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theorist-fox · 3 months ago

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Simon breaks your fever

Because I can't stop thinking about this

18+

CW: you're sick (fever, high body temp), fluff, established relationship, smut (clit rubbing, unprotected p in v sex, premature ejaculation). you're so hot (literally) that simon busts a nut

Masterlist 🦊

Your fever hasn’t gone down.

Despite you telling Simon that it’s okay, that it’s just seasonal flu and pretty much half of your colleagues have had it, that man can’t stop fussing.

On day two, you heard him grumble over the phone that he had to take some days off for family matters. And while it was cute to listen to him refer to you as family, this whole thing was an overreaction.

You had a cold and a mild fever; you weren’t on your deathbed.

But then he came into the bedroom straight after ending the call, holding a cuppa in one hand and your pills in the other. Left them on the nightstand before pressing his lips to your forehead to check if you were still warm—grumbled something about you heating up the room when he pulled back with a frown.

And then he helped you sit up, fluffed the pillow behind your head, and smoothed away the hair sticking to your forehead. Made sure you took your pills, made sure you were comfortable and cared for and—

—and oh, isn’t your heart melting into a puddle.

You decide that being sick can’t be that bad, when he makes it feels this good—even if you’re cranky and feverish.

And so, you start offering bright smiles when he presses cold, wet towels to your cheeks. Brush kisses on his knuckles when his palm comes to feel your forehead. Whisper thank yous when he insists you eat in bed, your bowl of soup carefully placed on a wooden bed tray.

And when he gets in bed at night, seemingly unafraid of catching your same bug, you press your back to his chest and fit in his arms. Simon’s already a walking furnace on his own, and your fever doesn't help with the uncomfortable stickiness that grows between your bodies through the night.

Simon doesn’t care, especially on day three, when you decide that a reward is on schedule. Poor man’s been at your beck and call ever since your early symptoms have appeared, so why not give him a reward of sorts.

You press your ass against his crotch, rolling slow circles that rouse him from his slumber.

Simon’s first instinct, however, is to stop you. A big hand flattens on your belly, fingers twitching to resist the urge to curve around your waist and grasp until he dimples the fat there.

A hum leaves him. “What are you doing?”

You nuzzle the pillow and act all innocent, even if he can’t see it in the pitch-dark room.

“Nothing,” you tell him. “Can't sleep. Feel a little restless, with the fever and all.”

“Restless,” he echoes with humour, already catching on. “Need me to wear you down?”

You turn your head until his nose bumps with your cheek. He presses a kiss there.

“Mmh,” you hum with a smile. “Maybe."

His hand rises slowly, and you’re delighted to feel the pads of his fingers reach your chest. He cups your breast through your shirt and thumbs your nipple, already pebbled and stiff.

Hard like his cock pressing against you.

Your skin is unbearably sensitive due to your fever, and the slightest touch could easily turn into stinging pain. That’s why as soon as he skims over your nipple your body goes haywire and you jolt, grinding the swell of your ass against him.

Simon presses forward, meeting your inadvertent movement.

There’s a moan coming from both sides. Yours is more cracked, a wonderful cocktail of relief and soreness—though you’re liking this more than you should, probably. You’re never one to say no to a bit of pain now, are you?

Simon, on the other hand… oh, Simon. His voice is low—gravel against the road. A groan that sounds like it’s coming from a dry throat, strikingly possessive when paired with the gentleness with which he’s holding you.

“Lemme take care of you then, yeah?” He whispers, leaning closer to your ear.

He tucks his arm under your neck, letting you nestle your cheek in the crook of his elbow. You’re sure he must be running hot too, but you’re sporting a whopping 100.4 body temperature, making his skin feel like an ice pack.

You sigh beautifully at the slight relief he provides.

Simon takes care of you first, like he's so kindly offered, and you don’t fight against him.

You don’t fight against his hand snaking under the waistband of your sweats. Don’t fight against the pads of his fingers drawing slow eights on your clit.

What you do instead is bury your face in his forearm, as he presses soft kisses to the exposed skin on your neck.

You get wet embarrassingly easily. He collects it with his middle finger before returning to the tight knot of your clit, circling gently—no rush whatsoever.

He checks in every once in a while, whispering soft questions to your skin as he explores it with his lips.

Are you okay?, and a kiss. You hurtin'?, and another kiss, right under your ear. He waits for you to reply each time, before finally giving in and nuzzling the nape of your neck through your hair.

He goes on, murmuring sweet nothings when you whine and he can’t pinpoint if it’s from pleasure or your body aches.

“That's it, love,” he whispers, coaxing moans from your lips as his fingers guide you closer and closer to the edge. Steadfast on your clit, he keeps a rhythm he knows will crack through you—break the mould of stiff muscles and sore skin.

Your orgasm catches the breath in your throat. It almost stings, burning through you in waves that stem from your sex and ripple in all directions.

Until your body undulates with it, pressing back into his. Until your voice follows suit too, cracking gently as you bite into the thickness of his forearm to keep quiet.

Simon’s panting against your shoulder like he came as well. It’s impossible not to notice the girth of his cock indenting the fat of your ass, how deliciously hard he is just because he’s touched you so thoroughly.

It gets you drunk on power to know how little it takes for you to do that to him.

His lips are pursed in a kiss ardently left to the crook of your neck. You feel the wetness of it, the heat seeping through your much hotter skin. His fingers slow down, until soft circles turn into mere flicks on your clit that gently drag your consciousness back into your body, back into his arms.

“Alrigh'?” He murmurs to the skin of your neck, as he huffs from his nose to balance his breathing.

“Mhmh,” you reply absentmindedly, still foggy and dipped in a dreamy state.

Gingerly, the hand buried in your knickers travels to your waist, leaving a wet trail that slowly dries up—from the curls on your pelvis all the way to your hip. He pinches you softly.

“Can I fuck you?” He asks.

In response, you press your ass to where he’s waiting for you.

“Yes, please—yes.” You say, not bothering to veil your willingness.

If your bones weren’t aching, you’d let him fold you like cheap paper. Knees to your ears and all.

Simon’s fingers tug down your pants and knickers at the same time, exposing the burning skin of your ass to the air. Even under the duvet and pressed against him, everything feels so unbelievably fresh—it’s utter relief that has you softening against his chest.

Relief that ratchets up when you feel the head of his cock glide seamlessly through your slit, causing you to grind your hips backwards each time it catches your swollen clit.

His tongue lavishes the skin of your neck, distracting you from the pleasurable pain of the stretch as he comfortably slides in. You feel your muscles tighten around him, as your nails dig into his arm wrapped around your waist.

But Simon’s the one who seems most out of his element, for once.

“Jesus fucking Christ, love.” He breathes heavily to your shoulders. His voice doesn’t even sound like him.

The hand around your waist grabs a handful of your clothes, fabric bulging within the grooves of his fingers, while the one extended under your neck fists the pillow until his knuckles paint white.

“F-fuck—you’re burnin’ up.” He croaks, burying his face against the back of your head. “Bloody hell—fuckin’ melting me down ‘ere.”

He tries to move but his voice cracks in a moan before he stops completely. More muted curses leave him.

“Fuckin’ hell you feel good.” He pants, voice so breathy you can barely hear him, and you wonder if he’s talking to you at all. “S’ so fuckin’ hot.”

He stays stock still inside of you, hips flush to your ass.

But you’re as cheeky as they come, and he should know that already.

Which is why you move, canting your hips until you can feel him slide out of you, and then back in.

“Fuck, no—sto—"

Simon grunts. Chokes on it.

One flick of your ass has him unravel. He cums inside of you with a quick snap of his hips to meet yours, and the slap of flesh against flesh would be loud if it weren’t for how strong his groan is.

For how much he’s filling you up, buried to the hilt until you swear you can almost feel him throbbing in your stomach.

Simon hides in the crook of your neck, holding on tight with a stiff arm curled around your belly. You can feel his heartbeat thunder against yours, as if merging together—erratic and unsteady.

It takes him a while to recover, to catch his breath. You coax him out of his bubble gently, threading your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp until you feel him deflate behind you with a sigh.

“Bit of a cunt move, that.” He mumbles, but there’s no bite in his voice.

You smile. Somehow the aches in your body soften up, and you feel like floating on a cloud.

“Well, I'd say you didn't mind much,” you say innocently.

He snorts.

A hand lands blindly on your face, and he gives it a good scramble until you’re chuckling in his palm. You easily recognize that as his way to sneakily check for your temperature, while masking it as a playful jab.

