#Natasha Romanoff x reader | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thesvnandthemooon · 5 days ago

Text

𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐬𝐡

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: requested by a very dear reader on wattpad :)

summary: based on the song by justin timberlake; SHIELD agent!reader, iron man 2!nat because i rewatched it recently and goddamn 🤤

warnings: smut (fingering, n receiving), blood, descriptions of injuries

word count: 11.5k

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Practiced hands adjust seams and smooth over her arms. The fabric doesn't bunch, which is good — it wouldn't be practical during a fight. You tighten the straps around her thighs, making sure they're snug and secure, and then look up.

Natasha smiles at you and cups your jaw. Her thumb brushes along your bottom lip.

"Taking your time?"

"More like stalling."

It's dark in your lab. Machines whir, scanners beep occasionally. You're crouched in front of her, fitting and prepping her suit pre-mission. You've done this dozens of times. It's how everything started between you and her.

Back then, you couldn't believe your luck (you still can't), because who would've thought that being her weapons specialist would lead to what you have now? In hindsight, however, it makes sense.

It's intimate. It's quiet. It builds trust. You know her better than most people around here, which is a privilege. You know her favorite types of knives, how she likes her suit fitted, what exactly she needs to be able to perform at her best.

And then, afterwards, you go home. Other things matter, like her favorite candy (sour patch kids) or the show she's currently watching.

You adjust the suit around her waist, fingers skimming her hips. You secure a few holsters, attach some knives, and then straighten up. You feel her lips against yours before you can even look at her again.

Deep, firm, slow. Savoring it. You cup her face before slowly moving your hands into her hair. The curls are soft between your fingers.

She pulls away, but you can still taste her breath. Her lips curve into a sweet little smirk.

"Stalling, huh?", she mumbles, glancing at your lips. You lick them and taste the lip balm she loves so much.

"Yeah. They take a while. Missions, I mean."

"I'll be back before you know it."

Your hands trail down her sides again. You absently adjust her knives.

"Not soon enough", you say, pecking her lips. "Who's joining you this time?"

Natasha tilts her head. "I'm not telling you."

You frown. Truthfully, it might be for the better that you don't know. Depending on who it is, the answer might end up making you waltz up to said person and show her off just to make a point.

Mine. Seriously. Look, don't touch. Actually, don't even look.

She smiles and steps away. You quickly snake your arm around her waist and tug her back into you.

"I want an answer", you insist. Her hands splay out on your chest, toying with the zipper of your SHIELD vest. "For safety."

"Remember that lie detector test you took?"

You furrow your eyebrows. "What's your point?"

She grasps your bottom lip. "No wonder you failed. You're miserable at it."

"Not necessarily a bad thing."

"Never said that's the case."

She steps away and gathers her stuff — her favorite gun, her backpack, her Widow's Bites that she puts on. You stand there, watching her, arms crossed and mind running in circles.

Hopefully, she's not going with Valerie. What they had was barely a relationship, but the entire organization knows that she's still pining for Natasha.

Or Ward. Nothing happened between them, to be fair, but you heard him call her 'eye candy' once.

Was he wrong? No. Did you mess with his suit anyway, just so it'd smell like something had rotted in it? Possibly.

"Be careful", you mutter, still slightly disgruntled.

"Always am." She shoulders her backpack. "Hands off Ward's stuff."

Your head snaps upward. "What? I didn't-"

"Lie detector test, honey."

You grunt, rubbing the back of your neck. Natasha puts her foot up on a chair to adjust the strap around her thigh. You catch yourself staring.

Behind you, something starts beeping rapidly. You quickly walk back to your and curse quietly. One of the new high tech gadgets you've been tinkering with has started sparking.

Natasha glances at you, trying not to smile. "New?"

"Of course", you mutter, trying to find what the issue is this time. You reach for the pliers and cut one of the wires. "Goddammit."

"Don't burn yourself."

You sigh and put the gadget aside. How unfortunate — you've been putting a lot of time and energy into this little project. It's a small gadget, merely the size of your palm, but its impact would've been huge. It's multifunctional, designed to help agents hack into databases, unlock different kinds of locks, even scan rooms for traps.

Of course, you mainly had Natasha in mind when designing it. She's complained about similar issues a couple times in the past, and the idea struck you when you were lying in bed together.

Whatever. Looks like you'll have to keep working. In the end, it doesn't matter whether you put ten weeks or ten months into it — as long as it'll end up making her life safer and easier.

"You're nerding out again", Natasha says, suddenly behind you, and presses a kiss to your exposed neck. Your cheeks flare up. "I'm leaving."

"A goodbye, maybe?", you say, turning to face her halfway. She pauses, then cups your jaw with one hand and puts the other on the small of your back.

She's not used to this yet. This having-someone-to-say-goodbye-to, tender thing. Having someone who wants that goodbye, and the obligatory kiss that follows. Someone who'll wait in the hangar when she returns. Someone who'll check up on her.

How couldn't you, though? The reason why you're doing it is standing right in front of you. You'd be an idiot not to care like this.

"Don't go all sentimental on me", she mumbles, finally kissing you.

It's softer this time, lingering even after she's already parted from you. You walk her to the jet, where the pilot is waiting already. Another kiss, a bit quicker, then she turns around. You watch her leave, red curls bouncing slightly as she climbs into the jet.

. . .

SHIELD's hallways are never quiet, never silent, never empty. There's always someone wandering about — whether it be security or agents getting from one place to another.

It's not different tonight. You're walking through hallways, boots thudding against concrete floors and your hands tucked into your vest. Comparing you to a dog would be stupid, but you're not too unlike Hachi in that moment.

You round a corner, greet a fellow agent and check the time. 2.40am, so Natasha should be arriving in about ten minutes. You run your hand through your hair and step into the hangar, where Fury is waiting already.

You give him a quick side eye. "Another one of those?"

"Immediate debriefing. Not much time, Y/L/N." He raises his eyebrows. "What're you up for this early?"

"Nat", you say evasively. "I always wait for her."

He nods. It's not that your private relationship isn't known around here. You've been seen kissing, sneaking into each other's workspaces, flirting over lunch and leaving together a bunch of times. But Fury always seems to assume that it just isn't that serious. That it can't be that serious.

You know what he bases that assumption on. It's not fair, or right, but you can't change the mind of a man who's as stubborn as a mule.

He'll always see Natasha as the person he was first introduced to. The girl from the Red Room, who wouldn't let anyone get too close to her. The one with the trauma, the one who built walls too high to climb and too thick to take down.

It's bullshit. You know it is because you've seen the proof. You've held it in your hands, you've seen it in a way no one else is allowed to. Which is exactly why you won't tell him about it, though. There are different ways in which you can protect someone.

You hear the spinning of engine blades, still muffled but slowly increasing in decibel level. As the jet nears the hangar, the sound gets less and less bearable. If it were only slightly louder, it'd cause you pain.

You walk down the stairs as soon as the jet has touched down. The moment Natasha steps out, though, your stomach turns.

Valerie, in all her glory. Straight black hair, a little nose piercing, her hand resting on your girlfriend's lower back and steadying her. She mumbles something and laughs before Natasha can even react properly.

In that moment, you're glad you left your taser in your office. Giving her a quick little shock probably wouldn't sit too well with Fury, and you're pretty sure Natasha wouldn't love it, either.

Thankfully, she spots you before you can say anything stupid. She's next to you in the blink of an eye, smiling softly, secretively, and squeezing your hand. She doesn't dare do much else, but that's fine. Just like that, Hachi is back home.

You wrap your arms around her and kiss the top of her head. Her head rests against your chest, if only briefly.

"How was it?", you mumble, ignoring the fact that the Director is trying to talk to the woman wrapped up in you. She tips her face up, letting your lips brush against her nose.

"Exhausting and painful", she replies, voice soft.

"No Ward?"

"Careful there."

"Can't blame me for asking." You glance in Valerie's direction pointedly. Natasha pinches your side. "What's she doing here?"

Natasha sighs and kisses your cheek. A rare moment of PDA meant to calm you down, but it ends up having the opposite effect. Valerie gives you a look that's entirely too long. You frown and turn back to Natasha again, your arms tightening around her.

Your little moment gets disrupted by none other than Fury. He pats your back with a little too much force, so you let out a long-suffering exhale and let go of her. Right, the debriefing. Another hour spent here, waiting.

You trail through the hallways, following Natasha like a guard dog. The debriefing room is familiar, with its black leather swivel chairs and long table. A fancy high tech screen hanging on the wall, a projector, the shutters closed so that not a single photon can escape.

You sit next to her. Obviously. She raises her eyebrows at you, but truthfully, she should be glad you didn't just say 'screw it' and pull you into her lap.

Fury stares at you like you just shapeshifted into an actual dog. You weren't part of the mission. All you did was prep her gear and fit her suit. You don't belong here. Yet you waltzed in like you do, and no one seems to be complaining.

Grinning faintly, you put your legs up on the table and cross your arms behind your head. You nod lazily.

"Feel free to start, Sir."

Another stare. A sigh, long and loud. He rubs his forehead and finally turns on the projector. A bunch of mission jargon, accompanied by a map and a few pictures, appear on the screen.

An hour turns into two. You leave the debrief room with your arm around her shoulders. You're tired, but she's drained. You know she'd never admit to it — you know she tends to push herself no matter what; even on the brink of death, she'd keep fighting — but you can see the signs.

The blinking, slightly more frequent. The redness in her eyes. The way her voice softens into a mumble.

She barely says anything on the way home. But as soon as you've entered her apartment, she pulls you into the bedroom with her. You're the one who fitted her suit, who made sure it's like a second layer of skin on her. You know every strap and zipper, and you undo them all blindly.

Your vest is shrugged off. It lands on the floor. Boots are toed off and kicked aside. Bodies fall onto the mattress together.

Right as you're kissing down her neck, hands wandering over her body, you feel something that shouldn't be there. A bandage, around her thigh, with dried blood on it.

First, you stare. Then, Natasha puts her fingers under your chin and tips your head up.

"You know what I think about you doing that."

You almost grimace. She hates it when people stare at her wounds and scars. It's not just a pet peeve — it's a deeply rooted insecurity. It's only a small part of what she tends to cover.

In that moment, though, you don't care. Because you know what Valerie was for on this mission. She was there to watch Natasha's back, to make sure she wouldn't get hurt.

"She failed", you say, sitting up. Natasha sighs and rests her upper body on her forearms. "She had one job-"

"And she made a mistake."

"One that could've killed you!"

"Do you really think I'm that easy to kill? Trust me, she's helpful, but she's not the reason the mission was successful."

You snort derisively. Not because of her, but because she thinks she has to remind you. Of course you know all of this. There's a reason as to why Natasha is so feared, why Fury values her so much. But you're looking for things that'll help you win this argument.

It's not really an argument. You're just pissed at her ex.

"I'm aware", you say, fingers brushing against the bandage again. "Still, you know...what's the point of her joining if you end up getting shot at, anyway?”

Natasha raises her eyebrows, silently challenging you. Do you really want to hear this?

"Oh, come on."

"You're ridiculous."

"Okay, maybe I am", you concede. "You're still the one with a bullet wound, though."

She flops backwards onto the mattress. You sigh and crawl on top of her, hands braced next to her head, and kiss her.

She grasps the front of your top, lips pressing against yours firmly, essentially shutting you up.

Well, it shuts you up for exactly five hours. The second you're back at the headquarters in the morning, you drop Natasha off and then make your way to the gym. Boots thud, your steps heavy and determined.

You push open the door with such force that it slams against the wall, but Valerie doesn't bat an eye. She's on the treadmill, warming up, her hair in a sleek ponytail and her clothes tight. There's a band around her wrist that measures her vitals.

She barely glances at you. You stomp to her side and tug the earphones out of her ears. Another glance, slightly annoyed.

"What?”

"What do you mean, 'what'? You're the reason my girlfriend has to take antibiotics!"

She stops the treadmill and leans on one of the handrails. You'd love to wipe that look off her face — smug, unimpressed, almost daring. You used to be naive. You used to believe that no one could be that petty. Natasha's ex managed to prove you wrong.

"She's fine", she says, sounding like she's explaining the concept of love to a toddler. You clench your jaw. "She's not even in med bay. They sent her home."

"'Fine'? She got shot at! You were there to prevent it, and what did you do?"

"I tried", she replies curtly. She straightens back up and turns the treadmill on again, but you slam your fist on the stop-button. "What's with you and those anger issues?"

"You tried? You don't go there to try! You go there to do your fucking job!"

Valerie raises her eyebrows at you. You've never been nice to her, no, but you've never snapped at her like this. Truthfully, she thinks it's ridiculous. It makes her wonder why Natasha bothers being with you, but that's a thought she's not going to voice unless she has to.

"She's alive", she says, leaning back against the other handrail this time. Her arms cross in front of her chest.

"Oh, and that's enough? It's the bare minimum! I need to be able to trust you that you'll protect her!"

"No, you don't", she says. "Nat trusts me, and that's enough."

You almost flip the treadmill she's on, but that'd be overkill, so you lean over the handrail and grip it tightly.

"Not enough, apparently. Otherwise-"

"Agent Y/L/N."

You turn around, blinking. As soon as you see Fury's face, you almost roll your eyes. Of course. Who else would it be but the man who could fire you.

You put some space between you and Valerie to make it seem like you weren't about to chew her out.

"Yes, Director?", you ask, trying your best to seem normal.

"Romanoff's asking for you."

Maybe you should be embarrassed that those few words are enough to make you perk up, but honestly, you don't care. She's asking for you, not Valerie. When she needs to talk, she talks to you. You're jealous, and that's fine, but deep down you know there's no reason to be.

You shoot Valerie a pointed glance, then leave the gym.

. . .

"You're insane", she says, combing her fingers through your hair.

You're in the rec room, which is only empty because almost everyone is at lunch. Natasha, on the other hand, received a sweet little text that made her tug you away from the cafeteria.

She's straddling your lap, hands all over you. In the sweatpants and tank top she's wearing, you can barely focus. Too bad there are security cameras all over this place. The storage room falls flat as well. 'Too dirty', she said. 'So much dust.'

Though, if you hook up at work once, it might affect your performance for the rest of your career.

"She had it coming", you say stubbornly. Natasha raises her eyebrows. "You can't tell me you haven't noticed."

"Noticed what, exactly?"

You shift under her. She clicks her tongue and cups your face. "May as well tell me."

If only it were that easy. You doubt she hasn't noticed how Valerie stares at her, how she still seeks her out, how she wants what's clearly taken. You don't have ownership over her — obviously not, god forbid — but you're selfish. You know you are. If you could keep her to yourself, you would.

"The point is-"

"The point is you're overthinking this", she cuts you off. "Val and I are on good terms..."

(The nickname makes you fume. You bite your tongue.)

"...and I don't need to end up in a spat with a coworker." She pushes her finger into your chest. "And neither do you."

No reply. You stare at her, tongue between your teeth, a million unsaid things on your tongue. You're not sure if she hasn't realized or if she simply doesn't care, but you do have your reasons. Valerie is annoying, and she's petty, and she hovers around Natasha like she has any right to do so.

You don't like this feeling, either — this all-consuming jealousy. It's not something you're used to. But something about that woman just drives you up the wall.

"Fine", you mutter. "Fine, I'll let it go."

"You better."

"I still don't like her."

"Fair. I guess."

Natasha pecks your lips and scoots off your lap. You watch her grab the coffee pot and pour a generous amount. Sugar, no milk. Back to work it is.

You pick her up once you're both done with your shifts. Arm wrapped around her shoulders, you make sure to walk past Valerie's desk on your way out. She doesn't look at you, but her typing on the keyboard speeds up.

"Ha", you mumble.

"What was that?"

You shake your head and kiss her ear. She squirms at the feeling.

"Doesn't matter. I'm happy now, angel."

. . .

"Whose idea was this?"

"Hill", Natasha says, reapplying lipstick. You're in the elevator that leads to the building's top floor, but you're not here for work. It's Fury's birthday, and apparently Maria Hill decided that the grumpy old man deserves a proper celebration.

You're leaning against the wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of your slacks, an absentminded look in your eyes. A gift is tucked under your arm, your shirt is open at the top, but it's not your reflection that's got you this distracted. It's Natasha, looking at herself in the mirror and gently blotting her lips. Hair freshly curled and dress hugging all her curves, she looks unfairly sinful for an office celebration.

"Doubt he even wants a party", you mumble, eyes trailing lower. You exhale quietly. "That dress is a blessing, you know."

"So dramatic", she says, smiling faintly. "I'm not complaining. I want to see him get drunk. Think that’ll change his grumpy attitude?"

You hum. The elevator dings and comes to a stop, so Natasha links her arm around yours. You step into the hallway, her heels clicking with every step. You can already hear the music and feel the bass thump.

“Nothing could change it”, you say, eyes on her. She tilts her head. “A real Fury the Grouch.”

“Sesame Street?”

“I babysat my niece while you were gone. Don’t ask.”

Natasha laughs, the sound soft and raspy and genuine. She tugs you into an empty corner, hands finding the collar of your shirt, and brings her lips up to yours.

“Good thing you’re not a grouch. And even better that I know exactly how to turn a grumpy you back into a happy you.”

“It’s quite easy”, you affirm. Your hands slide to the curve of her back, keeping her close. “It involves you and the disposal of a dress.”

“Charmer”, she whispers.

Cheeks reddened, you smile. You lean in, slowly, and steal that kiss you’ve been waiting for since you stepped out of your apartment.

She tastes like mint and something entirely hers. Her fingers grasp your collar tightly, her skin is warm under your palms. She nods her head to deepen the kiss, one hand finding the back of your neck.

“Romanoff, Y/L/N! You really have no shame, do you?”

You pull away with a quiet groan and shoot a glare at the offender. Of course it’s Ward, because who else would it be but SHIELD’s most annoying agent.

Natasha doesn't even glance at him. She just smiles at the sight of your mouth, smudged with her lipstick, and swipes her thumb across your lips.

"Not your color", she says thoughtfully.

"Agreed", Ward says, putting a tray of horsd'œuvres down next to you. “You guys hungry? Probably not, since you’re eating each other’s faces. The salmon’s good, though.”

“Can you creep someone else out?”, you mutter.

Natasha smiles at you, which is enough to soften your attitude a little. Ward rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying, Fury gets uncomfortable when someone holds hands. But keep the girl-on-girl action going, I’m not complaining.”

“I’ll shoot you”, you say, gripping Natasha’s waist.

He lifts his hands. “You can try.”

“That’s enough”, your girlfriend mumbles, patting your side. “Stay here for a moment, hm? I’m getting us something to drink.”

You hum reluctantly, staying in your spot against the wall. With your hands losing the purpose of holding Natasha’s waist, you have no other choice but to tuck them into your pockets.

She’s already halfway to the bar, hips swaying and red curls moving with every step. You sigh quietly and turn your head. The way you scan the crowd isn’t deliberate, but it’s purposeful. It’s you making sure that nobody is staring too hard.

You’re fine with Natasha getting looked at. Somewhat fine, that is. You know she’s gorgeous, and that others can see that too. Humans can’t help it — if something’s beautiful, they stare at it.

Or avert their eyes. Which is what happened when you first met her. But knowing you wouldn’t get anywhere with that attitude, you’d forced yourself to get your shit together. Thankfully, you didn’t make an idiot out of yourself. It worked out.

You still remember it all. First dates, leaning against bars and sipping whiskey. Getting to know her. Sleeping with her. The tingling feeling in your stomach whenever your phone made a sound — a text? A call?

That hasn’t changed. You still hope it’s her behind every phone call, every text.

Natasha leans over the bar and mumbles her order to the bartender. He nods and turns around. Valerie slides closer. Just like that, the mood shifts. It’s like a storm rolled in.

You’re somewhere between making a beeline for the bar and staying right where you are. After what happened last week, you’re sure she wouldn’t appreciate an unwarranted interruption by her girlfriend right now.

They’re talking, that’s it. Just a brief chat. They’re co-workers, after all. Friends. Exes. It’d be selfish of you not to let her have this, right? Even if they’re connected by history.

But Valerie’s getting closer. If you were in Natasha’s spot, you’d probably feel her breath and smell the cigarette she smoked.

You subtly feel for the gun tucked into your belt. It’s always there. Not a moment of peace for you, but you’ve gotten used to it.

Natasha smiles. Valerie tilts her head, scoots closer. Your heart beats faster.

Natasha gets up and turns around. Valerie stares at her, blinking. You quickly push off the wall to meet her halfway.

She wraps her arm around yours neck and holds the glass to your lips, tipping it. Vodka burns in your throat, your eyes water, and you pull away enough to kiss her. She hums, sucking the remaining alcohol off your tongue.

“What was that for?”, you mumble, rubbing her side.

“Thought you needed it. Tried to stop you from breaking her nose.”

“Oh, you…” You huff. “Alright.”

“You’re everything but subtle”, she reveals, putting the empty shot glass aside. “And shooting her really isn’t necessary, baby.”

You roll your eyes. Natasha smirks and tilts her head, nose brushing against your jaw. Her hand cups the side of your face. Your cheek feels warm beneath the pad of her thumb.

“I don’t know why you’re this chill”, you mutter.

“Because I know that Val can be sad and desperate”, she whispers. Her hand moves to your shirt, and she undoes another button. Palm against your chest, she feels your steady heartbeat. “And it’s you who’s taking me home tonight.”

You put your hand on her wrist, holding her hand in place. Your eyes slowly trail back to the bar, to Valerie; and when your eyes meet, she knocks back another shot.

She's looked pissed off before, but never like this. Time to amp up the heat.

"Taking you home, huh?", you mumble, glancing at Natasha's lips. "You're optimistic."

Natasha raises her eyebrows at you. Her hand, still on your chest, slides back up and into your hair. "What're you saying?"

"I'm saying..." You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of her mouth. "I don’t want to wait. Let me touch you."

She exhales. Her head tilts, her eyes search yours. What you’re doing is painfully obvious, but she can’t deny the thrill your words send through her. The idea is risky, but appealing.

You, her. Hidden in a dark hallway. Dress hiked up, lipstick smudged, your hand over her mouth to keep her quiet.

Would you keep her quiet? Or would you try and do the opposite?

Your hand moves down her body and to her backside. You give it a light squeeze, and she gives you another glance.

Her hand grabs yours. You sneak away from the party and into the hallway.

Before you even manage to push her up against the wall, she's already pulling you closer. Your lips crash into hers, desperate and needy, and she clutches your collar. Your hands fumble with her dress, bunching it up around her hips.

The party is still in hearing distance. A pop song is playing instead of whatever techno music was booming earlier. You hear voices, muffled and blending together. Natasha’s lips press against your shoulder, your own trail kisses down her neck.

“Don’t leave a mark”, she warns, breathless, when you suck on her collarbone.

“Why?” You pull away enough to see the hickey blooming on her skin. “Looks good.”

She moans quietly and tugs you back in. Your fingers slide between her thighs, to the lacy underwear she’s got on, and nudge the fabric aside.

Moonlight seeps in through the window. You taste alcohol and mint. Wet heat envelops your fingers, and her back arches. You thrust in deeper, all the way you your knuckles, and kiss her through it. She pulls away, panting into your open mouth.

"Fuck."

"Don't make a sound", you mumble, peppering her jaw with kisses. "You'll get us caught."

A whine. Your free hand grips her thigh, hikes it up. Having better access now, you add a finger. She almost falls apart, and her moans and whines echo in the empty hallway.

A door opens and shuts. You angle your body a little, still fingering her relentlessly.

Butterflies and tingles, legs trembling and breath uneven. You hear footsteps, quiet and muffled. Your hand is drenched, her underwear is sticking to her thighs.

Another whiny moan. You shush her, curling your fingers and pushing them deeper.

"Not a noise, love. Or I'll make you come again. Want to go back in there shaking?"

The footsteps are approaching you. Natasha writhes, and you wrap your arm around her thighs to keep her in place. When she comes, it's loud and barely restrained. You laugh against her neck, breathless, and let her ride out her orgasm.

She slumps against the wall. You pull out and lick the excess moisture off your fingers. She watches you, dazed and spent.

"Back to the party?", you ask, already adjusting her dress with one hand.

"A moment", she mumbles, closing her eyes. "Good luck explaining this to Fury."

"Huh?"

She nods at the ceiling. You look up and huff. Security cameras, of course. Everywhere. Filming and remembering every moment, every gasp, every movement of your hand beneath her dress. You curse quietly.

"Goddammit."

"This was your idea", she says, adjusting her dress and smoothing it out. "Have fun dealing with him."

You roll your eyes and kiss her flushed cheek. Natasha's managed to go from looking wrecked to almost normal. Her lipstick is smudged, her hair a tad more disheveled, her cheeks still got a hint of color in them, but nobody would suspect that it's from anything other than a makeout-session.

Well, except for whoever checks the security cameras. You bite your lip when you realize just how much they'll see.

It's an odd feeling. Yes, they'll see way too much — but they'll also see you with her.

Natasha fixes her lipstick, wipes the smudges off your mouth with a napkin, then you return to the party. Of course, almost nobody noticed. They're too caught up in chatter and alcohol. Fury looks like he's about two minutes away from exploding. You can't blame the poor guy; he's surrounded by a bunch of drunk agents trying to get him to dance the Cha Cha Slide.

Valerie's ignoring you, but in that one way that lets you know she's trying her hardest to do so. She knocks back another shot, her jaw set.

You smile to yourself and let Natasha lead you further into the room. Once you've reached the middle, she wraps her arms around your neck and presses a quick kiss to your swollen lips.

"Round two in my office later?"

"Don't you dare", she murmurs.

"Shame."

The look on her face is unimpressed, but her lips twitch. You hug her closer to your chest, still swaying in spot. You dip your head and kiss her shoulder.

"Let me show you off", you mumble, running your hands over her back. Natasha smiles now, her face buried against your neck.

"You are, dumbass."

You hum. You can't argue, you are showing her off. You pulled her into the center of the room, the center of the universe, and pulled her into a slow dance that probably would've had her running a few years ago.

Her head tilts slightly, resting against your shoulder. She stays silent for a while, lost in everything happening around her.

The party, now a bit more quiet. The music, having changed to a slower rhythm. You, holding her.

The contrast between the thing in the hallway and the dance here is drastic enough to give her whiplash. But she's content, happy, silently and quietly. She's unlike you in that regard — no need to make a big scene of it. Keep things as lowkey as possible. Not everyone needs to know.

(Two days later, you get called into Fury's office because the person checking the security camera footage complained about emotional damage. You get banned from the hallways. Natasha's belief to keep things private is reinforced. All you hear is that your office is still an option.)

. . .

You're on the floor, cross-legged, Natasha's suit on the ground. A lightweight Kevlar blend you designed, adjusting to every movement. You straighten out the fabric and check for damage.

"The side is singed", you comment. "An explosion?"

"You don't want to know."

You shake your head and get up. Natasha unzips her jacket and peels it off, the tight fabric revealing creamy skin you're definitely not supposed to be staring at.

Her pants follow, then her shirt. You crouch in front of her and help her step into the lower half. You tug the fabric over her legs, smoothing it out as you go.

It's been a while since you started doing this. You should be used to it. But your hands brush her calves, her thighs, and your ears burn.

"Cold hands", Natasha comments.

"Stop squirming."

"Can't blame me, your hands are very cold."

You look up, jaw set. "Just...don't move."

She smirks as she lets you help peel the fabric over her arms. You grab the zipper and pull it up, slowly straightening up as you go.

When you're face to face and you've got her all zipped up, you don't let go. Natasha hums, watching you. You hesitate one last time — the quicker you're done, the sooner she's leaving for her mission. Again.

"You're staring", she mumbles. You let go and turn around, leading her into the weapons storage room. Tight quarters, as you barely fit in there together. But you make it work.

"I should be used to this", you admit, scanning the shelves. Natasha reaches over you to grab a gun, her front brushing your back. "But I'm not."

"Neither am I."

You grab her Widow's Bites and a couple blades. You turn around and fit the bracelets with an automatic look. Then you kneel in front of her, slide her belt into place, adjust it accordingly. The thigh straps follow — lord have mercy — and you tuck her weapons in. You tap each of the concealed items: the blades along her ribs, the guns, the taser.

Natasha brushes her fingers through your hair and makes you look up. She crouches, breathing more heavily, her lips right in front of yours. You smell perfume and gunpowder, leather and shampoo, cleaning solvents. Her breath is hot against your lips when she speaks.

"Blades are lighter."

"Shaved an ounce off", you mumble, blinking. "Makes it easier."

"Always thinking about everything", she replies. Her lips meet yours halfway and she kisses you with her fingers tangled in your hair. You grab her waist and keep her close, knees still on the ground, head tipped back slightly. It's warm, slow, enough to make you wish you could cancel the damn mission.

She pulls away. You clear your throat.

"I'm keeping an eye on Valerie."

"Oh no, you're not."

"She doesn't have a clue what she's doing", you say, getting up. Natasha sighs. "You got shot!"

"Her responsibility is to support me as best as she can and focus on the mission. She's not my babysitter, Y/N."

She turns around and picks up a scope. You narrow your eyes, silently trying to both find an argument and figure out whether you designed the gadget she grabbed. It's not the matte black one you handed to her a couple months ago. It's more clunky, less practical, the magnification range is probably less optimal as well.

She turns, the scope in her hands, and looks at you. You raise your eyebrows.

"You're sure that's the one you want?"

Natasha tilts her head, idly toying with the scope she's holding. "What's wrong with this one?"

You frown, irritated, and gesture at it. "Well, first of all, the magnification range is not nearly as good. Its system is also outdated. The reticle doesn't auto-adjust, which means that if the light conditions are less than optimal, you'll suffer from it. The thermal and night vision are also pathetic. I tested it, and it's no good."

"Sounds fine to me", she drawls. You narrow your eyes.

"Babe", you say, already turning around to grab the scope you personally designed from the shelf, "I spent half a year tinkering with this. I burnt my fingertips off twice."

"Appreciate the dedication", she says. You swap the scope out yourself, not breaking eye contact. "And the confidence, too."

"I mean it. This one's better. Ergonomic, biometric lock, the casing is great, and the internal shock buffers? Even Fury was impressed."

"You sound in love."

You bite back an 'I am', because she knows you are. Not with the damn scope, though. The scope is the result of being in love, and she knows it. But that's no reason to make her even more cocky.

You nudge her out of the storage room and lock it behind you. Safety measure — no need for anyone to get into her private stash. Even Fury needs permission, but in a less official way.

Natasha leans against the wall and watches you clean up. You wipe the workbench with a towel, arms flexing in a way that makes her wonder why you aren't joining. You fit in, she knows that already.

Then again, it'd make her job even more terrifying. She'd spent every second worrying about you.

"Five minutes", she reminds you.

"Right", you mumble. "Be careful. Make sure Valerie's doing her job or I'm doing it for her next time."

She wants to argue that you have no idea what it's like on the field. How dangerous it is, how much it differs from what you do every day. But you have been on the field before, years ago, when you were just starting out. Your talent has always been weapons and everything high tech, but when you got injured, you had no choice but to switch to what you're doing now.

You're good at it. Better than at field work. But she knows you sometimes miss it. Specifically those few months you got to spend alongside her, right after you met and before everything turned more intimate.

You can't protect her by being there anymore. But you can design tools that will make her job safer.

"I have your scope", she says, voice softer. "I'll be fine."

You can't help but preen at her words. You've been praised for your inventions many times, but it's only her opinion that really counts. When she says something, she means it.

"Be careful", you say. "The scope's good, but..."

"But it all boils down to the person using it", she finishes, grabbing her duffel bag. "I'll be fine."

"I know."

"Good."

"We'll stay in touch?"

Natasha steps closer to kiss you. It's fleeting, brief, and you know why. Quick goodbyes leave dry eyes. She'll be back soon, but what she does is risky, and you're never not scared that any goodbye could be your last one.

She steps out. You've watch her leave.

. . .

This time, you don't have to wait that long to see her.

Something goes wrong during the mission. Not horribly wrong — there are no accidents, no injuries, which is a relief. But one of the prototypes, a crucial one, malfunctions in the field. It's so tailored that nobody else can fix it, and since you're the one who designed and understands it, you're flown out.

The helicopter touches down in a remote area of the Catskills. You adjust your suit before jumping out and landing on thick grass. The forest is cold, the area foggy. Leaves that were once green have started to turn red. You exhale quietly.

A winding pathway leads to a small cabin. The exterior is hardly impressive, but the inside hides an entire bunker and an underground facility. Clutching your duffel bag, you walk towards the front door.

You're welcomed by a man in his 30s. Hair already graying, jeans, a flannel shirt. He stares at you and you stare at him. You can smell his stupid cologne.

"Want to let me in?"

"Who the fuck-"

"It's Y/N", a familiar voice says. Natasha. You can hear her from somewhere in the cabin. "Let her in."

"Oh", he says, stepping aside. "Right. The girlfriend. They told us you'd come by."

You push past him, not saying another word, and make your way into the cabin. Natasha emerges from downstairs, her hand on the railing. Her hair is curly and tied back, and she's wearing one of your old band hoodies. The sight is enough to let you forget about Mr. Wannabe-Lumberjack.

You meet her halfway. She hesitates, then decides it's worth it and leans in. You reciprocate the kiss and cup her cheek. She tastes like black coffee. It's way too short, but you can't really complain — you feel like you're being watched, whether that's actually true or not.

"Who's the guy?", you ask, following her into the lab.

"Agent Mintz", she says. "Formerly a lieutenant in the US army. Did you bring your little toolbox?"

"Little", you mutter, lifting the toolbox to test its weight. "This thing weighs 30 pounds. Lieutenant, you said?"

She flicks on a light and leads you to a workbench. You haul the toolbox up onto the top and open it. Natasha slides the prototype, a combat neural link, in front of you. You jack a tether into the side port and hook it up to a tablet to diagnose the problem.

"Tried to guess my body fat percentage", she says casually, right as you're running a scan. You pause. "He was off by one percent.”

You exhale, your fingers drumming against the surface of the workbench. "Of course."

"Very observant."

"Mhm", you mutter, looking at the data on the tablet. The prototype is desynced — her muscle memory has been outpacing the link's adaption rate. "Sounds like a great dude."

"He designs tech as well", she says, leaning on the workbench next to you. Her head is turned toward you, her voice softer and more sultry. "You know the GhostSuit?"

You bite your tongue and straighten up to brush Natasha's hair aside. "Hoodie off."

She hums and strips so you can access the link housing. You rearrange the central circuit array with tweezers and a soldering pen. You curse when your hand accidentally jerks.

"Burned your fingers again?"

"Crap", you hiss, shaking your hand. "What's this Mintz dude's issue, anyway?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, your body fat percentage? Is he kidding?"

"Pretty sure he wasn't."

Footsteps, on the staircase behind you. You whip around and glare. You should've expected it to be him — there's nobody else around — but his presence is still an unpleasant reminder that you aren't alone.

Arms crossed and tattoos showing, he leans against the railing and nods at Natasha. "Combat neural link?"

"Very much so."

"I designed it", you mutter, starting to re-upload the stored neural combat data. "Specifically tailored for her."

"Of course", he says, grinning. "Only the best for Ms. Romanoff."

You roll your eyes and plug in a thumb drive. Your hands brush over her shoulders.

"There", you say, ignoring Mintz's presence. "Want to test it a little? Just some quick movements."

Natasha nods, the neural link facing you. It's nothing huge, just a few kicks and balance shifts, but the prototype's lights glow smoothly again.

Agent Mintz raises his eyebrows. He steps closer, inspecting the little device, and almost runs his fingers over it.

You stare at the floor. You're not going to do anything — Natasha will break the guy's wrist if he crosses a line, and you stepping in would be unnecessary. You turn around and start to put your stuff back into the toolbox.

"Impressive", he says. "Doesn't take away from your beauty, either."

An explosion makes them both flinch. You give Natasha an innocent look and gesture at the test grenade that 'accidentally' rolled off the workbench, now on the floor and releasing smoke.

"Oops."

Natasha purses her lips to stop herself from smiling. Mintz just clenches his jaw, clears his throat, and steps aside.

"Alright", he says. "I'll see you later."

He leaves, but you don't turn around. You keep cleaning up, hands moving swiftly, until you feel her mouth right next to your ear.

"What was that?"

"Nothing", you say, closing the toolbox. Natasha's hands sneak under your zip-up hoodie, fingers digging into your abs. "Happy accident or whatever."

"You're not slick."

Your mouth opens and then promptly shuts again. Her lips are against your jaw, the kisses wet and warm. It's only been a couple days, but god, you missed this. Your bed's too empty when she's not around.

Instead of arguing, you let yourself melt. Even if just for a minute, you do. Her body's pressed up against yours, her touch familiar. She smells like your perfume, which confirms your suspicions that she's the one who grabbed it from the shelf in your bathroom.

The tech, the clothes, the perfume — all yours. You wonder if there's a part of her she hasn't claimed as yours yet.

She turns you to face her, her hands staying under your hoodie. Only then does she wrap her arms around your neck and pull you closer to kiss you. You hold her to you, nodding your head to deepen the kiss. Her heart beats faster, and so does yours, but you have a significant advantage — you're not attached to a link with stress-response sensors.

The tablet lights up. You glance at it, briefly pulling away from the kiss, and bite back a smirk. The device logged her rapidly accelerating heartbeat, her changing vitals.

"You know it records this stuff, right?", you mumble. "Heart rate, adrenaline spikes. Practically broadcasting your- ouch."

"Don't."

"You didn't have to twist my ear like that, you know."

Natasha laughs quietly, her lips brushing against yours. She doesn't feel sorry. Not at all. "That's what you get for embarrassing me."

"I'm not the one embarrassing you", you murmur, smiling, and kiss the corner of her mouth. She hums. "The device is."

"And who designed that device?"

You shake your head, but she cups your face and pulls you into another kiss. When the neural link sends another signal, she reaches behind her neck and tugs it off. It gives you enough time to grab her and spin around to set her down on the workbench.

Her thighs wrap around your waist. You mouth at her neck, hands slowly bunching up her hoodie around her torso. Slender fingers tangle in your hair, tug at the strands, and you move your lips back up to hers. She moans into your mouth.

"You do that one purpose", you mumble whenever you take a short break from kissing her stupid. Natasha hums against your lips. "To get a rise out of me."

"It works", she says, using her calves to pull you closer and closer. Your pelvis creates friction between her legs. "I wish I could put one of those neural links in you. See what your body does."

"Cruel", you mutter, pecking her lips. Your hand pushes past the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing gets heavier. "You already know what it'd say."

Your fingers find their target. You kiss down her neck, biting and nipping, and slowly thrust into her. Right as her hips buck against your hand, you hear someone hurry down the stairs.

You don't even flinch. You just sigh into her neck, hand still buried in her sweatpants. You're not stopping this unless someone's dying.

"What now?"

Mintz stares at you, frozen in place. He's uncomfortable, so much so that he keeps making himself even more uncomfortable by staring. Natasha bites her lips and grabs your wrist, guiding you out of her pants again.

"There's, uh, movement. We got ten minutes. Suit up."

You sigh and pull away. Natasha slides off the workbench and grabs the neural link again so you can attach it. You work fast, brushing hair aside and attaching it to the link housing again. She turns and reaches for her suit, and you pack your things.

She looks at you and hesitates. The injury, the accident, is still fresh in her mind. It may have been years since that happened, but she can't forget it that easily.

Blood on pavement, in your mouth. Coughs that sounded way too scary. Your hand shaking in hers, your entire body trembling.

You tilt your head. She's thinking, probably so much so that she's lost in whatever train of thought she's following. Natasha shakes her head when she realizes that she's gone quiet.

"It's fine."

You nod and look at Mintz. "Keep an eye on her and the neural link. She shouldn't go out with it untested in live combat, but it's a little late for that."

He shrugs, rubbing his jaw and starting to look for his gear. "Then go with her."

Natasha immediately looks at him. "What?"

"Yeah. Hell, no one knows how to fix that thing. Only she does. If shit goes sideways..."

"It won't", she interrupts him. "She knows what she's doing. The link is fine."

"Nat", you say, making her look at you. She blinks and averts her eyes again. "Hey. I'll be careful. Besides, it might be safer if I join."

