking and let's face it, you avoided me…all I asked was for you to sign them today and you can't even do that!" you said as you looked at the woman you once called your wife. Natasha stood in silence as she watched you leave her office and out the front door of the once shared home. "I do love you, I'm sorry" she spoke to herself as tears filled her eyes.

The following week, Maria found Natasha avoiding anything on the topic of you. When asked how things went she just smiled softly and said 'fine'. Wanda wanted to invite you to the boy's birthday party as she'd grown close to you since you met Natasha only 6 years ago. You accepted the invitation with excitement as it had been a long time over due since you last saw Wanda and the twins and the rest of the team for that matter but when Natasha found out you'd be bringing your new partner along, she pulled out. It broke her in ways she never thought she could be hurt. The thought of you with somebody else made her heart ache, she still loved you with every inch of herself but now she hated that she allowed herself to let you down the way she did.

On the twins birthday 2 weeks later, shortly after they blew their candles out, Natasha texted you saying she had the new divorce papers ready for you. Your smile dropped as you read her text, knowing she wasn't here to celebrate the twins birthday because of you brought a different feeling of pain to your heart. "Can you tell Wanda I'll be back shortly?" You turned to your girlfriend with a forced smile. "Of course darling, is everything okay?" She asked, you nodded, "it's fine, I just need to go pick up something" you smiled before placing a soft kiss on her forehead. She knew it had to be about the divorce, she could see in your eyes whenever something had to do with Natasha that they would change slightly in color or you struggled to keep eye contact and became less affectionate but she was patient and understood the divorce was still fresh, even now, 12 months later.

"They're signed" Natasha's jaw clenched as you picked up the yellow envelope from her desk. "Thank you" you replied softly but Natasha only muttered to herself as she walked towards the front door to hold it open for you. "Y…you should've come today…the twins looked great in their dress up" you smiled softly trying to strike a conversation. "Yeah well, I wasn't exactly wanting to see my wi- to see you with whoever your new partner is. I'm happy for you, I am…but I think it's best we keep our distance" she replied, her eyes staring coldly into yours.

"Come on, Nat…we're adults…we can be in the same room together without it being awkward…right?" You frowned slightly as you stood in front of her. She shook her head before her eyes dropped to her feet, "No, we cant" she replied quickly, wanting nothing more than to be left alone go cry out her sorrows. "Nat, it's been 12 months – "

"I still love you" she blurted out before you could finish your sentence, "and seeing you with somebody else –" she paused as her eyes flickered to hide her building tears.

"Natasha" you stepped forward, wanting to hold her once last time even if you knew it would make things worse for the red head, you couldn't deny that you still cared for her. "I will always love you" her glassy wet eyes looked at you, "I hoped that maybe if I didn't sign the papers then we'd have some extra time to work things out and find each other again"

"Nat, don't do this to yourself…what we had was beautiful and I'll always have a special place in my heart for you but…we just couldn't do it" your heart dropped at your own words, hating the fact that something so beautiful was now turning into something so strange.

"I was stupid, I'll take responsibility for that. I didn't stop to think about your feelings when I should have and now it's cost me –"

"Nat, please" tears filled your eyes. "It cost me the love of my life" she continued, ignoring your plea, "I love you, Y/n" she added while searching your eyes for any sign of hope that you still felt that love for her. "I can't stop, all I think about is you, all I hear is you, I can't bare to be in this house without you…I don't want to find something new and have to settle because all I want, all I ever want is you" tears breaking free from the green eyes you missed so much. Even though you've heard her say similar things before, this time not only could you see the difference in her body language, but you now felt her feelings and it only caused you to break down with her.

"Don't cry darling" you heard her say softly as she did her best to wipe her flowing tears, "I'm going away for a few months with Yelena, that should give you enough time to sort out what you want to do with the house"

"W-what? How long?" You asked but she refused to answer. "Nat, how long" you asked once again, Natasha looked at you, "until I get over you" she said almost a little too bluntly. Your eyes dropped at her reply as you took a step back, "I'm sorry, Y/n but I can't be around you and ignore that I love you so much" Natasha added. "Just promise me one thing" you said, your eyes slowly looking back up into hers.

"Anything, dorogoy"

Your heart skipped a beat at the pet name, something you didn't think you'd hear her call you ever again. "Please…stay safe and stay in contact with Clint"

"I promise" she smiled ever so softly.

--7 Months later—

It was Wanda who let it slip that Natasha and Yelena were coming back to town and even though you knew she probably didn't want to see you; you couldn't help yourself but visit the compound and wait for her by her room.