“Sorry,” you feel compelled to say, though your voice is muffled by his hand.

And then he nuzzles your shoulder, planting a fat kiss on your neck.

“S’alrigh’,” he says softly. “Saved us from a third-degree burn, after all. Gotta thank you for tha'."

You burst into a laugh that he catches with his mouth—his fingers already curled around your jaw, turning your head his way before you can utter another word.

Your laughter seeps through your lips onto his, vibrating until his cheeks curl into a smile of his own.

Infectious, like your stupid flu.

Because the next morning, Simon wakes up with a terrible sore throat, though he doesn’t feel as annoyed as he thought he'd be.

In fact, he decides being sick can't be that bad, when you make it feel this good.

Even if now you're both cranky, feverish, and all.

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seumyo · 3 months ago

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pregnancy cravings with miya atsumu.

Pregnancy cravings never really made sense to Atsumu. Then again, he never got to the part of anatomy and physiology when he was studying physical therapy before he decided to go pro as a volleyball player.

But that doesn’t mean he isn’t supportive; no, he prided himself on being a great husband. And now, with you, his wife, pregnant with your first child, he was determined to be the most supportive, loving, and accommodating partner ever.

Nothing was going to stand in his way—not distance, not logic, and certainly not impossible cravings.

It started simple. Like it always did.

You wanted a specific pastry from a bakery on the other side of Japan? Done. He booked the fastest delivery service he could find, and when that wasn’t an option, he flew there himself, picked it up, and brought it back.

Talk about rich.

Homemade food? Good thing Osamu had drilled the basics of cooking into him, though he still got yelled at by his twin when he accidentally burned rice. But hey, effort counted, right?

Then, the cravings started getting weird.

You’re sitting on the couch with a blanket over your lap when you look up at him with serious eyes. “I want Osamu’s cooking.”

Atsumu blinked. “Alright, I can ask him—”

“But I don’t want to eat it. You eat it.”

He frowned, confused.

“Huh? Ya want me to eat ‘Samu’s cookin’?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Atsumu scratched his head, wondering if this was some kind of test. “And that’s gonna make ya feel better?”

“Yes.”

“… Even if ya don’ eat it?”

“Uh-huh.”

Atsumu blinked. “That doesn’t make no sense.”

“Atsumu, please don’t question me.”

“Yes, Ma’am!” He grabbed his phone and immediately dialed Osamu. “Oi, ‘Samu, I need ya to cook somethin’—no, not for [Name]—for me.” There was silence on the other end before Osamu sighed heavily and reluctantly agreed.

That night, Atsumu sat at the dining table, stuffing his face with his brother’s food while you sat across from him, smiling in satisfaction as you watched. Osamu just did his part as a supportive brother for his twin.

The next day was even worse.

“A seedless mango,” you murmured, rubbing your belly.

...

“A what?”

“A seedless mango. I want it.”

“… [Name], sweetheart, baby, I love ya, but that don’t exist.”

“It does.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I want it.”

Atsumu groaned. “Where am I gonna get a seedless mango?”

“Figure it out, please?”

He spent hours searching online, calling fruit vendors, and even asking Osamu if his suppliers had some secret black market seedless mango (Osamu asked him if a volleyball that was going 120 km/h hit his head).

No luck.

In the end, Atsumu cut up a normal mango, carefully removed every trace of the seed, and handed it to you with a hopeful grin.

You took one look at it and frowned.

“It’s not the same.”

Atsumu wanted to cry.

“I need you to wear a face mask.”

Atsumu blinked at you from your bed. “Huh? Why?”

You huffed quietly, fidgeting with the sheets. “Because your face is annoying.”

Atsumu gasped, hand clutching his chest. “My face?! The one ya love so much?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya vowed to look at forever in sickness and in health?!”

“Yes.”

“The one ya called ‘beautiful’ when I asked ya if I was hotter than ‘Samu?!”

“I love you, but right now, your face is irritating me.”

Atsumu stared, utterly betrayed, before sighing in defeat. He got up, went to the closet, grabbed one of the disposable masks he’d bought during flu season, and put it on.

“There. Happy now?”

You smiled sweetly. “Very.”

Atsumu flopped onto the bed with a groan, pulling the blanket over himself. As he lay there, sulking, you scooted closer and rested your head on his chest.

“I love you, you know that?” you murmured.

He grumbled. “Ya sure? Feels like ya hate me sometimes.”

You chuckled. “No, I love you. My hormones just don’t.”

He sighed. “Yer so lucky I love ya more than life.”

“I know. Pregnancy is so weird.”

And the worst has yet to come.

Atsumu should be asleep by now, but no, he had to be individually popping popcorn. One kernel at a time, as per your request.

He initially told you, “Yer kiddin’.”

You were not.

And that was how Atsumu found himself in the kitchen at three in the morning, painstakingly popping one kernel at a time in a tiny pan. Every time he accidentally popped more than one, you, who were sitting on a stool with your hands on your belly, would click your tongue disapprovingly.

“You put in two, Atsumu.”

“This is torture,” he grumbled, but he kept going.

“I want ice cream,” you said.

Atsumu perked up. “Oh, easy. What flavor?”

“I don’t know.”

He tilted his head to the side. “Uh… okay. I can get a few different kinds?”

“I need to taste them all.”

Atsumu frowned. “Like… all the flavors?”

“Yes.”

“… Babe, there are like fifty flavors at the ice cream shop.”

You nodded. “And I need to taste all of them before I decide which one I want.”

Atsumu let out a long, suffering sigh, but being the devoted husband he was, he marched straight to the ice cream parlor and ordered a ridiculous amount of sample cups. The poor employee stared at him in disbelief.

“You… want every flavor?”

“Yeah.”

“Every single one?”

“Yeah.”

“Sir, that’s—”

“My wife is pregnant, and if I don’t do this, I might not make it to the end of the week.”

The employee, upon hearing this, immediately started getting to work.

When Atsumu got home, you took one spoonful of each, nodded, and, after going through every single cup, announced:

“I don’t want ice cream anymore.”

Atsumu fell to his knees. Defeated.

“I need you to stand in the corner for a while.”

Atsumu looked up from his phone, confused. “Huh?”

“The corner. Stand there.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel like you should.”

Atsumu squinted. “Babe, are ya makin’ me into a damn decoration?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Atsumu sighed but did it anyway. He stood in the corner of your living room for a full ten minutes while you sat on the couch, happily watching TV. At some point, Osamu FaceTimed him, took one look at the scene, and hung up.

The next day, you called him while he was at practice, which was rare in itself because you did just leave messages whenever you knew he was practicing.

“Babe,” you said in a tone that made his stomach drop.

“… Yeah?”

“I need you to bring me a cheeseburger.”

He let out a relieved laugh, wiping the sweat off his brow. “That’s easy! I’ll grab ya one on my way ho—“

“But replace the buns with pancakes.”

Atsumu froze. “Come again?��

“You heard me.”

“I dunno if I did, sweetheart.”

“Pancakes. Instead of buns. Oh, and I want honey to go with it.”

Atsumu nearly dropped his phone.

“Yer messin’ with me.”

“I’m really not.”

And you weren’t. That evening, he stood in the kitchen, flipping pancakes with the precision of a professional chef before assembling the most unholy creation he’d ever laid eyes on—a cheeseburger with pancake buns, honey drizzled over the meat.

You took a bite and hummed softly. “Oh my god, this is better than sex.”

Atsumu, who had spent hours perfecting his technique in the bedroom, felt personally offended by that.

“Atsumu,” you murmur. “I need you to switch sides of the bed with me.”

He sighed. “No.”

“Atsumu.”

“[Name], baby, darlin’—I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because my side is closer to the door in case of an intruder.”

You chuckled quietly. “Tsumu, please. I need to sleep on that side.”

Atsumu stared at you, conflicted. He had never—not once—slept on the other side. It was unnatural. Wrong. It went against the very foundations of your marriage.

But you were looking at him with those tired, hormonal, pleading eyes. And he was sure you’d tell him you could barely see your feet now and often experience heartburn, all because of his unborn baby.

With a heavy sigh, Atsumu switched sides with you.

“You’re a good husband,” you whispered, patting his cheek.

Atsumu, lying in the unfamiliar position, staring at the wrong wall, whispered, “I’m a broken man.”

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primofate · 2 years ago

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[Genshin Impact] Sitting on his lap

Note: Watch me disappear for a long time again after this update.

