Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter...Enjoy!
Read part 5 here.
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
It feels strangely normal to be living out of Natasha’s apartment. You still go to work, shutting yourself in your office and avoiding any unnecessary contact with your colleagues. Everyone knows what you’ve been accused of by now and you won’t feed in to any of their speculations.
Natasha gives you her spare key so you can let yourself in when she’s out at her own job. You don’t like the idea of her being around your neighbors, most of whom have blindly taken Wanda’s side, but they’re not the ones you need to convince of your innocence.
Wanda is still in a coma, and every day she doesn’t wake up chips away at your sanity. If she doesn’t survive, you will have to face a jury tasked with determining what degree of murder you committed. Most of Wanda’s abuse and manipulation happened behind closed doors. You were the only witness to them, but also the only victim, and now the only suspect. No matter what happened, you would not let Natasha take the fall for this.
You return home early and prepare a casserole for the oven while you wait for Natasha to finish her last shift of the day. You don’t mind taking care of the household for once–Wanda had done virtually nothing despite her lack of employment anyway. And you like being able to help Natasha.
The front door creaks open.
“Y/N?”
“In the kitchen! Dinner’s almost ready,” you say, grabbing a pair of plates from the dishrack and setting them on the table. Natasha drops her bucket of cleaning supplies by the front door and trudges in. She looks more exhausted than you feel, but she brightens up when she sees you doting over the oven.
“We could’ve ordered takeout. You didn’t have to cook,” she says.
You shrug, not used to being praised for the bare minimum. “It’s just a casserole. I got the recipe from my mom.”
“It smells great. Give me five minutes to freshen up and I’ll join you.”
You finish setting the table and cut two heaping servings from the casserole. Natasha emerges from the bathroom, dressed in an old sweatshirt, her face pink from washing. Even when she clearly isn’t trying to impress, you think she still looks so beautiful it almost takes your breath away. How had you stayed with someone like Wanda when someone like Natasha existed at the same time?
“How was work today?” Natasha asks, scooping food into her mouth.
You shrug. “You’d think with my personal life falling apart, I could at least get it together professionally. Apparently they are not mutually exclusive.” Natasha chuckles. “I hope your day was better than mine.”
She mirrors your shrug. “The whole neighborhood is infatuated with you and Wanda,” she says. “It’s the only topic of conversation that seems to exist there.”
“Yeah.” It’s not entirely surprising to you, given the close-knit community and Wanda’s involvement with practically every person.
“Any…updates?” Natasha asks. You shake your head and she lets out a pained sigh. “If I had known this would happen–”
“Stop,” you say. It makes you uncomfortable to see her guilt. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so bad if she knew that the gun was never intended to be used for violence until you switched the bullets. Only Wanda was supposed to pull the trigger and face the consequences alone. Now, three of you were involved. You’ve considered telling Natasha the truth, but you decided it’s better if she doesn’t know.
“You protected me that night,” you say. “And you made me realize what I was missing out on by staying with her.”
Natasha puts her fork down. “But if Wanda dies…”
“I’ll be charged with murder.” A thought that is constantly in the forefront of your mind.
“And if she lives…”
“She’ll tell everyone I wasn’t the one who shot her.”
Natasha can hardly sleep. Not because she knows you’re in the other room, crashed out on her couch, but because of the whirlwind of emotions and scenarios that invade her mind at any given second. She loathes the thought that your life is at the mercy of her actions. Part of her considers marching down to the police department and announcing her involvement, but she knows that’ll only make things worse.
Wanda is out of the picture (for now), you have basically declared your love for her, yet it all feels completely wrong. She knows her seemingly-perfect world could crumble at any moment, entirely due to variables not in her control. This is not the first time she wished she could run away from it all, but maybe this time she didn’t have to run alone.
She keeps her normal work schedule, although she comes to loathe every client (besides the Rogers) in your neighborhood. The beliefs spread by Agatha and her gang have only ramped up into the most outlandish rumors, like you being involved with the mafia and trying to kill off Wanda to pay your debts, or even that you had hooked up with an old flame and Wanda had found out. Natasha does not want to draw attention to herself by defending you, but it never gets easier to hear the awful things spoken about you.
Nearly a week after the shooting, Natasha is at the Rogers’s house. She’s upstairs, vacuuming the master bedroom, and nearly jumps out of her skin when someone taps on her shoulder.
“It’s just me!” Steve says, backing away as she turns the vacuum on him.
“Oh, hi Steve. You startled me,” Natasha says.
“I know, I’m sorry, I should’ve waited for a break.”
“That’s okay.” She flicks the power off so she can hear him better.
“Have you seen Y/N lately?” he asks.
She pauses for a moment, debating on telling the truth or not. While Steve was her most-trusted client, she thinks housing you is still something she wants to keep a secret. “No,” she answers. “Ever since…the whole thing with Wanda, I haven’t been to the house.”
“If you get asked back, will you go?” His question catches her off-guard.
Natasha debates her answer. If Wanda was there, she might as well remove your whole family from her clientele. But if it was just you…
“I’m not sure,” she says, proud she can be honest of one thing.
“Is it because of the shooting?”
The shooting I committed? she wants to say, but holds her tongue. “Well, we still don’t really know what happened,” she says.
“I think you know exactly what happened,” Steve replies, and Natasha’s blood runs cold. Did you somehow confide in him of her involvement that night? Or did he catch a glimpse of her jumping neighbors’ fences at midnight?
“I don’t know what you mean,” Natasha whispers.
“You worked for both of them,” Steve explains. “You had a front row view of how different they were. Peggy and I always said they were the most extreme polar opposites we’d ever seen. Not like night and day. Like…good and bad.” Natasha sees a shadow of emotion pass over his face. “But, after what happened, maybe the difference between them isn’t as obvious as we thought.”
“I trust Y/N,” Natasha declares. She might stay silent while the neighborhood ladies gossip about you, but she won’t let Steve tarnish your name. “I did before all this happened, and I still do now.”
Steve stares at her and Natasha prepares to further defend you, but instead of questioning her, he nods slowly, as if this was the answer he wanted to hear.
“Thanks for coming to the house today. I left your check on the kitchen table.” It’s a sudden, strange turn of topic, but he leaves before she can ask anything else. Natasha’s head is full of confusion and concern, but she goes through the motions of vacuuming and mopping without interruption. She snags her check and leaves the Rogers’ house without seeing Steve again.
Back in the safety of her car, Natasha lets out an enormous sigh of frustration. She doesn’t know who she can trust anymore (besides you, of course). If even someone like Steve was beginning to have doubts, she wouldn’t survive in this neighborhood much longer. Someone might find out what she had done–if someone didn’t already know.
Panic overtakes her and she calls Clint. Perhaps she was acting irrationally now, but this neighborhood was no place for sanity.
“Hi, Nat,” he answers on the third ring.
“Can you find me someone in New York who can sell me a gun?” she asks, ignoring all formalities. “Immediately. I’m not going back to my apartment until I have one in hand.”
Clint is silent for a moment. “Is everything okay? Did Y/N–”
“No, I’m fine. There’s just…a lot going on, Clint.” Natasha bites her lip while she comes up with a convincing cover. “Every time I come to this neighborhood, it feels like I’m being judged. Someone might approach me for the wrong reason one day and I need to be ready–”
“If you get caught carrying a gun, Nat–”
“I won’t,” she promises. “Wanda could wake up any day, and if she sends someone after me–”
“Jesus, Nat.”
“I won’t use it on anyone unless it’s an emergency. You know that,” she says.
“I know, I know, but…someone with a background like yourself, it doesn’t matter why you’re carrying or why you shot. You could end up in a position where even I can’t save you,” he says.
Clint isn’t the only one who can save me, Natasha thinks, but she doesn’t comment. “I’ll be fine.”
Clint sighs. “Okay. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you in thirty minutes.”
“Thank you,” Natasha says. “If they have a Smith & Wesson Model 686, that’d be even better.”
Even after her little detour, Natasha still makes it home before you. She hides her new weapon in her underwear drawer, then goes to order takeout for dinner. Just as she’s finished setting the table, the door unlocks and you step in, holding your work briefcase and a handful of mail, looking very tired from your day, but your face lights up the second you see her.
“Hi, Nat,” you say, hurrying over and greeting her with a hug and a kiss. Wasn’t this what she had always dreamed about? Having a partner who came home to her and filled her with love and affection. And yet…it doesn’t feel entirely right, with Wanda still lurking in the picture. But Natasha tries to forget about her. Wanda would be eating out of a tube tonight, while she got to spend her evening with you.
Dinner is uneventful but peaceful. Natasha doesn’t talk much, still thinking about what Steve said to her and the gun in her bedroom. While you go off to shower, she tidies up and rests in front of the television to unwind. You come out in your pajamas (which are just a pair of sweatpants and a thin white T-shirt that clings to your skin and emphasizes the muscles of your torso) and join her on the couch without speaking, slinging your arm casually over her shoulder and Natasha snuggles towards you.
She hardly thinks about how easy it is being around you, how you already feel like hers. She thinks about the future the two of you could finally have now that Wanda’s gone–but not really. You were forever chained to her whether or not she woke up, and at this point Natasha isn’t even sure if she wants Wanda to pull through or not.
She still had nightmares about that night, sometimes with Wanda stealing the gun out of her hands and shooting you and then Natasha. And then one time, after you confessed you knew about Natasha’s background, Wanda shot up from the floor, blood flying from her mouth, as she screamed that she would have Natasha put in prison for–
It suddenly clicks to her. You had never elaborated how you knew her background, and she hadn’t found the right time to ask yet. Now would be as good of a time as any.
“Hey, Y/N?” she says, sounding as small as she feels. “Can I ask you something about…that night?”
You hesitate, but say, “Sure.”
“You said you knew…my background.” Natasha looks up at you. “What did you mean by that?”
You shift on the couch, removing your arm from her shoulders and she fears she’s said the wrong thing. “Wanda wanted it done,” you start, and it takes Natasha a moment to understand, but when she does, she feels faint. Wanda too knows what she’s done? Maybe she should’ve aimed the gun a little higher. “I told her it was entirely unnecessary but…you know my wife.”
Natasha clutches onto your bicep, willing the room around her to stop spinning.
“You’re from Russia,” you continue. “You worked for a man known as Dreykov.” Natasha shivers at the mention of her former boss’s name. “He was killed by an employee identified as Natalia Romanova. However, she escaped prison shortly after her conviction and was believed to have fled overseas.”
“You have to understand, it wasn’t exactly like that,” Natasha says, not even realizing she’s admitting to murder right in front of you. “It was self-defense. He was a horrible, abusive man, and I was just trying to protect myself–” She stops talking. It dawns on her what she must look like to you: an escaped convict wanted for murdering her former boss, now responsible for shooting her current boss.
“Like you were trying to protect me from Wanda?” you ask.
“Yes,” she says, her fingers brushing your cheek. “I couldn’t stand seeing her hurt you like that. I know it wasn’t right to shoot her either, but I had no choice–”
“Are you going to kill me too?” you ask suddenly.
“No. No!” she repeats for emphasis. “I would never hurt you, Y/N.” She scoots closer to you. “You believe me when I say that, right?”
“I do,” you say, kissing her. Natasha grabs onto your shirt, pressing her lips against yours harder.
“I love you, Y/N,” she whispers, swinging one of her legs over your waist. “I love that you treated me with respect and like I was an equal, not your slave.” Her weight rests on your legs and she rocks forward, purposely brushing the bulge in your sweatpants. “I love how you always showed kindness to everyone–even if they didn’t deserve it.” She won’t name your wife, afraid it’ll take away from the moment.
“Nat,” you whisper, and she smiles when she feels you start to harden.
“I love you, and I’ll wait as long as I need for us to be properly together.” Easier said than done, of course, but Natasha was determined to show you how much she cared by being as patient as she needed to.
Your hands close around her hips, guiding her forward until she’s practically sitting on top of your clothed dick. “I don’t think you need to wait much longer,” you say. “Guess what came in my mail today.” Natasha tilts her head, not following. You lean up until your lips graze the shell of her ear. “Doctor says I came back clean.”
“Oh?” Natasha feels the flame of arousal spark in her belly.
“So you don’t have to wait much longer unless you want to,” you hum, kissing her neck as your hands slip under her shirt. Natasha’s skin burns where you touch her. She can’t believe this is finally happening.
“But what about…” Again, she cannot bring herself to say your wife’s name out loud.
You pull back to look into her eyes. “Forget about her. Tonight is about us,” you say, and Natasha’s heart soars. She grabs your face, smashing her lips to yours, igniting the fire inside of her. She can’t even describe how badly she’s wanted you, how many hours she’s spent thinking about your body under hers or on top of hers. She wants to make you moan and cum and feel your cock properly stretch her out. And now it’s about to be a reality.
You slip your arms under her thighs and lift her up like she’s made of glass (but Natasha hopes you won’t be afraid to throw her around), carrying her into the bedroom and setting her on the edge. Natasha’s embarrassed her bedroom is in a constant state of disarray; she could never find the energy to tidy up after cleaning master bedrooms all day. She wishes the two of you could have your first time in a more romantic environment, but she has a feeling all she’s going to remember of this night is you.
She grabs onto your collar, pulling you down on top of her as you kiss her neck and wrap your hands around her hips. Your grip is tight but not painful, and Natasha senses your desperation as you push her legs apart and lay in between them. The emptiness of her core intensifies at you being so close to where she needs you.
“Y/N,” she whimpers, clawing at your sweatpants.
“I bet you taste so good,” you murmur into her ear, and Natasha nearly faints at the thought of having your head between her legs. “Can I have a taste, baby?”
Natasha practically rips off her clothes, thrusting her hips up as if you’ve forgotten where she wants you. Your muscular arms circle her thighs, spreading them apart and Natasha wishes she could take a picture of this moment because she never wants to forget it. She’s practically shaking with excitement when you dip your head down and your mouth makes contact with her center.
She moans and arches her back when your tongue presses against her slit, moving up and down. You repeat the motion longer than Natasha prefers, and she humps against your mouth to encourage you to enter her. Her walls clench around your tongue and she keens in pleasure, as you kiss and lick at her with increasing enthusiasm. Your fingertips dig into the plushness of her thighs and she gropes her own breasts, trying to stop herself from yanking on your hair.
“Y/N,” she pants, tipping her head into the mattress with another drawn-out moan when your lips wrap around her clit and suck. “Shit, that feels so good.” You mumble something that she can’t hear, but she does feel the vibrations it causes and she almost finishes right there. Not that she expected you to be bad at giving head, but it was clear you had likely not been with anyone but Wanda and needed a little bit of guidance to please someone different.
Natasha rocks harder against your face, eager for your tongue to reach deeper into her (but she knows she’ll soon get something else that will stretch her out properly). Your left hand trails up her stomach, closing around her breast and pinching her nipple. Natasha squirms and moans until the stimulation is too much for her. She floods into your mouth, and you eagerly lap up every drop, nipping the insides of her thighs and crawling up her body.
“Delicious,” you pant, kissing her and Natasha pushes her tongue into your mouth to taste herself. She feels your hardness pressing against her leg and cups it, relishing in the groan you let out.
“I need this,” she begs. “And I think you need me, too.”
“I need you so badly,” you admit, sitting back to quickly pull off your clothes. Natasha watches you undress and practically drools at the sight of your broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and the creases along your pelvis that disappear behind your sweatpants. You remove your sweatpants next, and Natasha has to hold her breath when you finally drag down your boxers and kick them off.
Your cock is huge and hard, the head glistening with pre-cum already. Natasha can’t stop herself from reaching out for it, closing her fingers around your thick shaft and stroking it until you moan.
“Fuck, Natasha,” you say and your voice cracks, clearly on the edge of losing control like she is for the second time. “I can’t believe I finally get to have you like this.”
Natasha hums, rubbing her thumb along the pulsing vein on your cock and your hips twitch. She tugs on your cock to guide it towards her soaking entrance. “I’m all ready for you,” she declares, gasping when the head of your cock makes contact with her opening.
“This pussy is all mine,” you say, leaning back to ready yourself. “And I’m all yours, Nat.”
“Hurry,” she whines and you thrust your hips forward, sliding your cock through her tight heat that barely parts to let you in. Natasha moans so loud she fears the neighbors will complain, but she doesn’t care, losing her train of thought as you keep pushing forward until your entire length is buried inside her.
“Ugh, fuck,” you moan, adjusting to the tightness around you before rolling your hips in short bursts. You’re afraid you’ll cum too early, but you don’t want to pull out, so you move slowly and deliberately, angling your hips as you try to find the spot that will make her moan.
Natasha runs her hands up your carved abs and you lean into her touch, reaching for her breasts again and massaging them roughly.
“Come here, baby,” she says, looping her hand around the back of your neck and drawing you down on top of her. You kiss her in sync with your thrusts, your bare chest rubbing against hers. Natasha’s hands skate down your back and stop on your muscular butt, squeezing the flesh there until her nails bite into your skin. You grunt and quicken your pace, losing all reign of control as you ram into her hard enough to send her moving across the bed.
“Finish in me,” Natasha begs, her pussy clenching around you so tightly it takes your breath away. “Fill me up with your cum.” Wanda was the only other person you ever slept with, but there was no chance you’d go back to her now. Being with Natasha–being in her–makes you feel so complete. You trust her and love her and want to do this with her the rest of your life.
“Natasha,” you groan into her ear, your hips faltering in their steady rhythm. Your cock is throbbing for release as it slides through her tight heat. “I love you,” you proclaim, kissing below her ear, trying to focus on her smooth body beneath you rather than the borderline painful ache between your legs.
She clutches onto the back of your head, pressing it to her chest. “I love you, too.”
You can’t hold back anymore. Your muscles flex as you finish, cum shooting deep into her womb. You collapse on top of Natasha, a little embarrassed you couldn’t last longer, but maybe with a few minutes’ rest you would regain some energy to continue. She strokes your back, and in her arms you feel like you’re finally with someone who truly loves you.
Your phone ringing wakes the both of you. Natasha stirs next to you and you kiss her on the forehead as you reach over her to snag your buzzing phone off the nightstand.
Murdock is calling.
You sit up immediately, the blankets sliding off your body. “Hi Matt.”
“Hey. Sorry to bother you so early, hope I’m not calling at a bad time.”
“Uh…” You look down at Natasha, naked and beautiful next to you after a long but satisfying night. “No, of course not. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a big development.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Wanda just woke up.” Your heart punches against your chest and you practically gasp for air. Natasha rolls over and looks at you. “She’s causing a huge ruckus in the hospital, but she says she only wants to talk to you. How fast can you get over here?”
Natasha shakes your arm. “What’s wrong?” she mouths.
“Wanda,” you mouth back, and her eyes grow wide. To Murdock, you say, “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: This took longer than expected, but it's the moment you've all been waiting for...
Read part 4 here.
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
Natasha hasn’t left her apartment in two days. Her phone is on max volume, awaiting any calls or messages from you, but she hasn’t heard from you since she ran out of your home after shooting your wife. She played the local news 24/7 on her ancient television whose image blacked out every time the upstairs neighbors jostled her apartment. They reported a shooting in your neighborhood and showed a clip of flashing police cars and an ambulance fanned out on your street, with the victim hospitalized, but no further updates.
The anticipation was killing her.
She had called Clint to tell him you knew about her background, despite what he had promised, and he offered to move her out of the city–state, even–immediately. But Natasha couldn’t do that to you. Perhaps she was a little naive to expect you to reach out to her after what she had done, but she believed you would keep your word.
Now, she has to get ready for a shift at Steve’s house, and she’s terrified to go back to your neighborhood. Clint had told her to cancel all her shifts there, but she refused, thinking it looked too suspicious. Plus, she was hoping to catch a glimpse of you while she was in the area. With anxiety knotting her stomach, she packs her car and drives to your neighborhood.
She doesn’t know why she didn’t expect to see your house still standing, as if the police would burn down a crime scene after their investigation. While the exterior looks perfectly normal, something feels off about it. Natasha wonders if you’re home, but she won’t dare knock on your door now.
Steve comes out of his house just as she squeezes her Nissan between a Mercedes and BMW. The street is surprisingly full of cars.
“Hey, Natasha!” Steve calls as he jogs down the sidewalk. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you to cancel. You can go home now if you want, and we’ll pay you for the trouble of coming over though–”
“Cancel?” Natasha asks, stepping onto the street. “Is everything okay?”
“Peggy’s hosting a little gathering right now, so there’s a lot of people in the house,” Steve says. “It’s been so chaotic around here the past few days–”
“Why? Did something happen?” She and Clint had agreed it was safer for her to play dumb, to reinforce the idea that she had been far away from your home the night of the shooting.
“Um.” Steve moves closer to her, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Did you hear about what happened at Y/N and Wanda’s house two days ago?”
“No.” Natasha tries to put on her best expression of confusion.
“There was a shooting,” Steve says, and Natasha feigns a gasp of shock. “Wanda got shot, and she’s in the hospital now, but in a coma. No one’s seen Y/N since it happened either, and obviously there was only one person who could’ve shot Wanda…”
“No!” Natasha says, more out of disbelief that you’re taking the fall for her.
“The whole neighborhood is shaken up,” Steve says. “Why don’t you come inside? A lot of the neighbors are here. We have food, and it might make you feel better to not have to process all this information alone.”
Against her better judgement, Natasha follows Steve into his house. It’s not nearly as big or grand as yours, but it feels more like a home. Steve proudly displays pictures of his family on the walls, and his children’s toys and belongings are often scattered everywhere. Natasha had met them only once as they were usually at school when she was there, but James was a mini image of his father, and Sarah was an adorable little girl. Steve’s wife Peggy was also extremely kind to her (unlike yours was), and Natasha genuinely enjoyed having the Rogers family as her client.
There are only adults present currently, with most of them sitting on the lawn in the backyard, shaded by a canopy. Peggy is in the kitchen, slicing into a gigantic watermelon.
“Hi, Mrs. Carter. Do you need any help?” Natasha asks out of instinct.
“Oh, hi, Natasha! I thought Steve was going to tell you to stay at home,” Peggy says. “Not that we don’t enjoy having you here–”
“I forgot,” Steve says, walking in behind Natasha. “Too much stuff going on–”
“Well, since you’re already here, help yourself to some food, Natasha. And you can join everyone out back.”
“Thank you.” Some of the people here are also Natasha’s clients, and the last thing she wants to do is share a meal with them, but she forces herself to stay. This is her chance to gather more info on you and Wanda.
Natasha grabs a paper plate and lightly loads it up with fruit and some appetizers she can’t name, then steps out into the yard. While the Rogers don’t have a pool like you do, they make up for it with a half basketball court and a little playground that even Natasha finds herself jealous of.
“Is that Natasha? Having some fun on her day off?” someone calls out.
“Well, I came here to work, but apparently I wasn’t needed today,” she responds.
“Come sit with us, dear!” The loud voice of Agatha Harkness booms out. While she wasn’t a client of Natasha’s, she knows to keep a wide berth. It feels like she’s entered the lion’s den as she takes a seat next to Agatha, joining the circle of the neighborhood’s elite gossipers. “We were just talking about you.”
“You were?” Natasha feels her cheeks heat up.
“Of course! You do housework for most of the families here, so you must have a front-row seat to all the juicy drama, right?” Agatha says.
“I try to mind my own business.”
“Yes, but if something happens in front of you, won’t look away, right?” Dottie Jones, your next-door neighbor, asks. Natasha spares herself from answering by shoving a whole apple slice into her mouth.
“You heard what happened to Wanda?” Agatha asks. “Oh, poor thing. We tried visiting her in the hospital yesterday, but we were turned away. Apparently, Y/N won’t let any visitors in, but conveniently no one’s seen Y/N since the incident, that piece of shit.”
“Wanda should’ve gotten a divorce before it came down to this,” Dottie says. “I can’t believe she might lose her life to that bastard.” She wipes her eyes for dramatic effect, but Natasha sees no tears on her face.
“I heard it was a money issue,” Monica Rambeau chimes in. “Apparently, Y/N’s company is on the verge of bankruptcy, and Wanda wasn’t too keen on loaning her trust fund money to a failing business.”
“It’s just so fucked up,” Agatha sighs. “If your business is failing, that’s your fault and you need to take responsibility for it. Trying to kill your own wife to get her money is just so wrong on every level.”
It hurts Natasha to hear these women speak so poorly of you. She would defend your honor, but she also doesn’t want to give herself away.
“Did the police come talk to you ladies yet?” Dottie asks. “They came this morning to my house and asked a few questions. I told them I’d heard yelling a lot recently–mostly from Y/N. And what Wanda’s told us about not feeling safe or cared for in her marriage anymore.”
“But you didn’t hear the gunshot?” Monica says. Dottie shakes her head.
“I thought it was a trash can falling over or something.”
“Vision’s the one who made the call,” Agatha says. Natasha almost chokes on a cheese cube. “And it’s a good thing he did, otherwise they might not have been able to get to Wanda on time–”
“He’s always looking out for her,” Monica agrees. “He’s a good man. Wanda should’ve left Y/N for him already, then this would’ve never needed to happen.”
“When she pulls through–not if, when–I hope she sues the fuck out of Y/N,” Agatha says.
“I hope Y/N gets life in prison,” Dottie adds. “That bastard deserves to rot for eternity.”
Natasha stares down at her plate, wanting to cry and scream at the same time. She hates how these women talk about you, but she hates herself even more for not standing up for you.
Natasha finally manages to escape their clutches and goes home, feeling much worse than she had when she left this morning. While she worked for half of them, she had never seen this side of them before. Clearly, Wanda had influenced them beyond reason: you were none of the awful things they said about you. It also made Natasha extremely uneasy to see how many people were on Wanda’s side when they didn’t know any part of the truth.
She trudges up to the third floor of her building because her elevator is broken again and nearly collapses when she sees you standing by her front door.
“Y/N?”
“Hi.” You look like you haven’t showered in two days, and your eyes are strained like you hadn’t slept since you last saw her. Your cheek is still a little swollen where Wanda hit you several times. “Sorry to catch you like this. I would’ve called ahead, but I didn’t want to leave any digital traces.”
Natasha doesn’t even bother to ask how you know where she lives, but she quickly goes over to unlock her door and usher you inside. She wishes she had spent more time cleaning her own place, she thinks, as she eyes the dirty dishes piled up on the counter, the unopened mail on the floor, the kitchen table loaded with used Tupperware.
“Are you okay?” Natasha asks. “I just got back from Steve’s house. He was hosting the neighborhood ladies, and they said no one’s seen you since–”
“I know. I just got released from jail,” you say, running a hand through your hair. “My lawyer posted bail, so I can’t go far, but I knew I couldn’t go back to the house. I’m sorry to bother you here.”
“No, no, it’s okay.” Natasha wishes she could say how happy she is to see you again. “Make yourself at home. Sorry it’s not the cleanest at the moment–when you spend all day cleaning, it’s hard to do it for myself–”
“Don’t worry about it,” you say, “Do you mind if I use your shower? It’s been two days since I washed up, I know I look like crap.”
Natasha wants to say you still look good as ever, but holds her tongue. “Please, go ahead. I can go down to the laundry room and wash up your clothes while you’re showering too.”
“I don’t want to burden you–”
“You protected me that night and you had no reason to,” Natasha says. “You could never be a burden to me.” She makes eye contact with you and feels her knees go weak when you smile at her.
“Thank you.” You look away first. “I’m sorry Wanda was always so awful to you and that I never stood up for you. You were always so respectful to her and me, even when neither of us really deserved it.”
“You deserved it,” Natasha says, finding her courage. “You deserve better than her.”
You don’t respond, only nodding and walking to the bathroom.
You’re not entirely sure why the first place you went after being freed from jail was Natasha’s. Your lawyer, Murdock, had offered to book you a hotel, but you could’ve done that yourself and to be honest, you were afraid to be alone. It was an extremely vulnerable time for you. You were being charged with aggravated assault that could easily be upped to attempted murder depending on the investigation and Wanda’s condition. Murdock had played the self-defense card, which was an easy sell because of your injuries, but you knew not to celebrate too early.
When news got around of what you had done, you weren’t so sure how many would take your side. It would be dangerous to underestimate what Wanda might’ve said about you behind your back. But Natasha knew the truth. She was responsible for part of it, but you didn’t blame her at all. You knew you could trust her. Maybe that was because you haven’t slept in two days or had a proper meal, but you felt safe with Natasha. More than you ever had with your own wife. Even knowing what she had done in her home country that forced her to flee and take on a new identity.
It was Wanda’s idea to run a background check on Natasha. You had protested at first, but she was adamant about needing to know every detail about the woman who would be spending all her time in your home. She made a good point, but the second you met Natasha, you knew you didn’t have to worry about her stealing or vandalizing, and to be quite frank, Wanda never cared about those things either. She just wanted the information so she could blackmail Natasha if she ever acted out, but neither of you were prepared for what the investigator came back with, and you were even more shocked when Wanda still agreed to employ her.
“She won’t kill us. It’ll be too obvious who did it,” Wanda says.
“I feel like being dead is enough of a problem on its own,” you counter.
“If we hire her, with this information–” Wanda clutches at the thick folder the investigator had compiled “–she’ll have to do whatever we tell her. She’ll never argue back, she’ll never refuse, because if she does…” She flips the folder open to the page of a decade-younger Natasha, slightly blurred from the movement of running away from the crime scene. “Everyone will know what she did back in Russia.”
Your stomach twists at the way your wife is viewing the situation. She has no qualms allowing a convicted murderer to clean her home, simply because she could threaten her into doing whatever she wanted. You want to spare Natasha from this fate, but you know there’s no changing Wanda’s mind.
Besides, if you never had the guts to kill her, maybe Natasha did.
You shower until the hot water runs out, and wrap yourself only in a towel to step out. Natasha is off washing your clothes as promised, but you’re shocked to find her waiting not only with your clothes neatly folded and clean, but also a bag of takeout on the table.
“I thought you’d be hungry too, so I went and picked something up. I would’ve cooked, but the fridge is a little empty right now–”
You cross the room in four large strides and scoop her up in a hug. You barely restrain yourself from kissing her too, but she doesn’t shy away from your hug, pressing her face against your chest and squeezing you back tightly.
“Thank you,” you whisper to her.
“Anything for you.”
You change into your fresh clothes quickly and sit down with Natasha on the couch to eat. The silence is not uncomfortable as you shovel food into your mouth, while Natasha’s appetite seems more reserved than you. She lets you eat all the leftovers and you feel like a bear before hibernation, tiredness hitting you full force as you sink back into the cushions.
“Let me clean up and then I’ll let you sleep,” you hear Natasha say, and she pats your arm as she gets up but you grab her hand to stop her from walking away.
“Thank you,” you say, knowing you sound like a broken record, but you’ve never meant the words more in your life. “You know you saved my life, right?”
Natasha looks away and shakes her head. “I almost killed your wife.”
“Exactly.” You tug on her arm and she loses her balance and falls into your lap. For the first time ever, her body is pressed against yours, her cheap vanilla perfume swirling around your head. Natasha puts her hand on your chest, as if she’s going to push away from you, but she doesn’t, trailing one hand up the back of your neck and cupping your head. You know it’s totally wrong to want her like this, to even have her touching you like this, but as far as you were concerned you weren’t married to Wanda anymore.
“Natasha,” you whisper so faintly you’re not sure if she heard you, “I think I’m in love with you.”
“Wanda doesn’t deserve you,” she says. “But I deserve you.”
The proclamation is enough for you. You tilt your head back and part your lips slightly, inviting Natasha to kiss you. She takes full advantage, slamming her mouth into yours, threading her fingers into your hair to hold you there. The touch of her lips is electrifying, with more passion than any of the kisses you’d shared with your actual wife. Your arms wrap around her back; it just feels so right to have her weight in your arms, her body pressed against yours. You never want to lose this woman; you never want to go back to Wanda again.
Natasha surprises you by grinding down in your lap. You moan when her thigh brushes over your bulge. You’re instantly light-headed by the way blood rushes to your groin and your hands slide down to her butt, squeezing until she groans into your mouth.
She suddenly pulls away, panting, a rosy glow to her cheeks. “Y/N, you’re still married,” she says.
“We’re separated,” you tease, but you know she’s right. What you’re doing with Natasha right now makes you no better than Wanda. Your hands drop from her body to the couch in a sign of submission. “But…yeah. Things are complicated right now.”
“I think we should wait,” Natasha continues, and she sounds as pained as you feel about not being properly together. “I don’t want to rush into this, especially with everything going on.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” you admit. You feel yourself deflate in your pants. “Besides, I should probably get tested first. If Wanda gave me anything…I don’t want to give it to you.”
Natasha’s cheeks flame red when she realizes what you’re talking about. “That’s fair. We won’t do anything until you’re tested and all this is settled.”
“Yes,” you agree, even though it’ll take all your willpower to keep your hands to yourself. Natasha stands up and you join her, reaching for her hand again and spinning her around to face you. You can’t help yourself from bending over to kiss her, because you already miss her lips on yours. “You’re so beautiful,” you whisper, brushing your thumb over the curve of her cheek. “I could never stop thinking about you when you weren’t at my house.”
Natasha hums as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you. “I walked in on you and Wanda doing it once,” she admits. “And ever since, I thought about your body and your cock every time I touched myself.” You practically shiver at the thought of Natasha using you in her fantasies. You can’t wait for her to show you exactly how she wants you.
“Well, I can’t wait to make it a reality,” you respond, pushing your hips forward so Natasha can feel your growing bulge against her stomach. She brushes her fingers over the outline in your pants.
It feels wrong returning to your neighborhood the first time since the incident. But you didn’t plan on staying long, just grabbing some clothes and a few things from the home. Your lawyer had said to be quick and quiet–not that you weren’t allowed to go home, just that it wasn’t the best look to the public. You picked the middle of the day, hoping your neighbors would be out or working so you wouldn’t have to face any of them, but your luck was never great.
“Y/N?”
Your shoulders tense, but quickly drop in relief when you see Steve jogging across the street. “Hi, Steve.”
“Are you okay?” is the first thing he asks, and you’re touched by his kindness. If any of your neighbors had seen you here, they would’ve run you over with their car before speaking two words to you.
“Can you talk inside?” you ask, not taking any chances with anyone eavesdropping.
“Sure.”
You usher him through the front door and lock it. The house feels dirty and wrong, despite its clean appearance. Who knows how many pairs of police boots had walked through it, the amount of chemicals used to clean Wanda’s blood off the floor. But you don’t have a chance to think about that now.
“I’m so sorry about Wanda, Y/N,” Steve says. “If there’s anything Peggy and I can do–”
“Don’t. She doesn’t need anything from anyone,” you interrupt. Steve looks shocked at your words. “She was cheating on me. With a lot of people from this neighborhood.”
He’s silent for a moment as if having some kind of internal struggle. “Wanda tried to sleep with me, shortly after you guys moved in,” he finally reveals. “I should’ve told you, and I’ve been kicking myself ever since because I didn’t.”
“Why didn’t you?” You won’t tell him you were there, spying on them through the closet like a voyeur in your own home.
“Wanda said she’d tell Peggy we had slept together. And all the other women in the neighborhood,” he says, sounding strained. “Peggy wouldn’t believe her, but I wasn’t so convinced the other women wouldn’t. Wanda has a lot of influence here. You’ve seen how they hang onto every word like it’s gospel.”
“I know.”
“And there’s something else I wanted to tell you,” Steve continues. “I knew about the gun.”
“The gun?”
“Wanda asked me if I knew where she could buy a gun,” Steve says. “I referred her to my friend Bucky, who runs an armory, and he sold her a revolver. It was done legally of course, and we’re all adults here, so I didn’t think much of it. It’s her right to have a gun if she wants.”
“Yes, it is,” you state, although you’re not sure why Steve is telling you all this.
“The weird part is that Wanda specifically asked Bucky to sell her blanks instead of bullets,” Steve says. “He tried telling her that guns aren’t toys, and if it was for protection she needed live bullets. No noisy, flashy blanks were going to protect her from anything.”
You start to laugh. Steve was right; blanks wouldn’t protect anyone, but they would put on a good show. And your wife was all about the theatrics. But you knew her better than anyone, and if she was going to go as far as to fake a shooting, you would make sure she regretted it.
“She said she wouldn’t buy the gun unless she got her blanks, so Bucky caved,” Steve says. “She could’ve gotten bullets from another source, but it was just so odd. We figured she might’ve just wanted the gun for show, you know? But she could’ve gotten a fake for much cheaper–”
“Steve,” you finally interrupt his rambling. “I knew about the gun.”
“Oh, you did?” Relief breaks out on his face. “That’s great–”
“And I noticed the gun had blanks in it. So I switched them with real bullets.”
Summary: You and Wanda have been best friends since your first semester of college. When you have to take a physics class, Wanda is more than happy to help you study, but your late night study sessions blur the lines between friendship and romance.
Warnings: 18+ nsfw content; bottom!wanda maximoff, top!reader, fingering (w receiving), oral (w receiving), wanda’s first time with a woman, slight angst, jealousy
A/N: Save me college Wanda, college Wanda save me…
——————————
The sun beamed down on you as you walked across campus, sweat forming on the back of your neck from the heat.
You had just finished your first day of classes for the semester and you were feeling confident about all of them, except for one. Even as an English major, you were stuck taking a physics class to complete some general requirements for graduation.
You could handle the most complex forms of literature on a bad day, but when it came to math and science, you found yourself feeling a little lost.
The good news was that your roommate and best friend, Wanda Maximoff, was a physics major. Wanda was everything you wanted to be - naturally smart, driven, focused, and incredibly organized.
She was also the most beautiful person you had ever laid eyes on, long brown hair that was somehow even softer than it looked, stunning green eyes that sometimes made you nervous under her gaze, and the perfect body - since you shared a room, you’d seen her undress before, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to look like her or fuck her brains out.
You constantly pushed down any desires you felt towards Wanda since she was your best friend, telling yourself your friendship was far too valuable to risk just because you occasionally had confusing feelings towards her.
The two of you had known each other since you both started college. You were roommates your first semester and instantly became close, despite your contrasting personalities. Where you were more relaxed and laid back when it came to your studies, Wanda was very serious. It made sense though, her major was far more demanding than yours was and she always worked hard to maintain her perfect GPA.
You’d always admired Wanda and found that you could no longer envision your life without her by your side. She was easily the best friend you’d ever had; she was supportive when you needed it and stayed on top of you when you felt like slacking. Wanda was extremely likable and you felt honored that she considered you her closest friend as well.
When you finally made it back to your dorm, you sighed as you felt the cool air inside. You headed to your room and unlocked the door, stepping through the threshold to the familiar sight of Wanda studying. You smiled to yourself; it was only the first day of classes and she was already trying to learn as much as she could.
“Hey,” you greeted, setting your things down and plopping into your bed, taking a moment to relax.
“Hi,” Wanda said back, turning in her chair to face you. “How was your first day?”
“It was good,” you responded, looking over at her from your bed. “My professors seem cool, most of my classes don’t seem too hard. What about you?”
“Not too bad, although my nuclear and particle physics class might kick my ass this semester,” Wanda chuckled.
“Is that what you’re over there studying already?” You teased her, gesturing to the open books on her desk.
“Yeah, it’s actually pretty interesting. I want to get ahead this semester so I have more time to hang out with you and do fun stuff,” she explained.
“That’s good. I’ll remind you that you said that the next time you’re trying not to go to a party with me,” you joked, bringing a smile to her face. “Or maybe you could use some of that extra time to help me out, I’m stuck taking a physics class this semester and I have no idea what’s going on.”