"I don't want you out there."

"Well, too late." You walk up to the storage space with the suits and dig through heaps of old clothes. "Better be safe than sorry."

"Trust us", Agent Mintz says. He straps a knife to his thigh and adjusts his suit. Natasha shoots him a glare, her own suit zipped up halfway. "I've got overwatch. But if something happens with the link-"

"Nothing's going to happen", Natasha insists.

You reach for a vest and slip into it. "Don't be stubborn, baby. Doesn't even look good on you."

"This isn't a joke."

"Never said it was." You step closer to zip up her suit. She briefly closes her eyes. "Let me help you suit up. It's basically tradition."

She doesn't say anything as you step away again to swap your shoes for some combat boots. You reach out your hand, the set to her jaw cracks for a split second, and you lead her up the stairs and outside.

. . .

Natasha notices the neural link misfire when she gets out of the van.

Minutes ago, you were adjusting it. You brushed her hair aside, checked the prototype, made sure it's up to date and connected to your tablet. You seemed certain. You were, probably, otherwise you never would've let her out of the vehicle. The mission may be important, but she knows you'd never test her luck like that.

She jumps out of the van and approaches the building. SHIELD's abandoned black site, sitting in the middle of the forest. Not something they thought would be targeted, but ex-HYDRA agents found out about some data drive that was apparently forgotten her, and now they're trying to steal it.

As soon as she sneaks into a corridor, walking close to the wall, she notices an issue. She doesn't tell you anything, but she feels it. She feels it misfire in motion, feels the little glitch. It's not supposed to happen, and she knows it.

Too late now. There's not enough time to be running back to the van and get it fixed.

"You inside?", you ask via comms.

"Corridor on the east side of the building, approaching a staircase. Any news?"

"Copy. Sir Lieutenant is in position. Do they train them in the army for this kind of stuff?"

"No", he suddenly speaks. "We usually just die."

"Oh really? And you're still here?"

"Y/N, I am begging you", Natasha hisses. You shut your mouth. "Focus. Both of you."

"Sorry, babe.”

Your mumbled response would've been enough to make her smile in just about any other situation, but right now, she's too on edge to react. The neural link glitching, the shuffling noises, the fact that you're outside, in a van and basically alone.

She keeps her back pressed against the wall. Mintz mumbles instructions into her ear — go left, down the hallway, go right, down the stairs — and you're checking the neural link's feedback via your tablet.

Someone pops out from behind a staircase. Natasha, not having to think twice, ducks right as he shoots. It's combat, and she knows what shes doing. She's been trained for this. The neural link usually helps, too.

This time, it doesn't. What it does is worse than it not helping.

Right as she's about to kick him and twist the gun out of his hands, her shoulder locks. The neural link misfires, again, lasting only a split second but still long enough to almost get her shot. She curses quietly.

You stare at the tablet, unable to believe your eyes for a moment. You're not sure what happened, but very briefly, everything glitched and you lost signal. Now that it's back, though, Natasha's vitals have spiked.

Which doesn't have to mean the worst, obviously. The vitals spiking is normal, especially during missions. But the glitch? The signal going poof? Bad signs.

"Natasha", you say, already desperately tapping on the screen to see if you can do anything, "what happened?"

"Nothing, don't worry about it. I found the vault."

"Okay", you say, packing your stuff and hopping out of the van. Into the corridor, go left, down the hallway, etc. Thank god you listened to Mintz as he gave her the instructions. "Be careful."

"I said don't worry."

"You said don't worry about it", you mutter. A gun in one hand and your most important tools in the other, you're easy meat. "What do you see?"

"Desks", she says, eyes scanning her surroundings. "Computers. Deposit boxes."

The signal is lost for another short moment, making her voice sound chopped. The feedback displays another glitch. Your heart beats faster and you hurry up.

"Right. Column five, row ten", Mintz adds. "Iris scan, ten digit password and a keycard. You got everything?"

No sound comes through. Then, a grunt. Something breaks, possibly a chair or a table. Whatever it is — it has you speeding up, running, searching for the stupid vault. But you reach it and the door is locked.

You glance at the screen. Bleeding located.

"Nat?", you say, rummaging through your tools. Maybe you have something that'll help you unlock it. "Any updates?"

Again, nothing. You curse and grab a hairpin, but this is SHIELD's abandoned black site. The doors are designed to keep trespassers out.

You end up grabbing the little grenade you packed. It's tiny, usually only enough to take out one person, but it'll have to do. You attach it to the door, active it, and quickly move backwards.

It blinks three times. It explodes, the door bursting open, and you exhale and run into the vault.

Blood, and a lot of it. It's soaked the right side of her shoulder. Right as you move to help her, someone wraps their arm around your neck and squeezes. You gasp, choking, and start clawing at their forearm.

Natasha barely manages to move enough to point her gun and shoot. The pressure on your airways disappears and you fall to the floor, wheezing and gasping for breath. You crawl to her side and put both hands on the bullet wound in her shoulder. Thick blood seeps between your fingers, and you take off your vest to ball it up and use it to stop the bleeding.

"You're okay", you say, voice shaky. "Why didn't you tell me?"

She shakes her head. "Get the data drive."

"No", you say, keeping the vest pressed to her shoulder. You speak into the comms. "Mintz, you there?"

"What happened?"

You swallow, fingers digging into the fabric of the vest. "The neural link, it- it glitched. Misfired. Natasha got shot."

"On my way."

You nod, still putting your entire weight on the wound, still watching her every breath. She seems stable enough, but speaking from experience, it's not a good idea to rely on the hope of something happening.

There are two things you're thinking about.

One: she could die. Right here, right now.

Two: you designed the neural link. You 'fixed' it. If anything happens to her, it's your fault.

Earning her trust seemed to be the biggest honor once. None of your achievements seemed as valuable as getting someone like Natasha to trust you, getting to watch her open up and show you sides nobody else had ever seen. In that moment, however, you curse it. If she'd never trusted you, she wouldn't have worn the neural link. She wouldn't have gotten hurt.

. . .

It's quiet in medbay. Natasha's better now — the wound has been treated, the bleeding has been stopped, she's stable. But the heavy feeling in your gut remains.

She's asleep right now. Her cheeks are rosy instead of pale, her curls have flattened a little. You reach out and brush your fingers against her jaw, then you get up.

The neural link has been in your pocket ever since you got her to medbay. It's sitting there like a mass that's pulling you down, defying the laws of weight.

You reach into your pocket and pull it out. The surface shimmers in the dimmed lights of the room, your initials carved into the side. You ball your hand into a fist, clutching it, then leave the room. Natasha barely stirs.

Your steps are quick and filled with silent anger. Boots thud against vinyl flooring, your throat bobs with every despaired swallow. You push open the door to your lab and slam it shut behind you.

You reach for the hammer before you can think twice. The neural link shatters into tiny pieces, bursting to the sides and falling to the floor. Breathing heavily, you put the hammer aside. Then, the tears come.

They're silent, unthreatening. Rolling down your face in drops, staining your hoodie. You wipe them away with the back of your hand and pause, hand still against your face, when your phone buzzes.

It's the nurse, telling you she woke up and asked for you. You hesitate — do you want to go back there? Does she, despite asking for you, actually want you back there?

It was a mistake. It could've happened to anyone. But when Valerie made a mistake that got her shot, you lost your mind. But who's going to do that to you? Who's going to chew you out?

Nobody. Not even Natasha. You'll get away with it.

Sighing, you make your way out of the lab and back to medbay. It smells clinical, like disinfectant and cleansing chemicals. Metallic, too. You feel nauseous.

When you approach Natasha's room, you see a figure enter and close the door behind themselves. Heart starting to beat faster, you hurry up. You push open the door only to find Valerie standing next to her bed. That's when you lose it.

"Get the fuck out."

She barely even looks at you. "I'm just checking in on her. Making sure she's okay. Heard what happened."

"I said get out."

"Valerie, leave."

Both your and Valerie's heads whip around. Your first instinct is to be petty and make sure she knows it, but Natasha is injured, and you truthfully have other things to worry about.

She exhales sharply, then turns around and leaves. The door shuts loudly.

Natasha looks at you, not saying anything. She's studying you — you can tell that much. It's what she's always done. You shift, then hesitantly sit down on the edge of her bed.

She tilts her head. A soft breath leaves her lips. "Why'd you do that?"

"Do what?"

"You broke the neural link."

You blink a few times. Oh, so that's how observant she truly is. Or maybe she just knows you really well.

"Well, I...", you trail off. "It's useless anyway."

"No", she says, voice quiet. "You spent months working on it. It worked."

"It didn't. It's the reason you almost..." You rub your face. "You could've died, Nat. Because of me."

"That's not true."

"But it is."

"That thing helped me", she insists. "I wore it because I trust you. Because I love you. And you just broke it?"

You stare at the floor, jaw set. There's no way to explain what's going on in your head. All these years, you tried to be the one who protects the one person who claims she doesn't need protection. The one who protects everyone around herself — you, too.

When you got injured all those years ago, it was Natasha who got you out of the battlefield safely. She carried you to the field medics, she went to medbay with you. She stayed until you were better.

You would've kissed her. Neither of you were ready, though. But she was worth the wait.

"I fixed it", you say, glancing at her. She softens. "I tried to fix it. I swear. I don't know what went wrong."

"Accidents happen."

"Not like this", you reply, raking your fingers over your thigh. The denim feels overstimulating against your fingernails. "Not to me. Not when it comes to you. Valerie makes mistakes, and Mintz, and Ward, but-"

"And you're flawless? Perfect?"

You shut your mouth. No, you're neither of those things.

"If I were, you wouldn't have gotten hurt."

Natasha scoffs. You refuse to look at her, so she shifts in bed despite knowing she shouldn't. It's a plan, though — a plan that works. You quickly lift your head.

"Don't even try", you say, already trying to gently nudge her back into bed. She smiles and you know what she's done. "Oh, fuck me."

"Not while I'm injured."

You roll your eyes, but what she's doing seems to work. You smile, one hand still on her waist and thumb rubbing circles into her side. She flops into the pillows again, a tad more dramatic than others would expect her to do it.

"It was supposed to help", you say softly. "I wanted it to be safer for you. Easier. It almost got you killed instead."

Natasha hums. "You're right", she says. "It did. But how many times did it save me?"

"That's not important."

"Oh, but it is. And I'm not just talking about the neural link. You've invented a dozen of these nifty little things, and how many times were those faulty?"

You shift, refusing to answer. You could say it — never. They were never faulty, never malfunctioned so badly. Sure, there were some issues and minor problems every now and then, but Natasha was always able to keep going despite those. This was a one time thing. An unlucky coincidence.

You feel her fingertips trail down your back. You sigh and then smile tentatively. "Alright. Fine. You got me."

She stays silent for a moment, her fingers glued to your back for no specific reason. She's touching you, and that's enough.

"You didn't invent your way into my life, you know."

You look at her, frowning. Those are words you didn't expect. "No?"

"No." Her fingers drum against your spine. "The gadgets are great. Truly. But they're not the main appeal here, and they never were."

"It's just..." You swallow. "You saved me. It's like, I don't know."

"A debt?"

"Maybe."

Natasha doesn't say anything. She just moves her hand, reaching for yours. When you give it to her, she tugs you into her side.

You know she's being serious. She doesn't need the gadgets. You'll keep inventing them, anyway.

. . .

There's a bandage around her shoulder and a tiny bandaid above her eyebrow, but she's still attracting attention from everyone in the room. You know she is. She always does. You pull her into your side and lead her through the hallway.

"They're staring", you mutter, gently squeezing her upper arm.

"I wonder why."

"You're beaten up and they're still staring." You enter your lab and walk right towards the little couch in the corner. Natasha sits down without arguing, which is a miracle. Getting her to do just about anything that'd be beneficial for her injuries is like fighting a very stubborn bear.

She shifts until she's comfortable, her injured arm resting on a pillow you tuck against her side. "So?"

"Nothing", you say evasively, closing the door now. You're pretty sure no one's going to come by anyway, but you're not keen on taking that risk right now. "Need anything? Water, a granola bar?"

"I'm good." She tilts her head. "You gonna keep me locked in here until they stop staring?"

Hand around a water bottle, you pause. You're crouched in front of the mini fridge.

"Well..."

"Oh god."

"I'm kidding."

She laughs and, despite saying no earlier, accepts the water bottle you hand her. "Hey, at least feel sorry Valerie quit."

"Feel sorry?" You snort and step up to your workbench. You grab the new neural link you've been working on and the stack of data necessary to program it so you can get to work. "I don't do that."

"No, of course." She leans back and watches you work. You adjust wires, program the link using your tablet, test it a few times.

It took two days for you to get up and get started on another neural link. You've barely been sleeping, and Natasha knows that's the case, but you're relentless. Having experience with this prototype, creating an updated, better one hasn't been hard. That doesn't make the process less painful, though. You've burnt your fingertips again already.

"I'm relieved, you know", you mumble.

"Mhm?"

"Valerie really was incompetent."

The cap of the water bottle hits you in the back. But she's smiling, trying not to laugh, and you turn around.

"I mean it."

"She's not even here anymore", she says. "Dial down the jealousy."

"It's not jealousy, it's me disliking her."

"And why do you dislike her? Because you're jealous."

You walk up to the couch and sit down. Hands cup her face, fingertips burnt and wrapped into little bandaids so they'd hurt less, and your breath fans against her lips. You lean in and kiss her, but briefly enough to leave you both wanting more.

She sighs, eyes lazily trailing across your face. "That's not an answer."

"I'm not in the mood to argue. I need to work on your new neural link."

"Better not make any mistakes this time."

You give her an unimpressed look like, Really? You know how much that destroyed me. But she just smiles and tugs you closer.

"I told you I trust you", she says. You roll your eyes. "Don't give me that look, or I'll start using someone else's scope."

"Oh, don't even-"

"Kidding", she cuts you off. "Again."

You narrow your eyes at her. But with the bandaid over her eyebrow, and her bandaged shoulder, you can't be too mad. You sigh and press a kiss to her mouth, your hand on her cheek. She smiles against your lips, hand resting on yours, fingers tangling with yours.

"You're beautiful, you know", you mumble, placing another kiss on her mouth. "No wonder they're all staring. Can't blame them."

"Mhm? Beautiful, you say?"

"So so beautiful." You run your hand down her arm and lightly squeeze her wrist. "It's not fair. You're all beaten up and you still look like you escaped some frame in a museum."

Natasha huffs a laugh. Her forehead rests against yours, her thumb brushes against the side of your hand. You scoot closer and the cushion dips slightly beneath you. She rests one leg over your lap.

"Not jealous anymore?"

"Oh, fucking mental", you say, nodding. "But Valerie's gone, so that helps."

"Terrible."

"Honest."

She scoots and ends up fully in your lap, her weight welcome and familiar. You wouldn't be able to guess her body fat percentage (that detail still leaves you stunned whenever you think about it), but you don't need to see or hear her to recognize her.

Your hand trails down her side and slips under her hoodie. She's warm, her body nestled against yours.

She smiles and nods at the workbench. The neural link lays abandoned, at least for the time being.

"You're stalling again."

"No", you mumble, kissing her shoulder. "Just taking my time."

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow #black widow x reader #marvel #lesbian #wlw #fanfic #x reader #wlw smut #fluff #moon’s fics

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cadelinhadaromanoff · 1 day ago

Text

𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑

Sumary: When Natasha finds herself missing your presence, she realizes just how much her life has changed. What once felt like an afterthought now feels essential. She never imagined how much she’d come to need you, and how much better life is with you by her side.

Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic!Avengers

Word count: 7410

Warnings: A very soft Natasha, bad Mood, Dry jokes, saudades. +18 content.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Author’s Notes: Part three is finally out!! Thanks for all the love you guys are sending to this work. Feel free to send me an ask so we can talk about our mini family—please do, I’m dying for this 😭😭😭

゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᥫ᭡ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ༝ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 🍼 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨♡୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ᡣ𐭩 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ꩜　₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ✧ 　　 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚　　 ૮₍ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ㅤ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ୨୧ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ⁺ 　　　˳ 　　⸝⸝⸝♡　　⁺　　୨୧　　　₊　　 ˚₊

There were worse things than waking up happy. Natasha just wasn’t used to this version of it—the soft kind. The kind that came in slowly, quietly, like sunlight slipping through half-drawn curtains. It didn’t blaze or demand. It settled.

You’d already come and gone that morning—something about Stark needing a schematic review—but you’d left behind your usual trail of affection: still-warm coffee in the red mug she always pretended wasn’t hers, a brown paper bag with her favorite pastry, and the faintest trace of your perfume clinging to the pillow beside hers. She didn’t need any of it. She wasn’t the kind of woman who needed. But damn if it didn’t make her want more.

Ana was still asleep in her little bed across the room, curled under the corner of Natasha’s old hoodie, breathing soft and even. Natasha sat at the table barefoot, coffee in hand, half-smiling to herself without realizing it. This wasn’t a fairytale. It was better. It was real.

You hadn’t said anything official, neither had she. But somewhere between the flowers once a week and the lazy mornings on her couch with your head in her lap, something had clicked into place. A silent agreement. You were hers. She was yours. And neither of you were going anywhere.

You were at her apartment almost every day now. Sometimes just to nap. Sometimes just to exist in the same space. But most nights, after Ana was asleep, it turned into something more—long, drawn-out kisses on the couch, tangled limbs in the low glow of the TV, your mouth on her skin like you were trying to learn her by heart. Natasha didn’t let many people get close. But you didn’t try to break her walls down. You just made her feel safe enough to lower them on her own.

There were still moments when it hit her hard. When she’d glance across the room and see you with Ana—sharing snacks, playing with puzzle pieces, carrying her on your hip like she belonged there—and Natasha’s chest would tighten in a way that almost hurt. Because this wasn’t a dream. This was real. And somehow, it was hers.

She’d never imagined she’d get this. Not the child. Not the quiet mornings. Not you. And yet, here she was. Drinking her favorite coffee, in her apartment that didn’t feel lonely anymore, with the sound of her daughter breathing peacefully in the background and the ghost of your kiss still lingering on her lips.

Natasha Romanoff, international spy, ex-assassin, former Avenger… was in love.

And for once in her life, it wasn’t complicated. It was just right.

Natasha had never planned on falling in love. Especially not with someone younger. Much younger.

She told herself that in the beginning. Repeated it like a prayer, like a defense: you were twenty-three. Brilliant. Reckless. Overflowing with the kind of fire she thought only existed in people who hadn’t been broken yet. And yet—you chose her. You chose them.

You stayed. Through all the chaos. Through Ana’s tantrums and midnight wake-ups. Through Natasha’s silences, her scars, her tendency to shut down instead of open up. You brought flowers when she was having a bad week and didn’t want to say it out loud. You brought chocolate when Ana was teething and neither of them had slept in two days. You brought yourself—unapologetically, completely.

The first time you left, Natasha barely flinched.

Three days. That was the length of your mission. A simple extraction, routine enough that even Fury hadn’t been concerned. She hadn’t made a big deal of it—kissed your temple before you left and made some half-hearted joke about bringing her back something interesting. And that was it. She’d spent the first evening watching cartoons with Ana curled up on her chest, the second one organizing files in the quiet of her room, and by the third morning, you were back, carrying pastries and that tired grin you always wore when you pushed yourself too far.

She remembered thinking it was fine. She didn’t miss you. Not really. Not in any way that was abnormal.

But then it happened again.

A month later, another three-day mission. Longer distance this time. Minimal contact. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal again. She’d survived years without attachment—three days without you shouldn’t even register. And yet…

This time, there was a shift.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing worth naming. But the silence felt heavier at night. She lingered longer by her phone, her thumb hovering over your name more often. She still had Ana—her anchor in everything—but there was an odd, persistent restlessness underneath her skin. She snapped at the coffee machine one morning when it jammed. She cursed a little louder when she stubbed her toe. Nothing big. Not enough to call it anything.

She didn’t realize it for what it was. Not then.

She thought she was just tired. She told herself she’d been too used to sharing space with you, that maybe you’d spoiled her by being around so much. That was all. Nothing serious.

But then came the third time.

Present day. And this time?

It was bad.

You were gone. Again. And everything felt off. Off-kilter. Wrong. The apartment felt colder, and Ana—sweet Ana—was crankier than usual, refusing naps, pushing her food around on her plate, clearly missing you in her own small way. Natasha tried to hold it together, but this time it wasn’t just silence—it was absence. It was the absence of your coffee cup in the sink. The lack of your music humming from the bathroom. No sarcastic quip about her black ops hoodie or shared glances over Ana’s head when she did something ridiculous.

Natasha was fraying. Worse—she knew it.

And she hated that awareness.

She tried to channel the frustration into something useful. Clint had agreed to run combat drills with a new batch of recruits, and Natasha threw herself into it with the kind of sharp, violent precision she hadn’t leaned on in years.

She didn’t hold back.

The gym floor was already slick with sweat, and the sound of fists hitting pads echoed like thunder between the high ceilings. The new recruits—bright-eyed, fully trained, and supposedly ready for fieldwork—were scattered across the mats like a massacre had just taken place. Natasha paced in front of them like a wolf in black leggings, half-sane from too many hours of sleep deprivation and too few texts from you.

“Again,” she ordered flatly, and a collective groan rose from the group.

One of the girls—Elena, maybe? Or Eliza? Natasha didn’t bother remembering—wobbled to her feet and tried to correct her stance.

“You’re favoring your left. You do that on a mission, you’ll lose a kneecap.”

“I—uh—okay, Agent Romanoff.”

“‘Okay’ isn’t gonna regrow your kneecap, sweetheart.”

Clint snorted from the corner, arms crossed, chewing on a protein bar like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“You know,” he said casually, “some people call this mentoring.”

Natasha arched an eyebrow, looking entirely unimpressed. “Some people have standards.”

Clint raised his hands in surrender. “Hey, no judgment. I just don’t think Stark’s daughter would’ve survived your version of boot camp.”

“She wouldn’t have whined this much,” Natasha shot back, already circling the next recruit—tall, cocky, abs for days, too much gel in his hair. She jabbed at his shoulder with two fingers. “You flinch like that again, and I’m gonna have Steve run you through shield drills until you cry.”

“I—I’m not flinching.”

Natasha stared him down. “You blinked when I said ‘Steve.’ That counts.”

Clint laughed outright now, leaning against the wall. “You’ve been extra scary lately, Nat. Should I be worried?”

“Just bored,” she muttered, even though they both knew that wasn’t the truth.

“Bored?” Clint raised a brow. “This is your version of bored? I can’t wait to see what happens when you’re in a bad mood.”

She shot him a dark look that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Keep talking and I’ll put you on the mat.”

“Oh no, anything but that,” he said, hand on his heart, mock-fear in his voice. “Whatever will I do if my bestie breaks my spine in front of Gen Z?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton. I’d let one of them do it.”

One of the recruits whispered, “We can hear you,” and Natasha turned just enough to give them a slow, feral grin.

“Good. Maybe it’ll motivate you.”

They looked like they wanted to cry, She didn’t care.

Because if she stopped moving, stopped teasing, stopped being this barely tethered version of herself—then maybe the ache in her chest would start catching up.

And she couldn’t afford that.

Not yet, You were still gone.

Natasha Romanoff was a force in the training room. Everyone knew that. But even she had her rhythms — the way she sized someone up, tested their footing, let them learn through a bruise or two without destroying what little confidence they had. But not today. Today, she was sharp. Clinical. Unforgiving. Every correction came with a hit, every mistake was pointed out with the flick of her staff or the slam of a mat.

By the end of the session, half the recruits were limping and the other half were trying not to look like they were on the verge of crying. They weren’t rookies. All of them were somewhere in their early twenties, eager and just green enough to think they had something to prove. Normally, Natasha would break them down with precision, then build them back up.

Today, she left them scattered across the floor like discarded chess pieces.

“Alright, go,” she finally said after a bit more of torture, waving a hand like she was shooing pigeons instead of a group of elite S.H.I.E.L.D. trainees. “You’re all free to cry in the showers. Debrief’s in two hours. Don’t be late or I’ll actually try.”

The room cleared out faster than a fire drill.

Clint, who’d spent most of the session leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his mouth shut, finally raised his eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “That was brutal.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “They’re fine. They signed up for this.”

“They signed up for basic tactical sparring, not full-contact therapy.”

She gave him a look, but there was no venom behind it.

Clint stepped forward and offered her a bottle of water, which she took without a word.

“You wanna tell me what’s going on or should I wait until you start decapitating punching bags?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You’re always tired. This is different.”

She stayed quiet. Long enough that Clint didn’t think she was going to answer. Then—

“I’m not used to being alone anymore.”

That surprised him. Not the words, maybe, but the way she said them. Flat. Matter-of-fact. Like it was a diagnosis she didn’t quite know what to do with.

“I mean, I can do it,” she added quickly, like that mattered more. “I’ve done it most of my life. I know how to keep Ana on routine, I know how to make sure the bills are paid, I know how to function—”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

Natasha glanced at him.

“I know that look,” Clint said. “You’ve got it under control on the outside, but inside you’re counting every creak in the apartment.”

She didn’t answer, which meant he was right.

He softened his tone a little. “This the third time?”

Natasha nodded. “First time was fine. Just a three-day recon. Ana missed her, I missed her, but I kept busy. Second time was about a month later. Same length. But it hit differently. I was irritated all the time, couldn’t explain why.”

“And now?”

“I’m snapping at everyone,” she muttered. “I haven’t been able to fall asleep without checking the door three times. I wake up every hour thinking I heard something. My body feels like it’s stuck in defense mode.”

Clint tilted his head. “She make you feel safe?”

Natasha let out a dry laugh. “Isn’t that ironic?”

Clint smiled gently. “Maybe. But not surprising. You’ve spent your whole life being the safe one. The one with backup plans and exit routes and eyes on every angle. No one ever stuck around long enough for you to want safety.”

She didn’t deny it.

“I didn’t even notice,” she said after a moment. “That it was happening. I just… slept better. I rested. When she was around, I wasn’t bracing all the time. I started drinking my coffee while it was still hot. I didn’t flinch every time Ana made a noise in the middle of the night.”

“Must be weird.”

“It’s terrifying,” Natasha said, but there was a hint of a smile there now. “Because I didn’t think I was missing anything. I wasn’t unhappy. I had Ana. I had work. Everything was fine.”

Clint didn’t interrupt. He could see the thoughts still arranging themselves behind her eyes.

“She’s young,” Natasha said eventually. “Bright, loud, stubborn. She walks into a room and everything wakes up. And then… when she leaves, it’s like the apartment forgets how to breathe.”

Clint grinned. “Wow. You’re really down bad.”

She smacked his arm.

“I’m just saying,” he teased. “That sounds like someone who’s trying real hard not to use the word love.”

“I’m not saying it to you.”

“But you’re saying it.”

Natasha looked away, then back, then sighed.

“She’s only been gone for a week” she muttered. “And I already feel like my skin’s too tight.”

“Yeah,” Clint said softly. “That’s love, Nat.”

She didn’t reply. Just stood there with her arms crossed, jaw tight, like she was trying to keep the storm in her chest from spilling out across the floor.

And Clint didn’t push her.

Because he knew her. And she’d say it when she was ready. But until then, he’d be there. And maybe, if the world played fair for once, she would be back soon too.

She just left without saying a word to him and wandered to the kitchen, chasing the illusion of calm in a cup of coffee. A desperate attempt to reset, to claw her way back to something that resembled her usual mindset. Useless? Absolutely. But still a valid attempt.

She used what little spare time she had to chip away at the paperwork piling up on her desk, going through the motions while her brain begged for a break, but she couldn't bring herself to stop

When the clock finally pushed her toward the inevitable, she made her way to the meeting room. It was still quiet—mercifully so—and she let herself enjoy the silence for what it was: the last moment of peace before the incoming storm of idiocy.

Clint arrived not long after.

“Ready to deal with them again?” she sighed, barely turning her head to look at him. “It can’t get worse, right?”

It did.

After snapping through training drills and watching half the recruits nearly cry from a simple sparring critique, Natasha thought she’d reached the peak of her frustration. She thought the fire had burned out enough that she could sit through something as low-stakes as a mission planning session without needing a punching bag. She was wrong.

They were in the meeting room, a stack of files spread across the table, and the only thing more painful than their blank stares was their awful strategy logic. It wasn’t even an actual op—they were just meant to propose a plan, something clean and professional, basic protocol. But somehow they managed to turn it into the most chaotic, disjointed mess she had seen since Clint tried to microwave a steak.

One of them suggested a twelve-person infiltration team for a two-man job. Another thought a decoy explosion in a civilian area was a “good distraction.” Natasha stared at that one for a long time. Said nothing. Just let the silence hang until he cleared his throat and tried to backpedal.

It was hell.

They were hell.

And the worst part was, she couldn’t even find the energy to get mad anymore. She just wanted to be anywhere else.

She found herself thinking about your hands.

How they moved when you spread files across her table. How you always started a plan from the middle and worked backwards like it made more sense that way. How your theories were messy, but your execution was precise. How your dumb croissants always left flakes on her floor, but your coffee? Always perfect.

God, she missed you.

These newbies were making her feel ancient.

And somehow… you never did.

Which, in that moment, made her realize something even worse, She wasn’t just used to your presence. She had started to rely on it.

And now? With your chair empty across the room and a dozen voices talking over each other like toddlers playing spy?

She’d never wanted to quit a debrief so badly in her life.

She sat back in her chair, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line as she watched one of the recruits confidently draw a completely backwards tactical map on the whiteboard. The entrance and exit points were the same. The safe zone was placed inside the potential combat perimeter. And their plan to extract intel involved “grabbing the briefcase and hoping for the best.”

Natasha blinked. Slowly.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t laugh.

She just watched. With the dead-eyed stare of someone whose soul had left her body approximately five minutes ago.

Clint was sitting to her right, trying—and failing—to stifle his amusement. She caught the edge of his grin in her periphery and didn’t bother to hide the glare she shot back.

“You’re enjoying this,” she muttered under her breath.

“Immensely,” Clint whispered, taking a casual sip of his water. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

She let her head fall back against the chair with a quiet groan. “I’ve trained toddlers with better tactical awareness.”

Clint chuckled. “You did train a toddler. Yours has better instincts than these guys.”

She exhaled sharply, the corner of her mouth twitching despite the ache behind her eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

They watched another recruit stand up to add on to the plan, immediately contradicting the first half of it. Natasha let her eyes close, counted to ten, reopened them, and still nothing made sense. The files were sitting right there, everything they needed laid out in plain detail—but they weren’t reading, they weren’t thinking, they weren’t you.

You would’ve solved this in five minutes flat. Coffee in one hand, smug grin on your lips, and a completely insane but functional plan in front of her before she could even finish skimming the brief. You made chaos look elegant.

And you were so damn good at what you did.

Not just in the field. But with Ana. With her. With everything.

She missed the way you filled the space beside her. Missed the balance of it. The peace of knowing you were close enough to lean on, even when she pretended not to. She hadn’t realized how much calmer she’d become until you left—and now every breath felt too loud. Every second dragged.

You made things quiet. Inside her head. Inside her chest.

And without you there, she felt like her entire body was clenching around silence. Like she couldn’t relax. Couldn’t trust the stillness.

The room buzzed with voices again, someone suggesting parachutes in a low-rise recon op. Natasha stood up sharply, scraping her chair back.

“All of you,” she said flatly, “out.”

A beat of silence. Then chairs shifting, people scrambling, a few mumbled apologies.

Clint didn’t even try to hide his laugh now.

“You’re brutal.”

“They were parachuting into a building with three floors, Barton.”

“Bold,” he agreed, nodding.

Natasha rubbed her temple, tiredness dragging across her features like the weight of three sleepless nights. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the table, at your empty seat, at the untouched coffee cup across from her that she’d placed there without thinking.

And Clint watched her. Quiet now.

“You okay?”

She let out a breath. “No.”

His brow furrowed slightly, but he waited.

“I’m tired,” she said, not looking at him. “Not physically. Not really. Just—on edge. All the time. Like I’m waiting for something to go wrong and I don’t even know what it is.”

Clint watched her carefully, but she didn’t return the look. Her fingers tapped against the file in front of her, slow and bitter. She wasn’t trying to sound dramatic. She was trying not to sound like she was one sleepless night away from losing it.

“And don’t start with the maybe-you-just-need-a-break crap,” she added, her voice dry as dust. “I swear to God, Barton, if one more person tells me to go meditate or do yoga, I’ll throw someone off the balcony just to feel something.”

Clint raised his hands, surrendering with a little whistle. “Wasn’t gonna say a word.”

“Good.” She closed the file with a hard snap. “Because the only thing I’m doing is going back to my apartment, taking a damn hot shower, and snuggling with my daughter until the tension in my spine lets go or I pass out trying.”

“You sure you don’t want to join the rookies for round two?” Clint teased, watching her sling her bag over her shoulder with the kind of aggression that suggested something—or someone—was about to be strangled.

Natasha shot him a look that could peel paint. “Those idiots wouldn’t know a mission plan if it hit them in the face with a blueprint and a crayon.”

“Sounds like a no.”

“It’s a hell no.”

She pushed the chair in with a sharp movement and started toward the door. She was already picturing it—Ana’s small body curled under her arm, the smell of baby shampoo still lingering in her hair, the weight of something real and safe grounding her. The apartment would be warm. Familiar. You wouldn’t be there, but Ana would. And maybe that would be enough to stop her from unraveling further.

“I’m going to go cuddle my toddler,” she muttered as she walked away, mostly to herself. “In an attempt to soothe my fucking nerves before I kill someone.”

“Love that for you,” Clint called after her, smirking. “Tell Ana I said hi.”

But she didn’t answer. She just kept walking—jaw clenched, back stiff, heart pounding louder than it should.

And maybe that was the part that scared her the most.

It was getting harder to calm down without you.

She should’ve gone to her own apartment. She meant to. But in the elevator, her finger pressed your floor instead of hers. She stared at the button, thought about fixing it—and didn’t.

It wasn’t on purpose. Just muscle memory, maybe. Or something quieter. Something she wasn’t ready to name.

She ignored the unspoken rules of social decency—the ones about personal space, about waiting until you’re invited, about not letting yourself into someone else’s apartment when they’re not home. But rules had never done much for her. Not when her chest felt like it was pulled too tight, not when every inch of her skin ached to be somewhere that felt less.

So she walked in like she belonged. Because maybe she did.

The scent hit her first. Your perfume, soft and clean, still lingering in the air like you’d left only minutes ago. Her shoulders relaxed before she even realized it. The knot in her back didn’t go away, but it loosened, just enough for her to breathe. She scoffed under her breath, irritated with herself. This is ridiculous.

She wasn’t supposed to be the kind of woman who felt safe just because of a smell. That was something for romance novels and bad TV dramas. And yet here she was, sinking into it like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Pathetic.

But she didn’t leave.

Instead, she walked to your bathroom, peeled off her clothes, and stepped into your shower. The water pressure was—of course—better than hers. Much better. The kind of steaming hot that instantly blanketed her skin, wrapped around her ribs, and made the world feel like it could fade for a few minutes. She let her forehead press to the tile and made a mental note: Have her install one of these in my apartment. Perks of being your… something.

Natasha let herself fold. The heat hit her hard, softening the edges of her muscle, but not the ache underneath. That, only you could reach.

She braced a hand against the tile, eyes shut, water cascading over her back. Her other hand moved across her body, every touch of her own hands washing away the grime taking deep sighs and low whines come out of her mouth... she is a needy mess. the week, the endless static of a life too sharp lately. But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t you.

Her fingers stilled at her collarbone, and all she could think about was your hands—gentler than she expected, steady, unhurried. The way you touched her like you had all the time in the world. The way your thumb had traced her hipbone once without even noticing, and it had made her breath catch like a damn teenager.

She wanted that.

God, she wanted you.

Not just your mouth or your body or the heat of your skin against hers—though she wanted that too, badly—but the presence. That anchoring calm you carried, the ease in your laugh, the way you never flinched when Ana clung to your chest or Natasha woke up gasping in the middle of the night. You were steady. You were safe.

And she missed you like hell.

The water rushed down her back as her palm curled against the tile. Her breath hitched—not from the steam, but from the ache in her chest. This wasn’t just about the day. Or the week. This was you, absent in a way she hadn’t let herself admit she wasn’t handling well.

She needed your hands. Your weight behind her. Your mouth pressed to her shoulder whispering sweet things on her ear... bringing her to a lazy orgasm, your fingers trusting inside her exactly how she likes it, that type of orgasm that made her bones melt. She needed to feel claimed—wanted—in the way only you managed to make her feel.

She let the water run until her skin turned pink and her legs felt a little less steady. But not weak. Just—softer.

She wrapped herself in your towel, tucked her hair behind her ear, and looked at her reflection. She felt ridiculous—needy in a way that made her wince. Two years spent living something close to celibate, and now she couldn’t make it through a week without you.

“Pathetic,” she muttered under her breath. And yet, she didn’t leave.

She wasn’t ready to leave.

Not when everything in this apartment smelled like you.

Not when your presence lingered in the sheets and the steam and the air she breathed like a promise.

Not when her skin still craved you more than the water could soothe.

Wrapped in your robe—still warm from where it had hung by the bathroom—Natasha felt like she was wearing a secret. The collar smelled like you. The sleeves hung past her wrists just enough to feel wrong on her body and right in every other way. The plush fabric swallowed her frame, soft where her skin was still pink from the shower, grounding her like only you managed to do.

She padded barefoot into your bedroom, towel-drying her hair lazily as she reached for your phone. You weren’t home, but she didn’t need permission. Not anymore. Not after the way you’d held her the last time she’d fallen apart. Not after the way your hands had memorized her.

She dialed the tower’s daycare.

It rang twice before someone picked up. “Hello—Avengers Tower Child Services, this is—”

“I need Ana.”

There was a pause, just long enough to signal the woman on the other end had recognized her voice. “Oh—are you coming down to pick her up?”

“No,” Natasha cut in, her voice low and dry. “Have someone bring her to Ms. Stark’s apartment.”

Another pause. Sharper this time.

Natasha didn’t usually pull rank. She didn’t like making people uncomfortable if she could help it, didn’t like reminding people of who she was unless she had to. But today? Today she didn’t give a fuck.

The silence on the other end of the line cracked into a gasp—the kind someone makes when they choke on air but try to hide it. “Ms. Stark’s apartment?” the woman repeated, barely managing to keep her voice steady. “But she’s—uh—she’s currently away on mission—”

“Exactly,” Natasha replied, cool and calm as ice. “I’m in her apartment.”

She hung up before the woman could recover, before she could come up with something else polite to say. The truth was already in the air. No taking it back now.

And maybe Natasha liked that a little more than she should.

Still barefoot, she wandered into your kitchen and opened the cabinet where she knew you kept the coffee mugs—second shelf, left side, tucked behind that one chipped one you never threw away. She picked your favorite, poured the last of the hot brew into it, and cradled it between her palms like it might warm her deeper than the robe already had.

She looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of your pajama bottoms—soft, a little too big, cinched at the waist with a lazy knot. your robe, draped over it. She smelled like your shampoo. She moved like someone who belonged in your space.

When the elevator dinged, she didn’t rush to meet it.

She walked slowly, casually, letting the scent of your coffee cling to her like another layer of you. She opened the door just as the delivery woman was adjusting Ana on her hip.

And the look on her face?

Priceless.

Natasha didn’t smile. Not really. But her mouth did twitch in a way that let the woman know she’d seen it. That she understood exactly what this looked like. And that she wasn’t about to explain herself.

She reached for Ana, who immediately threw her arms around her mother’s neck, cheek pressed into her shoulder with a tired little sigh.

“Thank you,” Natasha said, expression unreadable but voice polite.

The woman mumbled something in return, eyes flicking once more to Natasha’s clothes—your clothes—before she stepped back into the elevator.

And that was that.

Natasha smiled to herself, something smug curling in her chest, her mood instantly lighter—as if claiming you, even in a silent, indirect way, had flipped a switch in her head. The robe still smelled like you. The coffee was yours. The space was yours. And now, so were they.