Warnings: some are a bit suggestive, still safe for work though. established relationship with Genshin man, please excuse and tell me if there are pronoun slips

Premise: You just felt like sitting on his lap, nothing much to it...or so you think.

Characters: Alhaitham, Ayato, Baizhu, Cyno, Diluc, Itto, Kaeya, Lyney, Neuvillette, Scaramouche, gn!reader

Alhaitham

Continues reading his book unfazed, one arm automatically coming securely round your waist. He shuts his book after a few seconds more and passes you an upward glance.

"Need something?"

You only hum in response with a shake of your head, indicating that you had only wanted to be close to him. He sits straighter, chest pressing closer to your back. You feel the warmth of his lips press on the left side of your neck, his head tilted to gain access to it.

There's a deep inhale as he takes in your scent and a relaxed exhale that follows. You hear him whisper, voice almost a tone lower and a rare expression of affection passes his lips.

"You're intoxicating, do you know that?"

Ayato

Chuckles as you plop yourself on his lap. He had been doing some paperwork, but he pushes those aside as he wraps both arms around your middle, moving closer as his head rests on your shoulder.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The usual mischievous lilt in his voice doesn't disappear, he's amused that you've taken the initiative to come look for him, even though you knew he was in the middle of something. Before you could even reply, he beats you to it, his breath tickling the shell of your ear.

"Am I right to assume that you, perhaps, missed me?"

"...and what if I did?" you counter with a smile of your own. Head turning sideways to look at him. He grins, one of his hands unravelling from your middle to travel up your face, landing on your cheek, pulling you closer to meet his soft lips.

The kiss starts off gentle, just yours on his. It starts to turn hungrier, still soft, but now it feels like hot lava is churning in your belly at the increasing intensity. He pulls away for a moment only to whisper "Then I'll have to do something about that,"

Baizhu

Looks up from his medicinal notes, taking a few seconds to gaze at your back.

The first thing you feel are his hands resting atop your shoulders, then his thumbs pressing small circles near the base of your neck. You let out a pleasurable moan, relaxing in his hold. Then, as if realizing what you'd done, your hand darts atop your mouth to hide a small laugh.

You could hear Baizhu chuckling alongside with you.

"No need to hold back, darling," his thumbs continue to press circles, now downwards along your spine, continuing his massage.

"Mmmmm..." you try to stifle the next moan coming, "This could so easily be misinterpreted by anyone passing by outside," the two of you share a short laugh yet again.

"Either way, all I'm doing is giving you some love, darling,"

Cyno

He blinks as he feels you sit on him. He was always uncomfortable with the initial position, and so what he usually did was pull you and your legs up, positioning you sideways over his lap, legs somewhat dangling over the armchair. One strong arm wrapped around your back, steadying you and allowing you to lean towards him, tucking your head under his chin.

"Is something the matter?"

You shake your head and offer a simple reply. "Nothing at all, I just wanted to be close to you,"

Your honesty always managed to tug at the edge of his lips the slightest bit. In opportunities like this Cyno didn't say much, instead he liked to savour your warmth melding with his, liked to feel your breathing in sync with his.

He silently presses a kiss atop your head before closing his eyes, and staying that way for a moment longer.

Diluc

Instead of you melting into his embrace it's Diluc who melts around you. The moment you sit on his lap his arms encircle you around your shoulders and pulls you flush against him, your back to his front.

From his position, he nuzzles into your neck and sighs, his hot breath tickling your skin. He closes his eyes and shields himself from the world for a moment, basking in the safety and love emanating from you.

"Hard day?" You ask him and he mumbles something into your neck, incoherent. He repeats it as he pulls away a slight inch.

"Not more than usual," he squeezes you around the shoulders as he says so. "and you?"

You reach a hand up to sift through his hair, he sighs at the feeling and nearly melts into a puddle. "Nothing out of the ordinary," you return his sentiment.

You play with his hair as he holds you close, and in that moment there really isn't much for him to say, though his heart bursts with emotion and fondness towards you.

"Stay with me, Y/N," he makes this request from time to time, and though the two of you have already sworn yourselves to each other, perhaps he needed to say it once in a while in order to hear the answer from you.

"I'll always be here, Diluc,"

Itto

The oni is rather cluless in certain aspects of life, but when you sit on his lap he's guaranteed to be flustered. You prop yourself on his thighs, hands positioned on his legs to keep you from falling in case he made any sudden movements.

"Y-Y-Y/N?!"

"Hm?" You innocently ask, tipping your head back to playfully look at his reddening cheeks. "...Shouldn't you be used to this by now?" you ask, a laugh threatening to escape your lips because of the look on his face.

"I-Well-*ahem* Sure I am!" He puts on a brave face, but he looks like he's also sweating bullets. His hands are stiffly by his side, and he's hesitant to touch you anywhere.

You decide to comfortably lean back and Itto could not think of anything except how warm and soft you were compared to him. He had to get it together, this happened every time you sat on his lap, and it was becoming uncool for him to keep blushing when you did so. He promised himself that he would "man up".

...He still had the same reaction the next time you did it.

Kaeya

Kaeya reacts as if this was an every day thing, in fact this was always a good opportunity to flirt with you.

"Found your favourite spot have you?" Kaeya twists around to peer at you, grin plastered on his face, hand finding your thigh.

"It was tempting, you were just sitting there and it looked like a good place to rest," You returned his grin and felt his chest rumble with laughter.

"You're always welcome, snowflake," his hand squeezes your thigh, eye seemingly glinting with mischief. He shifts around on his seat, making space in between his legs and pulling you right between them, arms tight around your waist, front pressing against your back. "But you'll have to pay a small fee for this exclusive seat, I'm afraid,"

He tilts his head down to gaze at you expectantly, seemingly leaning closer. You smile, tilting your head up for you lips to meet. Kaeya doesn't half ass his kisses. It turns passionate in a split second and his hands are starting to wander up and down your thigh.

"Tsk, tsk," you let out as you part, your noses still connected, gazes steady on each other. "Are you sure it's just a kiss you want, sir?"

He chuckles, "Love, when have we ever stopped at just a kiss?"

Lyney

"Hm?" Lyney chides with a smile as he feels you become comfortable on his lap. He laughs when he realizes that you were not planning on leaving anytime soon. "Hello there my rose," His arms wrap around your waist, and his head rests on your back, snuggling into the warmth of it. He looks almost like a cat purring and rubbing onto their favourite scratching post.

It tickles you the slightest bit, so you bristle with soft laughter. "Lyney!" You warn, and he returns your sunny laugh with a chuckle, but doesn't let go.

"What's wrong, love?" He feigns innocence but now has resorted to placing butterfly kisses up and down your spine, taking a moment to lightly nip at the back of your neck before kissing back down again in a line.

By now you know he's doing it on purpose, so you twist around on his lap, and give him a half-hearted glare. "If you wanted kisses all you had to do was ask,"

Lyney finally pulls back and smirks, that same smirk that shows up when he's at the climax of a magic trick, about to reveal the grandest part. He leans back on the chair he's sitting on, placing both arms on the rests before lifting a hand up, wrists flicking upwards in a motion to beckon you over. "Well come now," the same hand tilts your chin gently towards his direction as he whispers, tongue briefly grazing over his lips, "Let me show you a real magic trick,"

Neuvillette

Neuvillette embraces you in and it almost feels like you're floating on a cloud, weightlessly relaxing in the air. His clothes help to cushion you, but at the same time Neuvillette himself is as warm as a fireplace and comfy as a sea of feathers. It feels safe in the arms of the Chief Justice, as if no harm will come to you. Sometimes you forget that you're in the presence of such an important man.

You almost always end up sliding down the slightest bit, the back of your head resting on his chest, his arm secured around your stomach. "Would you like to retire for the day?" he asks, and this is his code to ask you if you would like for him to stop working and walk back home with you.

"No, don't mind me," you whisper, burrowing further into him. You hear him sigh contentedly. With you, Neuvillette is lovestruck. Whatever is within his power, he would do it for you. He takes your hand and briefly presses his lips on the back of it. "Alright," and just like that he brings the paperwork back into his hands. Reading his notes and documents--highly confidential, by the way. Something that you shouldn't be reading--but he trusts you more than he trusts himself and that was dangerous, for someone like him.

If there ever came a day where you broke his trust, Neuvillette would most likely never trust another soul again. You alone was his deity of truth.

Scaramouche...Ruthless Prince Scaramouche?