“Oh, which one?” Wanda asked, her interest piqued.
“Classical mechanics I think,” you said, feeling slightly embarrassed at needing help with one of the most basic physics courses.
“That’s a fun one,” she commented. “I’d be glad to help detka.”
That was another thing about Wanda. She often called you pet names, in a friendly way of course, but it made your heart flutter every time she did it.
“Okay cool, thank you. Maybe we can have a study session at the library tomorrow if you’re not too busy with classes?” you asked, knowing you only had one class to worry about in the morning.
Wanda turned towards her desk to flip through a binder, checking her schedule. “I have a morning class and one in the afternoon, could we do 7pm?”
“Sounds like a plan,” you said, biting back a smile at the thought of Wanda tutoring you.
“Perfect! I’ll meet you there tomorrow.” She turned back to face you again, her expression becoming serious as she pointed a finger at you. “Ten minutes of bed-rotting time and then I want to see you reading or writing something,” she demanded, trying to motivate you to get ahead like she was.
“Okay mom,” you retorted, rolling your eyes playfully.
She went back to studying, taking notes as she flipped the pages of her nuclear physics textbook. You laid in bed for a few more moments, scrolling through Instagram reels, before getting up to join her in studying.
The next day, you attended your morning class and then grabbed a latte at the coffee shop on campus, deciding to review your notes as you sipped your drink, knowing it’s what Wanda would want you to do.
The rest of the day went by slowly but you managed to get some work done. You were eager for your study session with Wanda, excited to spend some time with her after the two of you had gone home for the summer and had barely seen each other.
You arrived at the library early, finding it to be relatively empty at this time of night. A few students were at the computers, but overall the library was quite vacant. You picked a spot in the corner, away from others, where you felt you’d have the most privacy and the least distractions.
You waited for Wanda, who came in a few minutes later, looking around the shelves before she spotted you.
“Hey,” she greeted as she sat down beside you, her thigh touching yours. She reached into her bag to pull out different colored pens, highlighters, sticky notes, and some of her old physics notes from when she took classical mechanics.
“Hi,” you breathed out, forcing yourself to ignore the feeling of her so close. “Someone came prepared,” you jested, making her laugh softly as she finished setting up.
“I’m here to help you, aren’t I? I have to make sure you have everything you need,” she quipped with a smile and the most adorable nose scrunch.
Your heart skipped a beat at the sight; you didn’t remember it being this hard to be around Wanda, but everything she was doing was driving you crazy in the best way. You watched her for a moment as she placed everything on the table in an organized fashion, biting her lip with a focused expression on her face. You wanted nothing more than to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth and capture it with your own.
“Let’s get started, shall we?” She broke the silence, bringing you back to reality. You blushed at what you were just thinking about, nodding in response.
“Sounds good,” you managed, opening your textbook to the first chapter.
Wanda reached over to move the textbook so it was centered between the two of you and as she did so, your fingers brushed against each other. You almost shivered at the act, the soft touch feeling like too much but not enough at the same time. Wanda didn’t seem affected as she began to dig into the material, asking you what the professor had already gone over.
She somehow kept finding ways to touch you, whether it was a hand on your shoulder or her fingers grazing your own over the textbook as she pointed to pictures and paragraphs. You could barely answer her questions, the close proximity and subtle touches making you yearn for her.
Unbeknownst to you, Wanda was just as affected; she was just better at hiding it. She couldn’t understand why but she kept intentionally finding ways to be closer to you. She didn’t notice the effect it was having on you, too preoccupied with steadying her own heart rate every time she felt your skin against hers.
She’d always thought you were beautiful, but this was something else. She didn’t know why she was struggling to keep her composure around you now. She’d always found comfort in your presence - you often studied together, came home drunk from parties and cuddled in the same bed, or watched movies together laying side by side, the computer across both of your laps.
Something about this study session felt weirdly intimate. She was enjoying teaching you about her passion, physics and science, and maybe that was part of it. She chalked it down to that and tried to push her feelings aside, focusing on helping you with your studies and being a good friend.
A friend - that’s what she was to you and that’s how it would stay. She couldn’t complicate something so perfect with these conflicting feelings of wanting more from you.
Despite both of you trying hard to ignore how you felt, the air was still charged, the tension still there. It wasn’t just this time either - it became a regular occurrence.
Wanda helped you with physics at least once a week and her eager guidance actually helped you grasp the subject more. You found yourself falling in love with the way her eyes would light up when you brought up a subject she knew a lot about. She was so excited every time you understood it too, feeling both accomplished that she could help and proud that you were getting it.
She found it adorable when you didn’t understand something and she loved the way your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to think harder about it. The two of you became closer than ever, which you didn’t think was possible. You and Wanda were already attached at the hip when she wasn’t deep in her studies and you never expected to feel like you were getting to know her better just from a few study sessions, but you loved it.
You found yourself wanting her, despite trying to repress those feelings. Sometimes when you got an answer right and Wanda beamed with excitement, you only wanted to break the distance and kiss her, to feel her lips against your own and wrap your arms around her neck as she kissed you back. You couldn’t help but look at her lips as she spoke, imagining how soft they’d be against your own. Whenever she bit her lip, you wished she was biting yours.
The thoughts weren’t always so innocent though. Yes, you wondered how she would taste as you kissed her, but you also wondered how she would taste with your head between her legs. You wanted to thank her for her help by making her cum on your fingers right there in the library, where anyone could see.
You tried to shake those kinds of thoughts, feeling guilty for thinking of your best friend that way, especially when she was being so kind as to tutor you on the subject you struggled with. She didn’t have a lot of free time to begin with, her workload keeping her fairly busy, and here she was making sure you could pass your physics class with flying colors.
And here you were, too distracted by thoughts of fucking her to pay attention to Newton’s law of attraction. The only law of attraction you could think about was how you felt about Wanda.
Wanda was in the same boat, cursing herself for threatening to ruin your friendship with this newfound attraction towards you. She wondered if her seemingly innocent thoughts about you in the past were actually just the seeds of this desire for you, only now flourishing the more time you spent alone with her.
Whenever she felt your gaze on her, it made her feel hot all over. She tried to ignore it and focus on the material, reminding herself that you just needed help with physics. That’s what she was there for, nothing else.
But sometimes, she wished it was more. When you weren’t looking, she’d rake her eyes over you, taking in the sight of you beside her, feeling her heart stop in her chest when you’d catch her staring. You convinced yourself she was just watching you to make sure you were immersed in the subject, when in reality she was most definitely checking you out.
Still, her eyes on you made you nervous and you brought your attention back to the textbook in front of you solely to rid your cheeks of the blush she caused.
One particular night in the library nearly changed everything.
You read Wanda’s notes about motion and energy, scanning the pages to better understand the concepts. While you admired her neat handwriting and the cute ways she annotated her own notes, Wanda admired the concentrated look on your face.
She was so lost in watching you that she barely noticed when you spoke.
“So special relativity is the exception to Newton’s laws when objects move at high speeds and general relativity is when objects are too massive, right?” You asked, looking up at her for confirmation as she stared at you intently, a slight smirk coming across your features when you caught her.
“Yes,” she choked out, looking away for a second to regain her composure. “And quantum mechanics?”
“That’s the exception when objects are very small,” you responded, feeling confident in your answer.
“Good job,” Wanda praised, making your heart flutter. “You’re really getting it.” She looked at you with nothing but pride and approval, smiling softly.
“Thank you,” you mumbled, feeling hot under her gaze. Despite how nervous she was making you, you didn’t break eye contact.
The two of you sat like that for a moment, just looking at each other, until Wanda’s eyes flicked down to your lips for a brief second. You almost thought you imagined it at first, but then she did it again. You mimicked her actions, looking down at those lips you wanted so desperately to capture with your own.
You swore Wanda was leaning in and you couldn’t stop yourself from doing the same. Your faces were mere inches apart now and you could feel Wanda’s warm breath against your lips.
Before you could close the gap, the door to the library opened and startled both of you. You turned to look at who came in, silently cursing them for ruining the moment as Wanda pulled back to look too.
There was an awkward silence before Wanda cleared her throat. “So now that you know what quantum mechanics is, let’s move on to the definitions of atomic and subatomic,” she said, her voice nearly trembling as she tried to recover from the heated moment you shared.
“Right,” you responded, turning your attention back to her notes, trying to calm your racing heart.
You and Wanda had almost kissed, everything suddenly felt very real. But instead of addressing what just happened, Wanda moved on, bringing the conversation back to the task at hand.
You played along, focusing on looking for the definitions she mentioned, finding it difficult to learn anything new when you had just come so close to kissing the brunette.
The rest of the study session felt tense and slightly awkward, but you made it through the last of the material without any hitches - or almost-kisses. Eventually, the two of you packed up your things and headed out, discussing projects and exams on the way back to your dorm.
A few days later, you were watching a movie in bed when Wanda came in, smiling brightly with a skip in her step.
“What’s got you so giddy today?” You asked, pausing your movie.
“Do you remember Vision, from my data analysis class?”
“Yeah,” you answered, nodding.
“He just asked me out,” she said excitedly. “I said yes of course. We’re going out on Friday, he’s taking me to dinner.”
Her words felt like a punch to the gut. You forced a smile, trying to be happy for her when all you could focus on was the feeling of your heart breaking.
“That’s great, Wands,” you muttered. “I’m happy for you.” The words felt fake coming out of your mouth but you kept up the act and tried to ignore the jealousy bubbling within you.
“He’s so sweet, he even used a silly joke about data to ask me out,” she went on, continuing to tell you about her day as you listened, your mind elsewhere the entire time.
All you could think about was the kiss you almost shared, how it meant everything to you and nothing to Wanda. Obviously she wasn’t interested in you like that and you wondered if you merely imagined the intimacy of the library study sessions. You had to come to terms with the fact that the tension you felt in the air when you were with Wanda lately was all in your head.
You thought when you almost kissed that maybe, just maybe, she felt the same way. Now, you realized you were horribly wrong, the harsh reality hitting you like a truck. Wanda was just being nice helping you study and you let yourself believe that it was more. You felt incredibly stupid, wishing the ground would swallow you whole so you didn’t have to hear any more about the date Vision was taking Wanda on.
What you didn’t know was that Wanda only said yes to Vision out of pure denial. She was having a hard time coping with her feelings for you and this seemed like a good way to move on, to try to save your friendship from her own selfish desires. She was excited for her date, hoping that it would take her mind off of you.
Maybe Vision would be the perfect guy for her and she could fall for him instead. He was handsome, slightly dorky, and very chivalrous, always holding the door open for her when they showed up to class at the same time. He was planning on taking her to a lovely restaurant near campus and Wanda was trying her best to look forward to it.
Friday rolled around and Wanda went on her date, which couldn’t have gone better. Vision greeted her at her dorm with flowers, walking her to his car and taking them to the restaurant. He listened intently while Wanda talked about herself and her passions, seeming genuinely interested. He paid at the end of dinner, leaving a generous tip for their server which Wanda found attractive. He asked politely to kiss her when he dropped her back off and didn’t pressure her for more.
Despite how wonderful the date was, Wanda was frustrated. She didn’t feel a spark with him like she did with you. She didn’t feel anything when they kissed, not even when he cupped her cheek in his hand as he moved his lips softly against her own.
Wanda felt more butterflies in her stomach from your hand brushing against hers during a study session than she did from kissing Vision at the end of their date and she hated it.
She figured it would take some time to get over you and continued to see Vision, going on a couple dates a week with him when she had the free time. She tried to continue your study sessions as well, but you told her you didn’t need the extra help and to just have fun with Vision. She felt slightly hurt - she didn’t like the idea of you not needing her anymore - but she was also proud of you for taking on the subject on your own.
You, on the other hand, were avoiding Wanda at all costs. You only came back to the dorm when she was in class or when she was already asleep, staying out late hanging around college parties that weren’t nearly as fun without your best friend.
You were in far too deep and came to the conclusion that you needed to move on in order to stay friends with Wanda. So you kept your distance, hoping that not seeing her or hearing from her would help you lose feelings for her.
You also couldn’t bear to see her with Vision; the sight of them together on campus made you feel sick to your stomach. You didn’t want to hear about their dates either, knowing it would destroy you. You couldn’t possibly listen to Wanda describe how he got to take her out and kiss her and hold her when it should’ve been you, not without revealing your true feelings to her.
While you spent your days hiding from the brunette, Wanda was confused as to why you were avoiding her, not understanding that it was an act of self-preservation.
She had so many things she was excited to tell you about - being the top student in her relativity class, getting a perfect score on her nuclear and particle physics exam, and of course, her budding relationship with Vision. The opportunity to tell you never came, as you were gone until she went to sleep and out of the dorm before she woke up.
She missed your study sessions, even if not having those intimate moments with you was for the best. She missed your movie nights, your conversations, your presence in general - she missed everything about you. It frustrated her to no end that she could never seem to see you anymore and she wondered how you could possibly become so busy all of a sudden.
She only realized you were actively avoiding her one night when she stayed up late, waiting to see if you’d come back to the dorm.
When you entered, you were surprised to see her still awake.
“Hey,” she said, happy to see you for the first time in weeks. “Where were you?”
“At a party,” you said back coldly. You internally cursed yourself for not staying out later, unaware that Wanda would still be up when you came back. You looked around before grabbing some things from your dresser. “I need to shower,” you announced, leaving the room before Wanda could ask any more questions.
The brunette waited up for you, but you never came back. She waited hours before she finally succumbed to sleep, her thoughts a jumbled mess as she drifted away.
When she woke up the next morning and you were still gone, she knew you were actually making an effort not to see her and she could only wonder what she had done wrong. She mulled over it for a while but came up with nothing. She thought back to the almost-kiss and wondered if maybe she had made you uncomfortable that night.
Days went by and you continued to avoid her. Not knowing why you were staying away from her was driving her crazy. Her grades even began to suffer from how distracted she was in class, her mind consumed with thoughts of you.
She finally decided to confront you about it, but first she’d have to actually find you. She vaguely knew your class schedule but didn’t want to corner you in a public place, so she went to the one place she thought you might be late in the evening.
As soon as she entered the library after hours, she saw you in the corner at the same table the two of you used to sit at for your study sessions.
You were nose deep in your physics textbook, focusing intently as you tried to understand the topics without Wanda’s help. She walked over to you, mentally hyping herself up for the conversation she was both anticipating and dreading.
When you set the book down to take notes, you looked up and your eyes widened at the sight of Wanda approaching you.
Before you could say anything, she was taking a seat across from you. “Why are you avoiding me?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow and crossing her arms, her tilting to the side.
“I- I’m not, I-” you stuttered out.
“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t lie to me. You’re never back at the dorm anymore, you stopped spending any time with me, you literally said you were going to shower and just never came back. So don’t you dare lie to me right now.”
“I’ve just been busy,” you said nonchalantly, not wanting to tell her the truth. “I have a life outside of you, you know.” You regretted the words as soon as you said them.
“Bullshit,” she responded, getting angry. “You’re avoiding me and I can’t for the life of me figure out why. What did I do to you?”
“Nothing, Wands,” you reassured her. “You didn’t do anything. I just- I need to be alone.”
“Why?” She didn’t let up. She came here to get answers and she would get them one way or another.
“It’s personal,” you tried, hoping she wouldn’t press any further.
She scoffed. “What’s so personal you can’t share it with your best friend?”
You were at a loss for words. You couldn’t tell her the truth and risk ruining your friendship, but at this point there was barely anything left to ruin. You hadn’t seen Wanda properly in weeks, your friendship with her was practically nonexistent at the moment.
When you didn’t respond, she spoke again, softer this time. “What’s going on? You can tell me anything,” she uttered, reaching out to place a hand over yours.
“I can’t tell you this,” you mumbled, feeling your resolve weakening.
“What could possibly be so bad you can’t tell me?” She asked, her heart falling at the sight of you looking so small under her gaze.
“I- I can’t stand to see you with him,” you whispered, your voice so low she almost didn’t hear you.
“With who? Vision?” she asked and you nodded, looking down at your lap. “I still have time for you too, I’m not choosing him over you,” she tried to dispel your worries, not yet understanding what you were implying with your confession.
“No, Wanda, I can’t stand to see him with you,” you said, avoiding eye contact. “You don’t get it, you are choosing him and it hurts too much to be around you.”
“What are you saying?” She questioned, feeling both confused and hurt.
“I’m saying that I like you, Wanda,” you started. “As more than a friend.”
Wanda was silent for a moment, processing what you were telling her. Could she really have been so oblivious that she didn’t notice you wanted her too? It all made sense now. You’d stopped hanging out with her right around the time Vision came into the picture and she couldn’t figure out why, but now she understood.
“Please say something,” you said, feeling nervous and vulnerable as you looked up at her, unable to read her expression.
“I- I didn’t know,” she managed to get out.
“That was kind of the point,” you retorted, half-smiling to alleviate some of the tension.
Wanda let out a suppressed laugh. “I only started seeing Vision because I like you too,” she began. “I thought if I could be with him, I wouldn’t have to worry about complicating things with my feelings.”
Your mouth fell open at her words; you weren’t expecting her to ever reciprocate how you felt about her. “You do?”
She nodded. “I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” she said.
“Me neither,” you mumbled, looking down at her lips for a moment before making eye contact with her again.
She smirked when she noticed where your eyes went, making you blush. “I don’t think that’s a problem anymore,” she said, her eyes flicking down to your lips and back up.
“I think you may be right,” was all you could say before you stood up and walked around the table. Wanda stood up too, meeting you halfway as you pulled her in for a kiss that was long overdue.
You sighed against her lips, kissing her deeply the way you’d wanted to for so long. Your mouths moved together perfectly and it felt so right, you didn’t think you’d ever be able to stop.
This was what Wanda was waiting for.
The kiss she shared with you was everything her kiss with Vision wasn’t. It was electrifying in the best way, butterflies erupting in her stomach with every movement of your lips against hers.
When her tongue traced your bottom lip, you nearly moaned into the kiss, immediately granting her entry. Your tongue collided with hers and she whimpered, the sound going straight to your core. You brought a hand up to caress her cheek, your other hand going to the back of her head to play with her hair, causing her to let out a soft moan. This was everything you could’ve imagined and more.
Wanda’s hands came up to your face, cradling it as she deepened the kiss. Your lips and tongues moved in tandem, neither of you wanting to stop any time soon.
When you finally did detach from her, it was to catch your breath. You stayed close, your noses still touching as the two of you breathed against each other. You felt every breath from the brunette against your skin, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear as you finally opened your eyes.
You pulled back slightly to look at her, her eyes opening to meet your stare. Her pupils were dilated and you were sure yours looked similar. She looked so beautiful looking at you longingly, her lips swollen from the kiss and her breaths coming out labored, green eyes sparkling with lust and adoration.
“Wow,” you breathed out.
“Wow indeed,” she agreed, chuckling as she pulled you in for another kiss, this one much shorter than the first.
A comfortable silence fell over you, the two of you taking in the moment.
“So what now?” you asked, looking at her tenderly.
“I don’t know,” she answered, biting her lip. “It’s safe to say the friendship is ruined at this point, because I don’t want this to be the only time we do that.”
You nodded your agreement. “Me too,” you replied, your eyes falling to her lips once again. “I want you, Wanda. I have for so long.”
“I want you too,” she said without hesitation. “I’ll tell Vision it’s not working out. I want to see where this goes.”
You made a face at the mention of his name and Wanda chuckled. “Oh, you really don’t like him, huh?” She teased.
“Not one bit,” you murmured. “Not when he got to have what I wanted so badly.”
“Charmer.” She smiled at you, her cheeks turning red at your words.
“Can I kiss you again?” You blurted out, feeling your own cheeks redden at your neediness.
She responded by pressing her lips to yours once more and letting her tongue slide into your mouth, humming into the kiss contentedly.
The two of you stayed like that for a while, languidly kissing in the library after hours, catching up on lost time.
When you went back to your shared dorm for the night, you picked back up where you left off, this time with Wanda in your lap as you laid in your bed. Every once in a while, she’d grind her hips down against your lap just to hear you grunt in arousal against her lips.
You fell asleep together in your bed, Wanda’s head on your shoulder as her breathing evened out.
The following week, Wanda ended things with Vision and you took Wanda out on a proper date. Vision’s date paled in comparison to the one you took her on. This date was better simply because it was you and not him, but on top of that, you took her somewhere nice and treated her like a princess the whole night. She practically swooned every time you held the door for her, complimented her, or pulled out her chair for her.
By the end of the night, you were on cloud nine. It was just like spending time with your best friend, but this was infinitely better because you could kiss her whenever you wanted and tell her how beautiful she looked at any given moment.
You walked back to your dorm together, fingers interlocked as you listened to her talk about her dreams after college. When you made it back to the dorm, you opened the door to let her in first.
“Such a gentleman,” she joked, stepping in, and you followed.
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you knew what I wanted to do to you right now,” you said, pushing her against the door softly and looking at her for permission to kiss her.
A pang of arousal shot through her at your words. She wasn’t expecting you to be so bold, but she also wasn’t complaining. “Oh yeah?” she asked, playing along. “How about you show me?”
You didn’t hesitate as you kissed her hungrily, the feeling of her lips on yours making you feel dizzy with lust. You slipped your tongue into her mouth and she gasped at how eager you were, kissing you back with just as much fervor.
You trailed your kisses down to her neck, making her moan as you licked and sucked at the soft skin there. Her perfume invaded your senses and you groaned against her neck, her scent making your knees weak.
Her moans spurred you on as you sucked at her pulse point. She gripped your shoulders, her head thrown back against the door, eyes fluttering closed as you continued your assault on her neck.
She pulled you back up for another kiss, moaning into your mouth when you sunk your teeth into her bottom lip. When you finally pulled apart to catch your breath, you ran your thumb along her bottom lip, gazing into her lustful eyes.
“Are you sure about this?” You checked in with her, wanting to make sure she was really okay with what was about to happen.
“I’ve never been with a woman before,” she admitted, suddenly feeling shy. “But I want it to be you, please.”
You nearly groaned out loud hearing her beg for you, nodding as you lifted her up and carried her to your bed. You placed her down gently, crawling on top of her and kissing her again.
You once again began your descent, kissing her neck and sucking on her soft spots. She squirmed beneath you, feeling herself becoming wet under your touch.
Your fingers found the bottom of her shirt, playing with the fabric as you silently asked for permission to remove it. “Take it off,” Wanda whispered, starting to feel desperate from your slow teasing.
She sat up so you could pull the shirt off of her and reached back to unclasp her bra, letting the material fall from her shoulders. Your mouth fell open at the sight of her bare chest, nipples already hard. You’d seen her topless before while she was changing, but never like this. You’d never been allowed to look as much as you wanted, to admire her before you.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” you said, bringing your hands up to her chest as she leaned back again. Your thumbs brushed over her nipples, causing her to let out a whimper that sent heat coursing through your body.
You leaned in to take one of her nipples in your mouth, licking it gently before sucking on the hardened bud. Wanda moaned at that, the sound making you even more aroused. She sounded so pretty moaning under your touch and you couldn’t wait to hear what she sounded like when she came undone for you.
You gave her other nipple the same attention before moving down, one hand finding its way under her skirt. Your fingers reached her center, feeling a wet spot on the front of her underwear.
“You’re so wet for me,” you mumbled, in awe of how turned on she was. It almost made you feel a bit cocky, knowing it was you who made her so wet she was soaking through her panties.
“Please,” the brunette gasped out, bucking her hips up against your fingers. “Need you.”
“Yeah? You need me, pretty girl?” You cooed, rubbing your fingers along her slit over her underwear.
She nodded frantically, her hips desperately trying to meet your hand for any sort of friction against her aching pussy. You pushed aside her panties to touch her without any barriers and you let out a moan of your own at the soft, slick feeling of her folds against your fingertips. She was dripping, her wetness clinging to your skin and the lace of her panties as you dragged your fingers through her folds teasingly.
All of a sudden, you pulled your hand back and she whined, already missing the contact. “Shh, I’m just gonna take these off, okay?” You asked, subtly making sure she was comfortable with you removing the last of her clothes.
“Yeah,” she responded, lifting her hips so you could pull her skirt and panties off in one motion.
Once she was rid of her clothes, you took a moment to appreciate the view before you. Wanda was gorgeous all over, you thought to yourself, admiring her underneath you. You raked your eyes over her, committing the sight to memory as she blushed against the covers of your bed, feeling hot under your gaze.
“You can stare all you want later, right now I need you,” she said breathily, grabbing your hand and bringing it to where she needed you most. Your fingers met her wet center once more and you immediately started rubbing her clit, making her moan and buck her hips.
You kissed her again, swallowing her moans as you picked up your pace, making tight circles on her sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Fuck, just like that,” she whimpered, her face contorted in pleasure, eyebrows furrowed, heavy breaths escaping her as you brought her pleasure.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you mumbled, watching her throw her head back and close her eyes as she got lost in the feeling of your fingers against her.
You stopped your movements just long enough to tease her entrance and upon hearing another “please,” you slid a finger inside. You fucked her with one finger for a few moments before sliding another one in, causing her to let out a guttural moan at the feeling of you stretching her out.
You kissed down her body again, making your way down to where you desperately wanted to taste her. When your hot mouth met her clit, she let out another delicious sound, her hips starting to grind against you, chasing her pleasure. Her movements caused her clit to rub against your tongue while your fingers pumped inside of her and she felt herself becoming close already.
“You taste so good,” you praised, barely moving your mouth from her pussy to speak, before reattaching your lips to her clit and sucking hard. She moaned at your words and at the pressure building in her lower stomach, continuing to rut her hips against you.
“I’m gonna cum, fuck, I’m so close,” she moaned, one hand coming to the back of your head to keep you there, as if you would ever deny her anything.
With a few more thrusts of your fingers, she came undone, loud moans filling the room as she reached her peak. Her hips stuttered against your face, her clit pulsing under your tongue while her pussy clenched around your fingers.
You slowed your movements, helping her ride out the aftershocks, small whimpers and moans leaving her as she came down from her high. She sighed, all of the tension having left her body, before pulling you up for a kiss, tasting herself on your tongue.
“I could get used that,” she hummed, smiling up at you tiredly.
“Me too,” you panted out, still incredibly turned on from seeing her cum for you. “I kinda can’t wait to do it again.”
“You want me that bad?” She teased, smirking.
“Absolutely,” you replied genuinely, staring at her with so much love and lust in your eyes it made her heart flutter and her pussy throb.
“Go ahead baby, fuck me again,” she said, your own cunt clenching around nothing at her words. You returned to your new favorite spot between her legs and did exactly what she told you, her hand in your hair guiding you the whole time.
After three more rounds, Wanda was spent, and you joined her at the head of the bed, letting her turn towards you and rest her head on your shoulder. You held her close as she traced patterns on your arm, catching her breath after falling apart for you so many times.
“Do you still need help with physics?” She asked, breaking the silence.
You chuckled at that. “Yes, desperately,” you responded, letting a hand come up to play with her hair. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”
She laughed, finding it amusing that you’d needed her help the past few weeks but were too stubborn to ask for it. “Study session this week?” she suggested, her eyes falling closed at the feeling of your fingers on her scalp.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” you said, smiling happily, feeling at peace in the arms of the girl you loved.
You never would’ve thought you would be so grateful for having to take a physics course, but now you were certain it was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
Summary: Natasha finds herself sinking into the quiet storm of her own insecurities—trapped in the uncertainty of her almost-relationship. Though deeply in love, she struggles with the fear that something so good can’t last. She worries she’s temporary, that she’s not enough, that she’ll be left behind. The lack of a clear title between them—no “girlfriend,” no labels—only feeds her anxiety. Despite knowing deep down that she’s loved, the ache of not hearing it aloud, of not being certain where she stands, begins to unravel her from within… until all of it changed.
Paring: Natasha Romanoff x Reader, Natasha Romanoff x Platonic Clint Barton.
Word count: 11615
Warnings: Emotional Insecurity & Anxiety, Mentions of Trauma (Red Room), Mild Language, Implied Nudity/Intimacy, Age Gap Relationship (33 and 23)
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5
Author's Notes: Hey guys! Just wanted to say a huge thank you for all the love and support you’ve been giving this story—it honestly means so much to me. I’m sorry it took a little longer to post this one, but I promise it was worth the wait (yes, it got long, I know, but I couldn’t help myself). As always, feel free to drop a comment or send me a message—I absolutely love talking with you all about the story!Hope you enjoy the chapter… especially now that they’re finally, finally official!
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Natasha had always believed that solitude was safety. That the quiet after a mission, the dim silence of her apartment, the untouched corner of a bed meant she was doing it right. Keeping the world at bay. But lately—no, ever since you—solitude didn’t taste like peace anymore. It tasted like absence. It tasted like something she wasn’t supposed to swallow down anymore. Because now she knew what it felt like to be held. And God, she craved it. Every cell in her body missed you when you weren’t there. It was like her skin had developed a memory, a longing—your fingers stroking through her hair, the solid weight of your arms around her, the way your voice softened when you said her name. She wasn’t built for needing people, but somehow, she needed you.
It was worse on nights like this, when the plan had been simple. Just bed. Just cuddles. You, her, and Ana—wrapped up like a secret in soft sheets and warm limbs, safe from the world. That was all she wanted. No espionage, no world-threatening disasters, no coded briefings. Just domestic silence broken by the gentle hiccup of Ana’s giggle or your breath whispering across her neck. And when it didn’t happen, when the world pried you away again with one more emergency or one more delay, something inside her clenched with a quiet, aching frustration.
She never expected this. She never expected to become this… touch-starved. Not her. Not the Black Widow, trained to endure, to resist, to suppress. But every time you left, she felt like her skin was betraying her, screaming for your touch. Her body missed you like a second heartbeat gone quiet. She found herself counting the hours, the minutes, the weight of time unbearable until she could feel your warmth pressed against her again. You didn’t just touch her skin—you calmed the war beneath it. The war that had never really stopped since she was a child.
She sleeps better now. That’s something she can’t even say aloud without her voice cracking. Before you, sleep was something she survived. A minefield of memories, of missions, of screams that were never hers but still lived in her head. The Red Room was always there—just under her eyelids. But with you… it’s different. When she lies beside you, her body folds into yours with such aching relief it almost breaks her. And on the nights when the dreams still come—because they do, not as often, but still—you never even hesitate. You just reach for her. Sometimes you wake up to the sound of her breath hitching, and you’re already there, pulling her into your arms before she can even open her eyes. Her face tucked against your chest, breathing in the scent of your perfume like it’s a tether. It makes her feel safe. Not just safe from danger—but safe from herself.
You never ask her to explain. You never demand the shape of her fear or the color of her scars. You just hold her. Stroke her hair. Whisper to her. And it’s not even always words—sometimes it’s the quiet rhythm of a song you love, hummed against her temple, the vibrations sinking into her bones. Sometimes it’s a story, one of your myths or legends you adore, soft and slow like a lullaby. You talk about Persephone’s garden, or Selene’s moonlight, or the stars that guide lost souls home. And slowly, slowly, the war in her chest dies down. She breathes. She lets go.
And sometimes—her favorite times—you say nothing at all. You just stay. Stay with her. Stay present. Stay real. Your fingers weaving through her hair, your heart steady against her back. That’s how she heals. Not in grand gestures or loud declarations—but in these quiet nights where you remind her, without ever needing to say it, that the Red Room can’t reach her anymore. That Ana is safe. That she is loved. Fully. Completely. Unconditionally.
She never thought she’d have this. Never thought she’d be someone’s comfort, someone’s world. Never thought anyone would be hers. But you are. And she’s yours. And tonight, even if you’re not here, she holds onto that. Holds onto you. Because she knows that when the door finally opens, when your shoes are kicked off at the entrance, when you finally come to her again, you’ll climb into bed and fold yourself around her like you always do. And she’ll sleep. Truly sleep. Because you exist. Because you love her. And because somehow, impossibly, she’s allowed to love you back.
The text had barely finished delivering when Natasha’s heart leapt. “Coming home soon, love. Ana picked out a little bunny she refused to let go of. We miss you.” It was nothing extraordinary, just a simple message. But for Natasha, it lit her from within. She stared at the words until the letters blurred slightly, her chest warming with something fierce and tender and almost too much to hold. She could already picture it—the jingle of keys at the door, the sound of Ana’s babbling, your voice calling softly through the apartment, and then, finally, your arms around her. Your warmth at her back, your scent in her lungs, your presence like a balm to the always-too-tight coil in her chest. And Ana, her sweet little girl, pressed between you both like a heartbeat.
That had been the plan. The only plan Natasha cared about today.
She had tidied the room three times, not because it needed it, but because she needed to stay busy. She had fluffed the pillows, pulled out the softest blankets, even changed into your favorite hoodie—the one that still faintly smelled like you. The one she never admitted she slept in whenever you were gone too long. Her whole body was ready to melt into yours. Her mind was already there, halfway between your laugh and Ana’s cheek squished against her chest. That was her safe place now. That was everything.
But then her phone rang.
And everything—everything—shifted.
She stared at the screen like it had personally betrayed her. Clint. The only person she might’ve answered for tonight. The only one who knew her long enough to still pull her back into the life she thought she was beginning to leave behind. She pressed answer, already sighing.
“Please don’t say what I think you’re about to say,” she muttered before he could even speak.
“I wouldn’t if I had a choice,” Clint’s voice replied, casual but carrying that slight edge she recognized instantly—he was serious. “I need backup at the compound. New recruits are crashing hard. They’re not listening, not responding. They need someone who scares them straight.”
“They’re not my problem,” she said flatly, her jaw already tightening. “Not tonight.”
There was a pause.
“You said you were easing back in. This is easing. I wouldn’t call if I didn’t really need you.”
And there it was—that tug, that guilt-laced thread woven into years of loyalty and battles and blood. He knew it. He used it. And she hated that it still worked. But even as the pressure behind her eyes built, her voice snapped back, sharper this time. “Clint, I haven’t seen them all day. She’s been gone since morning. I just—” her voice cracked, barely, “—I just want to hold my family. I was going to hold them and breathe, and not think about combat posture or tactical breakdowns or angry kids trying to prove they’re bulletproof.”
“I get it,” he said gently. “But this is one of those nights I can’t handle it alone.”
She wanted to scream. Throw the phone. Anything. But instead, she clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Her free hand twisted into the hem of your hoodie, holding on like she was bracing for impact. Her silence dragged long enough that Clint said her name.
“I’ll go,” she said, bitterly. “But I’m not happy about it.”
“I know.”
And with that, she ended the call and stood there, motionless, the echo of her own frustration boiling beneath her skin. Her body physically hurt from how much it had wanted to be touched. Held. She could almost feel the phantom of your arms around her already, like her body had preemptively exhaled—and now that touch wouldn’t come. Not yet.
She peeled the hoodie off like it burned her, tossing it onto the bed with a sound that wasn’t quite a sob and not quite a growl. She hadn’t felt this moody in years. This let down. It wasn’t just the cuddle. It was the hope she’d let herself build. The sacredness of such a quiet plan. The simplicity of love, denied.
She didn’t bother looking in the mirror as she tied her boots and clipped her hair back. The woman staring back would be one she barely recognized tonight. All sharp edges again. All steel and cold breath and detachment. She hated it. Hated how easily the armor still fit.
Before she left, she glanced at the phone again, almost against her will. No new texts yet. You were probably driving, Ana babbling in the backseat. The image made her eyes sting.
She typed quickly, furiously, deleting twice before finally sending:
|Me: Clint called. Going to the compound. I’m sorry. I wanted tonight so badly.
She didn’t wait for the reply. She couldn’t. If you told her it was okay, she’d hate herself more. If you told her you missed her too, she’d fall apart.
She stepped out into the night with her fists clenched in her coat pockets and a weight in her chest that made her feel like she’d left her soul back in that bed, still waiting for your aren't .
The elevator hummed with sterile efficiency, bright lights buzzing above her head as Natasha stood with her arms crossed, back pressed into the cool metal wall. Her jaw was tight, ticking faintly as she stared blankly at the floor numbers ticking upward. The ride felt slower than usual, and she hated how her foot kept bouncing with impatience. She was still thinking about the bed, about you. About Ana’s little hand probably gripping that bunny you mentioned. About the warmth she was supposed to be folded into by now. Instead, she was in a steel box, dressed for war, on her way to babysit rookies who probably couldn’t tell the difference between real fear and adrenaline.
Damn Clint.
The doors opened with a pneumatic sigh, releasing her into the training sector’s lower level—a new wing Stark had greenlit, full of sleek equipment, minimalist black panels, and eerily quiet lighting. The second she stepped out, the air changed. It was cooler here, laced with the faint scent of sterilized tech and recently dried sweat. Ahead of her, through the glass wall, she could see them—six newbies strapped into individual chairs, motionless, eyes twitching beneath closed lids. Each one connected to the simulation grid via a thin neural band wrapped at the base of the skull. A glowing interface pulsed beside each chair, tracking vital signs and neurological responses.
Great. They’re using the Divergent crap tonight.
.Natasha muttered it under her breath as she stepped into the observation deck, her tone soaked in irritation, though the flicker of reluctant admiration lingered beneath. Her eyes swept over the simulation chairs lined in two perfect rows, each rookie hooked up to the neural bands you had personally helped design. A sleek web of bio-responsive tech wound from scalp to spine, and beneath the blinking lights and soft whirring of the monitors, she could practically hear your voice in her head explaining it all—every circuit, every serum compound, every neural feedback loop.
She hated how good the tech was. Hated how brilliant you were. Because tonight, that brilliance had stolen you from her arms.
This wasn’t some off-the-shelf copy of what the Divergent factions once used. No, this was yours—your creation. A modified, perfected version of the concept. Inspired by the movie, sure, but completely reimagined under your touch. Instead of fearscapes, you built a neural simulation that generated complex, high-risk, hyperrealistic fake missions. Rescue ops. Espionage trials. Ambush recoveries. Each one designed to push recruits to their limits—not by terrifying them, but by testing them. Every scenario was tailored based on psychological profiling, combat scores, and instinctive behaviors. And unlike the fear tests, the recruits were fully aware they were inside a sim.
That was the genius of it—it wasn’t about whether they could survive. It was whether they would choose to keep going even when it felt hopeless. They knew it was fake. Their minds still reacted like it was real.
Natasha folded her arms and exhaled sharply as one of the screens flickered to show a recruit crawling through smoke and glass, her simulated arm “injured,” her path blocked by simulated debris. Natasha recognized the scenario. A building collapse, with two civilian hostages on opposite ends of the structure. One had to be sacrificed. Classic moral tension. A test of choice, not strength.
She clenched her jaw.
It was brilliant. Brutal. Effective.
And right now?
It was a colossal pain in the ass.
She should be home. Curled into your chest with Ana asleep between you, your heartbeat beneath her ear and your perfume weaving through her senses like safety incarnate. She should be buried in warmth and peace and the sacred comfort she only ever found in your touch. But instead, she was standing here, cold and tense, watching over recruits struggle inside a world you built, your fingerprints in every line of code.
A quiet pang stirred in her chest. Not jealousy. Just longing. The ache of missing you while being surrounded by pieces of you.
She glanced at the chair nearest her. The young man strapped in was shaking, sweat beading along his temple. His simulation feed showed him breaching a hostile compound, wounded and alone, with a timer ticking down until the bomb exploded. Natasha watched his eyes twitch beneath their lids, watched his hands grip the armrests like they were the last lifeline he had.
It was working. Too well.
Clint appeared beside her, arms crossed like he’d been watching her rather than the recruits.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said quietly.
Natasha didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on the screen, on the chaos within the simulation.