After she left, your mind wouldn't rest. Always thinking about the words, she spoke that day you picked up the divorce papers, thinking about how she looked and how you felt knowing she was gone without any way for you to make contact. Clint texted you a few times whenever you asked how things were just to make sure she and Yelena were okay, but his replies were dry and blunt and you knew that was Natasha talking, not Clint.

"Y/n?" You heard Natasha's voice only a few steps from her room, "what are you doing here?" She asked with slight shock. "D-did you mean it?" You asked once she came to a stop before you, "everything you said…did you mean it?" You repeated. A moment of silence between you both started to build, looking both of each other in the eyes, searching for an answer. "Yes" Natasha finally spoke, nodding. A soft, gently smile tugged at your lips as you pulled the yellow envelope from your handbag.

"What's this?" She asked even though she already knew what you were handing her, "I already signed them…" she added. "Just take a look, please" you replied as she slowly grabbed the envelope. You watched in silence as Natasha pulled the documents out, looking back and forth between you and the papers in front of her.

"You didn't sign them?"

"I thought I could….but after what happened when I last saw you, I couldn't stop seeing the pain in your eyes Nat…I'm so sorry I let us fall apart –"

"It wasn't you, it was me" She cut you off.

"Does it matter who it was in the end? I gave up too easily, I let you slip just as much as you let me slip…Nat, I love you and being with somebody else just isn't the same. It isn't want I want…it's you, you're the one I want…if you'll still have me" tears built in your eyes but even breaking the eye contact you had with her. She smiled softly and dropped her bags before taking the few steps to close the gap between you both, "YA lyublyu vas" she whispered as she gently cupped your face, "will you have me?" She asked.

Nodding with a tugging smile, "of course" you replied.

Natasha didn't waste another second before her lips were gently and softly pressed against yours as she pulled you closer into her arms as you wrapped yours around the nape of her neck. "Let's go home" you smiled against her lips. "You didn't sell?" Natasha asked as she pulled away a little, still keeping you in her arms.

"I couldn't, it's our home"

#natahsa romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #fanfiction #black widow

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leviathansmistress · 13 hours ago

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Taming Heart | Blurb

A/N: Saw this artwork somewhere and it just reminded me of Jurassic AU!Natasha. The said artwork is under the cut...

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

"Hi Nat...miss you." You say, causing Natasha to blush as the kids continue to jump on her but she tried her best running away from them. "Been thinking about you all day...." You bit back a moan, now, that made the red head boil like a kettle, her ears and face turning red. There was something in your tone that she noticed...the neediness, but maybe she was just being a freak and she still wants to get things slow with you—in your pace, she always promised. But then, another question of yours seemed to confirm her observation.

"What are you wearing?" Your voice barely above whisper, dripping like a glazed honey. She immediately ran to the room of your kids, your children banging the door, screaming.

"We're going to get you dino!"

"We're coming for you!"

But Natasha has already forgotten about the kids, pacing back and forth. Her mind running with so much thoughts, do you need her? Right now? Is you asking for what she's wearing a code for some phone sex? Fuck. Then, she breathe, trying to compose herself... "What am I...what? Oh—I'm wearing a tank top and jogging pants, my normal clothes...you know babe?" She lies, so you won't get turned off whatever you're feeling and doing right now. God forbid she hated thinking you're touching yourself during work.

"Mhm, yeah well, you look sexy, dino..." You smirked, watching Natasha shuffle with her dinosaur mascot as she lean suspiciously on the small camera you installed in your children's bedroom.

PHOTO NOT MINE | CREDITS TO THE REAL OWNER

#natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x female reader

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avifaunaa · 1 day ago

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how the world spins without you [ n.r. ] [ pt. 5 ]

Authors Note: forgive me for how late this is. It wasn’t intentional and I had meant to get it out sooner. But I’m running on caffeine, bitterness of my breakup, and whatever’s left of the chemicals my ADHD meds gave me before i ran out so . . . 🧍🏻‍♀️

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART SIX

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Fem!reader

Summary: Natasha has found you and it is time to bring you home. The Black Lotus as a threat has been eliminated but her employer has not — which leaves more of a mess to clean up later. But that could wait . . . Natasha did not think she could bare to part from you for a moment.

Content Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, emotional turmoil, aftermath of torture, medical treatment [ r!recieving ], Rio makes an appearance then dips, early symptoms of PTSD [ r ], cuddling, injuries, anxiety attacks, outward expressions of reassurance, love, and safety [ Nat —> R ], Natasha has some sort of mental disassociation about coffee when it’s actually about almost losing R.