"Whadd'you think you're doing?" his eye twitches as you jump on his lap. You glance backwards at him before turning away once again. "Getting comfy," you reply nonchalantly.

"Getting com--" the rest of the words were mumbled, you didn't catch the whole thing but it did sound like he said a very garbled and muffled "my ass" at the end of it. You ignore him and happily stay, humming as you read a book while you're at it.

Scaramouche glares at your back, taking a deep, long breath. For a moment he contemplated on just letting you do it, but the other part of him wanted to just push you off and let your butt painfully land on the ground.

As you were peacefully reading, you suddenly feel his forehead bump your back, though he wasn't holding nor hugging you at all. He stayed like that for a bit, as if he was praying to some God he believed--or didn't believe--in. After a moment he grumbles something more, but now has a firm arm around your waist.

He repositions, opening his legs a bit more to give you more space to rest in between them and then leaning forward to lazily loll his head on your shoulder, looking at the book you were reading. "...What trash are you reading now?" but his tone of voice had levelled off to calm, nearly peaceful.

"...101 ways to annoy your husband," you secretly grin when you hear him scoff. His hand finds its way to the spine of the book you're reading and easily grabs and flings it off to the side.

"You do that plenty, you don't need more ideas," his hold on you gets a little tighter, as if he wasn't going to let you go anytime soon. "Y'know what I've been reading lately...?" you feel his lips against your neck in a chaste kiss but in the next moment you feel a slight nip that sends electricity down your whole being.

"Hm?" You ask absentmindedly, the question doesn't completely register in your mind, what with his hand edging closer to the hem of your shirt, brushing against the bare skin of your waist. He breathes the next words into your ear huskily, his hand sliding upwards, and you feel a shiver making its way to your shoulders.

"101 ways to make you scream,"

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thesvnandthemooon · 1 month ago

Text

𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐳𝐨𝐧𝐞

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: the request didn’t ask for the backstory but here i am, giving you one anyway. part two with the actual request should be done in a couple days :)

summary: based on this request; firefighter!nat

warnings: alcohol, cheating

word count: 8.2k

part 1, part 2

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

Part 1: Death of a Marriage

Natasha's spent her entire life putting out fires. When she was a kid and angled the magnifying glass wrong. When she was a teenager and tried to make scrambled eggs. When she became a firefighter, carrying hoses and using fire extinguishers. The only fire she didn't manage to put out was the one burning down her marriage. Even worse — she was the one who struck the match.

Your daughter Valerie is four when it begins. Heat, fuel and oxygen come together. It's just little sparks, nothing more and nothing less; but it's enough to start something neither of you can put out.

It's an early night for you and your daughter. Valerie has been cranky all day due to a missed nap and a lingering fever, so you quickly dip her into a bubble bath before getting her into bed.

Cheeks warm and arms clutching her stuffed rabbit, she stares at the ceiling with the little glow in the dark-stars. Her toes wiggle under the blanket, and you smooth out her comforter.

"I want mama", she declares.

"Mama's at work, baby", you reply, bringing your hand up to her face. You brush unruly red locks behind her ear. "You'll see her at breakfast. She promised, remember?"

"No", she mumbles. "Want mama now."

You exhale, fingers brushing against her cheek in a soothing motion. This isn't uncommon — Natasha's shifts are long. But she used to be home more often, especially in the evenings.

She used to swoop your daughter up from the couch and into her arms, tickle her and carry her up the stairs. All you'd hear were belly laughs and quiet wheezing. It's been a while since that happened.

"I'm sorry", you reply. You grab her favorite fairytale book and open it, hoping it'd distract her. "Want to see what The Three Little Pigs are doing?"

Valerie shakes her head and turns around, arms crossed stubbornly. You frown and start reading anyway, but she stays quiet. No sign of interaction whatsoever — she's not looking at the pictures, not reacting to any of the scenes.

Finally, you close the book. You haven't even gotten halfway through.

"Honey?"

Valerie huffs, hugging her stuffed rabbit tighter. Her back stays turned to you, and you adjust her pajamas so they cover her lower back as well. You run your fingers through her red hair. Your hair texture, but the exact shade Natasha has.

"Sweetheart, I'm sorry. You know mama's doing something really important, right?"

"No", she mumbles. "It's stupid."

That does slice you open a little. You know she doesn't mean it — she's four, for god's sake. Last week, she threatened to not invite you to her birthday party. But she's a little human with big emotions, and in this moment, those emotions are directed at the profession her mother chose to pursue.

You understand her. You've been angry at it as well. Not often, and not like this, but it's happened. It's hard to be understanding when you're sleep-deprived and rocking a toddler who caught the flu.

"Hey", you say, giving your failed attempt to distract her one last try, "what cartoon do you want to watch with mama tomorrow? I'll let you have breakfast on the couch."

First, she pauses. Then, her head turns and she gives you a hopeful look. "On the couch?"

"Yeah. You can watch whatever you want. Curious George, Franklin, Winnie...your choice, bub."

Valerie sits up and clumsily wipes her hair away from her face. "With mama?"

"With mama", you confirm. You tap her nose. "Don't be mad at her. She's saving people, you know. Putting out fires. You remember Fireman Sam?"

She nods. It's the first cartoon Natasha introduced her to. The why is obvious, but honestly? You thought it was endearing. Valerie was barely old enough to sit at that point, but your wife — fresh from her shift, complete with turnout pants and soot smudged on her hands — slid a dvd into the dvd player and watched two full episodes with her.

You miss those days. Back when Valerie was still a baby, and your marriage still felt new and exciting. When the cracks hadn't appeared yet, when love was enough to keep everything together.

Valerie, now content with the prospect of eating her favorite cereal on the couch tomorrow, curls into the blankets again.

"Can you read the pig story?"

"Of course, baby."

Once she's asleep, you tiptoe out of her room and leave the door ajar. You get started on the things you weren't able to do during the day. You do the dishes, wipe the table, fold the clean laundry. When you're done you turn on the tv, blankly stare at the screen for a moment, then sigh and turn it off again.

It's quiet in your bedroom. The bedsheets have little indents in them. While you were getting dressed this morning, Valerie had jumped onto the bed and hopped around until you were ready to get her to preschool.

You don't bother getting undressed. You had six clients come over for therapy sessions — which isn't a lot, per se, but when combined with having to take care of a very lively toddler afterwards, it easily becomes too much.

The pillowcases smell like Natasha's shampoo. Warm, woodsy, making you press your face into it. You fall asleep quickly, buried between the sheets and sprawled out on the bed. When she returns, it's 3am. You don't notice.

She stands in the doorway for a moment, unmoving and not making a sound. She's still in her work clothes, which means turnout pants and a black tank top. Her arms are smudged, her hair in a low bun. She watches your back move with every in- and exhale, then she quietly makes her way to the closet and starts to undress.

You stir at the sound of her boot toppling over. She glances at you. She doesn't want you to wake up. She knows you've got your hands full with Valerie and work, and you need your rest. But you stay asleep, arms beneath the pillow and legs sprawled out.

Only in boxers and a sports bra, Natasha joins you. She puts her head on the pillow and tries to make out your features in the darkness. Her hand reaches out, fingers grazing your side, then she pulls back. You let out a tired hum.

"Home safe?", you mumble, half-asleep.

"Yeah." She brushes her fingers against your shoulder. "You're here."

"Always am."

"I know. It's good."

"Did you shower?"

Natasha rolls onto her back. She smells like sweat and smoke. "You can tell, huh."

You yawn and sit up, rubbing your eyes. It's been almost seven years since you got married. Figuring out whether she's taken a shower after work isn't hard, and truthfully, it never was. The smell is distinct, strong, but not that unpleasant anymore.

"You smell like you brought the entire station home." You tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You're not sleeping under the covers like that."

"Good god, Y/N."

"I changed the sheets two days ago!"

Natasha sighs, then gets up. You can tell she's exhausted. No wonder. She's told you about her typical day at work before, and just listening to it tired you out. Her muscles must be killing her after a long shift like this one.

You watch her disappear into the en-suite bathroom. Part of her is tempted to ask whether you want to join, but not much has been happening on that front for a while now, and she's not in the mood to get turned down. The door falls shut, and seconds later, you hear the water run.

You lay back down, eyes on the ceiling, and silently wish you'd installed those glow in the dark-stars Valerie has in your room as well. Maybe they'd be able to distract you.

. . .

"Mama, look!"

