Summary: After too many times of not being around, the thin rope between you & Wanda finally snaps.
Pairing: post!CW!Wanda x gf!reader
WC/Tags: 2,084 / wlw breakup, argument, established relationship, Steve is bestie
A/N; for day one of @juneofdoom ‘stay down’ and happy pride month! Title from ‘Waco, Texas’ by Ethel Cain
Wanda hates arguing with you. She hates the tightness in her chest, the sharpness in her voice, the way even small words feel like sparks ready to ignite. She hates the silence afterward, the awkward distance, the guilt that settles heavy no matter who was ‘right.’ Even when she thinks she’s standing her ground, part of her wishes she could just turn, walk away, and let the tension fade, because nothing about arguing with you feels good, and she knows it never will.
Even though it’s clearly tense, the argument isn’t loud. That almost makes it worse.
Wanda comes home late again,third time this week. Her shoulders are tight, the skin under her eyes darker than usual. She smells faintly of sweetness and gunpowder, her nails chipped.
You wait up for her on the couch, half-asleep beneath a blanket with your eyelids heavy and your jaw slack.
“You shouldn’t have waited up,” she mutters as she drops heavily into the chair across from you.
You stare at her before stretching your arms with a yawn. “You said you’d be home hours ago.”
“It got busy.”
“It’s always busy, you’re always busy.” The words come out sharper than you intend.
She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t mean to be.”
You nod, because you know, and you get it. You always get it, always being the supportive, patient girlfriend.
You’re tired of always being the understanding one. Tired of biting back the sharp words, of swallowing your frustration so she doesn’t feel attacked. You carry the weight of patience like it’s a second skin, always explaining, always forgiving, always bending. And some nights, it burns, the way your own needs get lost beneath hers, the way being ‘understanding’ feels more like a job than love. You wonder if she even notices, or if this is just who you’re always going to be.
“I’m going to bed.” You stand up, the blanket falling to the floor.
Wanda watches you stand, the quiet thump of the blanket hitting the floor echoing in her chest.
She wants to say something, anything to make you stay. But her throat feels tight, like always when she’s tired and guilty and unsure how to fix things without making them worse.
Her fingers curl into her sleeves as she stares at your back. The house is too quiet now. Too empty for someone who just walked through a door five seconds ago.
You’re halfway down the hall when she finally whispers, “I'm sorry.”
You pause, glancing at her before looking at your sock covered toes. “Are you?”
Wanda stands, the chair creaking as she makes her way to you. Her arms slip around your waist, her face pressing between your shoulder blades.
“Of course I am,” she murmurs and for some reason this makes you angrier. “Baby, I’m sorry.”
You shrug her off, pushing out of her arms. The movement is quick, and she’s tired and unsuspecting, and Wanda loses her footing. She stumbles back, her eyes wide with shock, not from anger, but from the sudden rejection. She catches herself on the wall just in time, one hand slapping against it with a quiet thud. Her breath hitches. The air between you turns brittle.
“J-just stay down,” you whisper, blinking hard. “Just stay away.”
For a second, she doesn’t move. Just stares at you, and you see something new on her face. Not sadness or exhaustion, but hurt. Real hurt. That cuts deeper than any yelling ever could.
Her arms fall limp to her sides. No excuses come this time. No half baked apologies or kisses of reassurance. She glares at you, and you glare right back until you spin on your heel and walk away.
As you slip under the covers, you half wonder if she’ll come to bed or if she’ll sleep on the couch. You aren’t proud of what you did, how you touched her with anything less than adoration, but you’re too frustrated and tired to try and make peace with her. You shut your eyes, rolling over before begging sleep to take you.
Down the hall, Wanda stands frozen in the dim light. The house feels too big all of a sudden, too quiet, too cold.
She doesn’t go to bed.
Instead, she pads barefoot into the kitchen and fills a glass with water she won’t drink. She simply stares at as she repeats your words, the tiredness ebbing at her.
It has finally happened.
You have finally tired of her.
Her chest aches, not from work exhaustion or magic burn, but from being hated by you without understanding why.
She slips from your apartment like a ghost. Her hand shoved into her pocket, she shows up on Steve’s doorstep without notice, but he lets her in all the same.
“She’s done with me.” Wanda whispers as he hands her a mug. Her eyes drop to it, and he shrugs.
“It’s decaf,” he hums. “I just, like it when I’m thinking.”
“Ah.” Wanda takes a tentative sip.
“Did she really say that though?” He asks. “That she’s done?”
Wanda shakes her head, curling into Steve’s couch like a child, knees tucked up, mug cradled in both hands.
“No,” she admits quietly. “She didn’t say that.”
Steve waits. He always waits well.
The silence stretches, and Wanda stares at the steam rising from the decaf tea, wondering why someone would drink something so weak on purpose, and it makes her feel worse somehow.
“She pushed me,” she says finally. “I came home late again, and I smelled like smoke and sweat… and I was tired of being scolded.” Her voice cracks slightly. “So when she got mad, I just, kept trying and she snapped.”
She takes another sip, mostly to hide that her lip is trembling now.
“She shouldn’t have done that.” Steve mutters and Wanda puts down the mug.
“She’s harmless.”
“Still.”
“Do you know how easily I could hurt her?” Wanda snaps, and a muscle in Steve’s jaw ticks. “I could crack her spine with a twist of my wrist. I could make her lungs no longer expand. I could end her life without a blink.” her fingers are trembling as she speaks. “So if she wants to get a little mad at me not putting her first, she has every right.”
Steve doesn’t flinch, but his posture shifts, subtle, like a soldier bracing for impact.
He looks at Wanda, not with fear but something worse: disappointment. The kind that cuts deep because it comes from someone who genuinely cares.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “She has every right.”
A beat passes. The clock ticks on the wall.
Steve leans forward, elbows on his knees. “But you’re sitting here telling me how much damage you *could* do… and I don’t think that’s what this is about.” Wanda stiffens. Her breath hitches again, not in rage now, but shame creeping in like cold water under a door. “I think you both owe each other an apology.”
“She doesn’t want to see me right now.”
“Well when she does,” Steve probs. “It better be with an apology.”
Wanda gives a half hearted shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe. It just, it feels like it’s always like this. Like she’s…she’s so far from me and I can’t reach her anymore.”
Steve sighs, that deep, weary sound of a man who’s seen too many good people ruin things with silence and pride. He reaches over and gently takes the mug from her hands, still half-full, and sets it on the coffee table. Shifting, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her into a one-armed hug.
“I get it,” he says softly after a moment. “You’re tired of failing each other.” Wanda leans into him without meaning to, eyes stinging again, not crying yet, but close. “But if she’s pulling away… maybe you need to try harder when she is there.”
“I don’t want to lose her.” Wanda whispers, her cheek pressed to his shoulder.
“Then don’t.”
Wanda closes her eyes before inhaling. “It feels like I already am.”
Steve doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just holds her until her heart beats not so hard. The house is quiet, no TV or no music, just the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood settling.
He knows that tone, that whisper before breaking down. He’s heard it from soldiers returning from war zones, kids who lost parents too young, people on the edge of something they can’t fix alone.
And Wanda sounds like someone already grieving.
“You’re not losing her,” Steve says finally. “Not unless you stop trying. So go to her.”
A tear slips out then, one quiet traitor that rolls down her cheek into his shirt sleeve. Sniffing, Wanda nods. “Yeah. okay, you’re…you’re right.”
The walk home feels longer than the one leaving it. By the time she unlocks the front door, it’s nearly six in the morning, and she’s blearily tired. Dropping her keys on the counter, she makes her way to the bedroom, an apology already on her lips. She loves you, she needs you, but more importantly, you need to know that.
The door creaks as she walks in, and she says your name softly when she finds the sheets empty. Peering into the bathroom, she walks back out, wondering if she had missed you in the livingroom, but empty couches greet her. She checks the kitchen, and it’s then that she sees it.
The little folded note, a W written on the front.
Wanda freezes in the kitchen doorway, heart thudding.
The note is small, folded neatly into a square, placed right on the counter where she could see it. The W is written in your handwriting, slightly smudged like you wrote it quickly.
She picks it up carefully, fingers brushing the paper. It feels fragile somehow, like something that holds too much for its size. For a second, she just stares at it, the first sign of you since last night’s fight, and her breath catches. Then slowly, she unfolds it with quiet hands and begins to read what’s inside.
W,
We tried our best. I know we did, but this is too much. I’m too much. I should never have put my hands on you, and I am so sorry. It made me realize that I don’t know if I’m made for this life. The waiting, the worrying, it gets to me. But you are. The job is your life, and I understand. Know that I will always be proud of you. I just can’t be by your side. I left my key to your apartment in the sidetable drawer. I packed most of my things but whatever else is there, you can keep. Be safe always. I’m sorry.
Wanda reads the note once.
Then again.
And then a third time, slower this time, as if each word might disappear if she blinks too hard.
Her hands don’t shake, not yet. They’re numb. Cold. Her blood has turned to ice in her veins despite the warm kitchen around her.
I left my key.
You can keep whatever’s left.
The last line- Be safe always. Not I love you. Not See you soon.
It was a goodbye written by someone who thought they weren't allowed to stay anymore.
The note slips from her fingers and flutters quietly onto the counter like ash falling after fire burns. Her heart hammering, Wanda presses a palm to her sternum, trying to remember to breathe.
Sliding into a kitchen chair, she snatches up the letter and reads it again.
This time, the words hurt.
Not just sadness, pain, sharp and jagged, like someone had reached inside her chest and twisted.
She reads it a fourth time. And a fifth. Each reread feels worse than the last because she starts to understand: you didn’t leave in anger. You left quietly. Gently, even.
Like you were trying not to make it harder for her.
And that’s what destroys her, the kindness in your note despite how badly things ended between you two last night.
“I'm too much.”
Wanda swallows hard against the lump rising in her throat. Her eyes burn now, not with tears yet, but with something close to panic: you're gone.
You packed your things, you left your key. You wrote an apology letter like this was some polite breakup after years of marriage, but no, it wasn't even that far along yet.
A/n: this makes no sense and is hella rushed, but fuck it
Summary: All you wanna do for the summer is work as much as possible to avoid your new stepmother, no matter the cost on your body and mind. Your rich stepmother seems appalled by the idea, forcing you on a weekend getaway with her to... bond.
Wordcount: 4k
Warnings: Step-parent, the most unoriginal plot in existence, mommy kink, dom/sub, mock sympathy, pet names, praise kink, age gap (R=mid 20s, W=early 40s), smut, somnophilia, grinding, mild dub-con, humping, fingering, perv Wanda, rich people
The cracked handle of the broom is clutched loosely in your hand as you take in the massacre before you.
Countless cereal boxes are scattered along the floor, some slowly seeping out more work for you as pebbles and crumbs ooze from the broken plastic seals. Drifting in an ocean of Captain Crunch, Lucky Charms, and Cheerios, you get closer to the source of your interrupted break.
It seems that during your fifteen-minute lunch break, the cereal aisle exploded.
Clusters of cereal lie strewn along the floor with strange voids in the middle, like a shitty murder mystery, just that instead of a body being outlined by white tape, it was more like a blob monster drawn with Cheerios.
It wasn’t the first time either- this is the third time just this week that you’ve had to clean it up.
Safe to say, your workplace has a cereal killer on the loose.
The squeak of obnoxiously loud sneakers screeches to a halt on the opposite side of the murder scene. A shadow falls across the dire situation as murder suspect #1 completely disregards the mess in front of you. Instead, the boom of hands colliding with each other has you raising your brows in annoyance.
“Why are you just standing there? Come on, we need you at the registers, chop chop!” Kyle, your asshole of a manager, doesn’t waste a second to hear your response, already halfway across the room before you can open your mouth. His condescending clapping still echoing down the hall with his retreat.
If it weren’t for the fact that he always gave you the shifts you wanted, you would’ve made him the murder outline by now. However, as it stands, he’s the only reason you get out of the house as much as you do, so with a huff, you get to work.
To say your time back from Uni has been dull would be an understatement. The thought drifts somewhat loosely in your head as you clock out at the end of your shift. It’s late, the time trickling into midnight as you make your way across the parking lot.
Mindlessly kicking a rock around, it jumps over bumps and crashes against divots in the pavement. The gentle clatter of stone striking is suddenly overpowered by the honk of a car.
The air shifts, her presence layers itself like something tangible until it slathers against the inside of your throat. You can’t escape the jump of your pulse or the squeeze of your lungs as headlights illuminate you in the darkness.
You attempt an on-foot escape from the familiar Porsche closing in on you. Your shoe digs into your heel, the bent material has become a near-constant ache as it aggravates the blister that brewed long ago. A slick dribble of blood smears itself against your white sock, spreading until a ring of red peeks over the edge of your shoe.
The voice of your stepmother follows your hasty retreat, but your ignorance is short-lived as Wanda points an accusatory finger through her rolled-down window.
“Nuh uh, no avoiding me today, baby Bambi.” The pet name runs through you like a splash of cold water, sending chills down your spine as you freeze in your path.
Wanda points to the passenger seat, undeterred by your initial resistance. It has become a dance between you and your stepmother since you came home for the summer. She would insist that you both do something together, to bond or whatever, while you would take on extra hours and avoid her religiously.
She has tried to pick you up from work multiple times now, but you would pretend you didn’t see her, simply walking past or hitching a ride with a coworker.
You know it’s rude, but you’d rather be rude than admit that you have a crush on your own stepmother.
There is no telling how it festered, but since the moment you laid your eyes on her, she’s consumed you. The idea of spending more time with her than strictly necessary sinks like a weight into the pit of your stomach.
You’d rather she hate you than be disgusted by your perverted crush.
Besides, you are well over the age where you need to bond with your father’s partner. It’s not like it will last anyway, anyone with a pair of eyes can tell they married for business’s sake. Your father owns a rather lucrative business in the corporate world, a business that just so happens to have been your stepmother’s business rival until the two CEOs supposedly found love.
Yeah, love is what you would call the new car in your dad’s driveway and him stepping down to let Wanda handle both businesses.
There was no telling why she hadn’t left him yet.
Today would be another one of your elusive instances if it weren’t for the look she is giving you. It’s stricter than usual, with a tightness around her mouth and firmness in her eyes.
With a sigh, you climb into the passenger seat. A waft of rich perfume engulfs your tired frame. It creeps over your skin like a second layer, spreading the warm scent of cinnamon and cherry over your sweat-stained uniform. Wanda regards you with a strange fondness in her eyes as your slumped frame not so subtly leans toward her in pursuit of the smell's source.
Wanda is dressed more homely today, her blond hair slung into a side part and her face void of makeup. Even her clothing choice is far beyond the usual. You’ve gotten used to the blazers and form-fitting dress pants over the past few weeks, but today she’s in a simple white shirt coupled with some washed jeans.
The sluggishness of your exhaustion must be doing a number on you, as you don’t even realize you’re staring until a touch against your leg startles you.
A hand settles, palm up, on your thigh as she drives out of the parking lot. The shitty fabric of your work pants does little to diffuse the heat that radiates from her. A strange lump forms in your stomach at the thought of heat spreading elsewhere, as her patience seems to run thin. “Come on, hand it over.”
You blink in confusion, looking over to where her eyes stay glued to the road, in question.
She glances at you, a hint of amusement and something you’ve never seen on her, flashing across her features, “Your phone. You know the rules, honey.”
Ah right…
It was one of the weird things she had started implementing into your life.
The rules.
Most of them were fairly easy: keep your room clean, wash the dishes when it’s your turn, and help make dinner when you aren’t working. Then there were the stranger ones. Suddenly, you had a curfew at 10 pm outside of work hours, you weren’t allowed on your phone in Wanda’s vicinity, and only approved guests could stay over.
Knowing there is no point in making a fuss about it, you fish your phone out before dropping it gently into Wanda’s waiting palm. She opens the middle console and puts it in before leaning over slightly to pat your thigh in reward.
“Well done, darling. Thank you.”
The pet names are another odd addition to Wanda’s involvement in your life. Though they are always sweet, they make you squirm. People in your life never really use nicknames, or pet names, or anything other than your name when they are referring to you.
Wanda is an anomaly in your preferably predictable life.
The crunch of gravel beneath the tires lulls you out of your thoughts. The car drums gently atop the small rocks, some of them knocking against the rim in a soothing hiss that rings through the quiet car.
However, it does confuse you. The road back to your dad’s place doesn’t have any gravel roads. Now that you’re thinking about it, you're pretty sure Wanda is driving the wrong direction altogether.
“Where are we going?”
The slim silence while Wanda seems to ponder her wording makes a drop of sweat drip down your back, “My apartment. Your father is gone for the weekend, and I thought we girls should bond a little.”
Your sluggish mind takes a moment to catch up, merely staring at her, until it hits you like a slap in the face. Spending more time with her addicting presence is the last thing you should be doing. If Wanda had any sense in her, she would see why you avoid her and run for the hills.
“Wan-”
Her hand, not currently occupying the steering wheel, is in your face. Squishing your cheeks together harsher than necessary, Wanda tsks, “No. I don’t want to hear it. Is it really that horrible to spend time with me?”
Fingertips release you from her hold, instead, they glide softly along your cheek. It hypnotizes you, your need to comfort her is stronger than your will to stay away: “No, of course not.”
A happy hum is all you get before her warmth is gone, both hands on the wheel and eyes staying strictly forward as Wanda keeps driving. “Good. Then it’s decided.”
You sigh your agreement.
────୨ৎ────
A lone chair sits in Wanda's luxurious hallway. It’s the first thing you notice, its rich brown color absorbs some of the warm light filtering from above. It’s a stark contrast from the rest of the white hall.
Paintings are scattered across both sides of the hallway, the illustrations vary, some abstract pieces hanging above the coatrack while a far too explicit painting of a woman engaging in… some interesting acts… sits atop the door that you assume leads to the living room.
You squirm where you stand, twisting your fingers as blush crawls up your neck. Wanda’s soft chuckle directly behind you does little to diffuse the sudden tension tightening your stance.
“Come here.”
There is no time to react before Wanda pushes you onto that neat little chair.
The groan of wood falls on deaf ears as all your senses hone in on Wanda’s hands. Fingers slide against your knees, the pressure of her fingertips pushing against the stiff material of your pants before grasping your ankle. Words choke themselves, stuck as your stepmother inspects your bloodied sock.
Blond tresses sway against your exposed skin as she lifts your pants for a better look. A dried slab of blood clings to your skin, a smudge of red festering on the back of your shoe where the broken back resides.
A suspiciously handy med-kit resides under the chair, Wanda getting to work with a quiet, “Poor baby.”
You stay silent as she goes through the motions of cleaning your bloody blister before adding a silly-themed band-aid over it. Leaning back on her knees with one last pat to your heel, Wanda eyes your destroyed shoes before looking back at you.
“I fear those will have to go.”