“She built this,” she said finally. “Twisted it from some dystopian crap into a full-on psychological battlefield. It’s smarter than most field ops I’ve seen.”
Clint nodded. “She’s scary when she wants to be.”
“She’s brilliant when she wants to be.”
And then softer, bitter under her breath: “And I was supposed to be holding her right now.”
Clint winced.
“And then you called.” she added, sharp.
He raised his hands defensively. “And I said I was sorry.”
She turned away from the screens, tired of watching ghosts. “Let’s just finish this. I want to go home.”
Back to you. To warmth. To your arms and the scent of that bunny Ana refused to let go of. Back to what was real. Because no matter how convincing these simulations were—no matter how much of your brilliance hummed inside every byte—nothing in this cold, tech-lit room could compare to the life you’d built with her. Nothing could replace the soft gravity of your touch.
And when this was over, she’d crawl into bed no matter the hour, pull you against her, and breathe you in like a woman resurfacing from the deep.
The minutes dragged by like hours.
Natasha leaned against the edge of the control console, arms folded, posture tense but practiced. Beside her, Clint clicked between feeds on the main monitor, pulling up different simulation views. The room was quiet aside from the soft hum of processors and the occasional groan or muttered curse from one of the strapped-in recruits. The feeds flickered and changed—different scenarios, different reactions—and most of them, Natasha had to admit, were either absurd or just plain painful to watch.
“Did he seriously just run at the sniper with a knife?” she muttered, eyes narrowing at one of the panels.
“Yup,” Clint said with a grin, leaning in. “Didn’t even try cover. Full-blown hero charge.”
“He has a grenade on his belt.”
“I think he forgot.”
Natasha dragged a hand down her face. “That’s not forgetting. That’s suicidal optimism.”
Another screen showed a recruit trying to sneak through a corridor with absolutely no spatial awareness. He knocked over a chair, then tripped on it, then somehow managed to drop his weapon in the most exaggerated, dramatic tumble Clint had ever seen. Natasha didn’t say anything—just blinked slowly, her expression blank.
Clint laughed, loud and unfiltered. “That kid’s not even fighting the mission. He’s fighting gravity.”
On the far right panel, another recruit surprised them both. She rewired a security terminal in under thirty seconds using a snapped wire and part of her earpiece mic. Natasha raised an eyebrow.
“That one’s sharp,” she admitted.
Clint whistled. “That’s your girl’s tech, too. Interface adapted mid-sim. Pretty sure the sim actually improved her hacking instincts.”
“Good. Maybe someone here will make it past next month without getting themself killed.”
The next screen showed a recruit tossing his weapon to a simulated hostage and yelling, “Cover me!”
Natasha stared.
Clint choked on his laughter. “Oh my God.”
“He armed the hostage.”
“Strategic empowerment?”
Natasha shot him a dry look. “Strategic idiocy.”
They both laughed—hers short and bitter, his open and entertained. For a moment, the weight on her chest eased.
But only for a moment.
Clint glanced sideways at her when her smile faded. Her shoulders sank back into that familiar coil of silence, her expression hardening again as the recruits continued their digital trials. He studied her for a beat, then turned slightly toward her with that familiar smirk—the one he always wore when he was about to start poking the bear.
“You’re unusually grumpy tonight.”
She didn’t look at him. “Am I.”
He leaned on the console next to her, nudging her with an elbow. “C’mon. Even you usually enjoy mocking the next generation of idiots. What gives?”
Natasha sighed through her nose, eyes glued to the screen. “I had plans.”
“Oh no.” Clint gasped with mock horror. “Plans. Were they dangerous? Illegal? Food-related?”
“They were quiet,” she snapped. “They were warm. And soft. And involved zero morons giving weapons to fake hostages.”
Clint grinned. “So, cuddles?”
Her glare was pure ice. “Yes. Cuddles. That’s the mission you dragged me away from. The real one.”
Clint pressed a hand to his heart. “Heartbreaking.”
She didn’t respond, just clenched her jaw tighter.
Clint waited a second, then added with a mischievous glint, “You’re mad because you didn’t get to spoon your girlfriend, aren’t you?”
Natasha shot him a sideways glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Say that again and I’ll throw you into the sim.”
Clint chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “You’d need a whole custom scenario. ‘The Training of Barton: How to Shut Up and Let Natasha Cuddle in Peace.’”
She turned away, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. The irritation was real, yes, but even now, she could feel the edges of it softening around Clint’s usual nonsense. Still, it didn’t fix the ache—didn’t dull the image of what she could be doing. The gentle weight of Ana in her arms. Your body wrapped around her back. Your voice, soft and teasing against her neck. Her bed. Her home. You.
And here she was instead. Watching twenty-year-olds try not to shoot themselves in the foot.
Clint nudged her again. “Seriously though. You okay?”
For a while, she didn’t say anything. The screen in front of them flickered, throwing a cold blue glow across her face. A recruit stumbled through a simulated blizzard, searching for a beacon he’d never find, and Natasha’s expression was unreadable, carved from quiet tension. Her fingers tapped idly against her arm, then stilled.
“I’m trying to enjoy it,” she finally said, voice low. “Her. Us. Every second we get.”
Clint’s brow furrowed. He didn’t interrupt.
Natasha’s eyes softened a fraction, but her shoulders stayed drawn tight. “It’s been… good. Too good. So good it makes my skin crawl some nights. Not because I don’t want it—because I do. God, I do. But something in me keeps whispering that it’s not going to last.”
Her throat worked, like the words were digging themselves out against her will. “I keep getting this… this feeling. Like I’m losing her. Like she’s slipping through my fingers and I don’t even know why. Like this—whatever this is—has an expiration date and I just haven’t been told when yet.”
Clint’s voice came quieter. “She give you any reason to think that?”
Natasha shook her head. “No. That’s the worst part. She doesn’t lie to me. She holds me like she means it. Like she’s never letting go. But I can’t shake it. I wake up sometimes and I look at her and I think, this can’t be real. Life doesn’t give me this. Not for long. Not without taking it back.”
Clint exhaled slowly. “You’ve been through hell, Nat. Of course your brain doesn’t know what to do with softness.”
She looked away. Her jaw clenched hard. “It’s not just that.”
There was a beat of silence.
“She hasn’t asked,” Natasha said finally, quieter this time. “We’re not… anything. Not officially. Not girlfriends. Not friends-with-benefits. We’re just… something.”
She let the word hang, fragile and heavy.
“I think about it more than I want to admit,” she continued. “I keep wondering why she hasn’t asked. If it’s because she’s not sure. Or if it’s because she’s already decided and just doesn’t want to say it. What if she didn’t ask because she’s planning to leave? What if she’s just waiting for the right moment to end it clean?”
Clint frowned. “Do you really think she’d do that to you?”
“No.” Natasha’s answer was instant. She blinked hard, jaw still tight. “No. She wouldn’t. That’s the part that messes with my head. I know she wouldn’t. But it’s like my body doesn’t believe it. Like every scar in me is screaming that love is a trick, and safety’s just a lie waiting to collapse.”
Her voice cracked, barely.
“I hold her and I’m happy. She kisses my forehead and I want to cry because it feels so damn real. And then the voice comes in. The one that says, you don’t get forever. You don’t even get ‘official.’ You just get this borrowed time until she figures out she deserves someone better. Someone whole.”
Clint was quiet for a long moment. The sim monitors flickered in silence behind them, each recruit caught in their own temporary hell.
He shifted beside her, then leaned forward on the console with a sigh. “You wanna know what I think?”
Natasha didn’t look at him, but she didn’t tell him to shut up either. So he took that as permission.
“I think you’re scared out of your mind,” Clint said, not unkindly. “And I don’t blame you. You’ve never had anything like this before. Not really. Not where you could breathe in it. Where you could stay. Where no one was going to be dragged away or shot in the dark or pulled out of your arms while you watched helpless.”
She closed her eyes for a moment. Just a second. That soft tremble in her lashes said enough.
“But Nat,” he continued, gently now, “you’re not in the Red Room anymore. You’re not in a cage. You’re not some shadow they trained to be disposable. You’re home. You built something. With her. With your kid. You think that’s an accident? You think someone like you—someone who’s lived through fire and came out human—doesn’t deserve this?”
She clenched her jaw again. “It’s not about what I deserve.”
“No. It’s about what you’re terrified to hope for.”
Natasha looked at him then. Really looked at him. And for a moment, there was nothing but years between them—wars survived, trust earned, quiet confessions passed like thread between wounds.
“I’m not good at soft,” she said finally. “I never was.”
“No one’s asking you to be good at it,” he replied. “Just don’t run from it.”
She went quiet again, but the air between them had shifted—thick with the weight of things unspoken and the quiet, aching truth she’d been too afraid to say out loud.
“I just…” Her voice faltered, then steadied again, low and raw. “I want her to want me forever. Not just now. Not just while it’s new, or easy, or exciting. I want her to choose me. Name me. Claim me. Because this… something… it feels like everything, but I keep waiting for her to say it out loud.”
“And until she does, you’re stuck in limbo.”
She nodded, once. Slow. Painfully slow.
Clint tilted his head. “Then ask her.”
She blinked. “What?”
He shrugged. “Ask her. Be brave, Romanoff. You’ve taken down gods and dictators. You think you can’t survive asking the girl you love where you stand?”
“It’s not about surviving,” she said quietly. “It’s about what it’ll feel like if I’m right.”
Clint studied her for a beat, his expression softening. “And what if you’re wrong? What if she’s just scared, too? Or waiting for you to ask because she doesn’t want to pressure you? What if she’s lying awake at night, wondering why you haven’t said anything?”
Natasha looked down at her hands. The scar across her knuckles. The place where you kissed when you thought she was asleep.
“She holds me like she’s afraid I’ll vanish,” Natasha whispered. “But I hold her like I’m already losing her.”
Clint didn’t have an answer for that. Not one he could speak, anyway.
So he reached out and gently bumped her shoulder. A wordless reassurance. A tether.
“You’re not losing her, Nat. You’re just scared.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “A spy afraid of love. That’s original.”
“Hey,” he smirked. “Even assassins get hearts. Yours just took a while to remember how to beat.”
She didn’t reply, but her eyes flicked to one of the monitors without really seeing it. And Clint watched her, watched the way her mouth pressed into a thin line, the way her fingers dug slightly into her arms like she was holding herself together by will alone. He knew that posture. Knew it from rooftops and bunkers and long silences between missions. It was the way Natasha braced when something inside her was louder than anything outside.
“Nat,” he said, voice quieter now, less teasing, more solid, “she’s not going anywhere.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But you do. You do, and that’s what’s killing you. You know she loves you. You know she’s not lying, not playing, not keeping you around out of convenience. And that scares the hell out of you because the only thing more terrifying than losing her… is believing she might stay.”
She exhaled, sharp and shaky, and suddenly the room felt too small. Like the walls were pressing in with all the things she never let herself feel. All the quiet dreams she’d folded into the corners of her mind. All the hope she never gave herself permission to want.
“I’ve lost so much,” she murmured, eyes still fixed somewhere far beyond the monitors. “More than I ever let myself count. And now I have her. And Ana. And I keep thinking… what if this is just the calm before the storm? What if the universe is just fattening me up before it rips it all away again?”
Clint didn’t scoff. Didn’t try to joke it off. He just let her say it, let the words crack open between them like raw nerve.
“I think,” he said softly, “that maybe this time… the storm already passed. And this isn’t the before. Maybe it’s the after. Maybe you’re already standing in what’s left, and instead of ash, it gave you something to live for.”
That made her look at him. Her throat bobbed, her eyes glassy but refusing to spill. She wasn’t a crier. Not even when she wanted to be.
“I’m scared,” she said again, like it was a confession.
“I know.”
“I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Then don’t,” he said gently. “Just… tell her. Tell her you want more. Tell her this in-between isn’t enough. That you want to be hers. For real. She’ll listen. She’s not like the others.”
Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.Natasha didn’t speak, but something inside her shifted. You could almost see it—like a wall cracking, just a little. Letting the light in.
She exhaled slowly, almost as if the weight on her ribs had grown too heavy to carry in silence. Her voice came softer this time, stripped down, the edge dulled by something more fragile. “I never really noticed how hard it is… being a single mom. Not until I wasn’t doing it alone.”
Clint turned toward her, careful not to speak, just letting her unravel.
“I mean, I knew it’d be hard. Of course I did. Late nights, the crying, the routines, the guilt. But I thought I had it under control. I thought I was doing okay.” She paused, eyes fixed somewhere vague, like she was watching a reel of half-remembered mornings and chaotic afternoons. “And then she came in.”
Her voice thickened—not with regret, but awe.
“She didn’t just help me. She showed up. She saw me. She saw Ana. And it was like…” Her lips curved, barely, aching. “Like she’d always been meant to be there. Like Ana was waiting for her too.”
Natasha swallowed hard. “Damn it, Clint. It’s like she was made for us. Like some piece I didn’t know I was missing finally clicked into place. She’s a breeze of fresh air in a house that forgot how to breathe.”
She looked down at her lap, fingers clenching and unclenching like she was trying to hold on to something intangible. “Ana adores her. She laughs differently when she’s around. Softer. Freer. Like she feels we are safe, it's like she can see that I am better. like she already knows who her home is.”
Clint watched her, eyes warm, but said nothing. Letting her get to it.
Natasha leaned forward, elbows on her knees, voice dipping low again. “And that’s what terrifies me. Because she’s ten years younger than me. Ten years of freedom. Ten years of unburned skin. She could have anything. Anyone. And I’m just… me.”
Her jaw clenched. The words tasted bitter coming out. “What if one day she realizes she wants someone her own age? Someone without baggage? Without trauma layered under every smile?”
Clint’s lips pressed together, but he still said nothing. He knew too much now. Knew more than he was allowed to say. And even if the box was burning a hole in his pocket, even if he could already hear your nervous voice rehearsing the proposal over and over again… this moment wasn’t his to interrupt.
Natasha sat there, voice barely above a whisper now. “I don’t want Ana to lose her. I don’t want to lose her either. But I can’t stop thinking… why would she stay with me? Why not someone easier? Someone who didn’t come with a whole damn history of blood and ghosts?”
Her hands moved to cover her face for a second, as if she could scrub the vulnerability out of her pores.
Clint finally leaned back with a small sigh. “You’re asking all the wrong questions.”
Natasha peeked at him through her fingers.
“You’re thinking about why she shouldn’t love you. But have you looked at how she does? She’s not with you because of what you’re not, Nat. She’s with you because of everything you are. The fact you care this much? That’s not weakness. That’s proof.”
Natasha blinked, slowly.
“You and Ana aren’t just a chapter in her life,” Clint added, softer now. “You are her life. She made you part of her story. And she’s not walking away.”
He paused, the hint of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just trust me on that, okay?”
And Natasha… didn’t argue. She didn’t fight it. Not this time.
Instead, she looked down at her hands again, and let herself feel the full weight of what she’d built. What she stood to lose. And maybe—what she’d never have to.
They kept watching the simulations as the room buzzed with artificial chaos—guns fired, teammates failed, a building in one of the fake missions collapsed because someone forgot to check structural integrity. Idiots. Clint muttered something under his breath, scribbled a note about better obstacle training, and sighed heavily as a recruit ran into his own reflection thinking it was a teammate.
Natasha didn’t even blink.
Her eyes were on the screens, but she wasn’t watching. Not really. She was somewhere far away—somewhere quiet, warm, and filled with the faint scent of your perfume. Somewhere Ana was babbling in the background, dragging books across the living room carpet, while your fingers brushed Natasha’s hair back from her temple and your lips pressed to her shoulder without needing a reason. She could almost feel the weight of you behind her, arm snug around her waist, breathing synced with hers.
Her brow was furrowed, though her body was still. She was thinking too much again. Drowning in it. All those sharp edges of self-doubt scraping against everything she wanted. Everything she had no idea how to ask for.
Clint watched her out of the corner of his eye, occasionally glancing between her and the recruits as another poor kid accidentally set off a chain reaction that ended with simulated civilian casualties. They’d laugh about it later, probably. But he couldn’t even get a smile out of her now.
Then his phone buzzed.
He checked it, and when he read the message, his face changed. Something settled behind his eyes—a flicker of amused satisfaction—and he slowly tucked the phone away like it wasn’t burning in his hand.
He leaned in, cleared his throat dramatically. “Alright, I’ve seen enough bad decisions to last me the rest of the week. And you—” he pointed at Natasha without looking at her. “You’re done here.”
She didn’t look away from the monitors. “What?”
“I’m kicking you out.”
She raised a brow, just a little. “You’re kicking me out?”
“Yep. You’re useless like this,” he said, standing up and stretching his arms behind his head. “You’re not paying attention, you’ve been staring through the screen for the last fifteen minutes, and if I have to watch you sit there and stew in existential dread one second longer, I’m gonna throw myself into the next sim.”
She gave him a look—flat, unamused.
Clint grinned. “Go home, Nat.”
“Clint—”
He put a hand up. “Nope. No arguments. I’m the boss tonight. Go.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even like being in charge.”
“Well, tonight I do. Because it means I get to tell you to get out of here, go home, and stop being a haunted, brooding mess.”
She stared at him. He stared right back.
Then, slowly, her body shifted. Like a tired weight was finally giving up resistance.
“…Fine,” she muttered, dragging herself up from the chair.
Clint tossed her a mock salute. “Tell her hi for me.”
Natasha rolled her eyes and turned to leave, but he caught the way her fingers twitched slightly at the mention of you. The way her spine straightened Natasha stepped into the elevator, her body moving on autopilot, but her senses already alert—trained, sharp, impossible to fool. Something was in the air. Not the kind of tension that came before a fight, not the weight of danger—this was quieter. Warmer. Thicker, almost. Like anticipation had taken shape in the oxygen itself.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
She passed her keycard across the scanner. Beep. The familiar green light lit up, and the doors slid closed behind her. As the elevator began its descent, her fingers flexed against her thigh. Something was going on. Not a threat. No—she would’ve smelled that. But something… intentional. Delicate. And no one had said a word.
When the doors opened, her brows furrowed instinctively.
Her living room.
Soft amber light bathed the space in a gentle hush, like the entire apartment was holding its breath. No mission debris. No toys scattered from a wild Ana afternoon. Just… peace. Her eyes scanned quickly—then landed on the dining table.
Two plates. Steam rising. The scent of tomato and garlic filled the air like a memory.
Italian takeout.
Her lips parted just slightly. Her bag slid from her shoulder, hitting the floor without thought. She took a slow step in, like she was afraid the quiet might shatter if she moved too fast.
And then she felt it—before you touched her.
Your warmth behind her. That familiar hum that her body recognized before her mind could catch up. It wasn’t noise. It was presence. You.
Your arms slipped around her waist like they belonged there—like they’d always belonged there—and pulled her against you with a gentleness that made her breath catch. Her back met your chest, her hands instinctively finding yours. Her eyes closed.
You rocked her softly, slowly, swaying the way she might soothe Ana when she couldn’t sleep. “Good night,” you whispered, your lips brushing her hairline. “I missed you.”
The sound of your voice in that low, loving hush hit something deep. Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, grounding herself in the reality of it—of you. Your arms. Your smell. Your heartbeat against her spine.
She wanted to ask what all this was for. But she couldn’t. Not yet.
She just stood there in the quiet, still as a statue, letting herself be held.
Letting herself believe—for this moment—that maybe this wasn’t too good to last.
Your arms tightened around her just a little, pulling her closer, your presence now not just behind her—but wrapped into her. Natasha didn’t move, didn’t speak. She simply let herself be held, her body still tense with that faint echo of disbelief, like she didn’t quite trust that something this warm could be hers.
You leaned in, soft and slow, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder through the fabric of her shirt. It was small, nothing grand, but it made her shiver—made her heart stutter in her chest. You stayed there for a moment, your lips resting against her like they belonged there, then moved higher, burying your nose gently against the crook of her neck.
You nuzzled her, slow and affectionate, like you were breathing her in—like the scent of her skin, her warmth, the quiet strength she carried, was enough to steady your soul. Natasha let out the softest exhale, something closer to a sigh, her hand instinctively rising to rest over yours where it lay across her stomach.
Her walls didn’t fall all at once.
But they shifted.
Bit by bit, you were undoing her—not with force, but with love. Quiet, patient, steady love
.As you nuzzled into the soft curve of her neck, Natasha let out a slow breath, one hand rising to lightly curl around your wrist. Her voice came quiet—barely more than a whisper, like she didn’t want to break the spell.
“Where’s Ana…?”
You smiled against her skin, lips brushing her gently before you answered, your voice warm and full of affection.
“She was out like a light,” you murmured. “Didn’t even make it through the car ride. I tucked her into the crib—she’s sleeping like a little log, all bundled up in her blanket.”
Natasha exhaled a soft chuckle, the sound barely there but rich with relief.
You pulled back just enough to catch her eyes, brushing your knuckles along her cheek. “So tonight?” you added with a teasing smile, “You have my full, undivided attention. Every second of it.”
That earned you a look. Soft. Unreadable. But the corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly, the tiredness in her eyes replaced with something gentler.
You slid your hand into hers and guided her toward the couch. The moment she sat, you were already pouring her a glass of wine—her favorite kind, the one you always remembered.
She took it with a small nod of approval, swirling the liquid lazily in the glass before taking a sip. Her head leaned back with a quiet sound of satisfaction, the day melting off her shoulders.
Then she tugged at your wrist again, wordless and sure. You didn’t need an invitation—you curled into her side easily, letting her arm drape around you as you snuggled against her, your cheek pressing to her shoulder.
“This,” she murmured, almost like she was admitting a secret to herself. “This is what I was waiting for.”
You nestled deeper into her side, the wine glass balanced in her hand while her other arm stayed wrapped around you. The low light flickered across her face, casting soft shadows over her cheekbones, but her expression had softened into something that felt… private. Vulnerable. At ease.
Your hand slipped under her shirt—slowly, reverently—finding the warm skin just above her hip. You didn’t rush, didn’t push. You just stroked her in slow, affectionate circles with your fingertips, letting her body adjust to the intimacy not of passion, but of peace. Of being wanted like this. Of being held.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense. She simply breathed out, deeper this time, the kind of breath that meant home.
You shifted slightly, brushing your lips along her jawline, feather-light kisses tracing their way upward until you found the hollow just beneath her ear. You kissed her there too, the rhythm unhurried, almost reverent.
Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, giving you access without a word. That small surrender said more than she ever could out loud.
She took another sip of wine, her fingers tightening slightly in your hair as she leaned her temple against yours.
“You’re dangerous,” she whispered finally, voice husky and low, not from seduction but from truth. “You make this feel so easy.”
You smiled into her skin, your hand continuing its slow, grounding motion against her waist. “It is easy,” you murmured, lips brushing her jaw again. “With you, it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
Natasha didn’t answer, but her thumb began tracing small circles on your shoulder, mirroring the way you touched her—as if learning your rhythm in return. And in that quiet, in that warmth, the silence said everything.
You pulled back just a fraction, your fingers still lingering on her skin, and raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in your eyes. “So, we’re not eating yet?” you asked, your voice laced with playful curiosity. “I mean, the Italian’s just sitting there, getting cold… but I guess I can let it slide if you’re not in the mood.”
She shifted just slightly, turning her head to catch your eyes, her gaze soft yet filled with a playful challenge. “Right now, I’m more in the mood for cuddles than anything else,” she said, her voice low and tired in the way that only came when she’d been running on fumes all day, but somehow it sounded like the most honest confession. “We can eat later.”
You couldn’t help but smile, that familiar warmth curling in your chest as you leaned in a little closer. “Oh, is that so?” you teased, your lips brushing the edge of her ear as you whispered. “And here I thought I was going to have to convince you to eat. But… if it’s cuddles you want…” You let the sentence trail off, your fingers making their slow journey back up her side, brushing the fabric of her shirt.
She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips, but her face was still soft, relaxed. “Yeah, that’s right,” she murmured. “Cuddles. No distractions. Just us.”
You pretended to consider it for a second before leaning in just a little more, your lips now a breath away from her ear. “Hmm… So, you’re telling me you want me to just sit here, and you don’t want me to make sure you’re properly taken care of?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, a playful fire lighting in her gaze. “What are you implying?” she asked, voice barely more than a whisper.
A smirk spread across your lips as you held her gaze, knowing full well where you were going with this. “Oh, I don’t know,” you began slowly, your hand now slipping just a bit lower, tracing the curve of her waist. “You’ve seen how I feed Ana. I could be your personal chef too, you know. Maybe you’d like that? I could feed you, just like I do with her. Spoon you some pasta, maybe?”
She let out a small, incredulous laugh, shaking her head at you as she tried to suppress a smile. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered under her breath, but her eyes softened, clearly entertained by the thought.
“Oh, I could make it happen,” you said, completely unphased by her teasing. “I’d even cut your food into little pieces and feed it to you bite by bite. Keep your hands free for… cuddling,” you added with a wink, your finger tapping her chin gently.
She rolled her eyes again, but this time she wasn’t able to keep the grin from breaking through. “You’re something else, you know that?”
You grinned back, leaning in to brush your lips over hers, just a light kiss, but one that lingered for a moment longer than usual. “I’m just saying, if you want me to treat you like I treat Ana, I’m happy to spoil you, too.”
Natasha let out a long, drawn-out sigh of mock exasperation, but her arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she rested her head against your chest. “You’re impossible,” she murmured, her voice softened by the exhaustion that had been following her all day. “But, fine. Maybe you can feed me later. For now… just stay here with me.”
You smiled, brushing your nose against her hair. “Anything you want, babe,” you said softly, letting your hands find their place on her body again, just holding her as the moment wrapped around the two of you like a blanket.
The two of you stayed nestled together, your fingers tracing slow, invisible patterns over her skin—soft lines, gentle spirals that spoke volumes more than words ever could. Each touch was an unspoken expression of care, of reassurance, as if you were reminding her that, even in the stillness, you were there. The warmth between you both created a safe little world that wrapped itself around your hearts like a blanket, and for a moment, it felt as though nothing else existed.
Natasha finished her glass of wine, placing it on the coffee table with a soft clink that broke the silence, but only slightly. She sighed softly, her head still resting against your chest, feeling the rise and fall of your breath beneath her. Her body relaxed into yours, the tension of the day dissipating slowly, but there was something new in the air now—a shift that neither of you could quite pinpoint.
You paused your gentle movements, fingers hovering above her skin for a heartbeat longer than usual. The atmosphere in the room felt thicker now, a quiet anticipation hanging between you, pulling your thoughts into focus. It was time.
“Natasha…” Your voice was soft, hesitant, and she could feel the change, the weight of it pressing against her chest.
She tilted her head just slightly, her hand curling against yours as she looked up at you, eyes warm but attentive. “What is it?” Her voice was calm, but there was a flicker of curiosity in her gaze.
You took a deep breath, the words feeling heavier than you thought they would. “I… I need to say something important. Something that will change everything for us.”
Her heartbeat shifted slightly beneath her ribs, her hand instinctively squeezing yours as she waited, her attention sharp, her usual warrior’s demeanor softened in the quiet of the moment.
“I’m scared,” you admitted, your voice low, laced with a vulnerability you rarely let show. “I’m afraid of doing this… afraid of what it might do to us.” You paused, looking down into her eyes as if searching for some sign, any sign, that she was ready for this, that she wouldn’t pull away. “I’m scared because I don’t know what I’ll do if you… if you run away. I don’t know how to handle it if you decide I’m pushing you too hard, or if I make you feel trapped in some way.”
Natasha’s brows furrowed, a small flicker of surprise crossing her face, but she said nothing, simply letting you continue.
“I never want to pressure you, Natasha. I never want you to feel like you’re being forced into something you’re not ready for. But this… what we have—it’s more than just something to me. It’s everything.” Your voice broke for a moment, that rawness creeping through, the emotion you’d tried to keep at bay spilling over in the quietest of ways. “I just… I’m afraid. I want this to be real. I want us to be real. But I need to know that we’re on the same page. I need to know that you want this, that you’re not just here because it’s easy or because I’ve been too blind to see your hesitation.”
You paused, biting your lip slightly as your hand found her cheek, cupping it gently. “Please, just… don’t walk away from me, not when I’m starting to believe this could be everything I’ve always wanted.”
She didn’t respond immediately, just watched you with those unyielding eyes, but the weight of her gaze seemed to wrap itself around your heart in a way that was both comforting and terrifying.
Then, with a deep exhale, she spoke, her voice gentle but filled with that quiet understanding. “You think I’m going to run?” she asked, her tone soft but sharp with sincerity.
You nodded slowly, unable to mask the nervousness that lingered in your chest. “I don’t know what else to think. I… I don’t know how to balance this, the fear of losing you, with the need to tell you how I feel.”
A small smile pulled at the corner of her lips, and she leaned forward just enough to press her forehead against yours, soft and slow, as if grounding you both in the moment. “You’re not going to lose me,” she said simply, her voice a steady anchor. “I’m right here, aren’t I?”
You closed your eyes, letting her words wash over you. Her hands reached up to touch your face, fingers tracing the outline of your jaw, and it was like the whole world stopped in that one soft connection.
“But I can’t promise things won’t change,” Natasha continued, her eyes locking onto yours with a quiet, honest gaze. “I can’t tell you I won’t be scared too. But I’m here. And that’s what matters.”
You swallowed, feeling the tension in your chest loosen just a little. “I just needed to hear that.”
She smiled again, a little brighter now, and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “You have me. Just don’t worry so much. I’m not going anywhere.”
Her words were quiet, but they held an unspoken promise. And for the first time in a long while, you felt the weight of your own fears begin to lift, even if just a little
The quiet that followed was heavy, but not in a burdensome way—it was the kind of silence that wrapped around the room like velvet, soft and full of meaning. You could hear the hum of the city outside, but it felt a thousand miles away. Natasha was still curled against you, her fingers absentmindedly brushing your arm, but your thoughts were no longer calm. They were storming in the most beautiful, terrifying way.
You sat up slowly, careful not to startle her, and then stood. Natasha blinked, looking up in confusion as her body instinctively followed your movement. But then you moved—slow, intentional—and lowered yourself to one knee in front of her. Her breath caught. Her lips parted. And she froze, just like that, staring down at you as if the world had slipped off its axis.
You held the ring box in your hand, but it stayed closed for now. Your eyes didn’t leave hers.
“Natasha,” you began, your voice trembling with everything you’d been holding in for too long, “I love you.”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but the words never came. Her eyes were locked onto yours, wide, stunned, as you continued.
“I love all of you. The parts the world has seen. The ones they’ve judged. The ones they’ll never understand.” You took a breath, slow and shaking. “I love the fire in you, the way you stand unshaken when everything’s falling apart. I love the way you fight, not just in battle, but for people—for Ana, for me, for everyone who’s ever had the chance to be loved by you.”
Her chest rose slowly, her lips tightening as emotion began to blur her vision, but you weren’t done. Not yet.
“You’re brilliant. The smartest woman I’ve ever known. Strategic, sharp, deadly. You walk into a room and shift the balance of it without even trying. But when Ana cries, you drop everything, and you hold her like she’s your whole world. And she is, isn’t she?”
A tear slipped down Natasha’s cheek. She didn’t move to wipe it.
“I see the way she looks at you, Tasha. Like you hung the stars. But you know something else?” You swallowed, emotion clawing up your throat. “She looks at me that way too. Because you let me be part of her world. Because you let me in. And God, I don’t even know how to thank you for that.”
Her hand came up to her mouth now, covering her lips as the weight of your words hit her. Her shoulders trembled slightly, but she didn’t look away.
“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you,” you whispered. “Not just because of what you do. But who you are. When you stroke Ana’s hair while she’s falling asleep. When you cry in your sleep and bury your face in my chest and let yourself be small with me. When you don’t speak, but hum those lullabies under your breath just so your brain stays quiet. I see you, Natasha. All of you. And I still fall.”
Your hands opened the ring box slowly, revealing the simple, elegant band inside. Her eyes flicked down to it—and she audibly gasped.
“I don’t want you to be just my girlfriend,” you said, your voice now thick and raw. “That word—it doesn’t come close to what you mean to me. I want you to be my fiancée. I want to skip that middle step because it feels too small for us. I want to wake up every day knowing I’m going to spend the rest of my life showing you how deeply I love you.”
The silence that followed was devastating and breathtaking all at once. Natasha’s face had completely crumbled, her lips trembling, her breath shallow, her eyes spilling quiet tears. She looked at you like you were breaking her open—in the most healing, impossible way.
You held the ring toward her with a trembling hand. “Will you marry me, Natasha Romanoff?”
She didn’t speak. She just stared at you for a long moment, then slowly brought her hand to her chest, as if trying to physically hold herself together. And then she nodded. Slowly at first. Then fiercely, with a choked laugh through her tears.
“Yes,” she whispered, the word so soft you could’ve missed it.
But you didn’t.
You rose slowly, carefully, your fingers still trembling as you slipped the ring onto her finger. She looked down at it in disbelief, her hands shaking, then reached for you with sudden urgency, her arms wrapping around your neck as she pulled you down into her, kissing you through laughter, through tears, through every wall that had ever tried to stand between you.
The kiss lingered—not rushed, not fiery, but slow and trembling, the kind that reached down into bone and stayed there. Natasha clung to you like her life depended on it, one hand buried in your hair, the other pressed against your lower back as if anchoring herself in the moment. You could feel her pulse racing beneath her skin, her breath stuttering between kisses, her body shaking not from fear, but from sheer, unfiltered emotion. It was rare to see her like this—unguarded, unraveling, but safe.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead rested against yours. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes still damp, and she gave a tiny, broken laugh that made your heart clench.
“I was not ready for that,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “You ambushed me.”
You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “You’re a master spy, Romanoff. If I can ambush you, then I’ve earned the right to keep you.”
She let out a shaky breath, that little upward pull of her lips returning—but softer, quieter, the kind of smile she gave only when she felt completely, painfully vulnerable. “God,” she murmured, almost to herself, “I never thought someone would want this… not for a lifetime.”
“I want you,” you said, firm and low, your hand coming to rest over her heart. “Not the legend. Not the assassin. Not the perfect mom. Just you. The woman who watches documentaries about space at three in the morning. The woman who cries when she thinks no one can hear. The one who hums lullabies she doesn’t remember learning. That’s who I want to grow old with.”
Her eyes opened again, blinking through tears. “I’m so scared,” she admitted, barely above a breath. “You’re so young. You could have anyone. You could still change your mind.”
You cupped her face with both hands now, firm and warm. “I don’t want anyone else. I can’t imagine waking up next to anyone else. I choose you. Every single day. Even when you’re grumpy. Even when you push me away. Even when the world tries to pull you back into old ghosts. I will choose you.”
Her bottom lip trembled, and she closed her eyes again, the weight of your words washing over her like a wave she didn’t even try to fight. She leaned into your hands, into your love, as if some part of her still couldn’t believe it was real.
You kissed her again—soft, reverent—then guided her gently to sit with you on the couch. She nestled into your side, her legs tangled with yours, her hand clutching yours tightly as if afraid you might vanish if she let go.
“I don’t know how to be a fiancée,” she murmured, her voice quieter now, more contemplative than unsure.
“That’s okay,” you said, kissing the top of her head. “I don’t know either. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
She turned her head slightly, resting her cheek against your shoulder. “I’m going to mess up.”
“So will I.”
“You’ll get tired of me.”
“I won’t.”
She looked up at you, her expression so open it nearly broke you. “Promise?”
You kissed her gently, pressing your lips to the corner of her mouth like a vow. “I promise. Every day. Every night. Every breath. You and Ana… you’re my home, Natasha. There’s no version of my future without you in it.”
Her chest rose and fell in a deep, shaking breath, and finally… finally… she relaxed. Completely. The last pieces of armor she had left seemed to fall quietly to the floor, leaving behind only Natasha—raw, trembling, loved.
She leaned her head back against your shoulder, lifting her hand to admire the ring through glistening eyes. A soft, wistful smile tugged at her lips.
“Damn it,” she whispered. “I never thought I’d get this.”
You held her tighter. “You deserve more than this. And I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”
Outside, the city went on—unaware, uncaring—but inside this tiny apartment, two broken souls had found each other in the rubble, and built something beautiful from it.
The silence between you stretched again, not heavy this time, but shimmering—thick with meaning, with emotion neither of you had words for yet. Natasha’s head rested on your shoulder, her hand still delicately gripping yours, her thumb tracing lazy lines over your knuckles. The ring on her finger caught the light—a soft gleam of diamond and sapphire—and her breath hitched when she looked at it again, as if it reminded her that this was real. That she hadn’t just dreamed it.
She pulled away just enough to look at you fully.
And then, with her voice trembling, she whispered, “I love you.”
You blinked, stunned for a second—not because you didn’t know, not because you hadn’t felt it in every gesture, every stolen glance, every sigh against your chest at night—but because hearing it out loud from her, this woman carved from shadow and survival, was something else entirely.
“I love you,” she said again, firmer now, like she needed you to believe it. Her eyes shimmered, green glass pooling over with tears. “Not in some fragile, half-hearted way. I love you with every part of me I never thought could still feel. With every part that forgot how to be soft.”
Your lips parted, the lump rising in your throat cutting off your breath, your thoughts, everything.
She reached for your face, her palm brushing against your cheek, her thumb catching the tear that had just started to fall. “You broke through walls I forgot I even had up,” she continued, her voice trembling. “You made me feel safe without asking me to be small. You loved Ana without asking anything in return. You let me be me—not Black Widow, not some haunted mess of a woman… just Natasha. And I never thought anyone would love her.”
Tears ran freely down your cheeks now, your vision blurring, your body shaking. She kept wiping them away with trembling fingers, but it didn’t matter—you were crying, both of you were, in this fragile, raw, unguarded moment that neither of you could’ve prepared for, but both of you desperately needed.
“I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. “Terrified. That this wouldn’t last. That you’d wake up one day and realize I’m too heavy, too broken. That someone younger, softer, less… haunted would come along and you’d go.”
“I would never,” you managed to say, voice cracking.
“I know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against yours, noses brushing. “I know. But it still scares me. Because you matter that much.”
The two of you stayed like that for a moment, breathing each other in, tears mingling quietly between kisses that weren’t about passion, but presence. Kisses that said I’m here. I’m yours. I’m not going anywhere.
You reached for the small velvet box that had been resting on the couch and opened it again, your own ring sitting there—simple, elegant, with delicate green peridots set into the band like stardust. Natasha gently took it from the box with shaking hands and slid it onto your finger, her own breath faltering as she did.
You smiled through tears, and then it was your turn. You picked up hers—the one you’d chosen so carefully—the central diamond catching the warm glow of the apartment lights, flanked by the two deep sapphires. A past. A future. And a present that gleamed like a promise.
Your fingers trembled as you slid it onto hers, and she watched every motion with eyes full of awe, reverence, disbelief.
“It’s really happening,” she murmured, as if saying it would anchor it into reality.
You looked at her through watery eyes, heart bursting at the seams. “Yeah,” you whispered. “It is.”
And then she leaned forward, slow and deliberate, and kissed you—deep and slow and forever. The world had fallen away. The only thing that existed now was the soft hush of your apartment, the glow of warm lamplight casting gentle shadows on the walls, and the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breath against your chest. Her weight on you was grounding, like gravity had chosen to settle in the shape of her body. Her legs tangled lazily with yours, her cheek resting just above your heart, and her fingers—those calloused, deadly, impossibly gentle fingers—were laced with yours.
