Yearning - Friends to Lovers Au - Rio/Reader - Sunday in Love | AO3 | |My Stories MasterList | Rio MasterList | Tip Jar💰
Warnings : Yearning Core / Friends to Lovers Gooey Fluff / Declarations of love / Painting House / U-Haul Lesbians / Gay Jokes / F@ggot Used / Iced Coffee Cranky Reader / Overalls and HGTV / Renovations and Lowes / Inside jokes and love / Older Rio younger Reader / Sunday Scarries turned lovely / 18+
“When you said a great gay weekend, I should have asked more questions.” You wince while bending over, sweat dripping down your back.
You’d sweat less when you use your tried and true vibrator for an orgasm than this.
“I own your free time, faggot.” Rio’s answer was so quick, but even she was a tad out of breath.
“You're older than me, ancient, why don’t you have married friends who would love to help you be a butch?” You growl back, and this time, Rio’s spotted the issue.
“You're cranky because you didn’t finish the breakfast sandwich I made you, I told you-.” She said, putting down the paintbrush.
Both of you were in ratty overalls re-painting Rio’s living room.
It was Sunday, the day of rest and relaxation. Yet here you were doing manual labor.
But you shouldn’t be that surprised, as spring was coming. You spent most of your weekends now planting flowers and revamping Rio’s (inherited) family home.
Like you were living in an HGTV episode with a butch, sexy Latina lesbian.
Only twist, you two weren’t dating.
Nope.
You and Rio Vidal spent every waking moment together, minus work - where you texted and facetimed on the clock.
But after each shift, you were back at each other side.
Kinda like Velcro, or maybe superglue was an easier description, because you two were not separating anytime soon.
You almost lived on her sofa.
Even though you had a room for rent you were paying for, no matter how many times Rio insisted you just move in.
You hadn’t actually been to said room for rent for the past 2 weeks, all your plants (that Rio had insisted you take) were long dead.
Your workclothes were currently in Rio’s wash and dryer. Your favorite creamer in the fridge.
Your bong with Rio’s weed in her bedroom, blah blah blah.
Hastag married, hashtag ‘and they were roommates’ only you and Rio hadn’t ever actually made the leap from gal pals to admitting feelings.
So instead you were uhauled and soulbonded with sexual tension and the nickname of best friend…because it was easier.
“You put too much hot sauce on it.” You whine like a brat.
“Okay, put the roller down,” Rio says pushing her glasses up her nose.
“Why the living room isn’t done, you hate not done. Your OCD is going to freak.” You reason back, serious - not making fun of her. But actually worried.
“You need ice coffee. It’s Sunday and you had my drip coffee and that’s why you are cranky. When we’re out, we’ll go to Lowe's and then stop at that place Wanda wanted to go but it was closed last month, where we saw that guy’s ass crack.” Rio tells you already setting down her paint equipment. And stepping over gobs of paint on the tan drop cloth to go towards the kitchen.
She’s washing her hands and you realize you really are cranky, but maybe in a way that coffee and grilled cheese won’t fix.
“Rio, why did you let me pick this color?” You scratch at the surface of why your really upset, but you can’t say any of it.
“Cariño, te encanta este color,” Rio says gently from the other room. Her voice is deeper and warm like honey in tea. You don’t know why today it doesn’t calm you.
You hear her find your keys with her car fab on it.
You turn and look at the covered room.
You’d picked this color.
You’d used Alice’s ex-girlfriend's truck to load that orange sofa from facebook marketplace. Laughing hard as fuck as Rio kept making the Ross from Friends joke ‘Pivot, Pivot,Pivot!’ It was so funny you almost pissed your pants and she tried to block you from getting to the bathroom in time.
This carpet you cried on when her cat died.
This whole place reeked of a full life you had with your…’best friend.’
“Cariño vamos - lets go baby!” Rio used her span-glish at you and you forgot when ‘honey and babies mixed easily like paint colors.
You step toward her but your chewing on your lip.
Rio see’s it and she’s got a bad feeling.
Last time you got quiet and chewed on your lip, you told her you were going to try out bangs.
“Hey, is this a sugar crash or are you having Sunday Night Scarries?” She asks as you move to the front door, where the shoe rack that was broken from that one time you fell on it drunk last Saint Patrick's Day.
The memories flood you like gas station Code Red Mountain Dew you picked up for Rio on Fridays.
“I am picking the music.” You say, instead of answering her.
Rio doesn’t comment that she always lets you pick the music. Instead, she opens the garage door with black faded berks on. You look down to see you’d put on her brown pair.
“Why don’t we get food first,” Rio says gently, like an experienced husband who’s afraid of his wife losing her cool.
You think roughly ‘coward.’
But move to the 2018 green Subaru Outback, with its eco-friendly and recycle stickers.
She’s got a few faded Greatful Dead teddy bears in the back corner that you had named after each of the main characters of The L-Word six summers ago when you two had broken down on a road trip to the Grand Canyon.
You get in and ignore that Rio’s about to open the door for you, she side steps and takes it with grace.
But when she gets in, you put your feet on the dash, and Rio’s spidey-senses are going off hard.
You go for the aux and start looking at your playlist.
Annoyed that every one of them was made for you by Rio, what the fuck?
“You're everywhere.” You mutter as she backs out of the garage and down to the road.
It’s a few turns before you pick something randomly and Rio’s turning it down before you can lose yourself.
The sunset out font makes this feel monumentally like a romantic comedy moment.
“Talk to me Goose.” Rio tells you, and you fidget in your seat. Your overalls suddenly constricting like never before.
“Why would you let me pick the color, it’s your house.” You say like a brat low and slow.
“Because you hated the color for the bathroom, remember that sage? You said you felt like you were inside a bell pepper's cooter.” Rio smiles, remembering it with fondness.
“Whatever happened to that girl you were seeing?” You try a different tactic, but your gut twists with hurt.
“Who?” Rio’s not been on a date in a very long time, so long she can’t put a face to this story.
“Wanda set you up with that girl from her works HR, what was her name? With the products and the nails.” You insist a little more tensely.