You know she’s right: if not for your bleeding heel, then the fact that the soles are practically nonexistent by now. Still, you can’t help the tears that build in your eyes at the news. You know you’re just tired and being stupid, but you really like these shoes.
The thought of fighting against her words must flash across your face because Wanda clicks her tongue before you have the chance to open your mouth.
“Now now, I know you’re tired, but there is no reason to throw a tantrum, baby Bambi.”
A stunned stillness settles over you at her words, it’s infuriating how she belittles you, yet some small part of you blooms under the condescending tone that drips so sweetly from her tongue.
The pitter-patter of Wanda’s socked feet hitting the wooden flooring as she starts walking away from you almost has you on your knees begging for forgiveness before she stops.
Illuminated by the bathing light of the living room, Wanda stands directly under her unique art. The warm orange bounces against her loose curls, leaving a strange dreamlike effect as her words float around the far too empty space between the two of you.
“Now, come, it’s late and mo- and I don’t want more attitude in the morning.” The soft murmur of her voice fades away from you as she turns, leaving you to force your depleting strength into your muscles and dart after her at what you hope is an appropriate speed.
Wanda leads you into a guest room, leaving with a curt goodnight.
It all seems awfully rushed to you. You know it’s probably for the best, the mere sliver of affection she granted you today already having left an addiction buzz inside your head.
But you’re greedy.
You want more.
It’s the last thought you have before you succumb to the strangeness of tonight, drifting in an ocean of cinnamon and cherry as your head hits red silk.
────୨ৎ────
The cusp of darkness lies like a shroud above you as you wake up. Something is pushing toward you, heat engulfing your tired frame. Seconds tick by in a meaningless fashion before your mind catches up to the tickle of blonde tresses against your back.
It seems that sometime in the night, Wanda has come back for you. She cocoons around you, pushing in at strange intervals.
You almost ask her if something is wrong before a sound submerges your train of thought.
Wanda’s scattered breath weighs heavily in the air. Sounds you have never heard from her before now moaned directly into your ear.
It stuns you into silence as you focus on her movements.
Hips buck against your back, seeking pleasure in your unassuming form. Wanda grinds gently, like waves cruising along the coastline, back and forth in smooth motions. Her sleeping shorts ruffle on your lower back, bunching with the movement of her hips and pressing into you.
You can hear her breath grow heavier by the second, puffing against the shell of your ear. The last remnants of slumber burn away from you as your own breath hitches in your throat. You wonder what she’s dreaming about.
At least you think she’s dreaming…
The lips resting against your neck expose Wanda's pleasure as she moans silently, “Fuck, I can’t stop… Baby Bambi, fuck.”
The sound of her sends a shiver through you. She isn’t dreaming. Your stepmother is humping your sleeping form because she wants you.
Needs you.
You have to suppress the need to grind back into her desperately. It’s like a sickness, her desperation bleeding into your own as your breath grows quicker.
A hand sneaks beneath your t-shirt. The warmth of her palm travels up- up- up until she’s cupping one of your tits gently. Fingers circle the sensitive flesh of your nipple, not hard enough to rouse any real reaction, but constant enough for the wetness between your thighs to grow.
“You feel so good, baby Bambi.”
The ache in your chest explodes at her words, leaving you to pant against the sheets as you try to keep quiet. You fear what would happen if she knew you were awake, the thought of her stopping almost lets a whine slip past your slack lips.
Her other hand palms against your side now, gripping your hips lightly before braving the path down. She skims over your lower stomach, pushing you deeper against Wanda’s moving hips before she’s rubbing a teasing pressure against your underwear.
Two fingers rub in circular motions, only interrupted by her wild jerking. Wanda’s fingers drag a path across the sticky wetness of your pussy. She tests the stretch of your underwear, pushing against your opening before retreating and returning to your clit.
The bucking turns rougher, with sporadic jumps followed by a drawn-out “Baby, fuck-”
You squeeze your eyes shut, begging for the mercy of her mounting pleasure before you come in your panties, untouched, and reveal yourself. Instead, there is a murmur against your neck, something that sounds suspiciously like “fuck it,” before soft lips trail kisses against the back of your neck.
The movement of her hips stops, then her haughty voice breaks the newfound stillness: “I know you’re awake.”
For a moment, the world freezes as a thousand thoughts drift through your head.
Has she known the entire time?
Were you not supposed to wake up?
Is she mad at you?
But your inner panic is cut short as a thigh pushes itself between your legs. The warmth of her is a stark contrast to the wet patch sticking to the inside of your thigh.
Her hands shift to hold your hips firmly as she starts rocking you with her movement, surrendering you to her mercy as she drags you against the meat of her thigh. Your swollen clit strains against the soaked fabric of your underwear, the flimsy material the only hindrance between your flesh and hers.
“Let mommy take care of you, hm, what do you say, baby?”
A desperate keen is the only response she gets as she flips you.
The weight of a body pins you flat against the bed, coarse fabric pushing along your back as her chest settles atop you. Rougher hands lift until your hips wag in the air.
“You really thought mommy wouldn’t notice, baby?”
There is not a moment of wasted breath before your underwear is quickly pushed to the side and her fingers plunge into you. The naughty noise of wet squealing and your surprised moans bounce against the bedroom walls.
“Fuck, well done, baby Bambi, you take me so well.” The hair on the back of your neck drifts with her words as they blow over your skin. Wanda’s pushing against her hand, humping you as she fucks you roughly.
She grunts deeply, “Can mommy tell you a secret?”
The pads of Wanda’s fingertips rail against your sweet spot repeatedly, her words barely hanging on to meaning. She laughs at your pathetic cries, pushing your head further into the sheets. A pool of saliva turns the white fabric sheer.
Her moans grow in volume with your own, the both of you speeding toward pure bliss.
“Shit, I've been thinking about this for so long.”
Your skin surrenders to her teeth as they lodge into your shoulder.
“Ever since I first saw you, mommy knew you needed her.”
She forces your head to the side before she’s kissing you deeply, a tongue forcing its way down your throat. Wanda licks into you as if she's starving, drinking your spit like it’s one of her expensive wines. Her pace speeds up, hurling you toward pleasure faster than you can keep up.
The pressure in your stomach grows and grows, your crying spreading spit across both of your faces.
Wanda hushes you, “Oh, I know, baby, I know.”
“You’ve been working so hard trying to hide from mommy, haven’t you, baby Bambi?”
Her voice grows louder, hinting at how deeply she is affected by her own words.
“It’s why you’re going to quit your job and spend your time with me.”
The fingers inside of you are the only thing you can focus on as you moan your answer.
Wanda releases you from her hold, sitting up on her knees until she towers over your frame. The sweet bliss of your orgasm fades away as she takes her fingers with her. You whine, tears springing to your eyes as the taste of your denied relief sits strong on your tongue.
“Will you do what mommy tells you?
Your ass pushes against her crotch, a small cry of frustration the only sound you manage to make as she palms your ass. You twist your neck all the way to see her, her question going unheard as the sight of her licking your arousal off her fingers consumes you.
The pink of her tongue curls around her digits, dragging across the wet pads of her fingertips seductively slowly. Wanda holds eye contact all the while you watch helplessly, wanting nothing more than for the fingers to drive back into you. A moan rumbles from deep in Wanda’s throat, your answering whine going ignored as she refuses to touch you.
Wanda clicks her tongue, the mental timer ticking down to its end tally.
A slap rings through the bedroom like a gunshot, almost louder than the keening moan that tears through you.
It startles you enough to have words spilling out of you faster than you can comprehend them,
“Yes! Yes, whatever you want! Please, mommy, anything!”
You barely know what you’re saying. Your words are nothing more than nonsensical babble, but it must have made her happy because her fingers come back, railing you harder than ever before. Wanda is back to humping you too, pushing her fingers deeper as she grinds into you.
“There you go, good girl!”
You can’t hear her anymore, the pressure in your stomach is now balancing on a needle’s point. It’s overwhelming: the thickness of your desire choking you, and you begin to fight against her grip. You don’t know what you’re doing, your mind far away as your body fights the inevitable.
Her weight settles back over you as she shushes you gently, her words soft even as her fingers continue their drilling into your wet hole.
“Hush, baby, you’re okay. You’re okay, give in. You can give in now.”
You whine, a panicked noise your only response as the feeling inside of you reaches its limit. It feels like you’re going to explode, the feeling stronger than you have ever felt it before. It blisters inside you, festering onto every nerve, expanding the numbing pleasure from the tips of your fingertips and down to your toes.
Wanda pushes your face into the pillows, the suffocating lack of air, strangely enough, sending you flying over the edge. The loud moaning and jerking against your back tell you that Wanda came right with you.
It’s the last thought you have before the void plunges you in headfirst.
A hazy flicker of static hums inside you as you float far above your own mind. Dim lights simmer beneath your eyelids, a pattern of no sense or reason drawing across your mind like a gentle embrace. Warmth envelopes you, a soothing voice cooing at you while wetness and sweat are wiped away with soft hands.
You’ve just returned to your body when Wanda slides back next to you in bed—all resemblance of space a laughable notion now. Her voice drifts along your residual softness, “Well done, my beautiful girl. You’ll call your manager in the morning, and then we’ll talk. Let's sleep.”
Her palm brushes your cheek before she leans down to plant a sweet kiss atop the red flush. You hum your agreement, the previous conversation long gone from memory. But if it’s what mommy wants, then it’s what she’ll get.
Wanda wraps around you, her body curling into your own as her hand cups you carefully.
The town car arrived exactly on time. During the entire ride across the city, you couldn't sit still. Your legs bounced. You kept smoothing down your simple black hoodie and leggings, wondering if you should have dressed up more. Inside, you felt like a schoolgirl with a crush, nervous, thrilled, and a little dazed. This powerful, gorgeous woman wanted you again. At 5 AM. The memory of her thick cock stretching you open, her green eyes locked on yours, and the way she'd growled "good girl" kept replaying in your head, making you press your thighs together. The driver, a tall old man, spent the past few minutes humming to some popular song that had been playing on the radio while occasionally checking his rear view mirror. Maybe this was ridiculous. Were you really just about to go to a woman's apartment at 5 AM just because she fucked you good? Well, yes.
The car pulled up to Natasha's building which was a sleek, ultra-modern skyscraper made of glass and dark steel that screamed old money and power. Before you could even process it, the door opened and the driver held his hand out, waiting for you to accept it.
"Thank you." You mumbled softly before he escorted you inside. It was quiet inside the building, but you knew soon enough the hustle and bustle of 6 AM would come soon.
The lobby was visible through the towering floor-to-ceiling windows. Marble floors that gleamed under crystal chandeliers, minimalist leather seating, and massive abstract art pieces on the walls. It looked less like an apartment building and more like a private museum for the obscenely wealthy. You stepped inside, the cool air hitting your skin. The reception desk was a long, polished black marble counter. Behind it stood a tall, impeccably dressed blonde woman in her late 20s, sharp cheekbones, designer blouse, and an expression of practiced superiority. Her name tag read "Elena."
She looked you up and down slowly, taking in your casual hoodie, leggings, and the faint scent of club smoke still clinging to your curls. Her lips curled into a condescending smirk.
"May I help you?" she asked, tone dripping with fake politeness.
"This is a private residence. Deliveries and guests need prior approval." You straightened your shoulders, weight shifting to your other leg.
"I'm here to see Natasha Romanoff. She's expecting me." Elena let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. She checked her tablet, then looked back at you with open disdain.
"Miss Romanoff didn't mention any guests tonight. Especially not..." Her eyes flicked over you again.
"...Someone like you. Are you sure you have the right building, sweetheart?" The condescension was thick. Jealousy mixed with classist venom. It was clear this woman had been trying to get Natasha's attention for a while, and the idea of some random (curvy, beautiful and clearly not from their world) girl showing up at 5 AM offended her deeply.
Before you could respond, the private elevator dinged. Natasha stepped out like she owned the entire damn city. She was wearing a black silk robe loosely tied over what looked like grey sweatpants and a tank top, silver-streaked auburn hair tousled from sleep, or maybe lack of it, and those sharp green eyes immediately locked onto you with raw hunger. The robe did little to hide the heavy bulge already forming between her legs.
Elena straightened instantly, her voice turning sugary.
"Miss Romanoff, I was just telling this young woman that you-"Natasha didn't even glance at her. She crossed the lobby in long, confident strides, slid a possessive arm around your waist, and pulled you flush against her body. Her hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise as she leaned down and kissed you . It was deep, claiming, and completely unconcerned about the audience. You melted instantly, a soft whimper escaping into her mouth.
When Natasha finally pulled back, she kept her arm locked around you and looked at Elena with cool indifference.
"She's with me." Natasha said, voice low and authoritative.
"Always. Don't question her again." Elena's face flushed with embarrassment and jealousy, but she nodded stiffly.
"Of course, Miss Romanoff." Natasha didn't wait for more. She guided you toward the elevator with a firm hand on your lower back, almost possessive. As the doors closed, she pressed you against the mirrored wall, lips brushing your ear.
"I've been hard for hours thinking about you," she growled.
"Couldn't sleep. Needed to feel this pretty warm pussy again." You shivered, grinning giddily against her neck as the elevator rose.
The mean receptionist was already forgotten.
All that mattered was the way Natasha Romanoff couldn't wait until morning to have you again.
The elevator ride up was thick with tension.
Natasha kept you pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand gripping your hip possessively while the other tilted your chin up for another deep, hungry kiss. Her silk robe had slipped open slightly, and you could feel the heavy, hard length of her cock pressing against your thigh through the thin fabric of her sweats.
"I've been thinking about this tight little pussy since you left." she murmured against your lips, accent thicker with want.
"Couldn't even sleep properly." You shivered, heart racing with that same giddy, nervous excitement from the car ride.
This powerful woman, this older woman, had summoned you at 5 AM because she needed you.
The elevator doors opened directly into the penthouse. Your breath caught. You'd never seen anything like it. The space was massive and breathtaking. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the entire living area, offering a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline that made you feel like you were floating above the world. The lighting was low and warm, soft recessed lights and the glow of the city beyond.
Everything screamed quiet, expensive luxury.
Sleek modern furniture in deep charcoal and cream tones filled the open-plan space. A massive sectional that looked like it could seat twenty dominated the living area. In one corner stood a glossy black grand piano. A fully stocked bar with crystal glassware and expensive bottles glowed under subtle lighting. The floors were dark polished hardwood that felt cool under your sneakers.
It smelled like her , woody cologne, faint whiskey, and something undeniably powerful. Natasha watched your reaction with dark satisfaction, her hand never leaving your lower back as she guided you inside.
"First time seeing it properly." she said, voice low.
"What do you think?" You stepped further in, eyes wide, turning slowly to take it all in.
"It's... insane. Beautiful. Like something out of a movie." You let out a soft, disbelieving laugh.
"I feel like I shouldn't even be standing here in sneakers." Natasha's lips curved into a predatory smile. She closed the distance, sliding her arms around your waist from behind and pulling your back flush against her front. You could feel her hard cock pressing insistently against your ass.
"You belong here." she murmured, lips brushing your ear.
"I wanted you back the second you left. Couldn't stop thinking about how good you felt riding me. How pretty you looked with my cock buried inside you. The breathless sound you made just as you were about to cum, fuck. I want to hear it again." You whimpered softly, already wet. The contrast between the overwhelming luxury surrounding you and the raw hunger in her voice made your head spin.
Natasha didn't give you long to admire the view. She turned you around, picked you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you over to the huge sectional. She sat down and pulled you astride her lap, hands immediately sliding under your hoodie to grip your bare waist.
"Take this off." She ordered, already tugging the fabric upward. You obeyed quickly, pulling the hoodie over your head. Your full breasts spilled free, you hadn't worn a bra.
Natasha groaned at the sight, leaning in to suck one dark nipple into her mouth while her hands squeezed your ass.
"You're just so fucking perfect," she growled against your skin.
"This body has been driving me crazy for too many fucking days." You rocked against the thick bulge in her sweatpants, moaning softly. The city lights sparkled behind you through the massive windows as Natasha freed her heavy cock and pushed your leggings and panties to the side.
She didn't tease this time.She lined up and pulled you down onto her in one smooth, deep thrust, burying every thick inch inside you.You gasped sharply, head falling back as the stretch burned so good. Natasha's lips parted, eyes trained on those pink lips of yours. Her thumb pushed your bottom lip down, your tongue coming out to lick the digit. You maintained eye contact while you sucked her thumb and you could see the way Natasha swallowed thickly before she trailed that same thumb down your stomach, to your clit.
Natasha then gripped your hips tightly and started guiding you to ride her, deep and steady bounces that made your breasts jiggle and your ass ripple like water.
"Look at me." She commanded. You did. Those intense green eyes stayed locked on yours as she fucked up into you, the wet sounds of your pussy taking her cock filling the luxurious penthouse.
This was only your second time with her, but it already felt dangerously addictive.
And as Natasha pulled you down harder, growling "Good girl" while the city watched silently through the windows, you realized something thrilling:
You were already in deep.
—-
You woke up slowly, wrapped in the softest sheets you'd ever felt. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. A solid, strong body pressed against your back, one heavy arm draped possessively over your waist. The second was the view. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft morning light, painting the entire penthouse in golden hues. The city stretched out endlessly below, making you feel like you were floating in the sky.
You were in Natasha's bed. Memories from a few hours ago flooded back. Natasha fucking you on the sectional, then carrying you to bed and taking you again. So much slower, and so fucking deep, until you were shaking and moaning her name. Until you could feel her in your stomach, just hitting that spongy spot that made you see stars over and over again. She fucked you so good, you went silent, mouth opened in an "o" shape.
"Don't you dare look away. I want to see you." She whispered, telling you how she wanted to see you fall apart. You came so hard that moment, thigh lifting slightly while you let out a choked gasp. You'd fallen asleep with her still buried inside you.
Now, Natasha was awake. You could feel her watching you. Her fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare stomach, occasionally brushing the underside of your breast. Her thick cock was already half-hard, resting against the curve of your ass.
"Morning, gorgeous." she murmured, voice husky with sleep and that faint accent. She pressed a slow kiss to the back of your neck.
"Sleep well?" You turned in her arms to face her, suddenly shy under the bright morning light. Natasha looked devastating, her silver-streaked auburn hair messy, sharp green eyes soft with satisfaction, pale skin marked with a few faint scratches you'd left on her shoulders last night and earlier that morning.
"I... yeah." You whispered, a giddy little smile tugging at your lips.
"This bed is ridiculous. Everything here is ridiculous." Natasha chuckled lowly and pulled you closer, hooking one of your thick thighs over her hip. Her hand slid down to squeeze your ass possessively.
"You look good in my bed." she said, eyes roaming over your dark skin against her white sheets.
"I could get used to waking up to this." Your heart did a little flip. This was only your second night together, but the way she looked at you...like she didn't want you to leave, it made butterflies erupt in your stomach again.