She lifted your joined hands slowly, letting them hover just above her face as she looked at them. The rings caught the low light and shimmered, side by side, like matching vows made metal. Her eyes softened as she stared at them—your delicate band of peridots nestled in gold, and her ring, bold and graceful with its diamond and twin sapphires.
“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice thick with wonder. “They look… real. Like this actually happened.”
You smiled and kissed the top of her head, your fingers squeezing hers. “It did.”
She studied your ring a moment longer, brows drawing together in curiosity. “Why peridots?” she asked, tilting her head just enough to look up at you. “I mean… it’s beautiful. But I wanna know what you were thinking.”
You hesitated, just a second, brushing your thumb across her knuckles before answering. “Because they remind me of your eyes. Not just the color… the way they glow when you’re calm. When you’re watching Ana sleep. When you’re at peace. There’s this light in you, Nat… something soft and green and alive, even after everything. I wanted it close to me.”
She went quiet, lips parting just slightly. Her eyes fluttered closed for a beat, and when they opened again they were glistening.
“And Ana’s eyes too,” you added gently, pressing a kiss to her temple. “When I see the ring, I see both of you.”
Natasha didn’t speak for a moment, and you felt her body press closer, her hand gripping yours like it hurt to let go. Her throat bobbed with emotion as she stared at your ring again. “You’re a sap,” she murmured, her voice cracking just a little.
You smiled. “Yeah. But only for you.”
She laughed softly, and then turned her gaze toward her own ring, letting her thumb trace the edge of the diamond, then the sapphires flanking it. “Okay, in mine. Why sapphires?”
You shifted just enough to look down at her, your voice quieter now. “Because sapphires are about truth. Loyalty. Protection. They’re ancient—some of the oldest stones on Earth. They’re strong. Fierce. Just like you.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. “So I’m carrying a gemstone legacy on my hand now?”
You leaned in, your nose brushing her hair as you chuckled. “Exactly.”
She looked back at the ring, still stunned, still somehow disbelieving. Then, with a crooked smile and a shake of her head, she muttered, “Why am I so sure I’m carrying a fortune on my finger?”
“Because you are,” you said without hesitation, your voice suddenly quieter, more reverent. “But not just in gems.”
Her smile faltered, lips trembling, and she buried her face against your chest again.
And in that moment—wrapped up together, rings gleaming, bodies intertwined and hearts unguarded—there was no past. No mission. No Red Room. No fear.
Eventually, the pull to move became too gentle to ignore. Not rushed, not urgent—just the quiet desire to be even closer. You both rose from the couch hand in hand, still wrapped in the softest silence, and made your way to the bedroom, the food already forgotten on the table. There were no words exchanged, no need. Just the unspoken rhythm between two hearts that had finally said what they’d been holding in for so long.
The shower was slow and warm, steam curling around your bodies like a cocoon. Fingers traced over skin not with hunger, but with reverence—soapy touches turning to quiet caresses, washing away the weight of everything that had come before. Water dripped from her hair as she leaned her forehead to yours, smiling in that quiet, content way she only ever did with you. You ran your hands down her back, held her close, and she just let herself be held.
When you emerged, you were both damp and glowing, wrapped in soft towels and softer smiles. Natasha pulled you into bed without hesitation, her arms instinctively curling around your waist, your legs tangled up beneath the sheets as if they’d always belonged that way.
She rested her head on your shoulder, one hand on your stomach, and you traced slow, loving circles on her spine. The only sound was the soft whirr of the fan above, and your breaths syncing into a shared lullaby. Her fingers found yours again under the blanket, twisting together, rings catching the moonlight that spilled faintly through the window.
There were no more confessions needed. No more questions. Just the weight of her against you, the smell of her damp hair, the solid truth of the rings on your fingers and the unspoken vow between your hearts.
And in that quiet, sacred stillness—wrapped in warmth, love, and the life you were building together—you both finally rested.
Not as a spy and her secret.
Not as a single mother and a girl who wandered in.
18+ only, read at your own risk (Blood, violence, torture)
Summary: Your perfect life with Natasha isn't meant to stay that way with the Red Room still looking for her.
Word count: 3030
AN: It’s been 84 years since the last update, but I truly thank everyone for their recent interest in this fic and for giving me the motivation to keep going!
Click here to refresh your memory with Part 2.
“Again? Are you sure?”
“Why not? It’s not like she has somewhere to be.”
Dr. Cornelius’s bald head leans into your peripherals. He’s wearing his signature mirrored glasses so you can see your reflection in them: the hair matted to your forehead, the sickly paleness of your skin, the dilation of fear in your pupils.
“You’re our most generous donor,” Dr. Cornelius says, patting your arm with a heavy hand. You try cringing away from his touch, but you’re bolted to the table at every joint. The things you would do to this man if you were free. “Besides, you have to pay for your upkeep somehow, right?”
You growl in response to his words. You don’t try speaking to them anymore. They’d never listen to you anyway.
In the background, metal scrapes against metal and the clanging strikes a chord of fear in your chest. It’s not easy to move your head but you still try, until you see one of the surgeons back at your side with a scalpel shining in the bright overhead lights.
“What haven’t we taken today?” Dr. Cornelius asks.
The surgeon shrugs, his expression unreadable behind a mask. You wonder if he takes enjoyment in this, or he’s just following orders. There’s a lot of each around here. All spineless cowards to you.
“How about the liver?” Dr. Cornelius suggests, pushing down on your stomach. You squirm uncomfortably, but no matter what you do, you can’t escape him. Ever since these sick psychopaths got their hands on you, they weren’t going to let you go.
“Sure.”
Before you even have a chance to register the surgeon’s response, his scalpel presses into your side until it breaks the skin. Blood rolls down to the metal slab you’re lying on. You can’t block out the pain as he saws through you, but you’ve learned to disassociate from it. If they were going to treat you like an object, you needed to pretend to be one to survive.
You come to slowly, your head pounding like someone took a sledgehammer repeatedly to your skull. Light worsens your headache so you squint while you get your bearings. You find yourself strapped tightly to a table, heavy blocks of metal encasing both of your hands. There’s even some kind of solid muzzle over your mouth, restricting your breathing.
Your first thought doesn’t go to the countless times you’ve been in this position before, it goes to the one that landed you here: Taskmaster standing over you with a gun pointed between your eyes. Your forehead throbs at the memory, but since you actually remember what happened, your healing must be functioning as normal, despite the extreme sluggishness that weighs you down. You pull aggressively at your binds, but you’re cinched tight to the table.
Panic builds inside of you.
Screaming doesn’t do anything. Neither does begging them to stop. Which is why you don’t do it anymore. You lie there like a fish, your eyes glazed over and unseeing, even though you are completely aware of everything happening to you.
Your skin tearing open. The blood pouring out of you that they don’t even try to staunch. Being ripped apart and put together more times than you can count.
The muzzle makes it impossible for you to take a full breath and the anxiety overrides your control. You hyperventilate frantically, but it’s still not enough air and the ache in your lungs starts to build. It feels like you’re drowning in fear and panic and you completely forgot how to stay calm.
You never thought you’d find yourself in this position again. You promised yourself you wouldn’t let it happen.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try moving your whole body, but your legs down to your ankle are held in place by metal restraints. A band over your chest presses down like someone’s knee in your sternum. The fear of not being in control is crushing like a weight of its own and you fight harder, until the metal starts cutting into your wrists. But you won’t stop, afraid that you might never make it out if you do.
“Y/N. Y/N!”
Your head whips around painfully against the restraint locked around your neck. Natasha is crouched a few feet away from you, blocked behind a wall of jail bars. You try to speak but your words are muffled by the muzzle.
She squeezes her arm through the bar, straining to reach you. Her fingertips barely brush your forearm, but her touch is instantly calming.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” she says, trying to be brave for the both of you, but you can smell her fear mingling with yours. There’s a cut with dried blood on her forehead, but she seems okay otherwise. At least the two of you were together. You focus on your breaths again, forcing yourself to take them slowly and as deeply as you can. Your heart rate falls and the panic begins to melt away.
Natasha has never seen you like this before. The crazed look in your eyes when you woke up, the desperation in which you tried to unsuccessfully free yourself. She knows it must be traumatizing and embarrassing for you to be in a position of helplessness. She wishes she could be closer to you, to hold you, to tell you that everything will be okay, but she’s stuck behind the bars in a cage and can barely reach you.
“I love you,” she blurts out, in case she doesn’t get a chance to say the words again. “I love you so much and I’m going to get us out of here, I promise.” You cannot speak, but you look at her with pure adoration and trust.
“I’m not sure where we are,” she says, filling the silence. “I woke up a few times before they brought us in here. But I think we’re on some kind of aircraft–”
At that moment, your surroundings jolt and Natasha falls back in her cell. You know you aren’t going anywhere with the table bolted to the floor, but the motion is jarring and worrying. Escape would be a lot more difficult if there was nowhere for you two to go.
“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” Natasha whimpers, curling into a ball. You can’t stand to see her like this, even more frustrated because you can’t do anything to assure her. A growl rumbles in your throat as you tug pointlessly at your arms yet again. “It should be me on that table. You warned me going after the Red Room would be dangerous, but I didn’t think it’d end like this.”
You grunt in disagreement. You had no regrets going to that Russian home with her and you wanted her to know that.
“If we get out of here,” she continues in a lower voice, “Maybe I should leave y–”
Before she can finish her sentence, the door swings open and three men walk in, Taskmaster among them. Instantly, the hairs on the back of your neck rise in warning. The shortest man struts over to Natasha’s cell, and the scent of fear that rolls off her is so strong it nearly chokes you.
“Natalia,” Dreykov greets as Natasha shrinks back to the corner of the cell. “Glad to see you back in the Red Room.” You growl to get his attention away from her. “Oh.” He slowly turns as if he completely missed you lying there. “Forgive me for not introducing myself.”
He comes to your side. He smells like cologne, sweat, and a trace of fear. It makes you feel minutely better that even though you’re strapped to a slab of metal and rendered nearly immovable, he’s still scared of you. “You may address me as General Dreykov, and I think you’re already well-acquainted with Taskmaster.”
An insult is muffled by your muzzle.
Dreykov chuckles. “We’ve been waiting a long time to get our hands on the both of you. You certainly didn’t make it easy.” He steps back as Taskmaster opens Natasha’s cell door and goes inside to grab her.
“Don’t touch me!” she screams. You yank at your restraints again; you’re not above skinning yourself if you have to. If the two of you are separated, there’s no telling what this man could do to her.
“You stay right here,” Dreykov says, as Taskmaster drags Natasha by. She tries reaching out for you again but Taskmaster pins her arms to her sides. “Dr. Morozov is happy to keep you company.”
“Natasha!” you try to scream, but it’s unintelligible.
“Y/N, I’ll come back for you, I’ll–” Taskmaster carries her out of the room, Dreykov following behind. The third man, thin and tall, dressed in surgeon’s attire, is left alone with you. While his physical presence isn’t very intimidating to you, the fact that he’s in a total position of power over you scares you the most.
“I heard you’re in possession of a substance we are very, very interested in,” Dr. Morozov says, his voice high and squeaky compared to Dreykov’s. “I told General Dreykov I had to come see you for myself.” He disappears from your vision but returns, pushing a rattling metal tray of instruments. Panic surges through you again, but you swallow the fear and try to stay calm.
“General Dreykov tasked me with removing this adamantium from your bones,” Dr. Morozov says, sounding giddy with excitement as he picks up a scalpel. “He isn’t sure if it’s even possible, and will most likely kill you in the process, but that’s a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.” He brings the blade into your left forearm, cutting your skin from your wrist to your elbow. You snarl and struggle, but he presses the blade deeper and deeper until it clangs against metal. “Aha!”
You need an escape route now. You refuse to lay here and be picked to pieces by yet another crazed surgeon. Your breathing quickens again, but this time you’re totally in control.
“General Dreykov said you had…hmm, what was the word he used?” Dr. Morozov goes on. But your arm is already healing, so he cuts it open again and uses a clamp to hold it open. Adrenaline rushes through your veins so strongly you don’t even feel the pain for a moment, and that’s exactly what you need. Dr. Morozov is so busy studying your left arm, he doesn’t notice you tugging on your right arm.
You tense your bicep so hard it feels like it’s going to tear out of your skin. The restraints are too tight so they pinch into your skin as it bunches up at your wrist, but you keep pulling until it starts to cut through. With one last breath to ready yourself for the pain, you yank with all your strength and your skin peels off your hand.The loss of the top layer creates enough room to slip your hand through the restraint, the blood acting like a lubricant.
“Claws!” Dr. Morozov says suddenly.
If you didn’t feel so sick you would’ve laughed at the irony as you swing your right arm up and release your claws into the center of his chest. Dr. Morozov is dead before he collapses onto the floor. You tear the muzzle off your face first, then use your claws to cut through the remaining restraints. By the time you’re free, the skin on your arm and hand has healed back. You stand up, overwhelmed with nausea and pain, but it passes after you steady yourself on the table.
You check if Dr. Morozov has a security badge of some kind and find one in his pocket, stealing it for your own use and leaving the room. You’ve been dressed in a white shirt and sweatpants, now stained with your blood. You’re not sure why you feel so sick, maybe you had been drugged or were still recovering from being shot point-blank in the head. Either way, you don’t have time to sit and recover. You need to find Natasha.
Following Dreykov’s scent down the hall, you dodge around corners and climb a few flights of stairs. It’s a miracle you don’t run into anyone, but something tells you it had been specifically set up this way. You use Dr. Morozov’s badge to pass foot-thick security doors, cautious to stay on guard in case of an ambush. But you hardly have time to be concerned with your own well-being when Natasha is with Dreykov.
The thought of that slimy, vile man putting his hands on your girlfriend makes your stomach knot into a pretzel. Natasha had told you stories of what he had done to her and made other Widows do. While you could no longer be surprised by the vileness of humanity, it broke your heart to hear about the horrible things Natasha had been subjected to. Finding the Red Room would be her way of getting closure from that, but it seemed like whatever plan she had had utterly fallen apart with the surprise of Taskmaster. You have to find her before anything worse can happen to her.
Dreykov’s cologne intensifies and you trace the scent to a large door cracked slightly ajar, where his and Natasha’s voices drift out of.
“Don’t tell me to stop!” Dreykov screams, and his genuine anger causes you to pause in alarm.
“If I don’t tell you when to stop, how will you know to shut up?” Natasha responds, then the unmistakable noise of flesh against bone.
“Natasha!” you yell, going into motion once more. But before you can get through the door, a massive figure drops down from the ceiling and plants their feet against your chest, sending you flying back into a metal wall so hard it dents around your body. For a moment, you can’t even breathe and you’re certain your entire ribcage has collapsed.
Each miniscule breath you manage is like swords shoved through your lungs and you truly feel the weight of the metal on your bones as you struggle to get up. You lose track of Taskmaster until he slams onto the back of your head. Your metal skull rebounds against the floor and despite its added protection, your brain was just as vulnerable as anyone’s. Professor Xavier had warned you numerous times how much more severe brain injuries could be for you because your brain was literally cocooned in a metal shell.
You had never really believed him until now.
No thoughts pass through your mind as you teeth rattle like candy and your vision blurs like someone has taken an eraser to half of it. Taskmaster grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you back to your feet. You hate how he easily he throws you around. Very few people could make you feel like a ragdoll. The claws rip out from between your knuckles and you slash out wildly, but he drops you before you can land a fatal strike. You aren’t focused so much on actually hurting him as you are distracting him. You need to keep him at bay long enough for your brain to heal.
But you have no awareness of your surroundings, out of your environment and in an already-weakened state. The floor trembles beneath Taskmaster’s weight as he closes in on you. You swing without being able to see and feel the pull of your claws as it strikes against something, but it isn’t enough. Taskmaster’s claws stab through your back and steal your breath. You fly through the air, this time colliding with the ceiling and punching right through, landing on the floor above.
You’re so disoriented in the settling dust you don’t see Taskmaster emerge from the hole you came through, stabbing you in the leg to drag you back down. Rage overtakes the pain at the thought that this man has simply turned you into his plaything, so when you fall back through the hole, you give in to your animal instincts and attack him.
You slash and punch and kick in an unpredictable pattern because you aren’t thinking anymore. Taskmaster falls into a defensive mode and you sense hesitation as he backs away from you. Gaining some ground back lulls you into a false sense of security, and you don’t realize until it’s too late that he wasn’t hesitating. He was studying you, picking up on your style and techniques instantly to use back against you.
After a blow that scores three long gouges across his chest plate, he launches at you in a frenzy that rivals your own. You have no protection like he does, and his claws, although not made of adamantium, are still durable and sharp enough to take chunks out of you. Blood splatters the walls and you’re forced to play defensively again after he punctures your lung and cripples both your legs by slicing your hamstrings in half. You crawl away from him, refusing to beg for your life but too scared to fight him more. You’ve never fought anything like him.
Taskmaster looms over you as you shrink down, wheezing, the last fire of a fight fading in your eyes. He grabs the scruff of your neck like he would to a dog, stabbing you in the chest until blood spurts out of your mouth.
Despite that you easily outweigh the average male, he easily drags you into Dreykov’s office and kicks the door open.
Natasha is standing over Dreykov at his desk, blood dripping from her crooked nose. You wish you had the energy to break free and punch Dreykov in the face, but you barely cling onto consciousness as Taskmaster drops you like a sack of bricks.
“Y/N!” Natasha shouts.
Taskmaster pulls out a gun and presses it into the back of your head as you struggle to get up.
“Don’t,” Natasha begs.
You grit your bloody teeth, wanting to tell her that a little lead wouldn’t kill you.
“That is not for her,” Dreykov says, pointing at Taskmaster’s gun. “It’s for you.”
Before you can even blink, Taskmaster removes the gun from your head and aims it at Natasha.
Tomb Raider!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Enchantress!Reader
18+ only, read at your own risk
Summary: Natasha has spent years hunting the elusive Pandora’s Box, which many say doesn’t even exist. What happens when she not only finds it, but accidentally unleashes the sinister force hiding within?
Word count: 2715
AN: Didn't forget about this series, prepare for things to get hot in here...☺️
Click here to read Part 2.
Natasha stands at the back of the room, observing the sea of darkly-clothed people bobbing in and out of the church pews. She was surprised to see so many in attendance; most of them were Pietro’s students and athletes, distinguishable by the university logo pinned to their clothing. A number of faculty–including Natasha and her team–were here too, and a mass of non-university associated people.
There had been no other casualties besides Pietro in the freak accident at the coffee shop. The owner of the car had been located, but he had been shopping at the plaza a few blocks down, and no eyewitnesses had come forward about seeing anyone else get into the vehicle. A cinder block had been taped to the gas pedal, stumping police on who put it there and steered the vehicle towards the coffee shop in the first place.
But Natasha knew who it was, even if she couldn’t rationally explain it to the police. Wanda had survived too, and secretly she hoped you would return soon for a second attempt, if only so she had another chance to see you.
She couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your breath-taking beauty. The incomprehensible scale of your powers. She craves your touch again, and perhaps something more. No woman she had ever met before had taken up so much of her attention. You infiltrate her dreams every night, but always stop short of giving her what she wants. Natasha is determined to meet you again. She knows your paths will cross again.
Music begins playing and the guests in the pews stand and turn their heads towards the back. Steve walks in, Wanda clamped to his arm as she hides her face behind a wad of tissues. The officiant follows them, his head bowed in respect.
Natasha listens to the service half-heartedly, most of her attention absorbed in scanning the audience for you. While it would be wildly disrespectful for you to show up to the funeral of the person you killed, she has a feeling you operate under a different agenda. But the service ends, and she still hasn’t found you, disappointment pricking her heart. Everyone is slow to rise, some forming a line to pay respects at Pietro’s closed casket, while others embrace Wanda or offer envelopes of condolences. The majority head into the room next door, where refreshments are being served amongst quiet mingling. Natasha goes that way, feeling weighed down by the sadness.
“Did you see her?” Clint bumps her shoulder out of nowhere and startles her.
“No.”
“We told you,” he says. “She might be from another time, but even she would be insane to show up to the funeral of the man she killed.”
“Assuming anything about her is your first mistake,” Natasha defends.
Clint makes a beeline for the platter of refreshments, leaving her alone again. Natasha scans the crowd once more out of habit and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she spots you, parting from a hug with a professor.
You are wearing virtually the same clothing as the last time she had seen you, except in all black. At least you had some taste. Natasha is frozen when she finally makes eye contact with you, and she doesn’t know if she should tackle you or sweep you up into a kiss. You walk towards her, a little sway in your step, and Natasha fears she’s going to buckle under the sheer power you exude.
“Hello there,” you say in that devastatingly captivating accent.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Natasha says, wanting to slap herself for greeting you this way.
“No one stopped me.” You tilt your head and the moon pendant loosens from your collar and bounces against the bare skin of your collarbone. “Unless you’re going to.”
Natasha suddenly reaches out and grabs your arm. “Come with me,” she hisses. “And don’t you dare make a scene.” You drag your fingers across your lip as if sealing them shut and locking them with a key. She pulls you out into the hall and into a small conference room.
“Oh, I’ve been waiting for you to drag me off since the moment I saw you,” you say as Natasha shuts the door. “It looks like you’re ready to devour me.”
“Shut up.” Natasha presses you up against the wall. She is embarrassingly aware of the heat pooling in her own belly and to make matters worse, you’re looking at her like she’s nothing but a meal. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” she fires off to distract herself from her arousal.
“You know who I am, Natasha.” Natasha has to fight the shiver down her spine when her name rolls off your tongue. “And I came here to finish the job, obviously.”
“You’re not going to hurt anyone here,” Natasha says.
“Because you’re going to stop me?” Your tone is entirely mocking and Natasha can’t stand your bravado. But then you reach up and start stroking her arm, wrapping your hand around her bicep, and Natasha loses her train of thought. “What did you think was going to happen once you found my box and released me?”
“I…I didn’t mean to drop you. Release you,” Natasha stutters. “I wanted to…study you.” It is not her best choice of words.
You laugh, and it reminds Natasha of the delicate notes of a wind chime. “I’ll let you study me all you want once I’m done with my work.”
Natasha tries pulling her arm away from you but you grab her by the belt and yank her towards you. She stumbles trying to catch her balance and her chest presses against yours, your eyes barely a few inches apart as she has you pinned between the wall. Or perhaps you have her right where she wants you?
“You don’t have to do this,” Natasha whispers. Her heartbeat is frantic and she wonders if you can tell how nervous she is.
“Do what? I thought you wanted this.” Your hands untuck her shirt and loosen the bottom few buttons. Natasha moans when your fingers brush against her abs. “I can read your thoughts, you know,” you add in a low, sultry voice, digging your nails into the grooves between her muscles.
“I’ve seen how you want me,” you continue, leaning your head forward until your breath is warm against her cheek. “How you imagine my body against yours,” you whisper into her ear, your fingers trailing down to brush the band of her underwear. “What you think I might taste like.” You slip your hand into her underwear but don’t quite touch her where she wants. “What I would sound like when you help me reach the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life–”
Natasha grunts and thinks she’s going to combust with arousal. Where your skin touches hers, it feels like she’s on fire. She bends her knees to wrap her muscular arms under your thighs, lifting you off the floor like you’re no heavier than a paperweight and pressing your back against the wall. Your calves bracket her waist and pull her closer.
“What have you done to me?” Natasha whispers, her hands sliding up your legs to cup your butt.
You only grin, looking down at her with your bottom lip between your teeth. Natasha’s control snaps. She pushes forward, ready to feel your lips against hers, when suddenly she’s met with a face full of…water?
“What the hell?” She opens her eyes and looks up to where water spurts from the sprinklers in the ceiling. She looks around the conference room but you’ve completely vanished. Even the lock on the door is still shut. She wipes the water out of her eyes and huffs in agitation. How many times was she going to fall into your trap?
Natasha goes to grab the door handle and yelps as the hot brass knob sizzles in her palm. She withdraws in confusion, looking at the skin on her hand beginning to blister. Between the water sprinklers and hot doorknob, she deduces there might be a fire somewhere–and she has no doubt on who could’ve started it.
But first, she needs to get out of the conference room, and there are no windows or doors other than the one she entered. Carefully pulling down the sleeves of her suit jacket like a makeshift potholder, she grabs the knob again and manages to twist it open without burning her hand.
Smoke floods the conference room as the door swings open. Natasha drops to her belly and starts crawling back to the main room, covering her mouth with a wet sleeve so she can breathe what little oxygen remains. She hears screaming and banging and digs her elbows into the carpet to propel herself forward faster. Her eyes sting from smoke, robbing her of her sight, but luckily she remembers the exact way back without needing to see.
It takes all her strength to push open the door from her position on the floor, and the whole room is in chaos. A group of people are gathered towards the back, while another group stands by the windows. She watches as Clint grabs a metal chair and hurls it at the window, shattering the glass. Smoke funnels out, but the remaining edges of glass are too jagged for anyone to safely crawl out. Natasha gets up and pushes her way towards the crowd in the back, who hover before a pair of doors which are conveniently locked.
“Move, move!” she demands, bringing her leg up to kick at the door with all her might. Her boot bottom, slick with water, slips across the metal to no effect.
“I tried that already!” Steve says, coming up next to her, red-faced and coughing.
“Well, keep trying!” Natasha says, backing up so he can launch his full bodyweight at the door. “Aren’t there any other exits?” she asks, seized by a coughing fit that wracks her lungs painfully.
“This was the closest one,” Steve grunts as he rams his shoulder into the metal again.
Natasha looks around wildly for another solution. She spots a podium and grabs onto Steve before he can throw himself at the door again. “Help me!” she says, pointing at the podium, and he understands without further explanation. They race over and pick the podium off the ground, holding it perpendicular between them to use like a makeshift battering ram. But the podium is made of solid wood, slippery from the dirty sprinkler water, and the dwindling oxygen in the air makes Natasha feel far weaker than she normally is.
“Help!” she screams to the bleary-eyed guests who stand in shock. Three of them hurry forward and grab any available space on the podium. It takes a few tries to coordinate their strengths. Natasha feels dizzy from the smoke inhalation and she can tell Steve isn’t faring much better.
“One more! Together!” she pants, and with one final, heaving effort, the podium breaks the doors open and people spill out into the fresh air. Natasha falls to her knees, taking deep shuddering breaths. Steve lays on the grass next to her, clutching at his chest.
“Where’s…Where’s Wanda?” Natasha eventually finds the breath to ask.
Steve shakes his head. “We got…separated,” he wheezes.
“Steve!” Anger clears her head. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”
“Don’t go back in–” he tries, but Natasha is already racing into the building again. Natasha can only hope you haven’t gotten to Wanda first. She has an inkling of where Wanda might be, and she hopes she’s right because she doesn’t have time to wander around. The smoke is thicker than before and the heat hangs in the air. How come the fire department isn’t here yet?
Natasha staggers through the enormous room to the conjoining one where the ceremony had taken place. Predictably, she finds Wanda huddled by Pietro’s casket, clutching onto a bouquet of white roses.
“Wanda!” Natasha bellows, squatting down to her level and wiping water out of her eyes. “We need to go!”
“I can’t leave him again,” Wanda sobs, moving closer to the casket.
Natasha isn’t sure how to be tactful, but given the blazing flames next door and the acrid smoke, that’s not her biggest priority right now. “I know,” she says, “But you’ll die if you stay here. He wouldn’t want that, you know.”
Wanda coughs and shakes her head in agreement.
“Please come with me. I know the way out,” Natasha says, holding out a hand.
After a moment that seems to freeze time, Wanda accepts and Natasha pulls her up. But the smoke is too thick again, and they have to hunch over to breathe.
“I can’t do it. Just leave me,” Wanda cries, dropping to her knees.
“Never.” Natasha bends down and scoops Wanda up, although with much less confidence in her strength than usual. When she stands fully, smoke swirls around her head and blinds her. She hunches over slightly, holding Wanda close to her chest, and runs back in the direction she came from.
The ceiling shakes with a roar, and Natasha pauses midstep, afraid it will collapse on her. She isn’t sure how old the building is or if it’s properly up to code, but that won’t matter either way if her and Wanda are buried six feet under burning rubble. She holds her breath as she starts running again, but the pounding in her head grows unbearable and she has to stop to suck in ashy particles.
“We’re gonna die in here,” Wanda whimpers unhelpfully.
“We are getting out,” Natasha says, trying to look determined even though she feels scared inside. She isn’t quite sure she’s going the right way anymore either; her senses are totally disoriented and there are no reference points for her to rely on. Hesitantly, she takes a few more steps forward, weakening by the second from the lack of oxygen.
“Natasha,” Wanda says, and Natasha swears the weight in her arms is growing heavier.
“I’m…I’m…looking…” she gasps, stumbling over some chairs. Panic begins to fill her, but she knows she can’t give up just yet. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, but her movements become visibly sluggish and she finally collapses to her knees, the side of her leg grazing something hard.
The podium from earlier, which means the doors are nearby.
“Here, here!” She puts Wanda on the floor and the two of them blindly grope for the doors. The ceiling rumbles again and large, flaming pieces begin raining down. Natasha shoves Wanda when she sees a wooden beam swing towards them, but it catches her arm and knocks her over, landing on top of her midsection.
“Shit!” Natasha struggles to push it off, but it’s too heavy and the angle she’s laying down doesn’t allow her to get much leverage. She hopes Wanda made it out at least. The weight is crushing against her already-overworked lungs and her vision starts to fade to black. She thinks about her team and what they’d do without her. She thinks about you, and how this is probably exactly what you had planned for her. In fact, her memories of you are so vivid it’s almost like she can see you standing over her.
Natasha blinks, but you’re still there. Maybe this isn’t a dream after all.
“Why did you come back?” you ask, looking at her with great disappointment. Natasha says nothing, staring at you with wide eyes. You kneel and push the wooden beam off her effortlessly, like it was made of plastic. “She comes from a family of traitors, you know.”
Natasha has no idea what you’re talking about. You take one of Natasha’s arms and put it behind your head, hefting her over your shoulder and standing. Natasha figures she had at least 50 pounds on you, but you carry her like a child. It’s part embarrassing, part arousing, and she grips the back of your shirt, desperate to hold herself as close to you as possible. Even through the smoke, she can smell the flowery notes of your perfume and her eyes begin to close.
“It’s not your time yet” is the last thing Natasha hears before she finally blacks out.
Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: Thank you for the continued support! You all make my day with your comments and theories. :)
Read part 3 here.
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
You sit at the kitchen table nervously, drumming your fingers on the wood. You knew Wanda would be home late–she never had the respect to give you a proper timeline for her outings. The clock tells you that it’s a little past midnight, and sleepiness burns in the corners of your eyes, but you told yourself you aren’t going to bed until this is all over.
You run the lines over in your head. What you want to say to her exactly, what you’ll counter with if she reacts well or poorly. You’ve waited long enough to have this conversation, perhaps too long, but Natasha finally gave you the push you needed.
“Do you still love her?” Natasha asks softly after you tell her the whole story of your wife’s philandering.
You don’t answer. Deep down, you know your love for her was being tested to its breaking point, and you weren’t so sure it would survive after this. “I’ll talk to her tonight, when she comes home,” you say. “You should probably go home. I can’t imagine it’ll be a pretty conversation.”
“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Natasha insists. “You shouldn’t be alone to do something like that.” Your heart melts, and for a moment you want to get up and kiss her. Not that you wanted to pull a Wanda, but you couldn’t ignore how beautiful and generous your maid was. She was excellent at her job; never complained and went above and beyond, even when your wife was being a total bitch. She treated you with the respect and kindness you deserved. She was everything you wanted in a partner and more.
But you were stuck with Wanda. For now, at least.
“Are you sure? Wanda might be home late and I don’t want you to feel obligated to stay just for me,” you say.
“It’s fine. She won’t even know I’m here. I can leave out the back door,” Natasha says.
“Thank you, Natasha.” Her support means more to you than you’re allowed to express.
“You’re welcome.”
Now, with Natasha hiding in the kitchen, the two of you wait.
You accidentally doze off and wake with a start when you hear the garage door open. For a moment, you don’t even remember where you are or why.
“Natasha? Are you still here?” you whisper as loud as you dare.
“Yes.” Her head pokes out from around the corner of the kitchen.
Relief fills you. You were worried she would ditch you after all, not that you would’ve blamed her in the slightest. “Wanda’s home,” you tell her, and she nods and disappears again. At least you didn’t have to face your wife entirely alone.
You sit rigidly still on the couch until your wife walks in, almost passing you at first.
“You’re back,” you say, and she jumps, reaching for the light switch and revealing you on the couch.
“I said I’d be back tonight,” she says.
“Who were you out with?”
“My girlfriends.”
“No.” You stand up and walk over to her. You are a great deal taller than her and for once she looks like she feels her size around you. “Who did you go out with tonight?”
Wanda doesn’t make eye contact with you. “You know…Carol, Darcy–”
“Are you fucking them too?”
“Excuse me?” Wanda draws back from you until she bumps into the bookshelf.
“You heard me,” you say through clenched teeth. “Were you fucking them too?”
“No. Why the hell would you think that?”
“Because I know you spend all your free time fucking anything that moves behind my back.”
The silence in the air is electric. Your heart is thundering in your chest so hard you wonder if Natasha can hear it. Wanda’s eyes widen.
“I...I’ve never done that,” she says, but her falter shows her lie. “How dare you suggest–”
You take your phone out and show Wanda the screen. She squints at it in confusion at first, then a shadow of horror passes over her face when she realizes it’s the camera view from the little ceramic turtle you planted in the china cabinet, now showing the two of you standing there.
“You hid a camera in my own home–” Wanda starts.
“I hid a shit ton of cameras in our home,” you say.
“So this is why your business is failing,” she cackles, and the switch in topic throws you for a loop. “You spend all day watching and stalking me in our home when you’re supposed to be working. No wonder you don’t bring home any money. Not only are you a shitty spouse, you’re also a shitty worker.”
Anger explodes inside of you, and for a moment your control slips. You lunge for Wanda, not even sure what you’ll do once you grab her, but she slams her palms to your chest and sends you staggering back. She turns and yanks a book off the shelf, removing a revolver from the pages and pointing it towards you with trembling hands.
“Don’t get any closer to me, you fucking creep!” she yells.
Your anger dissolves into concern. “Put the gun down, Wanda. Please. Let’s just talk about this like adults–”
“Oh, now you want to talk like adults?” Wanda laughs manically. “Where was this before you started illegally recording me in my own home?”
“You’re fucking cheating on me!” you scream, losing your composure again. “I moved us into this big house, in this nice neighborhood, and you’re just so fucking ungrateful for any of it!”
“I didn’t want any of it to begin with!” Wanda returns.
“Why not? Because you had to leave behind your fuck buddies in our old neighborhood?”
“You’re the exact same person here as you were over there. A self-righteous piece of shit,” she seethes.
“If you’re so sick of me, why don’t you divorce me?” you ask. “Oh wait.” You snap your fingers. “I bet no one would want to sleep with a washed-up divorcee. Because where’s the fun in that?”
Wanda turns the gun around and points it at her temple. “I’ll kill myself if you divorce me,” she says, then shifts the gun to point towards her chest, “But I’ll make it look like you did it.”
The blood in your veins chills at the thought. “Give me the gun, Wanda.”
“Take it from me,” she goads.
While you have very little confidence in your disarming tactics, you do know you’re stronger and faster than Wanda. You also don’t fully believe that she’ll kill herself right here, so that gives you an advantage of time.
Before a plan even forms in your head, you reach out with your arm and slap Wanda’s hand away from her head. She startles and drops the gun; you expect her to dive after it but instead she whirls around and punches you in the face. Despite all of her faults, she’s never outright hit you before, and your vision swims as your head whiplashes against the bookshelf.
“You crazy motherfucker,” Wanda screeches, punching you again and you fall to the floor, instinctively curling into a ball to protect yourself. Her foot slams into your ribs and for a second, you can’t believe you’re getting the beating of a lifetime from your own wife.
Meanwhile, Natasha is in utter shock at the events unfolding in front of her. She feels like she’s overstepping some serious boundaries, but she can’t leave you now, especially with Wanda having the upper hand.
“Wanda, stop!” she hears you gasp as Wanda grabs hold of Crime and Punishment uses it like a weapon, raising it behind her head and smashing it against your body over and over. Natasha can’t bear to stand there anymore. She has to protect you from your insane, deranged wife.
Natasha crosses the living room in four leaping strides and picks up the revolver. Wanda looks shocked more by her presence than the fact that she’s now staring down the barrel of her own gun.
“What the fuck are you still doing here?” Wanda says.
“Get away from Y/N,” Natasha says, holding the gun in both hands. The weight feels disconcertingly familiar, and despite her nerves, she isn’t shaking.
“Are you fucking her?” Wanda suddenly turns to you. “You’ve got some nerve watching me get it on with the neighbors when you’ve been fucking our maid–”
“Shut up!” Natasha yells. “I’m not doing anything with Y/N!” she says, although she wishes that wasn’t the truth.
“I don’t believe that.” Wanda marches over to Natasha, leaving you unraveling on the floor. Blood drips from your nose and mouth, and Natasha can see the purpling bruise on your cheek. “Vision told me Y/N took you to see Wicked on my anniversary–”
“Because you couldn’t be bothered to remember and go yourself!” Natasha says.
Wanda is too enraged to quiet. “How dare you enter my house, take advantage of my kindness, and take my partner to bed–”
“Back off!” Natasha says, raising the gun until it’s almost level with Wanda’s eyes. “Not everyone is a cheating whore like you.”
Both Wanda and Natasha seem shocked by her choice of words. Natasha’s arms shake as they drop a few inches. She won’t hold back anymore–but neither will Wanda.
“You little bitch.” Wanda draws her arm back. Natasha flinches and squeezes the trigger.
BANG.
The gunshot is much, much louder in an enclosed space, and Natasha’s ears ring so hard they hurt. Wanda stands before her, her jaw dropped in shock. A stain of blood grows on her shirt, centered over her bellybutton.
“Oh my God. Wanda, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Natasha gasps, unable to wrap her head around her own actions.
“You…You shot me,” Wanda says, grabbing her stomach as she falls. Natasha tries to catch her but misses; you appear behind Wanda and lower her slowly to the floor. “How is that possible?” She looks up at you and your face is pale with shock. “You fucking shot me!”
“Nat,” you whisper. “Nat, give me the gun.”
“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Natasha cries, handing you the weapon and backing away from the two of you. “I thought she was going to hit me and–”
“It’s okay.” You stand up, wobbling a little, and rush to her side. “Go home Nat, okay? Go through the back door and jump the fences if you have to. And if anyone asks where you were tonight, you weren’t here.”
“No, no.” Natasha fights the tears threatening to spill out. “That’s wrong. I did this, I want to take responsibility for it–”
“No,” you say. “With your background, you’ll be locked in prison the rest of your life, if you don’t get deported first.”
“M-My background?” Natasha stammers. “How do you know about–”
You shake your head, indicating now is not the time to have this discussion. “For the record, it never made me trust you any less.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” You reach out and grab her hand. It calms Natasha instantly. “Go now. Let me handle this. I’ll come find you when this is all over.”
“I’m so sorry,” Natasha sobs.
“It wasn’t your fault. Now get out of here, please!”
Natasha doesn’t wait to hear you instruct her again. She looks at you, her savior, one last time, completely ignoring Wanda laying on the floor, before dashing off towards the garage. It’s pitch-black, but she doesn’t dare turn on a light, and fumbles for the back door. Outside, the air is nippy and her breath clouds in front of her face. She takes a deep breath to orient herself, then runs headfirst towards the neighbor’s fence, hauling herself over it as quietly as she can, crossing their yard, and leaping over the next fence.