She looked down at Ana, who was content and warm in her arms, still sleep-dazed with her cheek pressed to her shoulder. “Mama made it pretty clear,” Natasha murmured, voice full of dry satisfaction. “She’s ours.”

Ana made a little sound—a soft gag, half-laugh, half-yawn—like she agreed in her toddler way, and Natasha huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Exactly,” she said, brushing her lips over the crown of Ana’s head. “I didn’t even have to say it out loud. That poor woman nearly fainted.”

Ana mumbled something incoherent and tucked herself in tighter, her small fingers wrapping into the edge of Natasha’s robe.

Natasha carried her toward the bedroom, her hand cupping Ana’s back instinctively. She still had her coffee in the other hand, warm and familiar. “You know,” she said softly, talking more to fill the quiet than anything else, “you and I—we make a good team. I don’t even have to say what I want, and you go ahead and make me look all possessive.”

Another little sleepy gag came in response, and Natasha smirked.

They reached the bed.

It was still unmade from your morning rush—covers half thrown back, your pillow slightly indented. Natasha settled in like muscle memory, stretching out with a soft sigh as she adjusted the blankets over them both. She took one last sip of coffee before setting the mug on your nightstand.

Ana curled on her chest, tiny limbs draped naturally over her like she belonged there. Natasha’s hand moved up and down her daughter’s back in a rhythm she didn’t think about.

Everything smelled like you.

Everything felt like you.

And wrapped in your robe, in your bed, with Ana’s heartbeat against hers, Natasha let herself close her eyes for the first time that day and just breathe.

This—this was hers. And she wasn’t sharing.

Ana fell asleep fast—unfairly fast, in Natasha’s opinion. One minute she was blinking slow against her chest, the next, completely knocked out, tiny fingers still curled in the fabric of Natasha’s borrowed robe.

Natasha looked down at the peaceful little traitor and sighed through her nose. “Such a simp,” she muttered, mock-scolding, brushing her knuckles gently against Ana’s red hair. “You know that, right? One whiff of her and you’re out like a light. No standards.”

Ana didn’t respond, of course. Just let out a soft snore, drooling slightly onto Natasha’s chest.

“Gross,” Natasha added affectionately, then shifted with a little grunt of effort, sliding out from under her daughter with the practiced ease of a mother who’d done this dance too many times. She tugged the robe off her shoulders, tossing it to the chair by your desk, then pulled the duvet up to cover them both. It smelled heavenly. Like you. Of course it did.

She rolled her eyes—at you, at herself, at this whole situation she never thought she’d be in.

“Great,” she muttered as she settled in beside Ana again, tugging the duvet tighter around them. “She has turned both Romanoffs into complete idiots. Well done.”

The bed was warm. The room was quiet. Ana’s breath was slow and steady, pressed into her side now. Natasha tucked her arm around her daughter and let herself relax.

It didn’t take long before she was out too.

Simp, indeed.

It was, without a doubt, the best sleep she’d had all week. No tossing, no restless half-wakes at every small noise. Just warmth. The kind that wrapped around her bones, settled into her skin. The kind that whispered safety without needing to say a word.

Natasha was sleeping like a log, dead to the world. But even as she stirred, something felt different. Not wrong—no, not at all—but new. Or rather… familiar in a way she was beginning to crave.

There was an extra weight draped over her waist. Not heavy, but grounding. And then the scent—yours—undeniable, curling around her like a second blanket. It was the only reason she didn’t jolt upright like usual, the only reason her muscles stayed loose instead of tensing on instinct. She blinked, adjusting to the low light filtering through the room, and looked down.

Your hand.

Delicate, sure. But firm in its claim, wrapped around her as if she were something fragile and rare, something to be protected. Treasured. As if you knew what she tried to hide and wanted to shield her from it anyway.

She didn’t know how to breathe for a second.

She didn’t feel weak. She didn’t feel small. She felt… like yours.

Carefully, quietly, she rolled onto her side, slow enough not to disturb Ana, still asleep by her side. Her eyes met yours. Warm. Soft. Tired in the same way hers were.

You leaned in first. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter.

Your lips brushed hers in a slow, unhurried kiss—lingering just a second too long to be casual, just deep enough to say I missed you without either of you needing to say a word. There was something sacred in the silence. Something steady in the pull between your mouths.

Longing and relief, tangled together in the stillness.

The kiss faded slowly, not because either of you wanted it to, but because the moment demanded breath—words. Familiar rhythm. Something to tether the weight of the morning to something more manageable. You stayed close, noses brushing, your hand still resting over her waist.

“God, you look terrible,” you whispered, the corners of your mouth tugging into a sleepy grin.

Natasha let out a soft huff of amusement, half-heartedly rolling her eyes. “Thanks, printsessa. Nothing like brutal honesty to start the day.”

You blinked at her, incredulous. “Day? Darling, it’s fucking 22:00. How did you manage to destroy your biological clock like this?”

You brushed a strand of her messy red hair off her cheek, your fingers deliberately slow, teasing. “No, really. Hair like a bird nest. Dark circles. You look like someone tried to cosplay insomnia.”

She smirked, biting back a laugh that might wake Ana. “I’ve been busy not murdering anyone this week, thanks to someone disappearing again.”

“I was working,” you said, mock-defensive, shifting just a little so your leg hooked around hers. “Some of us have very important things to do, you know.”

Natasha scoffed. “Right. And I’m sure the fate of the world depended entirely on your ability to drink five espressos and ignore my texts.”

You grinned, nose brushing her temple. “Six espressos, actually. And I wasn’t ignoring. I was… emotionally unavailable.”

That earned a soft laugh from her—real and unguarded. She tilted her head back just enough to meet your gaze fully, her expression still dry, but touched with affection. “You’re insufferable.”

You grinned wider. “And yet here you are. Wrapped in my sheets. Wearing my clothes. Sleeping in my bed.”

She pressed a quick kiss to your chin, her voice lower now, almost fond despite her teasing. “Yeah. Must be losing my edge.”

You pulled her closer again, arms snug around her waist. “Nah. You just found better edges to soften against.”

She didn’t say anything. Just let herself melt into you, breathing easier than she had in days.

She was quiet at first, her body still heavy with sleep as you brushed your fingers lazily down the slope of her waist. Her hair was a mess, sticking out in all directions, eyes half-lidded and unfocused as they slowly adjusted to the light.

You let your hand slide up, resting it on her ribs. “A little bird told me you weren’t exactly… thriving this week.”

She stilled slightly. “Clint?”

“Mmhmm. Said you almost impaled a trainee for calling you ma’am.”

“They earned it.”

You grinned. “You told one of the analysts she had the tactical sense of a door.”

Natasha grunted.

You snorted softly. “You’ve been stomping around the tower like a sleep-deprived dragon.”

There was a long pause before she finally sighed, low and quiet. “I don’t sleep well without you.”

You didn’t tease her for that one. Not this time.

Instead, you shifted closer, curling around her a little more, letting her breathe you in. Her shoulders softened. Just a little.

“I mean, if this is you at thirty-three, I can’t imagine the chaos when you’re sixty,” you said gently, your lips brushing her hair. “You’ll be throwing people out of windows for breathing too loud.”

Natasha let out a tired, amused sound. “That’s optimistic. I’ll be worse.”

You kissed her jaw. “Cute.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re so cute when you’re cranky and secretly in love with me.”

She turned her face into your neck, mumbling something unintelligible, but you could feel the smile there.

Natasha was still tangled in the last traces of sleep, Ana’s little body sprawled by her side, her scent mingling with the faint sweetness of your perfume that lingered on the pillows. The calm wouldn’t last, she knew that. It never did. But for now, she allowed herself to rest in it—until you stirred beside her and she felt your fingers brushing her side softly.

“I have some news,” you said, voice low and close to her ear, carrying the weight of something important, but softened with warmth.

Natasha’s body tensed the smallest bit. It was instinctive, like a defense mechanism. That tone—it meant change. She shifted, careful not to wake Ana, and met your eyes. “What kind of news?”

You sat up slightly, propping yourself on your elbow, and smiled. “Good news, I swear.”

Still, she didn’t smile back. Not yet. She just waited, studying your expression. She’d learned to read people deeply, and you—God, you were the only person who ever made her forget how.

You reached up, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. “Fury said I’m not necessary here in the Avengers anymore, so I can go back to England.”

Natasha blinked, just once—but it was enough. That word again.

England.

It was always there—hovering like a shadow behind your name, your work, your laughter. The place that could take you back. The place that wasn’t here.

Her throat tightened just a bit. “So… you’re leaving?”

You heard it. You always did. The tension behind her words. The shift in her breathing.

You leaned closer, your forehead nearly touching hers. “But I’m also not necessary in England either. So I chose to stay here.”

Natasha blinked, unsure. “Wait, what?”

“I said I had good news,” you cut her off gently, your thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “You’re looking at the newest member of the Avengers. Apparently one Stark wasn’t enough, so now they get to deal with two.”

That earned you a blink of surprise—and then, slowly, a breath of relief. Natasha didn’t smile, not quite. But the way her shoulders eased, the way her fingers curled slightly tighter around Ana, spoke volumes.

Still, you could tell her mind was spinning.

“So… you’re staying here?” she asked quietly, as if she didn’t quite trust the answer yet.

You nodded. “Fury said I could go back if I wanted. But I don’t. I want this. I’ll be living here. In the Tower. With you. With Ana.”

And that was the moment everything shifted.

You weren’t just dropping in and out of her life anymore. You weren’t a fleeting miracle or a reprieve between the chaos. You were staying. Permanently. Part of the team. Part of them.

A breath she didn’t know she’d been holding left her lungs all at once, and she couldn’t help the way her hand slid up to cup your cheek, holding you close as if anchoring herself to reality.

“You’re serious?” she asked.

You grinned. “Completely. They’re stuck with me now.”

She let out a dry laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Poor bastards.”

You tilted your head. “That wasn’t very supportive, Romanoff.”

“Oh, I’m supportive,” she said, leaning forward to kiss your jaw. “I’m just also a realist.”

You chuckled, but even you couldn’t hide how full your chest felt—because you knew. You knew what this meant to her. To all of you.

“I missed you too, you know,” you added after a moment, a little softer now. “Don’t think you were the only one close to losing your shit. They paired me with this guy in his thirties—had more field experience than me but didn’t even know how to operate an advanced interface system. Almost blew up the whole thing trying to sync it.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “At one point I had to take over and told him to step back before I sent him to basic training again. I’m pretty sure I growled.”

She smirked, drawing circles against Ana’s back absentmindedly. “Sounds like you were channeling me.”

You smiled and leaned down, resting your forehead against hers. “I think I just missed home.”

That word hit. Home.

And somehow, this—you, her, Ana, this bed—had become exactly that.

Natasha sighed, curling her fingers in the hem of your shirt. “Well… I hope you like shared showers and stolen hoodies.”

You chuckled. “It’s part of the contract.”

She smiled against your mouth. Finally. And maybe this wasn’t perfect. Maybe the world would keep throwing chaos their way. But at least for now, there was one solid truth Natasha could finally hold onto:

You were home. And you weren’t going anywhere

#ladies and gentlemen natasha romanoff is very gay #natasha romanoff x reader #gay love #marvel mcu #mothernatasha romanoff #natalie rushman #natasha romanoff #soft natasha #milf!natasha #lesbian #gay #pride #baby!fic

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mommykye · 2 days ago

Text

Mine

summary: a spark of jealousy in Natasha pushes Natasha to take you to her office.

a/n: a lil sneak peak into the future guys😉

Last one for this weekend guys🫶🏻 can you tell I do nothing but sit at home and write?

needs a little editing but i’ll do that another day

warnings: oh, smut😁. men/minors DNI

word count: 5.7k

a one-shot to the Big Bad Wolf

Request are open

masterlist

The Manhattan skyline, a jagged crown of steel and glass, bled into the bruised twilight. A furious, molten sun surrendered to the horizon, sinking below the steely embrace of the Hudson River, casting elongated, theatrical shadows that clawed across the avenues, desperate to cling to the last vestiges of light. Far below, the city throbbed with its relentless pulse, a chaotic symphony of blaring horns, the hurried cadence of countless footsteps, and the mournful cry of distant sirens. From the dizzying height of the 200th floor of the Romanoff Industries tower, the world transformed into a miniature diorama, a vibrant, teeming tapestry of human existence unfurling beneath a vast, darkening canvas.

Within the opulent confines of the CEO's office, a sanctuary of polished obsidian and hushed reverence, a drama of a far more intimate and intense nature was unfolding, a stark counterpoint to the frenetic energy of the city below. The expansive, panoramic windows, usually a source of strategic inspiration for the formidable Natasha Romanoff, now served as a reflective stage for a scene of raw, untamed desire. The air, thick with the expensive, grounding aroma of sandalwood incense and the subtly sharp, metallic tang of burgeoning arousal, vibrated with a palpable, almost electric tension.

You, her omega, were pinned against the sharp, unforgiving edge of her colossal glass desk. The cool, immaculately clean surface offered a stark, almost shocking contrast to the feverish heat radiating from your flushed skin. Your breath hitched in your throat, a soft, involuntary gasp swallowed by the ragged rhythm of your own panting breaths and the insistent, driving cadence of Natasha's movements. Her hands, strong and possessive, were clamped firmly on your hips, her grip a language of ownership, guiding the deep, relentless thrusts that sent shattering waves of pleasure crashing through your very core. Each powerful slide of her engorged cock against your slick, swollen pussy was a jolt of pure sensation, making your vision swim and your muscles clench involuntarily.

Natasha, the indomitable CEO, whose normally piercing, calculating sapphire eyes held the cold sharpness of glacial ice, now burned with a primal, untamed hunger. A film of pure, unadulterated desire glazed her pupils, her focus narrowed solely on you. Her lips were pressed fiercely against the sensitive nape of your neck, nipping and sucking with a possessive intensity, leaving a trail of fiery, undeniable imprints upon your skin. The impeccably tailored fabric of her charcoal grey suit, usually a symbol of her unyielding control, was now rumpled and creased, a blatant testament to the urgent, almost violent nature of their encounter. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep within her chest, a primal sound of pure, unadulterated desire that echoed the ancient claim of an alpha for their omega. Her potent alpha pheromones, usually carefully leashed, now flooded the small space, a heady, intoxicating musk that spoke of dominance and undeniable possession, wrapping around you like an invisible chain, claiming you utterly. The insistent pressure of her hard length grinding against your wet folds was driving you to the brink.

Earlier, at the sterile formality of the corporate reception, a seemingly innocuous exchange had ignited this inferno. Your brief, casual conversation with Dimitri, one of Natasha’s usually stoic receptionists – the long-forgotten animosity between Romanoff Industries and the remnants of the Sons of Ruva mafia fading into insignificance in this moment – a harmless exchange of pleasantries, a shared laugh over some spilled champagne, had sparked a dangerous flicker of something akin to jealousy in Natasha’s usually impenetrable demeanor. She had watched, her expression unreadable, her posture betraying nothing of the storm brewing beneath the surface, as you had smiled, your eyes crinkling at the corners, a warmth radiating from you that was meant only for her. A shadow, dark and possessive, had momentarily crossed her sharp features, a tightening around her jaw that only you, her bonded omega, could truly decipher. The seemingly innocent interaction had been nothing more than a spark, but it had landed squarely in a powder keg of unspoken longing and fiercely guarded possessiveness. And now, here in the absolute privacy of her obsidian office, high above the glittering city, she was staking her claim, branding you as irrevocably hers, erasing any lingering trace of another’s fleeting attention with the insistent friction of her cock against your slick opening.

"Moya," she murmured against your heated skin, the Russian word for 'mine' a low, resonant declaration that vibrated against your eardrum. Her fingers dug deeper into the curve of your hips, the insistent pressure sending a jolt of pure electricity shooting down your spine, igniting a fresh wave of intense pleasure. The soft, whimpering moans that escaped your lips filled the otherwise silent office, a starkly intimate counterpoint to the distant, impersonal hum of the sprawling metropolis below. Your own omega pheromones, sweet and submissive, mingled with her dominant alpha scent, creating a heady, intoxicating vortex that filled the room, a silent testament to the unbreakable bond between you. Your legs trembled uncontrollably as her relentless thrusts continued, each one burying her thick shaft deeper inside you, stretching you, claiming you.

The cool expanse of the glass desk pressed against your stomach, an unyielding chill against your heated skin as Natasha’s relentless assault continued. Each powerful thrust sent shivers through your frame, your soft belly jiggling with a desperate rhythm against the unforgiving surface. It was a stark contrast to the taut, sculpted muscles of her back, a testament to her strength as she drove into you with unwavering force. The rhythmic slapping of your slick flesh against her straining groin echoed in the vast office, a primal symphony punctuated by your ragged gasps and her guttural growls of pleasure.

"Natasha… ahh… fuck," you managed to whimper, your fingers digging into the polished obsidian of the desk for purchase, the cool, smooth surface a futile anchor against the storm raging within you. The tremor in your legs intensified, threatening to buckle beneath you, the slickness between your thighs offering no respite.

Her hands, strong and sure, tightened on your hips, lifting you slightly with each forceful thrust, deepening the penetration until you felt the solid, insistent thud of her pelvis meeting your backside. A delicate crystal paperweight, shaped like a miniature globe, teetered precariously close to the edge of the desk with each violent movement, a fragile world on the brink of collapse. A stack of important-looking files, once neatly aligned, slid further askew, their carefully maintained order succumbing to the raw, untamed energy of the moment.

"Yes, moya lyubov," she grunted, her breath hot and damp against the sensitive skin of your neck. "Tell me what you want, omega."

"Please… more… please, Natasha," you choked out, the words torn from your throat in a ragged plea. Your plump cheeks flushed a deep crimson, and beads of sweat dotted your forehead, tracing hot paths down your temples. The scent of sandalwood, her intoxicating signature, mingled with the sharp, musky aroma of arousal, thickening the air, cloying and irresistible in the confined space.

Her teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive skin of your nape, a familiar yet always electrifying sensation that sent a shiver of pure sensation down your spine. You arched your back instinctively, pressing your swollen, slick heat harder against her thick length, seeking a deeper connection, a more profound surrender.

"You feel so good, solnyshko," she murmured, her voice thick with burgeoning pleasure, a raw appreciation that resonated deep within your being. "So tight… so wet…"

Another forceful thrust sent the crystal globe tumbling from its precarious perch, landing on the plush carpet with a muffled thud, its perfect sphere now rolling silently away. A heavy leather-bound book, its pages filled with her powerful dealings, followed suit, landing with a more substantial thwack, a small rebellion against the chaos unfolding. The carefully curated order of her powerful domain was being dismantled piece by piece, a visual representation of the absolute control she held over you in this moment, a control you willingly, desperately craved.

"Say my name, omega," she urged, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her chest heaving against your back. Her sapphire eyes, blazing with primal desire, flickered down to your trembling form, demanding acknowledgment.

"Natasha…" you gasped, the word a breathless offering, a sound filled with both pleasure and a touch of desperation. "Please…"

Her response was a deep, guttural growl that vibrated against your skin, a sound of pure satisfaction and primal triumph. She shifted her grip on your hips, her thumbs pressing into the soft flesh, spreading you wider, offering herself even more completely. The next thrust was deeper, longer, and you cried out, a sharp intake of breath as you felt the unmistakable pressure building inside you, the familiar stretching sensation that heralded her knot.

"Almost… почти," she hissed, the Russian word laced with anticipation, her body mirroring your mounting pleasure. Her movements became more frantic, each stroke a desperate plea for release, a mirroring of the frantic pulsing that had begun deep within you.

You whimpered, your body clenching around her thick shaft, the slick heat of your inner walls milking her relentlessly. The contractions started subtly, then built in intensity, waves of pure sensation washing over you. You squeezed your eyes shut, your head lolling to the side as the first shattering climax ripped through you. Shudders wracked your body, your grip on the desk tightening until your knuckles turned white. You cried out, a long, keening moan of pure release, your inner muscles spasming around her.

Natasha paused, her breath hot against your ear, allowing you to fully experience the aftershocks of your orgasm. "Are you alright, moya krasavitsa?" she murmured, her voice softer now, laced with concern.

"Mmm, yes," you managed, your voice still shaky. "So good…"

Then, with a low growl, she began to move again, her thrusts now imbued with a renewed urgency. The pressure inside you intensified, the unmistakable swelling of her knot beginning to bloom, a familiar yet always breathtaking sensation. It filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was both intensely pleasurable and deeply possessive.

You cried out again, a shorter, sharper cry as the second wave of pleasure washed over you, even more intense than the first. Your body bucked against hers, your inner muscles clenching rhythmically around her knot, drawing her deeper, holding her captive.

"Natasha… I’m close… so close," you panted, your voice thick with the lingering echoes of your release, your body still trembling with aftershocks.

With a final, earth-shattering thrust, you felt the unmistakable sensation of her knot fully blooming inside you, filling you completely, stretching you to your absolute limit. You cried out, a long, keening moan that echoed in the silent office, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure and complete surrender.

Natasha buried her face in the curve of your neck, her teeth sinking lightly into the sensitive flesh of your scent gland, a possessive act that had been repeated countless times, each marking a deep and undeniable claim. You gasped, a sharp intake of breath that mingled with her triumphant growl. The possessive bite sent a fresh wave of sensation through you, a primal connection that went beyond the physical. Her alpha pheromones surged, washing over you in a dizzying wave, binding you to her in an unbreakable, biological imperative.

She held you pinned against the desk, her knotted cock throbbing deep within you, a constant reminder of her dominance, her teeth still gently clamped on your neck, a tangible symbol of her ownership. The frantic energy of their coupling slowly began to subside, replaced by a heavy, sated stillness. The only sounds were your ragged breaths, her deep, contented sighs.

The world outside the panoramic window remained a distant, glittering hum, a stark contrast to the intimate stillness that had settled within the CEO's office. Natasha's knot, a potent symbol of their bond, remained swollen and firm within you, anchoring her to you in a deeply primal way. You lay sprawled across the cool expanse of the glass desk, your soft, chubby form imprinted against its unforgiving surface. Your breath still came in shallow, shaky gasps, your body humming with the lingering echoes of your shared climax.

Natasha, her powerful body pressed intimately against your backside, had loosened her grip, the earlier fierce possessiveness now tempered with a tender protectiveness. Her strong arms, which had moments ago held you captive, now cradled you gently, her chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths against your back. Her teeth had released your nape, the possessive mark still warm and tingling against your skin.

Carefully, deliberately, her fingers found yours, her larger, calloused hand enveloping your softer, plumper one. Her touch, though still firm, was now imbued with a soothing quality, a silent reassurance. Your fingers, still slightly shaky, intertwined with hers, the simple act a profound connection in the aftermath of such intense intimacy.

A sudden, involuntary twitch ran through your body, a residual tremor from the powerful orgasms that had wracked you. Both of you flinched, a shared awareness of the still-firm knot binding you. A soft whimper escaped your lips, a reminder of the slight discomfort that lingered.

"Shhh, moya krasavitsa," Natasha murmured against your hair, her breath warm and soothing. "Soon. It will soften soon." Her voice, usually sharp and commanding, was now low and husky, laced with a tenderness that only you ever witnessed.

Her thumb gently stroked the back of your hand, a slow, rhythmic motion that radiated warmth and comfort. The sandalwood incense, still faintly burning in the corner, mingled with the potent blend of your mingled pheromones, the air thick with the undeniable scent of your bonded pair. Natasha's alpha musk clung to you, a fragrant declaration of ownership that permeated your very being.

The cool glass of the desk pressed against your flushed skin, a stark reminder of the intensity of your encounter. You shifted slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The weight of Natasha against your back was comforting, grounding, yet the unyielding pressure of the knot was a persistent, albeit not entirely unpleasant, sensation.

"Are you alright, lubimaya?" Natasha asked, her voice laced with genuine concern. Her grip on your hand tightened slightly, a silent question.

"Just… a little sore," you managed, your voice still breathy. The memory of her relentless thrusts, the stretching sensation of her knot filling you completely, sent a fresh wave of heat through your cheeks.

"I know, solnyshko," she murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the curve of your shoulder blade. "I got carried away." There was a hint of self-reproach in her tone, a rare admission from the usually unflappable CEO.

You chuckled softly, a weak, breathy sound. "A little?"

A low rumble vibrated in her chest, a sound that was both a chuckle and a possessive murmur. "You affect me, omega. Deeply."

You turned your head slightly, your plump cheek resting against the cool glass, allowing you to see her profile. Her sharp features were softened in the dim light filtering through the partially closed blinds, her sapphire eyes filled with a possessive tenderness as she gazed down at you. A stray lock of her dark hair had fallen across her forehead, and the usually severe lines around her mouth were relaxed.

"He was just being polite, Nat," you whispered, your thumb tracing the lines on her strong hand. "He was asking if you enjoyed the catering."

A shadow flickered across her eyes, a brief resurgence of the possessiveness that had driven her moments ago. "He looked at you for too long."

"He didn't mean anything by it," you reassured her gently. "He's just… friendly."

Natasha sighed, her breath warm against your neck. "Perhaps. But you are mine, moya ptichka. And the thought of anyone else… it stirs something unpleasant within me."

The silence that followed was comfortable, filled only with the sound of your mingled breathing and the distant city noises. Natasha continued to stroke your hand, her touch a soothing balm. You could feel the slow, gradual softening of her knot within you, the intense pressure beginning to ease.

Another small twitch ran through your body as the knot shifted slightly. This time, the discomfort was less pronounced. You let out a soft sigh of relief.

"Better?" Natasha murmured, her lips brushing against your hair.

"Mm-hmm," you replied, a soft hum of contentment. "Thank you, Nat."

The palpable tension in the room, thick enough to taste just moments before, began its slow retreat, much like a receding tide. Natasha's brow, which had been furrowed in fierce concentration, softened almost imperceptibly at first, the intricate knot of muscle between her sapphire eyes gradually smoothing out. The intense pressure that had radiated from her being, a tangible force in the small office, began to ebb, releasing its hold on the charged atmosphere. A collective sigh, though unspoken, seemed to hang in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the seismic aftershocks that still vibrated through your bodies.

The intimate stillness that followed was profound, a stark contrast to the recent tempest. It was a silence pregnant with unspoken sensations, punctuated only by the gentle rhythm of your mingled breathing, shallow and rapid, slowly returning to a more natural cadence. The distant hum of the city, a low, persistent drone that usually formed the background of your days, now seemed a world away, an irrelevant noise compared to the raw intimacy that still clung to the air, the lingering scent of arousal and shared climax.

With a slow, deliberate movement, each inch measured and sensual, Natasha began to withdraw from your slick, swollen pussy. The sensation was bittersweet, a complex tapestry of fading pleasure and a sudden, almost painful coolness. Each millimeter of her thick shaft sliding out was a poignant reminder of the intense connection you had just shared, the lingering warmth of her presence giving way to the increasing exposure to the cool air. A soft, wet sucking sound accompanied her exit, the intimate noise echoing in the otherwise silent office, a visceral testament to the depth of your union.

As her engorged length fully cleared your opening, a thick stream of your slick, creamy come pulsed out, a visible manifestation of your release. It cascaded down your inner thighs, a warm, viscous river tracing a path towards the polished obsidian floor beneath the desk. The glistening puddle expanded slowly, a spreading halo of your arousal, a visible testament to the intensity of your shared climax, a silent story written in the fluid of your pleasure.

Natasha, now standing behind you, her own breath still coming in ragged gasps, watched the slow, sensual descent of your fluids. Her sapphire eyes, still glazed with the lingering sheen of desire, followed each glistening drop with an almost predatory focus. The possessive heat in her gaze intensified, a primal hunger reawakening within her, a silent claim on the essence of your pleasure. She released your hand, the sudden absence of her firm grip sending a shiver through your still-sensitized skin, a subtle pang of loss in the wake of such intense connection.

You felt a familiar stirring within you, a primal instinct that recognized the shift in the atmosphere, the subtle change in Natasha’s breathing and the intensity of her gaze. A warmth bloomed low in your belly, a nascent anticipation of the intimacy that often followed their most passionate encounters. You instinctively understood her unspoken desire, the possessive need that still lingered within her. A soft flush crept up your neck, and a renewed wave of heat pooled between your thighs.

With a slow, deliberate movement, a silent invitation, you shifted your weight slightly on the cool glass of the desk. You consciously relaxed the muscles in your legs, allowing them to fall open wider, a subtle presentation of your still-slick and vulnerable core. The action was both submissive and deeply intimate, a nonverbal offering of yourself, a clear indication that you were receptive to her unspoken desires. The increased exposure heightened the sensitivity of your swollen flesh to the cool air, sending a shiver of anticipation through you.

Giving in to an undeniable urge, a deep, visceral pull that seemed to emanate from the very core of her being, Natasha sank to her knees behind you. The cool, hard surface of the floor pressed against her impeccably dressed legs, a stark and unexpected contrast to the feverish heat that still radiated from your flushed skin. Her gaze remained fixed on the glistening trail of your arousal that coated your delicate folds, a roadmap of your shared ecstasy. With a low, guttural moan that rumbled deep in her chest, a sound both possessive and reverent, she extended her tongue, her intent clear in the deliberate pace of her movement. You anticipated the first hot, wet stroke, a familiar thrill coursing through you as her tongue traced a slow, deliberate path up the length of your swollen slit. Her hot, wet tongue lapped at the slickness, cleaning away the evidence of your shared pleasure with a possessive fervor, each stroke a silent act of claiming.

You gasped, a sharp intake of breath that hitched in your throat as her tongue made contact with your most sensitive flesh. A fresh wave of heat flooded your core, an unexpected and intense surge of sensation that belied the recent climax. The unexpected intimacy of her ministrations sent shivers down your spine, each vertebra tingling with renewed awareness. The rough texture of her tongue against your engorged clit sent a jolt of renewed sensation through you, a spark reigniting the embers of your desire. Your hips lifted involuntarily off the cool glass of the desk, a silent offering, a primal response to the exquisite torment. You spread your legs even further, granting her unimpeded access, presenting yourself fully to her ministrations, your plump inner thighs trembling with anticipation.

Natasha’s moans intensified, echoing in the sudden stillness as she tasted the sweet, musky flavor of your omega come. It was a taste she savored, a tangible link to your pleasure. She pressed her lips firmly against your swollen lips, sucking gently, her mouth a warm, insistent pressure, savoring the taste of you, the lingering essence of your climax. Her hands, now freed from their earlier restraint, splayed across the curve of your plump ass, her long fingers molding to your flesh, her thumbs pressing into the soft, yielding tissue, tilting your hips further, offering her even greater access to your vulnerable core. You could feel the warmth of her breath against your slick folds, the anticipation building with each passing moment.

With a deep, possessive growl that vibrated against your skin, she parted your slick folds wider, her fingers gently coaxing them open, and plunged her tongue deep inside your still-pulsing pussy. You cried out, a long, keening moan of pure sensation that seemed to tear from the depths of your being, as she lapped and sucked with a relentless intensity. Her skilled tongue danced against your inner walls, a practiced and knowing exploration, finding every sensitive nerve ending, igniting a fresh wave of involuntary contractions deep within you. The sensation was exquisite, bordering on overwhelming, and you instinctively pressed down against her seeking mouth, wanting to deepen the connection, to immerse yourself fully in the pleasure she was so expertly delivering.

Your body began to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure building with an almost unbearable intensity, each stroke of her tongue a deliberate escalation. You arched your back, pressing your slick heat against her eager mouth, your fingers clenching the cool glass of the desk, your knuckles white against the smooth surface. The rhythmic lapping and sucking continued, a relentless assault on your senses, driving you closer and closer to the precipice, the edge of another overwhelming release. Your breath came in short, sharp gasps, each exhale a desperate plea for the inevitable climax that was rapidly approaching. You could feel the frantic pulsing deep within you, the unmistakable signs that your body was once again teetering on the brink.

And then, it happened. A powerful wave of pleasure washed over you, even more intense, more all-consuming than your earlier climax. It was a tidal wave of sensation that threatened to shatter you. Your inner muscles clenched violently, squeezing Natasha’s tongue with a desperate intensity, a primal embrace. A high-pitched whimper escaped your lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated sensation, as your slick come began to pulse out again, this time in a torrent, a veritable flood of your release, spraying across Natasha’s face, her dark hair now slick with your essence, glistening in the dim light of the office. The force of your orgasm made your body buck against the cool glass of the desk, your hips rising and falling with the uncontrollable spasms.

Natasha didn’t flinch. Instead, she moaned louder, a deep, guttural sound of triumph and satisfaction, her tongue continuing its relentless assault even as your orgasm wracked your body. She savored the taste of you, the feel of your contractions against her mouth a potent affirmation of your bond, a physical manifestation of your shared ecstasy. Your legs trembled uncontrollably, shaking with the force of your release, your body completely surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure that consumed you. You felt utterly exposed, completely vulnerable, yet safe and cherished in the intensity of her ministrations.

Finally, the intense waves of your climax began to subside, leaving you weak and panting, your body limp and sated. Natasha slowly withdrew her tongue, her face glistening with your come, a sheen of your pleasure adorning her skin. She looked up at you, her sapphire eyes dark with lingering desire and a deep satisfaction.

Natasha’s gaze, the intensity of her possessiveness now softened by a profound tenderness uniquely reserved for you, lingered on your flushed face. Her strong fingers, moments ago tracing the contours of your passion, now gently wiped the glistening trails of your release from your cheeks. A reverent pause, and then her hand, still damp with your essence, was brought to her lips. She savored the last vestiges of your scent and taste, a low, contented sigh escaping her lips, a sound that spoke volumes of deep satisfaction and fulfilled desire.

With a deliberate care that belied her formidable strength, she reached beneath your limp form. One arm, powerful yet gentle, slid under your shoulders, cradling your head and upper back. The other, equally sure, supported the curve of your thighs. In a seamless motion, she lifted you from the cool expanse of the glass desk, the papers and scattered files beneath forgotten remnants of your shared intensity. Your soft, pliant body molded against hers, the stark contrast of her taut muscles against your softer curves a familiar and deeply comforting sensation. You nestled instinctively against her, your head finding the familiar hollow of her neck, your breath still coming in shallow, shaky gasps, each one a testament to the powerful climax that had just wracked your body.

The sudden movement, though gentle, sent a lingering throb of pleasure through your still-sensitized core, a faint echo of the exquisite sensations that had just consumed you. A soft whimper escaped your lips, a small, involuntary sound that betrayed the lingering waves of aftershocks.

"Shhh, moya lyubov," Natasha murmured, her voice a low rumble against your ear, a possessive caress in itself. "I have you."

She stood, your weight seemingly no burden at all, and turned away from the disheveled state of her powerful office, the scattered files and fallen paperweight silent witnesses to your shared passion. She carried you towards a discreet, unmarked door set into the far wall, a hidden portal that led to a private stairwell connecting her executive sanctuary to the upper reaches of the Romanoff Industries tower.

The ascent was slow and deliberate, each step a testament to her unwavering care. The air in the stairwell was hushed, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of the city pulsing far below. The only sounds were the soft thud of her polished shoes on the plush carpeted stairs and your quiet, uneven breathing, punctuated by the occasional soft sigh. You clung to her, burying your face deeper into the familiar scent of sandalwood and her potent alpha musk, a comforting anchor in the aftermath of such intense sensation, a scent that spoke of power and unwavering protection.

As you reached the top of the stairs, the door opened silently, revealing a completely different world. Gone was the stark, powerful aesthetic of the CEO's office, replaced by the sleek, minimalist elegance of a modern penthouse suite. The color palette was a sophisticated dance of blacks, whites, and cool grays, accented by subtle textures and strategically placed lighting that cast long, dramatic shadows, creating an atmosphere of serene luxury. Expansive windows offered an even more breathtaking panorama of the glittering cityscape, now fully embraced by the inky blackness of night, a silent testament to her dominion.

Natasha carried you through a spacious living area, the silence broken only by the soft padding of her footsteps on the polished concrete floors. The furniture was low-slung and modern, arranged with an understated luxury that spoke of refined taste. A state-of-the-art entertainment system was seamlessly integrated into the wall, a silent promise of future shared moments, and abstract art pieces adorned the stark white surfaces, adding a touch of enigmatic beauty.

She continued through to the bathroom, a sanctuary dominated by a large, walk-in shower enclosed in frameless glass, a transparent invitation to cleanse and soothe. The fixtures were a study in brushed metal, cool and elegant, and the air was filled with the clean, refreshing scent of eucalyptus, promising a sensory awakening. Without a word, her gaze never leaving your face, she gently lowered you to your feet beside the shower. Her strong hands, now tender and deliberate, began to unfasten the delicate buttons of your dress, her touch lingering on the sensitive skin beneath. The fabric whispered as it slid from your shoulders, pooling at your feet, a discarded reminder of the intensity of your encounter. Her eyes followed the curve of your neck, the delicate swell of your breasts, the gentle slope of your stomach, each movement a silent caress.

Then, with a fluid grace, she turned her attention to her own attire. The crisp lines of her power suit gave way with swift, practiced movements. The jacket was discarded onto a nearby sleek chair, followed by her tailored blouse. Her strong, sculpted arms were revealed, the muscles flexing subtly as she unclasped her belt and let her trousers fall silently to the polished floor. Soon, she stood before you, as unburdened as you were, her gaze unwavering, filled with a deep, possessive love.

Carefully, deliberately, she stepped into the spacious enclosure, still holding your gaze, and then gently drew you in with her. The warm spray of the rain shower enveloped you both, a soothing cascade washing away the lingering traces of your shared passion. The water streamed down your flushed skin, carrying away the slick remnants of your intimacy, mingling with the droplets that clung to Natasha’s powerful frame. She held you close, her strong arms a comforting embrace, the warmth of the water a balm to your still-sensitized body. Her hands moved through your hair, gently massaging your scalp, her touch soothing and tender, a silent promise of continued care. You leaned into her embrace, the warmth of the water and her nearness a profound comfort, a sense of being utterly safe and cherished.

After a long, silent shower, the rhythmic drumming of the water a lullaby, she reached for the soft, luxurious towels hanging on a heated rack. With deliberate care, she toweled you both dry, her touch lingering on your skin, a silent caress that spoke volumes of unspoken affection. Then, still holding you close, the dampness of your bodies seeping into the plush fabric, she moved into the bedroom.

The room was a study in understated elegance, a sanctuary designed for tranquility. A massive king-sized bed dominated the space, dressed in luxurious black linens that whispered of sensual nights. The lighting was soft and diffused, emanating from strategically placed lamps, casting a warm, tranquil glow that enveloped the room. And nestled in a cozy corner, bathed in the gentle light, was your nest.

It was a haven of the softest materials, a carefully constructed sanctuary of comfort and security. Plush, oversized throw blankets in shades of cream and pale gray were artfully arranged, creating a deep, enveloping space. An abundance of soft, down-filled pillows, molded by your form and imbued with your comforting scent, beckoned. But more than anything, the nest held the lingering aroma of Natasha. Her favorite cashmere scarf, the one she often wore on cool evenings, lay nestled amongst the blankets, its familiar sandalwood and alpha musk scent a constant reassurance. A well-worn, incredibly soft leather journal she sometimes wrote in, its pages filled with her elegant script, rested against a pile of silken pillows. And a small, smooth piece of sea glass, a cool, tactile reminder of a rare shared moment of peace by the ocean, lay nestled within the folds of a particularly soft blanket, imbued with her subtle scent from where she had often held it. The air around the nest was thick with the comforting blend of your omega pheromones and the dominant, reassuring scent of your alpha, a fragrant tapestry of your bond.

Natasha carried you directly to your nest, her movements gentle and reverent, as if placing a precious treasure in its rightful place. She carefully laid you down amongst the soft blankets and pillows, ensuring you were comfortable and fully supported. You sighed contentedly, the familiar textures and scents enveloping you in a profound sense of security and belonging. You instinctively burrowed deeper, the softness a soothing balm to your senses.

She knelt beside the nest, her sapphire eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness and an immeasurable tenderness as she gazed down at you. She gently brushed a stray strand of damp hair from your forehead, her touch feather-light, a silent promise of unwavering devotion. Then, with a soft sigh, she carefully settled into the nest beside you, her large frame fitting surprisingly well within its comforting confines. She gathered you close, pulling you against her warm body, her arms a secure and loving embrace.