Natasha leaned in and kissed you, slow and deep. The kiss quickly grew heated. Her hand slipped between your thighs, finding you already wet for her again.
"You're just so greedy huh?" she teased against your lips, sliding two fingers inside you easily. "Even after I fucked you twice last night, your pussy, she just gets so wet." You moaned softly, rocking against her hand and pulling it closer to guide her movements.
"Can't help it... you feel too good." Natasha rolled you onto your back and settled between your spread thighs. She pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at the tight heat. This time it was lazy morning sex , deep and slow rolls of her hips, eyes locked on yours the entire time.
"Fuck, you take me so well." She breathed, forehead pressed to yours.
"This pretty wet pussy was made for my cock."
You wrapped your legs around her waist, nails digging into her back as she fucked you steadily. The morning light illuminated every detail. The way her silver hair caught the sun, the flex of muscle in her shoulders, the intense focus in her green eyes as she watched you fall apart. When you came, it was soft and shuddering, a quiet moan of her name leaving your lips. Natasha followed right after, burying herself deep and filling you with warm cum as she groaned against your neck.
She stayed inside you afterward, holding you close while the city woke up far below.
"I want you to stay longer today." she said quietly, brushing curls from your face.
"Cancel whatever you had planned. Let me feed you breakfast. Then maybe fuck you in the shower." You laughed breathlessly, still floating from the orgasm.
"You're not tired of me yet?" Natasha's expression turned serious. She cupped your cheek, thumb stroking your skin.
"Not even close," she murmured.
"I told you, I don't do this, inviting someone back the very next night. But with you... I can't seem to stop." Your heart swelled with that giddy, dangerous feeling again. You were falling fast. Too fast.
But lying here in her bed, full of her cum, wrapped in her arms while the morning sun warmed your skin... you couldn't find it in yourself to care.
"I'll stay, just cause you promised me pancakes." You whispered, leaning up to kiss her.
Natasha smiled against your lips. Slow, satisfied, and just a little possessive. Her arms wrapped around you, rough calloused digits tracing your back.
"Good girl."
—-
You left Natasha's penthouse around 11 AM.
She'd tried to convince you to stay longer by offering breakfast in bed (which you gladly took) and another round in the shower (messy, long, steamy and no not from the hot water). Natasha even suggested you cancel your plans for the entire day. But you needed a moment to breathe. Your body was deliciously sore, your mind was spinning, and you still smelled like her cologne and sex.
The town car dropped you off at your modest apartment building. The contrast was almost comical, going from a sky-high glass palace with marble floors and city views to your small one bedroom with creaky floors and a kitchen that barely fit two people. You kicked off your converse, collapsed onto your couch, and stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, replaying everything. Then you grabbed your phone and opened your messages with Anna.
You two had a strict "no TMI" policy. Nothing was off-limits.
You
Girl. I need you to sit down. I just left someone's penthouse. Like... 5 minutes ago.
Anna's typing bubble popped up instantly.
Anna
BITCH WHAT. Who??? You better not be talking about some random club guy. Spill RIGHT NOW.
You bit your lip, grinning as you typed, still feeling that giddy, floaty feeling in your chest.
You
Her name is Natasha. She's kind of a Silver fox. Late 40s/early 50s. Rich as hell. Like... stupid rich.
You paused for a moment, grinning like some teenager.
You
She has a penthouse that looks like it belongs in a movie. Floor to ceiling windows, grand piano, the whole thing. I felt like I didn't even belong there in my sneakers. I kinda met her at that gig you gave me and well we talked but nothing happened.
Anna
Hello!!?? That was a while ago
You
I'm not done. So then, a few weeks later I saw her at the club and she was watching me. She paid like a lot of money for me to dance for her. But the two weeks after that, she came back and asked for a full night performance and I guess we kind of fucked.
Your cheeks began to heat up from the memories. You even kicked your legs like some lovesick teenager.
Anna
Kinda??? And then what?! Don't leave me hanging.
You
We fucked okay. Anna, the dick is LIFE CHANGING. Thick, curved, she knows exactly how to use it. I rode her on her couch the first night. She fucked me twice more before I left this morning. I can literally still feel her inside me rn.
You sent a string of flushed-face emojis.
Anna
HOLD TF UP. You went home with a rich white woman. A WHOLE DAY AGO and you're just now telling me???
You
I was busy.
Anna
Well know I know why. Details. Measurements if possible. Is she a top? Does she eat pussy? I need the full report!!!
You laughed out loud in your quiet apartment, cheeks burning as you typed back.
You
She's a top. Very much a top. She ate me out like she was starving. Made me come so hard my back arched off the bed for a long moment. And she's so possessive but in this hot, controlled way. Woke me up this morning by pulling me on top of her and fucking me slow while staring into my eyes. Told me she couldn't stop thinking about me and wanted me to stay longer.
Anna
Woah
You
Anna... I'm scared of how much I already like her. Like, stupid giddy. I was smiling the whole car ride home like some idiot
Anna
Babe. This sounds like danger. Rich older woman who fucks like a god and lives in a sky palace? Red flags but also... live your best life??? But be careful. Make sure she's not just playing games. Also send pics of the penthouse next time if you can 😂
You smiled, hugging a pillow to your chest.
For the first time, you had someone in your life who felt bigger than just a client or a one-night stand. And telling Anna about it made it feel real.
You
I'll be careful. But... I think I'm gonna see her again. Soon.
Anna
Of course you are. Just don't fall too fast, babe. Keep me updated on that silver fox dick tho.
You put your phone down, still grinning like a fool. Even back in your small apartment, surrounded by your normal life, you could still feel Natasha's hands on your body and hear her whispering "good girl" in your ear.
And you knew that this was only the beginning.
—-
Natasha Romanoff didn't do this. She didn't just invite women back to her penthouse the very next night. She didn't text at 4 AM because she couldn't stop thinking about someone or how they sounded when they laughed. And she certainly didn't spend the entire morning after watching her sleep with a stupid, soft smile on her face. Yet here she was. Still thinking about you.
After you left, Natasha stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand, staring out at the city. She was now wearing only her silk robe, your scent, coconut, vanilla, and sex was still clinging to her skin. She couldn't stop replaying it. The way you'd looked riding her on the couch that first night. The surprised, breathless sounds you made when she filled you. How your right thigh lifted when you came. The shy but glowing smile on your face when you woke up in her bed this morning. Natasha was in trouble.
Her phone buzzed. A group chat.
Carol
Brunch? I'm in town for 48 hours.
Wanda
I'm free. Natasha, you better not be working.
Natasha sighed and typed back.
Natasha
My place. 1 PM.
Two hours later, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff were sprawled across her sectional like they owned it. Carol, blonde and athletic in jeans and a leather jacket, was nursing a mimosa. Wanda, with her soft red hair and knowing green eyes, was curled up with a cup of tea.
They both noticed something was off immediately.
"Well you're glowing." Wanda said, tilting her head with a small smirk.
"And you have that 'I got laid and it was good' look. Spill." Natasha leaned against the kitchen island, arms crossed.
"It's nothing." Carol barked out a laugh.
"Bullshit. You never invite us over last minute unless something's up. Who is she?" Natasha was quiet for a moment, then sighed.
"Her name is... y/n" she said, the name feeling intimate on her tongue.
"Shes young and so beautiful. Curves that should be illegal. She was waitressing at the Harrington event a couple of weeks ago. Some assholes were being rude to her. I shut it down... and then.."Wanda's eyebrows rose.
"You took a waitress home didn't you?"
"No!" Natasha frowned.
"That night we were at the club."
"What club?"
"The time Rio lost the bet and we went to the strip club, I saw her again. She's a dancer."
Carol grinned.
"You fucked the stripper didn't you?" Natasha shot her a look.
"How did you-"
"Because you have that 'I can't stop thinking about her' face," Carol said, pointing.
"The same face you get when you're closing a deal you're obsessed with. Except this time it's a person." Wanda had placed her drink down, her attention was now solely focused on the redhead.
"You guys had sex?"
"Yes."
"With the stripper?"
"Wanda she's more than just a stripper." Natasha murmured after taking a sip from her wine glass.
"And you like her?" Wanda asked and Natasha paused before nodding.
"Fuck. I think I do." Wanda leaned forward, more gentle.
"You like her." She repeated, softer this time.
Natasha ran a hand through her silver-streaked hair.
"I do." She admitted quietly.
"More than I should after two nights. She's... different. She's got this fire. She's just..."
"Indescribable." Carol finished and Natasha nodded.
Wanda's expression softened with understanding.
"Sounds like you're falling, Nat." Natasha didn't deny it. She just stared out the window, a small, rare smile tugging at her lips.
"She makes me feel... greedy. Like I want all of her time. All of her attention. I want to spoil her. Protect her from the assholes at that club." She let out a breath.
"It's only been two nights and I'm already thinking about when I can see her again."
Carol clapped her on the shoulder.
"Then stop overthinking and go get your girl. You deserve something real for once." Wanda nodded.
"Just be careful. Don't scare her off with the full Romanoff intensity too fast." Natasha chuckled, but her mind was already drifting back to you, wondering what you were doing right now, if you were sore, if you were thinking about her too.
She was falling. And for the first time in years, she wasn't sure she wanted to stop. Age be damned.
—-
You were lying in bed, freshly showered, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt. Your body was still tender. Your thighs sore, pussy faintly throbbing from how thoroughly Natasha had fucked you that morning. Every time you moved, you felt the ghost of her thick cock stretching you open. Your phone lit up.
Natasha
Tell me you're still thinking about me.
You bit your lip hard, a rush of heat flooding between your legs
You
How could I not? I can still feel you inside me.
Natasha
Good. I've been hard for the last hour just remembering how you looked riding me this morning. That pretty puffy pussy taking every inch. The way your thighs just kept lifting every time you came.
You squirmed on the bed, pressing your thighs together.
You
You're dangerous. I'm literally wet again just reading this.
Natasha
Send me a picture.
Your heart raced, heart slamming against your ribs . You hesitated for half a second, then angled your phone down. You pulled your shirt up, spread your thighs, and took a quick photo , showing your slick, puffy pussy still slightly swollen from earlier. Fuck it.
You sent it.
Natasha
Fuck. Look at that pretty pussy. Still leaking my cum? I should've kept you in my bed all day. Should've fucked you until you couldn't walk.
You
I'm sore but I want more. You ruined me for anyone else already.
Natasha
That's the plan.
You let out a shaky breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard as heat pooled low in your belly.
You
You're really trying to make me touch myself tonight, huh?
Natasha
Shouldn't have to try. You're already soaked just from texting me. Tell me the truth, are you touching that pretty pussy right now?
Your hand had already slipped between your thighs without you realizing. You bit your lip harder and typed with one hand.
You
...Yes.
You paused before continuing.
You
I'm so wet. Can't stop thinking about how deep you were this morning.
Natasha
Show me.
Another picture request. Your heart hammered as you spread your legs wider, angled the camera, and snapped a new photo, this one showing two of your fingers glistening with your slick, your swollen clit peeking out. You sent it.
Natasha
Fuck, look at you. You're such a needy little thing. Playing with that pussy while thinking about my cock. I want you to fuck yourself with those fingers and pretend it's me stretching you open.
You moaned softly in the quiet of your room and pushed two fingers inside yourself, eyes fluttering shut as you imagined her thick length instead.
You
Feels so good but not enough... I need you. Want you to bend me over and fuck me until I can't walk straight.
Natasha
Careful, beautiful. Keep talking like that and I'll come over there right now and ruin you all over again.
You
And what if I want that?
Natasha
Oh baby, I want those thighs shaking while I pound you. Want to hear you moan my name until your voice gives out.
You were breathing harder now, fingers moving faster as you read her messages.
You
Please... I'm so close. Tell me what you'd do to me.
Natasha
I'd pin you down on your back, spread those thick thighs wide, and slam every inch into you. I'd fuck you hard and deep until that pretty wet pussy is creaming all over my cock. And then I'd flip you over and fill you up while you're still shaking for me.
That pushed you over the edge. You came with a choked moan, thighs trembling, fingers buried deep as your pussy clenched and pulsed. You snapped one last blurry, post-orgasm picture, your fingers shiny and your pussy visibly wet and twitching , and you sent it.
Natasha
Jesus Christ.
She typed for a moment before the bubbles disappeared. Then they reappeared.
Natasha
Good girl. Such a perfect, messy little slut for me. I'm so fucking hard right now. Tomorrow night. After your shift. My car will be waiting.
Natasha
And you'd better not be wearing any panties.
You smiled breathlessly, still coming down from your high.
You
Yes, ma'am. I can't wait.
Natasha
Get some rest, beautiful. You're going to need it.
You locked your phone and stared at the ceiling, heart racing and a stupid grin on your face.
This woman was going to be the death of you.
And you were already counting down the hours until you saw her again.
—-
The club was packed, but the second you spotted her in the VIP booth, everything else faded.
Natasha sat like she owned the place — legs spread, black suit tailored perfectly to her powerful frame, silver-streaked auburn hair catching the lights. Her green eyes were locked on you with intense, burning focus. She wasn't smiling. She was watching every move you made like a predator. So you danced for her.
Every roll of your hips, every arch of your back, every slow, filthy grind against the pole, it was all for her. You caught her gaze during a deep dip, biting your lip as you rolled your body back up. Natasha's jaw clenched. Her hand tightened around her glass. You winked before moving again.
By the end of your set you were soaked and buzzing. You grabbed the last of the money before walking off to the empty dressing rooms. You barely had time to step into your dressing room before the door opened behind you.
Natasha stepped in, locked the door, and had you pinned against the vanity in seconds. Her mouth crashed into yours, hungry, possessive, and almost angry.
"You danced like a fucking tease." She growled against your lips, hands already yanking your emerald bikini top down.
"Shaking that perfect ass for them. Letting every worthless man in here stare at what's mine."
You moaned into the kiss, grinding against the very obvious bulge in her slacks. When she pulled back for air, you looked up at her, breathing hard, and took her wrist.
"Yours?" you challenged, voice breathy but defiant. You guided her hand down your body, pushing it under the waistband of your tiny bikini bottoms until her fingers pressed against your dripping, swollen pussy.
"Yours?" you repeated, guiding two of her fingers to rub slow, firm circles over your clit.
"You sure about that already old woman?Natasha's eyes flashed with dark heat. She pushed both fingers deep inside you without warning, curling them hard as she pressed you back against the vanity.
"Yes," she snarled, fucking you roughly with her fingers.
"This pussy is dripping for me. Not for them. Mine." You gasped, head falling back as she pumped her fingers fast and deep, thumb rubbing your clit. Your thigh started to lift and tremble against her hip as pleasure built fast.
Natasha hooked her arm under your thigh, holding it up higher so she could watch it shake while she finger-fucked you.
"That's it," she growled.
Look at this pretty thigh trembling for me. Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your pussy knows where home is too."
You came hard with a broken cry, pussy gushing around her fingers, thigh shaking violently in her grip. Natasha kept working you through it, then pulled her fingers out and spun you around.
She bent you over the vanity, freed her thick cock, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust.
You cried out, gripping the edge as she immediately started pounding you hard from behind.
The mirror showed everything. Your breasts bouncing, Natasha's face dark with lust as she watched her cock disappear inside you over and over.
"Say it." She demanded, one hand fisting your curls, the other slapping your ass hard.
"Tell me who this pussy belongs to."
"Yours." You moaned, voice breaking.
"It's yours, Nat-" She thrust deeper.
"Who's? I didn't get that." Another rough thrust.
"It's yours Nat." She fucked you harder, deeper, until you came again with a silent scream, thighs shaking uncontrollably. Natasha buried herself to the hilt and came with a low groan, flooding you with thick, hot cum.
She stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting. Then she leaned down, kissing the back of your neck almost tenderly while still buried deep.
"Mine." She whispered and you smiled breathlessly.
"Yours."
Hi there! It's been a while, colleges been kicking my ass but I'm coming back soon. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it. Don't scroll too fast, you just might miss out on some good things ;)
Overall Summary: For two years, you've been working two jobs just to afford rent and tuition after leaving home at eighteen. Finally, after surviving community college, you're a junior in university. But with a mandatory internship required to graduate, you stumble into the corporate world of Romanoff-Maximoff Global, where you’re determined to keep your head down and struggle on your own, just as you have become accustomed to. How will Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff teach you how to choose yourself?
Word Count (For this Chapter): 7k
Warnings (For this Chapter): Financial struggles, dash of religious trauma, mentions of a past relationship, dash of an ED, past emotional abuse, unsafe living environment
A/N: as you can probably tell by the warnings, this isn't like the usual fluffy one-shots that I post. Sorry! I don't delve very deep into the warnings mentioned in this chapter, but just so you're aware. You can also read this on AO3 if it's easier. Link in Masterlist.
—
You open your eyes to the muffled sound of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it wakes your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster. It feels like you only slept for a few minutes. It was dark when you fell asleep. It’s still dark now.
Exhaustion weighs you down, pinning you to the mattress. The only sound is your own breath—even, but resigned. Twenty-five minutes to get ready. A fifteen-minute bus ride. A ten-minute walk to the coffee shop. That leaves ten minutes to spare before your shift.
You turn your head and reach out. Cold air hits your forearm, raising goosebumps. You want to pull back into the warm safety of the sheets, but you keep moving.
Life won’t stop for a few more minutes of comfort.
Your fingertips find the notebook on your desk. Feeling the cover, you trace the indents where your pen pressed hard against the paper. The grooves grow shallower until they vanish completely. That must have been around midnight, when you grew too tired to write.
Today feels impossible. But you’ve felt that way for the past two years, and you’re still here.
With a heavy sigh, you push off the desk and the hard mattress to force yourself upright. The chill bites at your bare neck. Someone forgot to turn on the heat. The house is eerily quiet without the familiar rattle of the vents. You swing your legs out of bed, your feet hit the icy floorboards before sliding into your slippers. It feels like your body is creaking with every step. You unlock your door and step into the hall.
The hum of the refrigerator greets you. Across the hallway, a sliver of light glows under your roommate's door. Still awake. You step quietly into the shared bathroom, gingerly closing the door before flicking on the light.
The mirror doesn't lie. You look tired. The bags under your eyes are puffy. Your shoulders droop. Your lips rest in a flat, neutral line, lacking the energy to pull upward or down. You look away, focusing on your designated shelf of toiletries. It’s becoming harder to look at yourself. It’s not just the four hours of sleep. It’s not the coffee shop shift, followed by classes, followed by the restaurant shift. It’s not the homework waiting for you tonight, or the fact that you have to do it all again tomorrow.
It’s a soul-deep tiredness. A day off won’t fix it.
You chose this, you remind yourself, forced to look back at the glass. Choosing to struggle was your decision. The first real decision you ever made for yourself.
You brush your teeth and wash your face, praying the routine wakes you up. While applying moisturizer, you force your lips into a smile. You practice it over and over, tailoring it for a future customer because you can’t bear to actually smile at yourself. You turn to leave, but your reflection catches your hair.