Valerie's standing atop the swing set your wife built two years ago. It's complete with a little treehouse, a climbing wall and a slide, and your daughter spends almost every day playing with it. Natasha's standing by the sandpit, arms crossed and a backwards cap on her head.

"You wanna slide down, bub?"

She nods, red curls flying, and jumps onto the slide. She slides down so fast that she ends up in the rubber mulch. "Woah!"

"Yeah, that was fast."

You poke your head out of the window, frowning. This is what you get for marrying a firefighter — the reckless genes get passed down to your children.

"A bit more careful next time", you call.

"Sorry, mommy!"

Natasha grabs Valerie's hands and lifts her off the ground. The girl shrieks and laughs, legs kicking. You smile faintly.

It's a peaceful evening. It's Sunday, the sun has started to go down, the sky is lit up in all shades of pink and blue. Someone's barbecuing. You watch your wife and daughter as they sit in the sandpit together.

"Are you guys hungry? Dinner's almost ready."

"Not now", Valerie says, grabbing a bucket. "I'm making a castle, mommy!"

"In this economy?", Natasha asks, grinning. She starts scooping sand into the bucket. "Anything for you, princess."

You smile to yourself and turn around again. The house smells like the pizza that's baking in the oven, music is playing on the radio, the book you ordered is actually interesting and worth spending your free time on for once. It's hard to believe that things aren't as perfect as they seem.

You go into the kitchen and get a few plates. You hear your daughter giggle outside, actual belly laughs that mostly Natasha manages to coax out of her. They join you in the kitchen a few minutes later, still smiling and talking. Sand is clinging to hair and skin, and you're pretty sure one of them smells like spilled apple juice.

Valerie climbs onto the counter to help you tear lettuce into smaller pieces. Natasha comes up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist in a way that almost seems foreign now. Her lips brush against your shoulder.

"What's mommy making for dinner?"

"I made pizza." You reach out to turn on the water for Valerie so she can wash her sand-caked hands. "There you go, honey. Now you can help."

"Smells good", Natasha mumbles. Her nose nudges your neck. "You smell good, too."

"Ew", Valerie says, tossing a piece of lettuce at you. Natasha laughs quietly.

"What, I can't be nice to my wife?"

The girl shakes her head 'no'. She turns, one foot dangling off the counter, and reaches into the bowl to grab another handful of lettuce. You hum and put out a bowl that she can put the smaller pieces into.

Hands roam your sides, your stomach, slip under the fabric of your shirt. Something in you twists with longing. This is exactly what it used to feel like. Warm, safe, normal. Now, it's just something you aren't used to anymore.

Natasha puts her chin on your shoulder to look at you. You give her a glance, a brief smile, and she squeezes your waist. She doesn't say anything — words have always been your strength in this household. You get paid to talk, after all. What she does instead is build stuff and use her hands, which can be useful, but not always appropriate.

"Dinner?", you ask, still looking at her.

"Kid's hungry."

"And you?"

She presses a quick kiss to your jaw. Her hand squeezes your tummy. "Dumb question. I always am."

You want to lean into her embrace. Instead, you turn to take the pizza out of the oven. Natasha stands there, rejected and silent, then scoops up Valerie and carries her to the dinner table.

Dinner is quiet, awkward. Out of the three of you, Valerie talks the most. She's a toddler, which means that she'll talk about everything and anything. Her current hyperfixation? Space.

"You can be an astronaut, mama", she says, peeling the peppers off her pizza. "It's so cool!"

"I already have a job, bub."

"But astronauts are cool!"

"No doubt", Natasha says, her voice shifting into a mumble when her phone buzzes. She takes a look at the screen and flips over her phone.

You pick at your salad, watching her. She bites into the pizza crust she abandoned earlier. You clear your throat. "Who was that?"

"Colleague", she mutters, reaching for her napkin and wiping her mouth.

"Which one?"

There's nothing going on between her and that woman. She's sworn that multiple times, and in a way, she's telling the truth. Flirting isn't cheating, after all. It's innocent enough. She's still not going to say her name out loud, though. It'd just end in another fight.

"Just a colleague", she replies. She bites into another pizza slice. "Nothing important."

"No", you agree half-heartedly. Valerie jumps up from her chair and runs into the hallway. "Wash your hands!"

"Okay!"

You stare at the almost-finished pizza in front of you. It's gone silent now that your daughter isn't filling the awkward space between you now, so every sound you make feels painfully loud.

Natasha puts down her pizza slice and scrubs her hand down her face. When she got married to you, she had no idea what it'd entail. All she knew were failed marriages, like her parents'. To this day, they don't talk.

She didn't know what being married to you would be like, or how she was supposed to act as a wife. She didn't know what it'd feel like, either. She still doesn't really know. But she's certain that it shouldn't feel like this. Not when it used to be so different once.

"I'll clean up", she finally says, just to make the silence less loud. You look up. "Just...stay here. Relax a bit."

"Sure", you mumble. Natasha gets up, balancing three plates and a salad bowl. She disappears into the kitchen. You lean forward, elbows on the table and your head in your hands.

They're still just sparks. They're small, minor, easy to extinguish. Somehow, despite all your knowledge and experience, you can't remember how to do it.

. . .

Fights become more frequent. They're not bad fights — just little arguments that you can ignore. Disagreements, squabbles, slowly but surely increasing the heat and feeding the growing flames.

Neither of you are sure how they start. It's not like the love isn't there, but it's not enough to quench the fire.

It's the small things that add fuel. Natasha not immediately responding to a text, you holding onto her mistakes and throwing them into conversations like pebbles. Her disappearing into the garage for hours, you comparing her to clients and subtly psychoanalyzing her.

(Natasha will probably never get over your anger-fueled remark that 'Freud would have a field day with her.')

Then again, there are moments where you're able to ignore the cracks. Where the love, buried beneath dishes and responsibilities, comes back up and gasps for air. Where your hand slips into hers easily, where she pulls you aside during a family function just to make out with you like you're back to being in that honeymoon phase of dating.

One Saturday, you get up early to go to the annual summer block party of Natasha's fire station. Knowing it'll be sunny day, you make both her and Valerie sit down after breakfast. Hands slick, you run them down your wife's arms to put sunscreen on them. She shifts and squirms.

"Hold still", you say.

"Yes, ma'am."

"God, even Vee doesn't move this much."

Natasha rolls her eyes. You smear some sunscreen on her nose. Valerie sees that and starts laughing so hard she almost falls off the couch. You chuckle along with her.

"Teaming up against me, I see", she mutters, wiping her nose.

"That's what you get for your attitude", you hum, rubbing some sunscreen into her cheeks and neck. When you're done, you pause. Your hands rest on her jaw, and you're standing between her legs.

Not too long ago, you would've leaned in and kissed her. It used to be the easiest thing in the world. Now, you're not sure — you feel like you should kiss her, but you don't know if you can.

Natasha swallows. She reaches up and adjusts your dress, subtly running her fingers over the soft fabric.

"You look good."

"Yeah?"

"Beautiful. You look beautiful."

"You do!", Valerie adds, getting up to grab her sandals. "I want ice cream. Can I?"

You smile faintly, still staring at the woman in front of you. There may be cracks in what was once a stable marriage, but that doesn't erase the past. It's all still there, floating between and surrounding you like air — invisible, silent, but always there.

She gets up and suddenly, the decision is taken from you. She smells like sunscreen and cologne, lips warm and familiar despite everything. You cup her face and press closer, mouth moving against hers.

Hands trail down your arms, to your waist. She tugs you closer. You wrap your arms around her. Things haven't gone further in weeks. Usually, it ends after a kiss. Now that it could go further, though, it doesn't. Because a little girl with an orange mini pop in her hands decides it's the perfect moment to skid back into the living room.

You pull away immediately, wiping your mouth to remove smudged lipstick. Natasha stands there, aroused and annoyed, rubbing at her own lips. She's tempted to send your daughter upstairs to play, but you have to leave in ten minutes.

"Ice cream?", you say in disbelief. It took you a few seconds to realize that Valerie managed to swipe a sweet treat from the freezer. It's melting already, dripping onto her white dress. "Hey, careful with that. Great, now you need a new dress."

"Didn't bring me one?", Natasha asks, sitting on the couch again. "Is that the last one, bub?“

"You're not having ice cream!", you call from the hallway.

"But-"

"We have to leave!"

Valerie nods. Her chin is pressed to her chest as she tries to peek at the stains the ice cream left. "Listen to mommy."