She has to jump over two more yards before she gets to the street, racing to her Nissan and peeling away down the street. In the safety of her car, the realization crashes over her and she can’t stop the waterworks.
She can’t believe she shot your wife. She can’t believe you knew her background. Clint had told her no one would find out what she had done in Russia after she assumed a new identity, but you had found out somehow. And yet, you were still okay hiring her even after you knew she had killed her former boss.
The sounds of sirens pierce her thoughts and Natasha seizes up. A black-and-white police car races by. Either you had called them, or a neighbor had heard the shouting and gunshot. Natasha prays her presence had gone undetected. She had never been more thankful Wanda forced her to park down the street, where her car was less likely to be seen.
After Natasha leaves, you take a moment to absorb your surroundings. Wanda is gurgling and crying on the floor, pressing her palms against her stomach, blood spilling through her fingers and on the tiles Natasha had mopped earlier that day.
Your grip tightens on the gun as you move to stand over Wanda, where she can fully see you. Your body throbs where she hit you, and you know you don’t look much better than her. Blood bubbles out of her mouth. She can’t speak anymore, but her eyes are fiery and pleading.
You lift the gun, which feels like a thousand pounds in your hand.
Tomb Raider!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Enchantress!Reader
18+ only, read at your own risk
Summary: Natasha has spent years hunting the elusive Pandora’s Box, which many say doesn’t even exist. What happens when she not only finds it, but accidentally unleashes the sinister force hiding within?
Word count: 2338
Image from @sapphosclosefriend
AN: I was feeling sad today so I finished the chapter, please enjoy! 😭
Click here to read Part 1.
Natasha drags her dirty boots across the clean linoleum floor–she knows Steve will lecture her on cleanliness, but she’s too tired to care. It had been almost 24 hours since her visit to Latvia, and after she emerged from the cave, she boarded the first flight back to New York. She hadn’t even informed her team she was returning home, and they both leaped up in surprise when she knocks the door open.
“Nat! What are you doing here?” Steve asks, coming over to help with her duffel bag.
She holds it to her chest, away from him. Without saying anything, she reaches in and pulls out a jacket folded into a square. She unfurls it, revealing a scarf that she carefully unwinds from the box.
“What is that?” Clint asks.
“Pandora’s Box,” Natasha announces, a note of pride in her voice despite her exhaustion of crossing multiple time zones and not sleeping for a second on the plane. “I found it in Latvia, just like I said I would.”
“You opened it,” Clint says, crouching down behind his desk and eyeing the box in Natasha’s hands.
“Well, I dropped it, actually.”
“That’s even worse.”
“It’s empty,” Natasha says, opening the box for emphasis and even Steve flinches away. “Oh, get a grip, you two. See? There’s nothing in it now, and there was nothing in it when I found it.”
Steve is the braver one and comes forward for a closer inspection.
“But,” Natasha goes on, “something odd did happen when I dropped the box.”
“How did you drop the box?” Steve asks, holding the box in his hands and looking at the carvings on the outside.
“I accidentally set off a booby trap I had avoided on my way to it. Some arrows came out of the wall and one of them grazed my leg, so I lost my balance,” she explains. “When the box hit the ground, there was this flash of light–”
“It was probably your headlamp,” Steve says.
“And a voice–”
“All in your head,” Steve cuts off, and Natasha glares at him to be quiet.
“It was another woman’s voice, with an accent I’ve never heard before. She said ‘Enchantress.’”
Clint’s eyes, barely visible over the edge of his desk, grow wide.
“And I felt her touch my cheek. And that was it,” Natasha says.
“Maybe the Enchantress was in the box? And now you’ve set her free?” Steve guesses.
“Potentially.” Natasha shrugs, acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation. She isn’t even sure what to do with the box now. Maybe she would send it to some colleagues at the university for testing. But as ordinary and plain as the box was, she couldn’t help but feel it truly had been a vessel for something more.
“Keep an eye on the news, Steve. If anything anywhere in the world starts happening without explanation, we can blame it on the Enchantress.”
A week later, Natasha sits and stares at the corkboard on the wall between her and Steve’s desk. Following her instruction, Steve had printed out news headliners and clipped front pages of newspapers and tacked them to the board. On Sunday, there was one article. Now, seven days later, Natasha couldn’t even see the brown cork anymore behind all the pages.
Phoenix, Arizona: Two dead in apparent landmine explosion
Major earthquake recorded in Qatar, dozens injured
Series of mysterious fires plague Russian military bases
Japanese police engage in multiple deadly shootouts with armed citizens
“Are we just slapping everyday world events on the board now?” Clint teases.
“Steve’s the one that picked them out,” Natasha says, and she is wholly satisfied with her teammate’s work. Despite his disbelief in many of her cases, he always understood his assignments perfectly and never failed to deliver a good work product.
“What’s so special about the shootings in Japan?” Clint asks.
“Guns are illegal for any citizen to own there.”
“So? If people want to get their hands on one so badly, they’ll find a way.”
“That’s true,” Natasha says, “But what about the landmine in Arizona? I mean, sure there’s a lot of desert, but it’s also one of the most populated cities in America. There’s no reason for landmines to be hidden there, and if someone planted it recently, out of all the weapons we now have access to, why choose that one?”
“Okay, that one’s a little hard to explain,” Clint admits. “But you know how crazy people can be–”
“Qatar is so far away from any major fault line, scientists have said it’s almost physically impossible for any earthquake to happen there,” Natasha says. Clint looks stumped now. “Steve even went as far as to compile a list of the victims.” She presents him with a piece of paper from her desk. “They’re all of either Sokovian or Russian origin.”
Clint takes a moment to read the paper. “So, we think these attacks and natural disasters aren’t so random?” Natasha shakes her head. “Why do you think these groups are being targeted?”
It had stumped Natasha at first, until she looked back into one of the stories surrounding the Enchantress’s origins. “The Enchantress is from Slorenia. When the War of 1624 happened, many Slorenians fled to the nearby countries for asylum. Supposedly, her and her family went to Sokovia, but they were not welcomed there, and life was even harder for them as immigrants. And then Russia invaded Sokovia and…” Natasha trails off, sadness filling her. “Her family is said to have died in the war; it’s not known with certainty if she did too, but either way, it’s the perfect beginnings of a revenge arc.”
“So you think the Enchantress is getting revenge for her and/or her family’s deaths in the modern day?” Clint says.
“Yep.”
“If that’s the case, why not just target Russia? Or Sokovia? The events here are just scattered all over the place.” He waves a hand across the corkboard.
“She’s going after the descendants,” Natasha whispers with startling clarity. “Those who are directly related to the Russian soldiers, or the Sokovian people that ostracized her family.”
Clint is quiet.
“Now, I’m not sure how the family trees trace back, that’s centuries of life, but do we know anyone in our immediate vicinity from those countries?” Natasha asks.
“The Maximoffs,” Clint says. A twin brother and sister, who immigrated from Sokovia in their youth, now serving as a track and field coach and history professor respectively.
“We need to find them. And warn them.” Natasha grabs her leather jacket from her chair.
Clint arranges for them to meet the Maximoffs at a coffee shop not too far from the campus. He did not divulge the reason for their meeting, only that it was urgent business and they needed to come immediately.
Natasha arrives at the coffee shop first, while Clint hangs back at the office to finish up some paperwork and fill Steve in. She orders a black coffee for herself, then sits on a stool by the large window overlooking the quiet street.
“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?”
Natasha startles out of her thoughts and looks over her shoulder. Standing next to her, holding a coffee cup, is the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen in her life. You’re dressed in a white button-up and white slacks, a crescent moon pendant resting in the hollow of your throat. The steam from your cup swirls around your face and Natasha suddenly feels so small and inadequate in your presence.
“Is anyone sitting here?” you repeat when Natasha is too frozen to speak.
“Oh, uh, no! I’m…I’m waiting for some friends, but…um, they’re not here yet,” she stammers. “Please, h-have a seat.” She cringes at how pleading she sounds.
“Thanks. I won’t be long.” You take a seat, crossing one leg over the other. Natasha doesn’t even notice that the coffee shop is almost entirely deserted and that you’ve still chosen to sit next to her. Your fingers cover up the name written on your cup, but Natasha can see it ends with the letter “S.”
“Do you come here often?” Natasha asks, wanting to hold your attention for as long as she can.
“No, this is my first time. I’m new to the area.” You sip your drink and Natasha watches the moon resting on your throat rise and fall with your swallow.
“Will you be working at the university?” Natasha asks, trying to shake herself out of her hypnosis. “Because that’s where I am.”
You shake your head. “Just…passing through.”
“Well, if you ever want someone to show you around, I’d be more than happy to,” Natasha says. You laugh and lean forward, your hand brushing over Natasha’s thigh. The touch is electric and for a moment Natasha wishes she had worn shorts instead of jeans.
“You’re a pretty little thing, and very sweet to offer that,” you say, withdrawing your hand. “What do you do at the university?”
“Archaeology.” Natasha puffs her chest out, as if it’s the sexiest study one could partake in. “I get to travel the world and look for artifacts many people don’t think even exist. And sometimes I find them, and sometimes they’re not always what people think they are.”
“Have you found anything exciting recently?” You gaze into her eyes and Natasha fears she’s going to fall off her stool.
“Um, well, I uh, actually just got back from Latvia and I–”
“I’m so sorry,” you interrupt, looking down at your phone buzzing in your hand. “I have to go, but it was nice talking to you.” You get up and touch her shoulders as you walk by, and Natasha is so dumbstruck she doesn’t even think to ask for your number. She mournfully watches you leave your coffee cup on the trash can before you open the door for Wanda and Pietro Maximoff.
“Over here!” Natasha calls. She collects her black coffee from the counter and joins the two at a table. “Thanks for responding to Clint’s message so fast. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other,” she says.
“Is everything okay?” Wanda asks. “It looked like you were limping.”
“I cut my leg on my last outing, but it’s fine,” Natasha dismisses. “Look, I need to be quick, because I think you both might be in danger.” Wanda and Pietro look alarmed. “I was just in Latvia, looking for Pandora’s Box. Have you heard of it?”
Wanda nods, while Pietro looks lost. “It’s an artifact said to contain the soul of the Enchantress,” Wanda explains. “The most commonly accepted lore of the Enchantress is that she was a woman from Slorenia, who developed mythical powers after her family died in Sokovia during the War of 1624.”
“And Natasha, you found this artifact?” Pietro asks.
“Yes. And I opened it.”
Wanda gasps. “Why would you–”
“Okay, okay, I dropped it, but yes, I technically opened the box and now–”
“You think the Enchantress is coming after us?” Pietro chuckles. “We did not kill her family.”
“No, but your ancestors may have. Or mistreated them so badly, the Enchantress still felt they were responsible in some way,” Natasha says.
“I’m going to get a drink, would you like something, Wanda?” Pietro announces, standing up and Natasha is frustrated he’s not taking this seriously.
“Just a vanilla latte please,” she says, and Pietro wanders off to the counter.
“I’m not making this up, Wanda,” Natasha pleads. “I came back from Latvia a week ago, where I found the box, and the strangest things have been happening all over the world. A land mine killed two people in Arizona. Arizona! And Qatar just had a six-point-six earthquake recorded, when they’re nowhere near a fault line–”
“I’m sorry, Natasha. You sound like you might need some more rest after your trip,” Wanda says, shaking her head. “Pandora’s Box is literally just a myth. There’s no real evidence that–”
There is a loud screech and the two women look towards the front window of the coffee shop. A gray car jumps the curb and comes hurtling off the road, probably over 50 miles per hour, and smashes into the front window. Natasha reaches across the table and slams Wanda’s head down as hundreds of jagged glass shards go flying above them. She hears screams and a small explosion when the car collides with the counter, plowing right through it. The car comes to a thundering halt when its hood crumples against the back brick wall, the tires still spinning angrily but finding no traction.
Natasha sits up as dust swirls around them, grabbing Wanda and checking if she’s all right.
“Pietro? Where’s Pietro?” Wanda coughs.
Natasha stares at the pile of rubble where the counter and Pietro were. There is a pair of gray Adidas shoes with green highlights sitting atop the dirt.
“Pietro! Pietro!” Wanda starts screaming.
Natasha grabs onto Wanda’s jacket before she can throw herself at the car. From her angle, it doesn’t look like there’s even a driver in the vehicle, but she can’t be sure. Outside the coffee shop, people are running up the sidewalk to assess the damage. Natasha already hears a siren in the distance.
Across the street, Natasha sees you standing there and smiling, your hands tucked casually in your pockets. A wave of uneasiness washes over her and she wants to run over to you, but she can’t leave Wanda alone.
“Come on. We need to get out of here,” Natasha says, but Wanda is hysterical, pushing and slapping at her while she screams and cries. But Natasha is stronger and practically picks her up, marching her out of the remains of the coffee shop. When Natasha looks back to where you had been standing, and you’ve suddenly vanished.
They pass the trash can by the door, still intact, with the cup you left on top. Natasha pauses to get a closer look at the name scrawled on the paper sleeve: “ENCHANTRESS.”
Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: I am so glad everyone is enjoying this fic! Now we get to see who's guesses from Part 2 were correct...
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
Things with Wanda have become increasingly difficult lately. Your temper inches shorter and shorter with every argument the two of you have, which seem to be almost every conversation now. After your night out with Natasha, which felt dangerously normal, you realized what you were missing with your own wife. But the two of you had been together for nearly a decade–surely there were bound to be rough patches, right?
“I have to work late tomorrow night,” you say as the two of you get ready for bed, and as soon as the words come out of your mouth you regret it.
“Late again? Really, Y/N?” Wanda shoots back. “I already made the reservation for our dinner. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“Reschedule it?” you suggest, trying to hide your frustration. How many dozens of dinners (and anniversaries) had she stood you up?
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not doing that,” Wanda says, angrily climbing into bed and turning away from you. “If you can’t put the effort in to remember when we have dinner dates, then we’re not going to one.”
“You literally forgot our anniversary,” you respond, finally losing control of your temper.
“I did not forget,” she argues. “I had other plans that you forgot. And don’t use that tone with me. You’re not the one who should be annoyed right now.” Anger flares up inside you, but you hold your tongue. Arguing further with her would be pointless. You crawl onto your side of the bed and look over at your wife, balled up and small-looking under the covers.
You loved her. That was never a lie. But sometimes you wonder why you allowed her to cause you so much pain. Was it just to further prove your love to her? And how much more of it could you take?
After Natasha returns from picking up Wanda’s dry cleaning, she neatly hangs up the half-dozen dresses in the closet and begins dusting the house from top to bottom. It’s not an exciting chore, but due to the vastness of your home and the few people living in it, a lot of dust has accumulated and even she knows Wanda’s not exaggerating when she complains about her allergies acting up.
Natasha starts in your bedroom, carrying around a small stool to help her reach high places. She gently pats the dust off a plush teddy bear sitting on your dresser. She gets on her knees to brush the floorboards running along the perimeter of the room. Although the work is painfully dull, she finds satisfaction in the way her duster fibers turn grayer and grayer. She cleans the glass doors of the china cabinet with a special wipe, smiling at a little ceramic turtle perched on a shelf at eye level. She waltzes through the kitchen, which needs the least cleaning because she spends the most time there, but pauses to give special care to the rainbow-colored plastic cow looking out the window.
In the living room is a massive bookshelf that takes up an entire wall’s worth of space.Natasha doesn’t even know where to start, but she hops onto her stool and begins dusting the spines in every row. When she gets to the end of the fourth row, a title catches her eye: Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky. She had read the book for the first time in its native Russian, and while it may not have been a child-friendly novel, it did bring back more fondful memories of her childhood.
She takes it off the shelf, surprised at its weight. It’s over 500 pages, but much heavier than she remembers. The front cover swings open and something big and metal falls out, nearly landing on her foot. Natasha gasps in surprise as she pulls her leg back, her eyes widening as she stares at the revolver on the floor.
She opens the book, finding a huge rectangle cut out of the center of the pages to house the weapon. Whose gun was this? Neither you nor Wanda struck her as physically violent people. Maybe it was for protection?
The garage door rumbles open.
Natasha scoops up the gun with shaking hands and puts it back in the book, shoving it onto the shelf again. She grabs her duster and continues to dust the shelf.
“Natasha? Are you here?” Wanda’s voice rings out.
“In the living room! Good afternoon, Mrs. L/N!” Natasha responds, not turning around and staring at Crime and Punishment as if the gun will go off on its own.
“Why are you dusting our bookshelf?” Wanda asks.
“I’m dusting the whole house,” Natasha answers. “Just want to make sure every area is clean–”
“You read?” Wanda interrupts.
“I can, yes.” Natasha has no idea where the conversation is going and her stomach twists in knots.
“I mean, do you read for fun?”
“Yes,” Natasha lies.
“You ever read Crime and Punishment?”
Natasha just wants Wanda to leave her alone. “Yes.”
“A little advanced for you, don’t you think?” she says, and Natasha doesn’t even feel the need to defend herself from the cruel comment. She still hasn’t faced Wanda and wonders if she’s holding another revolver pointed at her back.
But Wanda is still waiting for an answer, so Natasha draws herself taller and says, “I’m Russian. I read it in high school.”
“Of course.” Wanda shifts her weight and the floor creaks. Natasha tenses and closes her eyes. “Well, I pay you to clean my house, not read my books. So keep your hands off my copy. Understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Footsteps indicate Wanda is going to another room.
Natasha has never been genuinely scared of Wanda until now.
It’s laundry day in your household, another chore Natasha completely despises due to the sheer amount of bedding you and Wanda seem to accumulate. Wanda insists that she wash the sheets in every guest room, despite the fact that you and her only sleep in the master bedroom. While Natasha is certain she knows the real reason, she overheard her telling you it was to prevent bed bugs.
Still, Natasha knows better than to question your wife and falls into the routine of stripping every bed, washing one load at a time, and redoing all the beds. The laundry machine is so noisy, she doesn’t hear the garage door open, nor the footsteps down the foyer. She doesn’t listen to music while she works, afraid Wanda will accuse her of being distracted, so she hums the soundtrack to Mamma Mia.
When the next load finishes, Natasha gathers up the bedding in her arms, almost smothered by the heat from its tumble in the dryer. She precariously walks up the stairs, trying to remember which bedroom the sheets are from, when she hears a thump from the master bedroom.
Natasha freezes. She thought she was alone in the house. Maybe you had snuck by while she was in the laundry room, and clearly she didn’t learn her lesson from the last time she walked in on you and Wanda to stay away. Heart pounding against her chest in anticipation, Natasha inches towards the door and peers through the crack.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck me,” Wanda moans, followed by the repetitive banging of the headboard against the wall. Natasha shifts around to get a better view of the room, straining to see what’s going on. She catches a glimpse of Wanda on her knees, moving in and out of her view, someone holding onto her waist from behind.
“I want you to put a baby in me,” Wanda pants, and her partner grunts in response.
While the two of you had no children that Natasha was aware of, she wonders if that was an intentional decision or perhaps you two were waiting for a better moment. Kids would certainly give you a reason to stay with Wanda, and maybe that was exactly what she was planning.
Natasha hates the way she keeps watching, wanting more material to fuel her never-ending fantasy of being betrothed to you.
“Honey? Are you here? I’m home!”
“I’m upstairs!” Natasha calls. She hears you tramp up the steps as she patiently waits for you in the bedroom. You poke your head through the door first, the top few buttons of your shirt undone, and although the exhaustion from work is evident on your face, you perk up when you see her.
Especially with what she’s wearing, or lack of it.
“I hope you had a good day at work, baby,” Natasha says, turning around to face you. She’s wearing the red lingerie set you bought her for her birthday. It hardly leaves her assets to the imagination and she can feel your gaze lingering on her body. She’s never felt so appreciated or wanted before.
“It was a good day that’s only getting better.” You step into the bedroom, hastening to take off your clothes. Natasha comes over to help you and you easily scoop her up in your strong arms, and she wraps her legs tightly around your hips. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whisper, your mouth hot on her neck as you nip at her skin.
You walk forward until Natasha feels her back bump into the vanity. You rest her on the edge and spread your legs to jerk yourself to full hardness. Natasha struggles against the impatience in her core, wanting nothing more than for you to fill her to the brim. She watches the veins in your muscular arm pop out as you move your hand back and forth faster, your cock swelling to its large size.
Finally, Natasha cannot wait any longer. “I need you,” she begs, swatting your hand away and sliding forward, ready to practically fall on your dick.
“Careful, baby,” you warn with a chuckle, gripping onto her thighs and stepping forward to find the right angle to insert yourself.
Natasha sighs in relief when you enter her, holding onto your shoulders in case you get any ideas of pulling out too far. Her walls clench around you tightly, drawing a moan from you and you press your hips forward until your whole cock stretches her out. Natasha loves how much you fill her, how you soothe the empty throbbing in her. She must be the luckiest woman in the world to have you like this.
The vanity bumps against the wall with every thrust. Natasha squeezes her thighs tighter around your waist, trying to hold you in as long as possible. She runs her hands up and down your broad back, digging her nails into your shoulder blades when your thighs meet hers.
“When are you gonna put a baby in me?” she asks, her lips crashing heatedly onto yours.
You grunt with another deep thrust.
“You would look so beautiful carrying my child.”
Natasha’s blood goes cold when she hears Wanda’s partner. Because it’s not your voice.
It’s Vision’s.
She angles herself to see better and feels sick to see her stomach when she sees your wife and Vision tangled on the bed together. She can’t bear to watch another second and flees down the stairs, the bedsheets still in her arms, not even caring if they hear her.
She has to find a way to tell you. That was the least you deserved.
You stand in the dim hallway, watching as Wanda whips around, grabbing her coat and Louis Vuitton purse. “Where do you think you’re going?” you ask.
“I’m not allowed to leave the house now?” she bites back, not even looking at you.
“It’s Friday night,” you point out.
“So?”
“Friday nights are our nights,” you stress, and Wanda finally looks at you when you raise your voice. “It’s been that way for years, unless you’ve been so bored of me you haven’t noticed.”
“You can survive without me for one night,” she shoots back. “I have a dinner night with the girls–”
“Don’t go,” you say, your tone changing from anger to pleading. “Please. We hardly spend any time together since I started the new job here and–”
“That’s not my fault,” Wanda clips. “That was your decision. Moving here was also your decision, in case you forgot.” You don’t miss the way she stresses the blame on you. “You thought it would be better for your business, and you’re still in the red. I gave up my old friends and relationships to be here with you, and then you have the audacity to act like this is my fault.”
“I asked if you wanted to stay, and you said you were fine with moving,” you remind her, although you are uncomfortable at the truth of her words.
“I said I was fine moving because I thought it’d make you happy,” Wanda says. “But it looks like out of the two of us, I’m the only happy one here.”
You know it’s wrong, but you can’t help but be frustratingly jealous of your wife. Even waking up every day is now a struggle for you. You’re buckling under the pressure of work, unable to meet the deadlines or find the capital to pay your mounting debts. The only person you have to support you is Wanda, but she’s always off partying with her new friends or going to some made-up meeting meant to give her a false sense of significance. You’ve never felt lonelier, and it scares you that the only person you have may be slipping away.
“I’ll be back tonight.” Wanda whips out to the garage and clearly doesn’t want to hear any more protest from you. You stagger back and collapse onto a sofa, holding your head in your hands and feeling a burning sensation in your eyes.
Natasha peeks around the corner of the kitchen, wondering if you remember that she’s still here. “Y/N? Is everything okay?” she asks.
“No,” you say, forcing yourself to laugh. “I’m sorry if you heard any of that. That was very unprofessional of us.”
“It’s okay.” Natasha inches out so you can see her. You’re rubbing your eyes and she’s startled to realize you’re crying. Not knowing what to do, she retreats into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of rambutans from the bottom drawer of the fridge and a box of tissues and brings them to you.
You laugh when you see her offerings. You pat the sofa cushion next to her to indicate she is welcome to join you. “Have you had one of these before? I can show you how to eat them.” You peel off the furry red exterior, revealing a pearl-colored center. “You just eat this part. It tastes like a grape.”
Natasha takes one and follows your example. When she bites into the center, the taste is not as exotic as she expected but quite mild, reminding her of an oversized, fleshy grape. “It’s pretty good,” she says.
“My favorite.” You peel open another one, leaving the exterior on a pile on the table.
Natasha has another one and anxiously looks around the room, as if Wanda is still in the house. “Y/N, I need to tell you something,” she finally has the courage to say, heart pounding in her chest.
“Yes?” There’s a soft crunch as you bite through your rambutan.
“Wanda’s cheating on you with Vision,” Natasha blurts out, with no build-up whatsoever.
You are completely silent, chewing the fruit as if it’s the last thing you’ll ever eat.
“I saw them together in bed yesterday.” Natasha now realizes how foolish she sounds. What if you didn’t believe her? What if you thought she was lying in order to get you for herself? She could’ve taken a picture (as weird as that would’ve been) to provide actual proof.
“I know,” you say, to Natasha’s shock. “I know she’s cheating on me with Vision.”
“You do?” Natasha is stunned. She wonders how long you’ve known, and why you’ve never acted out on it.
“She’s cheating on me with half the fucking neighborhood.”
“No, I think I’m good, thanks!” You roll out from under your car, your arms and face covered in grease and oil. A skinny man stands on the sidewalk, surveying your propped-up car on the driveway.
“What’s wrong with it?” he asks.
“Not sure,” you respond, reaching for a rag in your tool bag and wiping off your face. “It won’t start though, so I’ll probably have to get it towed to the shop.”
“Need a lift?”
“Uh…” You glance back at your empty house. Wanda was out until nightfall, although you wouldn’t put it past her to be gone until tomorrow. Despite the brand-new house the two of you had just moved into, she didn’t seem to want to spend much time in it.
“It’s no trouble,” the man insists. “I live over at the end of the street. You can call me Vision.” He comes forward to shake your hand.
“Y/N,” you introduce. “Well, I’d really appreciate it. We just moved here and my wife’s out of town right now, so I don’t have many friends I can call on here yet.”
Vision waves off your comment. “You have neighbors! That’s what we’re for, right?”
You call a tow truck and join Vision in his purple Camaro with a yellow racing stripe along the center of its hood to tail your vehicle to the shop.
“What do you do for work?” you ask, genuinely impressed with his sports car. He didn’t seem like the type to own one.
“Oh, I’m retired,” he says, effortlessly shifting the gears and the vehicle purrs in response.
“Really?” He hardly looked a few years older than you.
“Corporate life just wasn’t for me,” he says. “It paid very well though, so I retired early and bought the house out here. It’s just me though, never found the right person to settle down with.”
“It’s not for everyone,” you admit, because sometimes you wonder if you even found the right person.
After the mechanics determine your car needs an overnight stay to repair, Vision drives you back home. He drops you off and speeds down the street to his own. You find him to be a little quirky, but harmless. You head inside for a much-needed shower. When you’re done, you wrap a towel around your waist and step into the bedroom to find some clothes. You pause when the front door creaks open.
Excited to greet your wife, you rush out to say hello from the top of the stairs, but stop in your tracks when you realize she’s brought someone in.
“Oh, Y/N isn’t home,” Wanda says, her voice carrying through the foyer.
“This house is huge!” It’s Steve. Your heart bangs against your chest and you retreat to the bedroom, unsure where to hide. The closet seems like a decent spot, and you nestle in between your hanging jackets as you hear Wanda and Steve stomp up the stairs together. You peek out through the crack in the door.
“Ours was built first, but it looks like this one has a lot of improvements that we could’ve used,” Steve goes on.
“Yes, yes, it’s very nice,” Wanda says. They walk into your bedroom, Wanda behind him with a mischievous glint in her eye you recognize all too well. “I wish Y/N could be around more,” she continues, and you fight the urge to burst out of the closet. “Like you said, it’s such a big house and it feels so lonely in it without another body to keep it warm.”
You see Steve’s gaze travel along the walls and over your furniture. To his credit, he does seem genuinely impressed with your home. He always struck you as a simple man, maybe even a little bit ignorant at times. But now you were about to see if his ignorance was true or an act.
Wanda approaches him so closely you’re sure her body is rubbing against his.
“Y/N isn’t here, but maybe you can keep me company for a while?”
“Hey, hey, what are you doing?” Steve jerks away from Wanda when she puts her hands on his hips.
“We can be quick,” Wanda insists, taking off her jacket. “No one has to know–”
“Wanda, stop it,” Steve says, sounding angry. “I have a wife and kids at home and you’re married to Y/N–”
“So?” Wanda replies, and it makes your stomach clench with how dismissive she is. “I’ve been married to Y/N for four years and I’ve been cheating since day one.” She shrugs. “Honestly, the only reason I settled down is for the thrill of it.” She holds her hand up, the wedding ring you gifted her with three months’ salary glinting in the light. “It’s much more exciting to get what you’re not supposed to have, right?”
“You’re disgusting,” Steve says. “Stay away from me and my family.”
He hurries out of the bedroom, but Wanda doesn’t go after him at first. She puts her jacket back on and admires her reflection in the mirror, clearly a little frazzled by Steve’s rejection. How many people hadn’t rejected her? You always had a hunch, but had never heard Wanda admit it outloud before. How could you be so stupid this whole time?
Your body starts to vibrate with rage and you accidentally knock a jacket off its hook. While the jacket falls soundlessly to the floor, you can’t see well enough to catch the hanger and it lands with a quiet thump on the carpet. You look through the crack, holding your breath as Wanda’s head whips towards the closet.
The next few seconds are so tense you want to vomit.
But then Wanda turns back to her reflection, fluffing out her hair, and leaves the bedroom.
Your paranoia kicks in like a drug that won’t let you rest. You buy cameras and sprinkle them all around the house, in the trinkets and knick knacks Wanda insisted on showcasing in every room. The teddy bear on your dresser in the bedroom. The ceramic turtle in the china cabinet in the living room. The plastic cow on the windowsill of the kitchen window. You monitor them religiously, but it doesn’t take long for more evidence to show up.
Vision is the most frequent offender, visiting during your long nights at work or sometimes in the middle of the day. Steve never sets foot on your property again, although sometimes the camera in the potted plant by the front door picks up the conversation of Wanda trying to convince him to come over. As nice as Steve was to turn down your wife’s advances, he never came to tell you what she had tried to do with him either.
There are some visitors you don’t even recognize. And Wanda isn’t a stranger to women either. She brings over Agatha, her supposed HOA nemesis, and many of the ladies who would greet you so kindly and fawn over you every time they saw you working in the front yard. You would bet money that she was also fucking some of her girlfriends on their trips away.
And now you have it all on camera, your wife fucking multiple strangers in your own home. The proof didn’t make you feel better; in fact, it made you feel worse. All that time, effort, and money you had spent trying to cultivate the perfect relationship with her when she would turn around and fuck the first thing that looked at her.
It made you so angry you couldn’t see straight. But you knew you couldn’t act hastily. You would formulate the perfect plan to get out of the marriage and leave Wanda behind, even if it meant leaving her for dead.
Tomb Raider!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Enchantress!Reader
18+ only, read at your own risk
Summary: Natasha has spent years hunting the elusive Pandora’s Box, which many say doesn’t even exist. What happens when she not only finds it, but accidentally unleashes the sinister force hiding within?
Word count: 1736
AN: The people have asked, so I have delivered. Thanks to the anons for inspiring this one. Enjoy! :)
Image courtesy of @natromilf
“Shit!”
The curse word echoes in the chamber, making Natasha feel like for once she’s not alone. She jumps back, barely in time for the ground beneath her feet to crumble and fall away into the dark abyss. She doesn’t even hear them land, surmising she must be several hundred feet above sea level now. Her path lit by the heavy but powerful headlamp strapped to her forehead, she moves more cautiously now.
“Latvia? Really, Nat?”
“It’s a beautiful country,” she defends, pushing Clint’s legs off the desk where he had his boots resting on her world map. “Besides, Slorenia doesn’t exist anymore. But historians say Latvia is one of the countries that absorbed it after the war in 1624.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little too obvious to search Slorenia or Latvia or whatever the hell it’s called now?” Clint asks. “Surely someone else has already gone looking there.”
“But I haven’t,” Natasha says. While her ego did go to her head sometimes, there was no denying she was one of the greatest archeologists and explorers of the modern day. With her years of research and experience, and a kickass team to support her, few ancient mysteries had stumped her yet.
But this one–the Pandora’s Box, as it was known in the archeological community, had sent Natasha spiraling for years. While the name was inspired from the Greek myth, there was discourse between scholars on how much of the story was rooted in reality. Natasha was deeply fascinated by its rich and dark history, and despite the protests from her team that she was chasing a fairytale, she continued to search for clues and leads.
She was determined to prove its existence and uncover the story behind it. If anyone was qualified to do that, she was.
The cave is humid and wet, but the air is heavy and fresh, as if there were not many living creatures to inhale it. Natasha feels more at ease as she hikes through the cave, marching along at a steady pace and keeping away from the edge of the narrow path that borders a cliffside.
She’s unsure how deep the cave goes, or if she’ll even find what she’s looking for, but she’s certain she isn’t here by accident. Her teammate Steve had found an obscure news article dating a few years back of three Lativian teenagers who went exploring an unmarked cave, but were spooked out by a woman’s voice begging them to “set her free.” A team of police ventured in, but the cave was simply too large to conduct a proper search in a reasonable amount of time. No woman was ever reported being found in the cave since.
Natasha halts when her beam of light reveals a stone bridge, with a near ten-foot gap in the center. There’s no other way forward besides going back, and she doesn’t want to waste time with that. She tightens the straps of her backpack and practices taking a few large steps, then jumping off her right foot, bunching the muscles in her calf and thigh.
She has one chance.
A regular person would just turn back, or maybe use a rope to cross the gap. But not Natasha. She kept herself in superior physical shape for these adventures and had full confidence in her abilities. She goes up to where the bridge ends, peering over the edge for fun, and her stomach flips at the height of the drop.
She can’t see the bottom.
Adrenaline pumps into her muscles and she mentally steels herself for the jump. She counts back six steps from the edge, taking a deep, calming breath, then runs full-tilt towards the gap. On the sixth step, she launches herself over the abyss, aiming to grab the exposed rebar jutting out like gnarled teeth on the other side. Her gloves protect her hands from scraping, but she stops with more impact than she anticipated and the rebar slips right through her right hand.
Her bodyweight tries to drag her down into the abyss, but she refuses to let it win. Staying calm, she finds a new hold amongst the rubble, shoving at it aggressively before she trusts it to hold her. With both hands now properly anchored, she slowly eases herself up and crawls onto the remains of the bridge, her heart pounding so hard against her chest she can see the visible thumping.
She drinks a few sips of water from her pack before she feels oriented enough to continue, more motivated than ever.
“It can’t actually exist,” Steve says, sipping from a glass of Coke while Natasha and Clint nurse beers. “I mean, we’re talking about witchcraft. Supernatural stuff. There has never been scientific evidence for it, anywhere in the history of the world.”
“This could be the first then,” Clint says. He was always more of a believer than Steve was, but that was why Natasha liked working with them both.
Steve shakes his head. “What makes this mystery so different from the others?” He directs his question to Natasha. “You’ve spent years looking for Pandora’s Box. I’ve seen you pass over cases in just a few months because you don’t think it’s worth pursuing. What makes this one different?”
Natasha stares into her beer as the white foam melts away. She wants to give him an articulate answer, but the truth is, she doesn’t really know. She was a second-year student in college when she was first introduced to Pandora’s Box, and had been intrigued ever since. Did it hold the solution to world peace, or was it just another instrument of destruction?
Natasha’s legs are heavy from the effort of an additional hour-long hike since she jumped across the gap in the bridge. She stops only to refuel with some protein bars and more water. She doesn’t know how much longer she should go on for until it’s time to turn back. As much as she’d like to, she can’t explore this cave forever.
She comes to a fork in the path and contemplates her decision. The right path is open, and leads around a bend she can’t see after a hundred feet. The left path is covered by a rock ceiling barely above her own height.
“Go left.”
Natasha obeys the voice in her head without further hesitation.
“They called her the Enchantress,” Clint reads from the textbook. “That much scholars can agree on. Everything else is pretty much up for debate. Some say that she could fly, move objects with her mind, or even tell other people what to do.”
“All nonsense,” Steve dismisses. “No human being can do any of those things.”
“They never said she was human,” Natasha points out.
“Then what else could she be?” Steve asks. “A god? A witch?”
“An enchantress,” Clint repeats, slapping his hand on the textbook for emphasis.
“No such thing,” Steve insists. “She was just some poor kid who got killed in the war, and then the locals made up stories about her to scare invaders. And future historians, because no one can seem to agree on what really happened or where she ended up.”
Natasha clicks her tongue; she hates it when Steve simplifies the facts, even if they are accurate. But that isn’t the whole truth and they both know it. Natasha wants to learn who the “Enchantress” really was and if there was any justification to the horrors that made up her life.
The narrow path suddenly widens into a large, circular room. In the center, is a pedestal, conveniently highlighted by a ray of sunlight pouring in through a hole in the ceiling. Natasha feels her stomach clench when she eyes a box atop the pedestal, barely bigger than a laptop, wrapped in rusting chains and intricate carvings. She tries approaching with caution, but the pull of curiosity is too great and she rushes to the pedestal for a closer look. The box is made of wood, the chains metal, and the engravings are painted over with gold.
Natasha has enough sense to survey the room for any hidden doors, windows, or even people, before she touches the box, but she seems to be alone. She picks up the box delicately, wondering if the transfer of its weight will set off a trap.
Nothing happens.
Tucking it against her chest, Natasha notes it’s not as heavy as she thought it would be, but the significance of what it might hold weighs like a metric ton on her mind. She steps away from the pedestal, and feels a tile depress under her foot.
A volley of rusty arrows shoot out of the wall from either side of her. A sharp pain radiates from her left thigh and her leg buckles. She throws her arms out to brace her fall and watches with immediate regret as the box tumbles to the floor faster than she can catch it.
The box lands on a corner and Natasha hears the wood crack. The chains might as well have been for show at the way they disintegrate and the lid flies open. A blinding light white fills the room and Natasha curls into a ball on the ground, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Enchantress.” Natasha hears a soft whisper, so faint she thinks she’s imagined it. She’s too scared to open her eyes and curls up tighter.
“Pretty little thing,” the voice says, with a slight accent she can’t place. “Thank you.”
Natasha swears a hand, solid and hot, presses against her cheek for a moment, leaving her skin burning. Then the white light extinguishes as suddenly as it appeared. She hesitantly cracks one eye open, then the other.
She’s still alone in the dark, damp room. Blood soaks her pant leg where the arrow tore through her flesh. The box lays open, empty, next to her. She touches her cheek, which is flushed with heat but she’s unsure if it’s from her own blood flow pounding beneath her skin.
The silence feels never-ending as she sits there, staring at the box. She can’t believe she dropped it, but more so that it was completely empty. Or was it? Natasha knows something is wrong, an unexplainable shift in her gut that she can’t interpret in the moment.
She quickly bandages her leg, then reaches for the box, closing it up pointlessly and limping out of the cave.
Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: Thank you so much for the response to part 1! And thank you to everyone who was so patient and understanding for this part taking a while to write. I hope you all like it.
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
Wanda seems to be in a better mood lately, Natasha notices, probably because the two of you rekindled whatever complicated romance you had going on. And as sad and lonely as it had made Natasha feel, at least Wanda was being less rude to her, and that would always be a win in her book.