Disarray.
You grab your brush, meticulously forcing every misplaced strand into place. It has to be perfect.
“When you go out looking like that, you’re embarrassing me and yourself.”
Your mother’s voice echoes in the quiet bathroom. It shouldn’t bother you anymore. You left. But the words stayed behind, hiding in your head, waiting to strike whenever your shirt is wrinkled, or a blemish appears on your cheek, or your posture begins to slouch.
You step out into the hall once you’re satisfied—or at least as satisfied as you can be.
Back in your room, you flick on the light. You’re still not used to this space, but you forgive yourself since it’s only been three months. It could be worse. The room holds just enough space for your single bed, a wooden desk, a chair, and a small cabinet for your clothes. It’s a far cry from your room back home.
Home. You shake your head. This is your home now. Your parents' house belongs to them. It was never truly yours.
You reach for the clothes you set out last night, folded neatly at the edge of the mattress. A simple black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of jeans. You slip them on, looking down. The denim hangs looser than before.
Did you forget to eat again yesterday? It would explain why you feel especially hollow today.
You step into your sneakers and lace them up. Your hands shake almost imperceptibly. It’s such a common sight by now that you don't even care. You slide the notebook into your backpack, sling it over your shoulder, and grab your phone.
Stepping into the hall, you pull the door shut and lock it with your key. Your housemates seem like good people, but good people have disappointed you before. Plus, with ten other people sharing the house, you aren’t taking chances.
The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. You take measured steps, trying not to break the silence. Pulling the heavy front door open, you step outside, and listen for the click of the automatic lock behind you.
You check the time. The bus should arrive the moment you hit the corner. The late autumn chill bites at your skin, shocking some of the exhaustion out of your system. You blink rapidly, forcing yourself awake.
The bus arrives promptly. Only two other passengers are aboard—faces you’ve started to recognize. Taking your usual seat near the front, you rest your backpack on your lap and lean your head back. You watch the streetlights pass in a blur, bracing yourself for the first challenge of the day.
—
The streets are still quiet as you walk the ten minutes to the coffee shop, where warm lights greet you against the backdrop of darkness. You greet your two coworkers warmly, falling into the familiar chatter and complaints about how tired you all are.
Gathering your hair, you pull it into a ponytail. You check the tie meticulously, ensuring no stray strands hang loose. You comb your fingers through the ends before smoothing a hand down the front of your shirt and grabbing your apron off the coat hooks.
Glancing up, you find your coworkers watching you with mild amusement.
“You’re always so careful about your appearance," one of them says. "Girl, you’re pretty, don’t stress so much.”
It would stress me more if I weren't careful, you think.
“I have to make sure I look good. It’s not for me, I’m doing it for you two,” you say with a practiced laugh. “Gotta maximize the tips.”
They laugh along with you as you head toward the front counters where opening tasks await. Your smile slowly fades the moment they look away. As they talk about recent pop culture events, you just nod whenever they look to you for an opinion.
—
You’re three coffees in by the time the morning rush ends. Your brain is running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the pure need to survive. The three of you lean against the back counters with exaggerated exhaustion.
You only have fifteen minutes left of your shift. The rush to your classes is always tight, but you’ve been making it work.
A phone chimes. One of your coworkers pulls it out, checking the screen. “Ugh,” they groan. “Luke just said he’s going to be an hour late for his shift.”
Cold panic pricks at your chest. Luke is your replacement.
Both of them turn to you, expectation heavy in their eyes. “Can you please stay until he gets here?”
You can’t. The gap between your shift and your first lecture is already cutting it close. Staying forty-five minutes past your time means accepting that you will walk into the lecture room in the middle of the class. It means everyone turning to look at you.
“Yeah, of course,” you respond, the words leaving your mouth before you can even think to stop them.
They cheer beside you, patting your back. You smile along with them as if it’s no sweat.
Internally, you fight to breathe. You ignore the way your heart rate spikes, your breath turning quick and shallow. The sheer physical strength required to keep the fake smile on your face grows heavier by the second.
This feeling has been happening more often lately. It hits whenever you think about pending assignments, your rent, your tuition, or even what you’re going to eat.
But it isn’t anxiety. It can’t be.
Your parents always told you anxiety was impossible—a made-up excuse. They said you just needed to be mentally stronger. Your ex-boyfriend had said the exact same thing. You just need to get over it.
He had told you to ignore most of the problems you confided in him with, and back then, you listened. He was the last real relationship you had been in, and his words still carried a heavy weight you were desperately working to outrun.
He was also the last relationship you had before you finally realized that romance wasn’t strictly exclusive to a man and a woman—no matter how deeply your parents had convinced you of it your entire life.
Yet, somehow, a part of you still believed them despite everything. You still worry your own mental fortitude is the real problem.
So, you ignore it. You ignore it even when your hands shake as you pour a latte. You ignore it when your voice wavers against the violent drumming of your pulse in your throat. You ignore it because you have no other choice. You have to continue.
—
It feels like ages before Luke finally arrives with an apologetic smile. You assure him it’s fine, grab your backpack from the breakroom, and bid your coworkers goodbye.
A frantic sprint pays off. You hit the curb just as the bus pulls up.
Boarding, you tap your foot anxiously against the floor. You pull your hair loose, shaking it out and combing your fingers through the strands to recreate the perfection from hours ago. It’s a clumsy, difficult task. Your hands still refuse to listen to orders. You won't have time to change clothes in the campus bathroom today. The scent of espresso and steamed milk will follow you until your restaurant shift tonight.
For a split second, you consider skipping. No. You shake your head, disgusted by the thought. You haven’t taken shortcuts yet. You didn't work countless grueling hours to pay for tuition for this term just to skip. You have to succeed.
Though lately, the definition of success has begun to waver. What does it even mean anymore? Getting the degree? Landing a job? Getting married?
The bus brakes at the university. Pushing up from your seat, you sling your backpack over one shoulder, thank the driver with a warm smile, and sprint toward your lecture hall.
You ease the heavy door open, praying none of the hundred students notice you. A few heads turn briefly before pivoting back to the board. You slip into a seat in the very back row, closest to the exit. Dropping your bag, you pull out your notebook.
Look up toward the projector screen, your eyes lock with the professor's instead. He glares at you with a heavy, disapproving expression before looking away. You bite the inside of your cheek, hard, and pick up your pen.
The sound of quiet whispers and light giggles drifts up from the row below. A small group of students are conversing with bowed heads, trying to hide bright, genuine smiles.
It’s been a long time since you actually enjoyed school. A long time since you weren’t just going through the motions.
Watching one of the students clap their friend on the shoulder, a sudden flood of memory hits you. The sterile hallways of your old high school flash in your mind. Two familiar people stand on either side of you.
Yelena and Kate.
Kate has her arm slung over your shoulder, leaning in close to whisper a joke about Yelena, knowing full well she can hear her. Yelena flicks Kate’s forehead in retaliation, and the three of you burst into laughter.
Your second year of high school feels like another lifetime. The memories with the two of them are like a dream. You would be lying if you said you didn’t think about them. You miss Kate tripping over her own shoes, and Yelena making sure she never lived it down for the rest of the day. You miss being in the middle of it all, pulling Kate off the floor and telling Yelena to play nice, only to secretly laugh about it with her later.
You smile wryly despite yourself, the professor's voice fading into background static as you drift deeper into your own mind. Every single memory with the two of them was happy.
Except one.
On the day the three of you graduated, the air was full of laughter and flying caps. You hugged them tightly as they chattered endlessly about the future. Kate had paused, turning to look at you, asking why you hadn’t been chiming in.
Behind your practiced smile, you were suffocating.
They didn’t know your parents hadn’t shown up to watch you cross the stage. They didn’t know you had left your house key sitting on the empty kitchen table that morning. They didn't know every single thing you owned was packed into the trunk of your car—the same car you were scheduled to sell tomorrow just to afford the deposit and first month's rent on a cramped apartment.
They didn't know you weren’t going to university with them.
It was always assumed the three of you would go to the same university. You were supposed to survive the crowded dorms for the first two years, then find an apartment together for the remaining two. That was the original plan.
But things changed. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe it was always going to end up exactly like this.
Instead of telling them the truth, you told Kate you were just tired from staying up late from excitement. You hid your hands inside the long sleeves of your graduation gown—concealing the white bandages where rough cardboard boxes had dried and cracked your skin during the midnight move.
How could you tell them it felt like you were falling apart? Not when they were smiling so happily. Not when you knew exactly what they would do if they found out. They would offer to help financially.
But you were the one who made the decision to leave home. You chose to forfeit your parents' financial support. You made the decision to go to community college because it was more affordable. You made the choice to struggle, and you had to live with it.
Accepting their help would make the sacrifice meaningless. Letting them worry, letting them give you an easy way out, would only make you waver. And you couldn't afford to waver.
The sound of students rising from their chairs breaks you out of your memories. A few give you small smiles as they pass.
Other students had tried to talk to you over the past few weeks, tried to build a friendship, but it always felt impossible. You were good at the polite smiles, the fake laughter, blending into conversations with effortless ease. But you never felt that same deep familiarity and comfort you had shared with Yelena and Kate. Friendships after them had only disappointed you, leaving quiet scars that still stung to this day.
Instead of lingering for small talk, you gather your things and walk toward the crowded food hall. You scan the racks of snacks, eventually picking up two granola bars that happen to be on a promotional deal.
A burst of bright laughter and a fiercely familiar accent make you freeze mid-breath.
In your peripheral vision, you catch a flash of brown hair and blonde hair walking shoulder-to-shoulder. You whip your head around, your eyes desperately scanning the space, but the image vanishes. There are only a dozen unfamiliar strangers moving past in a dense crowd.
—
You are finally called into your advisor appointment after sitting in the waiting area far past the scheduled time. The finance department feels almost sterile, defined by grey, windowless walls and a total lack of decor.
You walk through the door of the office, where you’re greeted with a professional smile.
“Good afternoon, take a seat,” Mrs. Stewart says warmly. “How was class today?”
I barely heard a single word, you think, already dreading the hours you’ll have to spend reviewing the lecture slides later tonight.
“It was good,” you respond, offering a perfectly tailored, polite smile.
“Wonderful,” she says, pulling up your academic record on her monitor. “You did exceptionally well during your time in community college, so I knew you wouldn’t have too much trouble adjusting here.”
You nod along as she squints at the glowing screen.
“Since you’re officially a junior, I think you should start considering your capstone internship," Mrs. Stewart says, pulling up your academic record.
"As a finance major, it's a mandatory graduation requirement," she explains, leaning back in her chair. "You'll need to secure a position within the financial sector and complete a full term of field experience and complete assignments pertaining to it before you can receive your degree. It basically bridges your university classes with the professional world."
A mandatory internship.
To Mrs. Stewart, it's a standard academic milestone. To you, it sounds like an execution sentence. That means a massive chunk of your week will be consumed by a rigid schedule—time you desperately need for the jobs that actually pay your rent.
Her tone shifts, dropping into something quieter, almost conspiratorial. “Honestly, the job market isn’t at its best right now, so it might be a bit of a challenge. But keep your chin up. Knowing you and your work ethic, you’ll find something.”
Somehow, that blind faith makes you feel infinitely worse.
“Thank you, I’ll look into the listings tonight,” you say, forcing another flawless smile to your lips while your stomach bottoms out.
—
What are you going to do?
You sit with your head buried in your hands, your elbows resting heavily on the desk in front of you as the professor drones on in the background. You’ve already accepted that you'll have to double the work tonight just to review what you missed during your first class and now this one.
But the lectures aren't the real problem. This mandatory internship is going to be the end of you.
You had hoped to push it off until your final year, but realistically, Mrs. Stewart was right. It’s better to complete it now, before the advanced courses demand your absolute, undivided attention. The real crisis is the math. While a quick search shows plenty of available internships, the vast majority are unpaid. At least, the ones open to students without prior relevant experience are.
You can't use your family’s connections. That was never an option. But how are you supposed to find a paying role when every listing requires a relevant background? You’ve spent the last two years grinding in customer service just to stay afloat. You can't exactly drop everything and take on a full-term, unpaid role just to check a box for the university.
But then, you can’t graduate.
You groan internally, tilting your head back to stare blankly at the ceiling tiles. Frustration tightens like a vice in your chest. You drop your head back down, focusing on the scuffed wooden desk, and force a slow breath out through your nose. The panic dissipates slightly with every exhale.
It’s okay. You’ve made it work so far, and this will be no different. At least, that’s the lie you use to convince yourself.
There is a lingering, heavy static in your chest that refuses to leave, no matter how steadily you breathe.
Peeling back the plastic wrapper of a granola bar, you take a small bite. You chew slowly, trying to savor it, even though your tongue can barely register the taste. Pulling out your phone, you check your shift schedule for the restaurant.
The moment this lecture ends, you will have to sprint back to the house, change out of your coffee-stained clothes, and step into your second uniform. A crisp white collared shirt and clean black slacks.
You’ll have to go through the exhausting task of looking perfect. Even though internally, you know it’s an impossible task that you’ll always continue to deplete yourself doing.
—
You step onto the sidewalk right in front of the house. In the daylight, the full reality of the place is clear. Maybe it would be better if it stayed in the dark.
The wood exterior looks completely worn down, splintered and rotting in some areas. The front porch features two raggedy couches on either side of the entrance, where your roommates typically congregate to smoke cigarettes and weed. Your very first thought upon seeing the house months ago was, “This is definitely a crackhouse.”
To the right, you can see your bedroom window. You had gotten somewhat lucky—living on the middle floor with one of the larger spaces. Though, that isn’t saying much.
You keep your curtains tightly drawn most of the time. You had learned your lesson early on while studying one afternoon. You had left the blinds open to let in the natural light, only to look up and find a homeless man staring straight at you from the sidewalk. The curtains hadn't been opened since.
You punch the code into the keypad, listening for the lock to release before pushing the heavy frame forward. The floorboards creak beneath your sneakers. Glancing to your left into the common room, you're relieved to find it completely empty. From the central staircase, the muffled echo of an upstairs roommate showering rains down through the ceiling.
The kitchen door leading to the basement is slightly ajar. You know this without even looking, signaled by the violent shouting echoing up from the couple living downstairs. It had terrified you during your first week, but now, their screaming matches are almost expected.
Pulling your bedroom key out of your pocket, you unlock the door and push it open. Your unmade bed awaits you. You drop your backpack next to your desk chair and quickly peel off your clothes. Even though you are just heading to another shift, getting the coffee-scented fabric off your skin is an instant relief.
You mist a light body spray over your torso before pulling on your restaurant attire. You carefully smooth down the crisp white shirt. Lacking a proper closet, you had hung it meticulously over what you believe used to be an old metal candle holder on the wall.
Gathering your hair, you tie it into a high ponytail with the elastic on your wrist. It feels like an exhausting echo of this morning, save for the change in uniform.
After sliding your wallet into your pocket, you pat the fabric of your black slacks to ensure you have everything, then exit your room and lock the door behind you. You reach for the front door handle but freeze. Turning on your heel, you step into the middle-floor bathroom instead.
You smooth your hair down in the glass, sweeping the front strands to the side so they won’t obscure your vision. You secure them tightly with a bobby pin, ensuring nothing can move.
Perfect.
Satisfied, you slip out the front door and walk quickly toward the bus stop.
—
The ambience of the restaurant is always a bit romantic. The lights are dimmed low, classical music plays quietly in the background, and fresh flowers center every table. It’s a higher-end establishment located just off campus—a favorite spot for local couples celebrating date nights and special occasions.
You’re greeted by your manager, Angie, the moment you step out of the breakroom.
“Hey, honey. Raring to go?” she asks, offering a warm smile.
Angie is always bright and charming. Save for the first time you met her.
It‘s a total 180 from the initial encounter with the middle-aged woman. Months ago, when you had first visited the university town to secure housing, you had stumbled upon this very dining room after a Help Wanted sign caught your eye. She had interviewed you on the spot, watching you closely with a sharp, skeptical eye.
When you honestly admitted you had absolutely no fine-dining experience, she had leaned in close, giving you a long, hard stare. The silence between you felt thick enough to choke on. You were already mentally planning which streets you’d walk down next to find a different job when she suddenly leaned back, a smirk pulling at her lips. She told you to meet her here the following week for onboarding.
When you confessed you hadn't even found a place to live yet, Angie was the one who told you about a vacancy at a shared house nearby. Because of her, you were moved in within five days.
You would never tell her outright, but she had saved you that day. You had been feeling entirely helpless, staring down listings for housing that were far past anything you could afford. She’d tease you endlessly if you ever confessed all this to her. But you have a feeling she already knows, especially when she gives you her signature side-glance and a half-smirk.
“Always,” you respond, mirroring her smile.
She clasps her hand over your shoulder with a reassuring squeeze as you tie your apron around your waist. She pauses for a beat, pressing the pads of her fingers carefully against your shoulder and the prominent ridge of your collarbone.
Sensing the unspoken observation, you quickly fall back into your routine, smoothing your hands over your clothes and combing your fingers through the ends of your ponytail. Angie sighs quietly, releasing your shoulder only to reach up and gently brush a stray hair out of your eyes.
“Knock 'em dead, sweetie,” she says, her voice playful but filled with an overwhelming warmth.
You give her your first real smile of the day, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “They’d call the cops on us if I did that.”
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartie. Knock ‘em alive.”
“Yeah, because that sounds normal.”
She playfully pushes you toward the swinging kitchen doors. “I can’t deal with you,” she says, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “You’re in section three. Shoo.”
You quickly wash your hands at the service bar, greeting the bartender and the floor staff. Turning around, you survey the dining room as it slowly begins to fill.
The host catches your eye, nodding to let you know the first reservation for your section has arrived. You step forward, ready to greet them, when the wooden panels of the dining room wall suddenly warp and lean sideways.
Your step falters. You blink rapidly, forcing the violent wave of lightheadedness back down.
Maybe I should’ve eaten the second granola bar instead of rationing it, you think, steadying yourself. But you dismiss the thought just as quickly. You’ve gone through much worse periods of food scarcity than this. You'll get through tonight just fine.
Thankfully, the universe is kind to your section. Your first reservation is a couple celebrating their twentieth wedding anniversary. Despite the static in your head, you go all out for them—bringing special decorative accents to their table and arranging a complimentary dessert with a message wishing them a happy anniversary meticulously piped in chocolate.
Most of your guests tonight are here for date nights. Watching their warm smiles across the crisp white linen and their clasped hands over the candlelight always brings your mood up, casting a faint glow over your own exhaustion.
Soft chatter fills the dining room. Scanning the floor, you check for any tables needing water refills or another round of drinks. You spot a booth to your far left with empty wine glasses and step forward to refill them with the open bottle resting between them. You’re almost halfway there when your vision suddenly blurs, the edges darkening as the room begins to fade. The ambient classical music cuts out, replaced by a sharp, piercing shrill frequency ringing in your ears.