Natasha narrows her eyes at her. The way she said that sounds so like you that it's both infuriating and hilarious. "Careful, smartass."

You return, a fresh dress thrown over your arm. You crouch in front of Valerie and get her changed. She squirms, holding the half-eaten ice cream, and puts the cherry on top by dropping it. She stares at the ice cream, then starts crying.

"No, my ice cream!"

You sigh, tugging at the dress to make sure it sits right, and then get up. "I'll clean it up. Go to the car with mama, yes?"

"I want ice cream!"

"They'll have ice cream at the station", Natasha says. She scoops Valerie up despite her protests and carries her outside. Once the floor is spotless again, you follow them.

It's warm outside. The area surrounding the fire station is crowded and loud. It smells like hotdogs and cotton candy, kids shriek and laugh, adults try to keep up with conversations.

Your hand in Natasha's and Valerie on her hip, you make your way past smaller groups of people. Your daughter starts wiggling impatiently when she sees the bouncy castle they put up. Apparently, a house made of inflated PVC is enough to make her forget about the ice cream-disaster at home.

"Down, mama! I wanna play!"

You exchange a look with Natasha. She sighs and puts Valerie on her feet, but keeps a loose hold on her shoulder. "Shoes off and be careful, alright? Don't jump into anyone else."

One hurried nod later, your daughter storms off. You watch her join Clint's kids in the bouncy castle.

"You're sure this is a good idea?"

"She's a kid. Kids play. She'll be fine."

You cross your arms. You know she's right, but that doesn't mean you'll agree. The bouncy castle is cramped, so much so that a little boy ends up tumbling out. The ground is covered in soft rubber tiles, thankfully, but he starts crying anyway.

"Besides", she adds, "aren't you the one who's always going on and on about how kids need to be 'independent' and 'resilient'?"

"Don't use my own words against me", you retort, voice more biting. "I just don't want to drive to the ER on a Saturday."

"It's a bouncy castle."

"Romanoffs!"

As soon as you hear Clint's voice, you shut up and turn around. He approaches you, a beer in one hand and his shirt unbuttoned. He may seem oblivious on the outside, but he's done this before — broken up a fight that hasn't started yet.

It doesn't even faze you anymore. Natasha is just grateful she doesn't get sucked into another argument, while you're simmering silently. You've known Clint ever since you and Natasha started dating, and although he is the godfather of your daughter and basically part of your family, he still possesses the unique ability to piss you off. Not many people are able to do that.

He gives you both a happy nod and gestures at the surrounding area. "You see that? Half the town is here."

"It's nice", you agree. Natasha wraps her arm around your shoulders. "Where's Laura?"

"Oh, talking to Peggy. You guys want a drink?"

"Driving", Natasha mutters.

"Too hot. I'll end up nauseous again."

"Again?" She frowns and squeezes your shoulder. She's forgotten about your almost-fight already. "You okay?"

You wave your hand, trying to dismiss her worries. "It's only been a few days, Nat. I'm fine."

Clint scratches his ear. What you're describing sounds a lot like something his own wife went through a couple years ago, but it's probably better to let you figure it out yourself. No need to add more tension.

"Alright", he says. "Hotdogs, then? They're great this year, Cooper killed five of 'em."

You shake your head, but Natasha's nodding already. Defeated, you follow them to the barbecues they set up.

Valerie comes running about ten minutes later. She jumps into Natasha's lap, talks animatedly with her hands flailing, steals bites of her hotdogs. You watch her, and the sight makes you feel even more guilty.

It's not fair. This little girl has been the buffer for way too long now. She deserves more than a home that feels like it's constantly holding its breath. Yet, there's no sign of her noticing it — she's as happy and smiley as always.

You, on the other hand, are exhausted. You feel a gentle nudge and turn your head.

"You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"Tired", you say. "Must be the heat."

"You're tired a lot lately."

Valerie climbs into your lap now, but only to grab your lemonade and sip on it. You wrap one arm around her and smooth her hair down with the other.

"I told you I'm fine", you mutter, reaching for a napkin to wipe the ketchup off your daughter's mouth. "Probably work too much."

"Right." She exhales softly. Her fingers drum against the surface of the table. "It's just, you know..."

You're not stupid. You know exactly what she's insinuating. Once upon a time, you loved the idea — two kids, maybe three. Beds filled with giggles, fingers sticky with applesauce, feet dirty with mud. Cartoons on Sunday mornings and a living room full of toys and picture books.

Honestly, it scares you now. Your marriage problems are enough to deal with already. Adding a new baby to the mix could be the thing that makes the cracks grow and the glass shatter.

"I'm fine, okay?", you snap. Valerie gives you a confused look. "Just let it go."

Natasha stares at you, jaw clenched with worry. She silently notes to grab a pregnancy test on the way home.

. . .

Seeing a single line appear is both relieving and disappointing in the most confusing way.

You're both in the bathroom, barefoot and only in pajamas. You're crying, silently, and you're not even sure why. The thought terrified you, but now, you miss the glimmer of hope you felt at the thought of a little being growing inside you.

Bullshit. Like a baby could change anything. Putting that much pressure on an infant can't be healthy. Still, you glance at Natasha. She quickly wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Well, there's that", she mumbles. "At least we don't have to buy a new stroller."

"No", you agree. You sold the stroller a couple months ago, when you were certain you were done with having kids. "No crib, either."

"Right." She clears her throat. "I, uh, should go and keep working on that bookshelf for Vee's room."

You reach for her wrist right as she gets up. This is so painfully familiar in the worst way. Whenever there's something that's not quite going right, she grabs her toolbox and starts assembling or fixing stuff. Your first big fight is how you wound up with a potting bench — neither of you garden, but you technically could.

Natasha looks at you, her eyes still glassy with tears. She swallows. "Hm?"

"I want a baby."

She stares at you, staggered. "What?"

You hesitate, still holding onto her. You're not even sure why you just blurted it out like that. Of course there are more sensitive ways to say it, but your brain isn't functioning how it should right now. Sitting in the small bathroom downstairs, with the peach scented soap and the turtle stickers on the tiles, the negative pregnancy test on the counter — you're overwhelmed.

Natasha isn't doing much better. She slowly sits back down on the edge of the tub. Your thumb rubs her skin absentmindedly.

"I want a baby. With you. I want to make this work."

"It is working", she protests weakly.

"Is it?"

Her eyes flicker between you and the floor. She pulls away only to grab your hand and squeeze it. You feel her wedding band against your palm. She can tell where this is going just by your voice. You're using your therapy-voice again, the one she's heard you use with patients when she accidentally walked into the hallway that leads to your practice.

She's not in the mood for this. She doesn't like talking it out, she doesn't like verbalizing what she's feeling. She's more of a 'show, don't tell'-person. If she's sorry, she's building you patio furniture instead of apologizing.

"A baby", she says, quickly edging past the topic you just brought up. But she sounds hopeful. "We said we're done."

"We don't have to be", you say, more softly now. "Maybe it's what we need. I mean, when we had Valerie..."

"I know." Natasha smiles, her fingers intertwining with yours. Those first few months of baby bliss were the sweetest she's ever had. It was quiet, warm, like you were trapped in a bubble in which nothing could go wrong.

In a way, it was true. Nothing did go wrong. Spit-up on your shirts and sleepless nights were your biggest problems. You didn't fight once. You were able to kiss issues and disagreements away. The knowledge that a tiny human relied on you was enough to make you keep your shit together.

You hum, glancing at her. She exhales and rubs your hand. You see her in that hospital room again, the night you gave birth — a little baby cradled to her chest, cheeks tear stained, mumbling 'it's okay' over and over again —, and everything clicks into place.

It may not fix your issues. It may not be some sort of magical cure. But you're desperate enough to convince yourself it's worth a try.

"I want to do it for the right reasons." You force those words out, even if they taste bitter. "Not just so we..."

"We won't."

"Natasha."

She shakes her head and gets up, pulling you along. "No", she says. You find yourself seated on the counter of the sink. "I don't want to hear it. It's not happening."

"God", you mumble. She kisses your neck. "I hope you're not wrong."

Your breath hitches when her hands tug at your shorts. You shift and wiggle out of them. Hands roam your sides and thighs, lips press against your shoulder and chest. You wrap your legs around her waist.

This is not a new situation for you, but it feels new anyway. Different, exciting, scary. Her movements are quicker, her breathing is ragged and slightly shaky.