“Cariño, that was in 2021. And it was Jen, and you hated her, you said she wore too much pink. We never went on a second date, pretty sure she’s married now in Utah or Montana? Somewhere Mormon with skin products thrive.” Rio tried to recall, the blinker made an obnoxious noise as she turned down roads.
“So you are trying to tell me you haven’t gotten laid since 2021, I don’t think so.” You snap, trying to think of when Rio last liked a girl.
“Uh, it was actually 2018, I believe. But thank you for reminding me, I need to make a gyno appointment for my aged-out uterus.” Rio tried to make light of it, but your panic only dialed up.
“Rio, you are hot. Like the center of the sun hot. Why aren’t you dating?” You say and twist in your seat to glare at her now.
You miss the way she fidgets with her glasses to see the ‘road better’ at your compliment.
“Alright, I’m veto’ing icecoffee, you're pent up enough.” Rio turns the ac on, but it’s not needed. It’s a perfect spring night, it’s in the seventies and the sky is a spray of purples and pinks.
And you can’t enjoy a second of it.
“I don’t want to go to Lowe's.”
“Cariño? It’s okay, we can just get some food and go back and watch that scary movie we started last night?” Rio changes the plans easily for you, because you realize - she’s always making accommodations for you.
“Rio, you are going to be 42 this summer.” You say and Rio turns to go to the pizza joint instead, thinking you might be losing it.
“Yeah, we talked about going camping to Yosemite, still wanna do that? Even after the last slasher film we binged?” The older woman tries, the car is growing uncomfortable.
Rio is nervous about where you're going with this.
“You wanted to get married and do the pumpkin patch in the fall. The summer veggie garden and hippy granola wife shit. What are you doing? Why aren’t you dating? Why are you wasting your forties with your friends?” You say, looking over at Rio with fear.
She turns into the pizza joint and shuts off the engine, parking and turning off the car. The light music no longer bringing any sort of levity to this conversation.
“Why are you worried about this?” Rio asks, still kinder than you are being.
“If you date and find a girl you really like you could still have that, the life you want. You have the house, you’ve got the yard. You-you need to stop wasting time! Smoking and getting pizza with your friends.” You talk faster and more anxious looking down at the center console instead of at Rio’s face.
“Baby, you are bringing a new genre to the Sunday Scarries. Where is all this coming from?” Rio still is being so careful with you that it makes you sick.
She’s handling you with such a love that you don’t want, you don’t deserve.
“Why are you wasting time with friends!” You raise your voice at her now and you hate that you feel the tears threatening to fall.
“What other friends, who are these other people?” Rio is picking the wrong thread.
You spiral so hard you can’t hear her anymore.
The sun is setting, and the weekends almost over and this season is quickly going to turn to summer.
And one more year will turn to another, and the world will keep spinning.
And you’ll be over thirty soon, and what happens when not knowing what you're doing with your life isn’t cute anymore.
Will Rio still let you crash on her sofa and wake up early to make you breakfast?
Will you two still go to the movies and sneak into the second one because you don’t have to worry about going home to responsibilities?
When the time pile up, will Rio not want to go on road trips? Or find your bad Christopher Walken impression funny anymore?
It was never funny!
You're hyperventilating now in the gay little Subaru.
No one realizes the last day of their childhood. There’s no date on the calender for the last time you hung out with your best friend in the world. No, scratch that, that’s not even close to who Rio was.
She was your soulmate, you could say that, right? You believed in those now that you knew her.
You're shaking like a leaf, and you can’t breathe.
When did Rio go from being a person you made memories with to the only person you wanted to ever do anything with?
“Cariño!” Rio shouts, and it snaps you out of it, because she’s holding your face like that episode of Hell’s Kitchen you guys laughed at.
“I’m an idiot sandwich.” You say as she’s pressing your cheeks together.
Rio’s once terrified face seems to crack with a smile.
“Yeah? You wanna fill the rest of the car in with your soul quest? Because you muttered Christopher Walken's name, just wanna know why I gotta beat up such an amazing actor.” Her jokes are so dumb, why are you two so perfect for each other.
“He’s so talented and yet so scary.” You mutter, and Rio’s thumb reaches out and brushes tears away you don’t remember ever shedding.
Rio’s grinning at you in that soft gooey way. When did that start?
“Rio?”
“Yes, Cariño?”
“Are we roommates?” You ask and it’s stupid, because it feels like not the right question.
“If we are you have to tell me how you make that ginger tea,” Rio tells you, and she’s wiping tears and pushing your hair behind your ear like every romcom 90’s boy you crushed on before you came out.
“No like the vine.” You insist and she’s arching an eyebrow.
Your age gap is showing because you so showed her this vine.
“Is that the same as TikTok?” Rio cringes really wanting to understand where this was going.
The sunlight is gone, and the street light you are under makes you feel like this is some kind of private moment. Maybe you could confess, Rio was raised catholic, so she’d get it. Ew, you were being gross stop picturing Rio being a sexy priest, focus, girl, focus.
“I need to ask you a question, and I can’t be wrong.” You close your eyes because you can’t look at that cute gap in her teeth. Or the way the dimple creases make Rio look like she’s the softest loveliest butch in all the suburbs.
“You're scaring me. This doesn’t feel like pizza can fix it.” Rio’s touching your arms, rubbing them like she can hold your fear - take it from you somehow.
You open your eyes and look at the most gorgeous woman you’ve ever known, inside and out kinda amazing.
“When did we go from best friends to lovers? Why didn’t you tell me?” You ask now, and Rio doesn’t move.
Her eyes don’t twitch, her breathing stops, she’s just staring at you.
“Rio?” You ask to see if she needs a reboot.
You can hear crickets outside in the grass next to the parking lot.
Your heart is aching in your chest, it hurts now, fuck when did love hurt like this?
“Rio please say something, am I wrong?” You ask, and the older woman has to force herself to move.
She’s shaking her head.
“No? No what? No I’m not wrong or no I’m wrong? This is so not a shake your head kinda thing.” You panic and you hate yourself now. How could you have made this weird.
Rio’s lips part but she’s not speaking.