Your feet tangle beneath you. Stumbling hard, you manage to steady yourself without too much commotion. You pause, blinking rapidly until your vision clears, desperately praying no one noticed. Gratefully, the surrounding tables continue to chat, completely lost in their own private worlds. You scan the room one more time just to be absolutely sure you're safe.
That’s when you catch two pairs of sharp green eyes watching you intently from the shadows. They are seated far in the back corner of the dining room. The low, romantic lighting makes it impossible to make out any of their other features, but their locked gaze stays fixed on you as you force your legs to move forward. You swallow past the lump in your throat, tear your eyes away, and focus on refilling the wine glasses at your designated table. You can still feel the weight of their stare burning into your back, but you push it to the back of your mind. You have a job to finish.
The table converses with you about their day. While you genuinely try to absorb every single detail, it is a losing battle when it takes your entire universe of effort just to stay upright. Still, you finish the interaction with a reliable go-to joke that always makes couples laugh, departing the booth with warm chuckles trailing behind you.
You risk a glance back at the table in the far corner.
They are still watching you. Through the dim light, you can barely make out the silhouette of one woman leaning toward the other, whispering something directly into her ear.
Cold dread twists in your stomach. Maybe they're making fun of you for almost eating it.
You quickly walk back toward the service bar, your cheeks burning hot at the humiliating possibility.
—
The remaining hours pass by in a blur. You don’t let your eyes drift back toward that far corner table for the rest of the night, keeping your focus solely on your section.
Before you know it, the dinner rush is over. You're wiping down tables and folding linens alongside the rest of the floor staff, trading stories about high-maintenance customers. One of the hosts chimes in about a table that sent their cocktails back twice, only to declare the third round absolutely perfect—even though the bartender had made it the exact same way every time.
It’s in quiet moments like this, sharing tired laughs in the dim dining room, when you actually feel like a normal university student.
You are grabbing your phone and wallet from the breakroom lockers when Angie's head peeks past the doorframe. She gives you a sly grin, sliding fully into view with a plastic takeout bag in hand.
She pushes the handles toward you. “One of the kitchen guys made a mistake on an order earlier. It’s fettuccine alfredo. It’d make me feel a lot better if you took it, since it’ll just be thrown away otherwise.”
You smooth a hand down the front of your crisp white shirt, biting the inside of your lip. Your stomach is hollow. You’re definitely hungry. But eating it would mean you'd have to go for a long walk afterward to burn it off.
Angie’s pleading eyes make the decision for you.
“Okay,” you respond softly, securing the loops of the bag in your hand.
Angie smiles gently, reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. She looks at you for a quiet beat with an expression you can’t quite decipher, before her face shifts back to her familiar, playful smirk. “Thanks for doing me that favor. See you tomorrow night, sweetie.”
She walks away before you even get the chance to respond. Pocketing your belongings, you push through the back exit. The night air hits your cheeks, cool and crisp, and the full weight of the day finally begins to settle into your bones.
The lingering lightheadedness has remained for your entire shift—it's there even now. But somehow, looking down at the heavy container of pasta, you feel a tiny bit better. You walk toward the bus stop, only noticing halfway there that the box is piping hot against your palm.
—
It’s late by the time you arrive back in your room. The house is uncharacteristically quiet tonight, with most of your roommates out—some drinking with friends, others grinding through late night part-time jobs.
You unpack the takeout container, placing it on the wooden desk and quietly thanking Angie for remembering to slip a plastic fork into the bag. You pause. Peeling off your pristine white uniform shirt, you hang it carefully back over the candleholder. You pull the long-sleeve black shirt back on. You already know you’ll be forced to go for a long walk the moment you finish this meal, so it doesn't matter if the fabric gets even dirtier.
You pry open the lid of the takeout box. The smell is heavenly—a perfect mix of rich, savory cream that makes you feel lightheaded all over again, this time from pure anticipation. You dig your fork in, taking slow, measured bites despite the overwhelming hollow hunger in your stomach.
“Are you an animal? Eat slowly. Properly.”
You instantly yank your elbows off the desk at the memory of the voice, sitting up rigidly straight in your chair.
The rich taste of the pasta slowly fades into background static, until you are simply eating for sustenance again. You reach down and pull your laptop out from one of the desk drawers. You’re wasting too much time.
Booting up the screen, you open a browser window to search for internship opportunities in finance, ensuring the filters are strictly locked so that only paid positions appear. In a separate tab, you pull up your resume. You scan the lines meticulously, confirming that every detail is updated, every heading aligned, and the format completely flawless.
You scroll through the listings between slow bites of pasta. Every single role requires some sort of prior finance experience, exactly as you expected. Refusing to let the dread stop you, you open each listing in a separate tab, pulling up the application portals one by one. It’s going to take an immense amount of luck, but expanding your net increases your odds.
You meticulously apply for every single open position, uploading your resume and drafting tailored cover letters on the side.
The pasta is long gone, the container cold on your desk, by the time you finally finish the task. Closing the last tab, you lean back heavily in your wooden chair with a long, slow sigh.
It’s already close to midnight, but you force yourself back onto your feet. Pulling your heavy jacket sleeves over your arms, you turn your back on the room and head toward the front door.
Realistically, you shouldn’t be walking outside this late. But the nagging thought of letting the heavy food sit in your stomach compels your legs to move.
You walk to the end of the block, following a line of flickering streetlights that are permanently dimmed by years of grime and residue coating the glass covers. You turn the corner at the end of the pavement, knowing the familiar glow of the corner store awaits you just ahead. It has quickly become a landmark in your new life—a place you routinely visit whenever you need a quick, cheap bite to eat to survive the week.
There is just one massive caveat. One of your roommates who lives downstairs, Matt, often works the night shift there.
He calls out a greeting before you can even think about spinning on your heel and walking straight back out. Matt isn't a bad guy by any means, but he has twelve years on you, and his friendliness always feels heavy. Call it a woman's intuition, but the way he routinely knocks on your bedroom door to ask to hang out, or texts you outside the house group chat, points to one undeniable reality.
He likes you. And right now, you don't have the energy to manage his expectations.
You try to duck into one of the narrow aisles to grab a pack of granola bars to hold you over for the next few days, but your escape is cut short when Matt calls out to you.
“Hey! You’re out late,” Matt says, leaning heavily over the checkout counter.
Your lips force themselves into a smile that feels more like a pained grimace, though he doesn't seem to notice the strain.
“Yeah, late night. Just grabbing some snacks real quick,” you respond, keeping your voice tight and fast.
He leans even closer, bridging the distance across the counter. “I knocked on your door earlier. You didn’t answer.” A sharp flicker of annoyance passes over his easy smile before he smooths it back down.
“I was out. Had work tonight,” you reply lightly, desperately trying to keep the conversation casual.
“I didn’t say when I knocked,” he says smoothly. He offers a lazy grin, but his cold eyes tell you something else entirely.
You freeze, locking eyes with his cold stare for a heavy, suffocating second before forcing a breathless chuckle.
“You’re right, my bad," you say, smoothing the tension over. "I was just out pretty much all day.”
Taking a deliberate step back toward the exit, you tighten your jacket around your chest. “I think I’m just going to head back. I’m way more tired than I thought.”
You pivot toward the glass door, but his voice hooks you before you can push it open.
“Hey, I’m sorry," Matt calls out, his tone suddenly softening into something defensive. "Okay? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Turning back, you slap your flawlessly practiced smile onto your face one last time today.
“No worries, I’m not uncomfortable. Just tired. I’ll see you later.”
You shove the heavy door open and slip out into the midnight air before he can get another syllable out.
You take quick, urgent strides back to the house, cutting your walk short. Ducking inside, you slip into your bedroom and click the lock securely into place. You check the handle twice, tugging against the frame to make sure it’s truly locked.
Patting your pocket, you pull out your phone to check the time. You have just enough time to shower before Matt's shift at the corner store typically ends. Quickly gathering a fresh change of clothes, you slip into the hall and step into the bathroom, desperate to let the steam wash away the crushing pressures of the day and the lingering chill of his stare.
—
You sit on your wooden desk chair, your hair still slightly damp from the shower. The laptop screen glows in front of you, the lecture slides from your first class open and waiting to be reviewed.
Tilting your head back, you stare up at the ceiling. It feels like if you close your eyes for even a single second, you will instantly crash into sleep. Your eyes frantically trace the textures of the plaster as if the physical focus can force you to stay awake just a little longer.
You press your pen into the notebook adjacent to your laptop. You wonder how many minutes of sleep you’ll actually get tonight. Forcing your focus forward, your eyes scan the first slide on the screen.
You fix your posture, sitting up rigidly straight, without a second thought.
—
The days pass by quickly—but not quickly enough at the same time. You wish the exhaustion would fade with the calendar pages, but it only seems to accrue. It’s a currency you have no desire to hold.
Coffee shop. Class. Eat a snack if you have the time. Another class. The dinner shift at the restaurant.
Practiced smiles, laughs with no heart, blurring vision, and sudden missteps.
Avoiding conversations. Avoiding Matt. Avoiding the absolute fact that this lifestyle was killing you.
Over and over again.
It has been five days since you sent out that mass wave of applications to countless companies and organizations. You had gotten a few emails back with initial sparks of interest—only to receive a follow-up a few hours later stating they had misread your file, and that your experience level was ultimately unsatisfactory.
It is one of those rare days where everything actually goes smoothly. People show up for their shifts on time, allowing you to walk into class right as the lecture begins. Frozen pre-made meals happen to be on sale at the store. Your notes are clear and concise for all your courses. The dinner shift passes without a single hitch—except for the few times your vision blurs. But it always clears up.
Now, you lie in bed, genuinely happy that you’ll be getting at least five hours of sleep tonight. It’s a quiet luxury you rarely get to experience. The covers are pulled tight around your chin as the headlights of passing cars flash rhythmically against your bedroom walls.
The vent rattles softly, distributing warm air throughout the small room. You close your eyes, feeling a profound wave of gratitude that tonight, you won’t be cold.
—
You open your eyes to the muffled buzz of your phone alarm, hidden beneath the blankets. Rummaging through the sheets, you kill the sound before it can wake your roommates. It’s 4 a.m. You stare up at the ceiling. In the faint glare of the streetlight cutting through the curtains, you can barely make out the texture of the plaster.
It feels like any other day.
You tap on your phone screen to cast a faint light across the dark room. Your email app displays a singular, glowing red notification.
Tapping the icon, you find a new response waiting in your inbox from one of the final companies on your list.
Please choose an available date for an in-person interview.
— Romanoff-Maximoff Global
—
A/N: Hi readers 👋 honestly speaking, while I love how this opening turned out, I know that this story is going to be a long haul. Meaning, it’s a big commitment and I’m kind of stubborn, so if I truly decide to do it, I’ll have to see it through. Also, down the line I'm probably going to have to find a writer to beta read this which kind of stresses me out. So, if you enjoyed it, feedback is appreciated! It might give me the push to commit to this story.
If I do decide to move forward with it, I'll make a separate masterlist sometime.
Summary: Neither of you could sleep, but for entirely different reasons.
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader
Tags | Warnings: None yet
Author's Note: I will post this series first while we wait for that Wanda one-shot🫶
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Ruthless, relentless, fucker.
Someone like her couldn't sleep.
Insomnia, that cruel thief, came from too many places at once—regret, overthinking, depression, anger, self-blame, loneliness.
And you.
She cannot pinpoint where it all started, the first time she saw you, the middle part of the story, or the part where it all ended. There are so many fragments in her mind, she recalled every detail of her time with you—the memories, the vivid dreams—you know?
The kind that you want to forget.
Ruthless, relentless, fucker.
Wanda Maximoff was a predator in the corporate jungle—business shark, the woman who never lost. Failure was not in her vocabulary. Every negotiation was a battlefield, every risk a gamble where the only acceptable outcome was her victory. She built her reputation by crushing competition without mercy.
So when the knock came at her condo door, she didn't break her stride. Still on the line, still playing her million-dollar chess match. She yanked the door open with one hand, phone to her ear with the other—her hard expression was replaced with a smirk instantly when she saw her girlfriend standing at the other side.
"You should give me your keys."
"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Rogers. Glad we could make this deal happen—just like old times," she muttered, hanging up. Another victory was secured. Now, she had another matter to win.
Wanda pulled her girlfriend inside by the waist, lips already finding hers.
"You wanna move in? I thought that was against your rules."
The woman grinned against her. "You know I love bending rules." She kissed her harder.
In Wanda's world, you are what you ride, who you ride.
And who you fucking ride.
But even in her girlfriend's arms, Wanda couldn't escape her disease—wakefulness. While she slept naked, tangled in her sheets, Wanda slipped out into the night. The city air was sharp, biting, but it cleared nothing. She walked aimlessly until she found herself at her old haunt—the cafe that once served as her insomnia refuge, her second home.
The woman was deeply engrossed in her book, the pages turning quietly as she sipped her coffee that she didn't notice the crew talk behind her back—literally.
"She's in med field, I think," Vision said, his voice low. "She's always here every damn night. She's probably a nurse or a doctor, I'd say a doctor."
"No she's not," Kate corrected Vision. "She's a lawyer." She pointed her finger at the nocturnal customer, who was still unaware of their conversation. "She's always reading books, you see?" then snapped her fingers as if to tell Vision to think.
You had just clocked in for your shift, the smell of roasted coffee beans doing little to soothe the pounding in your head. Three hours of class earlier—three hours of standing because you failed another recitation that is half of your grades. You weren't even sure how to fix it anymore. The thought of balancing school and work felt heavier than the trays you carried every night.
You couldn't sleep. Maybe it was your failed recitation once again or maybe it was the exhaustion that ran so deep it looped back around and kept you awake. You told yourself you were just tired—but there was a difference between being tired and being drained.
You worked three jobs because in this economy, one job is a joke, two is a privilege, and three is barely enough. Unless, of course, you're one of the lucky ones—a nepo baby, or worse, a daughter of a corrupt official who sleeps on silk sheets paid for by the same people skipping meals to afford rent. That while you get burnt from hot coffees that you serve and count loose change, your taxes, your sweat, end up in their pockets. The same public officials smiling on TV, preaching about public service or their projects plastered with their names and faces on it, with mouths that only ever feed themselves.
So no, you couldn't sleep. Not when you spent your nights fueling the very system that kept you awake.
And when the bills came—piling higher every month—you just stared at them for a while. You'd pay what you could, delay what you couldn't. Some things couldn't be delayed, though. The body keeps score, after all. The headaches came more often now, sharp and pulsing. The dizziness hit at random, sometimes mid-shift, sometimes mid-sentence. You'd been losing more hair too—clumps at a time—but you can worry about that later on.
You tied your apron, exhaled sharply and tried to shake it off. You needed this job. You needed the paycheck. So you breathe gaslighting yourself as you walk at the back doors, even if all you wanted to do was collapse and scream into your arms.
You spotted Vis and Kate bickering by the espresso machine the moment you walked in. Same as always. Vision was wiping a cup like it had personally offended him, while Kate leaned on the counter, gesturing animatedly with a spoon in hand. They didn't notice you right away, too caught up in their quiet argument.
"Some things never change." Part of you wanted to laugh, but exhaustion tugged heavier at your face. So you just slipped behind the counter, brushing past them with a tired sigh, "What's the debate tonight?"
"Hey stop with your pre-law shit, okay? No more debates, just some…bet." Kate grins, eyes glinting with mischief.
Vision groaned beside her, already shaking his head. "You're unbelievable," he muttered, but Kate only smirked wider.
You blinked, half-amused, half-tired. "Bet? On what now?" you asked, though you already had a sinking feeling where this was going.
Kate pointed her chin toward the woman sitting by the window—same one who'd been coming every night for weeks. "On who guesses her deal first. Doctor or lawyer. I'm team lawyer, because I love you so much and I just love the craft that you do."
You slightly jab Kate as a soft laugh escapes you. Truth is, you really wanted to be an engineer but you didn't make it to the slot that's why you ended up taking a pre-law.
"Team doctor here." Vision says while pointing at himself.
You crossed your arms, your brows furrowing as you studied the woman from a distance. "I don't think she's either," you murmured, tapping your fingers on your arms. The two looked at you curiously. You bit your lip thoughtfully before speaking up again. "I think...something about business." You were having a good feeling about your guess and that only implies one thing.
"Okay, how much for the bet?"
The two looked at each other before landing their offers.
"One dollar." Kate started, her tone was so punctuated as if what she was offering was a million dollars.
You scoffed at the lame offer. "Hey, what I will do is not easy, I will go and bother her you know? And can you see her arms? What if she'll make me a punching bag?"
Vision raised the stakes. "Four each."
You let out a successful chuckle, satisfied, "Fine," you agreed. "Four each. Losers will cover all the dishes and inventory for the whole week." Your body still ached from the three-hour class you'd barely survived, and your brain was fried from all the cases that made zero sense—but somehow, the small spark of competition and money lit you up again. At least this way, you thought, the week might actually go by a little easier—less counting, less scrubbing, more breathing, more sleep, more review, more money. You needed a win, even a small one.
"You know, if she ended up being a lawyer I will set you up with her." Kate teased, feeling so strong about her bet.
"Lawyers dating lawyers is actually a curse, Kate. So no thank you."
The two looked at each other at your snappy remark before watching you take a few breaths. You walked towards the woman seated alone, you pointed at her half-eaten croissant with a smile.
"Ma'am, is it okay if I take this now?" you asked, trying to sound polite despite your exhaustion.
No response—just the soft flick of a page turning.
"Ma'am," you tried again, "there are a lot of kids dying of hunger, you know?" It was your go-to line—part joke, part guilt trip, and it usually worked like magic. You could even launch into a ten-minute rant about people dying in hunger in Palestine if needed.
Finally, the woman sighed, closing her book with a quiet thud. She looked up at you, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
"I'll just take it out."
You blinked, caught off guard—not by her words, but by the way her voice sounded. It was deep and raspy…tired.
"Okay, doc," you said, seizing Vision's bet, you stare at her long enough as if to wait for her to correct you and voila, she did.
"Uh…I'm not a doctor."
"Oh, so a lawyer?" Pulling out the next alas, leaning your body slightly in the direction of your friends, looking subtly at Kate cheering for her answer.
She shook her head slightly. "No."
You smirked and pulled the final card, which is your card. "A businesswoman then?"
She hesitated, then allowed a small nod. "Something like that."
Triumphant, your smile widened. "Thank you, Miss Businesswoman." You made sure to say it loud enough for your friends to hear before snatching up the croissant and strutting back to them, hand outstretched for your winnings.
They groaned, shoving the bills into your palm.
Wanda isn't interested in knowing people she doesn't need.