Word Count: TBA, but shorter than the others. Sorry fellas.

5 . . . 4

“She’s crashing!”

“Blood type is —“

“We need to restart her heart!”

1 . . . 2

Electricity jolting through you and echoing into your ribcage, reaching the organ that pumps life giving blood into your veins.

“I will debrief when my partner isn’t lying on the table bleeding out!”

3 . . .

One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Three.

Something warm envelops you and you knew nothing but the radiating heat within whatever surrounded you. You did not feel as though you were within your own body anymore, but a spectator to what was being done to save your life.

It changes someone when, you decide, when they have to see their own body lay prone upon the surgery table split open and stitched back together, blood soaking into surgical gloves as wires and tubes kept you somewhat alive.

It was ironic in a way — watching yourself get a blood transfer as you bled almost as quickly as they gave back.

No wonder you were near death. Death?

A feminine form joins you at your side with a ghostly silence, arms folded in front of themselves. They wore a ragged dark green hood that went with silky emerald robes, brushing the floor of the surgical room but didn’t seem to collect dirt or mess.

Waves of cold floated from her and yet — yet you had this primal urge to stay very still.

Like prey attempting to keep itself hidden form a narrow-sighted predator in the brush.

“You’re lucky,” the being finally said, voice echoing in the room. No attention was brought to either of you by your team of nurses and surgeons who worked around you. One of your monitors wailed.

“I think I see myself about to die,” you retort, but it’s sort of an accepted stance on the matter. What can you do? You’re in no state to stop them.

“No,” mused the feminine voice, laughter cold and brutal in the bitterness echoing its edges. “No, you’re about to live. Yet another that I am unable to reclaim.” A pause. “Perhaps it is just not your time.”

“Who can know?” you asked, unflinching as one of the nurses throws another blood soaked rag into the growing pile. “I suppose only gods and celestials.”

“Oh, sweet thing. Not even they know until it is their time.” A chill crept up the back of your neck, the hairs standing up. You turned, expecting to find the being there, but they were now by your head at the surgery table. “But I do.”

“What are you?” you asked as they slowly crossed the threshold of the surgery room in a way that was inhuman.

“Guess. I’ll give you three.” They were more amused by the entire situation than they were annoyed, apparently. She started humming a soft tune as she circled the doctors and nurses surrounding your body.

You watched them further and tried to think, but the tune of their humming was like a throbbing to your soul.

‘nothing satisfies but your soul.’

‘well I am Death, and none can excel.’

You began to open your mouth, but even doing so had resulted in nothing of value.

They did look up at you, though, like they heard whatever you had wanted to say and allowed a smile to curl at their lips, finger going to their lips.

They lifted a dagger and pressed the tip delicately against your forehead as one of the nurses brushed a hand over the spot at the same time.

When you finally managed to catch a glimpse of their face, all you saw was a skull.

You feel so heavy, brain foggy and mouth full of cotton. But you were waking, you think. Or perhaps dying was like waking from the worst nap ever imaginable.

There was an annoying beeping somewhere on your left side that was nagging at your brain. You wanted it to stop — did Natasha forget to turn the alarm off when she woke up early? You’d kill her for it.

But trying to reach your arm up was met with no success. You could hardly find energy to wiggle your fingers even though you threw effort into it.

Then warmth danced across the back of your hand and the sound of screeching on floor. A chair, maybe. Yes.

“Oh, my love.” Natasha, your lovely Natasha. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Open your eyes? That was a simple ask for one such as you, the great apprentice of Tony Stark. Yet as you made the attempt, you were sure your eyelids were glued shut and were met with a sting when you blinked them open slowly.

It hurt — oh everything hurt. The light was much to bright and blinded you instantly, the edges of your retinas felt like they burned, and the watering that begun was like boiling water.

“You’re doing great, just keep trying,” Natasha coaxed gently, stroking your hair with a heavier hand than you’d like.

“Lights,” you moaned out, squeezing your eyes shut again and turning your face toward the darker section of the room.

“Okay, yeah. They’re not on a bright setting but if you need them off, yeah.” You heard her scrambling and moving around the room, and the pressure on your head lightened after a few seconds.

“Try now?” she murmured from farther away.

You slowly turned your head back and hesitated. You were in so much pain already — why did she insist on adding to it?

Still you made the attempt, blinking slowly open until you saw only the lights coming from outside of the window and cracked door outside of your room. It was considerably less harsh and you didn’t feel like vomiting as much.