“Okay, ya know what. I want pizza, let’s forget this. It’ll be on the not discuss list. Like what happened to the tshirt we got from the fair with the Breakfast Club photo on it. Some things don’t need to ever be discussed again.” You wrench yourself from her hold and go for the door but Rio’s faster and she locks the door.
“I’ve seen this horror movie.” You joke anxious but Rio’s not laughing now.
“You can’t Breakfast Club T-shirt this. I’ve been in love with you for over a decade and this conversation isn’t going to start and end in a pizza parking lot.” It’s out so fast that a moment of silecne follows until you realize the truth.
Your eyes widen in shock.
“You love me?”
“I’ve made you sleep on the sofa so I don’t lose absolute control. You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met! You hum when you chew! You sing the wrong words to Elton John songs. You speak Spanish now to my mom, and she thinks higher of you than all my siblings and me. I let you over water my plants because I think it’s cute how you talk to each of them. When I’m sad I still remember how you made lobsters for my fortieth birthday and didn’t have the heart to kill them, so I had to! You are insane, you think Tabasco is spicy. You still don’t get the Matrix no matter how many times I explain it. And you are without a doubt my favorite person in the whole world.”
Rio is saying it with more conviction than you’d ever witnessed. But you still cut her off.
“Is this my When Harry Met Sally speech? I always wanted one.” Your voice goes high in excitement, and Rio doesn’t answer you.
She’s being fucking romantic here.
“You are the only person I would buy paint for. You're my ride or die, my Thelma and Louise, the Ruth to my Idgie. And I need you to know I don’t believe in the friend zone. I’ve loved you for a very long time. And I would have happily been your “roommate” until the end. So if your curious why I spend my every waking moment with my ‘friend’ I’d like to tell you. It’s because you are the reason I haven’t dated anyone in years. I’m in a very comitted relationship ship with my live-in best friend who I masturbate in the shower about.” Rio says firmly and you're crying now for a new reason.
“You did it so much better than Billy Crystal.” You beam a smile that makes Rio melt for you all over again.
“Kiss your roommate, you Fag.” Rio threatens, but you both are already climbing over the center console of the car to make out.
It’s not awkward, it’s not new either.
It feels like coming home.
Rios lips fit with yours, and she’s cradling you, not letting you slip away again.
And you are smiling against her, so she just keeps kissing you.
But as you giggle, Rio takes her shot to tease you with tongue, and you aren’t laughing anymore. Your moaning against her lips with a new need.
You grab at her breasts and squeeze, and she moans and curses in Spanish. Breaking the kiss with a hot gaze.
“Right for the boobs, huh?” She teases and you start to kiss her chin and neck.
“You didn’t wear a bra and I’ve been horny for years leave me alone.” You whine but you keep sucking on her neck, and Rio has never been happier.
“We aren’t about to fuck in the subie.” Rio growls but her hands under your tank under the overalls, working towards your boobs now.
“You Fag, you would have in the Lowe’s parking lot!” You argue and bite her teasingly, Rio arches into you.
“Fuck get in the back, too much foreplay anyway.” She tells you and the command makes you wet.
“After iced coffee?” You ask, knowing you’ll stay up all night. OOooh yeah, that's a promise.
But Rios is already lifting you and you're falling to the back seat on top of hoodies and blankets. You're not doing a sexy job of getting into the back at all. There is no grace whatsoever. Your shoe is coming off in the front, as Rio hits her head on the sunroof and says;
“Mi loca esposa consigue todo lo que quiere!”
Rio Stories Here | AO3 | My Stories MasterList | Tip Jar💰
my programmer ass fully originally thought they'd upgraded out of beta testing then did a full mental reboot and went "fuck no that's gamma testing you idiot why would they skip all the way to omega"
Kind of funny how when you're obsessed with a certain character their mere presence on your screen can lift your mood. Like yeah I have probably like 10 diagnosed and undiagnosed ways my brain works atypically but one of those quirks makes it possible for The Character to salvage my whole day.
I will always find it poetic that the Rio's heart is supposed to be made out of obsidian on her costume. A hard but brittle material. Also that it can be used for purification of negative energy. The heart that beats for Agatha Harkness.
I talked with someone who works in book publishing, and they mentioned they get a lot of AI slop these days. I asked how they know what's human-written, and they said that there's one thing that will reveal AI slop without error, and that's the author not knowing their own creation.
A real author can talk about their story for hours. They love to elaborate every character, every twist, every detail. Because those existed in their head long before they ever made it to the paper. They were loved before they were written.
AI slop wasn't. It was just vomited into existence.
Someone who generates their story with AI will never bond with their story the way real writers do. That's why they may not know what to say when they're asked why did the character do this, or even remember the scene in the first place. It's something they read, not something they wrote. And to a writer, those are not the same.
There's a unique bond between the creator and the creation. If your writing doesn't come of you, you'll always lack that.
I keep hearing soon we won't be able to tell. And perhaps, in a superficial sense, that's true. But there is a difference. It's not em dashes or repeated words. It's whether the story was made by someone who loves it and cares about it.
If the writer's eyes light up when asked why did the character do that? and they start their very own Ted Talk about that specific scene...
then it's real.
Edit: I did NOT expect this post to get this much attention. I'm truly sorry I made some people feel I'm doubting their genuinity as writers. This was not the point of this post; actually it was the opposite. My words aren't flawless, either; sometimes they come out wrong. I despise "AI witchunts" (if you read my earlier posts about this matter, you know). I tried to say, your love for your art is what makes it yours. No matter how you show it. I believe art is a connection between souls; a machine can't replicate that. It felt nice to hear that professionals in the industry (at least this one person) still search for that in what they choose to publish, too. That's why I wanted to share.
Edit 2. Please be kind in the comments. We're artists and writers, so passionate people, but we're on the same side here. Lift each other up. ❤️
Edit 3. (the last one, I promise) I'm restricting the comments for now to let this conversation cool down a bit. Once more; I did NOT mean, nor did the person I spoke with, that you need to remember every detail of every story or it's AI. This post is not about detecting AI. It's about love and passion injected to art by those who create it. With "not knowing their own story" I didn't mean having a perfectly crafted marketing speech about it. I meant just... knowing it. Loving it. In any way that feels natural to us. That's how I feel about my stories, anyway.