You spent your whole childhood with Wanda and Natasha at your side, certain the three of you would never drift apart. Then you left for the city, and now coming home means facing everything your absence turned their yearning into.
details: country/west farmer!au, slow burn/story/it's like a movie!! fic, a lot of words... please prepare time to read this story, eventual smut, porn/smut w/ plot, childhood friends to complex to together, farmer girls x city girl trope, hurt/comfort, slight angst with comfort, very happy ending!, top!natasha, switch!wanda, switch!reader, dom!wandanat/sub!reader, naughty smut, slight injury (r sustaining), f/afab!reader, cigarette usage (natasha)
Many hate on trios, saying there’s always a duo in a trio. That one person left standing just slightly outside the circle.
It was never the case with the three of you.
One shy greeting shared between you all when your families were introduced after Wanda and Natasha moved into town, and somehow the three of you became stuck together as thick as honey. Impossible to separate after that.
You spent countless sunrises to sunsets together. Inside jokes so overused they stopped making sense years ago, yet still sent you rolling onto your backs in laughter with pine needles tangled in your hair. From ages five to eighteen, you watched one another grow up in all the quiet ways that mattered most.
You explored every inch of land surrounding town, knew every trail, every hidden riverbank, every broken fence and abandoned road. Played the same games one too many times.
Spent nights at one another’s houses whispering embarrassing stories into the dark until tears gathered in your eyes from laughing too hard. And sometimes those nights turned softer, quieter. Comforting hands resting on knees when secrets slipped out, insecurities revealed only in the safety of each other.
You grew up with one another. Blew out birthday candles side by side, exchanged stupid Christmas presents every year, learned to drive in the same rusted trucks, and crammed yourselves into diner booths after reckless late-night drives through mountain roads. The whole town knew the three of you together, like your names belonged side by side as naturally as the mountains belonged to the horizon.
Inseparable, never meant to part from one another. Photos of the three of you hung around each other’s rooms, tucked into mirrors and pinned to walls, always leaving space for another year, another memory. Until one evening.
It was supposed to be another sleepover, only older now. The three of you somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, curled up in familiar places with the television humming quietly in the background and empty soda cans cluttering the table. Comfortable in the way only years together could make people.
Then your mother stepped into the kitchen and asked softly if you had told them yet. Their eyes flickered toward you immediately, and your body ran cold.
You couldn’t say it. Could barely even look at them. So your mother did it for you. She told them you were moving away to the city.
And the room lost its warmth.
You had been in New York for almost five years now. You’d finished college, settled into your first full-time job, and quietly reached the point where your life stopped feeling like something temporary and started feeling like something built.
Somewhere along the way, you’d grown into a woman almost unrecognizable from the girl who once ran barefoot through riverbanks and mountain trails. Back home, you grew up in a place where cell service barely existed, where fashion meant whatever clothes survived the week and your father’s boots were just part of the outfit you threw on over pajamas.
Your friends in the city found your childhood charming in that distant, curious way people do when they’ve never lived it. Wine glasses balanced between their fingers as they asked you questions about horses and wide open land and how you could stand living somewhere so small everyone knew everyone. What it was like. Why you left. If you missed it. If you could ever go back.
You always answered lightly, laughing it off, turning your past into something almost like a story instead of something you had lived. But the questions stayed with you longer than they should have, especially the ones about why you left, because you never really had a clean answer for that anymore.
Your parents had long since stopped arguing with you about New York. Now your calls home were softer, stretched out with pauses, your mother asking when you were visiting again and your father pretending not to notice how often you said you were busy. It hadn’t felt urgent before, life always pulling you forward too fast to look back.
But now, for the first time in years, the thought landed differently.
You could go home. There was nothing stopping you anymore.
You had PTO sitting unused, no deadlines pressing against you, no real reason not to leave the city for a while. You could just… go.
The realization settled in your chest in a way that made everything feel suddenly too quiet. That night you called your parents while sitting cross-legged on your couch, laptop open on your knees as flight searches loaded in the background, your finger hovering between dates as your mother’s voice filled your apartment from the speaker.
Your dad picked you up at the airport, giving you a hug so tight your lungs burned. You didn’t mind it. You just shoved your face into his shoulder and held on a second longer than you meant to, breathing in the familiar rough cigarette scent and something older underneath it was motor oil.
It hit you all at once how much you’d been holding back, how much you’d been pretending wasn’t there. How much you’d missed him. How much you still loved him in that deep, uncomplicated way that never really changes no matter how far you go.
When he finally pulled back, his hands stayed on your shoulders like he needed to make sure you were real. “God, look at you,” he said, voice thick in a way he tried to hide by laughing. “Look at my girl… you’re so grown up.”
You smiled at him, soft and a little watery around the edges, eyes matching his in that too-emotional way neither of you commented on. You squeezed his hands like you were grounding yourself through him instead of the other way around. “I miss you…”
“Me too, and so does your mother,” he said, giving your hands a gentle squeeze back as he nodded toward the exit. “Let’s go home… she’s waiting for you there.”
She gave you a just as tight hug, one you fully just broke into, tears slipping before you could even think to stop them. You held onto her like your hands had been waiting years to do that again, arms wrapped around her so tightly it almost felt like you were afraid she might disappear if you let go.
She didn’t rush you. Just held you back just as firmly, one hand steady between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head like you hadn’t outgrown needing it.
You buried your face into her shoulder, breathing in her shampoo and lotion, the familiar softness of her sweater, the quiet warmth of her that somehow still felt like home even after everything. The air in the house felt different in a way you couldn’t quite place at first.
Cleaner, lighter, like it had been waiting for you to notice it again. And suddenly it hit you how long it had been since you’d taken a full breath without something sitting heavy in your chest.
You exhaled shakily, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes still glassy. “I’m home…”
“That you are,” she said softly, brushing a thumb beneath your eye like she was still allowed to do that without asking. “We’ve been counting down the minutes.”
Her smile was small, careful, like she was afraid too much emotion might break something.
“We’ve got dinner… please come in.” Then, after a beat, her gaze flicked over your shoulder toward the rest of the house, softer still.
“The house has changed a bit… as you might assume you notice.”
After dinner, when you finally parted for the night, you climbed the creaky stairs slowly, each step familiar in a way your body remembered before your mind fully caught up. They had said the house had changed, and you believed them, until you reached your bedroom door.
The moment you opened it, everything stopped. Your suitcase rolled softly behind you and came to rest in the corner, but you barely noticed. Your feet moved on their own, slow and careful, like you were walking through a memory instead of a room.
Nothing had been moved. Nothing had been replaced. It was all still there, held in time like someone had refused to let it become anything else.
The old quilt on your bed. The faint marks on the wall where posters used to hang. The dresser you’d carved into when you were younger and thought it was funny. The bookshelf still slightly crooked no matter how many times your father tried to fix it. Even the soft smell of dust and old wood and something unmistakably you.
You walked like you were in a movie you weren’t sure you belonged in anymore, fingers brushing over surfaces as things you had forgotten suddenly returned in fragments. Late-night conversations, getting ready for school, lying on your back staring at the ceiling thinking the world would never change.
And yet it had. Just not this room.
You flop onto the bed afe hearing the springs bounce under you. The ceiling stares back at you the same way it always did, familiar in a way that almost feels unreal after so long away. Your eyes drift to your vanity, spotting the photos there, and something in your chest tightens.
You sit up slowly, gaze lingering on them. Smiling faces caught in time. Too many memories packed into small frames, edges slightly worn from years of being looked at and never really put away. You, Wanda, Natasha. Always the three of you.
You wonder what they’re up to, where they are right now. If they’re together. If they’re laughing. If anything about them feels different, or if it’s just you who changed. If they moved on after you left.
Your throat tightens before you can stop it.
You reach over and turn your lamp off for the night before you can let yourself wonder about anything further.
You had some time to warm up to everything again before your parents mentioned that you should attend the city’s small gathering once more, just to greet everyone again, catch up, be seen. It had sounded like a good idea at the time. You missed people from the town you grew up in, missed the familiarity of faces that didn’t feel like strangers even after years apart.
Your parents were going too, a kind of quiet reassurance at your side in case you felt awkward or in case the town had decided you’d become the “city girl” who left and never quite belonged again.
A few hours later, and it had been a fine gathering for the most part. Shaking hands yet again, hugging occasionally, repeating the same softened version of your life until your smile started to feel practiced instead of real. The fire burned bright in the center of everything, casting warm light over familiar faces as the sun fully disappeared and the night settled in.
You excused yourself quietly, slipping away toward the bathrooms just to breathe for a moment, let your shoulders drop where no one could see.
That’s when a truck pulled up. Headlights cut through the dark for a second before shutting off, leaving the engine to tick in the silence. It caught your eye without meaning to.
The door swung open, and your heart stuttered in your chest.
The one with the short, messy hair stepped out first. Except it wasn’t short anymore. Long auburn strands spilled over her shoulders, catching the firelight every time she moved. A cigarette rested between her lips, smoke curling into the night air.
The habit struck you immediately. Unfamiliar against the version of her you’d carried in your head for years.
The second door swung open a beat later. You shouldn’t have been surprised to see her, not really, but the sight of her still knocked the breath from your lungs. She looked older now.
Taller somehow, steadier. Softer in a way that only time could carve into someone. Even her voice, faint beneath the noise of the party, had deepened into something calmer, more mature.
You could hear the two of them talking quietly amongst themselves.
Their names stirred in the back of your mind, dangerously familiar. You shoved the thought down before it could settle, forcing your steps to remain even as you continued toward the bathrooms, pretending your pulse hadn’t suddenly fallen out of rhythm.
Part of you hoped you’d imagined it. That maybe you’d looked too fast, caught the wrong angle in the flicker of firelight and smoke and familiar noise. Maybe she hadn’t seen you at all.
But fate had other plans.
For one fleeting moment, her gaze drifted lazily across the crowd. Casual, distracted. Then it found you right as you reached the edge of the building and stepped inside.
You pushed through the bathroom door quickly, the cold fluorescent light washing over you as you gripped the edge of the sink for a second longer than necessary. Your pulse still hadn’t settled. You turned on the faucet anyway, letting the icy water run over your hands just to give yourself something else to focus on, but you can't.
Five fucking years. You dried your hands slowly against your jeans as you stepped back into the mosquito-filled air, already planning to keep your head down and walk straight past them.
“Hi,” she said softly.
Guilt and awkwardness climbed up your throat so fast it almost made it hard to answer.
“Hi.”
The word came out quieter than you intended.
Silence settled between you almost immediately, thick and uncomfortable. You weren’t sure what you were supposed to say to her anymore—or if you were supposed to say anything at all. The two of you hadn’t spoken since the day you left for the city. No calls. No texts. Nothing except years of distance stretching wider and wider until it became easier to pretend it didn’t matter.
Maybe this was how things were supposed to go.
People faded. Friendships lost their grip. Not everyone you met was meant to become part of your foundation. Some people were only passing branches, temporary things meant to break away eventually.
You told yourself that was all this was. Five years was a long time to hold onto someone. You shifted slightly, already preparing to step around her and leave the conversation exactly where it stood. Brief, polite before Wanda spoke again.
"You changed your hair,” she commented, her eyes drawing carefully over you.
“Yeah, I did…” you breathed out, wiping at your bicep when you felt what was probably a mosquito land there.
“It looks nice. Seems like you’ve really been taking care of yourself.”
The compliment sat awkwardly between you. You shifted your weight, one foot already turning away like you were preparing to leave the conversation before it had the chance to become anything more. Still, you could feel Wanda’s gaze lingering on you. And another from farther away, heavier somehow, burning into your skin.
Curiosity got the better of you. You glanced toward the truck near the fire and found Natasha already watching you. The flame from her lighter illuminated her face for a brief second as she lit another cigarette, smoke curling past her lips as she leaned back against the truck.
“Not too sure,” you admitted. “However long I can stretch my PTO. I’m getting time with my parents.”
Something flickered across Wanda’s face at that. Small enough that you almost missed it. The mention of family. The quiet implication beneath your words. That you came back for them, not for this, not for her.
No mention of catching up. No offer to see each other again. Still, she smiled softly, the kind that felt more polite than personal now. “Well… it was nice seeing you.”
“You too.”
The words felt strange leaving your mouth.
Wanda gave a small wave before turning and heading back toward the fire, her figure slowly blending into the warm glow and drifting smoke. You started in the opposite direction, hands shoved into your pockets, but after a few steps you glanced back over your shoulder anyway.
It wouldn’t be a small town without its monthly farmer’s market.
Your parents had driven the three of you into town early that morning, and for once, you didn’t mind staying close to them. It gave you something familiar to hold onto. The market buzzed around you with soft music, overlapping conversations, and the scent of kettle corn drifting through the warm air. You pointed out different stands to your mom, teased your dad over overpriced honey, and exchanged polite smiles with a few familiar faces from years ago.
It almost felt normal.
By the time you stopped at the smoothie stand near the edge of the market, the heat had already settled into your skin. You held your mango smoothie in one hand while waiting for the larger one your parents planned to split, half-listening to the blender roaring behind the counter.
Then a voice slipped into the space beside you.
“Mango? Always been your favorite.”
Your stomach tightened before you even looked up.
Wanda stepped beside you casually, hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket despite the warmth outside. Her hair was pulled back loosely today, auburn strands catching in the breeze.
“You ordering one?” you asked, trying to sound more relaxed than you felt. Almost pushing her away again.
She hummed softly, glancing up at the menu board. “Maybe. I’m deciding.” A small smile tugged at her mouth. “This stand’s new. Only been here about two years.”
She glanced away from the menu for a moment, eyes settling on you. “How’s the city been?”
The question made your stomach sink unexpectedly, like there was too much wrapped inside those four words. Your fingers tightened slightly around the smoothie cup as you silently wished your parents’ order would be ready already.
“Uh, yeah…” you muttered, shifting your weight. “It’s good. A lot.”
Wanda smiled anyway, like she understood the awkwardness behind it. “Still overwhelming?”
“Pretty much all the time.”
“I can imagine,” she said softly. “Forty people in one gathering is about enough for me. I can’t imagine being surrounded by that many people all the time. Always somewhere to go.”
You hummed, feeling yourself loosen slightly at the subject. Talking about the city was easier than talking about yourself. Easier than talking about the five years sitting between the two of you.
“It’s not as bad as people think,” you admitted, glancing down at your drink. “Everyone kind of stays in their own lane. It feels like you actually get your own space there.”
You paused briefly before adding quieter, “Doesn’t feel as suffocating. Or like everyone’s watching you all the time.”
Your name was called from the stand. Relief flickered through you immediately. “That’s mine,” you said, half a step backward as you pointed toward the counter. You grabbed your parents’ smoothie when it was handed over, the cold cup grounding you in something simple again.
Wanda was still there. Feeling awkard to say goodbye, but even more not to say anything at all. You turned back to her, something small and almost unintentional softening your expression. Not quite a smile, not quite nothing either.
“Uh… it was good seeing you,” you said quietly.
Wanda nodded once, gentle. “Yeah. You too.”
You held her gaze for a second longer than you meant to, then shifted your weight away, your parents already drifting toward the next stall.
“Take care,” you added, voice lighter now.
"You too."
You lay in bed, covers pulled up to your chest, staring at the ceiling while the quiet of your room presses in around you. Your eyes drift again and again to the photos still pinned along your vanity mirror. Snapshots of a life that feels both distant and uncomfortably close.
You shift restlessly beneath the blankets, your thoughts swinging between extremes, almost hot and cold the way Wanda and Natasha feel in your chest.
Part of you circles the idea of mending it.
Of letting the distance soften, of allowing something polite and careful to form again. Something that doesn’t demand too much, just enough to acknowledge what you once were without pretending it never existed.
It's similar to Wanda, who's already reaching, in her way. Small steps. Easy conversations. A version of reconnection that doesn’t feel like it would swallow you whole if you tried.
The second part, one that looks at Natasha and feels that familiar finality settle in your bones. The part that questions why you would even try to rebuild something that already burned itself down so completely.
What would it even mean to go back there? What would you be rebuilding, exactly. Friendship, history, or just the echo of something you’ve already outgrown?
It pulls you in two directions at once, neither one fully letting go.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, you realize it isn’t really about choosing between them. It’s about choosing which version of the past you’re willing to carry forward with you.
You pulled your jacket tighter around yourself, watching the clouds shift into something ugly overhead. Thick, swollen, and dark enough to swallow the horizon. They rolled together into one continuous mass as far as you could see, the air turning heavy with the metallic scent of rain before it even started falling.
You tapped your foot against the floor near the counter, impatience building as you waited for the last of the payment to go through for your parents’ horse feed. One more errand. One less thing for them to worry about. That was the idea, anyway.
The cashier finally nodded toward the card reader. “You’re good to swipe or tap.”
“Thanks,” you muttered, relief already loosening your shoulders.
The bell above the door jingled as you stepped outside.
You had wished for no rain. And the sky answered anyway.
It hit fast. Cold wind first, then the first scattered drops, and then all at once the world opening up above you. You hurried toward the car, already regretting the jacket you chose, the timing, the entire day.
You had wished to get home safe. And the car responded by slowing like it was thinking about giving up entirely.
A sputter. A shake. Then silence.
“No. No, no, no—come on,” you groaned, gripping the wheel as if that alone could convince it otherwise. You slumped forward, pressing your forehead against it for a second before letting out a long, defeated breath. “Damn it… of course. God fucking damn it.”
Of course it was the old car. Of course it was your parents’ old everything. Old house, old roads, old feed store that took forever to get anything done.
You shoved the door open and stepped out into the rain immediately soaking through your jacket. Cold water ran down your arms as you moved behind the car, placing your hands against the trunk.
“Please,” you muttered under your breath, as if the car might suddenly develop empathy.You pushed.
At first it barely moved, tires digging into wet ground that was already turning fast into mud. You leaned harder into it, boots slipping slightly with each effort. Rain blurred your vision, plastering your hair to your face, soaking through everything faster than you could adjust.
More time passed. And your arms started to burn. Your breath came sharper. The car barely shifted an inch.
“Come on,” you hissed through clenched teeth, pushing again, harder this time.
The ground gave out beneath one step, your foot slid out from under you instantly. You hit the mud first—hard—then felt the sharp sting as your face followed, your lip splitting on impact. A copper taste filled your mouth almost immediately, mixing with rainwater as it ran down your chin.
You froze for a second, breath shaking, rain hammering down around you like it was trying to erase you entirely. Your fingers lifted instinctively, brushing over your lip. No, your nose. Or wherever it is the blood had started to show after slamming into the back of the car.
“God,” you muttered again, voice rough as you pushed yourself upright, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. It didn’t help much. Everything was already soaked anyway. Rain, mud, and now a thin streak of blood that refused to blend in.
You turned back toward the car, still half-focused on trying to salvage the situation, when headlights cut through the storm in the distance.
At first, it was just relief. Sharp and immediate. Someone. Anyone.
You held a hand over your eyes, squinting through the rain as she stepped out of the truck. Her boot sank slightly into the mud, dark water splashing around it, but she didn’t seem to care.