The grocery trips and errands she sends Natasha on are less demanding, although Natasha’s unsure if she’s becoming more comfortable or Wanda’s gotten less picky. Wanda still requests Natasha’s help for her weekly meetings, and Natasha cannot understand why someone who is unemployed goes so out of her way to find the most mundane, meaningless things to participate in. But it keeps Natasha paid and busy, and she still gets to see you a few times a week.
“What are you doing this weekend, Natasha?” Wanda asks while the two of them are in the kitchen. Wanda is on her laptop while Natasha stands at the counter, cutting vegetables for dinner.
“Um…” Natasha knows better than to tell Wanda the truth, which is that she’ll be sitting alone in her apartment for the next two days and eating ice cream on her couch. “Some friends invited me to go shopping with them at the mall,” she lies. She doesn’t have friends and she certainly doesn’t have the budget to shop at a mall after all the debt she still owes.
“I’ll be gone all weekend with some girlfriends,” Wanda says, not even acknowledging Natasha’s plans, which makes her wonder why she had even bothered to ask in the first place. “I’m not into wine tasting much, but the girls go nuts for it. I’m just going for the spa at the resort, between you and me.”
Natasha has no idea what to do with this information. But she’s spared from answering when the garage door rumbles open.
Wanda slams her laptop shut. “Oh, Y/N is home early.” She gets up to greet you. Natasha can hear your voices carry through the hall.
“You’re early tonight,” Wanda says. “I was just telling Natasha about my weekend plans to Vermont with the girls–”
“Your weekend plans?” you interrupt. “Since when did you have plans to go to Vermont?” Natasha has never heard you sound genuinely angry before. She stops cutting the carrots to focus on eavesdropping.
“Carol wanted to go for her birthday!” your wife says.
“Wanda,” you say, your voice lowering. “Our anniversary is this weekend. I booked us a stay at the Ritz and got us tickets to see Wicked–”
“Well, just ask for a refund!” Wanda hisses. Natasha is stunned that this is her first response to forgetting about her entire anniversary with you. “And we can celebrate when I get back–”
“‘Get back?’” you repeat. “That’s not the point, Wanda. Why don’t you ask for a refund for your trip–”
“I can’t do that to the girls,” Wanda says. “Carol’s been looking forward to this for months!”
You mumble something that Natasha can’t hear. She feels awful for you. Clearly, you had spent a lot of money and time planning a nice outing, and your wife didn’t seem to care one bit. In fact, she tried to put the blame on you for intruding on her plans. Natasha felt herself shaking with rage for you. You deserved so much better.
The two of you trudge into the kitchen and Natasha hastily goes back to cutting the carrots. Wanda is hanging onto your arm, tiptoeing to whisper into your ear but you shake her off and walk through the kitchen to the staircase. Natasha knows that Wanda is glaring at the back of her head, probably upset that she had overheard, but for once she doesn’t say anything and disappears after you.
The mood is particularly subdued when Natasha serves up roasted salmon with a colorful vegetable medley and mashed potatoes.
“Thank you, Natasha,” you say as she hands you a loaded plate.
Wanda doesn’t say anything when Natasha gives her a plate.
While the two of you eat in awkward silence, Natasha cleans up the kitchen, her final task of the day. She grabs her purse and heads towards the door, when she hears footsteps behind her.
It’s you.
“Can I walk you out to your car?” you ask. “I know it’s a safe neighborhood, but I don’t want you walking out in the dark by yourself.”
Natasha is so flattered by your offer she doesn’t stop to consider how Wanda might feel about this.
“Sure, I really appreciate that. Thank you.” She leads the way out of your house.
“Sorry you always have to park around the corner,” you add, maintaining a respectful distance from her on the sidewalk. “I’ve told Wanda the whole neighborhood knows you work for us. But she’s…” you trail off, clearly not wanting to speak ill of your wife.
“I’m sorry she forgot your anniversary,” Natasha blurts out.
You seem startled that Natasha had been eavesdropping, but quickly recover. “Well, it’s…it’s not the first time she’s done it,” you admit in a soft voice. “I don’t know why I bother trying to do anything special anymore. It’s just another day to her. And it seems like she’d rather spend it with anyone but me.”
“She’s missing out,” Natasha says, surprised by her own confidence. “You’re a wonderful person and you deserve someone who will appreciate the efforts you go to celebrate important milestones like that.” She stops before she can offer herself up.
“Oh. Well, thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.”
The two of you stop at Natasha’s beat-up Nissan.
“Thanks for walking me to my car–” she starts.
“Are you busy this weekend?” you ask suddenly, in a rushed whisper as if Wanda is around the corner listening. “If you’re not, would you like to see Wicked with me at the Gershwin Theater? I told Wanda I could probably get a credit with the Ritz, but I don’t want to deal with the hassle of exchanging the tickets, too. You can come over Saturday night and I’ll drive us?”
Natasha is so shocked by your proposal she doesn’t even have the words to agree at first. Growing up, she had loved watching musical movies until the VHS tapes wore out, but she had never had the opportunity to see a live performance. Even now as an adult, she still didn’t have the time nor the budget to see a show. To hear you ask that you wanted her to join you, when you had bought the tickets for you and your wife to enjoy on your anniversary she had forgotten, sounded almost too good to be true.
But if Wanda found out you had taken Natasha instead of her…Natasha shuddered at the thought. Maybe this was stepping over the line of professionalism. Natasha wanted to keep her job (and her head), and as much as the opportunity was a dream come true for her, she didn’t want to take advantage of your kindness or weakness.
“Um, I’m supposed to go shopping at the mall with some friends on Saturday,” Natasha says, cringing at the patheticness of her life. “But really–thank you for inviting me. I’m sure you have friends you’d rather take over your maid.”
“I don’t have any friends,” you say, so deadpan that Natasha almost laughs but quickly turns it into a cough when she realizes you’re being serious. While you seemed more reserved than your wife, Natasha refused to believe you didn’t have a strong social network. You were in charge of your own company and clearly doing well if you lived in this neighborhood and could afford a personal housemaid like her.
“Good evening!” The two of you startle when a cheery voice comes out of nowhere.
“Hello, Mr. Vision,” Natasha says, spotting the eccentric man first as he walks by at a rapid pace.
“Late night walk, Vis?” you call out, and he nods with a wave, pumping his arms faster and milling away. The only thing Natasha knew about Vision was that he lived by himself at the end of the street. He had no wife or kids that she knew of, not even a job as he was constantly seen walking around the neighborhood at odd hours. But he never approached Natasha or made her feel uncomfortable, which was more than she could say for most of the people living here, so she was happy to ignore him.
When Vision moves out of sight, you say, “Well, if your plans happen to change…” You fumble in your pockets awkwardly, pulling out a bent business card and handing it to Natasha. “My cell number is on there. Text me before Saturday if you’re still interested.”
“Okay.” Natasha doesn’t want to get your hopes (or hers) up, but she still isn’t convinced this is a good idea. “Have a good night, Y/N.”
“Good night, Natasha.”
She loves the way her name sounds coming out of your mouth.
Natasha is still unsure she made the right decision to turn down your offer to see Wicked. She even called her only friend, Clint, to ask if she should’ve said yes.
“Well, you’re just seeing a show together. Think of it like a work bonus or something. Bosses give their employees nice stuff like that all the time,” Clint says as Natasha picks at a box of takeout in front of the television. Cooking at home was not her favorite chore after doing it all day for her clients.
“Yes, but it’s just the two of us,” Natasha stresses. “Y/N got the tickets to celebrate an anniversary and Wanda already hates me as it is–”
“Nah, she doesn’t hate you,” Clint says.
“You haven’t met her! You don’t see the way she treats me.”
“Exactly. Maybe this is Y/N’s way of apologizing for her behavior,” Clint says.
“I don’t know…” It was already Friday night. Natasha didn’t have much time now to change her mind if she was going to.
“Be nice to yourself, Nat. Let someone do something for you,” Clint goes on. “You work so hard for these people all the time. And I know how much you’ve always wanted to see a live performance.” Natasha feels tears well up in her eyes. She wishes Clint was here in person so she could give him a hug. “Nothing bad will happen. Just tell Y/N you want to go before someone else takes your spot.”
Natasha takes a steely breath. Clint is right. It wasn’t a date. It just was her nice boss treating her out to a Broadway show. Never mind the fact that you had intended to take your wife initially. Wanda would never have to know, right?
“Okay. Thanks, Clint.”
“Enjoy!”
As soon as she hangs up, Natasha goes into her texts. She already created a contact for you the night you gave her your business card. Her anxiety is through the roof as she types out a message to you, then deletes it and starts over. She gets more and more frustrated trying to find the right words, before she finally throws in the towel and clicks “Send.”
Less than a minute later, you respond.
Happiness explodes inside of Natasha. She can hardly believe her luck. Not only does she get to see her first Broadway show, but she gets to see it with you, and have dinner on top of it. She darts over to her closet, looking for the nicest dress she owns.
Wanda be damned. Natasha was going to have a great night with you.
“Did you have a reservation?” the blonde woman at the podium asks.
“No,” you respond.
“Oh, well, I’m so sorry, but we’re all booked out for the evening,” she apologizes.
Natasha stands behind you meekly. She can’t even pronounce the name of the restaurant and doesn’t know what kind of food they serve, but it’s probably far beyond anything she could ever afford. She’s wearing a dark green dress that almost reaches her ankles and is conservative in protecting her assets, and spent over an hour doing her makeup, and she wonders if strangers will look at the two of you and assume you’re a couple. She wouldn’t go out of her way to correct them.
“That’s okay. This was a last-minute plan for us,” you explain. “If Tony is working tonight, can you please tell him Y/N stopped by to say hello?”
“Wait, you know Mr. Stark?” the woman pales. “Don’t go anywhere. You said your name is Y/N?”
You smile and nod. The woman steps down from her podium and dashes into the back.
“I thought you said you didn’t have any friends,” Natasha boldly teases.
You turn and wink at her.
“Tony and I went to college together,” you explain, although this implies you shared a friendship of some kind. “And clearly, his business is doing better than mine–”
The woman quickly returns with a short bearded man wearing a gray suit with red-tinted glasses that match his tie.
“Y/N!” Tony shouts, embracing you in a dramatic hug. “You should’ve told me you were coming tonight! I could’ve put together a private booth in the back–”
“It was last-minute,” you say. “This is Natasha, by the way. She’s a friend.” Natasha is thrilled at the way you associate her with you.
“Hello, Natasha, I’m Tony.” He takes her hand and gently kisses her knuckles. He doesn’t seem surprised you haven’t brought Wanda along instead. “I take it you haven’t been here before, Miss Natasha? You won’t need a menu, I’ll have the chef bring out the best dishes we have tonight.”
“That’s very kind of you,” you say.
“Follow me! You can have a table in our east wing. Where’s Wanda?” Tony says rapid-fire, turning around and leading them deeper into the restaurant. You step out of the way and motion to let Natasha go first, and she feels your hand graze her back as she walks past you.
“She’s out with her girlfriends for the weekend,” you answer from behind Natasha.
“Your anniversary is coming up, right?” Tony asks.
“Yes,” you respond, your voice suddenly tense.
The restaurant is packed, every visible table filled with customers, until they turn around a corner to a quiet, completely empty area.
“Pick any table. I’ll have a waiter come out with some drinks shortly,” Tony says.
“Thanks, Tony.”
“Thank you, Tony,” Natasha echoes, unsure if she likes this special treatment. You pick a table near the corner and pull her chair out for her. As soon as the two of you are seated, a waiter in a vested suit appears with a few bottles of wine, making suggestions and pouring samples into the glasses. Natasha doesn’t have enough knowledge to understand what he’s saying or differentiate the tastes, but she enjoys the experience. It feels strange to have someone serve her, when she’s normally the one waiting on people’s every demand.
The two of you share several appetizers together. Natasha feels like she’s floating in a dream. You have been nothing but generous and respectful to her, but every time your left hand reaches across the table for the caviar, the wedding ring on your finger taunts her.
The dinner itself is a four-course affair, including a rich chocolate cake that Natasha devours faster than she can fully enjoy. When the bill arrives (which Tony has already chopped in half), Natasha still asks if she can chip in (despite knowing full well she doesn’t have the money to cover even her portion), but you push her card away and give the waiter your black card.
The theater is three blocks from Tony’s restaurant, so you leave your car in valet parking and ask Natasha if she’s okay walking. She had not planned ahead very well, so she only has a thin cardigan to cover her shoulders. You notice her shivering and offer her your heavy black jacket that completely engulfs her frame. Your scent completely surrounds her now and Natasha swears she won’t wash this dress ever again.
The line into the theater moves quickly and Natasha follows you all the way down to the front, where your seats are perfectly center to the stage. She crawls over a few people, feeling a little smug about getting some of the best seats in the house. You had truly spoiled her tonight and she was never going to forget this.
She leans over to whisper to you before the show begins. “Thank you for everything tonight. I’ve already had so much fun and the dinner was amazing.”
“You’re very welcome. Thank you for joining me, and thank you for all the hard work you do for my family,” you say and Natasha beams. “Me and Wanda really appreciate it.” Natasha deflates a little at the mention of your wife, but she pushes her out of her mind to focus on her time with you.
As they wait, Natasha props her arm up on the armrest between you two so she can hold the playbill at a comfortable angle to read. Suddenly, your arm drops heavily on hers and she looks at you in confusion. You’re reading your own playbill and don’t seem to notice that your massive arm is practically crushing hers.
“Um, Y/N?” she prompts, clearing her throat.
“Hmm? Oh!” You quickly move your arm off hers. “I’m so sorry, I thought that was Wanda’s arm,” you explain with a nervous chuckle. Natasha laughs too, although she isn’t sure if she should be happy or worried that she reminds you of your wife. She’d be happy to take Wanda’s place any day, though.
The musical is amazing, impressive beyond anything Natasha had ever expected. She cries when Elphaba defies gravity, and after the whirlwind of the second act, she is among the first to give a standing ovation. She’s floating on cloud nine as she walks with you out of the theater back to the car.
The drive back to your home is quick at the late hour. Just as you're about to pull into the driveway, you slam hard on the brakes, jolting everyone forward. Vision power walks past the beams of your headlights, only breaking the pump of his arms to wave in thanks.
“What is he doing out so late?” you ask, and Natasha is relieved to know she’s not the only one who thinks his habits are a bit odd.
“No idea,” she mumbles, watching you pull onto the driveway and stop.
“Thank you so much, Y/N,” Natasha says, still giddy with excitement.“This was the best night of my life. I’ve always wanted to see a Broadway show, ever since I was a little girl. I never thought I’d get the chance, even after I moved here–”
“You’re very welcome,” you interrupt, seeming almost shy with the praise.
“I’m sorry Wanda wasn’t able to join you for your own anniversary,” she adds, although she’s not sure why.
You shrug. “Nothing we can do about it now. Besides, I’m glad you were able to join me and had such a fun night. I don’t think this would have been nearly as fun by myself.”
There is a pause and Natasha has to force herself to stop looking at your lips. If she had no self-restraint, it wouldn’t have taken much for her to lean over the center console and kiss you.
“Have a good night, Natasha. Drive home safely,” you say as the two of you get out of the car.
“Thank you again!” Natasha doesn’t even listen to music on her way home, riding out the high of what was easily one of the most memorable nights of her life in over a decade.
A few weeks later, Natasha is working a double shift: the first one at Steve’s house, and the second at yours. You’re away at work, as usual, but she knows you’ll be home before she leaves for the day, and she never takes any glimpse of you for granted. Wanda is also back to being demanding and cranky, and Natasha has no idea if you told her about the night the two of you had together. She had felt the silent instruction from you not to blab about her taking Wanda’s place and was happy to keep the memories to herself.
She’s in the front hall, mopping while quietly humming “Defying Gravity” to herself, when Wanda clacks by in high-heels.
“Natasha!” she hisses. “Didn’t I tell you to start in the kitchen? If I slip out here because the floor is wet–”
“So sorry!” Natasha apologizes, hoping that she doesn’t finish her sentence. “I’ll put a fan on.” She rests her mop against the wall and darts off for the $300 Dyson fan in the closet. After pointing it towards the gleaming floor, she pushes her cart into the kitchen and continues mopping. She makes sure to open the window to air out the smell, and notices Steve across the street mowing his lawn.
She stares at him, wondering if he can see her, and her question is quickly answered when Steve waves to her. She returns his wave with a smile, then goes back to her task before Wanda can complain she isn’t working hard enough. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him back away from his lawn mower and answer his phone; he disappears into his house hurriedly.
“Natasha! Always make sure you open a window when you mop!” Wanda’s screech comes out of nowhere. “The chemicals you use give me a headache!”
“Oh, but the window is open–” Natasha tries to explain, but Wanda silences her with a wave of her hand.
“I’m on the phone!” she says, pointing to the cell phone held up to her ear. Natasha bites her lip, but holds her tongue. “Sorry, honey, what was that? No, I was talking to the maid,” she says. Natasha perks up despite the way Wanda titles her. You’re clearly on the other line, and maybe you’ll be home sooner than expected.
But Wanda disappears into a guest room (your house had so many of those), and Natasha can no longer hear her conversation. She dutifully continues to mop the floor, careful to fan the mop in a semi-circle pattern so as not to trap herself in a corner. She moves the chairs to the hallway one at a time, cursing their awkward shape that makes them difficult to carry and taking special care not to scrape the feet along the floor.
Wanda’s shrill voice carries through the house again, this time covering a topic that makes Natasha’s cheeks heat up.
“Oh my God, yes, I’m still thinking about last night,” Wanda says. “When you had my legs behind my head–”
Natasha tries not to picture Wanda folded up like a pretzel while you plow into her. But she can imagine herself in a similar position (she’s not so confident in her own flexibility, but she’d make it work for you). Your hands could probably fit around her whole thighs as you push her legs apart wider, thrusting your hips in long strokes to fit your big dick into her. Natasha is embarrassed to admit that the last time she had masturbated, she had thought of you the whole time.
How much more you’d fill her compared to the flimsy toy she was using. How you would feel throbbing inside her, your body pressed hot and heavy against hers as you beg for her permission to finish. Imagining having you like that, with that kind of control, brought Natasha to the most amazing orgasm of her life. If only you had been there to share it with her.
“I didn’t know if you’d be able to go another round, but you proved me wrong,” Wanda continues, and Natasha picks up on how breathless she sounds. She wonders if she’s touching herself right now, with Natasha mopping in the kitchen. Somehow, that wouldn’t be shocking to her. “You were still so hard when I put you down my throat.”
A lightning bolt of arousal strikes Natasha’s core. She can’t focus on mopping anymore, staring blankly out the kitchen window, lost in the new filthy fantasy playing in her head, guided by Wanda’s narration.
Natasha lies between your legs, her lips barely brushing your hips as she takes your cock down her throat. She prays her gag reflex doesn’t protest at the obstruction in her airway, but despite the slight discomfort, she wants to do this all day. Your pants and moans are like music in her ears, urging her on to suck harder and take you deeper.
“Please Nat,” your voice wavers. The muscle fibers in your thighs are visibly tensed and your back arches off the bed when Natasha pushes your hips down, trying to maintain some kind of control over you. But your body seems to have a mind of its own, with only one goal in mind.
“It’s almost like I can still taste you.”
You poke at the back of her throat and Natasha can feel the hot throbbing of your cock in her mouth. She’s so eager to swallow anything you’ll give her, she’s almost embarrassed in her desperation, but when your hands cup the back of her head, pushing her down so she can fit the last inch down her throat, she knows the two of you are on equal planes of passion.
Your entire body flexes and the anticipation for Natasha is overwhelming. You finally inhale sharply as the first hot spurt lands on her tongue.
“Being on your knees for me is a good look for you.”
Natasha tips her head back against the wall, her fingers tangling in your hair. One of her legs rests on your shoulder while the other is spread far apart so you can kneel between them, your mouth pressed against her heat. Your tongue swirls around her clit and Natasha fears she won’t be able to stay standing much longer.
“Y/N,” she pants, clutching your head tighter and rocking her hips forward. “I need you.”
Your fingernails dig harder into her thigh to still her. You look up into her eyes and Natasha thinks she’s going to finish right there. “You have me, baby. I’m all yours.”
“But there’s really only one place you belong.”
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” you grunt, almost sending Natasha headfirst into the headboard with every one of your thrusts. “I could stay inside you forever.”
Natasha hums at the praise. She’s holding on the bedsheets for life, spasming and clenching around you, trying to pull you in deeper. You fill her so perfectly, she’s convinced her body was made for yours.
“Tell me I’m better than her,” Natasha gasps, fighting to delay her own release.
“Fuck Wanda,” you grunt, pulling back on Natasha’s hips at the same time you thrust forward, burying your entire length into her. “I love you, Natasha. You’re the only one I ever want to be with.”
A noisy car engine pulls Natasha out of her head. Her face feels flushed with arousal, and she knows what she’s doing the second she goes home. Your green car suddenly pulls into the driveway but stops. You get out and walk to the street, grabbing one of the trash bins and pulling it towards the house.
“I can’t wait for you to fuck me again,” Wanda says in the background.
The realization crashes down on Natasha’s head like a cold shower. She watches you grab the second bin with both hands, carefully walking backwards with it.
You’re not on the phone and you’re standing 30 feet away from Natasha. If Wanda’s not on the phone with you, then who is she talking to?
Summary: When the hex shatters, the bond between you and Agatha reignites with a force too raw to ignore. Confronting her after decades of anger, betrayal, and yearning, you’re determined to make her pay. Power, passion, and a collision of unresolved emotions blur the line between vengeance and surrender.
Tags: Bitter Ex Gfs, Smut, Revenge Sex, Emotional Angst, Power Dynamics, Magic-Infused Sex, Magic Strap, Magic Cum, Magic Wrists Restraints, Slight Degradation, Cum Powered Reconciliation, Revenge Gets Sticky, Sub!Agatha (I know, wtf), Writing Sub Agatha Feels Illegal, Is It Subbing If She Still Wins Tho?
Word count: 6.6k
A/N: I wrote this fic as an attempt to wrestle my way out of the creative block that’s been clinging to me like an overly affectionate stray cat. I don’t think it’s the best thing I could have written, and I’m not entirely convinced by it, but the idea had been gathering dust on my list for a while, so here we are.
The concept of sub!Agatha has always intrigued me—mostly because, in my mind, it’s about as rare as a solar eclipse. I usually stick to writing Dom!Agatha, but hey, I think sub!Agatha is canon-compliant too… just in that “blink and you’ll miss it, alignment of the magical cosmos” kind of way.
For this fic, I decided to throw caution (and some very own personal hcs) to the wind and see if I could somehow make that dynamic work in an x Reader setting. Did I nail it? Definitely not. Do I feel like I truly captured the elusive sub!Agatha vibe that lives rent-free in my head? Eh, we’ll call it a work in progress. Maybe I’ll take another swing at it someday. For now, here’s my first attempt—enjoy! 💜
MASTERLIST
Read on AO3
It’s subtle at first—a faint ripple in the air, like a string pulled taut and suddenly slackened. But you feel it, deep in your body and soul, as if the ground beneath you shifted.
The hex is broken.
Agatha.
Her name lingers in your mind like a curse, dragging with it a torrent of emotions you’ve spent decades trying to bury.
Fury, white-hot and all-consuming, surges to the surface, clawing at the walls you’ve built around it. You can feel it all, the bitterness, the pain, the endless ache of betrayal.
Yet everything feels shushed by the unmistakable pull of her magic, faint but familiar, like the distant hum of a melody you can’t forget.
You’ve tried to sever this bond more times than you can count, poured every ounce of power into cutting the thread of magic that still ties you to her.
But it never worked. Years of spells, rituals, and desperate attempts to scrape her magic from your soul couldn’t erase that connection, that cruel reminder of the love you once shared.
You don’t want to feel her. You don’t want to feel anything.
But with the hex shattered, she’s there—everywhere. The memories rise like a tide, drowning you in the ghost of what once was.
The warmth of her fingers, trailing just long enough to leave a fire in their wake. Her voice, low and teasing, laced with promises that made your heart race. You remember the way she laughed, genuine and unguarded when she let herself forget the world, or the way her lips curled into a smirk when she caught you staring, daring you to look away. Those stolen nights, when her touch was tender and her kisses slow, felt endless, like she was giving you pieces of her no one else had ever seen.
And then… nothing.
She left. Without a word. Without a reason. Without even a shred of decency to say goodbye. She disappeared like smoke, leaving only the cold, bitter truth: it meant nothing. You meant nothing.
The memories crash to a halt, mocking you, shaming you, for ever believing she could be anything more than one of her masterly crafted lies.
Your magic surges in response, wild and vengeful, begging for release. You clench your fists, trying to ground yourself, but it’s futile. Her presence—or the absence of it—calls to you.
It’s been decades, but the wound is as raw as the day she abandoned you, as sharp as the moment you realized she wasn’t coming back.
But you won’t give her the chance to run this time.
Without hesitation, you focus your energy, feeling the familiar pull of teleportation. The world shifts, and when you open your eyes, you’re standing outside her house in Westview. It’s dark and unassuming, the air around it heavy with the remnants of the hex’s magic.
The door slams open with a burst of energy, the wood groaning under the force of your magic. The faint remnants of Wanda’s hex still cling to the air, a metallic tang that pricks at your senses, but they’re nothing compared to the oppressive weight of her presence.
Agatha is sprawled on the couch as if she hasn’t a care in the world, her posture loose and unbothered despite the clear signs of exhaustion clinging to her.
Her dark hair, longer than you remember, tumbles around her shoulders in wild, mussed waves, catching the light like ink kissed by moonlight. Her clothes are rumpled, the lines of her blouse wrinkled and her jeans have clearly seen better days, but somehow the disarray only adds to her maddening allure.
And then there’s her face—those sharp cheekbones, that pale, smooth skin, and the glint in her icy blue eyes that even now refuses to dim.
She looks up at you, her smirk curling with the same audacity that’s haunted you for decades, and for a moment, you hate how effortlessly breathtaking she is, how your heart still skips a beat whenever her eyes meet yours. Even now, even when she’s powerless.
“Well, well.” she drawls, tilting her head, her voice laced with a defiance she has no right to feel. “Come to gloat?”
You take a step inside and the air shifts, charged with the force of your presence. For the first time in decades, you’re the one with the power, and Agatha—bound, powerless, and alone—is at your mercy.
“You look terrible.” you say, your voice sharp, cutting. “What happened to the all-powerful Agatha Harkness? Shouldn’t you be out scheming, manipulating, destroying lives? Oh, wait—”. You step closer, savoring the way her smirk falters, “You can’t.”
Agatha’s smirk snaps back into place, but there’s a flicker—tiny, fleeting—of something behind her eyes. Fear? No, she wouldn’t let you see that. Regret? That would be even more shocking. Whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant.
“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.” she says, leaning back against the couch. “I guess that hasn’t changed.”
Your jaw tightens, so hard you’re lucky you don’t chip a tooth. The sheer audacity of her, lounging there like she hasn’t single-handedly fueled centuries of your bitterness, makes your magic flare.
The air around you hums with tension, a wave of heat radiating from your skin, but she doesn’t even flinch. Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? Agatha has always been maddeningly immune to the consequences of her actions.
“Don’t you dare pretend nothing happened.” you snap, stepping closer until you’re towering over her. “You left, Agatha. You abandoned me without a word. No explanation, no goodbye—just gone. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“I had my reasons.” she murmurs, voice quieter now, almost too quiet.
Your laugh is cold, bitter. “Reasons? That’s the best you can come up with? You destroyed me, Agatha. For decades, I tried to understand why, to make sense of how I meant so little to you.”
Her lips part as if to speak, but no words come out. For a moment, just a moment, you see something raw in her gaze—a vulnerability she’s trying desperately to hide.
“Don’t.” you say sharply, your magic flaring brighter. “Don’t you dare try to justify what you did. You don’t get to play the victim.”
Her smirk falls back into place, but it’s weaker now, almost brittle.
“You’re really milking this righteous fury thing, aren’t you?” she quips, though her voice lacks its usual bite. “What do you want, then? Revenge? Closure? Or did you just miss me?”
The last question catches you off guard, her tone teasing but her eyes searching. Your magic is screaming at you to be unleashed, the rage bubbling so close to the surface as you lean in closer, your face inches from hers.
“What I want,” you say, your voice low and dangerous, “is for you to feel even a fraction of the pain you caused me.”
The heat of your fury presses down on her, forcing her back into the couch. Her sharp tongue falters, her bravado slipping just enough for you to see it: the crack in her armor, the shadow of fear in her eyes.
“Give me one good reason,” you hiss, venom drenching your tone, “why I shouldn’t end this now. Why I shouldn’t take everything from you the way you took everything from me.”
“Because you still love me.”
Five words, and everything you’ve built comes crashing down.
It festers like an old wound torn open, flesh ripped apart to reveal something gory beneath, bleeding and pulsing. It’s a visceral pain that feels like it might consume you whole, a dark, twisting ache that blooms in your chest and radiates outward.
Your grip on your magic falters, and for a fleeting second, you see her as she was all those years ago—the woman who once held your heart in her hands, who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.
The memory bleeds into the present, stark and jarring, clashing with the image of the woman before you now. She’s still breathtaking, but there’s a hollowness in her now, a shadow where the fire used to burn brightest.
The contrast churns something bitter and broken inside you—resentment, grief, yearning, perhaps all three at once. It’s unbearable, the way the past and present collide, leaving you adrift in the space between what was and what is.
You force yourself to recoil, your magic snapping back to you as if burned.
“Love?” you spit, the word a venomous hiss that cuts through the charged air between you. “You think I could still love you after everything you did? I fucking hate you, Agatha.”
Her laughter startles you—a sharp, bitter sound that carries no joy, only a rawness that sinks deep under your skin. It’s the laugh of someone who’s long since made peace with their own destruction.
“Hate’s just love that’s been shattered to pieces.” she says, her voice cracking, the edges sharp enough to draw blood. “And we both know you’ve been holding onto those shards for decades.”
You want to deny it, to unleash every ounce of fury you’ve carried for all these years, to rip her apart for daring to speak such a painful truth aloud.
But you can’t.
And it’s in this moment of hesitation, of vulnerability, that the rage in your chest shifts—twisting into something far more dangerous.
The bond between you roars, electric and alive, as if responding to your emotions. It’s always been there, tethering you to her no matter how much you tried to sever it. And now, it’s pulling you closer, wrapping around you like dense smoke.
It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating. And you fucking missed it.
Even bound and powerless, Agatha looks at you as if she’s still in control, as if the years of pain and betrayal you’ve carried mean nothing.
Her eyes narrow, a glint of recognition flashing in that unnervingly sharp gaze. She sees it, she feels it, the way her words have struck a nerve. And, of course, she pounces on it.
“What’s the matter, hon?” she purrs, her voice a sickeningly sweet mockery of concern. “Can’t decide whether to kill me or fuck me?”
The words land like a match to gasoline, igniting a fire it’s far too late to extinguish. The line you’ve been toeing shatters, and before you can stop yourself, you close the final distance between you in one swift movement, your hand wrapping around her throat as you press her back against the couch.
Her smirk doesn’t leave her lips—if anything, it deepens, her breath catching just slightly as her eyes gleam with something dark and infuriatingly pleased.
You can feel her pulse under your fingertips, quick and unsteady, and it only feeds the chaos roiling inside you.
“You don’t get to say that.” you hiss, leaning closer until your face is inches from hers. “You don’t get to act like this is a game.”
“And what if it is?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost daring. “What if that’s all we’ve ever been?”
The anger in your chest twists, warping into something raw and untamed. You hate her. You want her. The two emotions bleed together, inseparable, consuming.
Your grip on her throat tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who has the power now. She doesn’t fight you, but she doesn’t look away either.
“You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” you say, your voice shaking with the weight of everything you’ve held back. “No idea what it’s been like to carry this—this anger, this pain, this fucking bond I can’t escape.”
Of course, you don’t expect her to apologize, she never would, but the flicker of regret in her eyes is louder than words.
The bond between you hums again, relentless and unyielding, pulling you closer even as you try to resist. You do hate her, but you also can’t deny the way her presence calls to you, the way her magic—even diminished—feels like a part of you.
“Why, Agatha?” you demand, your voice breaking as you lean in closer. “Why did you leave? Why did you—”
She cuts you off by brushing her lips against yours in the barest hint of contact. It’s not a kiss, not yet, but it steals the breath from your lungs all the same.
As her breath mingles with yours, the world collapses to the infinitesimal space between your lips, a charged, aching void that demands to be closed.
And then, as if honoring that demand, she closes the distance.
Her lips crash onto yours in a kiss that isn’t tender—it’s a storm, a battle, a clash of wills. Her mouth moves against yours with a desperation that feels like surrender, but there’s no mistaking the way she bites at your lower lip, as if daring you to take more.
You growl low in your throat, the sound vibrating against her lips as your hands find her hips, pinning her harder against the couch. She arches into you, her body a perfect, infuriating fit against yours, and the bond between you flares alive, pulling you deeper into the chaos of her.
Her tongue meets yours, and it’s molten—hot and demanding, tangled in a rhythm that feels like a fight for dominance neither of you is willing to lose. The couch creaks beneath you as you press her down, your weight covering hers completely, your hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp into your mouth.
This isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t reconciliation. It’s unfiltered emotion, punishment and possession, everything you’ve bottled up for decades exploding in a collision of anger and desire that leaves no room for restraint.
With a flick of your wrist, her clothes dissolve into shimmering wisps of magic, vanishing like smoke into the air. What’s left behind steals the breath from your lungs despite every part of you screaming not to react, not to let her affect you like this.
The sight of Agatha’s bare body, a masterpiece of soft curves and sharp angles, reignites memories you thought you’d buried—the way her skin once felt beneath your hands, how her body moved in perfect synch with yours, every sound she made etched into your soul.
It’s been decades since you last saw her like this, but time has done nothing to dull her power over you.
Your pulse thunders in your ears, heat spreading like wildfire through your veins as your gaze trails over her, lingering on the lines of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the way her thighs tremble ever so slightly.
She’s bound and powerless in every possibile sense of the words, yet somehow she still holds the upper hand.
Her lips curl into the faintest smirk as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. “Still as easy to impress as ever, I see.”
The words snap you out of your trance, a surge of irritation mingling with the desire coursing through you.
With another flick of your wrist, ropes of magic coil around her wrists, pulling them together and suspending them above her head. The glowing bonds crackle with energy, casting faint light over her bare skin.
Her smirk falters, just slightly, as she tugs against the restraints, her muscles flexing in defiance and testing their hold.
And it’s that—that small attempt at resistance, her futile struggle against the bonds you’ve created—that makes something snap inside you.
It’s not just power—it’s the realization that she, the woman who’s haunted your every waking thought and dream, is finally yours to control. The intensity of it almost scares you, the way it spreads through your chest like spilled ink, staining every corner of your mind in pitch black.
It’s a visceral, consuming need to claim her, to fill her, to mark her in a way that will sear into her soul, leaving no room for doubt or escape. The hunger burns through you, fierce and unrelenting, every ounce of your power thrumming with it, shaping itself into something tangible, something undeniable.
Your lower clothing dissolves into shimmering magic, leaving you partially bare—but not fully. The vulnerability of complete nakedness is a luxury you can’t afford. Not right now. Not with Agatha. You want the contrast to be stark—her, stripped of everything, exposed and powerless beneath you, while you remain in control. It’s a statement, a reminder, that here, now, you’re the one with the upper hand.
And then, as though summoned by your need, the strap materializes. And it’s not just magic—it’s a part of you, an extension of your body.
The weight of it settles against your hips, grounding you, the connection immediate and intimate, as if it’s always been there.
Your gaze drops for a moment, drawn to the way your cock stands proud and commanding, and a smirk tugs at your lips. You take in its size, the thick, substantial girth that demands attention. You make no effort to hide your satisfaction as your hand wraps firmly around its base, stroking it in slow, deliberate movements that make your intent unmistakable.
Agatha’s eyes widen, her own gaze falling to your cock before flicking back to your face. Her lips part slightly, and her tongue darts out to wet them in a motion so instinctive, so sinful, that it sends a fresh jolt of heat through you.
For once, she seems utterly at a loss for words, the sharp wit you’ve come to expect from her silenced by the weight of the moment, and by you.
“Speechless?” you ask, your tone dripping with mockery. “Not like you.”
“Well,” she manages, clicking her tongue, her voice laced with an edge of forced confidence, “you’ve certainly… outdone yourself.”
You press the tip against her thigh, watching as her body tenses and her breath hitches. Slowly, teasingly, you trail it upward, letting it graze her glistening folds but never quite giving her what she wants.
You see all of her defiance falter the second you tap the tip against her clit. You do it multiple times, teasing her until she’s a panting mess, her chest heaving as her body completely betrays her.
And yet, her eyes stay locked on yours, burning with a mix of frustration and longing.
“Look at you,” you murmur, your hand sliding back to her throat, wrapping around it just enough to keep her grounded. Her pulse races beneath your fingers, and you feel her body relax into your touch, her submission becoming more evident with every passing second. “You’re supposed to be the powerful one, remember? The one who’s always in control. How does it feel to be at my mercy?”
She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, a broken moan escapes her lips as you finally push the tip of your cock into her. The sensation shoots through you like lightning, raw and electric, and you can’t stop the low hum that escapes your lips.
“So wet for someone who acts like she’s above it all.” you say, your voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Tell me, Agatha—do you always get this needy when you’re powerless? Or is it just for me?”
Her cheeks flush, and she glares at you, but the humiliation in her eyes only makes your smirk deepen. She tilts her hips toward you in an attempt to take more, the motion drawing a smug chuckle from your throat.
“Pathetic.” you mock, “You used to have me on my knees, begging for you. And here you are now, so desperate for my cock you can’t even hide it.”
Her lips part in a sharp, trembling intake of breath, her chest rising and falling as her wrists strain futilely against the glowing restraints above her head.
“You think you’re in control now?” she spits, though her voice trembles. “That this makes you powerful?”
You laugh, cold and merciless, leaning in until your breath fans across the shell of her ear.
“Oh, I don’t think.” you whisper, your words nothing but a cruel taunt. “I know.”
To drive the point home, you push deeper, and the wet, obscene sound of her body yielding to you fills the room.
She’s molten, deliciously tight, and her slick heat draws you in like a drug. Every inch you sink into her feels like a conquest, you can feel how her body stretches to take you, how her walls tremble and clench around the pleasurable intrusion, pulling you deeper as if begging for more.
The sensation is so vivid, so overwhelming, that a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your lips.
“Seems like I’m not the only needy one.” she murmurs, her voice trembling but cutting nevertheless. “Such pretty sounds for me.”
Her words strike a nerve, and the moment they register, your hips snap forward in one sharp, punishing thrust, driving the strap so deep your hips collide with hers.
The impact sends a jolt through both of you, her sharp cry echoing through the air before it’s cut off as your fingers tighten around her throat.
“Is that what you wanted? Mmh?” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort to stay in control. “To be fucked like this? To feel what it’s like to be under me for once?”
She doesn’t respond, her voice swallowed by a series of breathless moans as you pull back and thrust in again, setting a slow, languid rhythm that feels more like a claim than a motion.
You want to break her—but not physically. Even now, even with the all this anger coursing through you, the thought of truly hurting her is unthinkable. You know you’re big, and despite everything, you couldn’t forgive yourself if you let the fury bleeding into your movements cause her pain.