“Gnarly.”

Natasha let out a large breath she had apparently been holding. “Gnarly,” she repeated as she retraced her steps back to you.

“I think I died.”

“If you did, sweetheart, I’m glad you didn’t stay dead,” your girlfriend said with conviction. Your hand was scooped into both of hers as she sat back into the chair at your side and pressed her lips against your palm. “So glad.”

“There was a skeleton woman there.”

Natasha releases a shocked, watery laugh. She squeezed your hand so tight you were sure she was doing it for herself rather than for you. “Oh yeah? Was she hot at least?”

You tried to shuffle through your memory of being around your own body, of the cold woman who had you wanting to run away. But that was a fading moment of time and it was fading fast. You hardly even seemed to remember that it was a memory at all.

“I don’t know. Probably not as hot as you,” you decided to respond, eyes hazily flicking to her face. Natasha was crying, lips still pressed to your skin, hair in the messiest updo you’ve ever seen the perfectionist don.

When she didn’t give you anything else in words, you used your free hand to try and get some movement back. Wiggled your fingers and dug them into the hospital grade blanket covering your body, feeling again.

Wetness collected on the back of your hand and you blinked. “You’re leaking on me.”

She sniffled loudly and moved her head up, turning to wipe her nose on her upper arm. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“It was a joke, but at least you leaked on both of us now.”

Natasha didn’t laugh, so you stopped trying to create more humor. A high pitched, one beep signal from the machinery alerted you both to glance over.

“It’s just the automatic dispensary of your painkillers. It’s fine.” She set your hand down and started wiping at her face. You wished she wouldn’t — Natasha was the only thing keeping you believe you were truly alive right now and not in some purgatory hell.

“You almost died.”

You blinked sleepily at her. Her jaw was clenched tight and her knuckles were so white with how she clenched her fists together, chin resting on them.

“I’m sorry,” you rasp. Because what else can you say? You wouldn’t do it again? You’ll do better?

“I don’t want you to be sorry,” Natasha whispers, “I want — I need you to get out of this. You were almost gone, you couldn’t even . . .”

It’s a fickle thing, the brain. It’ll do what it has to do to protect itself and the host — the body — and in doing so may create a lapse of memory, a struggle to recall certain things of importance.

And then those things may crop up later in life and cause a whole shit ton of trouble.

You don’t remember much of what happened — you remembered the woman, the dark room, feeling cold and tired. You don’t remember Nat finding you, or anything beyond some hushed voices of the woman as she spoke to you during your captivity.

In the end wouldn’t that be the better result? Your trauma would be limited even if the damage done to your body told an entirely different, more profound story that you couldn’t remember and maybe wanted to make the decision not to.

Whatever had happened to you — you knew it was severe. You knew it paid a hefty price from your entire being. But the look on Natasha’s face and the blacked out corners of your memory that are just as unreachable as your body is broken, it tells a story of its own and you never want to read it again.

“I’m going to get through this,” you vowed in the quietest voice. Your throat still hurt, and your tongue was dry. “We both are. You and I. Me and you.”

“I haven’t tried a new flavor in weeks,” the redhead confessed, leaning closer until she lay half down in your lap. Exposed and vulnerable, yet she allowed it here and now. “Losing you destroyed what it meant to try and be kind to myself, to step outside of a box that contains my comforts and my knows. I couldn’t risk getting hurt if I didn’t try at all.”

You lifted a weak hand, covered in IV’s and monitors, then dropped it non-gracefully into her hair and stroked.

“Are we . . . Talking about coffee? Right now?”

Natasha leaned into your hand, the weight of it, as though begging for it to never leave.

You obliged and kept the pressure, adding to it as you carded your sore fingers through the tresses of hair that were loose enough in the bun she had. You were tempted to undo it entirely, but your fingers may not work well enough and you were growing sleepier by the second with the release of medication.

“I didn’t sleep well without you, and I cancelled the reservation to that Thai place you’d been begging me to try. I couldn’t do it without you,” she blurted out. You paused, fingers dug into her scalp.

“Did you get your money back from the short notice seating?”

“No,” Natasha said dully, and you sighed. “I forgot about it until the night of and they texted the reminder of the time.”

“I always tell you to put reminders on top of reminders in your calendar.”

Natasha whines in response.

“Natasha,” you slurred out, determined to stay awake long enough despite the drugs clawing at your nervous system, “this isn’t about any of that, is it?”