Saving a marriage isn't easy. Not even a baby can put out the flames that are already eating at the support beams of a house.

. . .

It takes almost half a year before looking at the crib Natasha assembled doesn't hurt.

You didn't think it'd take this long for you to get pregnant again. With Valerie, it happened immediately. You just decided to start trying for a baby one day, and a month later, you held a positive test in your hands.

This time, it isn't nearly as easy. It's like the universe is trying to warn you, trying to tell you to really think this through.

Neither of you listens, though. It turns into a routine. Once the kid is asleep, you lock the bedroom door and tug off your clothes. There's not much talking involved, but one thing's certain: the fire may affect your marriage, but definitely not your sex life.

Natasha buys pinewood and baby-safe paint. She sits in the garage for hours, headphones on and fingers calloused. She misses lunch three times before she's done building the crib.

None of that seems to matter, though — the tests stay negative.

You take one every week. You go through two dozen pregnancy tests before one is finally positive. Two lines, one a bit weaker, but both clear enough to quell your doubts.

Tears flow, again. They're silent and salty, dripping on your shirt and on the test. You can't get a single word out, so Natasha pulls you into her arms and kisses your hair.

"It's okay", she mumbles, over and over again. This time, it's directed at you. You cry harder and fist the fabric of her shirt. You don't even hear the padding of socked feet behind you, don't notice how Natasha's voice drifts off.

A dimpled little hand pats your back. You turn your head. Somehow, seeing Valerie stand there — all sleepy and confused — makes your tears worse. You scoop her up with one arm, holding her between you and Natasha.

For the weeks that follow, things are okay. Cracks disappear, the fire dies down little by little. You bask in the same light you felt a few years ago. You're almost as overeager as Natasha — you order onesies, search the basement for your breast pump, clean out the extra room you use for everything that has no real place in the house.

Valerie is old enough to sort of understand what's happening. If you didn't know any better, you'd think she's happier about it than Natasha. Unlike her mom, she's verbalizing her excitement constantly. She tells everyone — her teachers at preschool, her friends, the random neighbor she sees while playing in the backyard — about the baby.

Natasha doesn't talk about it much. Instead, she does what she's always done. Build, paint, repair. Buy food and make breakfast in bed. Put her hand on your stomach at night. Kiss it, maybe. Clean the house. Find your old maternity clothes (then decide you deserve new ones and order four boxes full of them). Stock up on snacks.

She doesn't tell you what she's feeling. As someone whose entire career revolves around just that, you both hate and love her for it.

At first, she's present. She's attentive. Then, you start to pull away. Not intentionally — it's something pregnancy can do to you. It makes you feel alone, especially when your partner's ability to talk about emotions and feelings is limited. But when you pull away, so does Natasha.

It's subtle. Late nights at the station, maybe once or twice a week. A missed dinner here and there. Being avoidant. Still making midnight runs for your cravings, but not staying while you pick at them. You used to share the bag full of fries you requested. Now, they go cold.

You start to fight again, which is much worse than the silence ever could be. Because no matter how hard you push, she still won't say much. Some of your patients are kids with traumas, kids who go non-verbal whenever they're stressed. They still tell you more than she does.

The fights get loud, anyway, but you're the one who's doing most of the yelling. You're the one who finds herself with a cup in her hand, ready to hurl it at the wall. Only the cartoon playing on the tv in the living room is what stops you.

The more you fight, the less you see her. Late shifts, she says. It's stressful. Luis quit. Not enough people in case of emergencies.

Tears dry on hoodies. You curl into the sheets on your own. Sometimes, Valerie tiptoes into your bed and snuggles up against your back. When Natasha finds you like that, the guilt she feels is so suffocating it makes it hard to breathe.

The next morning, there's a birdhouse on your dresser.

Despite all of this, she still manages to feel the baby's first real kick. She doesn't cry often, but she does that night.

. . .

You go into labor when Natasha's working another late shift. As soon as she gets the call, she's sprinting towards her car and leaving.

Charlotte is born seven hours later. Natasha's the one who picked her name, because you wanted her to. You regret doubting that decision in the beginning — the name definitely makes sense for the little baby in her arms.

"She's got your eyes."

"She's asleep."

She nods, biting the inside of her cheeks. Her thumb is rubbing featherlight circles into the baby's cheek. She smells like smoke and exhaustion. "I know you. I know her. She's definitely got your eyes."

Outside, the sun is peeking over the horizon, sneaking glances at the newborn your wife is holding. You could swear you've never been this tired in your life, and it might be accurate. You spent the hours right before your water broke trying to soothe a sick toddler.

Natasha shifts in her chair. There's one thing you've always loved about her, and that's the way she treats children. She puts out fires and carries 200 pound men out of burning buildings, but she holds babies like they're made of gold.

She looks at you. You both see something you thought was long gone. "You alright?"

"Bit hungry."

"Oh?" She gets up, no questions asked — it doesn't matter that you had a full meal just a couple hours ago. She hands you the baby and slips into her jacket. Do, don't tell. "What do you want?"

You hesitate, cradling Charlotte against your chest. She squirms in her sleep. "You're leaving?"

"Just to get some food."

"I'd rather you stay", you admit, lightly rubbing the baby's back. "We could order something."

"You sure? There's a diner right down the street, or a Wendy's-"

"Stay. Please." You exhale shakily. "It's been weeks since I fell asleep next to you, you know."

Natasha stares, her heart heavy. Between late shifts and early mornings, she never realized this. When she gets home, you're usually fast asleep — being pregnant and taking care of a toddler will tire you out.

She shrugs off her jacket and puts it over the backrest of the chair. She sits down next to you, kicks off her boots, curls around you. Her fingers trail down the baby's back, and her arm wraps around your shoulders. You lean into her.

The sun comes up. The room is bathed in bright colors, yellow and orange in all their shades. You fall asleep with your head on her chest.

. . .

Having a baby doesn't take the oxygen away from the fire. It doesn't stop the flames from licking at something that was once stable. It just puts your life on pause, even if only briefly.

Postpartum is always hard, but it's infinitely harder when you have a toddler to look after as well. Natasha takes a couple weeks off work, which helps. She makes food, entertains Valerie, holds and rocks the baby while you shower.

It's healing. It reminds you of why you're doing this. Suddenly, you're falling asleep together again (not for long, since Lottie wakes up three times a night, but who are you to complain?). You're in a similar headspace as to when you had Valerie. Things usually get easier before they get harder, but for a few weeks, you don't dare worry about that.

Why should you, after all? Despite the stretch marks and the spit up on your shoulders, Natasha's flirting again. She's present. She's changing diapers instead of fixing chairs in the garage. Whenever the baby blues hit, she appears next to you with a cup of tea and your favorite meal. When you're breastfeeding, she pulls out a book and quietly reads it out loud. Not even the little sex jokes she throws in here and there bother you anymore. Somehow, it's nicer to feel desired when you're not at your personal best.

Natasha disagrees with that one. You're always at your personal best, even when you're fighting with her, but especially when you just gave birth to her baby. Of course, she doesn't tell you that.

It's not postpartum that makes you worry. It's what comes after those three months of bliss.

You knew she'd have to go back to work eventually, and that's fine. Obviously it is. But the second she's late to dinner, the moment you realize she's taken over a late shift again, you slip back into that feeling of being abandoned.

You start to pull away again, and so does she.

No more falling asleep together. No more dinners on the porch. All that remains is the smell of smoke, clinging to her skin and to the bedsheets. Conversations become shorter as you reduce them to the absolute minimum.

Charlotte is four months old when you have your first big fight since having the baby again.

It starts as something mundane. Natasha, home late from work and missing dinner. You, barely talking. Valerie, asleep in her bed.

She's in her turnout pants, suspenders hanging off her hips and soot all over her hands. She picks up Lottie and you nearly spiral.

"Wash your hands first!"

"What?"

"Your hands, Natasha." You walk to the portable crib and take the baby from her. Charlotte squirms. "Wash them, for god's sake."

She stares at you, taken aback. She knows it's not just her unwashed hands. It's happened before, because she's tired when she gets home and tends to forget about things, and you usually just remind her before going on about your day.

This time, you're pissed. You cradle Charlotte and walk into the kitchen. Natasha quickly follows after you.

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"She's a baby. I don't even want to know what you've been touching all day."

"I wash my hands all the time while at the station." She stands next to you. You put Lottie into her bouncer and fasten the safety harness. She kicks her legs, gurgling at Natasha. "Hey, sweetheart."