"Sleep now, moya ptichka," she murmured, her voice thick with affection, a low rumble that vibrated through your very being.

#natasha x you #natasha romanova x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #omegaverse #marvel #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wandanat x reader #wandanat

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just-aake · 2 days ago

Text

Endearing Entanglements Part 4

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 4 of Endearing Entanglements. Can Natasha take the step you’ve been waiting for her to and change her relationship with you?

Warnings: light angst, fluff, suggestive themes

Words: 4005

It’s been hours.

Natasha hasn’t moved from her spot on the edge of the couch, her elbows planted on her knees and her hand pressed firmly to her lips in a nervous fidget. Her eyes are locked onto the flip phone lying on the coffee table like it’s a live grenade.

Calling you has never been difficult. Until now.

The front door creaks open, but she barely reacts.

“Has she been like this all day?” Steve’s voice filters in from behind her.

On the adjacent couch, Wanda doesn’t even glance up from her book. She simply turns the page and murmurs, “Pretty much.”

Steve exhales through his nose, stepping closer, eyes flicking between the motionless spy and the phone that’s been untouched for hours. He studies her with that knowing kind of look, quiet concern wrapped in gentle impatience.

“Nat,” he says softly, “just call her already.”

Her glare snaps up to him like a whip. He says it like it’s that simple. But this time, it isn’t.

Calling you had always been easy. Whenever she needed something — supplies, information, a ride in the dead of night — she never thought twice.

Your voice always came through the line.

Warm, patient, reliable.

You’ve never ignored her before. Not once.

But after that night at the casino…the words left unsaid, that devastating look in your eyes, this time feels different.

What if this time…you didn’t answer?

That thought had her frozen.

A call is just a call…until it confirms her worst fear.

A soft beep cuts through the tension.

Her heart lurches, and she looks up to see Steve holding the phone, thumb pressed to the call button.

Her mouth falls open in shock.

“What did you just—?”

He tosses the phone to her.

Natasha catches it instinctively. She can already hear the line ringing.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Each chime chips away at her composure. The longer it rang, the tighter the knot twisted in her chest. Her stomach coils, breath turning shallow, as her grip on the phone tightens.

Just as the fourth ring fades into silence, just when she feels herself begin to crumble—

“Hello?”

Your voice cuts through the line. Smooth. Calm. A little hesitant. But there.

Natasha’s lungs finally release the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her shoulders sag, relief crashing over her so strong it was almost dizzying.

You picked up. You still picked up.

“Hello?” you say again, a little more curious now at the silence on the other end.

And Natasha freezes.

Across from her, Steve gestures emphatically, mouthing say something. Even Wanda closes her book, now watching like she’s at the edge of her seat.

Natasha swallows, her mind blank with panic.

What does she even say? She didn’t need weapons. She didn’t need gear. She needed...

No. No, she can’t say that to you, especially not over the phone.

So she defaults to something safe.

“Uh…” She clears her throat. “Wanda’s looking for a place of her own. I was wondering…if you had any other safe houses available?”

A pause.

Not a dropped call though.

Natasha can still hear ambient noise through the line. The faint clink of cutlery. Glasses clinking. A low murmur of conversation layered beneath smooth jazz music.

You’re at a restaurant.

That realization makes her chest tighten as a sudden dread creeps into her mind.

As Natasha opens her mouth to ask if she should call back at another time, your voice comes through again, sharper and laced with exaggerated alarm.

“She’s at the hospital?”

Natasha blinks, confused.

“What? No, I–”

She barely gets the words out before you interrupt, voice flurried and moving fast.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be on my way.”

She hears the shuffle of a chair. A voice in the background — a woman, faint but audible, asking something like “Wait, is everything okay?” before the rustle of movement drowns it out.

And then the call ends.

Natasha slowly pulls the phone back from her ear, staring at the screen like it might explain something. She waits to see if it might ring again, to see if you’ll offer an explanation.

But it doesn’t.

“…So,” Wanda says after a long moment. “I’m allowed my own safehouse now? I thought you said it was too risky.”

Steve sighs beside her, rubbing a hand over his face before responding.

“Apparently things have changed. But there’ll be conditions. Check-ins. Curfews.”

Their voices start to fade into background noise as Natasha’s thoughts spiral. She replays the conversation. Your strange responses. The other woman in the background.

You were on a date. That much she can guess.

You were with someone else. At a restaurant. With music and conversation and—

You used her call to leave.

Natasha should care more about the fact she disrupted your night. But all she feels is the one thing she was so desperate for from the beginning.

Relief.

Because you answered. You still picked up for her.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It’s late. Hours have passed since the call ended, but the aftershocks still hum through Natasha—low and constant, like the residual buzz of adrenaline that never quite drains.

The atmosphere in the safehouse feels heavier tonight. The silence pressing in thicker than usual, like it’s soaked up all the words she didn’t say to you. Everything she’s left unsaid seems to linger in the corners, in the air, in her chest.

She’s halfway to bed, about to call it a night, brushing her fingertips along the hallway light switch, when the quiet chime of the security panel cuts through the silence.

A soft, singular ding. Motion detected at the front entrance.

Natasha tenses reflexively, preparing for possible danger, and pivots toward the monitor before freezing at what she sees on the screen.

There you are.

Leaning casually against the doorframe, one heel raised behind you, ankle twisted just slightly as you adjust your shoe. The movement is relaxed, graceful, and effortless in a way that makes her heart ache with recognition.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t hesitate.

Natasha moves.

Fingers find the control pad, and with a soft click, the door swings open.

You stumble at the sudden motion of the structure you were using as support. Just a shift—a sudden tilt forward that makes you catch yourself instinctively on the closest thing to you.

Your hand lands on Natasha’s shoulder. The other grazes her arm as you steady yourself, leaning slightly into her.

The contact draws you in—closer than you should be.

Close enough to feel the subtle catch in Natasha’s breath.

Close enough that she can count the rise and fall of yours.

And then her hands are there where you need her without thought.

One steadies your waist. The other slides to the small of your back. Protective. Reflexive. Like second nature after so many nights spent moving in sync, slipping in and out of shadows together.

You linger in her embrace.

Your breath curls faint against her collarbone, warm and sweet.

“Sorry, love,” you murmur, voice low and lilting with amused apology. “These heels were killing me.”

Love.

Natasha freezes. The word hits her like a blow and a balm all at once. A single syllable that shouldn’t carry so much weight, and yet it does.

You said it like it still belonged. Like no time had passed. Like nothing had fractured.

She hopes you didn’t notice. That you didn’t feel the subtle shift in her grip, the way her fingers curled just a little tighter at your waist when you said it.

But you do. Of course you do.

A soft hum slips from you, almost like a quiet reprimand to yourself. Then comes the sigh. You pull back with the kind of grace that’s been honed through years of necessity. A breath. A smile. Composure descends over you like well-worn armor.

Your eyes drift past her, skimming the room instead of lingering where they were on her face.

“Mmm. Something smells incredible,” you remark lightly, tone effortlessly deflecting from the moment that just passed between you. “You hiding a private chef in the pantry now?”

Natasha clears her throat, willing herself to move—anything to shake off the sting of your retreat. She steps aside and nudges the door open wider.

“Dinner,” she answers, her voice even, carefully measured. “Wanda cooked.”

You glide inside with a soft smile.

“Well. Smells like actual food,” you muse with a slight chuckle. “Better than the simple salad I had earlier.”

The mention of where you were hits sharper than it should. Natasha swallows the tightness down and turns toward the kitchen without a word.

She opens the fridge and pulls out a plate. The one meant for her, but she didn’t eat—her appetite had gone to hell after the call.

“You want some?” she asks, keeping her tone as casual as she can manage.

You nod, your smile flickering with tender fondness.

“Wouldn’t say no.”

Natasha motions to the island as she moves to heat the food.

You settle into the stool, unclipping your heels and nudging them off with a quiet sigh.

Natasha watches you from the corner of her eye. Her gaze tracks the graceful flick of your fingers brushing across your collarbone, the subtle shift of your thigh as you cross and recross your legs.

That dress hugs you like it was tailored for sin—elegant and deliberate.

And worn for someone else tonight.

Natasha instantly hates herself for the sudden surge of jealousy that rises within her.

She shouldn’t. She knows that.

She forfeited any claim to moments like these the second she let you walk away. The second she said nothing when you needed something more.

But the ache doesn’t listen to reason. It gnaws quietly under her ribs, turning over the thought of you in that dress, smiling across a table at someone who wasn’t her. Laughing. Maybe even flirting.

Her jaw tightens.

And before she can stop herself—before she can talk herself down—the words slip out.

“Were you coming from a date?”

The microwave hums. The silence tightens.

Natasha flinches inward, already regretting it.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t—”

“It’s fine, Natasha.”

You say her name gently.

Not love.

Not this time.

Just Natasha.

And it cuts cleaner than any blade.

“We’re still friends, right?” you say with a smile, too careful to be casual. “Friends can ask these sorts of things.”

Natasha nods, slow and hollow.

“Right.”

The microwave beeps.

She places the warmed plate in front of you. Her fingers brush yours as she slides it across, and you glance up at her.

There it is again—that look. Level. Calm. Devastating.

“To answer your question—yes. I was on a date.” You pause, letting it settle before adding with a tired sigh. “But it wasn’t anything worth writing home about. Honestly? Your call saved me from a painfully dull night.”

Relief floods her system before she can stop it.

And you see it.

You don’t say anything, though. Instead, you lift your fork, take a bite, and let out a soft, appreciative hum.

“Wanda makes a decent paprikash. I’m impressed.”

Natasha leans back against the counter, arms crossed, eyes on you with a quiet ache.

“I could cook,” she says before thinking.

You look up curiously with a slight raise of your brow at her sudden comment.

“I mean—not paprikash. Not yet. But something edible.” Natasha clears her throat as she mumbles. “Eventually.”

The smile you give her is soft, with a touch of amusement that makes Natasha roll her eyes slightly in exasperation, knowing you have a teasing remark on the tip of your tongue.

“So...Wanda wants her own place?” you ask, redirecting the conversation instead of falling into the temptation to tease her.

“Yeah,” Natasha responds. “I think she wants some privacy with Vision. Without compromising the team’s location.”

You hum thoughtfully between bites.

“Can’t blame her. Nothing wrong with carving out a place to be together…” You pause, your tone easy but laced with subtle longing. “Even if it’s only temporary.”

The words hang there.

Unspoken parallels thick in the air.

Natasha nods, barely, before looking away from you.

“Right.”

The silence that follows stretches long. Heavy with all the things she wants to say but can’t find the words for.

The clink of your fork against the now empty plate snaps her back. You stand, walking past her to the sink. You rinse the dish with casual efficiency.

The sight of you here—so domestic, so familiar—pulls at something deep inside her.

“I’ve got a loft in Scotland,” you say, not looking at her. “Doubles as a safehouse, and it’s not too far. If you ever need to check in.”

You shut off the water and turn to her.

“I’ll send the coordinates.”

Natasha nods, once. Her arms are still crossed, but the stance feels less certain now—like she doesn’t know what to do with them or with herself. Her fingers curl slightly at her elbows, pressing into her biceps.

Her mouth parts, then closes again. A quiet inhale. The weight of a dozen things she should say hovers behind her eyes.

She glances at you. Looks away. Then back again.

“I…”

The word slips out before she knows where it’s going.

But she stalls.

Because what is the right thing to say?

Nothing feels right. Everything feels too much.

Her jaw shifts as she searches for something—anything—that doesn’t make her feel like she’s teetering on the edge of something she can’t afford to admit.

So instead, she swallows it all down and exhales slowly, her voice quieter when she finally speaks.

“Thanks again…for helping us.”

You nod, fingers drumming the edge of the counter as you wait.

But she doesn’t say anything more.

And the silence between you folds back in, soft and aching.

You push off the counter, sighing quietly as you bend to retrieve your heels. The movement is fluid, your fingers curling around the straps, your expression neutralizing as you stand.

“If that’s all…” your voice is light, but it doesn’t reach your eyes, “…then I’ll just take my leave now.”

You give her a small smile, tilting your head slightly as you look at her.

“Appreciate the dinner, lo—”

You stop.

Mid-word. Mid-breath.

The sound dies between your teeth.

You almost said it again. So natural. Instinctive. But you held it back.

And that—that—hurts more than anything.

Natasha doesn’t move. But inside, her chest cracks open with despair.

Maybe she waited too long to reach out to you.

The thought lands like a blade—quiet and clean, but devastating. She stands rooted in place, unable to breathe, unable to stop the slow collapse inside her. Her hands curl uselessly at her sides, and her gaze drops to the space between you like it might swallow her whole.

She wants to say something. To fix it.

But she doesn’t know how anymore—not without shattering whatever delicate, unspoken agreement the two of you still cling to.

So she just…stands there.

Watching you start to walk away.

But then Natasha remembers something.

You picked up her call.

That thought flickers—small, fragile—but bright against the dark.

You didn’t have to. You were out. Dressed like that. With someone else.

But you still answered.

Even after all the silence, all the walls, all the ways she’s failed to reach for you when it mattered.

You still came.

And maybe that has to mean something.

Her breath trembles as the thought takes hold.

And with that fragile, desperate hope burning in her chest, she moves just as you walk past her.

Her hand reaches out and catches your hand—gentle, trembling, like she’s afraid you’ll pull away. Like the touch alone might be too much to ask for.

But you don’t move away.

And her grip tightens just slightly in relief.

Natasha doesn’t look at you. Her gaze stays fixed where her fingers meet your skin, like it’s the only proof that you’re still here.

“…Can you stay?”

The words are barely audible—carved from breath and longing and fear. The softest possible shape of a plea.

But it’s everything.

The silence that follows is suffocating.

Natasha’s grip loosens almost immediately, faltering. Preparing to let go.

And then—your fingers close around hers.

Your heels hit the floor, forgotten, as your hand lifts, slow and certain, fingers grazing her chin and tipping it up.

Her eyes meet yours.

And what she sees in your eyes knocks the breath from her lungs.

That same look. The one she’s seen before. When she’s bleeding. When she’s broken. When she’s stubbornly pushing herself too hard.

That resigned exasperation laced with unshakable affection. Quiet fondness. Something helpless and all-consuming.

Like you still can’t look at her any other way.

You lean in, your voice low and sure.

“Anything for you…”

Your lips hover just above hers. Close enough that she can feel the ghost of your breath, the warmth of your skin, the tension coiled in the small space between you.

Then, softer. A whisper. Just for her.

“…my love.”

Natasha can only exhale briefly in relief at the endearing words before you kiss her.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

But slow and certain.

A kiss that says I’m here.

A kiss that tells her she’s still yours.

And Natasha melts into it—into you—into the only place that’s ever felt like home.

Your lips move with practiced ease, molding to hers not with urgency, but with confidence—coaxing rather than taking.

Her mouth parts for yours, instinctive, as you deepen the kiss with effortless confidence.

A quiet sound rumbles low in her throat as your hand finds her waist and pulls her in, guiding her back until her back hits the counter.

The edge digs into her spine.

But she doesn’t care. Not even a little.

Not when your body is pressed to hers. Not when your mouth is doing things to her that leave her breathless and wanting.

Her hands move without thought—hungry and slow—sliding up your sides, fingertips skating over the soft cling of fabric stretched over your form.

That’s when she remembers.

You didn’t wear this for her.

A sharp flicker of something hot and possessive coils in her chest.

She wants the dress gone.

Her fingers tighten at your waist, and she knows you feel it.

Because you smile.

That slow, knowing smile against her lips that says you already guessed what she’s thinking.

Your mouth leaves hers in favor of her jaw, soft and deliberate kisses trailing down along the delicate angle, the familiar sensation making Natasha’s eyes flutter closed as her head tilts without hesitation, wordlessly giving you access, granting you space to roam and mark and take.

And you do.

Your breath skims her pulse just before your lips follow, grazing the sensitive skin of her throat.

A shiver dances across her spine.

Then your hands shift, sliding down her arms in a slow, steady glide until your fingers find her wrists. You lift them gently from your waist, pressing them back against the counter behind her, pinning her there with tender restraint.

“Keep those hands there for me, love,” you murmur against her neck, low and teasing. “They’re entirely distracting.”

The words slip under her skin like silk, making her breath stutter. Her fingers curl tight around the edge of the counter, white-knuckled with effort, resisting the urge to reach for you again.

Even as your hands dip beneath the hem of her tank top, fingertips brushing bare skin with slow and unhurried strokes that tease her with surgical precision.

Natasha’s breath catches. Her spine arches, just faintly.

You know exactly where to touch her.

Exactly how to make her body betray her.

And when your fingers skim the waistband of her pants, slipping just beneath, her jaw tightens, restraint fraying with every heartbeat, as her hips jerk forward in a soft, involuntary motion.

Then your mouth finds that spot on her neck.

The one that makes her knees threaten to give. The one that draws a helpless sound from her lips before she can stop it.

Natasha’s barely holding on, fingers gripping the edge so tight to not give in and reach for you.

And just as your fingers begin to slip lower—

“Oh, uh—I—sorry—!” a voice stammers behind you.

Both of you freeze.

Natasha’s eyes snap open, her breath catching somewhere between disbelief and exasperation.

At the kitchen threshold stands Steve—wide-eyed and clearly horrified at the unexpected sight of the two of you. His hands are already raised, palms out in surrender, as if sheer will might make him disappear.

You clear your throat, regaining your composure with practiced ease. Slowly, you begin to draw back, slipping your hands from Natasha’s body—only for her to catch your wrist before you can move too far.

Your eyes flick to hers, surprised.

But she doesn’t let go.

Even as she turns her attention to Steve, she keeps that small point of contact between you.

“We’ll be out of here soon, Steve,” she says, calm and unfazed, already guessing he was on one of his midnight snack runs.

“No, it’s—uh—it’s fine,” he mutters quickly, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to escape. “Just—carry on. Or don’t. I mean—sorry!”

And then he’s gone.

Silence descends again.

The echo of Steve’s retreat lingers in the air, absurd and jarring against the heat that had filled the space just moments before.

Natasha doesn’t move, her mind replaying the past few minutes.

Her lips are kiss-bruised. Her breath is still uneven, and her chest rises and falls in shallow, unsteady rhythm, but nothing can keep her from focusing back on you.

Slowly, her hands start to move again.

They glide along your hips with restless intent, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress, gripping like she needs to feel more—like skin and closeness are the only anchor she has right now.

You glance at her, one brow arching in quiet amusement, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, but before you can speak, she beats you to it.

“I meant it,” Natasha says softly.

Her voice is steady, but there’s a flicker of something unguarded beneath it. Her fingers press more firmly against your sides, grounding herself in the contact before she whispers in a soft plea.

“Stay with me.”

Your heart stutters, and you study her face.

There’s no mask. No caution or deflection. Just Natasha—serious and open in a way you haven’t seen in a long time.

And she means it.

With no hesitation, your hands lift to her arms, thumbs stroking gentle circles into her skin as your smile blooms—quiet, warm, and a little helpless with affection.

You nod once.

And she sees your answer in your eyes.

No words needed.

The silence that follows isn’t tense this time—it’s comforting. Shared.

You both stand there, close enough to feel each other’s warmth, like you’ve slipped into some quiet pocket of time just for the two of you.

After a moment, Natasha’s hands shift again.

What starts as a still, innocent touch along your sides becomes something more.

One hand dips lower, fingers brushing the slit of your dress, slipping beneath the fabric to trace soft, slow patterns along your thigh in that maddening way she knows gets to you.

A breath of laughter escapes you, low and knowing. You lean back just enough to meet her eyes with a mock stern look and a teasing glint.

“I never said you could let go of the counter, love.”

Natasha’s lips twitch into a smirk—slow, smug, and dangerously amused.

Without breaking eye contact, she pulls you in again, closing every inch of distance until your bodies press flush.

Her hand slides higher along your thigh, the movement deliberate.

“You might have to tie my hands up,” she murmurs, voice low and laced with challenge, “if you really don’t want me touching you.”

Your brows lift, a grin tugging at your lips, heat pooling low in your stomach at the idea—though you both know damn well nothing would ever hold her if she didn’t want it to.

You lean in close, close enough that your breath skims her lips, your voice a hushed whisper laced with reverent mischief.

“Now who would ever not want that?”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

Taglist : @caspianalexander007, @mrsriovidal, @arualdcg, @justarandomreaderxoxo, @2silverchain, @dvrkhcld

#natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff fanfic #natasha romanoff x you #black widow x reader #natasha x reader #natasha romanov x reader #natasha romanoff

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kingdom-of-peace · 3 days ago

Text

Spotlight. | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha late 30s, reader 27ish), language, mentions of homophobia, mentions of sex, Me not being familiar with the inner workings of network television.

Word Count: 5.6k+

A/N: Hey everyone! Long-time reader, first-time poster here. So I guess you could see this as a little thank-you for getting me through some tough times with your amazing stories. This chapter is a bit of a practice run - if you guys like it, I’ll probably be continuing this as a mini-series. The idea has been lingering in my mind for a while. FYI English isn’t my first language, so feel free to point out any mistakes!

The clock ticked toward the seven-hour mark, numbers climbing up steadily as the seconds bled into each other. The studio hummed, a cacophony of voices layered on top of one another. Producers, directors, and assistants hustling between monitors, whispering instructions and updating cues. But through it all, Natasha Romanoff the pride of the network moved like a conductor of chaos. Every step, measured. Every glance, deliberate.

She made her way to the sleek glass desk, the papers for her notes already laid out in perfect alignment— black letters against white background. The desk, like everything else around her, was immaculate, designed to make the person behind it the centre of attention. As she sat, Betty, a new member of the makeup crew, approached with a kit. The girl was eager, almost too eager, hands slightly shaking as she opened her compact mirror. Natasha’s eyes narrowed as she reached for the earpiece.

“Don’t put too much highlighter on my face,” Natasha said, her voice clipped, without a hint of softness. “Last week, your colleague made me look like a disco ball.” Betty froze eyes wide. Natasha could feel her anxiety before the words even left her mouth. “I-I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff. I’ll try my best...”. “Don’t try your best. Do as I say,” Natasha interjected sharply, her tone biting. “Y-Yes, Ms. Romanoff,” Betty stammered. “two minutes,” someone called out from the back of the studio.

As Betty moved to step back, she quickly wished Natasha good luck. Natasha didn’t respond, merely rolling her eyes before glancing toward the producers’ booth. She could already feel the inevitable irritation building. The earpiece clicked into place, and the familiar voice of Maria Hill, her producer, filled her ear. “Finally decided to grace us with your attention, huh?”

Natasha’s eyes flicked upward to the glass wall behind which the production room was located, her lips curling into a smirk. “Maybe you shouldn’t let Sharon take a holiday whenever she wants. I know you two had a thing back at university, but those doe-eyed makeup artists turn my pretty face into a caricature. Sharon is the only one, who knows what to do with a pretty face like mine.”

Maria’s laugh crackled through the earpiece, dry and sharp." They don’t stay doe-eyed for long. Give it two weeks, and Betty will be completely head over heels in love with you, especially once you start showing off your... bedroom charm." Natasha’s smirk only deepened. “What can I say? I know what a woman wants.”

“You mean intentionally creating potential workplace conflicts the moment they realize their feelings are not reciprocated. You know Agatha from HR told me, your file is by far the heaviest on her desk.” Maria replied with a slight edge to her voice. Natasha knew Maria was not a big fan of her sexual escapades at the network but once in a while the stress of the job caught up even to her. She opened her mouth to respond, but Maria’s voice came through again, cutting the conversation short: “All channels open. 15 seconds.” Signalling that the conversation was over and no longer private. Time to focus.

The tension in Natasha’s body shifted. Taking a moment to collect herself, every inch of her posture shifting from sharp banter to the cool, controlled persona she had perfected over the years. The camera would be on her in seconds, and there was no room for anything other than perfection. Repositioning herself in her chair—back straight, shoulders squared, the very picture of professionalism. As the last few seconds ticked away, Natasha’s eyes snapped to the teleprompter, locking into the script. It was all business now. Her world contracted into that single, glowing line of text. Her fingers twitched slightly, but otherwise, she remained still.

“We are live in 5... 4... 3... 2... 1,” Maria counted down, the words cutting through her thoughts.

The red recording light snapped on, and everything else—the noise, the chatter, the chaos—ceased to exist. The iconic newsroom music blaring through the speakers. The sound that had become synonymous with what Natasha had achieved. A few quiet clicks echoed in the room as cameras shifted into position. Natasha didn’t blink. Her face settled into its trademark calm, eyes piercing the lens like twin weapons. Showtime.

“Good evening. I’m Natasha Romanoff, and this is The Hour.”

Her voice, cool and steady, carried the weight of authority. As the camera zoomed in, her gaze never wavered, her presence filling every corner of the screen. “Tonight: disinformation, climate crisis, and the story the numbers won’t tell you.”

The graphics behind her came alive in choreographed rhythm—images of protests, wildfires and talking points sliced into headlines. She didn’t look at them. She didn’t need to.

The redhead had already memorized the arc of the story: crisis, confusion, control. Natasha told it backwards, starting from what the public feared and unravelling the mess with her usual signature—calm, vaguely unforgiving clarity. In her earpiece, someone was murmuring time cues. She ignored them. She always did.

“In five minutes, you’ll hear from a senior intelligence analyst. But first—what we aren’t talking about.” That was the trick. Tell them what they didn’t know they wanted to hear. Make it feel like truth. Deliver it with a stillness so complete, it silenced doubt before it could form.

----

The lights above Natasha dimmed for a second—an automatic adjustment to keep the focus on her. From the control room, Maria watched her like a hawk, fingers dancing over her tablet, the constant pulse of the broadcast in her veins.

"She’s on fire tonight," Maria murmured to Pepper the network president’s personal assistant, standing beside her, flipping through notes. Pepper didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Natasha always delivered, always commanded the room. “She always is.” Pepper’s voice was dry, but there was a touch of admiration beneath it. She could feel the heat even through the glass. She paused, the corner of her mouth curling up slightly. “How much do you bet that his career is over after the interview?”

Maria shrugged, her sharp eyes never leaving Natasha, who was now in the midst of her segment. The current topic a prominent politician—someone who had recently come under fire for money fraudulence now being interviewed by her.

“Senator Rumlow, you’ve been under fire recently for a report that surfaced showing you used large portions of your campaign donations for luxury vacations. These funds, which were meant to support your ‘community welfare initiatives,’ were instead spent on lavish trips to the French Riviera and resorts in the Maldives. How do you justify that?”

The senator’s mouth twitched. A quick glance to the side, a nervous swipe of his hand across his brow. He cleared his throat before speaking.

“Miss Romanoff, I... there’s been a misunderstanding. These funds were used to secure partnerships and build networks with international leaders. I was meeting with potential investors who could bring millions in funding to my community.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. Her eyes locked on his, a calculated silence hanging between them.

“So,” she leaned forward, voice cutting through the air like a blade, “you used funds intended to alleviate poverty and support struggling families for personal vacations to network? A trip to the Maldives to discuss ‘potential investors’—is that the kind of network we’re talking about?”

The senator's face flushed, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to find the right words. Natasha’s expression never shifted, while the senator on the other end of the interview appeared slightly uncomfortable. She leaned in just enough to suggest she was giving him a chance to speak, but also to control the pace of the conversation. He was about to make a mistake. Maria could feel it back in the production room.

"Yeah, she’s definitely on fire tonight." Maria allowed herself a slight smile, eyes sharp. “The way she’s making him squirm, you’d think they were old enemies.”

Pepper glanced over at the monitor. Natasha was listening intently, her gaze never leaving the senator, dissecting every word he said, her expression calculated but not unkind. She didn’t need to look at the teleprompter anymore. This was where Natasha was dangerous—the moment she stopped relying on the script and instead started using her own control over the conversation.

“I never—look, these trips were necessary for the larger cause. My team and I were—”

“Your team?” Natasha interrupted, her tone cold, unforgiving. She didn’t give him a second to recover. “You’re telling me that your ‘team’ thought it was acceptable to spend taxpayer and donor money on personal luxuries under the guise of ‘building international relationships’? And those relationships just happened to involve resorts, yachts, and five-star hotels?”

The senator’s face tightened, but Natasha’s sharp, relentless gaze showed no mercy. Her posture was perfect, the epitome of control—one hand lightly resting on the table, the other folded under her chin as she leaned forward, waiting for him to crack.

“Senator,” Natasha continued, her voice low but cutting, “you’ve used the public’s trust to fund personal indulgences. You’ve done nothing to benefit the very communities that donated their hard-earned money in good faith. You’ve used their trust as a shield for your personal gain.”

The senator shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but the sweat on his brow was the only sign that he was losing his composure.

“I... I apologize for the perception this has created, but I am still working tirelessly for the people. I don’t expect you to understand the pressure we face in this position.”

Natasha’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. It was the kind of smile that signalled the end of a conversation, not the beginning.

“Understand? You’ve already made it clear, Senator. You’ve made your priorities clear. You’ve misused the public’s trust, and no amount of ‘apology’ will make up for that.” She paused, her gaze narrowing. “You’ll have a lot to explain in front of those who donated their last dollars to your supposed cause. I don’t think a few ‘networking’ excuses will make that any easier.”

The camera panned out slightly, framing the senator on the screen, defeated, under the weight of her words. Natasha sat back in her chair, her expression coldly satisfied, but there was no triumph in her gaze. Just the quiet assurance that she had exposed the truth—and in this game, truth was always her weapon.

Maria looked at Pepper. “This is going to be everywhere by tomorrow morning.” Pepper, watching the screen, nodded but said nothing. She had worked with Natasha long enough to know the pattern. She didn’t miss a single beat, didn’t flinch even when the questions cut close to the bone. She was ruthless—but always just controlled enough to keep the narrative hers.

Maria continued, her tone dropping a bit, a hint of something else in her voice. “Have you seen the video of this upcoming professor from Shield University? What do you think?”. Pepper’s fingers hovered above her phone, pausing as she considered the question. “She’s definitely been keeping an eye on Natasha,” Maria added with a knowing smile. “It’s only a matter of time before Natasha finds out—and it’s probably not going to be pretty. For that woman, or for us... I’m not sure.”

Pepper finally smirked, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Yeah, well, she’s got competition now. She doesn’t seem like the type to just back down. Maria nodded. “Let’s just hope Natasha doesn't end up too intrigued. If she starts getting personal, that’s when it gets... interesting.”

---

Natasha’s expression remained unchanged as she moved on with the interview. The camera panning back to her, flawlessly.

“Thank you for your time, Senator Rumlow,” she said, her voice a calm cadence that barely masked the satisfaction of knowing she’d just made the politician’s situation far worse. Every channel and newspaper would be jumping on this story tomorrow, no doubt splashing it across their front pages.

“Also thank you to our generous audience tonight. It’s always a pleasure to bring you the news about what’s happening in the world. And remember, stay informed, stay sharp, and never let anyone sell you a story that's less than the truth.” she said, a hint of finality in her tone. “Now, I’ll pass it over to Steve Rogers, our weather anchor, who has a much sunnier forecast for you.”

The camera switched to Steve, who was already grinning behind him a large screen displaying shifting regions and temperatures. “That’s right, Natasha. The last few days of sunshine are upon us before we officially roll into the fall season. So, grab your families, go outside and enjoy...”

As soon as the words left Steve’s mouth, Natasha pulled her earpiece out, the familiar click of the disconnect echoing in her ears. The moment she was clear from the screen, she shifted in her seat, the professional mask slipping away, just slightly—only enough for her to exhale, her expression finally softening, if only for a moment. She rose in a single, smooth motion. The producers didn’t approach immediately; they never did unless they had to.

As Natasha turned to leave the desk, a younger intern stepped forward, tablet in hand, speaking quickly, his words tumbling over each other.

“Sorry, Ms. Romanoff, I—I just wanted to say you were amazing up there.” Peter, who had joined the team last year to gain experience after his graduation, was still a bit green, though for some reason, Tony Stark—who owned the network—had taken a particular liking to him. Which is why his golden retriever-like personality felt like a constant presence she couldn’t escape.

Natasha didn’t break stride, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. A few crew members glanced at each other, nervous, hoping Peter wouldn’t get an earful for approaching her without a significant reason. But to their surprise, Natasha offered him a brief, unexpected smile. “Thanks,” she said, her voice calm and unbothered. "Keep up the good work." Though she’d never say it out loud, she’d grown surprisingly fond of him and the unshakable optimism he brought with him. Maybe it was because he reminded her of a time when life had been simpler, before everything became high stakes and expectations or perhaps it was the adrenaline rush from having just put the senator in his place.

With that, she made her way down the hallway toward her dressing room, the echo of her heels fading with each step, leaving Peter standing frozen in place—blinking, stunned. The Natasha Romanoffhad smiled at him. A real, genuine smile. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. Then, unable to contain himself, he did a quiet fist pump and half-skipped down the corridor, suddenly determined to be the best intern the station had ever seen.

-----

When Natasha stepped into her dressing room, Betty and Pepper were already there. Pepper, as always, was glued to her phone, typing away with that near-obsessive focus Natasha had come to expect from her. She often wondered if Pepper had put her phone down for more than five minutes in the last few years. Meanwhile, Betty was busy clearing the table, preparing to remove Natasha’s makeup.

“You did a good job out there,” Pepper said, glancing up from her phone just long enough to catch Natasha’s eye before diving back into the glowing screen. “Thanks,” Natasha replied, settling into the makeup chair. “I mean, it’s hardly difficult when the senator does most of the work embarrassing himself.”

Natasha smirked, enjoying the victory of another successful segment. Betty began to work on removing the makeup, her hands steady despite the usual hustle of the room. “Still, it takes talent to make people like him squirm like you did,” Pepper remarked, her eyes still glued to the phone.

“I don’t know if it’s talent or just good instincts,” Natasha replied with another sly grin. “Either way, I’m hoping he’s out of office by the end of the week.”. “Well, Maria bet he won’t last past tomorrow night, thanks to what you pulled off,” Pepper said, her tone light but amused. And just as if on cue, Maria walked in, her presence immediately filling the room. “Great show as always, Natasha,” she said, striding over to the couch and sitting down behind Natasha.

Natasha met her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. “I couldn’t do it without my tirelessly working producer.”. “Damn right you couldn’t,” Maria replied, a satisfied smirk on her lips as she picked up a magazine from the table and started flipping through it. The conversation flowed easily between the three, mostly floating around ideas about upcoming segments and possible interviewees, with Betty shyly asking Natasha to tilt her head for better access occasionally as she worked. About half an hour later, Betty finished packing up her things and, with a quick “Good bye,” exited the room, clearly relieved to have survived in the lion’s den.

“I swear, they’re more scared of you than Tony,” Pepper observed, watching Betty leave with a raised eyebrow. “It’s not my problem if they’re that easy to intimidate,” Natasha replied coolly, giving a slight shrug. “Debatable,” Maria countered, her voice teasing. “You could at least go a little easier on them.” Natasha smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”.

There was a brief pause as Natasha rummaged through her bag, searching for her phone. When she looked up, she caught the silent exchange between Maria and Pepper through the mirror, their eyes communicating something Natasha couldn’t quite place. Turning in her chair, she raised an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last glance, and Natasha’s patience wore thin. “You’re not going to keep it from me, are you?” she asked, her voice a low murmur. Her eyes didn’t waver from the two women, the challenge clear in her tone. She had worked with them for years and even shared pieces of her college days with them, so she knew, whatever they were about to reveal, she probably wasn’t going to like it.

Reluctantly, Maria handed Natasha the tablet, the screen already pulled up to a paused video. Natasha’s gaze immediately fell on the title: The Sociopolitical Influence of Media in Modern Society. She glanced up at Maria, eyebrow raised. “A lecture? You really think this is important?”. Pepper, not meeting Natasha’s eyes, sighed. “It’s... well, it includes you. Specifically.” Natasha’s lips parted slightly. “About me?” she repeated, voice hardening. “What are you talking about?”. Maria took a breath before responding, her voice cautious. “It’s a lecture. From a professor at Shield university. She’s young, so she wasn’t around when we were there. But she... uses you as an example in her talk.” Natasha’s eyes narrowed, the weight of the words sinking in. “She what?”. Pepper winced. “She talks about how news anchors—people with a platform like yours, aren’t just reporting the news but shaping it. And, uh... she singles you out by name.”. “Great,” Natasha said, her voice sharp. “What exactly does she say about me?”. Reluctantly, Maria tapped the screen and started the video. The camera panned to you, standing at a podium, adjusting your notes before speaking directly to the audience in the lecture hall.

“The media’s role isn’t just to inform—it constructs reality,”you began, your voice clear and confident. “Take someone like Natasha Romanoff, a news anchor with the most-watched primetime segment in the country. She doesn’t just present the facts—she defines how those facts are received. With a single word, a glance, a choice of guest or segment, she can shift the public narrative for millions.” Natasha’s jaw tightened as she listened, her fingers curling around the armrest of her chair. She’d always known she had influence but hearing it described this way, hearing herself used as an example of media manipulation, made her blood boil.

“Figures like Romanoff,” you continued, “can shape heroes or villains with a single broadcast. Their influence is vast and rarely questioned. The issue isn’t just about power, but about how and whether it’s wielded responsibly.” Natasha set the tablet down with a sharp click, her expression hardening. “So, I’m the villain in her story?”. Maria nodded slightly. “It’s more complex than that. You’re the example she’s using to critique a larger issue.”. “She might as well have painted a target on my back,” Natasha muttered, her tone thick with frustration. Pepper shifted, visibly uncomfortable. “It’s not personal, Natasha. But the way she frames it… it feels personal.”

“I don’t manipulate people,” Natasha snapped, her posture rigid. “I don’t twist the truth. I present it—clean, honest, verified. Just because I know how to deliver it doesn’t mean I’m playing puppet master.” She turned toward Maria, frustration boiling over. “Is this seriously the kind of crap I have to put up with now? Academics critiquing my work from their ivory towers?”. Maria raised her hands, trying to calm the storm. “It’s not about you. She’s critiquing the media as a whole. But yeah… you’re the example that serves her point.”

Natasha paced the room, her steps rapid and sharp. Why her? Why not the other anchors who sensationalized or fabricated? Sure, she was the highest-rated, most successful. She’d climbed the ranks quickly, but she never used her position to control the narrative, did she? She prided herself on her professionalism. She worked hard to ensure her biases didn’t creep into her delivery. She turned back to Maria and Pepper, eyes flashing with frustration. “It’s just a professor talking. The students in her class, maybe a few online nerds, will care for a few days, but that’s it.”. Maria and Pepper exchanged another glance. Maria spoke first, her tone firm. “It’s already spreading, Natasha.”. Pepper nodded, setting her phone down. “The video’s gaining traction—blogs, social media, even some paywalled articles. Small waves now, but they’re starting to grow.”

Natasha froze, her gaze shifting between Maria and Pepper. “Viral? It’s just a lecture. Seriously?”. “Not anymore,” Maria said, her arms crossed, her stance serious. “This thing spreads fast. And with the narrative it’s building, it’s only going to pick up steam. And don’t forget people are already out there who’ve held a grudge against you for years because of your success, your gender, your sexuality.”

Pepper leaned forward, her voice quiet but urgent. “You need to prepare. If this keeps going, it’s not just a lecture, it’s a movement. And once the perception shifts, you can’t ignore it.” Natasha’s gaze shifted back to the screen, her arms folding across her chest. The weight of what they were saying hit her. She’d worked hard for her credibility, for the trust of her audience. But if this narrative took root… it could undo everything. It wasn’t just about your opinion anymore, it could become public discourse, with herself at the heart of it.

“I don’t “control” the narrative,” she said firmly, almost like a mantra. “I report it.” Maria’s gaze softened, but she didn’t back down. “We know that. But the issue is how people perceive it. And right now, this perception is being built, whether it’s fair or not.”. Pepper showed her phone to Natasha, scrolling through the notifications. “See this? It’s trending right now. People are questioning your integrity, your influence. It’s not just going away.” Natasha stared at the screen, her heart sinking as the headlines flashed before her eyes of future articles that would cast her as the embodiment of everything wrong with the media landscape.