“No, Mayshka,” she whispered so softly you nearly asked her to repeat herself, “I find that I can’t — I can’t do anything new or scary without you by my side. I am one of the most powerful spies in the world and I have defeated likes bigger than most will ever have to face.” A pause, and you wanted so terribly to reach your entire body down and curl over her, “But before you I did not feel human nor did I think I had the need to. I knew what I knew and had what I had. You unravel the worst of me and find that scared part of Natasha that I’ve tried so long to bury away and make her apart of me again. And without you I’m not entirely sure how I can manage it. Because you make me brave. You make me feel again.”

“No,” you murmured, putting enough pressure down so she was forced to lift her head and meet her gaze. “Nat, you met me because you were doing those things. Getting out of your comfort zone, and trying to unravel what you think is the worst of you. Don’t you get it? You were already doing it.”

“With one thing — at one place.” Her chin rested on your clavicle and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “You did what Clint and Steve couldn’t quicker, easier — and all of it . . .”

“I love you,” you said, cutting her off effectively. She didn’t need to have a spiral right now — because that’s what this was turning into and Natasha needed to understand that your role in her life was not changing because of this. “I love you and we’re making it out, do you hear me? If your fear is that I’ll walk away then you can let that go right now.”

She stared at you, blinking the tears down even though some escaped. “I love you too, but sweetheart none of what you said after that was legible.”

It didn’t matter, you were out.

Doctor Cho was a woman of terrifying excellence and extraordinary character. You had never met her in person beforehand — a fact you proudly wore like a pin due to your incredible safety standards in the lab.

But once you started becoming more alert over the next few days, you managed to stay awake long enough for you to meet her at her daily check-ins.

This time your babysitter was Tony. You almost vomited your breakfast on him when he came to relieve Natasha so she could get some rest and TLC at the Compound. You would never protest her actually agreeing to go and take care of herself, but Tony, as deeply as you adored him as your boss and the man you’ve come to see as a friend, would not stop talking.

He had brought one of his miniature holographs and had removed your bedside table, “Oh sure, I was entirely done with my food, Tony,” you said as he wheeled it to the end of your bed, food still half eaten and fork still lifted in the air and in your hand.

He placed the gadget on the table and began fiddling with the settings before pulling up blueprints.

Specifically, your blueprints. Of the project you’d been so busy with for the last two years that it had taken its own team to continue progress on.

These looked different than your designs however, and the math was not correct in the corner of your work.

“Tony,” you started, patience ebbing by the second, “did you steal my project?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, his eyebrows shooting into his slicked up hairline as he crossed his arms and glared at you, ��I was bored one evening —“

“— you don’t get bored —“

“ — and I found your project. And I should have, I admit, placed more interest in it with how often you helped me with my arts and crafts.” He rubbed his goatee, then snapped his fingers and started playing around with the holographic designs now activated. “I figured out why your prototypes weren’t working out.”

“Oh, gee,” you said glumly. “What did I miss?”

“It’s not that you missed anything, my young apprentice.” He started zooming into one of the corners of the blueprint. “Do you check your work?”

“Multiple times. Daily.”

“Are you sure?”

You squinted at him. “Yes.”

“Wonderful to hear, because you didn’t on this occasion of this design.” He pulled up the mathematics and pointed to your work. “It’s one of your first ones, and I think you’ve been grazing over it instead of going back to it.”

You trailed your eyes over each mathematical equation, and when you saw the mistake you made you groaned loudly. “Fuck.”

“Not a problem!” Tony replied cheerfully. “I fixed the math, thus fixing your big issue of not producing the right product. When you return to work, there will be the correct blueprints and a 3D printer ready to create a prototype.”

“You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid,” you said, again glumly. “Natasha has informed me that my return to any sort of work is forbidden until Cho signs off on it. Strictly.”

Tony rubbed his goatee again, contemplating. “I can perhaps talk her into allowing you to work from home?”

“That may actually be great. I fear I may go insane if I have nothing to do for six weeks outside of my physical therapy and checkups.”

“Bah.” Tony waved his hand at you as he turned off the hologram and pocketed it, flopping down on the visitors chair next to your bed. “You’ll be right as rain under Cho’s careful guidance.”

“You’d know?” you needled, quirking a brow at him.

He shrugged. “Avengers get hurt.”

You fell asleep sometime into his visit, waking up to Natasha having replaced him once more. She had scooted the chair next to the bed closer than Tony had had it and was reading through some paperwork. She wore a green jacket and her hair was done in a braid down her shoulder.

“Wow, I may go blind from just how pretty you are.”