The door shuts behind you with a resonant thud, the echo of cold retreating as warmth blooms in the still air. You lean back against the door, your breath rising in uneven clouds, sharp with winter.
In your arms, something shivers and shifts. A tangled knot of soaked fur and wary resentment. A black cat, dripping with snow, eyes wild with distrust.
“You’re welcome,” you murmur, nudging the door shut with your hip until the latch clicks into place. “You’d be an icicle if I hadn’t grabbed you.”
A yowl splits the hush, affronted. He escapes, claws flashing, and vanishes under the couch, tail a streak of indignation.
Figures.
Your hands ache. Snow slides from your sleeves in small, surrendering drops, each one darkening the hardwood. The coat clings heavy with damp, the scent of wool and regret.
The room is mid chaos. Open ornament boxes spill their contents, tinsel curls like discarded ribbon, and a bare tree leans in the corner, skeletal and quietly accusatory. The string lights breathe a muted amber, softening the snow beyond the window into slow-moving silver.
You rub your hands together, chasing warmth, and drift toward the kitchen. The old floorboards complain beneath your boots. From beneath the couch comes a hiss, sharp and defensive.
“Fine,” You say, voice low. “Stay there. I didn’t want company anyway.”
You fill a bowl with water, place it gently by the couch like an olive branch left at the edge of a battlefield. Cereal,dry, mismatched, pours into a second bowl with a hollow rattle. Not a feast, but enough to say, I tried.
Then, a silence of hours. Not sudden, but slow, like dusk settling over a still lake. Time loosens its grip and flows gently sideways. An hour, then another, marked only by the occasional creak of wood or the sound of the wind testing the windowpanes.
You leave the cat to his fortress of shadows and turn to the ornament boxes. The tree waits in its corner, stripped and skeletal, draped only in anticipation. Your fingers work slowly, threading lights through pine, wrapping tinsel like ribbons of frost.
The tinsel catches the glow, shimmering softly, silver threads swaying with each breath of movement. It's a delicate sort of chaos. More art than decoration. And with each piece, your breath finds a slower rhythm.
Behind you, a shift.
A sound, like curiosity.
You glance back, and from the gloom beneath the couch, a sliver of green glints. Binx watches. Silent, considering.
The tinsel moves again, whispering with motion. It flutters like something alive, beckoning.
He emerges.
First a paw, tentative and elegant, then the rest of him, sleek and fluid as shadow. He creeps toward the base of the tree, eyes wide with wonder or mischief. A cautious sniff. A flick of the tail. And then he pounces.
The tinsel is no match. It tangles and glitters around his legs as he spins and bats and chases ghosts through pine-scented air. Ornaments scatter like startled birds. A box overturns. The tree leans, dangerously amused.
You don't stop him.
You watch, instead. Letting the laughter stay low in your chest, a warmth that builds without needing release. In the mess, something familiar forms. A house, no longer cold. A moment, no longer waiting.
The wind hums outside. And within, the room pulses with small, chaotic life.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The sound startles the quiet, slicing through the soft drone of wind and the whispered rustle of tinsel on pine. You freeze mid step, a strand of silver still dangling from your fingers. The room around you glows with a tentative warmth. Tree lights blinking slowly, shadows gathering like thoughts in the corners.
The knock echoes again, more measured this time, and you move to the door, breath tight. Outside the window, snow drifts in slow, luminous spirals, catching the golden spill of light from your windows like fireflies in a jar.
You peer through the peephole.
There she is.
Not just a silhouette but a presence. Detective Rio, her figure framed by falling snow and porchlight. Her coat is darker than the night behind her, shoulders squared, collar pulled high. Her gloved hand lowers from the door, and her gaze is steady, as though she knows you're already there, watching.
You open the door.
The cold rushes in like memory, sharp, exacting. Snowflakes cling to her hair and melt on the curve of her cheek.
“Evening,” She says, her voice low and tempered, like glass warmed by touch. “Apologies for the hour. I didn't mean to intrude.”
You tilt your head slightly, eyebrows lifting. “Is something wrong?”
Rio shifts, the snow crunching beneath her boots. She exhales, and her breath ghosts between you.
“There was a sighting. Someone thought they saw a black cat slipping across the street with something shiny tangled around its legs. Said he looked like a ghost dragging a chain of stars. I figured I’d check, just in case.”
She leans slightly, peering past you.
Her words catch.
By the tree, beneath the blinking lights and amidst a soft nest of crumpled tinsel, Binx sits like some mythic creature unearthed from old winter tales. The silver strands cling to his fur, haloing him in shimmering disarray. One of the ornaments rolls gently across the floor beside him, pushed by the soft rhythm of his tail.
Rio's expression shifts, a flash of something quiet, a fold of emotion too carefully layered to name. Her lips part slightly.
“Binx,” She breathes.
He looks up.
Not startled. Not guilty. Just present.
“Of course,” You murmur. “He waited until I wasn’t looking. Made the place his kingdom.”
Rio steps inside slowly once you step aside, the scent of cedar and distant rain trailing with her. Her eyes stay on Binx, who rises and strolls toward her. Tinsel mantle trailing behind him like a silver train.
“I almost didn’t knock,” she says, kneeling as he reaches her. “Almost let it go. But something told me... I don’t know. That he’d come to someone who noticed the cold.”
Her hands, still gloved, brush over the tangled tinsel. She chuckles softly. “Looks like he made himself at home.”
“He did,” You reply, voice hushed. “After a mess. But maybe that was the point.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she lifts Binx into her arms. He presses into her chest, purring with the gravity of something ancient. Her cheek rests gently against his ear.
“Thank you,” She says. “Really.”
It stops you. Not just the sound, but the shape of it. Intentional. Late. Too late for casual visits.
Something shifts in her eyes. Not softness, not quite. But something akin to recognition. Then it passes.
“I’ll make sure he stays put,” she says. Adjusting her hold. “He gets attached. Agatha used to—” Her words falter, and she catches them before they fall. “Never mind. Thanks again.”