You opened your mouth to explain. Something halfway between it just died and I’ve got it handled... but she cut you off before you could get a word out.
“The hell are you doing?” Natasha’s voice cut through the storm, sharp enough to feel like it landed harder than the rain.
Something in your chest snapped hot immediately.
Not fear. Not embarrassment.
Frustration. Honestly, it might’ve even started the second you saw her truck.
“What does it look like I’m doing, you ass?” you shot back, wiping rain from your face again only for it to be replaced instantly. “The car stopped. It’s not starting again and I’m just trying to go home!”
She made it across the road, crouching slightly to peer into your stalled car as rain battered both of you. You stood there beside it, completely soaked now.
Tears dripping into your eyes, clothes heavy and clinging to your skin, mud tracking up your legs. Everything felt cold, uncomfortable, wrong. The only thing you could think about was a hot shower waiting somewhere on the other side of this mess.
Natasha straightened again, voice carrying over the storm.
“I can’t help you out here,” she called. “I’ll drive you back and tow your parents’ car.”
There wasn’t much room for argument in the way she said it.
The passenger seat of her truck felt like another world entirely. Your soaked clothes squeaked faintly as you sat down. You stared straight ahead for a moment, hands awkward in your lap, trying to settle your breathing. Time only moved forward, you reminded yourself. Second by second, and you're moving forward to this moment ending.
Natasha was already outside again, hooking your car up, rain running off her shoulders as she worked. Then she climbed back into the driver’s seat like the storm didn’t touch her the same way it touched everyone else.
The truck rumbled slightly as she started it. Silence settled in immediately after, just the low hum of the AC. The steady drum of rain against the windshield. The faint creak of metal as the tow line tightened behind you.
You stared out at the blurred world beyond the glass, rain streaking sideways in the headlights as the truck rolled steadily forward.
“Thank yo—” you started, the words catching in your throat before they could fully form.
Natasha hit the brakes. Hard.
The sudden stop snapped you forward against the seatbelt, breath punching out of your lungs as the world jerked into stillness. The tow line behind you creaked under tension. Rain hammered the windshield like it was trying to break through.
“I just can’t fucking believe that you’re back. Why in the world did you come back? You’re so incredibly selfish, you understand this?”
For a second, you just stared at her, rain and adrenaline still ringing in your ears.
“Excuse me?” you say, sharper now.
Natasha lets out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. She looks back out at the road like she already regrets turning toward you in the first place.
“Yeah,” she mutters, “excuse you.”
The wipers drag back and forth, useless against how hard it’s coming down.
You open your mouth again, but she cuts in before you get anything out.
“No, don’t… don’t even start explaining like there’s a good version to any of this,” she says, voice tighter now. “Not ‘I wanted to chase my dreams.’ You only told the two of us when your mom brought it up. Like something you were never even going to tell us until you just left. And I don't even want to know how you told your sweet parents."
“Natasha—!”
“Two friends, people who’ve known you since birth,” she continues, faster. “You don’t think we deserve an official goodbye? Any explanation? Before you get up and leave for five years? And oh yeah, 'I got your little things done, so let me just come back because I missed it?' You expect everything to just be fucking peachy dandy? Two people you’ve known for your whole life, who’ve been nothing but everything to you. You can’t even afford the decency to say goodbye? What a fucking joke you are.”
You throw your hands up, opening the car door. “I can’t do this.”
She’s out almost immediately, slamming her door behind her.
“Run away,” Natasha snaps after you, voice cutting through the storm. “Very you. Don’t confront anything head-on."
You whip around to face her.
“So what is it with you? Do you want to drive me home, or should I drive? Because this is—”
“This is what?” she interrupts, stepping closer. “You tell me. What is it with you? Why did you want to leave everyone here who’s cared about you? Truly?”
Her voice rises slightly now, not quite yelling, but close.
“How’re the fake friends in New York?” she throws in, sharp and quick. “You like the money? The title of being in New York instead of this nothing town?”
A beat.
“It’s all wonderful, right? Until you need to think about something that actually means something to you. That’s why you came back. You’re not truly satisfied there and you know it. Why the hell did you even lea—”
“Because Natasha, I’ve had nothing done nothing! My siblings have done outstanding things, and all I have ever done is mess around. I tossed pencils into a cup with you and Wanda instead of studying. My sister was in honors at my age, while I was covered in mud. My parents expect more. I can’t be the loose end in my family.... I.."
She huffs. “You know how much your parents missed you when you were gone? I made up excuses to come by just to try and cheer them up. They worried they messed up with you. Wondered why you left so far away when you seemed so happy here.”
You wave your hands. “Can we just… don’t…”
“Sure,” she says, tone flat, unimpressed, already done. Climbing back into her car.
The drive is even more silent than before, Natasha reaching to try to light a cigarette on the rest of the drive.
You glance at her. “Terrible habit, but I’m not surprised.”
She huffs, setting the pack back in the cup holder. “Wanda’s been entirely too sweet to you. I’ve been telling her."
She pulls up at your parents’ house, unattaching the car. She waves to your parents, who look worried on the front porch, before her car hums off into the distance, not a wave your way. But your heart feels warmer, soften even... despite the harsh words thrown at each other. You slept that night, feeling a little less like bricks were laying on you.
The argument in the storm had been the dam that broke everything. After that, something in the air between you all shifted. Not healed, but loosened just enough to breathe through. The past hurt feeling like a river cried, and the bridge beginning to form again.
Despite it all, you started smiling a little when you ran into them. In a small town, it was impossible not to. There were only so many places to go, only so many corners of town you could avoid before they stopped feeling avoidable at all.
At the diner, it was a brief wave.
At the little store downtown, it was Wanda holding the door open while Natasha lingered near the counter, pretending not to notice you.
At the gas station, it was a quiet exchange of “hey” that lasted a few seconds longer than it used to.
It wasn’t smooth. But it wasn’t as sharp anymore either.
Each time, you found yourself staying a little longer. Saying a little more. Laughing, sometimes, before you had time to stop yourself. The awkward edges didn’t disappear, but they softened enough that you stopped bracing for impact every time you saw them.
And slowly, without any real announcement, things started to settle into something that resembled a pattern.
Wanda always spoke first. Careful, warm, like she was still trying to build a bridge between where you were and where you used to be.
Natasha stayed quieter, but she didn’t leave. She lingered in the background of conversations more often than not, watching, listening, occasionally throwing in something blunt that cut through the softness without fully breaking it.
It confused you, how something so fractured could still hold together in motion. And eventually, even your parents noticed.
“You’ve been running into them a lot lately again,” your mom said one evening over dinner, her tone light, but threaded with something warmer. “It makes me really happy… I was happy your friendship could rekindle. I had hope.”
“It’s trying…” you said, a little uncertain.
Your mom hummed softly, poking at her food. “It was a hard time when you left. Hit them hard, as it did us. Sweet women, they are. They’d come and help us with some chores. The ones you used to cover. They’d ask how you were doing…”
She glanced up at you then, softer now.
“Well... anyways, I’m just happy you’re all talking again. They’re gold. Don’t let go of them, alright darling? True gold, not false. Rare."
It had begun to bloom.
Not in any sudden, obvious way. Nothing you could point to and name, but in the slow return of ease. In the way your shoulders stopped tensing when you saw them. In the way conversations started lasting longer without feeling like you were walking on glass.
You found yourself revisiting places you hadn’t thought about in years.
The riverbank you used to sit at as a kid looked smaller now, quieter in a different way. The water still moved the same, but everything around it had changed just enough to remind you how much time had passed. You pointed things out absently when they were with you, half-laughing at old memories you weren’t sure you should still remember so clearly.
Your bed felt warm, like home each time you laid your head.
While you felt free, the two women felt caged still.
A weight still sat on their shoulders. Something unspoken, something that hadn’t dissolved just because time had passed and you were back in the same rooms again.
It lingered in the things they didn’t say.
In the way Natasha’s gaze flicked to you when she thought you wouldn’t notice.
In the way Wanda’s anger never quite found a place to land. It rose, once, briefly. Then dissolved the moment she saw you again, as if relief outweighed everything else. As if having you in front of her made it impossible to hold onto anything sharp for long.
It lived in hesitation, too. In the smallest pauses before speaking your name. In fingers that twitched, almost reaching, then curling back into themselves like restraint was a habit they couldn’t break.
In how their hearts betrayed them in quiet ways. Faster when you laughed, heavier when you looked away, uneven in your presence as if something inside them had never learned how to settle properly without you.
It lived in the nasty habit Natasha took upon herself. Smoke easing into her lungs instead of you. Into the nights the two of them spent together, the silence after as they occasionally grieved your presence.
Living to see a photo of you on social media, but too scared to follow.
It felt finate, your friendship. But the love that resonates in their hearts is infinite. And your distance, only strengthened it.
Your PTO is to come to an end. And this time, you inform others of your possible upcoming departure. It was brought up when they asked, settled into your bedroom. With a sunken heart, you come to realize the impending return date. Less than a week away. It felt as if a timer had offcially started. A stop watch starting, cointing down the seconds. Raising a feeling underneath everything. A question, a conflict to be resolved… hoping to be.
A sunken feeling settled in your chest as the return date became real in a way it hadn’t been before. Less than a week. A line drawn too clearly now to ignore.
It felt like something had started counting down. Haunting.
Tomorrow is your flight.
You sit with the two of them, checking into your flight. The room had been lively, until now. The clock louder than ever before.
"Sad I have only a couple hours really left... But we have each other's numbers... We can always text, or call..?"
"Right, yeah..." they had responded, dejected.
You hugged them, smiling—one that didn’t quite reach your eyes—before you got into the Uber. You waved goodbye to everyone: your parents, Wanda, Natasha. The dust kicked up behind the car as it pulled away, carrying you toward the airport, toward the flight.
You bit your nail, watching the world blur past the window, something tight settling into your chest. Your heartbeat felt too loud in your ears, uneven in a way you couldn’t quite settle. You kept swallowing it down, shifting your focus, pinching at your skin just to stay grounded in something physical.
It felt off. Wrong, even.
You walk toward security, lugging your suitcase behind you. Each step feels heavier than the last, like the airport itself is pulling you forward whether you want it to or not. The noise around you fades in and out. Announcements, rolling bags, footsteps, until it all starts to feel distant, muffled, like you’re already halfway gone.
Your mind keeps catching on moments you didn’t realize you were holding onto. Wanda’s laugh in your room. Natasha’s voice cutting through rain. The way silence between you all had started to feel less like absence and more like something full. Something you hadn’t known how to name until it was already slipping out of reach again. Like you don't what you have, how you feel until it's gone.
You swallow hard, forcing your grip tighter on your suitcase handle, like that could keep you steady. Like that could keep anything steady. Each step feels slower. The clock in your head ticking down the last few seconds you didn’t want to hear.
Your body is tense, too aware. Too tightly held.... until your name is shouted behind you.
For a second, you almost don’t believe it.
Then again.
Louder.
You turn, as something in your chest breaks loose before you can think about it. You drop your suitcase immediately and start moving before you even realize you’ve started running.
The space between you disappears too fast. And then you’re there, hugging the two women.
Hugging them tight, like if you let go too soon it would confirm every fear you’ve been trying not to name. They pull you in just as close, like neither of them had any intention of letting you be the one to hold on alone.
The pressure builds in your chest all at once. Too much feeling, too much time compressed into a single moment, and it spills over before you can stop it. Tears blur your vision, warm and sudden, and you don’t bother hiding them.
You don’t want to go home.
Because home isn’t the airport, or the city, or the life waiting for you past security.
Home is right here in your arms.
Wanda's or Natasha's home. You’re unaware and uncaring of whose it is as you're shoved inside with passion.
Your arms are wrapped around Natasha's neck, lips pressed to one another. The kiss is deep and unmoving. Her body pins you to the wall, and she grabs your thigh to wrap it around her waist. She holds you close, tightening her grip as she pulls you in. She tastes like the smoke she’s always inhaling and some unnamed, basic brand of chapstick.
You gasp, tugging at her hair as you melt into the kiss. Your body feels so warm and tingly that you believe you're floating. Wanda shuts and locks the door, coming up behind you to slide her hands down your chest while her lips lock onto your neck, listening to the little sounds you make.
Your shirt is tossed aside by Wanda, bra is shoved down so she can feel along your chest. To feel your nipples harden from her fingers tracing them. Your legs buckle under their touch, and they catch you to lead you toward the bed.
You fall back onto the bed, looking up at the two of them with lidded eyes, dressed only in your bra and bottoms. Wanda removes her shirt and lays over you, mumbling quiet comments about your body.
She whispers how gorgeous you are and how you’re stunning, "like a dream."
She tells you how good you look under her as she climbs on top, slotting her lips against yours. You reach a hand up to tug at her hair, squirming under the weight of her body. Pushed into the mattress by her hips slotting between yours. Hips grinding against one another.
Wanda kisses down your body, her lips latching onto your nipple for a moment.
"Mm—!"
You jolt, a whine escaping you at the contact as your thighs rub together. You're seeking more already, which brings a cocky, knowing look to her expression.
She continues to kiss down your body and across your abdomen. She skips over the area you want, instead kissing up your inner thighs while her thumbs hook into your underwear.
"This alright?"
You nod. "Mm... 's alright..."
She slides them down while keeping eye contact, creating a deeper sense of heat. You reach out to cup her cheek, pulling her up to kiss you for another moment before she heads back down again to hover over where you want her most.
She blows against your clit, watching you as you shiver, your hands clutching at the sheets. It takes no longer than a minute to have you clutching at the headboard, moans slipping from your lips as she slides her tongue between your folds.
She presses her tongue against your clit, rubbing it there and making it feel almost as if it's vibrating. You keen and whine, rolling your hips against her face. You smear your arousal around her face as if it isn't already dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets.
Your chest rises and falls, your back arching. You give her a view she wishes could be captured in a Renaissance painting.
As you come down from your high and the pressure is released from between your hips, she gives you zero time before sliding a finger into you.
"O-oh—!"
"So tight," she teases. "Squeezing my finger..."
She licks at your inner thigh, biting down and littering the skin with hickeys, bruising it. She slides in a second finger, moving it alongside the one already inside you. You shove your face into the side, moaning into the pillow to muffle the sound.
"God...!" you squeak, mewling. "There...! There, please... oh...!"
She hums, kissing your collarbone. She places sweet kisses there before adding a third finger, one that stretches you delightfully well. Wanda seems gentle, as she is, but her fingers are large and she is something else in bed.
Watching you come down from your high a second time, Wanda slides her fingers out, licking the excess off. She looks back, noting Natasha's presence and the strap settled on her hips.
She moves to you, seeing the breathless, dazed expression on your face. Natasha manhandles you onto your back, raising your hips.
"Mm..! 'tasha...!"
"Keep 'em there," she commands, her hand resting on your hips to indicate exactly where she wants you to hold yourself. She rubs the length between your folds and against your ass, watching it catch your arousal almost like lube before she presses it fully at your entrance. She pushes all the way through, until she hits the hilt.
Noting how you rub your hips back as if you were in heat, grinding against her, she grips your ass and pulls back before pushing in again. She brings you to a keen, your mind completely lost.
Your face is smudged into the sheets, gripping them and making a mess as you take her the best you can. Wanda comes to the other end of the bed, leaning in to kiss you deeply.
You kiss back as best as you can. "I... I love you... I love you..."
Her expression softens, and both of theirs do. Wanda brushes her thumb against your cheek. "And we love you, so much."
"I... mm! Mm.. n-not leaving... e-ever—oh!"
Wanda hums, leaning back. She slides herself forward, her pussy on full view in front of you. You can feel the heat as her legs spread wide, opening herself up for you.
Before you can take anything into your own hands, Natasha’s hand shoves your face down into Wanda's cunt. You moan, rolling your hips back and liking the gesture. Your lips and nose are shoved into Wanda's cunt, while Natasha stretches you out around her length.
Wanda’s head is tilted back. "Ohhh baby, there... mm... dreamt about this."
You use your tongue and lips to worship her, driven by the rhythmic, heavy thrusts of Natasha behind you. The friction of the strap-on and the heat of Wanda’s skin create an overwhelming sensory overload. Your breath is hitching, muffled against Wanda’s thighs, as you work to keep pace with the frantic movement of your own hips.
Natasha leans over you, her chest pressing into your arched back as she whispers darkly into your ear. "If you don't make Wanda come, you get nothing else tonight. Focus on her."
The threat, or promise, sends a fresh jolt of adrenaline through you. You double your efforts, your tongue flicking and swirling with desperate precision until Wanda’s hands lock into your hair, her hips jerking upward in a sudden, violent spasm. She cries out your name, her walls clenching around your face as she reaches her peak.
Seeing Wanda shatter is the final straw for your own control. As she collapses back against the pillows, Natasha delivers several hard, deep lunges that hit exactly where you need. You let out a broken, high-pitched moan, your internal muscles seizing as your own climax crashes over you.
The room falls silent, save for the heavy, synchronized sound of three people catching their breath. Natasha pulls away, sliding out of you and collapsing onto the bed beside you both, pulling your shaking body into the middle of their warm, protective tangle
You spent so long trying to leave this town behind, but looking at them now, you know you’re never going to find a reason to say goodbye again.
note: Omg you made it? you read this whole thing? about 8k? thank you and congrats too. Hope you enjoyed! this took me two days to write... im legit struggling to keep my eyes open. I MEAN IT. i have to get up in 5 hours for work oops.
Pairing: TeacherWandaMaximoff x neutralLittleReader
Summary: You are different, you have always been. You were Not always aware of that but she was. Wanda had a caring eye on you, since day one. But that doesn't make things easier. She sees mean actions you don't. She tries to fix things that hurt you without you recognising it as hurt. It's a thin line between caring and letting it get to her.
That becomes especially hard on this Trip into your favourite Forest.
A/n: I felt like going insane because I know all the german names but none of them in english. I tried to look up everything accordingly. Please correct me if i translated someting incorrectly.
As promised, my Wanda/Little reader. I'm not sure if it's what you've been waiting for tho. It's more a portrayal of things I did as a kid or experienced and only later realised it was bullying. People like Wanda are worth so much and I wish I had more of those lovely caring people in my life! Nonetheless I hope you have fun reading!
The bus smells like rain and someone's forgotten banana peel, and you decide immediately that this is fine.
You have smelled worse smells. The art supply closet on the third floor, for instance, which reeks of mold and something else you have never been able to name but which you suspect is despair. The changing room after gym. The lunch hall on Thursdays when it is broccoli.
The bus, all things considered, is tolerable. It smells of rubber and damp wool and the faint ghost of someone's citrus hand cream, and beneath that, if you breathe carefully enough, of soil and early morning and the cold that has been sitting in the footpath since the driver opened the doors.
You sit in the front row, closest to the teachers. This is not an accident.
You have sat here for the whole of the year, since September, since the first week, since the day you looked at the bus and understood immediately what would happen toward the back of it. Alone the thought of the chaos makes you shiver.