“So, what should I do?” she asked, her voice quieter now. Maria leaned forward slightly, offering a calm but firm suggestion. “We stay low for now. The wider public hasn’t really caught on yet. You’ve built your career on credibility—don’t let this shake that. But if this picks up more steam…”

“We’ll be ready.” Pepper added, her voice calm but determined. Natasha exhaled, the reality of the situation sinking in. “I don’t want to give this more attention than it deserves. But if she continues to use my name, in her little act it won’t be pretty.” Pepper opened her mouth to protest, but Natasha cut her off. “No. She should know better. Publicly crucifying someone without context? That’s wrong, and she should know that.”

The room fell silent. Natasha stared at the tablet screen, your words echoing in her head, even as she wrestled with the weight of her own thoughts. Maria and Pepper exchanged one last look, both knowing Natasha well enough to understand she would not let go of the topic easily. If there was one thing Natasha excelled at, it was holding onto grudges. She grabbed her bag, offering both women a curt “good night” before making her way out of the room. As she stepped into the cool night air, a black SUV already waiting, ready to take her back to her apartment.

---

After a silent car ride, with a brooding Natasha sitting in the back seat, her gaze fixed out the window, too consumed by what had been said to engage. The driver, initially trying to make polite conversation, quickly fell silent after receiving a few clipped, one-word replies, enough to register that her mood was not to be tested. When they finally reached her apartment building, he offered a quiet nod as she stepped out.

She had moved into the place after the second year of her show’s success, when for the first time, she no longer had to think twice about money. The apartment was more than a living space; it was a quiet reminder of everything she had built, and everything she had once thought would bring her peace.

When Natasha finally stepped into her loft apartment, the door clicked shut behind her with a familiar, hollow finality. The view that greeted her was one she never quite grew tired of—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the river and the city skyline, skyscrapers lit like circuit boards against the night. Somewhere in that sprawl was the studio she had just walked out of, its glass tower faintly visible in the distance.

Before she could set down her keys, a soft, expectant meow echoed through the entrance hall. Liho, her long-time feline companion, padded gracefully into view and rubbed himself against her calves, tail high with dignified affection. “Hey, soldier,” Natasha murmured, crouching to run her fingers through his fur. His purr vibrated warmly beneath her hand.

She hadn’t planned to keep him. Years ago, when she was still a glorified intern running coffee for people whose names she barely remembered, she’d found him one night half-frozen in a cardboard box outside the train station near her old apartment—or rather, a shoebox-sized room. A vet diagnosed hypothermia, said he’d recover with proper care, and gently implied there was nowhere else for the tiny creature to go. Natasha, who had never seen herself as someone who owned a pet—who barely trusted herself to care for plants—had taken him home, wrapped in a soft blanket. Told herself she’d find him a nice family.

She never did. He’d stayed. Through the grind, the promotions, the late nights, and the loneliness. Liho remained the one quiet, dependable thing in her life. She named him after a figure from old Russian folklore—Likho, the spirit of misfortune and chaos. A creature you were warned not to name or challenge, but whose presence was sometimes inescapable. It was meant as a joke at first—dark humor, a habit she never quite grew out of. But over time, the name stuck and softened. Likho became Liho—less an omen and more a constant.

After giving him a generous serving of premium cat food, she microwaved some frozen supermarket pasta-dish and poured herself a glass of red wine. Dinner was quiet, save for the low hum of the television. A dusty old Western was playing, something about cowboys and crooked sheriffs. Natasha wasn’t really watching. She sat on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, Liho curled beside her like a sentient heating pad.

Her thoughts kept drifting. Back to the studio. Back to the lecture Maria had shown her.

Back to you.

She hadn’t said it out loud, but the words had stung more than she expected. The calm measured critique of how anchors like her “curated truth,” how polished delivery could sometimes mask institutional bias. The examples had been academic, but Natasha had felt it—she had been the example.

And yet… you were compelling. Articulate. Passionate in a way that wasn’t performative. You didn’t grandstand; you just believed in what you were saying.

She pushed the thoughts aside, finished her meal, rinsed her wine glass, and went through the motions of her nightly routine. Brushed teeth. Washed off the last traces of studio makeup Betty hadn’t already removed. Changed into a pair of cotton shorts and an oversized Shield University shirt she’d never admit was from Bucky her old dorm roommate. Then, finally, she slipped into bed, Liho jumping up to settle at her feet.

It should have ended there. Lights off. Day over.

But Natasha lay there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the echo of your lecture still playing in her mind. She sighed, reaching for her phone on the nightstand, and opened the video again—not to rewatch it this time, but to scroll through the comments. Most were thoughtful. A few were aggressively supportive of her, others staunchly in your corner. Some were messy and contrarian for the sake of it.

Still, the consensus was unsettling: people were listening to you. Her curiosity piqued, she tapped your name into the search bar. Dozens of results popped up.

“Youngest Professor at SHIELD University Breaks Down Media Ethics in Viral Lecture.”

“SHIELD University Appoints Rising Academic to Faculty—Is the Professor the Future of Public Communication?”

“Bridging Theory and Practice: How the Professor Makes Media Research Accessible.”

She clicked on your university profile. A picture of you smiling at the camera greeted her. Natasha couldn’t deny you were attractive, it was a shame you seemed to despise everything she embodied. Below the picture was a brief introductory text.

We are proud to introduce Professor Y/N, who began their academic career here at SHIELD University. After completing their master’s abroad, they returned to complete their PhD and were recently appointed as the youngest faculty member in our Department of Media and Communication. Their research focuses on media literacy, narrative framing, and the role of journalism in democratic decline.

Natasha scrolled further.

Recent Publications:

• “The Myth of Neutrality: Power and Performance in Anchor-Centric News”

• “Narrative Fracture: The Battle for Public Trust in Digital Broadcasting”

• “Face of the News: Gender, Perception, and Charisma in Prime-Time Journalism”

Beneath that your contact email and Office hours.

Natasha sat back against the pillows, resting her phone on the nightstand, the soft glow of the screen now gone. It appeared that very little private information was available about you online to the public. She stared at the ceiling, the weight of your words from the lecture still lingering in her mind.

"Why the hell am I even looking at that?" she muttered under her breath, shaking her head slightly as if to dismiss the whole thing. Liho, curled up at the foot of the bed, paused mid-purr, his amber eyes narrowing as he stared at Natasha. His ears twitched, confused by her sudden outburst, but he didn’t move. Natasha let out a frustrated sigh, rolling onto her side, her fingers lightly brushing her hair away from her face. "This is ridiculous," she murmured, though the words felt hollow even to her. “She’s nothing more than an overachiever, leveraging recognizable names to draw attention to her small research hobby.’’ Liho blinked, then slowly stretched before curling up into a ball again, letting out a soft, contented sigh as he drifted off to sleep beside her, unimpressed with Natasha’s mood swing.

She didn’t like being called out. Didn’t appreciate being used as a case study for all that was wrong with modern journalism. It shouldn’t have gotten under her skin the way it did. And yet…

It wasn’t just criticism. It was smart. It was sharp.

That’s what bothered Natasha. She turned onto her side, her alarm clock faintly glowing in the dark room. She told herself she didn’t care. That it was just another critic, jealous of Natashas success. Just another overconfident academic with a limited view of how things worked in the real world. She had seen it time and again—people criticizing her without reason, trying to dismantle everything she had built from the ground up. You don’t even know me, she thought bitterly. To you, she was manufactured. Superficial. A product, not a person. Power-hungry. Egocentric. It didn’t matter how many stories she had broken, how many sleepless nights she’d spent carving out her place in a world that never welcomed her. You had already made up your mind and in the media world, that was dangerous. A single narrative, repeated with enough conviction, could become truth. The public loved a fall from grace. To you, she was nothing more than a symbol. But to protect herself, Natasha clung to the thought that you were just another fleeting presence in the endless crowd of critics—one more voice hoping to see her fall. No one had ever succeeded in pushing Natasha out and you wouldn’t be the first. But as sleep tugged at her, slow and unrelenting after an eventful workday, the cadence of your voice still echoed in her subconsciousness. And despite herself, she was already wondering what you’d say next.

A/N: Thanks for reading!

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff imagine #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanov x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #marvel #the avengers #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #black widow #natalia romanova

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natsgrave · 3 days ago

Text

fucking unbelievable, natasha. what the fuck is wrong with you, seriously?

maybe we can try again in the future??? NO! ABSOLUTELY NOT, FUCK OFF!!!

christmas blues- n. romanoff

pairing: natasha romanoff x r

summary: while attending a christmas party with natasha, she reveals her feelings towards you

a/n: hi! hope u are all enjoying the holidays if you celebrate! i wrote this last month and wanted to hand it over to you guys! enjoy!

minors do not interact

after natasha got out of a three year long relationship, she was fully convinced that she would never get into another again. she was absolutely heartbroken after maria broke up with her. she promised herself that her career would stay her main priority and wouldn’t entertain a love life again.

the breakup was messy, the whole company knew about it and everyone saw how natasha wanted to hide. she found herself laying in bed past ten in the morning— avoiding all responsibility for months.

natasha often stared at the ceiling at night, replaying the last fight that led to their breakup. maria’s voice would be sharp and cold. even months later, natasha still couldn’t couldn’t get rid of the hollow ache her ex-girlfriend had left. the alarm clock would blare, but she wouldn’t bother to turn it off— what was the point?

that was until you.

you caught her off guard, like a golden-pink sunrise after a harsh long night. somehow you’d brought life back into her eyes, you’d given her purpose again.

the first time natasha had a genuine laugh after maria was because of you. you’d spilled iced coffee all over your white blouse, but instead of getting angry— you made a joke out of it. she laughed hard enough that she snorted, something that surprised the both of you.

she’d forgotten what it felt like to have a genuine smile grace her face.

shortly after that, she found herself constantly in your orbit. not that you had an issue with it.

natasha couldn’t stop glancing at you in meetings, her fingers would graze yours under the table when she knew no one was looking. the way her eyes and voice softened when she spoke to you— natasha romanoff was in love, everyone could see that.

you two have been dating for almost two years now and it seemed like the honeymoon stage was never ending.

sure, you two had your arguments but the idea of either of you being mad at each other for over an hour seemed silly— so every problem was solved as soon as it even happened.

you two had been just colleagues before you two started dating. you’d nursed her back to life after the breakup and somewhere in the midst of all of that, you two became something more than colleagues and way beyond friends.

the fleeting glances in the hallway turned into knowing looks in meetings. the shared lunch break turned into dinner after work. you two had moved past being just colleagues and eventually became girlfriends.

you met her family seven months after you two started officially dating.

you even go out with her younger sister alone, you see her as your own sister now. when there’s a romanoff family event, there’s no doubt about whether or not you’ll be there.

you two were the epitome of lovebirds and everyone either cheered you two on or envied you.

“you and the mrs. coming to the christmas party this weekend?” tony asks as he walks into the kitchen where natasha is brewing a fresh cup of coffee.

looking over her shoulder at him with a slight eye roll at his teasing tone, “yes, tony, my girlfriend and i will be there.”

she lets out a gentle smile at the way that rolls of her tongue. she’s called you her girlfriend numerous times in the past two years but can’t help but feel like a schoolgirl every time. something about having someone to call her own is a feeling she’d never get over.

tony watches her with a glint in his eyes, his teasing demeanor gone and instead filled with pride.

although he can be rough around the edges sometimes, he cares deeply for his friends. beyond the smart quips and teases, he only wants the best for his people.

which is why he was beyond the moon when you two started dating. he’d tried to set natasha up with suitors numerous times before you came along but couldn’t quite get it right.

until you caught her by storm.

leaning against the countertop on the other side of the kitchen, he beams at natasha, “i’m really happy for you, you know that? you’ve come a long way, and i think your girl’s got a reason to do with it.”

natasha smiles at his words, knowing he doesn’t say that stuff often so she takes it to heart.

“thank you, tony. i think so too. after the break up with maria, i thought id give up on the whole dating thing. i’m so glad i didn’t.”

arriving home from work, natasha’s greeted with the smell of dinner and a james bond movie playing in the living room.

you’d always been attentive to natasha and have always known how to take care of her, something she’s always appreciated and voiced. she’d grown up always being perceptive and aware of others, so now that she’s the one being watched and listened to, her heart swells with adoration and affection.

coming up behind you as you cook, she wraps her arms around your waist and leans into you, her chin resting on your shoulder.

“smells amazing, my love. what’re you making?”

you smile and lean back into natasha’s hold, “remember when you took me to italy for my birthday earlier this year and i fell in love with that one plate? i found online and wanted to try it tonight.”

natasha had surprised you with tickets to italy, somewhere she knew you’d always wanted to visit.

before you two started dating, you’d spend a lot of time walking around the park and talking about your bucket list— you only told her about wanting to go to italy once.

natasha smiles and nods, remembering your vacation and how she wished she wasn’t such an over thinker. she would’ve proposed to you then and there at lake como.

as you finish cooking, natasha helps you plate the food and takes it to the kitchen table.

you two eat and talk about how your week has gone and how youre excited for tony’s party.

you’d gone out to buy a new dress, one that’s more on the holiday theme. the dark wine color is one you know natasha loves on you, which is why is hung up behind your bedroom door.

“we don’t have to be there for long. i know after a while it can get rowdy and i don’t know if you’ll be up for that,” natasha says as she brings a fork up to her mouth.

she avoids your gaze as she focuses on cutting her food. odd.

furrowing your brows and shaking your head at her statement, “nonsense, we’ll stay. don’t worry about it, we can just find a quiet place with our friends if anything. we usually do that anyway.”

the afternoon of the party, you two find yourselves in a familiar routine.

while you do your hair, natasha does her makeup. natasha usually asks you to ‘help’ her with her hair even though she really doesn’t need it— she just loves how you look when you’re focused.

especially when it’s her you’re focused on.

“you know, we don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” natasha says as she puts on her dangling pearl earrings. she’s said something along the lines of not going at least five times since last night’s dinner.

turning to look at her with your eyebrows raised, “do you not want to go? you’ve said that a few times already and it sounds like you don’t want to go.”

natasha looks over at you and sighs softly, “i do, i just wanted to do something today the both of us since christmas falls during the week this week. we could’ve had a personal christmas, you know, just the two of us.”

letting out an exhale of a laugh, you walk over to her as she sits on the bed watching you and place a soft kiss on her cheek.

“we don’t have to stay too long, okay?” you fix her hair so that it’s laying nice in place, “we can just show face.”

natasha nods softly and leans into your hand while you hold her face as you speak to her, “okay.”

you watch her through the mirror as you do your makeup and can see by the small furrow in her brow and the way she keeps fiddling with her watch, something is off with her.

you don’t acknowledge it, but want to get through tonight as quickly as possible to make sure you two can have the rest of the christmas weekend to yourselves.

the room is decorated beautifully in a festive atmosphere. warm christmas lights are all along the ceiling and the christmas tree is adorned with gold ornaments all around. you can even smell gingerbread in the air.

tony went above and beyond this year.

natasha led you in with a hand on your lower back and you can’t help but smile at the contact. she’s felt the need to always have a hand on you in some way. when you two sat down, she would rub your thigh in a soothing matter or would play with your hair as she stood behind you while you sat.

wanda waltzes up through the crowd with champagne in her hand, “you guys made it!”

she hugs you tightly and greets you with a friendly smile, then moving onto greeting natasha, “you guys missed it! tony got sam to sing karaoke and the whole place turned into a concert,” she beams.

the energy of the party sweeps you off your feet and it isn’t long before both you and natasha find yourselves engrossed in conversations with your friends. her hand never leaves the small of your back, it comforts both you and her. you and wanda share stories about your previous holiday traditions and natasha lets out a soft chuckle, warming the space between you two.

natasha apologizes to tony as you finally get to him almost an hour after you first walk in, “sorry we’re seeing you so late. we would’ve been here earlier if someone would’ve been ready sooner.” she subtly gestures to you with a tilt of her head,

you give natasha a playful glare as she says this, “i see how it is.”

natasha gives your waist a light squeeze, a gesture to show she’s joking with you. her green eyes dripping in adoration as she leans in closer to you, her voice dropping just enough for only you to hear it, “you look stunning, my love. always worth the wait.”

a blush creeps up your neck and you roll your eyes playfully, and tony laughs just before he’s pulled off into host duties.

the two of you walk around the party, exchanging pleasantries with colleagues and joking around with friends. sharing a drink, you two clink your champagne glasses in celebration, “to another stark christmas and to surviving the never ending hors d’oeuvres.”

the night is perfect and you find yourself feeling at home with natasha. you love the company— that the party has died down so now it’s just you two and your closest friends at the end of the night.

you all sit at the coffee table, nursing cups of coffee and sharing pastries that tony had hidden just to bring out for this time of the night. you’re leaned into natasha, her thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles against your thigh as she rests her hand on your leg.

you all are playing a friendly game of truth or dare and it was finally natasha’s turn.

she was dared by wanda to dance with you in front of everyone. simple.

“that’s your dare? easy,” natasha stands up and reaches out for your hand with a smile on her face, “milady.”

you giggle softly, shaking your head in disbelief and letting her pull you up, “you’re so corny.”

“but you love me,” natasha replies, matter-of-factly. she places a hand on your waist and holds your other in the air. your checks hurt from smiling widely and laughing all night.

natasha spins you around dramatically as you laugh heartily. she whispers softly in your ear that she loves you— you blush so noticeably that the group begins to whistle and cheer.

you two sit back on your side of the couch as the rest of the group continues, your head resting on natasha’s shoulder.

tony is in the middle of doing his dare when the elevator doors open up to a late guest. somehow, the door opening leads to the air feeling a bit tense. is it only you feeling that way?

“is that maria?” wanda whispers, it falling from her lips so quickly that she didn’t have the chance to hold it in before it came out.

natasha’s smile falters just a small amount before her face goes to a neutral expression in record timing. the hand that was just on your thigh a second ago is nowhere near your body, and she’s subtly moved in a way that made you pull your face away from her shoulder.

it’s like her warm and loving demeanor switched off in an instant, but then she catches your eye and gives you a half smile— is that guilt you see in her eyes?

before you can even ask her if she’s okay, you’re interrupted.

“sorry i’m late, i had to finish some last minute paperwork but i didn’t want to not show up at all.”

maria walks in commanding attention and respect. she doesn’t consciously do it, it’s just how she is— always has been. it’s not like you hated her, she never gave you a reason to.

she and natasha haven’t made eye contact, but you can feel natasha’s body go rigid right next to you, like shes expecting something to happen. the shift in natasha’s energy is unmistakable, one that leaves you uneasy as you sit next to her.

your heart sinks slowly as you realize that maria’s presence has dampened your girlfriend’s mood and part of you is worried about it. your heart sinks heavily, your body now feels ten times heavier.

the room didn’t go quiet, but natasha did. the hand that was always on you was now fiddling with her necklace, a tell you knew all too well. she was trying to anchor herself back down to earth.

maria finds a seat opposite on the couch, away from you and your girlfriend. you can see how natasha is averting her eyes from that area of the room and keeping her hands away from you.

you exchange worried glances with wanda who’s next to you, silently asking her what happened. wanda gives you a solemn look that you can’t quite place.

you sigh softly and try to place your hand in top of natasha’s, but just as you get close enough, she moves her hand away from you. it was so subtle that it couldve been mistaken as an honest mistake, but you know better.

you try to hide your frown as you look down, the stray piece of lint on your dress now looking a lot more interesting all of a sudden. you steady your breathing as much as possible, your emotions now getting close to boiling over.

the game continues and it’s finally natasha’s turn, she chooses truth.

clint smirks softly as he brings the beer bottle up to his lips, taking a swig before asking, “okay, let’s make this interesting. do you see yourself getting married?”

clint loves the two of you, matter of fact— everyone in the room has constantly rooted for the two of you. it took you two a while before you even officially started dating, so now that you two are together, the team loves how you bring the best in natasha.

the group laughs a little, almost like they already know natasha will, without hesitation, say that she does— with you.

natasha’s silence silences the group and you can see maria smirking subtly through the corner of your eye.

does she have something to do with why natasha’s hesitating to answer the question?

i mean, you and nat have both spoken about marriage in the past. she told you she couldn’t wait to get married and build a house an hour away from the city with you. why is she silent?

the group is now uncomfortably quiet at natasha’s red face and her lack of eye contact with anyone.

you glance over at nat, your heart heavy at the lack of response, apprehensive about her answer.

after a beat, natasha clears her throat and fiddles with the beer bottle cap in her fingers, “marriage? i.. i don’t know about that. maybe if i find the right person in the future.”

maybe if i find the right person?

your heart drops and you swear you could fall over any second. you try to mask your hurt by looking down at the ground. natasha had always reassured you about her feelings and intentions towards you. what happened?

“that’s understandable,” maria hums softly, her tone light, “you don’t want to vow your life to someone you don’t see a forever with.”

tony turns the attention away from the two of you quickly and finds another game to play, one that won’t lead to the potential demise of a relationship.

even though truth or dare is now over, you can feel some of your friends casting glances over in your direction to make sure you’re okay. you try to focus your attention on the jenga game that’s going on, but all you can think about is how natasha said she doesn’t see marriage with you.

is it because maria’s here?

you try to convince yourself maybe she’s having an off day, or maybe she’s just tired and wants to leave. after all, she didn’t want to come to the party in the first place.

the party slowly calms down and everyone is talking amongst themselves, but you find yourself growing quieter as the night progresses. natasha’s words echo in your head as you try to distract yourself by paying attention to whatever it is tony is talking about animatedly from across the couch.

natasha’s arm rests on the back of the couch, and you notice that ever since maria entered, she hasn’t reached for you.

maria is across the room talking to steve and sam about a past mission she went on and you can’t help but watch her. it’s not that you’re mad at her— why would you be? she didn’t force natasha to say what she said. you hate that you’re watching her every move now— especially because you can see that natasha is glancing in her direction every few minutes. it’s subtle and quick, but you notice it.

you get up and walk to the bar across the room. your girlfriend doesn’t follow.

you try your best to steady yourself as you make a quick drink. you watch from the other side, alone, as you see natasha talking to the group and laughing with them like nothing happened. you can see her gaze lands on maria for a few seconds longer than you were comfortable with.

you sigh softly and rub your temples as you try to bring yourself back to earth. maybe you’re overthinking and natasha will talk about it later with you at home.

the drive home is eerily quiet. you stare out the window and press your fingernails into your palms, an old habit that’s resurfacing. one that natasha helped you break at the beginning of your relationship.

“you’ve been quiet,” natasha says softly, almost hesitantly. maybe she knows what’s next. she’s treading with caution.

“i’m just tired”

“right,” natasha says as she pulls into the driveway and parks the car, “tired.”

you hold in a breath and exit the car, not even waiting to see if natasha will open the door for you. you know she won’t.

you try to gather the courage to say something as the two of you walk in and hang up your coats. you can feel your stomach heavy, your limbs feel like they could fall off at any second— you could break down at any second.

“what a par-“

“we need to talk”

you two speak at the same time and natasha immediately grimaces. it’s like she was hoping you’d forget what happened.

natasha tries to act busy as she takes off her shoes, her voice low, “about what?”

you scoff, “about what? natasha, you basically said you don’t see a future with me. we’ve talked about marriage before, about how it was what we both wanted— with each other..” you trail off, your voice wavers, but you press on. “is this temporary?”

natasha exhales harshly, making your heart drop, “that’s not what i meant by it.”

“really? because we seemed on the same page, but tonight when maria walked in, all of a sudden it was like our relationship didn’t exist.” you were letting your emotions out, no longer holding back your hurt.

natasha rubs her face and you look at her eyes. you see guilt and remorse, something that you rarely see with her— you feel sick.

exhaling sharply and looking at you with a guilt ridden expression, “she was my first serious relationship, the one i thought i would marry. after we broke up, i convinced myself i would never do that again— she broke me.”

you furrow your eyebrows and cross your arms, expression sharp, “and what does she have to do with me?”

“everything! she has everything to do with this!” natasha exclaims, her voice cracking, “when maria walked in, i realized i can’t give you the future you deserve. i can’t do it! i have so much baggage and you-“ her voice softens, “you don’t deserve to be with someone who’s going to throw that on you.”

you stand there, the weight of her words suffocating you, “so you’re going to push me away because you’re afraid?”

natasha looks at you with tears in her eyes and you can’t help but want to reach out to her, comfort her.

but this isn’t the natasha you fell in love with.

“i don’t know how to fix this,” she says, taking a few steps away from you, like she’s afraid for be near you.

you take a steadying breath and close your eyes, something about tonight has a sense of finality— one you didn’t ask for but can’t avoid, “natasha, i love you— so much, but i can’t be with someone and see a future with them when all they’re doing is looking over their shoulder at their past. it’s unfair to me.”

natasha’s lip quivers so subtly that if you didn’t know her so well, you’d have missed it, “are you leaving me?”

she places a hand on her chest, rubbing her collarbone in an nervous habit you can’t help but recognize. you can see how this is hurting her, but you know it’s unfair to continue being with someone who became unsure in such a short amount of time.

“i don’t want to, nat, but i think the fact that you saw maria for just an hour and this happened.. it means you need to figure out what you really want. seeing her one time shouldn’t have led you to being unsure.”

natasha watches you with tears in her eyes, fiddling with the ring on her finger. she nods softly, she knows it’s unfair to you how she switched up in such a short amount of time.

“i love you,” she tries to sound confident, but you can hear how defeated she sounds.

you smile sadly and place a gentle hand on her cheek, “you need to prove that to yourself, natasha. figure out what you want, without maria lingering in the back of your mind. it’s not good for you, us. maybe we can try again in the future when it’s past you.”

you pull your hand away reluctantly, the loss of her warmth hitting you immediately. natasha doesn’t stop you, not even as you pack your bags and leave.

#natasha romanoff x reader #graves fic reco's

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wandamaximoffsbadgirl · 2 days ago

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Loving You Was Never Hard

Part 4

Wandanat x fem!reader

Summary: You finally get to meet their friends and find out it's okay to be vulnerable

Word Count: 1.9K

Warnings: Mentions of past emotional abuse and neglectful relationships, Brief descriptions of trauma responses (e.g., self-doubt, emotional flashbacks), Light teasing (supportive context), Discussions of found family and emotional vulnerability, Soft caregiver dynamics beginning to develop (Mama/Daddy references, comfort scenes), Mild emotional hurt/comfort, Sleepy little space behavior

Authors note: This just felt so therapeutic to write so I hope you all enjoy it

You had finally felt like you were settled in. Wanda had helped you unpack most of your things though you kept a box under your bed that you didn't let Wanda touch. The room–though still very much theirs–now had a bit of your own flair to it. Some posters, decor, your throw blanket, pillows. Some of your things even started to spill out of the room and into the living room and kitchen.

A few of your clothes even end up in their bedroom for no other reason than Wanda picking up laundry when she saw it. She'd fold them neatly and hang the shirts up.

You were finally feeling comfortable and a part of the house as you helped Wanda do little things around the house. Usually during the days when she'd work from home you'd check in with her and make her lunch, bringing her drinks and doing chores. It made you feel useful and unlike your ex, Wanda always appreciated it. Giving you a smile and a thank you. Even if she could only mouth it. Sometimes she'd grab your hand, giving a gentle kiss before her hand would find the small of your back to gently push you out.

It brought you joy to be useful and that's why Wanda and Natasha let you do it. They saw the pure joy on your face as you cooked dinner one night while they had both had to go in for meetings. Both walking through the door to your music playing, your voice carrying through the house as you happily chopped up veggies and skewered meat. The two women looked at each other and then at you before you noticed them. They both just took you in a moment before Natasha spoke up, “Dinner is gonna be amazing tonight. I can already tell.” It startled you and you blushed a bit, looking down at the kabobs in front of you. You felt a hand on your head before you were gently pulled to Natasha's chest. Her lips kissing the top of your head. “I mean that baby.” Her words of encouragement made you feel something you hadn't in a long time.

Your ex never appreciated the food you cooked. Never complimented it. Never second guessed it. To her it was expected and if that expectation wasn't met you were yelled at and cussed out and made to sleep on the couch as you begged for forgiveness.

You finally felt appreciated. It was over dinner that night the two of them explained their weekly get together with their friends. The first thing you said to them caught them off guard.

“I can leave for the evening if you want or just stay in my room so I don't bother your evening.” You say to them without a second thought. When your ex had people over she'd rather you not be seen or heard. Didn't want her friends knowing her girlfriend didn't have a job.

“Oh malyshka no we want to have you with us and introduce you to our friends.” Wanda speaks in that soft, loving tone that sends a wave through you.

“We want them to get to know you and have fun with you there baby.” Natasha joins in, making you blush, looking down at your food.

“W-why would you want that? I'm just like a stray you took in.” You mumble, poking at your food.

“Malyshka.” Wanda says in a tone that makes you look at her without hesitation. “You aren't a stray. We care about you. You've been here for almost two weeks. You're a part of this household. You help cook and clean and you do your fair share while Tasha and I work. You are so helpful and we appreciate having you here with us. Truly we love having you here and as bad or weird as it might sound we're glad your ex kicked you out and my brother sent you our way. I think fate did that for a reason.” Wanda's words left you speechless and you didn't realize the tears pricking your eyes until they slipped down your face.

Natasha’s hand found your cheek with a light brush of her thumb and a soft smile as you met her gaze. “We aren’t going anywhere. We aren’t having you go anywhere. You’re a part of this home.” She reassured you. More tears falling from your face.

“I don’t deserve you two…” Your voice cracked along with Wanda’s heart.

“You deserve the world sweet girl.” Wanda’s voice was softer as she reached across the table. Her hand finding yours then Natasha’s hand finding Wanda’s as the three of you connected. You had never felt like you belonged somewhere this much before.

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚

You changed into something a little nicer after dinner—nothing fancy, just a cozy oversized sweater and leggings—but Wanda had smiled at you approvingly anyway when you walked out of your room. It was strange, how that small smile eased the nerves curling in your stomach. You weren’t used to meeting new people like this. Not people who were important to the people who’d taken you in. Not people who might judge you if you were too quiet, or too weird, or too... you.

The doorbell rang around seven. Your hands froze mid-fold over a dish towel, and you glanced over your shoulder at Wanda, who was already walking toward the front door with a serene expression. Natasha gave you a little nudge from where she leaned against the counter.

“You’ll be fine, sweetheart. They’re gonna love you.”

You tried to believe her.

And then the house filled with voices and laughter.

Maria was the first one in—sharp suit, easy smile. Then came Carol, loud and warm, Monica right beside her with a plate of cupcakes. Pepper arrived next, already talking about some deal she’d closed that morning, and finally Kate and Yelena wandered in together, mid-bicker about some board game they’d played the night before.

You hovered just off to the side, eyes wide, hands clasped nervously in front of you.

Wanda noticed first. Of course she did.

“Come here, baby,” she said softly, reaching for you with one hand. And you went. You didn’t even think about it. You just moved to her side, letting her arm loop around your waist, her hand resting on your back in that grounding way that had become so familiar.

You heard Pepper’s voice, amused. “Ooh, total Mama’s girl, huh?”

Your face burned as the others chuckled. You tried to pull away slightly, but Wanda held you close, rubbing her thumb gently against your side.

“There’s nothing wrong with listening when someone asks nicely,” Wanda said lightly, with just enough of a faux warning tone to make Pepper smirk and throw her hands up in mock surrender.

Natasha joined the circle then, nodding toward you. “Everyone, this is our girl. Be nice, or I’ll kick you out before movie night starts.”

“Hi,” you said, quiet, but sincere.

“Hi!” Monica gave you a warm grin. “Wanda and Natasha have said so many good things about you.”

“Only the good ones,” Carol added, winking.

Kate squinted at you, playful. “Wait—are you the one who made those kabobs they were raving about in the group chat?”

You blinked. “Um… I guess so?”

“They were talking about those for days,” Yelena said, nodding seriously. “We’ve been dying for an invite ever since.”

You felt your cheeks heat again, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.

“Why don’t you help me get drinks ready?” Wanda asked, as though sensing the moment your nerves started to rise again. You nodded quickly, escaping to the kitchen with her.

As you moved around to get cups and help pour wine and sodas, you felt that warm familiar comfort creep back in. Wanda worked beside you like you’d done it a hundred times before. She passed you things without needing to be asked. Your shoulders eased.

“I didn’t embarrass you, did I?” you whispered at one point, afraid to look her in the eyes.

Wanda paused, then turned to you with a gentle expression. “No, baby. You could never embarrass me. You were perfect.”

And with that, she leaned in and kissed your temple—just once, quick and tender—before passing you a tray of glasses.

As the two of you returned to the living room, the sound of laughter and music filling the space again, you realized something you hadn’t before:

You weren’t just staying here anymore.

You were part of this.

The second movie was winding down, the credits rolling quietly over soft background music. Most of the chatter had died down, replaced by half-asleep murmurs and the crinkle of snack wrappers. You didn’t realize how tired you were until your head dipped and landed gently against Wanda’s shoulder.

She turned just slightly, enough to look down and see your eyes fluttering closed, your body warm and pliant against her side. One arm curled instinctively around you, hand brushing gently over your back as you nuzzled closer, letting out the tiniest sigh.

Pepper noticed first, leaning toward the group with a teasing little smirk. “Looks like someone’s falling asleep on Mama.”

The affectionate teasing made a few smiles flicker across the room—until Natasha stirred.

She rose from her chair without a word, setting her wine glass down with a soft clink. Wanda didn’t need to say anything—she gently tilted your body forward so Natasha could scoop you up effortlessly, her arms sliding beneath you with practiced ease.

You barely stirred, only wrapping your arms tightly around her neck, legs curling up around her waist like you’d done it a thousand times before.

A soft murmur escaped your lips. “Tasha…”

Carol blinked, watching with a smile that was more amused than surprised. “Oh. A Daddy’s girl too.”

“Shhh,” Wanda hushed them with a soft, protective smile, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “Let her sleep.”

Natasha carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing, your soft breaths warm against her collarbone, your hold clinging to her like you never wanted to let go. Once inside your room, she gently laid you down in the bed, tugging the blankets up around your body with a care that made her movements almost reverent.

But your hand caught her wrist before she could pull away.

“Mmmm… Tasha?” you asked sleepily, still barely awake.

“Yes, baby?” she said softly, sitting down beside you and letting her fingers drift through your hair, slow and soothing.

Your voice was quiet, a mumble against the pillow, but it was so sincere it made her heart ache.

“Is it okay to be a Mama’s girl and a Daddy’s girl?”

Natasha smiled, warm and full of something she didn’t quite know how to name. You didn’t open your eyes—you just pressed your face further into her hand, clearly comforted by the gentle affection.

“Of course it is, baby,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair away from your cheek. “Wanda and I would both love that. But we can talk more about it another time, okay?”

You gave a sleepy, approving noise, content and soothed by her presence.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Nigh, Daddy,” you whispered, the words coming without hesitation.

Natasha stayed a little longer, brushing your hair back slowly, watching your features go slack with sleep. She didn’t rush out the door when you finally drifted off. She just sat there in the quiet, heart full and eyes soft.

#ley writes #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff #wandanat #wandanat x reader #wandanat x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #wandanat slow burn #wandanat x you #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #Loving You Was Never Hard #LYWNH

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natsaffection · 4 days ago

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Code Red. pt 4 | N.R

older!Surgeon!Natasha × Younger!Intern!Reader

Warnings: Age gap (N=35, R=24) hospital atmosphere, shooting mention, gun mention, blood, trauma, therapy, alcohol

word count: 12,3k

A/n: Tumblr has a freaking line limit, and I was stressing over it! So please, ignore the weird spacing. I had to mash a lot of things together just so Tumblr would let me upload it 💔

I even had to delete the entire ending and will have to add it in the next part, BECAUSE I RAN OUT OF SPACE

It had been thirty-one days. The hospital had changed since the shooting. There were more protocols. More drills. More doors that required keycards to open. But there were more people, too. New nurses, new faces from other cities, other programs. They’d flooded in like reinforcements when the ICU bled staff, some transferred, some promoted, some…never came back.

You were healed. The dressing had come off your shoulder weeks ago. The bruises were long faded. You walked clipboard under one arm, talking to nurses and humming under your breath when you thought no one was listening. Natasha always listened. She never stopped. “You’re staring again.” Maria murmured beside her at the nurses’ station, sipping coffee like it was a sedative.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Natasha shrugged. “Maybe I’m making sure my patient’s follow-up is behaving.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “Your ‘patient’ was cleared for full duty two weeks ago.”

Today, the sun slanted in through the long windows of the atrium. Late afternoon. The lull before the night shift. You were leaning against a column, chart in hand, when you saw Natasha approaching and smiled. “You steal my post-op notes again?”

Natasha’s voice floated, low and teasing, and you didn’t need to turn to know that signature smirk was already in place. You grinned as you looked up from the nurses’ desk. “Maybe I’m just trying to be more like you.”

“Dangerous goal.” Natasha said, resting a hand on the edge of the counter. “You might end up brooding and terrifying.”

You cocked a brow. “And somehow still everyone’s favorite?”

Natasha shrugged. “Can’t help it if I’m charming.”

You laughed, a real one. Loud, open. It earned a glance from a passing nurse, who smiled like they all did now when they saw the two of you in the same room. Like they knew. And why wouldn’t they?

Natasha brought you coffee every morning now, black with a sugar packet she’d roll between her fingers first, just like you liked. She reviewed your charts even when she wasn’t assigned to your service. Left little red pen corrections in the margins with sarcastic smiley faces.

She waited for you after night shifts, even when she wasn’t on-call. Once, she dozed off in the hallway chair with her hoodie pulled over her eyes, and you had smiled like your whole chest couldn’t hold it. Natasha leaned a little closer now, eyes flicking to the notes on your tablet. “You missed a decimal here.”

You sighed. “You’re gonna bring that up forever, aren’t you?”

“Yup.”

You looked up. “You’re a menace.”

Natasha’s lips twitched. “Only to interns I like.”

Something soft passed between you, just a glance, but enough to hold the weight of what you didn’t say. “Hey, Natasha!”

Addison’s voice cut clean through the hum of the nurses’ station. You straightened instinctively, but Natasha didn’t flinch. Addison walked toward you in her signature heels and dark red scrubs, hair tied up in a neat twist. She had that glow about her, the kind that always made people move just a little to the side when she entered a room.

“Montgomery.” she greeted. “Looking terrifyingly awake for a double shift.”

Addison smirked. “Someone’s gotta make up for your brooding.”

Natasha chuckled. “Touché.”

Addison turned to you, and the moment shifted, just a fraction. Your whole posture softened. Your smile went crooked in that familiar, loving way. And when Addison leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was yours. Natasha looked away politely, just for a second. But her smile didn’t drop. She held it like armor. Addison lingered with her forehead against yours for a heartbeat. “Lunch?”

“I get off in thirty.” you replied, and your voice..God, your voice was happy.

Addison nodded, then turned back to Natasha. “You good for the cardio consult at four?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Don’t scare the residents too much.”

“No promises.”

Addison laughed, then took your hand and walked off, still talking softly. And Natasha stood perfectly still. Her coffee was still warm in her hand. The smile still played at her lips. She didn’t look after you. Not right away. But when she did, it was just in time to see you glance back over your shoulder, just once. Just a flicker. Your eyes met.

And you smiled. Not the way you smiled at Addison, but soft. And Natasha smiled back. She stood alone at the nurse’s station, a full chart in front of her and absolutely no memory of what she’d just been reading. She exhaled slowly. Then circled something in red ink. A note you wouldn’t read later.

29 days before:

Natasha sits on the edge of a cold plastic chair, one in a loose circle of doctors gathered in a pale conference room. Her hands rest motionless on her knees, fingers interlocked so tightly her knuckles have turned white. People are talking around her, low murmurs of fear, anger, relief, yet each word drifts in and out of her consciousness as if muffled by cotton.

She is aware of the others in fragments: Dr. Chen wringing his hands as he recounts how he froze when the shots rang out; Nurse Bello blinking back tears describing the blood on her shoes. A therapist or counselor is guiding the discussion, voice gentle and measured, asking them to share whatever they can. Natasha hears the question float by “How are you processing this?” but it might as well be directed at someone else. She doesn’t lift her eyes. She doesn’t speak.