Natasha let the page in between her fingers drift back down as she looked up and rolled her eyes, ensuring you saw such action. “And I may just cry from how low hanging fruit that was. Even for you. No, especially for you.”

“Leave her alone,” a deeply accented voice drawled from your left, startling you a greater deal than you expected, “she’s likely maintained some brain damage after Stark’s prattling today.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Just Yelena, unfortunately,” Natasha corrected, throwing the paperwork on top of her bag next to the chair as she leaned over to fix your wires after they nearly ripped from your skin.

The blonde in question was leaning against the windowsill, nearly shadowed out from the dipping sunlight and staring at you with a smirk on her face. “Oops.”

“Oops,” you mocked, Russian accent pronounced.

“Twist the IV, Nat,” Yelena says without looking away from you, “make it hurt.”

“Don’t you have some American politicians to terrorize or something?”

“Ha.” Her nose wrinkled in amusement as she pushed herself off and walked closer to you before collapsing at the end of your feet.

“Yelena,” Natasha scolded, though it went ignored. “Get off the bed.”

“Yeah, get off the bed.” You stared at her as Natasha flicked your wrist. “Ow.”

“You’re encouraging her. Enough. Both of you. I need you in almost an entire piece if we want to get you home, and that means Yelena shouldn’t be riling you up,” your girlfriend expressed, shooting daggered glares at the younger of the two.

Who proceeded to throw her hands up like she did nothing wrong in the slightest. “I am entertainment. For funnies.”

“You’re loads of funnies,” you agreed, smile rising up on your face. Natasha grabbed your chin and turned you to her. “And you’re so pretty.”

“She’s dosed,” Natasha concluded, releasing your chin after you leaned in for a kiss. “That’s why she’s entertaining you right now.”

Yelena seemed to find this aspect to be incredibly enticing, and she started trying to ask you questions about weird things like Kate’s favorite bar, and where she liked to go on dates, and —

“Yelena.” Natasha’s tone was sharp. “Stay and turn on the television, and watch it, or leave. I’m serious.”

“You’re always serious.” Yelena frowned at the redhead but skulked over to the free chair, away from you, and requested you turn on the TV.

The three of you watched the television in silence for about thirty minutes when Yelena asked you, “Did you tell them anything about Natasha?”

Natasha was silent, but you could have sworn you heard her inhale a sharp breath from your right.

“I don’t remember a lot,” you admitted to the blonde, finding the courage to look her in the eye. You found an intensity there of a sort — not angry or cold, but curious and questioning. “But I remember that I never said a word about Nat. I refused at every turn.”

Yelena flexes her fingers behind her head, then turned her gaze back to the television and was seemingly satisfied with that answer.

Natasha, however, was not.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why didn’t you give her what she wanted, if it could have saved your life?”

“Well, I signed an NDA,” you started casually, glancing over to gauge her reaction. When she didn’t give you the response you sought, you close your eyes. “Natasha, why the fuck would I give you up? Explain to me in simple terms, like I’m stupid.”

“I’m not going to insult your intelligence,” she quietly answered, in that dangerous tone you knew from her. “But if she asked you for something — it could have —“

“She was going to kill me anyway,” you said. “She even said she wanted to do it sooner. But my torture — as it was — was prolonged so that you’d have a better chance at getting to me. Seeing the damage. Reacting to it.”

“She wanted to do it sooner,” Natasha echoed, cold.

“She mentioned an employer. I don’t remember much of that conversation,” you said with guilt seeping into your tone, biting the inside of your cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Natasha enveloped your hand in hers and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Don’t be sorry. Nothing you went through is your fault, or worth and apology from your end.”

“Maybe not,” you agreed, still unconvinced. “That doesn’t mean I can’t feel bad for what I couldn’t stop her from doing.”

“That’s my line,” Natasha scolded, shaking her head. “But you’re sweet.”

“Get a room,” Yelena muttered good-naturedly.

“We’re . . . We’re in my room.”

“I never asked,” you said tiredly once you got out of the hospital. “Did the cats . . . They’re okay?”

“Oh, they’re fine,” Natasha said as she drove you home, hand on your thigh, or your hand, or leg. Touching you was more common than it had been before you were taken and tortured. She couldn’t seem to let herself let you go. “They both managed to hide under the bed — though Sam got his hands mangled when he tried to grab them.”

“Oh no.” You smiled a little. “We should write him a card.”

“I think that would piss him off more, honestly.”

Natasha and r will return in part six

PART SIX

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #marvel fanfiction #marvel #fanfic

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