She steps back, the open door inviting winter in.
“Hey,” You say, words rising before thought. “If he gets out again… I’ve got snacks.”
She pauses. Turns, just enough. One brow lifts, subtle.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
And then she’s gone.
You close the door slowly. The warmth returns, wraps around you like a breath. The bowl by the couch is still full. The room hums with leftover silence.
You peel a strip of tinsel from your sleeve.
Of course the detective would have a cat like that.
Summary: One phone call. That's all it took for Natasha's world to turn upside down.
Warnings: in depth talk of an accident, in depth talk of medical procedures and surgeries, heavy angst.
A/N: Can anyone tell my major depressive disorder is flared up lol. I did a lot of research on this one so hopefully it seems believable.
“Is this Natasha Romanoff?” The woman’s voice on the other side of the line made Natasha throw the magazine she’d been reading on the loveseat and stand with haste. Decades of decoding vocal cues told her that this unknown woman was trying to soothe her.
“It is, who is this and how did you get this number?” Every fiber of Natasha’s being locked down, steeling herself for the blow of the news to come.
Her mind was whirring with possibilities, trying to piece together what could have happened. She had just talked to you a half hour ago and you were still at the grocery store with Sergio. She hadn’t talked to the rest of the Avengers in a couple of weeks but she doubts they would leave her out of a global crisis, retired or not.
“I’m Officer Burgess,” she replied. “There was an accident on the Major Deegan Expressway tonight, a semi-trucks tire blew and the trailer jackknifed into oncoming traffic. I am sorry to say that your wife and son were in one of the cars affected, Mrs. Romanoff,”
She collapsed back onto the loveseat in an instant. The air was stolen from her lungs as her heart seized in her chest. The cushion dimpled where her free hands nails bit in. Everything was spinning wildly, and she felt a terrifying, uncontrolled sensation of falling, accompanied by the most profound pain she'd ever experienced.
“There was a multiple-vehicle pileup and upon investigation we believe that your wife’s car was one of the first to collide with the trailer. The force of the collision caused the vehicle to roll down into a narrow ditch and land upside down,” she explained. “They are on their way to The Mount Sinai Hospital and their trauma surgeons are nearby,” she included. “Mrs. Romanoff, did you hear me?”
“Yes,” She gasped, the words trapped behind her lips, “I heard you” Natasha wanted to get moving, to run to her family but her legs wouldn’t work. She wanted to beg and plead with whoever would listen to let this be some cruel joke but her voice wouldn’t speak any further.
“The paramedics did everything they could to stabilize your family before transporting them to the hospital. I am so sorry, Mrs. Romanoff.” The unexpected click of the receiver left her at a loss and in a fog.
Natasha knew more than most that informing the family of an incident was the extent of their job, but being on the receiving end of it for once had her reeling. It was so cold and detached.
Gaining her feet at last, she remembered she was wearing her running clothes. Natasha had been feeling stressed out as of late and had decided to go for a run while you ran to the grocery store with Sergio. She tore up the stairs, the physical exertion only matched by the crushing regret of not going with you.
The officer had alerted Natasha to the severity of the accident, yet she was callously silent about her family's condition, keeping the details to a bare minimum. She wouldn’t know the truth until the doctor spoke with her, but her mind didn’t wait. It painted every heartbreaking possibility: deep gashes, fractures, head trauma, internal bleeding. Each image is sharper than the last. Her knees hit the floor, the hardwood unforgiving beneath her, and Natasha pressed her hands to her face as the tears finally began to emerge.
Their joy filled chat from thirty minutes ago made the subsequent, terrible news even more jarring. You had been on the verge of giggling as Natasha tried to lay down the law with Sergio through the phone's speaker. He could only get one flavor of ice cream from the store, not two. When your giggles finally broke through your stern facade followed in quick succession by the little boys; it became quite clear that Natasha was being conspired against. And now she wasn’t sure if she’d ever have the privilege of falling for one of her son’s schemes again.
This isn’t how things were supposed to turn out. You and her were supposed to grow old together, surrounded by the family the two of you had created. And Sergio? He was five years old, on the cusp of starting t-ball in a couple days. He’s supposed to have his whole life ahead of him.
No. It couldn’t just be over. Not now. Not after everything you and her had fought for.
xXx
Natasha drove to the hospital in a daze, her mind torturing her with flashes of bloodied bodies she’d seen over the years. The faces of her wife and son replacing theirs. Upon reaching The Mount Sinai Hospital parking lot, she bolted from the car with all her might. Disoriented and unsure where to turn, she shot through the ER doors and headed straight for the first reception desk she saw.
Fighting for breath, she clung to the counter, her heart a wild thing in her chest. Natasha fixed her eyes on the floor, battling to regain control of her racing body before looking up at the nurses. Her face was slick with sweat, her hair frizzy and unkept from the speed of her movements.
“I’m trying to locate my wife and son,” The words were ripped from her throat, each one a physical agony. “They were in a car accident and Officer Burgess informed me that they were brought here.”
“Could you tell me their names, Ma’am?” One of the nurses asked. “All of the victims of the semi-truck collision are being brought here but some are still being transported.”
“Y/N Romanoff and Sergio Romanoff,” Natasha drew in a shaky breath, her gaze darting around the ER, searching frantically for any sign of her family.
“It appears that both your wife and son were taken straight into surgery,” The nurse said as she scrolled through their files on the screen. “I’ll have their doctors come speak with you as soon as they can,” she added, offering Natasha a gentle, uncertain smile. She could tell it was a rehearsed kindness, one she must repeat countless times a day when breaking bad news. “Through those doors,” she said, gesturing across the ER, “turn right, then take the second left. The waiting room’s there. I’ll let the doctors know their family has arrived.”
“Thank you.” Natasha bobbed her head. She knew that was all the nurse could tell her, and there was no point in getting angry or demanding more. With her knees still unsteady and her heart racing, she turned away, pushed through the doors, and headed for the waiting room.
xXx
It was a mere twenty-five minute wait, but to her, it felt like a lifetime of anguish. Natasha remained motionless on the rigid waiting room chair, head sunk in her hands, desperate for news.