All she can see is the memory replaying in an endless loop behind her eyes. The harsh white lights of the OR reflecting on the pooled blood across your abdomen. Her own trembling hands pressed against your sternum, performing compressions in a desperate rhythm. She remembers counting under her breath, one, two, three trying to coax a heartbeat back. The monitor’s alarm screamed a flatline tone, a single, high-pitched note that drowned out rational thought.

Maria’s voice cutting through the chaos: “He will kill everyone in this room!” At the time Natasha had whipped her head around in disbelief. Then she saw it, him, standing just beyond the swinging OR doors, arm outstretched, the black eye of a handgun trained on them. In the group therapy room, Natasha’s jaw tightens imperceptibly. The others’ voices fade completely as the memories flood her. She feels again the paralytic fear that turned her limbs to stone. In the OR, a lifetime ago and only days ago, she had locked eyes with the gunman. His face was a blur behind her tears, but she remembers the cold steadiness of the barrel aimed her way.

Her heart had thundered in her ears. Maria’s voice had come again, strained and barely calm, “Let her go.” Natasha’s arms had gone rigid, her blood-slick hands hovering uselessly above your open chest. She could still feel the warmth of your skin beneath her palms, then the awful absence of it as she lifted her hands away. For a moment in time, Natasha truly believed it was the end. She was certain she was watching you die. The flatline droned on, and your face was so still, too still. The world narrowed to that single point: the space between one heartbeat and the next, a heartbeat that wasn’t coming. And Natasha had let go. At gunpoint, yes, but she let go.

Someone in the therapy circle clears their throat. The sudden sound yanks Natasha back to the present with a jolt. Her lungs burn; she realizes she’s been holding her breath. Across the circle, all eyes are on her now, the facilitator must have asked her something. Natasha quickly drops her gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor. When the session finally ends, chairs scraping as people stand, Natasha slips out without a word. No one stops her. The hallway air feels cooler on her clammy skin. She draws in a long breath, trying to steady the unsteady thumping of her heart. She survived the crisis. You survived. That’s what everyone keeps saying. Yet as Natasha stands alone in the corridor, all she can feel is the hollow ache left by the moment she thought she lost the woman she…

Without conscious thought, Natasha finds her feet carrying her to the ICU. She pauses just outside your room, fingers hovering at the observation window. The blinds are partially drawn, leaving a gap where she can see inside. You lie propped up in the adjustable bed, pale against the white sheets and connected to a forest of IV lines and monitors. The steady beep of the heart monitor is softer here than it was in the OR, but Natasha zeroes in on it immediately, each measured beep a reminder that you are alive. It’s both a comfort and a knife twist of guilt.

She watches from behind the glass, afraid to open the door. Her own reflection faintly overlays the image of you in the bed: disheveled red hair, haunted green eyes rimmed with exhaustion. She barely recognizes herself. Natasha stands there for a long minute, just watching the gentle rise and fall of your chest. The last time she saw you so still, there had been blood everywhere and a flatline threatening to never end. Seeing you breathing now should ease Natasha’s heart, but instead her chest only tightens.

You stir slightly, turning your head. Natasha steps back reflexively, out of view, her pulse jumping. Coward. She presses her back to the corridor wall beside the door, breathing shallowly. Part of her wants to flee before you notice her; she’s not ready to face those eyes, to field the questions you surely have. But another part of her aches just to be near, to reassure herself you are truly okay. That part wins out, albeit shakily.

Natasha slips quietly into the room. The faint scent of antiseptic and the low hum of the oxygen machine greet her. At the sound of the door, your eyes flutter open. They focus slowly on Natasha, and despite everything, one corner of your mouth lifts weakly. “Hey..” comes the whisper, raspy but warm.

“Hey.” Natasha echoes softly. Her voice is caught somewhere in her throat; she clears it and manages a small smile. She steps closer to the bed, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “You’re awake.”

Your eyes search her face. “Wouldn’t miss a chance to see you playing hooky from rounds..” you joke faintly. There’s a spark of humor in you despite the obvious pain it causes to speak. Ever the optimist.

Natasha’s answering chuckle is thin, but it passes for normal. “I’m just checking on a patient.” she replies, trying for lightness. She reaches for the clipboard at the end of the bed, scanning the vitals as a pretext to avoid meeting your gaze directly. Heart rate stable, blood pressure improving. All numbers that mean you are out of immediate danger. Natasha lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“They said I was pretty out of it after…” you begin, voice halting. “I don’t remember much. Just…pain, and then waking up here.” Your brow furrows as if trying to recall. “What happened? Is everyone-”

“Y/n.” Natasha gently cuts you off. Her heart gives a panicked flutter at the question. She forces a reassuring expression. “It’s okay. Everyone’s okay now.” You’re okay now. She carefully places the clipboard back. “You should rest. Don’t try to talk about it yet.”

You look unconvinced. Your hand twitches on the blanket, like you might reach out. “I heard I… I almost didn’t make it..” you murmur. Vulnerability shades your tone, fear, gratitude, confusion all at once. “They told me you saved my life.”

Natasha’s stomach twists. Heat prickles behind her eyes and she quickly turns her head under the guise of adjusting your IV drip. “The team saved your life.” she corrects softly, almost brusquely. Her own reflection in the dark monitor screen shows the flicker of anguish she’s trying to hide. “I just did my job.”

“But-”

“How’s your pain?” Natasha interrupts, grasping for any safer topic. “Do you need more meds?” It’s cowardly, changing the subject, but she can’t handle your gratitude. Not when she feels like the furthest thing from a hero.

You pause, realizing Natasha’s deflection. A shadow of hurt or worry crosses your expression, but you relent. “I’m okay. Sore… but I’m okay.”

An awkward silence stretches. Natasha forces herself to look at you directly now. The late afternoon light slants through the window, catching the gentle features of your face. You look tired, yes, and fragile in a way Natasha has never seen. But alive. Alive, because Natasha didn’t completely fail. The urge to reach out, to touch your cheek or squeeze your hand, wells up, but Natasha quashes it. She has no right, not with the secret she carries.

“That’s good..” Natasha says, and her voice comes out quieter than she intended. She clears her throat again. “You should get some sleep. I’ll, um, let you rest.” Your eyes flicker with disappointment that Natasha is already leaving, but you nod softly. “You’ll come by later?”

Today:

The cafeteria buzzed with its usual mid-shift chaos, forks clinking, pages fluttering, nurses weaving between tables with half-eaten salads and even less patience. Natasha sat across from Maria at a window-side table, untouched coffee in front of her, one elbow propped lazily on the tabletop as if she were actually listening.

She wasn’t. Her eyes were fixed across the room.

There, near the vending machines, you were laughing. Really laughing, head thrown back, hand on Addison’s shoulder, your scrubs wrinkled in the way that said you’d just come from surgery and hadn’t stopped smiling since. Addison leaned in to whisper something in your ear, and your face lit up like a goddamn sunrise.

Natasha’s jaw tightened. She didn’t even notice she was staring until Maria said her name for the second time. “Nat.”

No response. “Natasha.”

She blinked. “Hm?”

Maria arched a brow, her coffee halfway to her lips. “You heard absolutely none of that, did you?”

Natasha tried to play it off. She leaned back in her chair, flicked her eyes toward Maria. “Sorry. Thinking about the transplant case.”

Maria glanced at the untouched sandwich in front of her, then back at Natasha’s too-still face.

“Bullshit.”

Natasha’s lips curled in a half-hearted smirk. “What, you don’t think I’m committed to the art of liver transfers?”

Maria didn’t smile. She didn’t need to. Her eyes flicked once, subtle, sharp, toward the vending machines. Toward you and Addison. The way Addison’s hand brushed the small of your back. The way you leaned into it without thinking. Then Maria turned back, setting her cup down.

“This is exactly what I warned you about.”

Natasha’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Warned me about what?”

Maria didn’t blink. “Y/n slipping away. And you’re just sitting here watching it happen.”

Natasha forced a laugh, low, bitter. “Y/ns not mine to lose.”

“You were once.” Maria said calmly. “Or you could’ve been.”

Natasha shook her head, more to herself than anyone else. “It wasn’t like that.”

“It was exactly like that.” Maria said, voice still low but firm. “You just didn’t want to admit it. Not when she was lying in a hospital bed, not when she was asking for you every day, not when she looked at you like you were the only thing tethering her to this world.”

“That’s not fair-”

“What’s not fair,” Maria cut in, “is that she kept waiting. For you to do something. And instead, Addison walked in, cracked one joke, and you handed her the space you wouldn’t claim.”

Natasha’s throat worked. She looked down at her cup like maybe it held answers. “She’s happy.” she said after a long beat. “That’s what matters.”

Maria’s voice softened, but not in the way that gave comfort. “Don’t feed me that noble martyr crap.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Not directly. Her gaze drifted again, pulled by instinct, back to you, who were now holding Addison’s hand under the table. Smiling at her like she hung the stars. That smile used to be Natasha’s. Not really. Not officially. But close enough to believe it could’ve been.

“She’s not just happy..” Maria said quietly. “She’s in love. And you…you’re sitting here nursing a coffee you didn’t drink and pretending like it doesn’t feel like a knife every time she kisses someone who isn’t you.”

Natasha laughed once, too sharp. “Maybe I’m just growing.”

“Maybe you’re just scared.”

Natasha looked at her, finally. The smile was gone now. Her eyes weren’t angry, they were tired. “She deserves better than someone who didn’t know how to show up.”

Maria didn’t argue. She just leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching her friend crumble in real time.

“You’re still in love with her.” The words hung there. Natasha looked back to the vending machine. Addison kissed your temple. You leaned into her.

And Natasha, very quietly, smiled. “Yeah..” she said.

After that, Natasha walked fast, eyes locked on the tablet in her hand. Lab reports, liver enzymes, graft viability. The transplant consult was already behind schedule, and her attending hadn’t signed off on the pre-op labs yet. She moved like she always did when she had a case on her mind, quick, surgical, with every step meant for something. She turned the corner too sharply. And collided with someone. The tablet jolted, almost slipping from her fingers. She caught it by reflex.

“Shit, sorry-” the voice was familiar before she even looked up. Dr. Derek Shepherd. He steadied himself with one hand against the wall and let out an awkward half-laugh. “Didn’t mean to bodycheck you in your own hospital.”

Natasha blinked, still clutching the tablet. “I’ve had worse.” she muttered, brushing her shoulder. Her voice was calm. Almost too calm. Derek shifted on his feet. “Right. Uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to..well, I know I already said it, but…I’m sorry. For what happened. For everything.”

She looked at him, expression unreadable. He went on anyway. “I didn’t know he’d come for me. I didn’t expect-”

“I know.” Natasha interrupted, gently. Not unkind, but final. “You don’t have to explain again.”

Derek nodded. “Still. I wasn’t sure if you…still blamed me.”

Natasha hesitated, then shook her head. “No. I blamed the wrong things for a while, but…not anymore.” Her voice was softer now, and maybe that’s what made it more painful. She wasn’t angry..just tired.

A beat passed. Something shifted in Derek’s face. “I’m glad you’re back.” he said honestly. “The OR feels different with you in it again.”

Natasha smiled, a faint curve of her lips. Not the sharp kind. Not sarcastic. Just quiet.

“Thanks.” she said. Derek stepped aside to let her pass. “It’s good…that things are finally normal again.”

Natasha looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered in her expression, something hollow. She nodded once. “Yeah..” she said. “Normal.”

27 days before:

Natasha stepped out of your room with her jaw clenched and her fists shoved deep into the pockets of her hoodie. The blanket you’d been curled under still clung to the ghost of your warmth. You hadn’t woken when she left. You were still sleeping, weak but alive.

She hated how much that still felt like a countdown. She made it halfway down the hallway before the tightness in her throat demanded air. She pushed into the small family break room, empty at this hour, and dropped into a chair at the table near the window. No monitors here. No beeping reminders. Just her and the thick, choking silence.

She sat there breathing too fast, knuckles pressed into her thighs. She could still see it. The scalpel glinting under trauma lights. Blood pooling like rainwater beneath the table.Your chest open. Your body limp. Your lips blue.

“She’s flatlined.”

“Natasha, let go.”

“There’s no rhythm.”

“LET. HER. GO.”

And Maria’s hand on the ECU cable. Unclamping it. Letting the monitor scream flat. She’d waited until she was alone for that. But now? Now the door opened. And the devil walked in wearing a white coat.

“Hey..” Derek said softly, stepping into the room. “I just checked up on her. She’s holding steady, it’s a good sign.”

Still, she said nothing. “She’s strong.” he added, voice gentler. “Stronger than any of us gave her credit for.”

Natasha’s jaw ticked. “She was the only staff member who got hit and survived..” Derek continued. “The others-”

“Don’t.” Natasha said, sharp. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

Derek blinked, taken aback. “I-”

“She almost died.” she said, her voice colder now. “Because of you.”

He froze. “She got shot. Shot! She had a bullet rip through her chest because you had ghosts you didn’t clean up.” Her voice cracked around the edge. “And you weren’t the one who paid for it.”

“Natasha-”

“She coded!” she snapped. “She coded, and they tried to make me let her go. While she still had warmth in her chest. While her blood was still flowing. Maria unclamped the cable so the machine would lie for her!”

Derek’s breath caught. “And you-” her voice dropped, dangerous now, “..you’re the reason he came.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do, Natasha.”

“She went through hell!” she hissed. “Woke up with a tube jammed between her ribs, no anesthetic, no sedatives. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move and you want to stand here and say she’s strong?”

“I didn’t say-”

“You didn’t have to.” she snapped. “You’re trying to make this easier for you. Trying to feel like this wasn’t your fault. But she almost died because someone wanted you dead. And I’m the one who had to hold her together.”

Derek didn’t speak. “You weren’t there when she whispered she didn’t want to die. When she cried into my chest because the pain was too much. You weren’t there when she told me to stop doing the calm voice, because she knew what it meant.”

Her hands trembled. “I had to choose between letting her die with dignity and slicing her open with a fucking scalpel while she screamed into her sleeve. I had to hurt her to save her. And the whole time, you know what I kept thinking?”

She looked up at him, eyes burning. “Why wasn’t it you instead?” Silence. Derek swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Good.” Natasha said. “But that doesn’t fix her ribs. Or her lungs. Or the fact that she’s afraid to sleep because the last time she closed her eyes, she died.”

The silence stretched. Then she stood. “I don’t want your apologies. I don’t want your guilt. Just stay the hell away from her.”

And she walked out. She stormed down the hallway, the echo of her own voice still ringing in her ears. Her skin itched with leftover adrenaline. Her fists were clenched. Every step felt too loud. She just needed air..needed out. Her blood was still humming with the weight of what she said and how much of it was true.

She hadn’t meant to say it. She’d meant to keep it all inside. But Derek’s voice..his concern, his gentleness, it scraped against the jagged edge inside her and all the broken things spilled out. She hadn’t planned to scream at him. She hadn’t planned to say she wished he’d been the one bleeding out on the table. But she had. And she hadn’t lied. Her boots hit the linoleum harder now, like her whole body was trying to outrun the shame curling in her throat.

“Nat.”

Maria’s voice, low and sharp. Natasha kept walking. Maria didn’t move. Just grabbed her arm, firm, and pulled her into an empty consult room off the hall. The door shut behind them with a soft click. The silence inside the room was heavy and instant.

Maria stood in front of her, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “What happened?” Natasha didn’t answer. She moved toward the opposite wall, leaned against it with her jaw tight.

“Talk to me.” Maria said, slower now. “You’re not okay.”

“I never said I was.”

“No..” Maria snapped, “but I can see it.”

Natasha let out a bitter laugh. “You can see it because you’re back in the OR like nothing happened, while I’m still being evaluated like a mental patient.”

Maria’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The jealousy.”

“Fuck off!”

“No.” Maria said, stepping forward. “Let’s be honest. You’re pissed that I’m cleared and you’re not.”

Natasha turned sharply, eyes flashing. “You think I care about surgical clearance?”

“I think you care that I look like I’m fine. That I’m functioning. That I’m moving on and you’re not.”

Natasha barked a humorless laugh. “You are fine.”

“No..” Maria said, quieter now. “I’m not. I’m just better at hiding it.”

Natasha shook her head. “You didn’t beg them to let you keep holding her heart after she flatlined.”

“No. I was the one who told you to let go.”

That silence hit like a gunshot. Natasha’s hands clenched. “You lied.”

“I protected you.”

“No..” she growled. “You made me think she was gone. You unclamped the damn cable!”

“She was gone, Nat.”

“No, she wasn’t! She was still warm. Her heart was twitching. I felt it. I had her blood under my nails and you wanted me to pretend it was over!”

“I needed you to breathe!” Maria snapped. “You were seconds away from breaking in front of the shooter!”

“Then maybe I should’ve!”

Silence. Natasha’s shoulders dropped. Her voice broke open. “She wasn’t supposed to get hit. It wasn’t supposed to be her. The shooter came for Derek. She got caught in it. And now she..she wakes up crying. She breathes like it hurts. She doesn’t know what happened.” Maria was quiet. Watching her unravel.

“And I’m..” Natasha swallowed. “I don’t know what this is anymore. I’m furious. At you. At him. At me. I keep walking past her room like I’m being dragged back into fire, and then I can’t make myself walk in. I sit at the table and I think if I look at her too long, I’ll snap. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.”

Maria stepped closer. Her voice softened just enough. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Then why am I like this?”

Maria didn’t answer right away. So Natasha filled the space herself. Her voice shaking now. “I can’t stop seeing it. Her body open. Her face slack. That second where she died under my hands, and I knew if I let go, she’d be gone. And now? Every time I see her breathing, I want to scream and cry and throw something.”

Her hands were trembling. “I don’t know what I feel.”

Maria looked at her carefully. Then said the one thing Natasha couldn’t bring herself to say: “You love her.”

“That’s none of your business..” Natasha muttered, voice hard.

“It became my business the second I saw her wake up and look around for you.”

That landed. Natasha’s jaw clenched. “She don’t need me there.”

“She wanted you there.”

Natasha said nothing. Maria’s voice dropped lower now. Gentle. Almost sad. “And now you’re not the only one she’s looking for.”

Natasha’s gaze flicked to her. “What?”

Maria hesitated. “Addison.”

Natasha blinked. “The new trauma nurse?”

“She came in with the post-shooting support team.”

“And?”

“She’s been visiting Y/n. A lot..I saw her talking.” Maria continued. “Yesterday. And again this morning.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. “Talking..” she echoed flatly.

Maria’s head tilted. “Laughing.”

Natasha’s jaw ticked. “I don’t know what it is.” Maria said honestly. “But I know it’s new. And I know you’re watching her slip through your fingers while you’re still hiding behind a damn window.”

“I’m not hiding.”

“You’re not showing up either.”

Natasha’s voice cracked. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” Maria’s voice sharpened. “You’re scared. I know that. You almost lost her. I was in that OR with you, remember? I saw you fall apart in silence. But this..what you’re doing now, it’s not protecting her.”

Natasha’s arms folded tighter. “I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Start with ‘hi.’”

A bitter laugh left Natasha’s throat. Maria stepped closer. “She keeps asking about you.”

Natasha flinched. “She still looks at the door when someone walks in, like she’s hoping it’s you.” Maria said. “But it never is. And now? Addison’s the one walking through it.”

Silence. Maria softened. “Nat, you were the last person she saw before they pushed anesthesia. You were the last person who touched her heart before it stopped. You fought for her when everyone else gave up.”

She paused. “But none of that matters if you don’t show up now.”

Natasha’s fingers dug into her own arms. “I’m not…what if she doesn’t want me like that? What if she’s just grateful, and I’ve been reading it wrong this whole time?”

Maria smiled sadly. “Then find out. But do it before Addison does.”

Today:

The OR was cold, bright, silent, the kind of silence that buzzed just beneath the skin. Natasha stood at the head of the table, eyes locked on the open chest cavity in front of her. Everything else blurred around the edges. She had waited for this. Worked her ass off for it. One month post-shooting. Cleared. Back on the board. And her first transplant in weeks, a complicated arterial graft, high-risk.

And she was in her element. “Retractor.” she said quietly. “Suction to the left. I’m going for the clamp in three.”

She could hear the nurses shifting. Her team moving as one. She barely needed to look up. And then, the door slid open. Natasha didn’t glance up.

“Assistant requested?” came a familiar voice.

Addison... Of course. Natasha didn’t breathe. Just gave the briefest nod. “Welcome to the table.” Addison stepped into her field like she belonged there. She always did. Her gloved hands hovered just inside the sterile line, ready to step in.

“Need a vascular whisperer, huh?” Addison smiled beneath her mask.

Natasha’s lips barely moved. “Wall’s too calcified. Graft line’s tight.”

“Mm. Got it.” Addison leaned in, eyes scanning. “This part’s always delicate. You’re doing great.”

Natasha focused harder on the scalpel in her hand. They worked in tandem, moving without needing more than a word. But Addison? Addison was always the talker. And Natasha should’ve known she wouldn’t stay silent.

“You know.” Addison said softly, conversationally, like they weren’t elbows-deep in someone’s chest, “She told me this was the first surgery she ever watched you do.”

Natasha’s pulse stuttered. She said nothing. Addison kept going. “She said she watched you work like it was watching fire. That you didn’t even look real. I get it now.”

A nurse passed Natasha the graft tool. Her fingers shook, just for a second. “She always speaks so highly of you,.” Addison continued. “It’s cute, really..”

Natasha didn’t answer. Just clamped. “They told me you kept her alive. That you refused to stop even when the odds were nothing.”

“Focus.” Natasha said quietly. “I need to finish the arterial line.”

Addison didn’t flinch. She just softened her voice. “They said you didn’t let her go. Not even when they told you to. I’m…really glad you were there.”

Natasha didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Her eyes were glued to the thread-thin suture she was guiding through tissue and graft. Her jaw was locked. Her shoulders too still. Addison’s voice turned even gentler. “She’s alive because of you. And I get to love her because of you.”

There it was. That last part was a whisper. Almost an offering. And Natasha..She smiled. That tight, too-sharp, I-might-destroy-something smile that never reached her eyes.

“Well.” she murmured. “Glad to be of service.”

Addison smiled too, oblivious or maybe willfully blind. “You’re kind of a miracle worker.”

Natasha didn’t speak. She might’ve thrown the scalpel across the room if it hadn’t still been in her hand. They finished the graft in silence. And when the new heart began to beat beneath her fingertips, strong, steady, she knew it wasn’t the only one still bleeding.

Just the only one allowed to show it. Natasha stood at the scrub sink post-op, letting the hot water scorch her palms. Her gloves were off. Her mask hung from one ear. Her eyes were fixed on the stream of pink-tinged water circling the drain, a mess rinsing clean. Too bad that didn’t work on her chest..The door creaked open behind her. She didn’t look up.

“Hell of a job.” Addison said, her voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. Natasha didn’t respond. Just kept scrubbing.

Addison stepped closer, her own mask now gone, red hair tied back, skin glowing from OR lights and a little victory rush.

“You still work like a goddamn machine.” she added, admiring. “Cold hands, warm heart… no pun intended.”

Natasha shot her a look in the mirror. “You coming in here for compliments or to gloat?”

“She talks about you, you know.” Addison said, voice softer now. “Y/n. Not the way I’d expect, given your history. Not with bitterness. Not even anger.”

Natasha’s expression didn’t change, but the pulse in her throat betrayed her. Addison leaned in slightly. “She talks like someone who never really got over something she didn’t let herself want.”

“I was her boss.”

“She was also in your bed.”

Natasha didn’t move. Addison’s smile widened. “One night, right?”

Natasha turned her head. Slowly. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because I think it matters to you more than you let on.”

The air thickened. “I think..” Addison said, stepping back just a little, enough to feel like a threat pulled away, “you had her. You let her go. And now you can’t stand to see someone else hold what you dropped.”

Natasha laughed under her breath. Dry and dangerous. “You sound awfully smug for someone still checking over their shoulder.”

Addison’s gaze sharpened. “Oh, I’m not worried. She loves me.”

Natasha’s jaw twitched. “That’s new.”

Addison smiled. “No, Natasha. That’s earned.”

The OR was long cleared. The adrenaline had faded. The applause, the soft congratulations, the proud looks from the interns, it was all gone now. And Natasha was alone. The desk in the resident workroom was cluttered with post-op paperwork. Charts, vitals, blood gas reports, transplant summaries. Neatly stacked, just how she liked them. Her pen moved in clean, practiced strokes, her handwriting steady even when her heart wasn’t.

It had taken everything in her to keep still during that surgery. Everything not to shake when Addison leaned closer, asked for the scalpel, and casually said, “She talks about you, you know.” Everything not to respond. Not to react. Not to scream.

Natasha clenched her jaw now, eyes locked on the patient chart, but she wasn’t reading the numbers. Her focus had shifted somewhere quieter. Somewhere painful. The door opened. She didn’t look up. Maria walked in like she belonged there, because she did. Clipboard in one hand, a half-eaten protein bar in the other. Her steps slowed when she saw Natasha still sitting there, back rigid, shoulders squared like she was in an invisible battle.

“I heard you were in the transplant with Addison..” Maria said, soft but pointed. Natasha didn’t answer. Maria stepped closer, leaned against the desk. “How’d it go?”

The question hung between them. Natasha took her time placing her pen down, folding the chart closed with perfect care. She adjusted the edge until it aligned exactly with the stack beneath it. Her hand stayed on the file for a second longer than necessary. Then, finally, she looked up. Her eyes were bloodshot, but dry. Her voice was even, but low.

“You were right.” Natasha said. Maria tilted her head. “About what?”

“I lost her.”

The words didn’t slam out, they fell, heavy and quiet, like a knife dropped onto concrete. Maria’s breath hitched, just slightly. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just let Natasha keep going.

“I kept telling myself there’d be time..” Natasha said, eyes unfocused. “That I’d wait until she was better. Stronger. Until I was cleared. Until I wasn’t a mess.”

A bitter smile tugged at her lips. “But Addison didn’t wait.”

Silence. “I watched her put her hand on her shoulder in the scrub room last week. Like it meant something. Like she belonged there.” Natasha exhaled slowly, like the admission physically hurt. “And maybe she does.”

Maria’s voice was quiet. “She only got in because you never tried.”

Natasha let her head fall back slightly, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of being the person who loved someone and didn’t know how to keep them!”

Maria took a step forward. “Nat-”

“I thought if I stayed quiet, if I kept my distance, it would make everything easier.”

She laughed under her breath. “It didn’t.”

Maria didn’t say I told you so. She didn’t need to. She just stood there, watching the strongest woman she knew finally let the truth settle into her bones. Natasha pressed her palms flat to the desk, bracing herself. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “She looked so happy today.”

Maria said gently, “Would you rather she wasn’t?”

Natasha closed her eyes. “No. God, no.”

Her jaw trembled. “I just wish it was me.”

Silence wrapped around them again, not cruel, but raw. Maria reached over, placed a steady hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “She’s not gone. You didn’t lose her like that. You just…let her slip through your fingers.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “She was in your hands once, Nat. Heart in your hands. And now someone else is holding it.” The chart beneath her hand still bore your name in neat black ink. Natasha stared at it. And didn’t move.

24 days before:

Natasha sat stiffly in the therapist’s office chair, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The small room felt too warm, too close, but her posture remained impeccably controlled. She answered the therapist’s gentle questions with clipped, clinical precision.

“I’m fine.” she said for the third time, her voice cool and even. “It was an unfortunate incident, but I’m ready to get back to work.”

The hospital trauma therapist , a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a soft voice nodded patiently, pen hovering over a notepad. “You went through a lot, Dr. Romanoff.” the therapist said quietly. “It’s okay if you’re not completely fine. Let’s talk about what happened in that OR.”

At the mention of the OR, Natasha’s jaw tightened. Her mind immediately pushed back against the memory threatening to surface, your blood on her gloves, the flatline tone screaming in her ears, the cold muzzle of a gun at her temple. She forced those images down, focusing instead on the steady tick of the clock on the wall.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Natasha replied, forcing a shrug. The effect was meant to be nonchalant, but her shoulders felt rigid. “My patient is alive. I did my job. End of story.”

Her tone was measured, almost detached. Only the slight tremor in her fingers, hidden as she clasped her hands in her lap, hinted at anything beneath the cool exterior. She was determined to keep it that way. Years of training taught her how to lock away fear and pain behind a steel wall of professionalism. She wasn’t about to let it crack now. The therapist offered a sympathetic smile. “Natasha…may I call you Natasha?”

A curt nod was the only answer she got. “Natasha, you performed CPR on her for nearly 4 minutes. You were still doing compressions when the shooter came in and forced you to stop at gunpoint.”

Natasha’s stomach clenched at the calm description of that horrific moment. She fixed her gaze on a spot on the floor, willing her face to remain impassive. The therapist continued gently, “That is a tremendous amount of trauma for anyone to process, especially when the person on that table is someone you…” she paused, “care about.”

For a split second, Natasha’s eyes squeezed shut, a flash of pain breaking through. Care about. The phrase was such an understatement it was almost laughable. But when Natasha opened her eyes again, they were cold, guarded.

“With respect.” she said sharply, “I don’t need a counseling session to tell me what I already know. I saved her life. It was traumatic, sure, but I’ve seen traumatic things before. I’m trained for this.”

Her words came out harder than intended, a defensive edge creeping in. The therapist leaned forward slightly, unfazed by Natasha’s icy tone. “You’re trained to handle medical emergencies, yes. But this wasn’t just any emergency. This was someone you love in danger.”

Natasha flinched at the word love and quickly masked it by sitting up even straighter. She bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood, using the sharp pain to ground herself.

“It’s my job to handle it.” she replied, voice brittle. “And I handled it. She’s alive. I’m fine.”

The repetition of that phrase..I’m fine sounded hollow even to her own ears, and she hated it. She hated that her emotions were threatening to surface here, in this sterile room under the scrutiny of a stranger’s empathy. The therapist made a note on her pad, then looked back at Natasha, her expression gentle but firm. “I understand why you’d want to move on quickly. But the hospital requires clearance after an incident like this. I need to be sure you’re really ready. Right now, it sounds like you’re avoiding the feelings this brought up.”

Natasha’s temper, usually so carefully controlled, flickered at that. “Avoiding?” she echoed, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping before she could stop it. “What do you want me to say? That I was scared?”

She uncrossed her arms and leaned forward, her green eyes narrowing. “Of course I was scared. Any surgeon would be, in that situation. But I did what I had to do. I don’t see how dissecting my feelings about it now is going to help anyone.”

The therapist met her glare calmly. “Talking about it can help you, Natasha. You went into fight-or-flight mode and haven’t come down. It might help to acknowledge what you went through. You didn’t just witness a trauma; you experienced it firsthand.”

She paused, voice softening. “You almost lost someone you love in that OR.”

Natasha’s controlled facade wavered. She felt a burning pressure behind her eyes and immediately looked away to stare at the diploma on the wall. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. Almost lost was an understatement. In her mind’s eye she saw your body jerking under her hands with each compression, saw the heart monitor flatline…heard her own voice screaming your name. Natasha’s fingers dug into her palm so hard it hurt. Don’t you dare, she scolded herself, fighting back the sting of tears.

She would not break down. Not here. Silence hung between them for a long moment. At last, the therapist sighed quietly and closed the notebook. “Natasha, I can’t clear you for surgical duty yet.”

Natasha’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Her voice came out sharp, disbelief and anger lacing the words. A hot spike of frustration shot through her chest. “I’m perfectly capable of operating.” The therapist’s words felt like a slap; surgery was Natasha’s purpose, the one area she always maintained control. Now they wanted to bench her? Her nails bit deeper crescents into her palms.

“I know this is frustrating.” the therapist replied evenly. “But your reactions today show me that you’re still in a state of acute stress. If I send you back to the OR without processing this, it could be dangerous for you and for your patients. You need a little more time and support. Maybe another session or two.”

Natasha shot to her feet, pacing a few steps across the tiny office. The controlled mask was slipping, anger seeping through the cracks. “I don’t need time!” she insisted, each word clipped. “What I need is to do my job. Sitting here talking in circles isn’t helping anyone.”

She knew she was practically snarling, but she couldn’t help it. Being told no ignited something panicked in her chest, a desperate need to regain normalcy, to scrub off the lingering feeling of helplessness by throwing herself back into work. The therapist remained seated, eyes following Natasha with a mix of concern and resolve. “Natasha, please..” she said softly. “This isn’t a punishment. You went through something terrible. It’s only been a week.” Only a week.

It felt like an eternity trapped in one endless nightmare replaying behind Natasha’s eyes. She dragged a hand through her hair, realizing belatedly it was trembling and quickly dropping it back to her side. She took a breath, forcing her voice into a colder register. “I said, I’m fine. I don’t need more time.”

But the quaver beneath her words betrayed her. Even she heard it. The therapist stood now as well, maintaining a respectful distance. “I’m sorry.” she said, and she truly sounded sorry. “I know you want to get back to the OR, but I have to do what’s best for you. For now, I’m not clearing you.”

Natasha’s hands balled into fists at her sides. A storm of emotion roiled in her chest , indignation, fear, and an ache of frustration threatening to choke her. She didn’t trust herself to speak. If she opened her mouth, she wasn’t sure whether a scream or a sob might come out.

Instead, she gave a tight nod, snatched her jacket from the chair, and strode to the door. Her vision blurred for just an instant as she grasped the doorknob. Pull it together, she scolded herself harshly. She blinked the wetness from her eyes, willing her composure back. Without another word or a backward glance, Natasha yanked the door open and stepped out into the hallway, letting it shut perhaps a bit too hard behind her.

Today:

The hospital floor had settled into a lull. Monitors beeped lazily. The fluorescent lights above cast a soft white glow over tired staff. At the edge of the counter, Natasha Romanoff stood with one hand on a patient chart, pen poised, focus razor-sharp. Or at least, that’s what she wanted it to look like. She wasn’t writing. She was pretending to write. And Maria Hill saw right through it.

“Uh huh..” Maria said, striding up beside her. “Busy with that chart, I see. Real intense.”

Natasha didn’t look up. “Complicated case.”

“Right.” Maria drawled. “So complicated you forgot to call back the girl I hand-delivered to you.”

Natasha gave her a glance. “You what?”

“That ICU nurse. Red scrubs. Obvious crush. You were supposed to call her three nights ago.”

Natasha shrugged, barely hiding her smirk. “I got distracted.”

Maria crossed her arms. “You haven’t touched anyone in weeks.”

“Not a crime.”

“It is when you’re Romanoff and you’re acting like a nun. Something’s wrong with the world order.”

Natasha’s smirk twitched wider. “I’ve evolved.”

“You’ve repressed.” Just then, a laugh echoed down the hallway. The kind that hit too loud, too warm. Maria and Natasha both looked. You.

Coming out of one of the one-night rooms. Scrubs a little wrinkled. Cheeks flushed. Addison Montgomery trailing behind you with the cocky kind of smirk that only came from a very satisfying break. You were laughing at something Addison whispered into your ear. The sound hit Natasha in the chest like a punch wrapped in silk.

Maria’s voice softened just slightly. “They’ve got rhythm now, huh?” Natasha didn’t answer. She just looked away, pen tapping absently against the edge of the chart.

“She’s happy.” she said after a moment. “That’s what matters.”

Maria narrowed her eyes. “You mean that?”

“I mean it.”

“You’re over it?”

“I’m fine, Maria.”

“Sure..” Maria said, too sweet. “You look great. Pale. Unkissed. Basically one step from adopting twelve cats and crying during shampoo commercials.”

Natasha snorted, finally giving her a real look. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re lying.”

Natasha tilted her head, amused. “Oh?”

Maria leaned in, eyes sly. “You used to bring women to their knees with a look, Nat. You flirted like it was a blood sport. You had entire departments whispering after you walked by.”

“And now?”

Maria shrugged. “Now you’re reading vitals like they’re romance novels and making up fake cases so you don’t have to walk past the one-night rooms.”

Natasha exhaled a laugh, dry and low. Maria didn’t let up. “I miss that Romanoff. The one who made the air thick with tension. Who could snap her fingers and make anyone follow her into a storage closet just to beg.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Beg?”

“You know I’m right.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Natasha��s smile turned sharper. She tilted her head, lips parting slowly.

“You want that Romanoff back?”

“I dare you.” Maria said, grinning.

Just then, a nurse passed by, tall, striking, early thirties, glancing up from her tablet. She caught Natasha’s eye. Blushed. Fumbled slightly with her pen. Maria arched a brow. “Perfect timing.”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. She stepped away from the nurses’ station and fell into step beside the woman, voice smooth as honey.

“Hey.” Natasha said, easy and low. “Long shift?”The nurse looked up, visibly startled, and then visibly flustered. “Yeah..Ten hours.”

Natasha offered the kind of smile that always came with a price. “You know what helps with that?”

The nurse swallowed. “What?”

“Letting someone else do all the hard work.”

Maria almost choked on her own coffee. The nurse laughed, nervously, excitedly, and Natasha leaned in just a little.

“I’ve got ten minutes..” she murmured, “and I promise you won’t be thinking about work when I’m done.”

The nurse blushed hard. “Are you-do you mean..?”

Natasha nodded toward the hallway. “Supply room. Now or never.”

The nurse didn’t even hesitate. As they disappeared together into the hall, Natasha tossed one last glance over her shoulder at Maria. Maria raised her arms in mock worship. “There she is!” Natasha winked. And vanished into the dark with the nurse.

Days later, Natasha blinks down at the chart in her hand again, but the words blur. She’s not even supposed to be here, her shift ended thirty minutes ago, but the second she saw the name on the appointment list, she hadn’t walked away. She hadn’t even hesitated. The door clicks open behind her.

“Nat?”

She turns. You stand there in scrubs, slightly flushed from running up the stairs. Your smile is tight, your fingers fiddling with the hem of your sleeve.

“I, uh..” You clear your throat. “I was supposed to have a follow-up with one of the trauma nurses today. About the scar. And they need someone from cardio to sit in.”

Natasha arches a brow. “You could’ve asked anyone.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “But I asked you..”

That pulls Natasha short. For a beat, she just…stares. She knows Addison works the late shift today. Knows this isn’t about logistics. Not entirely. And for the briefest second, she lets herself feel it, that flicker of something private.

“I’ll come.” she says quietly.

You smile, wide this time, and lead the way. The room smells like antiseptic and lavender lotion, a weird mix, like someone tried to cover up the clinical with something softer. You sit on the exam table, legs dangling. Natasha leans against the counter, arms crossed over her chest, pretending to be casual. She’s not.

“So…” You look down. “You and that nurse.”

Natasha’s head tilts. “Which nurse?”

You smirk. “Oh come on. The one with the long lashes. Room 4C?”

Natasha chuckles, surprised. “You keeping tabs on me now?”

“No.” You shrug. “Just proud of you.”

That hits deeper than it should. Natasha blinks. “We’ve been through hell.” you say softly. “And now you’re, you know. Living again. That’s a good thing.”

Natasha says nothing. The silence stretches a little too long. So you look away, your voice dipping lower. “I mean, I don’t know everything that happened that day. What it was like for you. But I know it must’ve been…more.”

More than you can imagine. More than anyone knows. Before Natasha can respond, the door opens and a nurse steps in. “Hey.” the woman says brightly. “You ready to take a look?”

You nod, swallowing hard. Your posture shifts..stiffens. Natasha sees it immediately. The tension in your jaw. The way your hands twist in your lap. “Just need to raise the gown a little..there we go.”

The nurse gently lifts the hem, exposing the scar across your chest. It’s mostly healed now, red and jagged but clean. No infection. No swelling. But it’s not the physical part that gets you. It’s the look in your eyes. Wide. Flickering. Lost in a memory you don’t want to relive.

Natasha swallows. And then, without thinking, she moves. Her hand slides into yours. You flinch for half a second, but then exhale slow, shaky. You squeeze back. Just once. Natasha’s eyes drop to the scar. She sees the angle of it. The tissue damage. Her own scalpel. Her own hands. And suddenly-

Blood.

Suction.

Flatline.