You turn on the faucet and gesture at it. She sighs and gives in, pumping some soap into her open palm and scrubbing off the soot.

"I don't know what's gotten into you", she mutters, drying her hands. You raise your eyebrows. "All I did was-"

"You picked her up without washing your hands first! You know that rule!"

"Dirt builds immunity", she argues.

"I don't need you taking risks", you hiss. "She's four months old. Plenty of time left for her immunity to be built."

Natasha can't help but chase you when you leave the room once more. You've got the baby in your arms again, your steps hurried as you walk up the stairs. She hesitates when you pass Valerie's bedroom — she's barely seen her today —, then speeds up when she loses sight of you.

"I forgot, okay?"

"Yes", you mutter, putting Charlotte on the changing table, "that's the problem, isn't it?"

"Huh?"

The baby lets out an unhappy squawk. Maybe it's you peeling off her onesie, or maybe it's the fight you're having right next to her. Either way — you bite the inside of your cheek and grab a diaper, knocking over a bottle of lotion in the process.

It drops. You, being in a hurry earlier that day, left the cap open. Lotion spills on the floor, and you start to cry.

"Get out."

"No, no, wait", she pleads, stepping closer. "Why are you crying? It's just lotion, I'll clean it up."

"Get out!"

Charlotte fusses and starts crying as well. You shake your head and put the fresh diaper on her, then you reach for her pajamas. Natasha's still there, standing next to you, looking lost and helpless.

You're bitter. You're tired. It's not your fault for thinking she deserves to feel that way. You've been feeling like that for a while now, haven't you? It's fair that she experiences it as well.

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't move, doesn't help. You scoop Charlotte up and walk to the crib that's attached to your bed. Only then does Natasha clean up the lotion.

When she's done, she leaves the room. She closes the door, gently. She shrugs on a jacket and grabs her keys. She gets into her car and drives off.

It's quiet in the barn behind the station. It's an old thing, huge and smelling like dust, but the team renovated it a couple years ago. The beanbags are flat and probably full of insects, the mini fridge is almost never stocked, but at least there's alcohol.

Going here is probably the dumbest decision she could've made that night. She should've talked to you, apologized, listened. Instead, she's about to turn a fight into a full blown war.

Clint looks up when she sits on the beanbag next to his. He raises his bottle in silent greeting. She nods, arms crossed, and stares at the wall. It's covered in pages ripped from old Playboys. How very different from the house of milk bottles and lullabies she just ran from.

First, he clears his throat. She doesn't react. Then, he nudges her foot with his. She shakes her head.

"Alright", he finally says. "Why the hell are you here?"

"Not your fucking problem, Barton."

"No", he agrees. "You got two kids waiting for you, though. And a wife who's probably not too happy about this."

"Y/N is never happy, anyway", she mutters, flicking a fly off her knee. "Doesn't matter if I'm home or not."

He frowns. She reaches into the cooler he brought and grabs a beer. When the barn door opens, she looks up and sees Wendy. A wordless nod of acknowledgment is exchanged, and Clint elbows her in the ribs.

He's seen them flirt. Natasha claims it's harmless. In a way, it is — she could never feel for her what she feels for you. She married you. She has kids with you. But oftentimes, flirting is not about feelings. It's about escaping. About feeling something new for a few minutes.

"I swear to-"

"You need to talk to Y/N", he says, "not ogle Johnston."

"I'm not ogling", she replies, cracking open the can. She takes a sip and grimaces. "What the fuck is wrong with your cooler? This is warmer than my piss."

He rolls his eyes. "Bring your own, then. Now get up and go home, or I'm driving you myself."

"Shut up", she mutters, taking another sip. "She needs some time to herself."

"Sometimes I wonder how you guys are still married."

"Trust me, I do too."

"Yeah, well..." He plucks the can from her hand, "...go home and change something about it!"

She glares at him, but he doesn't budge. He gestures at the barn door as if he could make her get and leave with his sheer willpower. But Natasha's more scared of what awaits her at home than she is of him, so she stays seated.

Clint is sick of her by this point. He has a teenager at home who isn't this hard to deal with. Playing marriage counselor when her wife is a literal family therapist also doesn't make much sense to him.

He gets up and grabs her by the collar of her jacket. She sputters and lets him drag her to her feet.

"What the fuck!"

"Get your sorry ass home!"

She stumbles out of the barn and nearly trips. It's cold out, her breath coming out in aggressive little puffs. Clint pats her back and nods at her car.

"Go", he says. "Before you screw this up."

Before you screw this up — for some reason, Natasha thinks she might've missed that opportunity.

. . .

When she returned that night, you didn't talk for two full days.

It slowly got worse. Longer shifts, more time spent in the garage. You, pulling away from her every touch. The flirting died down. When you did talk, it was about the kids. Your sex life was nonexistent.

Two months later, and it's gotten somewhat better.

That is, until she doesn't come home after a fight one night.

You're terrified. Scared to death. You call all of her friends, colleagues, family members. You put Valerie and Charlotte into the car and search every corner of town for her. Right as you park next to a playground, you get a text.

It only consists of two words.

Natasha: I'm sorry — 5.02am

Natasha, in another woman's bedroom, her head pounding with a hangover and her fingers trembling. The bedsheets rustle as Wendy shifts, and she quickly walks into the hallway.

You're not replying. You're staring at the screen, confused and heart rabbiting in your chest. Behind you, Lottie fusses and spits out her pacifier. Valerie grabs it and puts it back in her mouth, soothing her with her sleepy-soft voice.

You press the call button. She picks up immediately.

"What do you mean you're sorry?", you say, not giving her the chance to say something first. "What did you do? Where are you? Do you know how worried I am?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know", she says, rubbing her temple. She hears Lottie let out a cry in the background, and her entire body seems to recoil with guilt. "I don't know how to tell you."

"Natasha. How bad is it?"

"Really fucking bad. I didn't...this wasn't supposed to happen."

Charlotte's fussing turns into crying. She kicks her legs and refuses the pacifier Valerie's trying to put back into her mouth. You turn around, shush the baby and rub her belly, while also trying to tell your older daughter to let it go.

"I don't have time for this", you say. "Lottie's teething, I left the teething ring at home-"

"I slept with Wendy."

You freeze, your hand stilling on Charlotte's tummy. She keeps crying, her hands balled into little fists. Valerie gives you a questioning look.

"No."

"I'm so sorry."

You exhale shakily. Tears fill your eyes, but you barely register them. All you feel is the numbing feeling of disappointment and the quiet realization that maybe this is how it was always supposed to end.

You're angry, anyway. You hang up on her and throw the phone onto the passenger seat, then you start the car and speed off. Trees, houses, bakeries and mom-and-pop stores create a blur as you drive past them. Your vision is even blurrier, so you wipe your eyes with the back of your hand.

Natasha stares at the phone for a moment. Her heart almost stops when Wendy leans against the doorway. All it takes is one look at her — hair tousled, only wearing a white shirt — and she instantly regrets everything that led to this moment.

Flirting for months. Harmless, but constant and unapologetic.

A drink at the bar next to the fire station after a fight. More flirting. Natasha, slipping back into old habits she thought long buried.

She's married, after all. Ever since she found you, she was convinced she could leave it behind. One night stands aren't nearly as significant as waking up next to someone familiar each day. Knowing someone's habits by heart is much more soothing than having to guess them.

But she was pissed, and tipsy, and Wendy slid behind the bar like the personification of a cruel twist of fate.

And now, she's in her house. Wendy's studying her, eyes drowsy and arms crossed, and Natasha wants to scream. She's so unlike you it's painful.

"You're up already?"

"I'm leaving", Natasha says, turning around to find her clothes. Where did she discard them? In the living room or in the hallway? She's not sure anymore.

Wendy watches, eyebrows raised. She tilts her head and leans it against the wall. "Behind the couch."

"What? Oh." Natasha huffs and crouches beside the couch. She reaches behind it and fishes out a hoodie and jeans.

"No 'thank you'?"

"Fuck off."

She slips into her clothes. Wendy steps closer, and she steps away. They repeat that once, twice, before Natasha snaps.

"Are you kidding? Back off!"

"Wow", she muses, frowning. "You're in a mood. What happened?"

"Nothing", she snaps, grabbing her boots. She walks to the front door and opens it. "Absolutely fucking nothing."

The door slams shut. There's a baby sock in the backseat of her car. Her world as she once knew it is now in pieces.

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

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