The frantic edge of her panic softened, and a blanket of despair settled over her. The memory of her wife and son’s giggles echoing through the phone earlier that night felt like a tender bruise on her heart, throbbing with each recollection.
Remembering joyful laughs brought a brief, private smile to her face, a moment of inner sanctuary. But the immediate sight of others' pain and anticipation quickly pierced that bubble, causing her own tears to cascade down her cheeks, and the shallow breathing to start.
Natasha wished she could trade places with her family. It wasn’t fair. She was the one who had always expected to go first with the kind of life she’d lived as an Avenger. But somehow, she’d made it to retirement, built a little family, found peace and now they were the ones in emergency surgery in who knows what condition.
Natasha had endured more trauma than most people could imagine. The Red Room had broken her down, stripped her of autonomy, and turned her into something she was never meant to be. But none of it had destroyed her. Deep down, she knew losing her family would. That would be the final blow; the one she couldn’t come back from. So she prayed to a god she didn’t even believe in.
She had no idea how long she’d been sitting there, praying over and over for her family to live. The words blurred together, but their rhythm was the only thing keeping her from breaking.
“Mrs. Romanoff?” She bolted upright, hearing her name being called from behind her.
She shot up from the chair, only for the room to tilt violently. A sharp hand went to her temple as the edges of her vision blurred. She hadn’t eaten in, how long? The sudden movement didn’t help. Forcing her eyes toward the doctor, she scrubbed her hands over her face, trying to erase the tears that refused to stop.
“I’m Doctor Robbins,” the blue eyed woman began. She wore a vibrant scrub cap covered in wild flowers and dark blue scrubs. “I’m the pediatric surgeon that’s been working on your son, Sergio.”
“Is he okay?” Natasha dared to ask her.
“Yes, he is,” Dr. Robbins replied. “Sergio’s holding on. The impact caused multiple rib fractures, a splenic laceration, and some internal bleeding. We were able to control the bleeding in both the abdomen and spleen and remove bone fragments from the fractured ribs.”
Natasha’s breath caught in her chest as she waited.
“He’s stable now,” Dr. Robbins continued. “He should make a full recovery, though the healing process will take time.”
“Oh my God.” Natasha’s gaze shot upward, the harsh hospital lights blurring through her tears. She tried to hold it together, to find a reason not to cry but there wasn’t one. Her body wouldn’t let her stop. She paced in slow, uneven circles, one hand over her mouth, the other braced on her hip, while the doctors stood back and let her breathe.
“I want to prepare you,” the doctor said gently. “Seeing your son right now may be frightening. He’s stable, but very pale, and he needs strict bed rest at this stage. We’ve given him medication to help manage the pain and keep him resting through the night.” Dr. Robbins continued, “He’s also on a nasal cannula to provide extra oxygen and support his recovery.”
“But Sergio is breathing on his own, right?” Natasha asked.
“Yes, he’s breathing on his own,” Dr. Robbins said immediately. “Don’t worry, the nasal cannula isn’t a ventilator. It’s just giving him a little extra oxygen to help with the shallow breathing from his broken ribs.”
“How long will he be here?”
“It’s hard to say,” she answered, “His body has been through quite a lot and ideally I’d like him to stay here for a week or two. Just so that I can be there to step in if any complications arise.”
“Are there going to be any long term side effects from all of this?” Natasha turned to her, eyes wide with quiet concern.
“There shouldn’t be,” Dr. Robbins reassured her. “He’ll be weak for a while, very tired, but we’ll keep him on fluids and the necessary medication to help him heal. Once he’s stronger, we’ll slowly get him moving again, just a little bit at a time.” Her tone softened. “It’ll take a couple of months for the injuries to heal, maybe six before he’s back to being a normal five-year-old; if all goes well. A nurse should be here soon to take you to his room.”
“Thank you for taking care of my little boy.” Natasha offered her a weak smile.
xXx
It was nearing four in the morning when a nurse quietly entered the private room on the pediatric floor, informing Natasha that her wife's surgeon was ready to speak with her. She’d been sitting beside Sergio’s bed for hours, watching him sleep, unable to look away for even a moment. He was resting peacefully, just as Dr. Robbins had said he would, and the steady rhythm of the monitors confirmed that her son was doing as well as he could be.
“Mrs. Romanoff, I’m Dr. Bailey,” the doctor said with a look of compassion. “I’m your wife’s trauma surgeon.”
“How is she?” Natasha asked, her voice trembling. “How is my wife?”
“Your wife absorbed most of the impact through her pelvis,” the doctor explained. “It was severely compromised, with significant internal and external bleeding. She also sustained fractures to her arm and femur, which we were able to repair. Unfortunately, the internal bleeding was extensive and developed faster than we could manage surgically.”
“Please no,” Natasha reeled back and hit the wall with force, sinking down, “Tell me she’s okay,” she begged, tears streaming down her face.
“When the body loses too much blood, it begins to shut down,” she explained quietly. “The organs can’t get the oxygen they need, and the heart struggles to keep up. Eventually it stops.”
Natasha’s breath caught in her throat, her stomach twisting.
“She coded on the table,” Dr. Bailey continued, her voice gentle but steady. “Her heart stopped for several minutes. We used a defibrillator and administered multiple rounds of medication. After some time, longer than we’d like, it started again.”
Dr. Bailey let out a slow breath, the weight of what she’d just said hanging in the air.
“She’s stable now, but very fragile. We’ll be monitoring her closely over the next twenty-four hours. Those will be critical.”
“Her heart stopped?” The words left Natasha’s mouth in a broken whisper, her fingers tangling in her hair as the weight of it all crashed over her. She had heard every word the doctor said, but her mind had stopped the moment Dr. Bailey mentioned that her wife’s heart had stopped. “She died. No no, please” Natasha choked out, shaking her head hard. “This can’t be happening.” Her vision blurred, tears spilling freely as the room around her seemed to dissolve.
“We got it to start beating again, Mrs. Romanoff,” Dr. Bailey let Natasha’s body brace against hers as she helped the distressed woman up. “Your wife is alive, that’s the important part.”