The weight of a heart in her palm.

She blinks it away before it swallows her. The nurse murmurs something about tissue healing well and finishes up, giving you both a quick smile before ducking out. The second the door clicks shut, you finally speak.

“It still hurts sometimes.”

Natasha nods. “I know.”

You look at her. And for a second, neither of you pretends. After a while the doctor existed you.

“Hey.” you say, almost hesitant. “Are you… doing anything tonight?”

Natasha blinks, caught off guard. “No. Not unless a liver decides to rupture last-minute.”

You smile. “Wanna go to Joe’s?”

Natasha looks at you. Really looks at you. “Joe’s?”

“Yeah. Just us. I, um…I want to talk to you. Something important.” Something warm flutters in Natasha’s chest. Not fast. Not loud. Just…there.

She nods. “Sure.” The bar isn’t full yet. Just the low hum of chatter, a clink of glasses, and the smell of fried everything. You claim the usual booth in the back, the one you’d stumbled into on late nights after 36-hour shifts, shoes kicked off beneath the table. You’re already sipping a beer when Natasha joins you.

You talk for nearly an hour. About the new cardio attending who thinks he’s God’s gift to women and can’t intubate for shit. About Addison’s constant NPR podcasts in the morning. About that intern who almost passed out during a C-section. Natasha laughs more than she expects to. And every time you smile at her, really smile something unravels a little deeper in her chest. Then you go quiet. Your fingers toy with the edge of a napkin.

“Okay..” you say finally. “This is the part I was nervous about.”

Natasha straightens slightly, heart picking up just enough for her to feel it. “I’ve been meaning to tell you..” you continue, voice gentle. “But I didn’t want to just spring it on you at work.”

Natasha swallows. “Okay…”

You look up at her, eyes warm, almost shy. “I’m getting married.”

The words land like ice water. Natasha doesn’t flinch. She smiles. “Oh.” she says, her voice honey-smooth. “Wow. Congratulations.”

Your face lights up, radiant, soft. “Thanks.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. She can’t afford to. “I wanted to tell you before it went around the hospital..” you add. “And I wanted to…ask you something.”

Natasha nods once, tight. Bracing. “I’d really love if you came to the wedding.”

Natasha laughs, light, effortless, the way she’s perfected it. “You want me there when Addison says ‘I do’? That’s brave.”

You smile, a little bashful. “You’re not just anyone. You…you saved my life. You were there when I came back. And somehow, even with all the crazy and all the silence, you became one of my closest friends.”

Natasha’s throat burns. But she nods. “Of course I’ll be there.” Your shoulders drop with relief. “Really?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” There’s a long pause, soft and full of nothing but old music and the distant crack of a pool ball across the bar. “You’re important to me, Nat.” you say quietly.

Natasha looks at you then. And for just a second, a flicker, a heartbeat, she lets the smile drop. Just enough for it to feel real. “I know.” she whispers.

“You can bring someone to the wedding. If you want.”

Natasha blinks, startled for just a second. “Oh. Uh…”

“I mean..” you continue quickly, “you don’t have to. I just thought, I don’t know. That nurse..?”

Natasha smirks faintly. “Sophie.”

You smile. “Right. Sophie.”

Natasha nods. “I’ll ask her.”

You nudge her again, teasing this time. “So it is serious.”

Natasha’s smile stays in place. Just the right shape. Just the right strength. “She knows what she’s doing.” she says lightly. “Smart. Funny. Kind of scary with a scalpel.”

You grin. “Your type, then.”

Then she picked up her drink. “To love.”

“To love.” you repeat.

It was getting late. The kind of late where the streets are mostly empty and the neon beer signs flicker like they’re too tired to glow properly. Inside, Joe’s is half-lit and half-full, music soft and low, the clatter of glasses still carrying over low conversations.

Natasha leans back against the booth, her second, no, fourth, whiskey sliding warm through her veins. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair a little messy from where she’s run her fingers through it a hundred times tonight. Across from her, you laugh, red in the cheeks, buzzing with that same alcohol warmth. Your beer is barely touched, but the shots Maria lined up earlier had done enough damage.

“I can’t believe you actually challenged Mark to a ‘who can hold a plank longer’ contest!” you giggle, leaning forward to steal one of the peanuts from Natasha’s side of the table.

“He insulted my abs.” Natasha slurs a little, smug. “That’s a war crime.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“You’re laughing.” Natasha points out, finger waggling dramatically. “Which means you love it.”

“I think I’m just drunk.”

“Drunk on me..again.” Natasha declares with a lazy smirk. You roll your eyes but grin. “You’re such a menace when you drink.” You finish the last of your glasses in clinks and shaky giggles, Natasha tilting her head back to drain the final sip. She exhales hard and slow, letting the silence fall for just a beat between you. Then, Natasha murmurs, “I wish I was her.”

You furrow your brow. “Who?” Natasha blinks, eyes heavy-lidded. “Addison.”

There’s a pause. Then you snort. “Are you drunk-flirting with me again?”

“I’m serious.” Natasha says, voice suddenly softer. “I wish I was the one who got to hold your hand in public. Got to kiss you whenever I wanted. Got to…just be with you.”

You stare at her. “Nat-”

But Natasha’s eyes are glassy now, her voice dipping somewhere vulnerable and dangerous. “You remember that night? The one night. Before the hospital. Before the shooting.“ You don’t answer. Natasha sways slightly in her seat, drunk and raw. “It wasn’t nothing. Not to me.”

A beat of silence. Then Natasha’s hand moves, hesitant, trembling, reaching across the table to cover yours. And you don’t pull away. So Natasha leans forward. She’s close enough to taste the alcohol on your breath, to see the flicker of uncertainty in your eyes. Close enough that if you moved an inch forward, your mouths would meet.

And then they do. Just for a second. Lips brushing, soft and unsure, a kiss not of hunger, but ache. But the second it happens- You pull back. Not harsh or angry. Just startled. Reality slamming between you. Natasha jerks back, guilt flashing instantly across her face. “Shit- shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

You exhale, blinking hard. “It’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean to-” Natasha scrubs her hand across her face. “No, I did, but I shouldn’t have-”

You reach out gently, laying your hand on Natasha’s arm. “Hey.”

Natasha stops. “It’s okay..” you repeat, quieter now. “You’re drunk. I’m drunk. And we’re both a little stupid tonight.”

Natasha laughs, hollow and small. You give a soft smile back. “Let’s just get home before one of us makes another mistake.”

Natasha nods, throat tight. “Yeah. Good idea.” But as you stumble out into the night, side by side, shoulders brushing- Natasha doesn’t stop wishing she could go back. Just one more second..Just long enough to see if you would’ve kissed her back if you hadn’t pulled away first.

1 Month later:

The hospital hums like it always does, monitors beeping, carts rattling down hallways, someone yelling about a misplaced chart. But something’s different. Something feels different. Everyone’s smiling more. Because everyone knows what today is.

“Bride incoming!” someone calls out as you step off the elevator, clipboard in hand. A round of playful cheers echo from the nurses’ station.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the grin tugging at your lips. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“You’re the one still working on your wedding day..” An intern calls from across the hallway, raising a brow. “That’s what’s ridiculous.”

“I just had one patient left to check on.” you insist, waving the chart. “It’s not like I’m gonna flatline on the way to the altar.”

“You better not.” a nurse mutters. “Or we’re doing CPR in tulle.”

That earns a laugh. But even as the staff clears the path for you, teasing and cheering, you duck behind a corner near the stairwell, just for a second. Just to breathe.

And then- “Really?” Addison’s voice rings out with that unmistakable blend of fondness and sass. “You’re hiding?”

You wince and peek around the corner. Addison is standing there in wine-colored scrubs, her hair half-up, makeup soft and done just enough to hint at the occasion. Your smile is sheepish. “I just needed a second.”

Addison steps closer, arms crossed. “You do know the whole ‘you can’t see the bride’ thing only counts when the bride’s actually in the dress, right?”

You huff a laugh. “Yeah, well. Close enough.”

Addison’s gaze softens. “You okay?”

“I’m…excited.” you admit. Then, quieter, “And maybe a little freaked out.”

Addison steps forward, slipping her arms gently around your waist. “That’s fair. But I promise not to let you run.”

You lean into her, breathing in the familiar scent of Addison’s perfume, something clean and crisp, like citrus and lavender. “You’d tackle me in the aisle, wouldn’t you?”

Addison smirks. “With love.”

You stand there for a quiet beat, the sound of the hospital fading under the weight of the moment.

“Do I at least get to see the dress before the ceremony?” Addison asks, nosing along your temple.

You pull back just enough to grin. “Nope. Rules are rules.”

Addison groans. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Your cheeks flush. “I’ll head out soon. Just wanted one last round.”

“Of what?” You look around the hospital, your second home. Your battlefield. The place that nearly broke you…and gave you everything. “One last moment before everything changes.”

Addison presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you at the altar.” You move down the corridor with a tablet in hand, scribbling notes from your last patient. Your hair is pulled up hastily, your badge slightly crooked, but you’re focused, in that calm, collected way you always are when your mind is busy. “Watch it-”

You collide into someone turning the corner. The tablet nearly drops, but steady hands catch you before it does. “Gotcha.” a familiar voice murmurs. You look up. Natasha. All black scrubs. Her hair is pulled back messily, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her temples, the kind that only comes from a surgery done right. You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”

Natasha chuckles, letting go of your arm slowly. “I noticed.” Her voice is low. Playful. But there’s something…careful in her eyes. “What are you still doing here? I thought today was…kind of a big deal?”

You give her a sheepish look. “I had a couple things to finish up. Patients don’t stop needing care just because I’m getting married in a few hours.”

Natasha nods once, smiling, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Right. Of course.”

There’s a beat. Something unsaid is heavy in the space between you. Natasha shifts, then clears her throat, trying not to look as nervous as she feels. “Hey. That night. At Joe’s…” You look up sharply.

Natasha tries to keep it casual. “Do you… remember it?”

There’s a flash of something in your eyes. Surprise. Maybe something more. But you recover quickly, smiling, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “No..” you shrug. “I don’t know. I was pretty tipsy. You know how Joe’s gets. Loud. Blurry.”

You say it lightly. Natasha blinks once. Nods slowly. “Right.” She smiles. “Blurry.”

Her voice is quieter now. But steady. “Well…I should go. I’ve got charts to finish and, you know. A suit to iron.”

You laugh. “Oh..suit?”

Natasha shrugs with a smirk. “I’m full of surprises.” Then, just as she’s about to turn. A loud chorus echoes from down the hall. “Y/n!”

Your family. Your mom, arms wide. A younger cousin carrying a bouquet. A sibling with a camera already filming. They descend like a joyful storm, ushering you away, laughing and pulling you by the hand. Your smile blossoms instantly, all light and love. But right before you’re swept away completely, you glance back. And Natasha is still standing there, watching. Smiling. Still. But her eyes are dimmer now. Just a little. You lift a hand in a small wave, mouthing: “See you there.” Natasha lifts her fingers in a wave, too. Then she turns.

The golden light from the wide windows filters in like honey, soft and warm against the white walls and the lace-trimmed veil draped over the vanity chair. The hum of string music floats faintly from the garden outside. Everything is quiet. Perfect. You stand in front of the mirror in your wedding dress. You’re breathtaking. Hair pinned just right. Lips glossed in a soft pink. The gown fits like it was made for you,elegant, timeless, radiant. But your fingers fidget at the edge of the lace bodice. You exhale, shallow and slow, eyes meeting your own reflection like you’re trying to steady yourself.

Then, the door creaks open. Your intern, Jules, pokes her head in. Dressed to the nines in a simple plum bridesmaid gown, her hair curled, her grin wide. “Is the bride taking visitors? Or are we preserving the mystique?”

You turn, grinning. “Come in, before I sweat through this dress.” Jules walks in, stops just a few feet away, and lets her eyes sweep up and down, clearly stunned. “Holy crap…You look like the main character in every love story I’ve ever watched at 3 a.m. while crying into ice cream.”

You laugh, the kind that wrinkles your nose. “Wow. That good?”

“Better.” She steps closer, adjusting a tiny piece of veil near your shoulder.

“You happy?” You nod slowly. “Yeah. I really am.”

Your voice is soft, certain, but there’s a slight tightness in it. “Good. You deserve happy. Especially after…you know. Everything.”

A silence hangs between you for a moment, not heavy, but not light either. Then Jules smiles again, trying to lift the mood. “Honestly? If you’d told me months ago that I’d be here watching you marry Addison Montgomery, I would’ve lost a bet.”

You raise an amused brow. “What, you didn’t think we’d make it?”

“No, I just…” She hesitates, then shrugs, “I kinda thought you were gonna end up with Romanoff.” The words land like a soft, slow punch. Your breath catches. “What?”

“Oh. sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. It just…I don’t know. Back then, after the shooting, it was like she only existed when you were in the room. The way she looked at you? It wasn’t subtle. None of us thought it was just professional.”

You turn back to the mirror slowly, your eyes distant. “She never said anything.”

“She didn’t have to.”

Your fingers still against the edge of the vanity. Your heart thuds once, too hard. “What exactly… do you mean?”

Jules shifts, suddenly realizing this might be more than casual talk. “I mean… I guess no one ever told you?”

You turn to face her, serious now. “Told me what?”

Jules opens her mouth. Then sighs. “Okay. Don’t freak out, but.. when you were in the OR, after the shooting, your heart stopped. Maria unclamped the cable to fake a flatline when the shooter came in. The machine went quiet on purpose.”

Your face drains of color. “And Natasha…she lost it. She refused to stop. Even with a gun pointed at her. She kept fighting for you. Said she could still feel your heart fluttering. She was shaking. Crying. But she wouldn’t let you go.”

You stumble backward, gripping the back of the chair. You sit, hard. Your vision blurs, like you’re trying to remember something you never got to witness. “They said she only let go when Maria begged her to, for everyone’s safety. She looked like she broke right there. After that…she was different. Didn’t sleep. Didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t step into an OR for almost a month.”

You stare at the floor. Your mind races, back to Joe’s. That drunken kiss. The way Natasha looked at you. How she said, “I wish I was her…” and meant it.

All this time. You’d thought it was just a drunken mistake. A blip. But it wasn’t, was it? It was grief. Jules swallows, realizing her mistake. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. You don’t need this today, I just-”

You look up suddenly, and your smile is back. But it’s different now. “It’s okay. Really.”

“I love Addison. I’m marrying Addison.” You exhale. “Whatever that was with Natasha… it’s in the past.”

Your voice is strong. Steady. And your hands are shaking in your lap. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

Jules leans down, squeezes your shoulder gently. “I’ll give you a minute.”

You nod. The door shuts. And you’re alone with the reflection again. Your fingers brush the scar on your chest, just visible in the low dip of the neckline. A line Natasha once held in her hands. You close your eyes. And for a second… you let yourself wonder: What if? But then you stand. Straighten your veil. And walk toward your own happy ending. Even if it’s not the one you expected.

The soft hush of music filled the air, delicate piano echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling of the garden hall. White flowers lined every aisle. Rows of guests, hushed and smiling, turned their heads in unison. You stepped into view.

Your gown shimmered in the afternoon light, every stitch tailored with care. You held a small bouquet of white lilacs and peonies, Addison’s favorite. Your father’s arm was steady at your side. Your eyes, uncertain, but brave, locked ahead, on the woman waiting for you at the altar. Addison stood poised, radiant in an ivory suit, the softest smile blooming across her face. Love, unmistakable and unfiltered, shone in her eyes as she watched you take each step closer.

In the second row, dressed in slate-gray, Natasha Romanoff sat still. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, fingers pale where they pressed into each other. A fine sheen of sweat coated her brow, though the room was cool. She didn’t blink. Barely breathed. She’d rehearsed this, told herself a hundred times she could do it.

But as the pastor began to speak, each word was like glass beneath her ribs. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” You reached Addison, gently taking her hands. Your fingers laced together, familiar and warm. You exchanged a quick look, loving, easy. Your lips twitched into a nervous smile.

Natasha didn’t blink. Beside her, Sophia leaned in slightly. “You okay?” she whispered. Natasha didn’t answer. Just nodded. The pastor continued. “If any person here knows of any lawful impediment as to why these two should not be joined in matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Natasha’s throat tightened. Her pulse roared in her ears. She looked around. No one moved. Not a breath stirred. Her own legs tensed. She turned to Sophia, barely a whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

Then she stood. A quiet murmur rippled through the guests. Addison’s expression didn’t shift, but her grip on your hand tightened. Natasha looked like she hadn’t meant to stand. Her hand hovered uselessly by her side. Her chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. And then, as if gravity caught up, she started to sit again- But stopped.

Instead, her voice, shaky, but clear, cut through the stunned silence. “I can’t.

Every head turned. Your eyes widened. Addison’s jaw tightened. “I’m sorry.” Natasha said, her voice rising now, firmer.

“I didn’t mean to, I didn’t plan to ruin this, I swear. I was gonna let you go. I wanted to. I told myself that was the right thing.” Her eyes found yours. Just yours.

“But I can’t sit here and watch you promise your whole life to someone else…without saying this.”

She stepped into the aisle now. The guests parted like waves. “I didn’t show up when I should have. Not after the shooting. Not after. I stayed away because I thought I’d break you even more.”

Her voice cracked. “But the truth is…I broke myself.”

Natasha swallowed hard, shaking her head. “That day, when I brought you to the OR, I wasn’t thinking about duty or protocol or even survival. I was thinking about your laugh. Your sarcasm. The stupid way you always corrected some post-op notes with a pink pen.”

A soft, stunned laugh rippled somewhere in the crowd. Natasha didn’t blink. “When your heart stopped, I didn’t let go. I held it in my hands. I begged it to come back. Even when- I just couldn’t.”

She looked down. Her voice softer now. “Because it wasn’t just your life I was trying to save.”

She looked up again. Straight into you. “It was mine too.”

The room held its breath. You stood frozen at the altar. Pale. Silent. Addison’s grip on your hand had loosened. Natasha took one more shaky step forward.

“You asked me that night at Joe’s…what I meant.” She exhaled, brokenly. “I meant that I’ve been in love with you since the first time you rolled your eyes at me in the trauma bay. Since the first coffee. Since the night we lost ourselves and pretended it meant nothing.”

She smiled, a tired, tear-bright smile. “But it meant everything to me.”

And then Natasha whispered, “I love you.”

Dead silence. The words hung in the air like smoke. And then, softly, apologetically, Natasha stepped back.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered. “You don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to say anything. I just…couldn’t let today pass without you knowing.”And with that, she turned to walk away. The room didn’t move. Neither did you.

The silence was crushing. The kind of silence that bent time. You stood frozen at the altar. Addison’s hand had just fallen from yours. The bouquet was on the floor behind you. Your chest rose and fell too quickly. You could still feel the echo of Natasha’s voice, raw and real and shattering, and now the room was full of stares, but you couldn’t see any of them.

Your eyes were locked on the door Natasha had disappeared through. And then you looked at Addison. Her face was unreadable. But her eyes- They weren’t angry. They were knowing.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Swallowed hard. “I’m sorry..” you said.

Addison blinked. “Y/n…”

“I’m so-” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know.”

Addison took a shaky breath and smiled. It was sad. But not bitter. “Go.”

Your chest clenched. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know.” Addison whispered. “But she’s out there.” That was all it took. You turned and ran.

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

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marvelseries19 · 5 days ago

Text

THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

Chapter Two - Castaway

Chapter one | Chapter two |

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You are hurt, stranded, and alone on an unknown island with no one having an idea of where you might be. It was going to be a rough time, and Natasha wasn't having a better time trying to find you.

A/N: Hello again! I must confess I didn't even open this document all week, so I apologize for the delay. Also, I still suck at summaries, so don't read it too closely :) If you have questions, theories of what might happen, maybe something you'd like to see, or just talk about it, please do, I'm always open to talk. Enjoy :)

Also, I have like two more ideas, one is probably a one-shot that I'm not sure will see the light of day because it is based on one single scene that I liked, and the other is probably a series that I'm still trying to figure out, so if you have any ideas, I'm here to read them.

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries, language, etc.

Word count: 1.9k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

That morning

The soft glow of early morning light spilled through the curtains, casting golden stripes across the sheets. The apartment was quiet, suspended in that peaceful stillness just before everything changed.

You stirred slowly, feeling the warmth of Natasha curled around your back, her arm snug around your waist like it was instinct — like some part of her already knew to hold on a little tighter today. Her breath ghosted over the back of your neck, steady and calm, but there was tension beneath it. You felt it in the way her fingers gripped you — not possessive, just… tighter, as if afraid to let go.

You didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to break the fragile stillness between you.

But she spoke, her voice rough with sleep, quiet and thick with something heavier than usual.

“Stay... just a little longer.”

You turned slowly, meeting her eyes. They were tired, yes, but also brimming with something unspoken — something deeper than worry. Her hand slid along your jaw, thumb brushing against your cheek like she was trying to memorize every line of your face.

“I have to leave in a couple of hours,” you said softly. “Just a recon. Shouldn’t be anything serious.”

Her brows pinched together, and she exhaled through her nose, not buying it for a second. “I know what ‘shouldn’t be serious’ means with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

You gave her a small smile, fingers lacing with hers. “I’ll be back before you miss me.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she leaned in and pressed her lips to your forehead, lingering. “I miss you the second you leave,” she whispered.

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat and reached up to cup her face. “Hey,” you said gently, “we’re okay. We’re solid. You and me.”

Natasha nodded slowly, but her voice was barely above a breath. “I just have a bad feeling.”

You opened your mouth to reassure her, to tell her you were careful, you were trained, you were prepared—but she kissed you instead. Desperate. Soft. Like it might be the last time.

You let it linger, one hand buried in her hair, the other resting over her heart.

“I’ll come back to you,” you murmured against her lips. “Always.”

She pulled away just enough to look at you, green eyes shining. “You better.”

Later that morning, as you pulled your gear together and checked your comms, Natasha stood in the doorway, arms crossed, silent. She didn’t stop you — she never would — but her eyes followed every movement you made like she was trying to commit it all to memory.

Just before you stepped out the door, she caught your hand and tugged you back for one last kiss. Her fingers brushed against the chain around your neck, where her ring already rested against your heart — always there, always worn.

“Come back,” she said softly. “Come back to me.”

You nodded, kissed her knuckles, and left with her watching you from the threshold.

Neither of you knew what was about to happen.

Now

The first thing Natasha noticed was the way Maria wouldn’t meet her eyes.

The second was the silence.

Natasha had been in enough briefings and enough war rooms to recognize when bad news was about to drop like a hammer. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared her for what she heard next.

“Nat,” Maria’s voice was steady, too steady. “There’s been an incident.”

Natasha’s fingers curled into fists at her sides. “Say it.”

Maria exhaled sharply. “Her Quinjet went down. Mid-flight. We lost contact before she could give a location.”

The room seemed to shrink around Natasha, her breath locking in her throat. Maria's words echoed in her mind as panic began to rise within her. “No.” The word came out flat, emotionless, but a cold dread was clawing up her spine. “You don’t just lose a Quinjet.”

Fury’s voice cut through the tension. “We believe it was an attack. There was a missile lock.”

Natasha barely heard the rest. Missile. Attack. No location. No body.

Her knees nearly buckled, but she locked them in place. Focus. This was just another mission. Another problem to solve.

Except it wasn’t.

Because it was you.

Maria stepped closer, her voice quieter. Softer. “Natasha, we have search teams deployed, but…”

But they won’t find her in time.

She turned on her heel and stormed out. If they weren’t going to find you, she would. Even if it killed her. The weight of the situation settled heavily on her shoulders as she made her way to the hangar, determination fueling her every step. Natasha knew she had to find you, no matter the cost.

Pain. Unrelenting, suffocating pain.

Your right side was a mess—ribs cracked, shoulder stiff and throbbing, head pounding. The pain threatened to pull you under, but every time the darkness crept in, you forced yourself forward.

You had hours, maybe a day at most,before dehydration set in. So you moved.

Through the pain, you held on to memories—moments that kept you from spiraling into despair.

Natasha’s smile when she caught you singing off-key in the kitchen.

The way she’d trace her fingers along your spine, whispering about the life you’d build together.

The day you proposed.

But what you didn't know was Natasha had her own plans. A few weeks later, she had presented you with her own ring. “I wanted you to have something of me, too. A piece of me to carry with you. Always.”

And you had. Up until the crash. Where the rings still hung from your neck.

Every step hurt. Bones, skin, lungs. The sun was blinding above the jagged cliffs, and your thoughts came in fragments—fire, explosion, water, screaming metal.

You didn’t remember the impact. Just falling. Then silence.

The Quinjet was gone. Your radio was dead, soaked, and broken. The utility belt strapped to your waist had a partially intact emergency kit—some gauze, flares, and a water filtration capsule. Not much.

The ring around your neck pressed into your collarbone as you walked.

You touched it instinctively. Natasha. The last thing you saw before you left.

You kept moving, eyes sweeping the tree line, heart pounding. You shouted. Over and over. “HELLO?!” But your voice vanished into the jungle. No answer. "Of course, I'm alone." You whispered to yourself.

By late afternoon, your stomach was twisting with hunger. As you sat near a palm tree attempting to put together a plan to get food, the solution literally fell from the sky. Well, from the tree above you.

Coconuts.

Not only could you eat part of it, but you could also drink its contents, and for now that was enough to keep your hopes up. It took everything in you to climb the trees to get more, but pain wasn't unfamiliar. So, you pushed through. You gathered as many as you could carry and took them with you to where you wanted to set camp. With that, a new problem arose.

Opening them.

Looking around, you saw a rock; it seemed pointed enough to make a hole in them. However, there was no way you could just hit it against the rock; your ribs were already killing you. So, with another rock, you gave the first hit at the fruit.

Then another. And another. By the fourth hit, the rock broke into pieces. Which could've disappointed you, had it not been for the new shape of it. It was almost like an axe, and you could work with that.

It wasn't long before you could crack open the coconut, revealing the refreshing water inside. As you took a long drink, you felt a sense of accomplishment and relief wash over you. It wasn't much yet, but it helped.

That night, you huddled beneath a slanted palm trunk. You gathered some leaves from the trees, attempting to at least help shelter yourself against the wind, and it worked; the sand was warm enough, not comfortable, but nothing too bad, and not being as exposed to the cold wind kept you satisfied enough for the night.

The sound of the crashing waves lulled you to sleep. Only to wake up a while later having dreamed of Natasha's voice calling your name, but when you woke—there was only the ocean again.

By the second day, you limped along the shoreline, tracking debris. You found part of a panel—charred, mangled metal. A utility case half-buried in the sand. It held nothing useful. Just a broken comm and a singed emergency beacon. You smashed it open and salvaged the battery.

You tried to make a fire. Used your belt buckle, broken glass, anything. But the fire wouldn’t catch. Everything was too wet. Your hands blistered. Your throat was hoarse from shouting.

At one point, you kicked a driftwood log and screamed into the empty beach.

“COME ON!”

Your voice echoed back, hollow and cruel.

And of course, your injuries protested.

By the third, you spotted a cliff ledge—high enough to see out over the water. You climbed slowly, painfully, scraping your palms on rock and bark. When you reached the top, you saw nothing.

Just water.

Endless, stretching to the edge of the world.

You built a signal—stones arranged in a wide SOS across the sand below. It looked so small from up high.

That night, you returned to the ledge, pressed your back against the cliff wall, knees drawn to your chest. You took the ring from beneath your shirt and held it tight in your palm.

“I’m still here,” you whispered to no one. “I’m trying, Nat. I’m trying.”

—

Back at HQ, Natasha didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.

She tore through every satellite feed, every transmission log, and every scrap of telemetry the techs could dig up. Footage. Heat signatures. Sea drift patterns. She chased ghosts across the grid, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight her teeth ached.

Every dead end chipped away at her resolve—but not her focus. She wouldn’t let it. She couldn’t. This wasn’t the first time someone she loved had gone missing. But it was the first time she truly had something to lose.

Clint showed up on the second day with takeout and a quiet, worried look in his eyes. He didn’t tell her to sleep. Didn’t tell her to eat. Just left the food on the table and sat across from her, offering nothing but silent company as she worked like a machine.

She didn’t touch the food.

Didn’t speak.

By the third day, she felt like she was drowning—but not in water. In helplessness. In rage. In fear that clung to her like smoke. There were moments—brief, flashing, cruel—when her breath caught and her mind whispered the word she refused to say.

Gone.

But she wouldn’t say it. Wouldn’t believe it.

Instead, she gripped the chain around her neck, the engagement ring pressing hard into her skin like it might fuse there. A lifeline. A promise.

She could still hear your voice in her memory—laughing, soft, unguarded. The way you’d look at her when you thought she wasn’t paying attention. The way you kissed her like the world wasn’t ending.

And now it might have been.

She stared at the map on the screen in front of her—ocean, coordinates, empty space. She blinked and for a moment saw you standing there in the doorway of your shared apartment, in that oversized hoodie, holding a mug of tea and smiling like the world didn’t scare you.

She clenched her fists.

No.

You were still out there. You had to be. Somewhere in that vast, blue nothing, you were breathing. Fighting. Holding on.

Because if you weren't, then she didn’t know how to be Natasha anymore.

She refused to grieve. Not yet. Because if there was even a chance—just one glimmer of hope—then she was going to find you.

She always did.

----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @idontliketoread2137 @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character

#marvelseries19 #marvel #mcu #reader insert #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow imagine #black widow x reader #black widow angst #natasha romanoff x reader angst #natasha romanoff angst #castwayseries

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incorrectquotesmcu · 23 hours ago

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Y/N: I make the rules around here!

Natasha: Pardon?

Y/N: -Natasha and I make the rules around here!

#source: tumblr #natasha romanoff incorrect quotes #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #marvel incorrect quotes #marvel #avengers #avengers incorrect quotes

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steinfellds · 1 day ago

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office brat

pairing: wandanat x afab!reader

summary: you piss natasha off and she calls wanda into her office to deal with you.

content: brat taming, dom!wandanat, small mommy kink, strap on (r receiving), finger sucking, voyeurism, orgasm denial, pussy eating (n receiving), degradation.

When Natasha's pen scratching faltered for the fifth time, and she took an irritated breath, you knew you were getting closer to getting what you wanted. Her patience was running thin.

"Sit fucking still," she growled, slamming her pen and turning her chair to face you.

You huffed. You begged to come to the office with Natasha, expecting her to fuck you on her desk until you couldn't take it anymore, but no, she stripped you naked and forced you to kneel next to her, telling to be quiet and still until she finished.

"I'm bored," You whined, reaching out for Natasha's leg but she slapped you away.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. If Natasha were a cartoon character, steam would be coming from her ears. She grabbed her office phone, punching in some numbers on the keypad, and held it to her ear. The line rang for a few seconds before being answered.

"My office. Now."

You frowned and started to rise, but Natasha forced you back down. That was weird. Natasha never lets anyone see you naked. She always said that your body is for her eyes only.

The door clicked open, and you nearly jumped up in excitement. Wanda Maximoff, Natasha's business partner, walked in, shooting you a cheeky grin before stopping in front of Natasha's desk.

"You could use your manners next time." Wanda remarked.

"Don't start." Natasha scoffed. "They've been pissing me off the entire day. Just deal with them."

Wanda hummed, sitting down on the couch and beckoning you over. You crawled over, pulling yourself onto her lap, and basically vibrating with excitement. It's been weeks since you last saw Wanda. You missed her.

She traced your lips with her thumb. "Been bad, huh?"

You pouted, pushing your face into Wanda's neck and grinding into her lap. Like always, she was packing. Wanda unzipped her pants and pulled her strap out, slapping it against your cunt. You sank down on it with ease, groaning at the stretch.

Wanda slipped two fingers inside your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet,"

Her fingers rest heavy on your tongue. You licked at the pads of her fingers and sucked lightly. She kept a bruising grip on your hip and slammed you down repeatedly. You swore she was about to split you in half.

Just as you were about to tip over the pleasurable edge, Natasha had to ruin it. "Stop,"

Wanda stilled your hips, keeping you snug against her. You cried out, softly slamming your fists against her shoulder. Wanda's face dropped, and she grabbed your wrists in an iron grip.

"You do not hit me," she hissed. "Do you understand me? You do not fucking hit me."

Your heart dropped. Angering Wanda was only a mistake an idiot would make. You mumbled an apology around her fingers.

"You're managing to piss off everyone today, aren't you?" Natasha threaded her fingers through your hair and yanked it.

You swallowed back a bratty response.

"I don't even think they deserve an orgasm," Wanda said.

Your cries of protest fell on deaf ears. You were forced to kneel at Wanda's feet and watch. Natasha took your place, sinking down on Wanda's strap, covered in your slick. Wanda pulled her into a messy kiss, muffling her moans and fueling your frustration.

"Please!" you begged.

They ignored you. Natasha was close, and you wished so badly that you could see her face as she came. It wasn't fair.

"You gonna cum for mommy?" Wanda asked with a shit-eating grin.

Natasha's laugh was cut off by a moan. Her head lulled forward and her body shook as her orgasm washed over her. Wanda continued to pump into her until Natasha pulled herself to sit next to Wanda.

She spread her legs and you eagerly sat between them, your eyes trained to her glistering cunt. She pulled your face into her, and your frustration was washed away. You licked and suckled on her clit until her back arched and a silent moan left her throat. Your eyes didn't leave her face for a second.

"Not that hard to be good, huh?" Natasha shuddered as you cleaned her.

You shrugged, "I got what I wanted in the end."

"Brat."

#wandanat x reader #wandanat x you #wandanat x y/n #wanda maximoff x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n

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a-spes · 18 hours ago

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Driving Past the Red Lights. (N.R. x R.) — Series' Masterlist.

| Summary — when yelena accidentally kills their driver, the women have to find a new one, and quick. natasha has found one, you, and it's safe to say she won't take no for an answer, determined to draw you into her world. one that is made out of violence and blood. one that's unforgiving and will force you to face your demons.

| A/N — this series was inspired by the movie "wingwomen". it is more a collection of one-shot than a proper series so the parts will be quite short.

| tags & warnings — mob boss!natasha romanoff x driver!r, mob boss!yelena belova x driver!r (platonic). angst, comfort. grieving, anxiety. violence, guns, death, blood, killing. accident, injuries. more a collection of one-shot than a proper series so the parts will be quite short.

✧ Part one. 'Unnamed yet.' — after a terrible 'accident', the women lost their driver. however, with this important mission coming up, they need a new one, and preferably an awfully good one. hopefully, natasha has found the perfect candidate, you. but convincing you may be more difficult than she first thought.

✧ Part two. 'Unnamed yet.' — natasha says you are a 'diamond in the rough.' but yelena would rather say that you are a waste of time, of her time because apparently it is her mission to train the stray her sister has wanted to get. but since she knows there is no point in arguing with the oldest, she is well determined to make you pay for her situation.

✧ Part three. 'Unnamed yet.' — natasha sends you on your first mission. something simple, childlike according to yelena who can't stop grumbling. she made it clear that she is unhappy to have you in the way.

✧ Part four. 'Unnamed yet.' — after the result of the last mission, yelena decides to reinforce your training.the last thing she wants is to get into a second argument with her sister. but your new schedule leaves you so exhausted that you spend what little free time you have sleeping in sometimes surprinsing places.

✧ Part five. 'Unnamed yet.' — you knew this moment would inevitable come. because if yelena had taught you to use a weapong, it was not for fun. yet, nothing had prepared you for the moment when you would actually make your first victim, for the sight of blood and the smell of death.

✧ Part six. 'Unnamed yet.' — your next mission will be with natasha. the news leaves a weight in your stomach, an anguish you have been carrying around for weeks, dreading this day. you have always refused to drive with natasha behind you, scared that you might hurt her. but you can't refuse this time.

✧ Part seven. 'Unnamed yet.' — you're an exceptional driver, but accidents are sometimes unavoidable. especially given the ever-increasing danger of the missions you're entrusted with.

#a spes writing #driving past the red lights #a spes masterlist #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff fanfiction #dom natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #yelena belova #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova x reader #reader insert #mcu fanfiction #mcu fandom #marvel fandom #marvel cinematic universe #marvel fanfiction #black widow #black widow fanfiction #angst with comfort

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ninus9607 · 3 days ago

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❝𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬❞

𝟣𝟣. 𝐻𝑜𝓌 𝒹𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒸𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒽𝓊𝓇𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝒷𝒶𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒/𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃, 𝑒𝓉𝒸…

Pairing(s): Marvel Characters x Female! reader

Word count: 3.6k

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER INCLUDES DEATH AND BLOOD

tags: l content: fluff, jealousy, blood, death, Comfort Fic, Mission Gone Wrong, Kidnapped Reader, Injured Reader, Possessive Love, Emotional Support

AN: HEYY GUYSSS, I hope u like it! SORRY FOR EVERY MISTAKE HAHAH, ALSO my requests are stillll opennn so feel free to ring me up!

Steve Rogers / Captain America

You were wrapping up a busy morning at the flower store when it happened. The bell above the front door rang, indicating another customer, but this time, a bunch of guys jumped in. They were harsh and definitely not here to buy flowers. They did not say anything, but grabbed you and demanded to know where Captain America was. You attempted to struggle back, but their hold was too powerful. One of them held a pistol to your side, which silenced you quickly. You were afraid.

They pulled you out of the store and threw you in the back of a vehicle. Your thoughts and heart were racing.

They wanted Steve, and they knew exactly how to find him. As the van raced away, you realized you wouldn't be able to get out of this alone.

Hours passed, and Steve had no idea. He was in the middle of a meeting with the Avengers when his phone rang with an unfamiliar number. His stomach fell just when he replied, when he heard your voice shaking on the other end of the line.

"Steve... they took me."

Steve was a man of action, therefore, there was no time to spend. He dropped everything and instantly began planning to get you back. The drive to the destination was a haze. Steve's hands gripped the wheel tightly, his thoughts racing through every possibility. He was aware of the risks. He knew that the guys who were capturing you would not hesitate to hurt you. However, there was no turning back. He was not going to lose you like that.

He eventually arrived in an abandoned warehouse, as the kidnappers had described. It was disturbingly silent. Steve crept inside, his senses on full alert. He went fast and quietly, taking down every guard in his way. His concentration was focused on one thing: bringing you to safety.

When he finally found you, you were trapped in a small room with your wrists tied and your face pale from stress and a lack of food. You looked up, shocked to see him, but the relief rushed over you and caused your chest to constrict. Steve raced up to you without saying anything, his hands quickly reaching for your shackles. He mumbled your name and looked you over quickly.

"It's okay, I'm here," he murmured, his voice raspy with emotion. "You're safe now."

You nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything, tears welling in your eyes. He drew you into his arms, clutching you hard as if proving to himself that you were indeed present, alive, and in his arms.

Headcanons:

Steve's Protective Nature: After the kidnapping, Steve becomes extremely protective of you. He's constantly checking in on you to make sure you're well and nothing else happens. If you are out of his sight for too long, he becomes nervous.

Steve's physical affection has grown more intense, particularly in public places. He does not mind showing affection, but it is obvious that he is still dealing with the fear of losing you. When you're together, he'll make a point of holding your hand or wrapping his arm around you, especially if others are there.

His Guilt - Steve feels terribly bad about the incident. He hates himself for not defending you sooner, which often leads to times of silent meditation in which he simply stares out into space, thinking. He may even apologize repeatedly, regardless of your assurances that it was not his fault.

The First Time He Lets Himself Sleep- Steve struggles to sleep after settling in for the first time. He is terrified of losing you, and he is often up at night, keeping an eye on you. He eventually comes to trust that you are secure. The first time he falls asleep in your arms, he gets his first complete night of sleep in days.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Tony Stark/ Iron Man

You used to joke with Tony that dating a millionaire Avenger was a combination of luxury and near-death incidents. You never believed you'd be proven correct.

It started as a routine day at the Stark-Malibu mansion. The sun was beautiful over the water, the AI was playing your favorite music while you prepared breakfast, and Tony had just stepped in wearing nothing but sweatpants and his smug little smirk.

"Good morning, gorgeous," he replied, stooping down to kiss your forehead before pouring his coffee.