Instead, you pour that intensity into control, into precision, into the way you angle your hips just right to drag your length against every sensitive spot inside her. The sound of her wetness grows louder with each thrust, mingling with the faint creak of the couch beneath you.
“Gods.” you murmur, your free hand gripping her hip to steady yourself. “You feel that, don’t you? How wet you are for me? How much you want this?”
Her head nods slightly, the motion almost instinctive, as if her body answers before her mind has time to process, before the final syllable of your last question even hangs in the air.
“Yes—fuck.” she whispers, the word trembling on her lips. “Yes, I—”
“Louder!” you command, your tone sharp as you feel it—a fresh gush of wetness enveloping you, slick and hot, pulling you in.
“Yes!” she screams, her voice cracking under the weight of her need. “I want it—I want you.”
Her admission is a spark to the inferno raging inside you, and you give in to it, your magic surging wildly.
Your pace quickens, your hips snapping forward with growing intensity, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, the slap of your hips against hers a relentless cadence of possession that blends with her cries.
Her wrists pull at the restraints while her back arches and her moans rise higher, each one a testament to your power over her, a surrender you claim with every punishing thrust.
Your gaze drops involuntarily, drawn to the mesmerizing rhythm of her breasts bouncing in time with your movements, and the sight instantly makes your mouth water. The memory of their softness, the way they felt against your tongue and lips, rushes back unbidden, igniting a primal urge to lean down and take one into your mouth.
But you catch yourself, clenching your jaw against the temptation. This isn’t about her pleasure. You’re not here to make her enjoy herself. You’re here to ruin her, to make her crumble under your control.
“Fuck, don’t stop.” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”
Your eyes snap back to hers, a wicked grin spreading across your lips as your grip on her throat loosens, your hand sliding down to join the other on her hips. With both hands anchoring her in place, your pace grows ruthless, each thrust drawing louder and more desperate sounds from her.
Her walls tighten around you, squeezing your cock as the connection between you deepens, your magic tangling with hers in a way that feels both chaotic and inevitable.
And then, just as you feel teetering on the edge of release, you pull back, slowing to a maddening pace.
Your thrusts become shallow, deliberate teases that barely fill her, leaving her gasping and writhing beneath you. Her frustration is palpable, her hips bucking in search of relief, but you hold her steady, a cruel smirk curling your lips.
“You’re so close, aren’t you?” you purr, each word dripping with satisfaction. “Just say the word, Agatha. Beg me, and I’ll let you come.”
Her body tenses beneath you, every muscle taut as she fights the command with everything she has, struggling to cling to the last fleeting semblance of control. Even as her thighs quiver and her hips twitch uncontrollably, her pride holds her back, refusing to surrender to you so easily.
But as each thrust reminds her of what she’s being denied, drawing out her torment, her nails curl into her palms, her jaw tightens, and her resolve cracks little by little under the relentless pressure.
Finally, her head tilts back, her voice breaking as the words tear from her throat. “Please—fuck… please, let me come.”
Her words ignite something feral and all-consuming. Power surges through your veins, setting your every nerve ablaze as you answer her desperate plea and resume fucking her with renewed vigor.
You slam into her with brutal force, each thrust hitting that soft, devastatingly perfect spot inside her that makes her entire body jerk beneath you. Her eyes roll back, her cries turning into incoherent, panting moans that fuel the raw, insatiable need driving your every motion.
“That’s it.” you growl, your hand sliding down to her clit. You circle it with fast, precise movements, your fingers slick with her arousal as you push her closer to the edge. “Come for me, Agatha. Come on my cock.”
Her moans climb higher, until they peak in a scream that tears through the air as the tension within her shatters all at once.
Agatha’s orgasm bursts forth like a supernova, bright and devastating, her walls clenching and spasming around you in rhythmic pulses that leave you breathless. She cries out your name, her voice splintering into a sob as her body quakes with the force of her release.
The sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, her chest heaving as she trembles in the throes of ecstasy—is almost enough to undo you. But you don’t stop. You keep pounding into her, forcing her to take every inch over and over as you drive her higher, helping her ride out each wave of her climax.
And then, as you revel in the way she’s gripping you as though she never wants to let you go, and your own release threatens to overtake you, you falter.
Because her eyes—half-lidded, blown wide, and dark with need—lock onto yours, piercing through the haze of control you’ve clung to. Her lips part, trembling, and her voice cuts through the storm.
“Fuck—please, baby.” she gasps, each word breaking into a whimper that makes your stomach tighten and your magic throb. “Come inside me. I need it—need to feel it, need you to fill me up.
That’s it. Her words, how she begged for it, the pet name falling so effortlessly from her lips, the raw desperation in her voice, the sheer thought of filling her up with your cum, of watching her take every drop like she’s made for it. It’s all more than enough to tip you over the edge.
How utterly ruined she looks beneath you only adds to it, and whatever fragile grip you had on your restraint shatters instantly, obliterated by the force of her need.
Your hips snap forward in one last devastating thrust, burying your cock into her as deep as it can go, your climax slamming into you like an explosion.
And then it happens.
The magic within you surges implacably, a relentless flood that erupts deep inside her in thick, scorching waves. Each pulse of your cock forces more of your release into her, a molten rush that fills her completely. The bond between you roaring with life as your magic claims her from the inside out, leaving no part of her untouched.
Beneath you, Agatha’s body goes taut, her back arching violently as the blue in her eyes gets rapidly swallowed by a swirling, familiar, luminous purple.
You can feel her magic pouring back into her, she gasps as it all overtakes her, her body trembling violently as another orgasm tears through her. But this one is unexpected, different, and even more powerful than the first.
Her cry pierces the air, a sound of pure ecstasy and unrestrained power, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. It’s primal, otherworldly, and devastatingly beautiful. For a moment, you’re left breathless, unwillingly captivated by the sight of her. A vision that makes something inside you ache.
When the final waves of pleasure subside, you collapse onto her, your breath ragged, your body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering hum of magic.
The restraints on her wrists dissolve, fading into shimmering sparks, and her hands hover for a moment, uncertain, before they settle gently on your back.
Her touch is light, not hesitant but careful, as though rediscovering something long lost. And as your bodies press together, it feels as if no time has passed at all since you last lay in each other’s arms.
Agatha’s chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, her lips parted as her hooded eyes lock onto yours.
Her gaze is a labyrinth, a tangle of emotions so layered and profound it’s impossible to unravel. There’s no trace of defiance, no smugness, no sharp wit lurking in the corners. Instead, disbelief and shock hum beneath the surface, while a glimmer of something softer—gratefulness, maybe even devotion—burns faintly. And yet, woven through it all is an aching, unguarded longing.
It’s a silent confession wrapped in questions, and the absence of her usual masks, the sheer vulnerability staring back at you, stirs something deep in your chest, a feeling too overwhelming to even begin to name.
As you pull out of her, you catch how her hips twitch instinctively at the sudden emptiness, and the sound she makes—a quiet, needy whine—makes your breath hitch.
The cock dissolves in a flicker of shimmering light, fading back into the ether, but your eyes remain fixed on what it left behind.
You watch your cum drip from her, thick and glistening as it slides slowly down her folds. The sight is mesmerizing and utterly filthy, making a new rush of heat coil low in your stomach.
Agatha notices the shift in your gaze, lazily tilting her head to follow it. When she sees what’s caught your attention, a smug grin spreads across her face, equal parts infuriating and intoxicating.
“Hmm.” she hums, her voice a sultry drawl that sends shivers down your spine. “You always did know how to leave an impression, darling.”
She pauses, her grin deepening as her eyes flick back to yours, gleaming with sharp amusement. “Though I must say, I never expected to get my powers back this way… not that I’m complaining.”
As soon as you register her words your jaw clenches, a flush rising to your cheeks as frustration surges through you.
That wasn’t supposed to happen. The thought echoes in your mind, relentless and deafening. You didn’t plan this—hell, you didn’t even know you could do that, and the realization leaves you stunned, reeling.
You came here to break her, to strip her of whatever scraps of control she had left, to show her just how worthless she was without her power. You came here to make her pay.
But instead, as always, in the end, Agatha got exactly what she wanted.
The smugness etched into her face says it all. It’s infuriating. Humiliating. Maddening. Everything always plays out in her favor, no matter how the odds stack against her. The universe itself seems to bend for her, conspiring to deliver her victory, while you’re left choking on the ashes of your intentions.
And yet, even in your frustration, there’s a selfish, shameful flicker of satisfaction burning in your chest. You gave her back her power, yes—but you did it your way. Intimate. Indelible. Something neither of you can ignore or undo.
No matter how powerful she becomes again, no matter how she wields what’s been restored, she’ll always know who gave it back to her and how. She’ll owe you, whether she admits it or not.
In that way, you did make her pay. And the twisted irony of it feels like a cruel, bitter triumph.
Agatha notices the shift in your expression, the way your gaze has drifted into the distance as if lost in thought, and her voice slices through the haze with a softness that catches you completely off guard.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re like this.” she whispers, her tone impossibly gentle, like a secret meant only for you. ”When you’re all mine.”
Her words land like a jolt, anchoring you back to the present and cutting through the fog in your mind.
There’s something in her voice, an aching sincerity you didn’t expect, that makes something deep inside you twist painfully.
But even if her tenderness disarms you, it still strikes a nerve, clashing violently with the anger and resentment still simmering beneath your skin. You cling to that anger desperately, using it to shield yourself from the confusion clawing at the edges of your control and threatening to drag you under.
“I’m not yours.” you snarl, but the words lack conviction, and you know she hears it.
Her grin returns, sharper now, as if she’s savoring your futile resistance.
“Oh, darling…” she whispers, her voice dripping with equal parts confidence and affection. “You’ve always been mine.”
You open your mouth to reply, to hurl another retort that might restore some semblance of control, but the words die on your tongue as her hand moves with startling speed.
Her fingers curl around the back of your neck, her grip firm yet trembling, and she pulls you down roughly, her lips crashing against yours before you can resist.
The kiss is instant chaos, scattering your thoughts like leaves in a storm. Her tongue slides against yours, hot and insistent, tangling and teasing with a fervor that steals the air from your lungs.
It’s wet, messy, the taste of her flooding your senses as she kisses you with the same confident, consuming intensity she always did.
But beneath the confidence, there’s something unspoken.
It’s in the way her body shudders beneath you, in the way her fingers dig into your neck, in the way her lips cling to yours as though letting go might unravel her completely. The vulnerability in her touch and the aching need in her kiss cut through the haze of anger, leaving you trembling and unsure whether the ache blooming in your chest is pain, longing, or both.
But right now, whatever it is you’re feeling, you refuse to linger on it.
You won’t allow her another second of your time, your presence. The very air around her feels oppressive, making it harder to breathe, and you know that if you stay a moment longer it will be too late to resurface.
With all the strength and willpower you can muster, you push yourself up, breaking away from her touch and from her warmth.
You wave a hand, conjuring back your underwear and pants in a blur of hasty magic, your movements jerky and unsteady while every fiber of your being screams at you to put distance between yourself and her. To leave.
Suddenly, the bond hums again, loud and persistent, gnawing and mocking at your resolve. You grit your teeth and force yourself to ignore it, taking a couple of steps toward the door, refusing to look back.
You’ll leave. You need to leave. You want to leave.
But with Agatha, it’s never that easy.
“Wait.”
It’s not a command. It’s not teasing or smug. It’s quiet, almost unsure, and that alone makes you hesitate.
You glance back over your shoulder, your voice sharp with all the frustration burning hot in your chest. “What could you possibly want now?”
She sits up slowly, still completely naked, making no effort to conjure clothes with the magic now thrumming through her.
“Answers.” she says, her tone smooth but tinged with a sly undertone, her gaze locked on yours with unnerving steadiness. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? To finally hear the truth you think I owe you.”
She pauses, her lips curving into a faint, almost teasing smile as her eyes flick downward to her still-bare body. “Especially after… this.” Her eyes return to yours, glinting with amusement. “I suppose it’s only fair.”
You fold your arms across your chest, your anger warring with the pull of her words.
“You owe me more than answers.” you bite back, your voice cutting and cold. “You owe me years of my life, years of trying to understand why you left.”
“And you’ll have them.” her voice softer now, almost disarming. “But not like this.”
Your eyes narrow, suspicion curling in the pit of your stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She rises slowly, her movements deliberate as she closes the distance between you. Her nakedness robs her of nothing—if anything, it sharpens her power, her control.
When she reaches you, her hand lifts to cup your cheek, her touch infuriatingly warm, a silent challenge wrapped in unsettling intimacy.
“Stay.” she says, her thumb skimming your skin with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. “We’ll talk. Over dinner. But only if you stay.”
You bristle at the condition, your pride flaring.
“Using my need for closure as leverage?” you ask, your voice biting. “How very you.”
Her grin returns, sharper now, but her eyes betray a flicker of something gentler.
“Oh, darling.” she purrs, her voice dripping with confidence, “I know you want this, so, let’s not play pretend. I’d say we’re well past that point, wouldn’t you?”
Your jaw tightens, the weight of her gaze making it hard to hold onto your anger. You hate that she’s right. Hate that you want to stay, that the bond between you has wrapped itself around your heart so tightly you can’t bear to leave.
“Fine. Dinner.” you say, your voice clipped. “But no games, Agatha. You owe me the truth.”
Her smirk deepens for a moment, a glimmer of mischief flashing in her eyes, before softening into a genuine, almost nostalgic smile.
“No games.” she whispers, her tone unexpectedly gentle. “Just dinner… like old times.”
You shake your head, as if trying to clear the lingering warmth of her touch. But it stays with you as you watch her move toward the kitchen, humming softly to herself.
As you follow her, you can’t help but wonder if staying will be your salvation or your undoing. But with Agatha, it’s never a question of one or the other—it’s always both, tangled together in a way that, after all this time, you’re starting to realize you were never meant to escape.
Summary : You are an artist, and your greatest muse is an assassin.
Pairing : Natasha Romanoff x artist!reader
Warnings/tags : mentions of Nat’s past. Mostly fluff!!!!
Requested by : Anon
Word count : 1.9k
Note : I just noticed I haven’t updated my masterlist in a while. Will do it before the end of the year, I just do not have my laptop at the moment. Based on this request.
Natasha Romanoff never thought she’d be anyone’s muse. She wasn’t the type to inspire, at least not in the artistic sense. She inspired fear, maybe respect, but never something as innocent as paintings and sketches. And yet, here you were, looking at her as though she’d hung the stars in the sky for you.
It was unnerving at first. Natasha wasn’t used to being seen— she was an assassin far too fond of the shadows, after all. Your love was disarming, and it cracked through the walls she’d built so carefully over the years. What baffled her more was how much she had grown to like it.
You, on the other hand, couldn’t believe someone as deadly as Natasha Romanoff would let you in. She carried her violent tendencies like a second skin, and yet, when she was with you, she let some of that armour slip. She’d tease you mercilessly, lips curling into a smirk while pretending she was desensitised to the atrocities that happened in the world. But you saw through it in the way her hand would linger on your back when you walked into a room, the way her muscles stopped tensing when she looked at you.
—
The matching bracelets were your idea, of course. You’d spent hours sitting in the sunlight by the window, carefully threading each bead onto the cord.
Outside, spring had unfolded. The blossoms of your garden swayed on the trees, their petals drifting lazily to the ground like confetti.
The beads you’d chosen were deliberate—a blend of deep greens that mirrored the colour of Natasha’s eyes, and others in the hues that reflected your own. It had to be intentional— It had to mean something.
When you gave them to her in a neat little box, the late afternoon was catching the auburn strands of her hair.
“Bracelet, huh?” she said, her voice almost stunned.
“They’re for us,” you explained, holding up your wrist to show her one you’d already worn. “Yours matches my eye colour, and mine matches yours,” you smiled shyly. “We match.”
For a moment, Natasha said nothing, her eyes flicking between the bracelet in her palm and the one on your wrist.
When you reached for her hand, she didn’t resist.
You slid the bracelet gently onto her wrist, your fingers brushing her skin, and grinned at her with an unguarded joy that she found irresistible.
Her lips curved up into that devastatingly beautiful smirk—the one that always made your pulse skip a beat. “Very sentimental of you, milaya,” she murmured, the pet name rolling off her tongue in that silky, Russian accent that you loved so much. “Didn’t think I’d be the type to wear jewelry.”
You leaned in, close enough to catch the faint scent of her skin— she smelled sweeter than the flowers blooming outside. You brushed a kiss against her jawline. “You’re the type to wear my jewelry.”
“Hmm,” she agreed, her voice quieter now. She reached out, her fingers threading and interlocking through yours, her thumb brushing over the matching beads.
—
Before you knew it, summer came around. When Natasha was between missions, you made it your mission to remind her what life felt like outside of the work she so obsessively threw herself in. One lazy afternoon, armed with a bag full of painting supplies, you dragged her to a quiet park so you could paint together.
Natasha had playfully resisted at first, of course.
“I’m better at holding a gun than a paintbrush,” she’d said dryly. But she couldn’t fool you— she liked the idea of a day under the sun. Besides, you knew she’d never truly say no to you. Especially when your request was so… wholesome.
The two of you found a secluded spot beneath the sprawling canopy of an old oak tree, its thick branches offering just enough shade to escape the summer heat. You spread out a blanket and the supplies: paints in every color imaginable, a pair of brushes, and two blank canvases that practically begged for you to breathe life into it.
“You can do this, my love,” you encouraged, placing a brush in her hand and nudging her toward a canvas.
She held the brush like it might bite her,l. “Don’t expect too much,” she muttered, dipping the brush into a vibrant yellow. “My talents lie in… elsewhere.”
You watched as she began to paint, her strokes hesitant at first. What emerged was… well, an attempt. If you can even call it that.
A tree, or at least you think is was It looked more like an amorphous green blob balanced on a crooked brown rectangle.
Leaning back on your hands, you couldn’t hold in your laughter. “I thought you said you were good at everything,” you teased.
Her hands froze as she turned to you. She smiled coyly. “I am good at everything,” she still insisted. “This is just... abstract.”
“Oh, is it now?” you shot back, laughter bubbling in your chest.
“It’s interpretive,” she added, setting her brush down.
You looked around you: children laughing as they chased bubbles, the hum of bees weaving between flowers. Summer had painted its masterpiece, and you wanted her to see it, to feel it. You didn’t want her to stay at home, obsessed with the files on her next mission.
Her hand reached for yours, paint smudges and all, her fingers curling around yours as she pressed a kiss on your lips.
—
Autumn had painted the world in rich shades of amber, crimson, and gold.
The season suited Natasha in a way you couldn’t quite explain—there was something about her existence that mirrored the beauty of fall, and perhaps it was its promise of change.
It was during one of those perfect autumn afternoons, that you first started doodling on Nat’s palm.
And now, whenever you had a pen nearby, it was almost a given that her hands would be your personal canvas.
At first, you hesitated, asking for permission. Over time, you notice Natasha had never said no.
“Hold still,” you instructed, your brow furrowed in concentration as you gently held her hand and drew tiny flowers, stars, or swirling vines across her skin.
She never pulled away. Instead, she watched you with a hint of curiosity.
“You’re very lucky you’re cute,” she said as you added the finishing touches to a tiny arrow piercing a heart on the back of her hand. You took a picture of it, knowing Clint would appreciate it.
“Lucky?” you echoed, pausing to look up at her after sending the photo off to the master archer.
Natasha leaned in close, her voice dipping into that low purr that always set your heart on fire. “Mm-hmm. You’re also lucky I don’t mind being turned into a canvas.”
“Oh, I think you secretly like it,” you teased, brushing a kiss on her arm.
In reality, you didn’t think that. You know that.
And she didn’t deny it. Instead, she shifted closer.
“What are you going to draw next, solnishko?” she asked, her eyes dropping to her hand as your pen began to move again.
You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you sketched delicate vines trailing down her fingers, weaving in tiny hearts and stars until her skin looked like it had been kissed by the season of autumn itself.
“You,” you murmured eventually, starting to sketch the structure of a face, “I think I’ll just draw you.”
“You really have a thing for claiming me, don’t you?” she suggested, her eyes brimming with affection. The last time Yelena was here, she even caught that look. My sister has gone soft, she’d teased Natasha, though she could not be happier on behalf of her, all because of love. Yuck.
“I just like reminding you that you’re mine,” you shrugged as you drew her cute upturned nose on her skin.
Natasha tilted her head, “I will never forget.”
—
Winter had wrapped the world in ice, snow piling high against the windows of your shared home. Inside, however, the contrast was striking.
The heating was cranked up so high that the two of you didn’t even need blankets or hot coco to start warm
Natasha lay stretched out on the couch, her hair spilling over the armrest like liquid fire. She wasn’t wearing a shirt—just as you liked it. She was engrossed in a book, one hand holding it aloft, her other resting lazily on her stomach.
You stood behind her, taking in the sight of her.
In your hand, you held a paintbrush. You were snowed in, and you had run out of canvases to paint on. Looking at your girlfriend, you couldn’t resist the urge to turn her into something even more beautiful than she already was.
Quietly, you knelt on the couch behind her, and pushed her so she was sitting up.
Then you started pain ring on her back
“You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice rich with amusement, though she didn’t move to stop you.
“Very much,” you admitted, leaning down to press a kiss to the curve of her shoulder. “You’re my favourite canvas.”
Natasha chuckled, a beautiful sound that made your heart flutter. “I don’t get how you do it.”
“Do what?” You asked, still meticulously focused on your brushstroke and the pallet on your other hang.
“You... you take me… and make something beautiful out of it.”
The confession hit you like a blow to the chest, momentarily knocking the air from your lungs. The brush froze in your hand, and you frowned, pressing a series of kisses back of her head, down to get neck. “But you are beautiful anyway.”
Natasha wouldn’t turn to you. She had a tiny speck of tears in her lashes, and no matter how much she trusted you, it was difficult for her to let anyone see her vulnerable— it was so instilled in her that it was weakness, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. “You’re making me sound like a masterpiece,” she whispered.
You brushed your fingers down her arm. You were not going to force her to look into your eyes and demand she see what you see— that autonomy, that boundary was hers alone. But that doesn’t mean you wont try. “You are my masterpiece,” you said firmly, the conviction in your voice leaving no room for argument.
Natasha relaxed after that, letting your hands work their magic as the patterns on her skin grew into something almost otherworldly—an intricate tapestry of snowflakes.
When you finished, you set the brush aside and gently led Natasha to the bathroom. The mirrors on opposite sides of the wall reflected endless angles, allowing her to see the painting you had made on her back—a snowy picture of your home under white snow, with the silhouette of two figures hand in hand. You and Natasha.
She shifted slightly, her gaze breaking from the mirrors to meet yours. Her voice was quiet, almost fragile. "I'm not sure I deserve you," she admitted.
You cupped her face, your thumb brushing softly over her cheek. Leaning in, you pressed a lingering kiss to her lips—gentle and passionate— everything you had ever asked of her. “Good thing that’s not up to you," you said when you finally pulled back.
As the snow continued to fall outside, Natasha allowed herself—for the first time in a long time—to believe she was worthy. Because in your hands, she wasn’t a weapon. She wasn’t destruction incarnate. In your hands, she was art.
Summary: You are married to a wealthy socialite, but your newly hired housemaid doesn’t approve of the marriage.
AN: I was reading a book series and got this idea. Enjoy!
*Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” you say, poking at the sad bowl of cereal before you.
“Why not?” Your wife frowns at you from across the kitchen.
“Because we’re doing fine! We don’t need any extra help,” you emphasize.
“You’re not the one stuck at home all day cleaning the house and cooking all the meals,” she snaps. Your eyes shift to the bowl of cereal you’d had to make yourself because she was too busy at her pilates class to cook you anything more substantial.
“This house is huge compared to our old one,” your wife continues. “And if you’re not going to help me around here, I’m going to hire someone who will.” Annoyance burns in your chest because you run your own company full-time, and your wife inherited all her wealth from her parents and hadn’t worked a real job in her entire life. “Besides, Steve’s the one who recommended her and he said she’s been really helpful to his family.”
“You seem to spend a lot of time talking to Steve,” you note, although you feel guilty for calling out your neighbor across the street. You’d spoken to him a few times and he seemed like a decent guy, but you weren’t stupid enough to not notice how often your wife would find her way over to his lawn multiple times a week.
“You’re at work all day and don’t answer your phone half the time,” she says. “You don’t expect me to stay in this gigantic house all by myself doing chores, do you? I’m not a house servant, Y/N.”
“No, of course you’re not,” you apologize. You glance at the Omega watch that had been an engagement gift from your wife. “Hey, I have to get going to work now.” Dutifully, you bring your bowl over to the sink and stop to kiss your wife on the way there. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
“Remember, the pool guy is coming at noon so you need to be back before then,” she says. “I don’t want to be left by myself with him.”
“Okay, I’ll try.” You’re not sure why she’s so nervous around the pool technician; he was about 30 years older than the both of you and had been very sweet and professional when he came to give you a quote for the maintenance.
Natasha curses to herself as she drags her vacuum cleaner and basket of cleaning supplies up the sidewalk to your home. Your wife–Mrs. L/N, as she had asked Natasha to call her, while you had no problem being on a first name basis with her–had told Natasha she didn’t want her parking in front of your house, requiring her to park around the corner. Which wouldn’t have been a significant issue except it meant Natasha had to lug everything to your house every time she stopped by.
“Do you need any help, Nat?” Steve Rogers, the friendly neighbor whom she also worked for, waved at her from across the street.
“No, no, I’m fine!” she squeaks, not wanting to bother him. But Steve, ever the gentleman, runs over anyway and she has no choice but to turn over her supplies to him.
“You know, you can always just park in front of my house,” he offers, bundling the items in his muscular arms.
“That’s okay,” Natasha says. “Mrs. L/N made it very clear that as much as she needs my help, she doesn’t want people to know I’m here.”
Steve doesn’t argue with her and walks her to your front door. “Well, if you ever need anything–”
“Natasha! You’re late!” The front door swings open and Natasha finds herself face-to-face with your wife. “Oh, hello, Steven.” She flips her hair over her shoulder and bats her eyelashes at him. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I was just helping Natasha with her things,” Steve explains.
“Oh, don’t worry about her. She can handle herself. Right, Natasha?” She turns a judgmental eye on Natasha.
“I appreciate the help, Steve,” is all Natasha says.
“You’re welcome. See you both later!” He quickly jogs back to his home.
Mrs. L/N ushers Natasha into the house. “I left a grocery list on the kitchen counter for you. If you can’t find something, please call me before you pick any substitutions,” she instructs briskly. “I have to go out to the HOA meeting, but Y/N should be home by noon before the pool man comes. Do not let him into the yard if Y/N or me are not home yet, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Natasha nods her head, fighting the urge not to roll her eyes at this lady.
“Good.” She leaves towards the garage and Natasha can hear the purr of her Mercedes starting up.
It was Natasha’s second week working for your family, and she hated nearly every second of it–mostly because of your spoiled, bratty wife. But the few times Natasha had met you, she thought you were as kind and charming as could be (and very nice to look at). She wondered how the two of you had gotten together in the first place and what you saw in your wife. She was one of the bossiest clients Natasha had ever had, and Natasha had seen her be not much nicer to you. Plus, she was definitely hitting on Steve, but Natasha knows he wouldn’t cheat on his wife with yours.
She dumps her supplies in the foyer, then goes into the kitchen to find the grocery list. It only takes a single glance to know that your wife is totally fucking with her–what the hell is a rambutan? Natasha sighs loudly, wishing there were someone around to hear her distress. As much as she wants to quit working for your family, she needs the money. And she was still so new to the business, she couldn’t afford to make any bad impressions.
With another sigh, she balls the grocery list into her fist and heads back out.
Natasha returns from her grocery trip just in time to see you pull into the garage in your bright green luxury sports car she doesn’t even recognize the manufacturer’s logo of. You get out and wave to her and she smiles back, almost forgetting the awful phone call she had to make to your wife when she searched the entire store and still couldn’t locate the rambutans (she ended up having to make a separate trip to Whole Foods for them).
“Hi, Natasha!” you say, running down the driveway to help her with the grocery bags.
“Oh, don’t worry about these,” Natasha says, trying to swat your hands away. “It’s my job to take them into the house–”
“No, let me help,” you insist, scooping up four bags in one hand in one go. “Oh! Rambutans. These are my favorite. Thank you for finding them.”
Instantly, Natasha wants to take back all the curses she had put on the spiky red fruit. “It was nothing,” she lies, making a mental note to buy out the store’s entire stock for you the next time she goes.
With your help, it takes half the amount of time to get all the groceries in the house. You also insist on helping her put everything away, showing her the proper drawers in the fridge for the fruit and vegetables versus the meat, and where the cereals went in the pantry. Natasha is beyond grateful for you; she knows your wife would have happily stood there and watched her struggle, then loudly criticized her for not knowing better.
“Thank you, Y/N,” she says, her hand inadvertently brushing yours when you pass her the last bag of apples. She withdraws from you almost too quickly, her skin hot where you touched her, but you don’t seem to notice, distracted by the ringing of the doorbell.
“That must be Stan.” You dash off to meet the pool man.
Natasha fills the dishwasher as much as she can and starts in, then goes to finish washing the oddly-shaped pots and pans that didn’t fit in the sink. The kitchen window looks out to your yard that is probably bigger than the footprint of her entire apartment complex. The pool has two different levels, but both are filled with a suspicious green water. You’re standing poolside talking to Stan, an older gentleman whom Natasha personally knew to be very kind from her few interactions with him when he conducted work on the neighborhood pool’s.
She’s so busy looking at you, fantasizing about a life where this big house could be hers, with a doting partner who would take care of her and raise a family with her, she doesn’t hear the front door opening until she hears the unholy screech from your wife.
“Natasha, what are you doing?” she yells, hurrying over and snatching the soapy sponge right out of Natasha’s gloved hand.
“Um–the dishes? They didn’t all fit in the dishwasher–”
“You turned on the dishwasher?” Her eyes grow wide and her mouth drops like Natasha’s just confessed to a murder. “Didn’t I tell you we don’t run the dishwasher before seven p.m.?” Natasha is certain she’s never heard this instruction before in her life and watches as she rushes over to turn off the dishwasher mid-cycle and throw it open. “Also, you didn’t pack this correctly, you definitely could’ve fit those pots in here.”
“I’m sorry, I’ll rearrange it now,” Natasha says, trying not to get flustered. Surely your wife wouldn’t fire her over such a minor transgression, would she?
“Is Stan here yet?” she asks, but before Natasha can answer, she is interrupted by a shout and a splash. Both of them crane their necks to look out the window, where they can see Stan floating facedown in the pool. You’re kicking your shoes off and throwing your phone onto the lawn before you run up to the pool’s edge and dive in with a form that would rival an Olympic swimmer’s. Your wife screams and darts towards the back door, Natasha following right behind her.
“Y/N! What are you doing?”
“He fell in!” you answer, coughing out water as you loop your arms under the elderly man and kick back towards the stairs. “He just zoned out when he was talking to me and suddenly tipped over into the pool. I think he’s having a seizure.”
“I’ll call 911!” Natasha offers, not wanting to be as useless as your wife. She struggles to get her phone out of her pocket and punches in the number with shaky fingers.
Your wife hovers by the pool stairs, making no move to assist you as you struggle to drag the old man out, clearly weighed down by the water drenching both of your clothes. Stan is holding himself in a position so stiff it reminds Natasha of a mannequin.
“Ugh, don’t get me wet, Y/N!” your wife complains as the brackish water sprays everywhere.
“I’m trying not to!” you snap, gently laying Stan on the grass.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” a dispatcher picks up.
“Hello? Yes, I’m at 2800 Sherwood Drive. There’s a man here who fell into the pool and we just got him out, but he’s having some kind of medical episode,” Natasha says, putting her phone on speaker. The dispatcher asks if he’s breathing and you confirm.
“Can roll him to his side and stabilize his head?”
Without hesitation, you peel off your shirt and roll it into a soggy ball, gently tucking it under the man’s head like a makeshift pillow. Natasha tries not to stare at your nicely sculpted torso, highlighted further by the water droplets on your skin, but her face burns in shame when she sees your wife glaring at her ogling.
“Okay, his head is stabilized!” you call out.
“Perfect, emergency services are two minutes away.”
“Thank you.”
It’s a big scene at the house by the time the ambulance pulls up. Your wife eventually covers you up with a towel, but you’re insistent on waiting outside for Stan to be carefully loaded into the ambulance before you finally allow your wife to usher you back into the house, still dripping water everywhere.
“Thank you for the help today, Natasha,” you say, reaching out to give her shoulder a gentle pat as you walk by her towards the house. Natasha doesn’t even know how to respond but nods furiously and mumbles that “she didn’t help much.”
“You can go now, Natasha,” your wife says curtly, and Natasha doesn’t question her and practically flees the premise.
It’s been a few weeks since the pool incident and Natasha is barely able to hold onto her sanity with the never-ending list of ridiculous tasks from your wife. When she holds a fundraiser meeting for a charity Natasha is sure she made up on her own, she calls on Natasha as her personal servant, forcing her to serve a collection of the snobbiest women in the neighborhood. Maybe I should take up meditation, Natasha thinks to herself as she prepares a third pitcher of iced tea because the first two “did not have the right balance of sugar to tea,” according to your wife, despite that Natasha had put in exactly one-third cup of sugar as requested.
Natasha doesn’t see you much around the house anymore, and she wonders if your wife purposely scheduled her around your work hours, or told you to stay away from her. She wants to ask you if there were any updates about Stan’s condition (there was no way she was going to get that information from your wife). She missed hearing your voice and seeing your smile…wait.
She shakes her head–she shouldn’t be thinking about you like that. You’re her employer and you’re married (to a bitch). It would be entirely inappropriate and dangerous to pursue you, so she would just have to make do with ogling you from afar. Besides, a lot of her clients did not show her respect, likely due to the nature of her job, so just because you were courteous and respectful towards her, didn’t mean you felt a specific way about her.
“You know, Y/N used to be fat.” Natasha startles when your wife walks up behind her. She almost drops the picture frame she’d been dusting of the two of you on a beach, holding hands as you walked towards the sunset in the background.
“Excuse me?” Natasha asks.
“Fat and poor,” Mrs. L/N adds, much to Natasha’s horror.
“That’s an awful thing to say about your partner,” Natasha says.
She shrugs. “I don’t want anything to be sugarcoated for you. All of this–” She gestures around to the grandiose-ness of the house, and points to a more recent photo of you, where you’re carrying your wife in your arms, the bulge of your biceps and wideness of your shoulders stretching out your shirt. “–was not a thing when we first started dating. I was there when Y/N had nothing and was no one.”
“Okay.” Natasha wonders why she’s acting like she did you a favor, when you are clearly the catch in the relationship. But then it suddenly dawns on her the reason she’s saying this is because she knows Natasha might have a small crush on you.
“Y/N would never leave me, because I was there from the beginning,” Mrs. L/N says loftily.
“Of course,” Natasha says, fearing she has made a terrible mistake. “Y/N must be very lucky to have you.”
“You have no idea,” your wife smirks. “So let me be a reminder to keep things professional in my house. I’d hate for you to lose your job here. As far as I know, this is the only neighborhood that employs you, and your reputation is everything, isn’t it? One bad review could spoil the whole bunch, and you’d be off having to peddle your services elsewhere.” Icy fear pits at the bottom of Natasha’s stomach. “That is, if the police don’t pick you up first.”
“What are you talking about?” Natasha whispers, even though she knows exactly what Mrs. L/N is talking about. She had been foolish to assume her past would never follow her, but how could your wife have found out? Clint had assured her that with a new name and a new location, she’d be untraceable.
“Because they’d have to arrest you from stealing Y/N away from me,” Mrs. L/N laughs shrilly. Natasha chuckles nervously, although she was certain adultery was not a punishable offense in the state. “But I’m just joking. That would never happen, right?”
“Never,” Natasha promises, hoping her cover will stay hidden for now.
“Busy,” you grunt, moodily poking at the chicken pot pie Natasha had made before she went home. The food tastes good–it’s better than anything your wife has ever cooked, you think privately, but you don’t have much of an appetite. The end of the financial quarter was rapidly approaching and it had become extremely apparent to you that the profits of your company were not outweighing the expenses for the third quarter in a row. You were digging yourself a bigger and bigger grave, dipping into your personal investments to pay your way out of debt. It was the most stressful period of your life, with no relief in sight, and your wife wouldn’t understand the pressure.
“Sorry to hear that,” she says, although her words don’t come across as very genuine. “My day wasn’t so great either. I got into an argument earlier with Mrs. Harkness at the HOA meeting.” Your wife clicks her tongue. “Some of these women will go to war over their lawn decorations, I swear.”
A jab bubbles on the tip of your tongue; was she really trying to compare an HOA meeting to your very real, very stressful job running a business? But you stay quiet, shoveling another spoonful of pot pie into your mouth.
“Where’s Natasha?” you ask. Usually she stayed around for dinner (not that your wife would let her sit at the same table as you), but you hadn’t seen her in the house for a while.
“I ran out of time today, so I sent her out to grab some things for tomorrow,” she answers. When Natasha had first been hired, you had been under the impression that she was exclusively a housekeeper, helping with all the household chores your wife couldn’t complete. But you had heard about her running grocery trips and waiting on your wife and her friends during meetings, turning Natasha into more of a personal assistant than anything. You hoped she was okay with that; you knew how demanding your wife could be sometimes.
“Oh, okay.” You finish your helping of pot pie in silence, then go to place your plate in the dishwasher, before going into the bedroom to retire for the night. As you’re washing your face in the sink, you hear your wife pad up behind her.
“Sorry you’ve been really stressed lately,” she says, rubbing her hand up and down your arm.
“It’s not your fault,” you respond, drying your face on a towel, going back into the bedroom to find your pajamas so you can take a shower.
“Y/N.” Your wife stops you as you’re searching through the dresser for your pajamas. When you look at her, she’s eyeing you with her bottom lip between her teeth. She struts towards you, slowly sinking to her knees and looking up at you. “Maybe I can do something to make you feel better?”
With you being so busy with work and her busy with the new move, the two of you hardly had time for each other. Plus, your wife tended to be on the particular side and never seemed to be in the mood if you initiated. It was a little frustrating sometimes, but you found ways to cope and besides, it did make the times she was ready for you all the more enjoyable.
She pulls down your pants, palming at your boxers and causing you to groan. You unbutton your shirt as you feel your body start to heat up and let it slide off your shoulders.
“Fuck, don’t tease me,” you grunt when she leans forward and nibbles on the exposed flesh of your thigh.
“You need to savor the moment,” she says, although you can tell she’s just as impatient when she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your boxers and draws them down to the floor. Your heavy cock bobs out, slapping against your abs before your wife grabs onto it and brings it to her mouth.
“Fuck, baby,” you moan, tipping your head back when you feel her lips wrap around your cock. You wrap your hand in her hair, pumping your hips forward to sink your length into the heat of her throat. She grips onto your thighs to steady herself, the faintest of choking noise escaping her. You grunt in satisfaction, thrusting a little harder until the tip of your cock bumps the back of her throat. She whines louder, but doesn’t pull away, and your knees are practically shaking at the sight of her deepthroating all of you.
“You’re doing so well,” you praise and her cheeks flush red. “Are you gonna let me finish in your mouth?” you ask, and she nods in response, the movement causing a burst of pre-cum to leak out of your cock. You stroke a stray hair out of her face so you can look into her eyes when you finish. “That’s my good girl.”