“I’m afraid the internal bleeding wasn’t the only complication,” Dr. Bailey explained gently. “The bone fragments from her fractured pelvis caused extensive damage to her uterus and ovaries. Despite our efforts, they couldn’t be preserved.” She remained close, steadying herself as Natasha clung to her for support.
“But she’ll be okay?” Natasha pleaded. “Removing them means she’ll be okay, right?”
Natasha felt her stomach turn. You’d both talked about trying for another baby soon, you’d loved every part of carrying and this loss would destroy you. But right now, that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that you were alive. The fact that you had died, even for a few minutes, and she hadn’t been there; broke her.
“Her heart is very weak,” Dr. Bailey said softly, “and her body has been through tremendous stress. It’s likely she won’t wake up for several days. We’re transferring her to the ICU, where she’ll be monitored around the clock to make sure she remains stable. Right now, she’s holding steady but the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are critical. We’ve done everything we can. At this point, her body needs time to strengthen and begin healing on its own.”
She paused, then added, “She’s under heavy sedation to keep her comfortable and pain-free.”
Natasha’s voice trembled. “Isn’t there anything else you can do to help her now?”
Dr. Bailey shook her head gently. “All we can do is wait, Mrs. Romanoff. Stability is a good sign, but we have to let her body recover naturally. We’re giving her medication to manage the pain and support her system after the surgery, the trauma, and the involuntary hysterectomy.” Her voice softened on the last word. “If we try to push her body too soon or use stimulants, it could cause more harm than good. For now, we watch, we wait, and we hope her strength returns.”
“Is she stable enough for me to see her?” Natasha implored Dr. Bailey. “Please, I need to see that she’s okay with my own two eyes.”
“You’ll be able to see her in the ICU in a few minutes,” Dr. Bailey told her gently. “You won’t be able to stay overnight, but you can sit with her for about an hour. I’ll let you know when it’s time to come up.”
Natasha nodded, her voice caught somewhere between exhaustion and gratitude. “I’ll just…” she gestured weakly toward the room behind her. Dr. Bailey gave a soft nod of understanding. She didn’t need to say it aloud; right now, Natasha just needed to be with her little boy.
The pediatric room was quiet and cold, lit by the soft blue glow of the monitors. Natasha walked to Sergio’s bedside, her fingers curling around the safety railing. Gently, she traced the curve of his cheek with her fingertip. He was still asleep, sedated, but even in his unconscious state, he seemed to lean into her touch.
She pressed her forehead against his for a long, steady moment, grounding herself in the warmth of his skin. Then she placed a lingering kiss on his brow, her eyes following the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. The steady rhythm of his breathing was the only thing keeping her upright.
As she waited for the nurse to come fetch her, Natasha whispered, voice frightened but full of love, “You and mommy have to make it through this, Mishka,” she said softly. “I can’t survive without the two of you… I don’t want to.”
!!-18//MDNI-!! No dance au, I just wanted an excuse to write smut for her heheh… enjoy! <3
The newfound pressures of the crown seemed to melt away from Rhaenyra’s shoulders whenever you graced her with your presence— it was why she insisted that you attended the council meetings and court duties with her, although she’d never force you to— gods know how awfully dull they could be at times, she’d never subject you to that.
You were The Queen's strength and weakness all in one— she’d broken centuries-old laws just to have you known as her wife, anyone who dared to question or worse go against that… well, they were swiftly met with their end whether that be by the end of a blade or her dragon. There was truly nothing she wouldn’t do for you.
And right now that statement has never been truer as she admires you in all your sleeping glory, cheek smushed against the pillows and soft lips parted ever so slightly— prettier than any jewel she owned. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but reach out, letting her knuckles graze along your jaw.
The touch wasn’t enough to stir you, not even a single twitch— you’ve become a heavy sleeper ever since your wedding night, it was the safety of her presence that left you so unguarded, so at peace. The thought of being the reason you slept better sent a flutter through her chest, one that meted her completely.
Rhaenyra shuffles closer to you, bedsheets rustling slightly as she leans in to brush her lips over your bare shoulders, kissing the exposed skin with a certain reverence— hands dipping beneath the blankets to rub over your hips soothingly. That was enough to cause you to stir, turning your head to press your face into the pillows with a small groan. “Mm, good morning, my beautiful girl.” She murmurs, words muffled against you as she kisses along the soft curve of your jaw, fingers stroking along your bare spine.
“Nyra, it’s too early.” You whine, such a soft pitiful noise— honestly, she was in half a mind to let you sleep in, but there was a much stronger part of her that wanted you, burned for you, the way you writhe slightly against the mattress, hips moving beneath her palm as she continues to coax you awake.
You could feel the slight upturn of her lips against the side of your neck, “We have things to do today.” she whispers in between tender, fluttery kisses to your pulse point.
“We have things to do every day. Let me sleep.” You reply with a huff— oh her sweet wife was certainly not a morning person, she’d just have to try harder. Those chaste kisses turn into something more greedy, open-mouthed and desperate in a way that causes your breath to hitch.
Your eyes flutter open to find her own beneath the muted light of the early morning sun that was obscured behind the curtains— her gaze soft and full of love, curls of white hair draping down her shoulders in waves that were all tussled from sleep, sleep that still clings to her voice making it slightly rough.
“You’re too pretty to waste the days sleeping, it’d be a shame and I’d miss you too much.” Her words carry a certain mirth but are true nonetheless. She loves to show you off to the people of the court— her proudest accomplishment, her dearest love.
You hum in acknowledgement to her words, still clinging onto the last remnants of sleep as she ever so slowly begins to pull the warm blankets from your body, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth before she finds herself back in the crook of your neck, feeling your heartbeat on her lips.
“Mhm, Nyra.” You sigh, a lot different from your earlier protests— instead you’re inviting her in, pleading for more as you tilt your head back against the pillows to bare your neck to her, fingers tangling in her silky tresses.
“I’m here my sweet girl, right here.” Gods her voice was so velvety, so dizzying it sent your mind reeling to memories of last night— that familiar throb between your thighs has you squirming slightly, eliciting a low chuckle from your wife— the sound muffled against your collarbones. Her hand finds the inside of your thighs, pushing them apart to make space for her— her hips pressing perfectly against your own. “I’m still sensitive.” You whisper shyly, looking up at her with a bashful smile.