You expected another quiet day. You were wrong.

It happened quickly.

The windows smashed first. A missile, followed by another, struck the cliffside property with terrible power. You shouted as glass rained down around you, and you ran behind the bar just in time. The house is shaking. The alarms boomed.

"JARVIS, suit!" Tony shouted, and in an instant, bits of his Iron Man armor rushed towards him from across the room, clamping onto his upper body.

He looked at you while explosions shook the floor of your house. "Stay down. No matter what, don't leave this area."

"Tony!"

But he was already gone, flying into the sky to stop anybody who tried to harm his house. You shook, your heart pounded, and your ears rang. The mansion crumbled around you. Smoke engulfed the air. You couldn't breathe.

You crawled into Tony's hidden panic room, murmuring prayers under your breath that he would be well.

Not until the door was wrenched open and Tony appeared in the entrance, covered in soot and grime, eyes wild until they landed on you.

"You're okay," he whispered, falling to his knees in front of you. "You're okay."

Headcanons:

After the attack, Tony activates Hyper-Protective Mode, providing complete protection. He replaces your phone with Stark-level technology, provides you with AI security, and insists on putting defensive procedures anywhere you go, even your favorite bookshop.

Tony sleeps with one eye open and struggles to sleep properly for weeks afterwards. When he does, it's just wrapped around you, with fingers continually touching some part of your body—as if he needs constant confirmation that you're real and alive.

Shower Moments: Tony often avoids talking about his feelings, but the post-traumatic stress brings them to the surface. You'll be standing under the water as he carefully washes your hair, murmuring how sorry he is and how he'll never allow you to be in that type of danger again.

Guilt and Fear: Tony has deep guilt and dread. He had always feared that his opponents would target those he cared about, and now it has come true. He gets nightmares about it. He even considers shoving you away for your own safety, but the moment you see that expression in his eyes, you shut it off immediately.

"Do not even think about it, Stark. We are a team. You and I."

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Bucky Barnes / Winter Soldier

It was supposed to be a regular infiltration mission. Inside and outside. Minimal contact. You and Bucky had done this a hundred times: two shadows moving as one. Professional, crisp, and focused.

But it didn't matter when the information was incorrect. While the enemy was waiting.

You didn't even hear the gunshot. Just feeling the sting in your side and the way your legs collapsed beneath you. You landed hard, your breath seizing in your throat as your fingers brushed against the cut, wet with blood.

"Y/N!"

Bucky was at your side in seconds, diving to his knees, eyes wild, one hand cradling your face and the other clamping down on your wound.

You attempted to speak, but your voice broke, and sorrow shot through your body.

"Hey, hey. Don't talk. You're okay. You're going to be fine," Bucky whispered, his voice low and angry, as if he was forcing it to happen.

The following few minutes were blurred. Gunfire. Screams. And Bucky transformed into something unrecognizable, as if his Winter Soldier instincts had snapped into place and the only thing that mattered now was to defend you.

He snatched you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, clutching you to his chest as he tore across the property. You could hear his pulse racing, feel his breath on your hair, and the way he repeated your name like a prayer.

"I've got you, doll. You are secure now. Please hold on. Do not close your eyes, okay?"

You awoke hours later in an Avengers. Medical facility, you're side stitched and bandaged, painful as hell, but alive. Bucky sat near your bed, slumped over, clutching your hand as if it were the only thing holding him together in the world.

He appeared to have remained still.

"You scared the shit out of me," he said, his voice scratchy. "Don't ever do that again."

You smiled weakly but sincerely. "I didn't plan on getting shot, Buck."

He did not reciprocate the smile. Instead, he leaned in, placed his forehead to yours, and breathed you in.

"You are everything to me." I can't lose you."

Headcanons:

Human Body Armor: Bucky refuses to let you lead the front line after that incident. Even during missions, he puts himself in front of you, metal arm ready, eyes continually searching. Even if you object, he will protect you.

Overprotective but Soft: He is both overprotective and soft, keeping a close eye on you without overwhelming you. Always be sure you eat, relax, and heal. He acts like a guard dog, yet he wraps you in his sweatshirt and kisses you on the forehead before tucking you into bed.

Haunted by "what ifs": He has witnessed too much loss. Losing you would break him. Following the mission, he silently spirals—he rarely sleeps, checks on you every hour, and even sits outside the medbay at night to listen to your breathing.

Will Kill For You: No one talks about what Bucky did after you were shot. But everyone knows. There were no survivors left in that building. And he made sure your blood was the last one spilled.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Loki Odinson/God of Mischief

In Asgard, victory was usually followed by a celebration. The palace sparkled with glittering flags and tables brimming with food and drink. The air was filled with music, laughing, and the heavy smell of battle-won pride.

You were not immediately involved in the celebration. As a maid, you had to move silently, clean fast, and remain out of the soldiers' path. However, the aftermath of conflict has delivered something else: prisoners, war-beasts in human form, bound and growling, hauled into the dungeons underneath.

Nobody expected them to escape.

You were merely in the wrong corridor at the wrong moment, on your way back to the servants' quarters, when you heard a sudden, violent crash behind you. You turned just in time to see one of the larger prisoners lunging out of the shadows, bloodied, wild-eyed, and enraged.

You hardly had time to scream before he grabbed your wrist and pushed you back into the wall.

"Pretty little thing," he scoffed.

Your heart smashed. You struggled and were frightened, but he was stronger. Too powerful.

And then he showed up.

Emerald glints. A burst of rage.

The opponent was leering at you one second, and the next he was gasping on his own breath, magically held in place. Loki showed up out of the shadows, his eyes glowing green and his power crackling in the air like electricity.

"I would think very carefully about your next breath," he said, his voice low and nasty.

The prisoner never got the opportunity to speak. Loki's blade slashed his throat in an instant—quiet, quick, and brutal.

He quickly turned to face you, his eyes still gleaming from the last pulse of power. "Did he touch you?" he said, his voice shaking with wrath rather than fear.

You shook your head, too stunned to speak.

His hand lifted, paused, and finally rested lightly on your cheek. "You are secure now. I am here."

Headcanons:

Feral, Silent Protector: Loki does not make a huge statement about what happened. But from that day forward, you're never alone. As you walk the corridors, you observe how the shadows alter. Guards nod at you with odd reverence. You always get the feeling that someone is watching you, but not in a horrible manner.

Possessive to the Core: Loki is possessive and subtly claims you. There's no spectacular statement; he simply starts showing up more. Giving little grins. Standing by your side. Looking at everyone who speaks to you for too long, as if he's measuring them for a coffin.

Gives You Power: You discover that you have suddenly been granted new rights. Fancier chambers. Lighter duties. A lovely necklace adorned with protective runes - "a gift," he adds casually, yet the enchantment enters your skin like his promise.

Little Acts of Care: He's subtle, but not shy. He appears with warm tea when you're tired. Offers books you never told him you liked. One day, there's a knife under your pillow - enchanted, beautiful. "Just in case," he murmurs.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Natasha Romanoff / Black Widow

Training sessions with Steve were usually tough, but you enjoyed the challenge. He was patient, motivating and pushed you just the right amount. Until today.

It went on quickly.

You were sparring hand-to-hand, deflecting his punches and dancing just out of range. But one step too late- one miscalculation, and his foot collided with your knee more forcefully than expected. You dropped with a sudden yell, pain shooting up your leg as you grasped the joint.

Steve knelt immediately, an apology washing across his face. "Shit Y/N, I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

But before you could respond, she was there.

Natasha burst into the training room like a red flash, her gaze fixed on you before switching to Steve with ice-cold precision. "What the hell happened?"

"She took a hit, wasn't meant to land like that," Steve said, raising his hands.

Natasha did not even glance at him. She crouched behind you, pushing your hair away from your face, her gaze sweeping across your entire body.

"You're done for today," she said quietly, slipping her arms beneath you before you could argue.

"Nat, I can walk! "

"No, Milaya. You don't get to debate. You got injured. You are mine. I am taking care of you."

You looked up at her, shocked, as she effortlessly grabbed you into her arms and took you to the medbay, ignoring everyone else in the gym, including a very embarrassed Steve.

"I'm not mad," she said softly into your hair. "But I am going to kill him just a little bit later."

Headcanons:

Ultra-Protective Mode ON: She's already protective on a normal day, but the second you get hurt? She's locked in. No more training unless she's there. She even makes you wear knee pads when walking around the Tower as a joke, but deep down, she's serious.

Scary Calm with others: She does not shout. She does not throw punches. But her quiet is deadly. Steve maintains she didn't say anything after the incident, but he remains scared of her glare.

Shadows you for days: She stares. Always around the corner. Constantly keeping an eye on everything. Do you go to the kitchen? She's already prepared your tea. Do you wince when walking? She's already by your side, her arm around you.

Loves babying you: She won't say it, but she enjoys caring of you. She brings you to bed, rubs your knee, carefully bandages it, and kisses your forehead as if it were sacred.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Wanda Maximoff / Scarlet Witch

It was supposed to be a straightforward observation mission. Inside and outside. No major clashes or shocks. However, those are always the messiest.

You were teamed with two fresh recruits (Wanda was not on the team this time), and somewhere along the road, a concealed Hydra sniper fired a shot. The bullet touched your side, drawing blood but not killing. Nonetheless, it was scary. You were able to patch things up and complete the assignment. Barely.

However, as soon as you returned to Avengers base, everything changed.

She did not speak when she saw you. Her hands trembled. Wanda ran across the corridor and held you in a tight, magic-warmed hug before you had time to catch your breath.

You could feel her body trembling against your own.

"You didn't call me," she muttered. "You got hurt. And I was not there."

"I didn't want to worry you..."

"I felt it, Y/N."

Her voice was soft. Almost childish. But there was something darker lurking beneath the surface of her gaze. The red mist wrapped around her fingers, like if it had its own awareness.

"I felt something snap in the air," she said softly. "And then I looked at my phone and saw your name in the mission report and—" She cut off, breathing shakily. "You're not allowed to do that. You don't get to be brave alone."

Before you could respond, her hands caressed your face. Gently. Carefully.

"I almost tore apart that compound just to find you."

Headcanons:

Telepathy Check-ins: She starts using her powers more often, telepathically checking in on you without asking. You'll be brushing your teeth and hear, "Are you okay?"inside your head. She tries not to intrude. Tries....

Cries When You Flinch: If you wince or shift in pain, even a little? She looks like the world is ending. She apologizes a thousand times even if she didn't cause it.

You catch her reading spells: One night, you find her in the living room, surrounded by books on blood magic and protective sigils. She's talking to herself, her eyes burning.

"You're not allowed to get hurt again," she adds quietly. "I won't let it happen."

Sleeps Curled Around You: She won't sleep till you're in her arms. She's afraid of dreams. Yours and hers. So she stays up longer, simply watching you breathe.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Agatha Harkness

It started quickly.

One moment, you were wandering along the edge of the forests outside town, the moonlight soaking your skin and the chilly night air keen with magic. You felt a rush of fury before you saw her. Not yours. Hers.

Agatha had met paths with a witch decades before, angry, bitter, and now brave enough to seek revenge. You didn't have time to respond before the air cut apart. Hundreds of sharpened wood spikes flew your way.

One of them hit.

Right below your collarbone. Close. Too close.

You did not scream, but you stumbled back, your chest searing with sorrow. You reached up, your fingers dripping with your own blood. Even for a vampire, a cut this near to the heart may have been deadly.

Then Agatha came.

The air crackled with blue lightning, a wild force. Something inside her cracked when she saw you.

"You," she hissed, charging towards the other witch like a hurricane on two legs. "You DARE touch my WIFE"

The other witch did not have a chance.

It was not a duel. It was a massacre.

You didn't know how long it lasted, how many times Agatha attacked her with spells you couldn't even remember, but when it was over, all that remained was smoke, shattered dirt, and Agatha standing in the dark, her chest rising and falling like she'd been hunting prey.

Her eyes were gleaming as she turned to face you. Her hands shook. Her fingers were stained with blood when she reached out for you.

"You're all right," she whispered. But she did not seem convinced. "You're alright."

You were still standing. Barely. "You should see the other witch," you attempted to joke.

Agatha did not laugh.

Her lips touched your temple. Then, your jaw. Then the area around your wound. Her voice lowered to a whisper, almost reverent.

"She was half an inch away from taking you from me."

Headcanons:

Possessive doesn't begin to cover it: She doesn't let you out of her sight for days. Follows you around the house. Watches you sleep, even though she knows you heal fast.

She cannot stop caressing you: Her hands are continually resting on your neck, wrists, and back, as if she needs to remind herself that you are there. That you did not die.

Love confession through rage: "You don't get it," she hisses one night as you try to calm her down. "You are the only thing I have ever loved without falling apart. If she had stolen that from me, I would have destroyed the world."

"I should've killed her centuries ago." She blames herself. She won't say it out, but she thinks about it every time she sees the wound. She feels that allowing the witch to live was her only mistake, and you paid the price.

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡

Rio Vidal/ Death

You were not even meant to be on the battlefield.

You'd simply come and bring herbs and assist healers in patching up the injured. That is all. However, conflict is unconcerned with your work, especially among chaotic people who would rather see the world burn.

A cursed soldier, blood-soaked and barely alive, struck out the instant you approached him. When his sword sliced across your ribs, you didn't scream; your breath just fled.

And for a little second, you saw her.

She stepped out of the smoke. Silent. Unmoving. Eyes like storms. Death.

But rather than taking you, she kneeled alongside you.

"I told you," Rio muttered, her voice barely contained. "This world doesn't deserve you."

You attempted to grin. "Hey... look who showed up."

Blood dripped from your lips.

Rio did not laugh. She lifted your body with unbelievable gentleness, as if you were made of light and glass, and vanished with you into the fog.

The last thing you recalled was her voice in your ear:

"Don't die on me. If you do, I will personally drag you back. Even if I have to remove your soul from heaven."

Headcanons:

Furious with whoever hurt you, Rio doesn't kill him right away. She hunts him. And when she's done, there's no one left to bury.

Takes you somewhere only the dead know: A world of peace. You are the only living being there. She keeps you covered in warm shadows, utterly safe and entirely hers.

You're never allowed to walk alone again: She appears whenever you attempt to travel alone. Even in the garden. Even into the kitchen. "Don't argue, mi amor," she adds quietly. "You're not ready."

Territorial behavior turned possessive: After your injury, she doesn't let anyone else near you. No medics. No friends. Only her. She bathes you. Feeds you. Heals you with her own energy.

#fanfic #marvel #tony stark x reader #bucky barnes x reader #loki x reader #steve rogers x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #agatha harkness x reader #rio vidal x reader #marvel preferences #marvel imagines

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mommykye · 3 days ago

Text

Big Bad Wolf

alpha!ceo!Natasha Romanoff x omega!fem!reader

summary: Rushed by loss and besieged by enemies, Natasha seeks an heir in the enigmatic omega, Y/N. Their first encounter sparks intrigue, but Natasha's iron walls threaten to extinguish the fragile connection before it ignites, leaving the future of her empire shrouded in mystery.

part 1

word count: 4.9k

Request are open

masterlist

The panoramic windows of Natasha’s penthouse suite, usually a canvas displaying the vibrant, sprawling cityscape, now served only as vast, reflective surfaces. They mirrored the disquiet churning within her, a turbulent sea trapped behind a polished facade. Days had bled into one another since the support group meeting, yet the encounter with Y/N replayed endlessly in her mind. It was a fragmented, jarring film reel she couldn't seem to stop, each awkward pause, each sharp word, each flicker of hurt in Y/N’s expressive eyes, and the quiet finality of her departure echoing against the backdrop of her luxurious, yet profoundly isolating, living space.

The rich textures of the room, usually a source of comfort and a testament to her hard-won control, now felt like opulent shackles. The deep pile of the Persian rug, usually soft beneath her feet, now seemed to absorb her restless pacing without offering solace. The smooth coolness of the Italian leather furniture, typically a symbol of her refined taste, now felt cold and unyielding against her touch. Even the warm glow of the strategically placed lighting, designed to create an atmosphere of sophisticated tranquility, now seemed to highlight the emptiness, the echoing silence that had become her unwanted companion. She found herself drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant hum of the city a stark and indifferent contrast to the internal storm raging within her.

A fleeting image flickered in her mind, unbidden and surprisingly vivid. The same panoramic view, softened by the warm hues of a setting sun, but different somehow. The stark lines of the modern furniture were softened by colorful throws and plump cushions. Instead of echoing silence, the air was filled with the joyful chaos of children’s laughter, the small, excited voices of little alphas and omegas chasing each other, their tiny hands leaving smudges on the pristine glass. Toys, bright and scattered, lay abandoned mid-play. And in the midst of this delightful disarray, Y/N sat on a comfortable armchair, a gentle curve to her pregnant belly, her eyes radiating a quiet contentment as she watched the children, occasionally offering a soft word or a loving smile. Natasha, in this imagined scene, felt a warmth spread through her chest, a sense of belonging she had never truly known. This wasn’t the sterile perfection of her current life; it was messy, vibrant, real. It was a home.

The vision, however fleeting, was potent. It was a life far removed from the harsh realities of her childhood in the Red Room, a life where vulnerability wasn't a weakness to be exploited but a bond to be cherished. A life where an heir wasn't the sole purpose of connection, but where love and genuine affection formed the foundation. But then, the sharp edges of reality intruded. She barely knew Y/N. This idealized future, this sudden longing for domesticity, was absurd, a phantom limb aching for a connection that hadn't even begun to form. And even if… even if there was a possibility, could she, Natasha, ever truly offer someone like Y/N a safe and loving space, free from the shadows of her past? The thought was both tantalizing and terrifying.

She shook her head slightly, trying to dislodge the fanciful image. It was a dangerous distraction, a sentimental indulgence she couldn't afford. Yet, the contrast between the imagined warmth and her current isolation was stark and unsettling.

A soft click of the door broke through her reverie, pulling her back to the cold reality of her penthouse. Yelena sauntered in, her usual playful energy radiating from her like a tangible aura. She leaned against the doorframe, a knowing smirk already gracing her lips. The faint scent of something sweet and slightly burnt – likely a failed baking experiment – clung to her clothes.

“Still brooding by the window, Nat?” Yelena’s voice was light, but held a teasing edge. “Planning your next corporate takeover or just replaying your disastrous attempt at making a friend?”

Natasha didn’t bother turning from the view. The distant city lights blurred slightly as she focused on the internal landscape of her regret. “It wasn’t a disaster.” The lie felt weak even to her own ears.

“Oh really?” Yelena pushed off the doorframe and strolled further into the room, her footsteps silent on the thick carpet. “Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you managed to scare off a perfectly lovely omega with the grace and charm of a cornered wolverine. And I even caught a whiff of her distress pheromones afterward. Poor thing probably thought she’d stumbled into a den of angry alphas.”

A sigh escaped Natasha’s lips, carrying a hint of genuine remorse. “I didn’t mean to.” The admission felt surprisingly difficult, a crack in the carefully constructed wall of her usual self-assurance. The scent of her own faint alpha pheromones, usually controlled and masked, had likely spiked during the tense exchange, adding to Y/N’s discomfort.

Yelena perched on the arm of a velvet armchair, her gaze sharp and perceptive. “I know you didn’t mean to, Nat. That’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t mean to be prickly, but it just… happens. Like a reflex. Years of deflecting and guarding yourself don’t just vanish overnight.”

Natasha finally turned, leaning against the cool glass. The reflection staring back at her was a familiar stranger – sharp, composed, but with a flicker of something akin to… longing? “I’m used to people having agendas. To looking for weaknesses. Their omega sub-gender often plays into those manipulations. She just… seemed genuine. Unassuming.” She remembered the soft curve of Y/N’s cheeks, the way her eyes held a warmth that seemed to radiate from within, the comfortable fullness of her figure that spoke of a gentle acceptance of herself. It was a stark contrast to the polished, often performative, interactions she was accustomed to.

“And that threw you, didn’t it?” Yelena’s tone softened, a hint of understanding replacing the teasing. “Someone being genuinely kind, genuinely curious… especially an omega who didn't seem to be playing any games… it’s not exactly your everyday boardroom encounter.”

A small, almost imperceptible nod was Natasha’s only response. The memory of the subtle floral and earthy notes of Y/N’s natural omega pheromones, a comforting blend that had felt surprisingly grounding, lingered in her senses.

“So,” Yelena continued, rubbing her hands together with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Operation ‘Win Back the Intriguing Omega’ is a go?”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual skepticism returning. “There is no ‘operation.’”

“Oh, come on,” Yelena scoffed. “You’ve been staring out that window for days. You’re practically radiating regret. Besides,” she added with a wink, “Kate’s been singing Y/N’s praises non-stop. Apparently, her sourdough starter is legendary. And she makes the most incredible, slightly oversized, but utterly delicious cookies.”

A faint smile touched Natasha’s lips despite herself. “Her sourdough starter? And oversized cookies?” The image of Y/N, her hands dusted with flour, carefully shaping imperfect but heartfelt treats, was surprisingly appealing.

“Apparently,” Yelena confirmed. “And her knowledge of obscure herbs is unparalleled. Kate’s convinced she could single-handedly cure the common cold with a sprig of something she foraged in the woods. She even mentioned Y/N’s incredibly soothing natural scent when she’s calm, something about chamomile and warm earth.”

“Kate exaggerates,” Natasha said, but the edge in her voice was gone. The thought of Y/N possessing such a calming presence was intriguing.

“Maybe,” Yelena conceded. “But she also said Y/N is resilient. That she’s been through things and come out stronger. That she has a quiet confidence that’s rather… disarming. That sounds like someone who could handle a grumpy alpha, don’t you think?”

The thought resonated with Natasha. Strength wasn’t just about physical prowess or corporate power. Y/N possessed a different kind of strength, a quiet inner fortitude that had shone through even in their brief, tense encounter. The way she had held her gaze, even when clearly uncomfortable, spoke volumes.

“So,” Yelena pressed, her enthusiasm building. “What’s the plan? Grand gesture? Public apology? Maybe a strategic deployment of highly trained operatives to locate her favorite bakery and shower her with those legendary oversized cookies?”

Natasha shook her head, a genuine smile finally breaking through her usual reserve. “No operatives. No grand gestures. I just… I’d like to talk to her again. Properly this time.”

“Properly,” Yelena echoed, a hint of amusement in her voice. “As opposed to your usual method of communication, which involves veiled threats and intimidating eye contact, possibly accompanied by a subtle release of dominant alpha pheromones?”

“Something like that,” Natasha admitted, a wry smile playing on her lips. “But I don’t even know where to find her.”

“Leave that to me,” Yelena said, pulling out her phone. “Kate’s got contacts. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “a little intel gathering never hurt anyone. Especially when it involves a potentially legendary sourdough starter.”

A few taps and a brief conversation later, Yelena hung up, her expression triumphant. “Got her. Apparently, she volunteers at a local community garden a few days a week. And today is one of those days.”

Natasha’s heart gave a small, unexpected flutter. A community garden. It seemed a world away from the polished steel and glass of her corporate life, yet somehow, the image of Y/N tending to plants, her hands in the soil, felt… right. Grounded.

“So?” Yelena prompted, already heading towards the door. “Are we going to go cultivate some… understanding?”

Natasha hesitated for a moment, a flicker of her old apprehension returning. But the image of Y/N’s gentle smile, the quiet strength in her eyes, and the unexpected pull of her calming pheromones spurred her forward. “Let’s go.”

They descended the numerous floors in the private elevator, the silence punctuated only by the soft whoosh of the mechanism. As they stepped out into the bustling lobby of Romanoff Industries, Natasha felt a strange sense of shedding her corporate armor, if only slightly. Today wasn’t about mergers or acquisitions; it was about something far more personal, far more uncertain. The usual respect bordering on fear in the eyes of her employees felt oddly distant.

Yelena, ever attuned to her sister’s moods, clapped her on the shoulder. “Relax, Nat. Just be yourself. Well, the slightly less intimidating version of yourself. Maybe try not to accidentally trigger her flight response with your alpha aura this time.”

Natasha managed a weak smile. “No promises.”

——timeskip——

As the sleek black car idled across the street from the vibrant green space, Natasha felt a familiar knot of anxiety tighten in her chest. The community garden buzzed with a gentle energy – the murmur of voices, the snip of shears, the earthy scent of soil mingling with the sweet perfume of blooming flowers. It was a stark contrast to the sterile efficiency of her usual environment, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if she’d made a mistake even agreeing to this. The air itself felt different, less controlled, more alive.

“See? Nothing to be afraid of, sestra,” Yelena chirped, her gaze fixed on the activity outside. “Just a bunch of… well, gardeners. Harmless, mostly.” She paused, sniffing the air dramatically. “Definitely a lot of beta pheromones. A few other omegas, judging by the sweeter notes. And… hmm, a couple of other alphas. Keep your claws sheathed, big sister.”

Natasha didn’t reply, her eyes scanning the figures tending to the plots. The sunlight glinted off watering cans and tools, and the air, thick with the promise of spring, carried a subtle mix of pheromones – the grounding earthiness of betas, the bright floral notes of other omegas, and even a faint, underlying hum that she instinctively recognized as belonging to other alphas. It was a sensory tapestry so different from the carefully controlled atmosphere of her penthouse, where even the air filtration system minimized natural scents.

“You’re going to psych yourself out before we even get out of the car, Nat,” Yelena said, a playful nudge in her tone. “Remember what we talked about. Be… approachable. Like a fluffy kitten. Or at least a slightly less grumpy bear. Maybe try suppressing the urge to assert your dominance with a subtle pheromonal pulse every five seconds.”

“I am perfectly capable of being approachable,” Natasha retorted, though her gaze remained fixed on a woman with a wide-brimmed hat carefully pruning a rose bush.

“Sure, and I’m the Queen of England,” Yelena quipped, rolling her eyes. “Just try smiling. You know, the one that doesn’t look like you’re contemplating a hostile takeover. And maybe try not to smell quite so much like you own the entire Eastern Seaboard.”

Natasha huffed, but the corners of her lips twitched almost imperceptibly. This was ridiculous. She was Natasha Romanoff, a woman who negotiated multi-billion dollar deals and commanded the respect of entire industries. Why was the prospect of a simple conversation with one omega, a slightly chubby omega with kind eyes and a talent for sourdough, making her feel like a teenager before her first dance?

Suddenly, Yelena’s breath hitched. “Oy, smotri! Look!”

Natasha followed her sister’s gaze. Walking along the sidewalk beside their car, her figure framed by the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees, was Y/N. She was wearing a flowy sundress, the soft fabric swaying gently with each step, and her hair was pulled back in a loose braid, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She carried a small woven bag over her shoulder, and there was a peaceful, almost ethereal quality to her movements. The faint scent of chamomile and warm earth that Yelena had mentioned was now more distinct, a calming aroma that seemed to cut through Natasha’s anxiety.

Before Natasha could even formulate a coherent thought, Yelena’s door swung open. In a move that was as swift as it was utterly unexpected, Yelena was out of the car and moving towards Y/N with a determined glint in her eyes.

“Yelena, what in God’s name are you doing?” Natasha hissed, mortification flooding her senses. This was not how she had envisioned this… whatever this was supposed to be. The subtle scent of Y/N’s surprise and a flicker of fear began to mix with the calming chamomile.

Yelena reached Y/N just as she was about to pass their car. With a surprising display of strength, she grabbed Y/N’s arm.

“Hello there, golubchik,” Yelena said, her voice deceptively sweet, but her grip firm. The shift in her pheromones was immediate, a subtle but unmistakable hint of alpha dominance underlying the sweetness.

Y/N’s eyes widened in alarm. “Hey! What are you doing? Let go of me!” Her voice was sharp with surprise and a dawning sense of panic. The calming scent of chamomile was abruptly overpowered by a sharp spike of fear and distress.

“We need a little chat,” Yelena said, her smile not reaching her eyes. Before Y/N could fully react, Yelena was practically frog-marching her towards the open car door.

“Get your hands off me! I’m calling the police!” Y/N struggled, her protests growing louder, a mixture of fear and anger in her tone. The peaceful atmosphere of the garden was abruptly shattered by the sounds of her escalating distress. Several nearby gardeners turned, their expressions shifting from mild curiosity to concern. The air now crackled with a palpable tension, the natural pheromonal balance completely disrupted.

Natasha’s face burned with embarrassment. This was a disaster of epic proportions. She scrambled out of the car, her mind racing, trying to salvage this unbelievably chaotic situation. Her own alpha instincts flared momentarily, a protective urge towards Y/N warring with her utter mortification at Yelena’s tactics.

“Yelena! Stop it! What are you thinking?” Natasha’s voice was low and urgent, but Yelena seemed completely unfazed, her focus entirely on the struggling omega.

“Get in the car, mishka,” Yelena commanded, practically shoving a resisting Y/N towards the back seat. Her grip tightened as Y/N tried to pull away, the scent of fear emanating from her now sharp and acrid.

“I said let go of me, you crazy woman!” Y/N yelled, her voice trembling slightly. She tried to pull away, but Yelena’s grip was like iron. Her woven bag slipped from her shoulder and landed on the sidewalk, spilling a few gardening gloves and a small trowel.

“Just get in,” Yelena repeated, her tone brooking no argument. With a final heave, she managed to maneuver a flailing Y/N into the back seat. Yelena then slid in after her, effectively trapping Y/N between herself and the car door. The small space now filled with the clashing scents of Yelena’s forceful alpha, Y/N’s fear, and Natasha’s rising panic.

Natasha stood by the open door, aghast. Passersby were starting to stare, their gardening forgotten as they witnessed the bizarre scene unfolding. The subtle pheromonal balance in the air had shifted, the undercurrent of alarm and distress now palpable. One of the alpha gardeners started to move towards the car, a protective growl rumbling in his chest.

“Yelena, you can’t just kidnap people!” Natasha exclaimed, her voice a strained whisper.

“I’m not kidnapping her,” Yelena said, her tone surprisingly reasonable considering the circumstances. “I’m facilitating a conversation. With a bit of persuasive encouragement.”

“A conversation that started with you physically assaulting me?” Y/N interjected, her voice tight with fury. “Let me out of this car right now! You have no right to touch me!” Her plump cheeks were flushed with anger and fear, and her chest heaved with rapid breaths.

“Now, now, no need for hysterics,” Yelena said, patting Y/N’s arm in a gesture that was anything but comforting. “We just want to talk to you about Natasha.”

Y/N glared at Natasha, her eyes flashing with indignation. “Talk to me? After the way she acted at the support group? I have nothing to say to either of you! You were both incredibly rude and dismissive.”

Natasha finally found her voice, though it was laced with mortification. “Look, Y/N, I m am so sorry about this. Yelena’s methods are… unconventional. To say the least.” Her own pheromones were now a confusing mix of apology and a desperate attempt to defuse the tense situation.

“Unconventional?” Y/N scoffed, her voice rising in disbelief, a sharp contrast to the gentle cadence Natasha had briefly heard at the support group. “This is assault! Physical assault! I could press charges! And frankly,” her gaze sharpened, focusing directly on Natasha, “after your condescending attitude the other day, the way you dismissed my experience like it was nothing, I’m half-tempted to! Maybe a night in a cell would teach you both some manners!” The scent of her anger intensified, a bitter tang now mingling with the lingering fear.

“And you would be entirely within your rights to do so,” Natasha conceded, her gaze unwavering, her voice low and sincere, devoid of any corporate edge. She could feel the weight of Y/N’s anger, the justified indignation radiating from her. “But please, hear me out. This… this,” she gestured vaguely at Yelena, still perched beside a clearly distressed Y/N, “is not how I wanted to approach this. My intention was… different.” The word felt inadequate, a flimsy shield against the reality of Yelena’s actions.

“Different how?” Y/N challenged, her arms still crossed defensively, her body language radiating distrust. “Did you plan on sending your goons to ‘facilitate a conversation’ at my home? Maybe leave a threatening note attached to a bouquet of poisoned flowers?” The sarcasm dripped from her voice, sharp and laced with genuine fear. The subtle tremors in her hands betrayed her outward bravado.

Yelena, ever the pragmatist, though her methods were anything but, cut to the chase. “Alright, here’s the deal, dorogaya. Natasha here,” she gestured towards her sister with a flourish, her hand nearly colliding with Y/N’s nose, “is socially challenged. Think of her as a highly intelligent, incredibly capable, but utterly inept puppy when it comes to feelings. She doesn’t always say what she means, and sometimes what she means comes out sounding like she’s declaring war on your entire existence, possibly including your beloved sourdough starter. It’s a communication quirk. A deeply ingrained, possibly irreversible, communication quirk. But! She actually feels bad – genuinely bad – about how things went at the meeting. She’s been moping around her ridiculously oversized apartment for days, smelling faintly of regret and expensive whiskey, and occasionally sighing dramatically while staring at the city lights.”

Natasha shot Yelena a look that could curdle milk, a silent promise of severe and immediate retribution flickering in her eyes. Her own alpha pheromones flared briefly in annoyance, a low growl of displeasure rumbling in her chest, before she consciously suppressed them, reminding herself of the precariousness of the situation. Her sister was making a mockery of the situation, downplaying her own atrocious behavior, but somehow, amidst the absurdity, there was a kernel of truth to her awkwardness.

“And,” Yelena continued, her tone shifting to something resembling a hostage negotiator laying out terms, “if you agree to go on a date with her… in a few days… say, next Wednesday evening? A proper date, involving polite conversation, actual smiles (from Natasha, hopefully), and the distinct absence of any physical coercion… where she will be charming and attentive and will not say anything even remotely resembling a threat, and will probably even compliment your… lovely dress… then we will let you out of this car, unharmed, right now. What do you say? It’s a simple yes or no. Though, we strongly encourage a yes.”

Y/N stared at Yelena as if she had sprouted a second head, her plump cheeks still flushed with indignation, her breathing still shallow. “Are you out of your mind? A date? With her? After all this? I’d rather be locked in a room full of rabid ferrets! At least then I’d have a legitimate reason to bite someone! And the authorities would probably be more sympathetic!”

“Come on, don’t be like that,” Yelena wheedled, her earlier aggression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a surprisingly earnest expression, her voice softening. “Think of it as a peace offering. A chance for Natasha to show you that she’s not entirely a heartless ice queen. Maybe she’ll even tell you embarrassing stories about her childhood in Russia. Those are always a hit. Besides,” she leaned closer to Y/N, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “she can be surprisingly generous. Think good wine, excellent food maybe even a small, non-threatening gift.”

“She made it pretty clear what she thought of me at the meeting,” Y/N retorted, crossing her arms even tighter over her chest, her chin jutting out defiantly. “I don’t need her pity, or her… generosity. I need her to understand that her words have consequences, that other people have feelings!” The scent of her hurt resurfaced, a subtle undercurrent beneath the anger.

Natasha stepped closer to the car, her expression earnest, her voice low and sincere, the usual steel replaced by a genuine plea. “Y/N, please. I truly didn’t mean to offend you. My… my reaction was rooted in my own… experiences. My own insecurities. It wasn’t about you. I… I’m not very good at… this kind of thing. Social interactions… they don’t come naturally to me. Especially in… emotionally charged environments. I tend to…default to defense.” It was a rare and painful admission of vulnerability, and it cost her a significant amount of pride to say it, to lay bare a weakness she usually guarded fiercely. The scent of her own uncertainty, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor in her alpha pheromones, betrayed her discomfort, a stark contrast to her usual controlled aura.

Yelena seized the opportunity, sensing a crack in Y/N’s resistance. “See? She’s practically begging! Just one date. A few hours of your time. And then, if you still think she’s a monster, if she says anything remotely offensive, you can unleash your inner rabid ferret on her. What have you got to lose? Besides a perfectly lovely Wednesday evening and the potential for a surprisingly good meal?”

Y/N looked from Yelena’s determined face to Natasha’s surprisingly vulnerable one. She was clearly still furious and shaken, the scent of her lingering distress still palpable, a knot of fear and anger radiating from her, but there was a flicker of something else in her eyes – perhaps curiosity, a desire to understand the woman who had so easily dismissed her, or maybe just the sheer absurdity of the situation was starting to wear her down, the outlandishness of it all bordering on the darkly comedic. She glanced at the concerned faces of the onlookers, the alpha gardener still hovering nearby with a protective air, then back at the two sisters.

“And if I say no?” Y/N challenged, her voice still laced with suspicion, her gaze sharp as she assessed their resolve.

Yelena’s smile tightened, the playful facade momentarily slipping to reveal a hint of the steel beneath, a reminder of the ruthlessness that lay beneath her often-teasing exterior. “Then we drive around until you change your mind. And trust me, dorogaya, we have all day. Natasha has… very comfortable car seats. And I have a playlist of truly terrible Russian pop songs that I’m sure you’d just adore.”

Natasha shot Yelena another warning glare, a silent plea for her to stop digging them into an even deeper hole. This was not going the way she had hoped, not that she had any clear idea of how she had hoped it would go. Kidnapping was certainly not on the agenda, nor was the threat of bad Russian music.

After a long, tense silence, the only sound the distant chirping of birds in the garden, Y/N let out a frustrated sigh, the fight seemingly draining out of her. Her shoulders slumped slightly, and the sharp scent of her anger began to recede, replaced by a weary resignation. “Fine,” she conceded, her voice grudging, the word feeling like it was being dragged from her. “One date. Wednesday evening. And if either of you pulls anything like this again, if there’s even a hint of coercion or condescension, I swear I will have you both arrested. And I know a very good lawyer. One who specializes in… unusual cases.”

“Excellent!” Yelena clapped her hands together, her earlier aggression vanishing as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by an almost childlike enthusiasm. “Wednesday it is! Seven o’clock? We’ll pick you up. Where do you live? Is it far? Do you have any… dietary restrictions? Natasha can be surprisingly accommodating when she wants to be.”

Y/N just glared at her, the scent of her lingering annoyance still a palpable barrier. “Just tell me where you’re taking me. I can meet you there. I am not getting into a car with either of you again. Not unless there are flashing blue lights involved.” The thought of being trapped with them was clearly still abhorrent.

“Alright, alright,” Yelena said agreeably, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “We’ll text you the address. Something… classy. Not too intimidating. Maybe that little Italian place with the surprisingly good tiramisu. They also have excellent vegetarian options, if that’s your thing. Now, let’s get you out of here before someone calls the actual police. Or that rather large alpha gardener decides to intervene with his pruning shears.”

Yelena unlocked the car door, and Y/N practically leaped out, putting as much distance between herself and the black sedan as possible. She retrieved her fallen bag and its scattered contents, her movements still stiff with residual anger and fear. She shot Natasha one last, wary look, a complex mix of emotions swirling in her intelligent gaze – anger, suspicion, and a flicker of something Natasha couldn’t quite decipher – before turning and quickly walking away, disappearing back into the leafy paths of the community garden. The calming scent of chamomile slowly began to reassert itself as she moved further away, a fragile peace returning to the disturbed air.

Natasha watched her go, a strange mix of relief and apprehension swirling within her. She had secured a second chance, albeit through the most bizarre and borderline illegal means imaginable. The concerned glances of the remaining gardeners felt like physical accusations, and the nearby alpha’s protective growl still echoed faintly in the air.

“Well,” Yelena said, brushing off her hands as if she’d just completed a particularly challenging task. “That went… interestingly. You have to admit, it was certainly efficient. And now you have a date! See? I told you I could fix things.”

Natasha just shook her head, utterly speechless, the absurdity of the situation washing over her. “Interestingly? Yelena, you practically kidnapped her! That alpha who was heading over here looked ready to tear you limb from limb! We could be facing assault charges!”

“Details, details,” Yelena waved a dismissive hand. “He was probably just worried about his prize-winning tomatoes. The important thing is, you have a date. Now, let’s go home. I think we both need a very fat shot vodka. And maybe you should start practicing your charming smile. The non-hostile takeover version. And perhaps work on your opening lines. ‘So, about that support group…’ is probably not the best way to start.”

As they got back into the car, the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth seemed to linger in the air, now tinged with the faint undercurrent of Y/N’s lingering distress and a surprising hint of her own resilience. Wednesday evening suddenly felt like a very long way away, a looming precipice of potential disaster or, against all odds, a chance at something… more than just another corporate negotiation.

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