Natasha lets herself into your home, juggling three heavy bags that she’s pretty sure are cutting off the circulation to her fingers. She passes by the kitchen, confused to see it empty; when she had left the two of you were just settling down to eat. She puts the bags by the foot of the table, recalling the time Mrs. L/N had screamed at her for putting “dirty outside bags” on the place where you ate. She wouldn’t make that same mistake again.
Checking her phone, Natasha sees that your wife had sent her a text less than five minutes ago.
Natasha sighs. It had already been a long day, but she wasn’t given an ounce of leeway. She knows better than to walk away from an unfinished task (especially around your wife), so she trudges up the stairs and turns into the guest room. Hopefully her presence can go unnoticed, and your wife will magically find the folded clothes long after Natasha is gone.
There are a total of three shirts and a pair of jeans left to fold. Natasha knows it would be too much to ask your wife to do on her own. She grits her teeth and folds the clothes, taking the better part of a minute, then looks around and realizes she doesn’t remember where she put the laundry basket.
Maybe she had already brought it to the master bedroom, but she knew she couldn’t just leave it on the guest bed, or your wife would probably fire her. Natasha gathers up the clothes and walks down the hall to the master bedroom, but freezes in her tracks when she hears noises coming out of the bedroom.
Moaning noises, specifically.
Natasha can’t stop herself as she moves closer to the door, positioning herself to peer through the crack in between the door and the wall. She sees your wife on her knees, her head bobbing against your waist as you stand there, half-naked, moaning and thrusting your hips forward.
Natasha feels like she can’t breathe, totally shocked and embarrassed to have caught the two of you in a moment. She has a strange sense that your wife had set her up like this on purpose, but the thought quickly dissipates as she finds herself moving closer to the door.
“That’s my good girl.”
Natasha’s stomach flips when she hears you say this, even though it isn’t directed to her. But maybe one day it could be.
She’s practically pressed up against the door, the fear of being caught burning away in her eagerness to keep watching you. The way the muscles in your stomach and thighs flex as your hips roll in a sinful rhythm. Natasha is almost ashamed at how fast she feels the arousal building in her own stomach.
You grunt louder and slow down as you seem to near release. Natasha can’t help but wonder what you must taste like and if she could even fit you down her throat. Your wife seems to be struggling with your size, but Natasha would do everything in her power to make you happy and not let any drop go to waste.
Without warning, your wife removes you from her mouth. Both you and Natasha gasp–you probably in frustration, and Natasha because she’s shocked at how big you are. Your cock is shiny with saliva and pre-cum and is so hard it looks like it’s about to burst.
“I didn’t finish,” you whine as your wife stands up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She puts her hand on your chest and pushes you back until you stumble onto the bed.
“I know. But I don’t want you to finish in my mouth, I want you to finish inside me.”
“Oh.” Your wife takes off her pants and climbs onto you.
Natasha knows how wrong it is for her to stand there and continue watching. She should’ve left a long time ago. But somehow, she knows your wife set her up to see this, and instead of running away in shame, Natasha is totally absorbed and her obsession with you only skyrockets.
The headboard creaks against the wall as your wife rides you, both of you moaning in unison. Natasha’s eyes are stuck on you, trying to memorize your body’s reactions and wondering if she’d ever be the cause of them one day. You tilt your head back into the pillows, your back arching off the mattress, your hands wrapped around your wife’s waist as you thrust up into her.
“I’m ready. I’m gonna cum,” you announce breathlessly.
Natasha hopes you’ll say those words to her one day. But she turns away as you finish, scolding herself for her unprofessional and frankly creepy behavior. She drops the folded clothes to the floor, knowing your wife will eventually find them and know of their origin. Maybe she’ll get fired for this; if anything, it’d be for the better. She doesn’t trust herself to be around you anymore–not that she’d ever be so bold as to make a move and disrespect your marriage, but she’d never be able to look at you the same way again.
She quickly pads down the stairs and leaves the house, the emptiness in her heart and core almost reaching a painful point.
You jerk your hips up a final time as you cum, dropping back onto the bed exhausted and spent.
“Hmm, that was fun,” your wife pants against your neck, and you wrap your arm around her tightly, pulling her closer to your body.
“We can shower together?” you suggest, digging your fingers teasingly into her naked hips.
“Sure. Give me a minute.” She lays her head on your chest.
Despite your differences, you were truly happy to have this woman by your side through it all. She had been your longest supporter and that had meant everything to you when no one else believed in you.
You kiss her forehead softly. “I love you, Wanda.”
You preferred the word ‘assassin’. So did Natasha, most days. But there were moments. When her eyes caught on unobtrusive things.
Little girls walking down the sidewalk, holding their father’s hands.
Generic news stories about local fires.
Strangers saying goodbye at subway stations.
Guilt clung to Natasha like a second shadow. You tried to alleviate it.
It wasn’t your place. It wasn’t your job. It certainly wasn’t your life plan.
You still tried.
.
It had started one afternoon, with a text from an old friend from high school. Maria informed you about some brief downtime in her usually hectic work life. You made evening plans for some drinks at a bar.
An hour beforehand, she asked if she could bring along someone else, a friend from work. That was probably why you’d been a little nervous, waiting at the bar with two empty seats ready beside you.
They walked in together, their matching strides showing their friendship more than anything. Maria greeted you with a familiar smile and the beginnings of an easy conversation. You tried not to stare at the stranger she’d brought with her.
Natasha didn’t take off her black bomber jacket when she sat down next to you. With her dark jacket and dark jeans, her pale face and red hair stood out in contrast. You watched her eyes dart uncomfortably around the room, looking everywhere except at you.
Natasha’s hands stayed deep in her pockets until you offered to buy them both a drink. The redhead shook her head immediately, voice rasping when she assured you that it was fine.
Maria rolled her eyes. Her smirk told you what you’d immediately suspected. This was her attempt at a setup.
You resented the gleam in Maria’s eyes. Natasha’s was obviously less than enthused to meet you.
‘She drinks cheap beer like it tastes good.’ Maria informed you readily. You nodded back with a careful smile, before turning to order the drinks.
‘Fuck you Maria.’ You heard Natasha mutter embarrassedly over your shoulder whilst you tried to get the bartender’s attention.
Natasha drank her beer from the bottle, silently. Her knuckles were bruised a colour that you couldn’t decide.
Maria spoke to you like there wasn’t a moody stranger perched awkwardly between you.
Natasha leaned forward so that you could talk over her hunched shoulders. She blew along the top of the glass bottle, making quiet sounds to herself as she tuned the pair of you out. Her fingers picked at the paper label.
You wondered how Maria had convinced her to come along to this.
One part of their compromise became clear when midnight arrived.
Almost to the second, Natasha checked her watch and coughed pointedly. Maria’s annoyance flashed clearly across her face at the sound. She glared obviously at Natasha, wordlessly chastising her lack of social skills. Natasha shrugged, thumb still running endless circles over the top of the glass bottle.
‘It’s getting late anyway.’ You observed passively, trying to smooth the situation. Natasha was obviously not interested in you or this evening; it felt kinder to set her free.
Maria nodded reluctantly, before leaving to visit the bathroom before you all exited the bar.
Natasha seemed to find the newly empty barstool on her right more interesting than you.
Maybe it was the drinks you’d had. Maybe it was the weird tension of being set up with someone so disinterested.
‘It’s a shame.’ You said loudly, directing your words at the bright shelves of bottles lined up behind the bar. Natasha’s head turned slowly towards you.
‘You’re very hot. I would have liked your number.’ You kept your tone light, reaching over and using your nails to scrape the last sticky pieces of label from her empty beer bottle.
Natasha had made her feelings clear. You felt entitled to do the same.
‘You wouldn’t if you knew me.’ Natasha replied carefully, but you could tell the answer had been ready on her lips. You wondered at her quick response, whether she’d anticipated your interest, or if it was something she’d been thinking about anyway.
‘Too much to handle?’ You prompted with a small smile.
‘Maria doesn’t tell you stories about her job.’ Natasha stated neutrally. It wasn’t a question, but you answered anyway.
‘No, she doesn’t. She says they’ll give me nightmares.’
‘I’m the reason why.’ Natasha told you seriously. A smirk ghosted over your lips until you registered her tone.
Natasha kicked the bar stool back unexpectedly. She looked smaller than you remembered as she stood facing the bar. Her thumbs pressed against the bottle, you watched her fingernails dig uselessly into the hard, smooth surface of the glass.
Her eyes flickered back to you but this time her gaze lingered, like a piece of thread caught on a thorn.
Maybe you knew enough about her already. Maybe you enjoyed leaps of faith.
‘Well, I don’t sleep anyway.’ You told her decidedly.
Natasha’s focus moved back to the bar top. You watched her eyes skitter over the surface, taking note of every water mark and stain.
‘Don’t.’ She muttered quietly, voice cracking.
‘I’m not afraid of nightmares.’ You continued, getting to your feet too.
Natasha met your gaze again. You felt a spark run through you.
You didn’t understand her expression but you couldn’t look away.
In one cautious movement, you took her hand. Natasha looked down at the motion, suddenly becoming very still.
Her hand was warm, her skin was soft except for the ridge of a scar that cut across her palm. Your thumb brushed over it. Natasha tensed at the tiny gesture.
‘Don’t.’ She whispered again, voice smaller than before. Your thumb stilled. Natasha’s shallow breathing faltered.
You knew that she was waiting for you to let go of her hand. As if you could only want to drop it, now that you’d held it.
Maria whistled from the other side of the bar. You recognised the sound and your head swivelled automatically. So did Natasha’s. Maria nodded exaggeratedly at the door. Her eyes were gleaming again.
You held Natasha’s hand more firmly as you led her out of the bar, weaving together between the other customers and the crowded tables.
The icy air stung your face painfully when you left the building. Beside you, you could see Natasha’s breaths emerging before her like plumes of smoke.
You hesitated when she came to a stop beside you. Gently, you squeezed her hand once, then twice.
Natasha studied your expression from the side. Her eyebrows furrowed with confusion. You bumped your shoulder lightly against her own.
Maria watched you both, her arms folded in front of her chest. You glanced up and shared a quick smile. You felt a rush of nostalgia for your high school best friend. She hadn’t changed.
‘I should call us a taxi.’ Maria told Natasha, her head still turned towards you.
‘But we can walk you home first?’ She offered, purposefully neutral so she wouldn’t influence your answer. You waved her off.
‘I’m only two minutes away.’ You reminded her. You knew that was the reason she’d suggested meeting at this particular bar in the first place.
Natasha’s hand was somehow still in yours. Her skin felt warmer against the cold night.
There was a long beat of silence. Maria shared a look with Natasha and then walked away a few steps as she called the taxi number.
You felt a careful squeeze of your hand.
‘Give me your phone.’ Natasha muttered quietly and your sudden smile grew wide enough that your cheeks hurt. Her hand slipped from yours as she typed in the digits.
You were starting to shiver when you caught Maria’s raised eyebrow. You kept smiling. Things were falling unexpectedly into place.
When Natasha gave you your phone back, her eyes told you that she was making no promises.
You thought about her reddened cheeks when you walked away.
.
Natasha told you what her job was on the third date. You’d already sensed her careful avoidance of the subject, you’d already decided not to push.
It was only as she said the word ‘assassin’ that you understood why she’d brought it up.
If you were to leave. Let it be now.
She wanted it to hurt less for both of you.
Natasha was sitting awkwardly on the overstuffed arm of your sofa when she told you.
Your three dates had been spread over the last month and a half. They’d been difficult to schedule. Her work was evidently irregular and demanding of her time. Now you understood why.
‘Should you be telling me this?’ You asked, feeling like you were towering over her as you shifted to stand closer.
The corners of Natasha’s mouth tightened slightly.
‘No. But there are ways to make you forget it.’ She conceded bluntly. The answer seemed logical, if alarming. You tried to feel panic at the acknowledgment that your memory might be altered by an organisation of super spies.
No overwhelming fear stirred inside you. Maybe it was because all you could picture was Maria’s face. You’d guessed a lot of things about your friend’s job, but managing assassins hadn’t been one of them.
You felt Natasha scan your face for any hint of worries.
You knew how you felt but you didn’t know what your face said.
Concern, sympathy, acceptance.
You still wanted Natasha.
You reached down and began to play with Natasha’s fingers where they rested unsurely on her lap. At your gentle touch, the tension loosened from her arms. Natasha didn’t blink as she watched you raise her hand to your lips. You saw the tiny white scars that littered her knuckles. You kissed them carefully.
Self loathing rolled through Natasha’s expression. She took her hand back.
In a move that had become familiar to you now, you leaned forward to kiss her cheek. Natasha’s hands adjusted automatically to rest on your back.
You leaned in slowly again and kissed the dark circle under each eye.
‘I told you I’m not scared of nightmares.’ You reminded her, letting your fingers rest at the base of her neck.
Natasha looked up at you. Her gaze asked you for forgiveness. You wondered if she knew what her eyes said.
You kissed Natasha’s forehead and she closed her eyes. Her forehead found your chest. She leaned forward with a heaviness that felt sad and right at the same time. Her arms tightened around you.
You ran your hands slowly down the length of her back, tracing the light curve of her spine. You pretended not to feel her shake. You ignored the way her lips trembled with ragged breaths. You hummed to yourself and for her.
You couldn’t give her what she didn’t know how to accept.
Natasha stayed the night in your bed, her body curled away from you. You kept your hand resting on her side, feeling her steady breathing.
She was gone when you woke up. You didn’t let yourself feel surprised. You texted her as you wandered through your apartment for coffee.
‘Call me when you can.’
Natasha was a lonely creature. You’d known that from the start.
.
She called you a week later.
When you picked up, Natasha didn’t speak. The line was silent.
‘I’m glad you called.’ You said to her simply. You were falling for her. You couldn’t tell her yet.
Natasha exhaled deeply.
‘Okay.’ She said quietly. But it sounded like a thank you.
She invited you out to dinner that night. Told you she was back in town for a few days. You wondered where she’d been. You didn’t know if you wanted to ask.
You met her at the restaurant. You’d dressed up, recognising the name of the place. Natasha’s hair hung in a single braid down her back.
Your eyes lingered on the small wisps that had broken free.
Natasha’s eyes caught on your smile. Her shoulders relaxed and she gave you a small wave. She was wearing a white shirt, open at the collar. Your eyes trailed downwards before you pulled them back up. Natasha smirked.
They served good food. You insisted on ordering the cheapest beer on the menu for her. Natasha rolled her eyes but you knew she was hiding a smile. You nudged her ankle with your foot and she nudged yours back.
There was a candle on the table, the soft light of it reflected in her eyes. You kept losing track of the conversation, watching instead how her lips moved when she talked. The warm air felt sparkling.
Natasha’s arm went around your shoulders when you walked back to your apartment together.
You held Natasha’s hand as you led her up the stairs to your front door. She didn’t let it go when she pressed you up against your bedroom wall.
That night, Natasha lay in your bed with her face to the ceiling. Your palm rested against her stomach. You watched your hand rise and fall with her breaths. You fell asleep first, losing yourself in the slow rhythm of her tracing patterns on your bare skin.
You woke up alone, with the sunlight pale enough that you could tell it was still early. This time disappointment flooded you at the sight of your empty bed.
You heard a noise in the other room and automatically you followed it.
You watched her from the living room doorway. Natasha was putting on her jacket. She was turned away from you but from the way she stiffened you had no doubt that she’d heard you approach.
Natasha didn’t try to look at you, her jaw was tight with unreleased tension.
‘I have a mission.’ She muttered after a moment. She sounded frustrated.
‘That’s okay.’ You tried to appease. Natasha turned to give you with an ironic smile.
‘I just wanted to be someone else for a bit.’ She told you suddenly, her voice still rasping with sleep. ‘I hoped - I thought I had more time.’
Natasha must have read the worry in your expression.
‘Maybe not someone else. Maybe I just wanted to be myself.’ She corrected carefully.
You tried to shrug casually as you moved across the room.
‘You were beautiful last night.’ You told her, lifting your hands to fix the collar of her shirt. ‘But you’re still beautiful this morning.’
Natasha huffed with incredulity. Her eyes threatened with sudden, frustrated tears.
You wished that she would stop painting herself as a failure for what she couldn’t help.
You were falling in love with Natasha.
You kissed her lips softly, savouring the warmth. Your thumb brushed her jaw. Natasha moaned as you broke the kiss.
Her eyes looked hungry and you knew it was because you tasted like the words you weren’t ready to say.
‘How much time do you have?’ You asked instead. Natasha hesitated.
‘About an hour before I have to leave for collection.’ She answered slowly. You nodded, not commenting on her plan to leave you early.
You took her hand and led her back through to the bedroom. Natasha’s gaze was carefully neutral when you gestured for her to sit on the edge of the bed. You hated that she was readying herself for sex when she clearly wasn’t in the mood.
You crawled behind her on the bed. Natasha stiffened automatically as you entered her blind spot.
Slowly, you removed the hair tie from her mussed braid. She’d slept with it in. You started to unwind the plaited hair.
You combed through it lightly, your fingertips grazing the back of her neck.
‘You don’t have to.’ Natasha told you suddenly in a choked whisper. You couldn’t see her face but you could hear the tears in her voice. You answered wordlessly, pulling aside her collar and kissing her just below her ear.
Your braid was simple, a basic copy of the one that she’d been wearing the night before. Natasha’s fingers kept brushing the end of it. When your hands were finally free, you reached to hug Natasha from behind. She leaned back into your touch. Her still wet cheek brushed yours.
You walked her to the door.
Natasha hugged you tightly before she had to leave. Her arms felt safe, her hold was strong. You were sure that she didn’t want to let go. Your head rested on her shoulder.
You kissed her cheek when you pulled apart. Natasha squeezed your hand.
When the mission was over. Natasha didn’t call. She knocked on your front door.
.
Even irregular patterns are still patterns.
You never saw Natasha as much as you wanted to.
There were two more dates. She took you dancing, she invited you to a movie.
Natasha created warmth around you. You floated through the evenings like there was a glittery haze filtering every moment.
Then, one night, you got a call.
It was 2am and Natasha was drunk. You’d never seen her drunk before, not even close. Her tone was flat but her words were stumbling.
She told you that she missed you. Then, she told you to ignore her.
You asked her where she was, fear making your insides cold.
‘Our bar.’ She mumbled and your heart leapt and fell before its next beat. You grabbed your keys.
.
As you got closer to the bar you could see Natasha already standing outside, leaning against the wall. Someone brushed past her as they walked. They didn’t look twice, her small stature more unassuming than usual. Her empty stare was aimed at the ground.
You took a step forward, interrupting her unfocused gaze.
Natasha looked up and you watched the streetlights spark into her eyes.
She staggered slightly as she took you in. Surprise and something more filled her expression. She cleared her throat and then she swallowed.
You took her hand, letting your fingers interlace as your palms pressed together.
‘Come on.’ You prompted her carefully.
Natasha didn’t move. Her eyes closed and she shook her head once. She squeezed your hand with sudden tightness.
‘Had a bad day at work.’ Her tone was tired, words still slurring slightly. Her skin burned like ice against your hand. She leaned back again, letting her head rest against the wall.
She breathed familiar plumes of smoke in the cold night air. You moved closer to her.
You squeezed her hand gently. You bumped your shoulder lightly against her own. Natasha’s eyes opened.
‘At least, maybe you can have a good night with me?’ You suggested, raising your eyebrow slightly.
Natasha’s lip twitched as she fought a smile. She looked away, then glanced back and lost the fight entirely. She groaned with faux exasperation as she moved away with you from the brick wall.
Even when you’d returned to your place, you didn’t try to suggest sleep for a few more hours.
Instead, you lay together on the sofa, a late night movie playing in the background. Natasha laid over you. There was something clingy in the way she propped herself on her elbows and kissed you deeply just to pass the time. You liked it. Your heart settled as you watched her steadiness return.
Giving her good things wasn’t the way to remove the bad things. But, you knew Natasha found comfort with you. You found it with her too.
.
It was that night that she told you.
You’d coaxed her to bed by the early morning. You were lying facing each other. Your eyes had drifted shut but your mind was still running.
Her awful confession hung in the air.
You tensed automatically. Natasha took a sharp breath as she realised that you were still half awake.
You were sure that Natasha didn’t mean for you to hear her. You wondered if she’d ever told another person before.
You moved to lie on your back, to stare into the darkness obscuring the room around you. You didn’t know what to say. You could feel the tension in the air, her anticipation in the desperate way she held herself perfectly still.
After a long moment, you stretched out your hand to touch Natasha’s waist.
She was wearing your old t-shirt and it had ridden up past her ribs.
Your fingertips made a trail around the prominent scar that lay there. Natasha’s skin felt warm and soft.
How could she have ever killed a child?
‘Tell me.’ You directed her after a moment and Natasha did. Her voice cracked as she started, but then her words came faster and faster. Each detail spilled from her like a desperate body of water finally breaching a dam.
Your hand moved to her shoulder, instinctively trying to anchor her in the sudden onslaught of memories. Natasha’s confession couldn’t stop now that she’d started. Her stories wandered into strange places and then cut corners unexpectedly. You were sure now that she’d never repeated it before.
She told you about the little girl she’d killed. About the little girl’s father, about who he was and what he had done. She told you why she’d been so afraid. The cold words chipped at your insides like rough ice.
Natasha didn’t call the girl collateral damage, but you understood the decision she’d been forced to make.
Everything about her begged for forgiveness except her words.
She wouldn’t look at you. You couldn’t read her expression in the dark, only the shadows of something like exhaustion.
When she finished talking, there was a clear pause where Natasha awaited your verdict.
From a brief moment, you felt the true weight of her past. The pain, the guilt, the nightmares.
The heaviness settled on you and you wondered if it was too much.
You thought about the little girl who had died, and then you thought about another one.
You finally inhaled a shuddering breath as tears fell messily down your cheeks.
The heaviness was too much, you wanted to carry all of it for her.
‘Don’t.’ Natasha murmured worriedly. She leaned forward, her thumbs brushed your cheeks. You closed your eyes. You loved her suddenly and completely. It hit you like a blow to the chest.
You leaned forward on instinct, curling into her warm body as you settled the new weight of her pain and your love.
It felt safe, Natasha was perfectly familiar to you now.
You could tell that your reaction had confused her. You felt it in the way her arms tentatively rubbed up and down your back.
Sometimes, Natasha’s comfort seemed like a mirror of your own. You wondered if it was because your comfort was the only type she’d ever received.
Natasha hummed quietly into the room, until you finally spoke.
‘You’re still beautiful.’ You told her softly, because it wasn’t the right time to say the other words.
You felt Natasha's stomach tense underneath you as she pulled herself into a seated position. You moved to sit next to her.
‘I am ugly.’ She disagreed simply. ‘I have murdered children.’
‘You have done terrible things.’ You agreed, knowing you could never find the right words to cover it all. ‘But, you had terrible choices.’
For the first time you realised that you couldn’t give her the redemption she sought. It wasn’t yours to give.
Natasha sighed in response and you felt her body tense again with a growing intent to leave.
You reached and took her hand in yours. This time, your thumb rubbed along each scarred knuckle purposefully.
Natasha looked at you for a long moment. Then, she sighed again. She squeezed your hand back softly.
You kissed her cheek.
.
It was a month later when you took her to the graveyard.
The new gravestone stood alone in a corner, under a cherry blossom tree. There was nothing below it. That was not why you’d done it.
Natasha brought white tulips with her. Her hands were shaking when she crouched down to place them in front of Antonia’s name.
Your hand was resting on Natasha’s shoulder when a stumbling apology fell from her lips. She choked on the little girl’s name.
Her fingers traced the carved letters in the stone.
‘I’m sorry Antonia.’ Natasha repeated over and over, like a prayer that was meant to be lost to the wind.
She gripped your offered hand when she rose back to her feet.
Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and the cool breeze blew strands of it across her face. You briefly caught sight of her eyes, rimmed red, before she moved into your offered embrace.
Natasha felt warm pressed against you.
A minute passed by in the loud quiet of the windy day
‘I love you.’ Natasha told you suddenly, voice hoarse from tears.
You smiled despite the sadness in the air.
‘I know.’ You said quietly. ‘I love you too.’
You took Natasha’s hand then, weaving between the other gravestones as you led her away.
.
There were always moments. When Natasha’s eyes caught on unobtrusive things. But with time, those things began to change.
Candles on restaurant tables.
Cheap beer in supermarkets.
White tulips on windowsills.
You.
Natasha’s redemption was her own. But, you would hold her hand through anything.
Requested by anon: Hi i love your work..you don't have to do this request if you don't want.. i was kind of was wondering since we haven't heard from Sergeant Nat and reader. If we could hear from them? I was thinking since Nat is always the confident reassured one in that universe like maybe something happens where shes not sure where she stand with reader? Like jealous or maybe reader lets one of her military friends borrow her laptop and they use it to watch porn...and nat finds it and thinks its reader. And nat kind of loses her mind in a way that we havent seen. (Not like crazy but for the first time shes like am i enough). And reader is high key oblivious bc she worships nat. Some communication to sort out and then smutty times. Only if you want. If not i look forward to whatever you post yay.
AN: *Reader has a penis, no pronouns used.
Thanks for the idea, anon! This was a lot of fun to write. :)
This is Part 5 in my Sergeant Beef series. Read the first one here.
“Hey, can I borrow your laptop?” Sam asks, poking his head into your room.
“Why?” You don’t even look at him, focused on you video game on the tiny television mounted to your wall.
“I dropped mine in the lake, so I had to buy a new one but it won’t get shipped off until later this week,” Sam explains.
“Okay,” you say, hardly listening to him as you race your little car across the screen to bump the giant soccer ball towards the goal. “It’s in my room on the–”
“I know where it is. Thanks.” Sam whisks in and helps himself.
“Close the door on your way out!” you call, just in time to hear the door slam behind him. Turning your whole focus back to your game, your fingers mash the buttons to a triumphant win.
A few days later, Natasha is over at your apartment. While the two of you had discussed a thousand times moving in together, you had always stalled or walked around the subject. Natasha wasn’t sure if it was because you were nervous what the public’s perception would be of your relationship, or if you preferred your own private space too much to give it up. Ever since the deployment, you had been more likely to retreat and hide away (even from Natasha) when you were upset or moody. She wondered if it was a side effect of your PTSD, but you never seemed ready for that conversation so she left it alone.
For dinner, you grilled some steaks (setting off the smoke detector in your apartment) while Natasha made a side of mashed potatoes and green beans. Afterwards, you went to take a shower while Natashas lounged around and found a movie on Netflix for the two of you to watch. She sits on the couch, opening your laptop and finding the web browser. She looks up Netflix and then browses through the recommendations on your home page, but none of them pique her interest.
She goes onto Google to search what other people are recommending and wades through a sea of titles and descriptions to find one. Swapping back and forth between tabs, she finds a website with a host of titles and flips back and forth until she finds a movie that is both on the list and currently on Netflix. But in the process, she loses track of the tab and accidentally closes it, silently cursing to herself, before going to check the history to find it again.
But what she finds in the history is not what she had been looking for.
Natasha feels almost scandalized when she sees the words “big busty blondes” in your search history, followed by a list of pornsites. While she knew you watched such videos in her absence, she didn’t know what genre you were into, and now a deep sinking feeling of insecurity fills her. She was not blonde, nor was she particularly busty after the years of hard workouts had shrank some of her assets a little. You always told her she had the perfect body, but now she wasn’t quite sure if she should believe you.
“Nat? Did you pick a movie?” You poke your head out of the bathroom. You’re not wearing a shirt and your wet hair is dripping water down your chest, emphasizing the lines of your muscles. Natasha can see the bullet scar on your ribs from the deployment that almost ended your life. But you walked away with every member of your team alive, and your tale of bravery had become something of a living legend in the community.
She knows you could have any woman you wanted. She had seen the way the recruits eyed you and how bold the other brass were with you. Before your promotion to sergeant, you were often overlooked and completely ignored. Natasha, perhaps a little selfishly, always considered herself the catch in your relationship: she was one of a handful of female sergeants with outstanding credentials, and looked great in and out of a uniform. But maybe she thought too highly of herself. You had developed into a very competent sergeant, were extremely good-looking, and had the most lovable personality anyone could ask for.
What if you didn’t want her anymore? What if you wanted someone younger, or someone you could start a family with? Natasha hadn’t yet disclosed to you her inability to have children, but if the subject ever came up, she knew you’d need no other excuse to walk away.
“Nat? Did you pick out a movie?” you ask again.
“Yes,” Natasha says. “We can watch Trolls.”
“Okay. That sounds fun.”
You come out in a sweatshirt with matching gray sweatpants and join Natasha on the couch. Instinctively, you put your arm around her shoulder and she snuggles against you, letting you rest your head against hers.
You seem to enjoy the goofy children’s movie, laughing out loud at the jokes and cheering when the main characters hug by the end. But Natasha can’t focus for a second, still thinking about the search history on your laptop. She didn’t even know if it was something she should bring up, but it was already eating her alive to think that she wasn’t good enough for you.
Natasha didn’t know if she would be able to survive without you. She would have to do everything she could to keep you by her side.
“Give me a sec,” Natasha calls, hurriedly slipping her boots on. She checks herself in the mirror one final time before opening her apartment door to see you.
“Hi, Nat–oh.” Your expression goes flat.
“What’s wrong?” Natasha asks, her stomach twisting in knots. Maybe this had been a bad idea.
“You dyed your hair,” you say, blinking at the short blonde hair she was now sporting.
“You don’t like it?” she asks, her worry growing by the second. She had dropped a significant sum at the salon on base to cut and dye her hair. Perhaps this had been a severe overreaction on her part.
“Oh. No, um, it looks very nice,” you stutter.
Natasha is not convinced in the slightest. Her face flushes red and she bites her lip to stop herself from crying in frustration. “That’s okay,” she mutters more to herself than you. “Where are we going again?” she asks, even though she knows every detail of the outing she had planned with you.
“The gym first, then we can get lunch and go grab groceries,” you list off, seemingly oblivious to her awkwardness.
“Yes, that’s right. Okay, let’s go,” she replies sullenly.
Natasha isn’t sure what else she can do to hold your attention after the hair dying incident. She tries to be extra doting with you, but all of her efforts seem to go completely unnoticed. You only say “thank you” once when she gets you your favorite chocolate bar from the commissary. The next time the two of you are in bed together, Natasha feels like she has to guide you through all the motions and you fuck her with a concerningly low level of enthusiasm. Natasha is convinced you’ve found someone else and just the thought of losing you makes her sick.
She’s nearly sent over the edge when she finally gets a text from you:
From Y/N: Can you come over tonight? I want to talk
Natasha feels like the rug has been pulled out from under her feet. Sweat breaks out on her forehead and her stomach starts to hurt like she had a bad meal. What if she just didn’t go to see you? Would you really still break up with her over text?
Her body seems to have a mind of her own as she responds:
“Thanks for coming over,” you say, welcoming Natasha into your apartment. She steps in guardedly, wondering if you’re hiding your new girlfriend under the couch. Or maybe she’s already in your bed. She shuffles down the hallway to subtly peer into your bedroom, which is empty.
“What did you want to talk about?” Natasha isn’t one to dance around the elephant in the room. Besides, she doesn’t want to draw this out any longer than it needs to be.
“Oh. Um…” You sound caught off guard. “Well, I was thinking that–”
“You want to break up with me.” Natasha can’t stop the tears forming in her eyes. She wipes them away, angry at herself for showing such weakness already.
“What? What makes you think that?” Your shock is so genuine, Natasha almost wants to believe you.
Natasha hides her face behind her hand. “I saw it on your laptop last week. The kind of porn you were watching–”
“Porn? I use incognito,” you say. “Unless that doesn’t actually hide things…” you add in a mumble.
“Your search history said you looked up…” Natasha takes a breath. “‘Big busty blondes,’” she repeats, hating the way the words sound off her tongue.
“What?” You sound confused now. “That’s…I don’t watch that kind of stuff. Wait, is that why you dyed your hair blonde?”
“No,” Natasha lies. “But I saw it on your laptop!” she insists, hastily changing the subject.
You pause for a moment, then start shaking your head with a chuckle. “I’m gonna rip him a new one,” you mutter. Then louder, you explain, “Sam borrowed my laptop last week because his was broken. I’m guessing he used it to…you know…” Your expression turns into one of disgust, and Natasha matches it.
“Oh. So, you’re not into big busty blondes?” Natasha is embarrassingly desperate for clarification.
“No, I’m not.” You take a step towards her and hold out your hands. “But I do have a thing for hot redheads who could totally kick my butt.”
“I know,” Natasha says, taking your hands and leaning up to kiss you. Her lips lift into a smile when you return her kiss with more passion than you had all week, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her flush against you. You dig your fingers into her thighs, lightly rolling your hips, and when she feels your hard bulge against her stomach and all of her doubts are cast away immediately. Her face burns in shame when she realizes how quickly she had jumped to the wrong conclusion. You weren’t going anywhere. You were totally in love with her and wanted no one else.
“Wait, so what did you want to talk about?” Natasha asks, trying to ignore the arousal building in her core as you hump her.
“Oh! Um…” Your face reddens, as if you’re so turned on yourself you forgot why you asked her to come. “Uh…I wanted to ask if…you would like to move in with me? Or if I could move into your apartment? Or we could find a new place together…”
Natasha feels like she’s gotten whiplash from the subject change. She had come here thinking you were breaking up with her, but instead you actually wanted to move in with her? Just when she had thought it was never going to happen.
“Why the change?” she asks.
You shrug your massive shoulders. “We spend so much time together as it is. And I was mostly nervous because you know I have those night terrors a lot, but…” You sigh. “I realized I get them a lot less when I wake up next to you.” Natasha wants to melt in your arms. “And it would be really nice if I got to wake up next to you every day. And eat every meal with you. And–”
Natasha cuts you off with a hard kiss. “Yes,” she pants, groping for the tie on your sweatpants and pulling them down. “Of course I’ll move in with you.”
“Nat,” you whine when she grabs your cock. She feels it throb in her hand and her arousal spikes. As high as her own sex drive was, there was little else that turned Natasha on more than to see how excited you were for her. She pushes you towards the bedroom and you understand without needing words, obediently sitting down on your bed and pulling you on top of her. You grunt when her weight lands on your thighs and Natasha immediately props herself on her knees; sometimes she forgets about the injury on your right thigh that still causes you pain sometimes.
“Sorry baby,” she whispers while leaning in to kiss your cheek. It had been a long and sometimes frustrating journey to get back to the same level of intimacy the two of you shared after the deployment ambush and your recovery. The medicines you were on had drastically affected your mood (and performance) and there were still some positions you could no longer do because of the strain it put on your body. But Natasha had been patient and gentle with you, even when all she wanted to do was fuck you senseless. Over time your strength and stamina had come back, and Natasha was thrilled you could still please her in bed.
She leans back and takes her shirt off while you mirror her. You’re almost back to your weight as before the deployment, but the physical therapy has encouraged you to work out even harder, so you are more muscular and toned than before. Natasha eyes your body hungrily, her hand reaching out to trace the scar on your ribs. While she hates the memory attached to your scar, she can appreciate how much more badass it makes you look.
“Nat,” you say, and she breaks out of her thoughts. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes.” She pushes you to lie on your back, rolling her clothed lower body against yours. “Everything is very okay.” Her hands skate across your warm skin, squeezing your biceps before resting on your chest, balancing herself as she rocks back and forth. Even though you’re still wearing boxers, Natasha can feel the hardness of your dick pressing against her butt.
“All ready for me?” she hums, digging her nails lightly into your chest.
“Always,” you respond, rolling your hips to match her rhythm.
“Hmm.” Natasha contemplates how she wants you today. You almost never call the shots in bed, but you have no problem with Natasha taking control most of the time. She likes how submissive you are to her and your willingness to please her even at your own expense. But she isn’t feeling selfish today and wants you to relax and enjoy too.
Her body seems to have a mind of its own as she humps along your abs, eventually pushing her panties to the side so you can feel her heat on your stomach.
“Nat,” you whine, gripping onto her waist to guide her movements.
“Just let me ride you,” she says, lifting off of you for a moment to remove her panties completely, and the two of you moan when she settles back on you. You flex your abs until Natasha swears she could grate cheese on them. She angles her hips back and widens her legs so she can drag her pussy along the ridges of your abs, smearing her wetness everywhere. “Fuck, you feel so good, baby,” she moans.
“So do you,” you say, your hands tightening around her waist.
Natasha moves her hips faster, sliding back until she can feel your cock practically poking a hole through your boxers. She’s just warming herself (and you) up and doesn’t want to rush to the main event. But as she hears your whines and feels the tension in your body, all she wants is for you to flip her over and fuck her until she can’t walk.
“Can you do exactly what I ask you to?” Natasha pants, the building arousal in her stomach almost painful now.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, Sergeant. Whatever you want.”
The use of Natasha’s title makes her pussy clench around nothing. Her body aches for you and she’s done playing around.
“Good. I want you to get on your knees and fuck me,” she demands, abruptly climbing off of you and presenting her backside to you. You scramble to obey, wasting no time lining up your cock with her soaking pussy and pushing in eagerly. Natasha inhales sharply when your length stretches her out, filling her perfectly and reaching places she could never reach with her hand or a toy. When you start moving your hips, she whimpers and moans, gripping handfuls of the bedsheets so you don’t slam her into the headboard.
She spasms around you with every stroke, clenching tightly and trying to draw you in as deep as you can go. Natasha loves to hear you moan, knowing she was the cause of them, and more of her slick leaks out around your cock.
“Fuck, Nat,” you grunt, your thighs slapping against her butt with every thrust. “You always feel amazing.”
“Harder,” she begs. “I want you to cum when I do.”
“I’ll try,” you respond, your breathing ragged as you start to falter in your rhythm.
“Fuck, you’re in me so deep,” Natasha moans, wishing that despite your already above-average size, you had more to give her. She lets go of the bedsheets and slips her hand down between her legs, rubbing her clit for added stimulation. “Don’t you dare stop,” she warns, noticing the way your legs are shaking and your thrusts are losing their power.
“I won’t,” you whimper, and Natasha is not convinced you’ll be able to last much longer. Her hand glides back up to her stomach, where she can feel the bulge of your cock through her skin. That alone nearly sends her over the edge, but she has one more request from you.
“Bite me,” Natasha pants, motioning to her right trapezius muscle. Normally, she is very against you marking her during sex because she doesn’t want to worry about hiding them, but now she is panting at the thought of you finally staking your claim on her.
“Bite you?” you say, sounding extremely timid.
“Yes!” she growls, not wanting to repeat herself. “If you don’t bite me, I won’t let you cum.”
You moan and tighten your grip on her waist. Natasha feels your cock throbbing inside her, but she knows you won’t finish without her permission. The bed creaks as your weight shifts and she feels your chest press against her back as you lean over her. She hums in anticipation, feeling your breath across the back of her shoulder. Your teeth graze her skin lightly, your hesitancy obvious.
“Y/N,” she moans, pushing back into you and squeezing your length. “If you don’t fucking bite me–”
Your teeth suddenly clamp down sharply and Natasha keens, gushing around you and not even noticing you finish inside her. White spots of pure pleasure burst behind her eyelids and she feels cum drip down her thighs. It feels like she’s riding out the high forever, but when she finally unwinds, she feels your weight pressing into her back and a dull stinging in her shoulder. She twists her head to see the clear imprint of your teeth in her skin, the flesh reddening already.
“Sorry if that was too hard,” you say softly, as if you’re embarrassed by following her instructions.
“Nonsense,” she says, reaching behind her to cup the back of your neck. She pulls your head down against hers and nuzzles against your cheek. “Next time, you can bite me harder.”