Her lips tick up into a smug smirk, a feeling of pride blooming through her chest. “I’ll be so gentle my love.” She promises, sealing it with a kiss to your lips, her breasts pressing against yours, the warmth of her bare skin against yours shoots a tingle through your body. Oh, she lived for how responsive you were for her.
Her hands smooth across your waist, gliding over your ribcage to the supple mounds on your chest— her thumb brushing over your nipple, taking the other in her mouth, her wet tongue licking the hardened peak slowly, savouring the sounds you give her, how you taste. “Always so perfect, so beautiful for me.” She praises, switching to the other breast as your fingers tighten slightly in her hair.
She moans around your sensitive nipple as you tug on her locks, urging her to continue— nipping at the skin teasingly to draw out a gasp from your parted lips. Your back arching off of the bed ever so eagerly. “Mm, all for you— all yours.” You agree and she would usually make fun of how needy you’ve already become, but she promised she’d be gentle.
A small noise of disappointment sounds out from the back of your throat as she pulls away, the warmth of her mouth on your tits gone, replaced by the cold air of the room— before you could whine she’s grabbing a hair tie from the bedside table and handing it to you with a smirk, her eyes gleaming. “If you would, my love.” She whispers, lowering her head down your sternum, to leave wet, opened-mouthed kisses down your body so slowly.
Your fingers rake through her hair, collecting up the white tresses the best you can— your mind in limbo as you go between trying to concentrate on putting up her hair to being distracted by the feeling of her mouth on you. You manage to secure her hair up, not caring for perfection when she was sucking harsh marks into the tender fat of your inner thighs, pushing them further apart to spread you open for her.
A whiny, broken moan flies past your lips as she runs her tongue along your slick folds, slowly licking at your clit— her hands lying flat over your hips in an attempt to keep them still. “So eager, hmm?— greedy girl.” Her words muffled against your throbbing cunt, the vibrations only making you squirm beneath her even more.
Your fingers clutch at the pillows tightly, knuckles going white, chest heaving with each ragged breath you take as she leaves wet kisses over your sensitive bud. “Mmfm, you taste so good my love, gods.” She groans, her tongue lapping up your pleasure as if you were a bottle of sweet arbour red, slick dribbling out of your cunt— it coats her lips and chin, she's such a messy eater.
“Ohh, Nyra!— feels s’good.” Your words only fuel her. She absolutely relishes in the way you moan out her name, singing out for her without a single care in the world as she slips her middle and ring fingers into your wet heat, your walls clamping down around her digits as you begin to rock your hips in tandem with her hand and mouth, eyes rolled back, blabbering a string of “Please, please… please.” begging oh-so-prettily for her.
“Mm, that’s it, my sweet girl, let go.” Her gentle words spoken against your clit tips you over the edge, fingers curling deep inside your cunt, fingertips nudging against that one spongey spot that makes you see stars and suddenly you’re gushing around her, soaking her hand and the bedsheets, practically panting out her name.
Your half-lidded eyes meet her as she licks her fingers clean, slowly kissing back up your flushed body from your hips to your jaw— lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You did so good for me,” she whispers, nosing at your warm cheek with a warm chuckle.
With a content hum, you turn your head to face her, her eyes slowly roaming your pretty sunlit features. “Good morning,” you smile, blissed out completely and a lot happier than you were a few minutes ago.
Rhaenyra’s smile widens, leaning in to press a tender kiss to your lips— the taste of yourself against her lips urges you to deepen the feeling, tongue brushing against hers. “Very good morning indeed, I’ll have the maids draw us a bath— then we’ll eat, hmm?” Her soft words are met with a nod from you, however, your arms curl around her, snuggling up against her warm body.
“Mm, yes… but just a few more minutes,” she settles back down against the pillows, pulling you impossibly closer to her, because how could she ever deny you?
note: this story was posted before my blog was deleted and is also available on AO3.
ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.
Rhaenyra watched with purple eagle eyes as you chatted and laughed with the young ladies of the court, you were surrounded by them all day long. She walked back to her quarters and waited for you to come to her like every night. She watched you come out from behind one of the heavy tapestries in her chambers, where there was one of the secret passages.
"Finally, I thought you would be surrounded by women all night." she said coldly, watching you walk over and sit down on the velvet upholstered chair next to her.
"Pardon?" you said and ran your hands up the skirt of your dress.
"I saw you surrounded by the new court girls, you weaved through them with great delight, you love it all, don't you?" she spat.
"Ah, Queen Alicent's new ladies-in-waiting, they are like seeds that have just sprouted." you said in a velvety voice.
"You like the younger ones, don't you?" she said, twirling the golden rings on her long, thin fingers.
"Maybe I can sleep with one or two." you let out a giggle. "They seem open to such a thing."
"You will do no such thing." she said, looking increasingly uneasy. "Have you forgotten who you are and your position here? You would be killed if they knew you were sleeping with women."
She was right, for sure, but you loved watching how Rhaenyra became more and more jealous of you as the years went by. You entered the court on the recommendation of your father, who was previously a member of King Viserys' council, to become the princess's lady-in-waiting. Open doors you were her lady-in-waiting, but when they were closed you were her lover, her favorite in all matters, her only one.
The two of you didn't sleep exclusively with each other, but Rhaenyra slept with Harwin to have heirs, you slept with others for pleasure, and that bothered her a lot. Since she began to disagree with Alicent, the queen began to require your presence more frequently. To talk about women's matters with her own ladies-in-waiting, she said, but you knew it was to irritate your beloved princess.
"I know I have no importance at court, princess, you don't need to remind me of that." you sighed and leaned into her. "I miss you."
You stood up and took her by the hand, making her stand up too, brushing aside her platinum hair and burying your nose in her soft neck. You gave soft kisses and raised your mouth to her chin, feeling her sigh softly.
"Do you still want me?" you asked softly.
"You're mine and I'm yours, no matter what." she said, reaching for the ties on her dress and starting to undo it.
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