The back is where things are always in motion. Bags thrown. Seats changed without warning. Someone's headphones bleeding tinny percussion at a volume calibrated for no one's comfort. The back is loud in ways that are not predictable, and unpredictable loudness is a different category of loud entirely from the kind you can prepare for.
The front is different. The front is where Miss Maximoff is, and Peterson, and Mr. Okafor, and Ms. Bergmann, and the fifth teacher whose name you have not yet committed to memory because he joined the school in February and you are still in the process.
They are adults, which means they move in more predictable patterns. They do not throw things. Their voices, when they speak, are directed and purposeful rather than ambient.
Miss Maximoff is standing.
She is standing in the narrow aisle between the first seats and the dashboard, holding the back of the driver's partition for balance as the bus pulls out of the school car park, and she is counting heads. Her lips move as she counts. You can see this because you are directly to her left, in the window seat of the second row, and she has not yet noticed you watching her, or she has and has decided not to make a thing of it, which is something she does.
You watch her the way you watch most things: attentively, without making it a performance.
Her lips stop moving. She exhales slowly through her nose.
She has rosie cheeks. You mean this as an observation: her cheeks are genuinely a soft shade of pink, a real and specific warmth in the skin, the kind that cold air brings up from underneath. You noticed it in November, the first week of November, when she came into the classroom from morning duty with frost still on her scarf and her face carrying that bitten colour. You noted it then and you have noted it consistently since.
It is the same pink that appears on your own nose in winter when you have been outside too long, which makes it a familiar kind of observation, a colour you recognise from the inside.
She also has a small crease at the corner of her mouth when she is trying not to smile at something, and she has the habit of pressing her lips together very briefly when she has just made a decision, and when she is thinking about a problem she holds her pen against her lower lip and does not seem to notice she is doing it.
You have catalogued these things without meaning to. Most of what you rehister you do not mean to. It simply happens.
She finishes the count. Looks at the clipboard. Starts again from the back of the bus.
You look out of the window instead. The town slides by, familiar and then less so, the school streets giving way to broader roads and then to the open stretch of a street that heads north toward the forest. The sky is painted by morning colours and the light is the specific quality of a morning that has not yet decided what it is going to be.
The trees along the roadside still all have their leaves: yellow and copper yet some still green, the colour of something familiar that's leaves but is sure to return at some point.
You press your forehead to the glass. The cold seeps in slowly, which is the right speed. Your breath makes a circle of fog that blooms and fades. You trace your name in it. Y/n. You watch it disappear and trace it again.
Behind you, the bus is being itself.
———
She had counted forty children.
Wanda had counted, then counted again, then handed the clipboard to Ms. Bergmann and asked her to verify, not because she didn't trust her own counting but because forty children and five teachers and one day trip into the Forest required more than two eyes checking.
It required a specific kind of vigilance that she had been developing for the past year and which she was not entirely sure she had fully mastered.
Forty confirmed. Five staff. She sat back down in the front row across the aisle and accepted the flask of peppermint tea that Peterson held out without comment.
"Third count?" he asked.
"I'm thorough," she stated with concetration.
"You are," he agreed, with the mild tone he used for things that were true and also slightly more than they appeared. He looked out his own window. He had a comfortable relationship with windows, Peterson, the way some people had a comfortable relationship with silence and you. She had noticed this about him early, in autumn years ago, when she was still learning which colleagues were safe to be quiet near.
Peterson was safe to be near she learned that when she got to this school years ago.
She wrapped her hands around the flask and looked at the seat directly across and one row behind from her, where y/n was sitting with their forehead against the glass, tracing something in the condensation. The seat beside them was empty. All the seats near the front were mostly empty.
The children from class 5a and 5b were back there, in their groups and their noise, and y/n was here, in the front row, which was where y/n had sat since the first week of school.
When Wanda got a new class in her subjects, eleven months ago, she had asked the previous teachers what she should know about the incoming cohort. They had given her the usual information, dry and administrative, and then at the end most had said, almost as an afterthought: there's one, y/n Stark, very bright probably better up in a higher grade but a bit different, struggles with adjustment and that's why we stayed the regular way after a throrough discussion with the parents. You'll figure it out.
She had not found that adequate. She had gone home and read everything she could find and come back the next day with a set of questions she had typed out in a document, careful and specific, and she had asked the school's psychologist and she had read y/n's file and she had observed, very carefully, for the first three weeks without acting on most of what she observed, because she had learned already that acting too quickly on observation with y/n produced the wrong kind of attention. The kind that made them go quiet in ways that were not peaceful.
Eleven months. She was still learning. She suspected she would always be still learning, which was not entirely a comfortable feeling.
Y/n traced their name in the condensation again. Their profile was calm. Their hand in their lap was still.
"Last trip of the year?," Peterson said, to no one in particular and her eyes averted back to him after a second glance at her student.
"Last," she said agreeingly. "End of term. Before they move up to six."
"Ah." He considered this. "A significant day, then."
She looked at the clipboard. Forty names. "Yes,I suppose it is."
———
The forest starts where the carpark ends, which is abrupt in the way you appreciate: one surface, then another. Street to gravel at the first line of trees, and then the gravel gives way to compacted earth and root-ridged ground and the sky overhead goes from open grey to a green ceiling layered with grey, and the smell changes completely.
You have been counting steps since the bus. You are at one hundred and twelve when the ground changes underfoot. You register the number and continue.
The forest here is mostly beech and oak, with some hornbeam further in and different trees scattered inbetween, which you know from the field guide you read last week in preparation. Hornbeam bark has a specific wavy quality, like muscle under skin. You will look for it. The understorey is hawthorn and elder, both of which are bare now or nearly so, their branches making the kind of delicate linear patterns against the sky that you find very satisfying to look at. The leaf litter is deep and wet and it smells of earth and cold and something green that should, in your opinion, have its own word and does not.
You are at the back of the group.
This has happened gradually. You were at the front when you got off the bus, near Miss Maximoff, who was directing the line, and you walked with her for the first hundred metres or so, but then the path curved and the group compressed and the noise level rose as everyone settled into the fact of being outside together, and you slowed until the group had moved past you and you were at the back, which is where you do your best thinking.
Right now you are thinking about geology.
The sits on the southern edge of a sandstone ridge formed in the Cretaceous, which means the stones here should be predominantly sandstone: reddish-brown, medium-grained, with occasional quartz inclusions running through them in pale veins. You have read about this.
You are looking for it.
You find it within four minutes.
It is at the edge of the path, half-buried in leaf litter: a piece of sandstone roughly palm-sized, reddish-brown as expected, with a streak of rose quartz running diagonally through it like a signature. You crouch.
The ground is damp through the knees of your trousers and you register this and decide it is acceptable. You work the stone free with careful fingers.
The quartz streak catches what little light the canopy permits.
"Oh," you say happily, quietly, to the stone.
You turn it over. The underside is lighter, sandier, the grain visible like skin. You press your thumbnail into it gently. The surface crumbles slightly, which is characteristic of this sandstone, relatively soft for rock, a two on the Mohs scale approximately. Your mom gifted you a big poster that explained it well.
You put it in your jacket pocket. Your jacket already contains: the field guide folded to fit and a folded note from Mr. Okafor with the lunch information.
The new stone fits beside without pressing on the field guide. Good.
You stand. The group is further ahead. You can hear them, the particular sound of forty children in a forest, which is a lot like the sound of forty children anywhere except that some of the voices are muffled by the trees and some of the sounds are footsteps on leaves, which have a specific quality you appreciate.
Leon's voice is audible, a particular frequency you have learned to locate without trying to and therefore avoid the place it comes from.
You follow the path by the side.
______
She lost sight of y/n within the first twelve minutes.
Wanda had been paying attention. She had specifically been paying attention to the back of the line where y/n had been walking, and she had been simultaneously managing Freya's question about whether there were wolves in this forest and keeping an eye on Leon's group, which had positioned itself in the middle of the line in the way that Leon's group always positioned itself, occupying the social centre of any space it entered.
And then the path curved and there was a tree down across the verge that required a brief detour and she looked back and the last four people in the line were three girls from 5b who were always together and behind them, no one.
She did not panic. She had learned that panicking produced a quality of movement that y/n could detect and which then required managing, and managing was not what either of them needed right now. She excused herself quietly to Ms. Bergmann and went further back.
She found them a hundred metres behind the group, crouched at the base of an oak tree, both hands cupped around something.
Their trousers had dirt on the knees. Their hair was doing what it always did after a few minutes outdoors: escaping whatever had been done with it in the morning and rearranging itself around their face in a way that looked, like the illustrations in old fantasy children book. Precise and a little wild and completely in their element.
"Y/n," she gently called, keeping her voice level.
They looked up. Not startled. Their hands remained cupped and careful.
"Quartz and sandstone," they exclaimed. "The rose quartz streak is particularly clear on this piece. There should also be quartzite in the area, and possibly some limestone at the lower elevations near the stream. The regional geology is Cretaceous to Triassic in layers."
She crouched beside them. She looked at the stone: reddish-brown, compact, with a pale pink vein running through it at an angle. She accepted it when they held it out, turned it carefully in her hands. It was heavier than she expected and warm from being held.
"The pink streak is quartz?" she asked.
"Rose quartz, yes. Quartz forms in cavities. The pink colour comes from trace amounts of titanium or iron in the crystal structure, depending on who you ask. There's some debate." They paused. "Can I have it back please?"
"Of course, love." She returned it. Watched them tuck it with great care into their jacket pocket, making some internal arrangement she could not see. "We should catch up with the group."
"Yes," they agreed, without urgency, and stood in one fluid motion, and fell into step beside her on the path.
She matched their pace. She always matched their pace now, without thinking about it. It was the pace of someone for whom walking was not transit but attention, and she had learned that matching it was worth more than arriving somewhere faster.
______
Here is something you have understood about Leon over the course of a year:
He is a system. Individually he is approximately tolerable.
With Marcus and Dev he becomes something else, something that generates its own momentum, and the momentum is almost always pointed outward. You have observed this since the first week of school and the pattern has been consistent. The variable is proximity to adults, which modulates the system's output but does not change its fundamental nature.
You are not afraid of Leon.
You want to be precise about this, in your own internal catalogue: he does not produce in you the responses that fear produces. He does not register the way the fire alarm registers, or the way sudden loud music registers, or the way the smell of the lunch hall on certain days registers. He is not alarming in those ways.
He is, however, extremely tedious.
The thing he does, the main thing, is take objects and do something with them. This is the clearest pattern you have identified. An object is in your possession and then it is not. The mechanism varies but the structure is consistent.
In September it was your pencil case, briefly, before Miss Maximoff noticed. In October it was your lunch from the bench outside. Today, on the path through the forest, it is the dried bracket fungus you found on the north side of a fallen log and put in the outer pocket of your bagpack because it was too crumbly for your jacket pocket.
You had shown it to Miss Maximoff earlier in the morning. Ganoderma applanatum, you had told her. If you press your finger to the fresh underside it leaves a brown mark if not dried. People used to draw on them. She had looked at it with genuine interest, which is a different expression from performed interest and you can tell the difference reliably.
Leon takes it while you are looking at a hornbeam.
You had stopped because the hornbeam's bark does in fact have the rough quality you expected from the field guide description, and you are looking at the way the bark ripples over the underlying wood, the specific flow of it, when your backpacj shifts.
You look around. Leon is walking past with the fungus held between two fingers, and then he lets go of it, not quite a throw, more a release, and it spins into the undergrowth.
"Whoops," he says grinning.
Marcus makes a sound that is laughter. Dev looks at you for a half second and then at the ground. You look at where the fungus went. The undergrowth on the left side of the path here is dense with dead bracken. Retrieving the fungus, if it is even intact, would require going off the path, which is on the list of things you are not supposed to do on this trip and still you wander off most of the time..
You look at the hornbeam again.
"Carpinus betulus," you say. "Hornbeam. The bark is sometimes called muscled bark because of the way it looks. It is one of the hardest native woods in central Europe. The Romans used it for chariot wheels."
Leon is already walking away. Marcus follows. Dev follows Marcus.
You look at the bracken where the fungus went. You cannot see it. You note the loss and give it the weight it deserves, which is the weight of something unfortunate, and you put your hands in your jacket pocket and feel the quartz, grounding.
The hornbeam's bark is still very good.
You look at it for a while longer and then you follow the path.
———--
She had been watching.
She had been watching specifically because she had learned that the middle of the line was where Leon's group operated with the most confidence, far enough from the teachers at the front and from her at the back that the system felt unobserved.
She had positioned herself accordingly, hanging back from the main adult cluster to close the gap. She had been watching and she had still been thirty metres away when she saw the bagoack shift.
She saw Leon's hand. Saw the arc of the fungus into the bracken. Saw Marcus. Saw Dev's eyes go to y/n and away.
She was moving.
And then she stopped, because y/n had turned back to the tree and was looking at it with the same quality of attention they had been giving it before Leon arrived, and their voice, clear and carrying, was describing chariot wheels in a tone of genuine interest, and Leon was already walking away, and the moment had the particular quality of a situation that had occurred and been quietly filed and moved past.
She stood in the middle of the path.
The frustration moved through her like weather. She had a good relationship with her own feelings in the sense that she could identify them accurately and had developed, over time, reasonable methods of not acting from them before she was ready.
But this one, this specific one, was harder to process than most. It was not simple anger, though there was anger in it. It was the thing underneath anger. The knowledge that Leon had, again, looked at y/n and seen something worth diminishing, and that he had done it in the thirty seconds she had not been standing directly between them.
She looked at y/n, who was touching the
bark with two careful fingers and was, as far as she could tell, genuinely absorbed.
That was the thing she couldn't quite carry. Not that y/n was devastated. They manifestly were not devastated, or were not showing devastation, or were not processing what had occurred as an act of deliberate cruelty.
The gap. She had read about the gap. She understood the gap intellectually. Understanding it intellectually and watching it function in real time were different experiences.
She thought about Tony Stark, who had sat across from her at the December parents' evening with careful posture and carefully arranged confidence and said: we moved schools because we hoped things would be different.
And she had said: I hear you. And she had meant it. She was still meaning it, here on a forest path in October with leaf litter under her boots and a piece of bracket fungus somewhere in the bracken.
She walked to Leon's group. She was calm. She was specific. She did not perform anger because she did not need to, and because performing anger was less effective than the particular quality of clarity she had when she was very sure about something. She was very sure about this.
Leon looked at his boots. Good.
She noted it on the clipboard and moved to the back of the line.
Y/n had left the hornbeam and was walking again, hands in their jacket pockets, at their own unhurried pace, tilting their head at something on the right side of the path she couldn't yet see.
She fell in beside them without commentary.
"What is it?" she asked with caring interest.
"Lichen. Xanthoria parietina, I think. The yellow kind. It's a bioindicator. It grows better where the soil quality is good and also it can handle higher levels of certan chemicals. The forest has relatively high nitrogen deposition compared to other central European forests. That's probably why there's so much of it. It's very adaptable and tolerant plant."
She looked at the lichen. Orange-gold, crinkled like something hand-made, spreading across the bark in overlapping rounds.
You find the beetle at eleven forty-seven, which you know because of your watch.
It is an analogue watch, a birthday gift, with a case the colour of old copper and a second hand that makes a sound like a heartbeat if you hold it against your ear.
You check it regularly because knowing where you are in time is one of the methods you have developed for knowing where you are in general, the way a map organises space into something navigable. Time works the same way. Eleven forty-seven means forty-three minutes until lunch, means the morning is nearly done, means the quality of light should begin shifting toward noon directness within the next half hour.
The beetle is on the underside of a beech leaf.
You would have missed it entirely, because you are watching a woodpecker. You can hear it, a rapid percussion against a living branch somewhere in the middle canopy, a sound like something impatient and productive, and you have been tracking it by sound when the beech leaf at the edge of the path trembles. There is almost no wind today. That means something is moving on it.
You crouch. You lift the leaf's edge with one careful finger.
The beetle is approximately eighteen millimetres long and it is one of the best things you have ever seen. It is a rose chafer. Cetonia aurata. You know this from the field guide, which you have read more than once: the characteristic broad oval form, the smooth elytra with small pale markings, the distinctive V-shaped scutellum between the wing cases. But the field guide's photographs do not prepare you adequately for the colour.
It is not simply green. It is metallic and structural, shifting between emerald and bronze and gold depending on the angle, the kind of colour that is not pigment but light itself reorganised by the microscopic architecture of the cuticle.
Late October is at the very edge of their season, and finding one still active on a mild afternoon like this is unusual. You are aware of this. You file it accordingly.
You watch it for a long time.
The woodpecker continues in the background. The beetle investigates the leaf's edge with patient, deliberate steps. You are not moving.
Then you look up, and Miss Maximoff is coming back down the path from somewhere ahead, clipboard under her arm, and her cheeks are pink from the walking and there is a small leaf caught in her hair, just behind her left ear. A beech leaf, triangular, still with some yellow in it. She has not noticed it.
You stand up.
"Miss Maximoff," you call softly. Your voice comes out clearly, which is not always a given in open space with complicated acoustics.
She looks up immediately. Finds you with the quick directness she has always had when looking for you, not the brief searching delay most adults show. She walks toward you, reading your expression the way she reads your expression, which is not from the eyes but from somewhere else, the angle of your chin, the arrangement of your hands.
"What did you find, sweetheart?" she asks.
You show her your hand. The beetle is still there.
She leans in. The beech leaf in her hair trembles. A strand of her hair falls forward and she doesn't push it back.
"Oh," she says warmly.
It is the same sound you made when you found the sandstone. You notice this with something warm.
"Cetonia aurata," you explain. "Rose chafer. They're usually active from April through Septemer, so finding one now, this late in the season is quite good. The colour is structural, light diffracting through layered microscopic structures in the cuticle rather than pigment. It shifts depending on the angle. They feed on nectar and pollen, which makes them important pollinators. The larvae live in rotting wood and compost for two to three years before emerging. Thats very cool."
She is quiet for a moment.
"That's quite a thought," she hums with her full attention on you.
"You have a leaf in your hair," you acknowled simply as if it belong to your statement before, glancing at her.
She straightens. Reaches up. Finds it. She holds it out in front of her and looks at it. Beech leaf, small, pointed at the tip, yellow and brown at the margins, with the distinctive wavy edge that makes beech leaves identifiable even when they are nearly bare of colour.
"Thank you, love," she thansk you. She looks at it for a moment and then, instead of dropping it on the path, she hands it to you and you place it in your pocket of your jacket.
"The group is ahead," you note.
"It is," she agrees but redirects. "Tell me more about the beetle while we walk."
So you do. You tell her about the Scarabaeidae family and about the structural colour and about how rose chafers, unlike most beetles, can fly with their elytra closed, extending their hindwings through a notch at the side. She asks whether the iridescence occurs in other chafers or only this species. You tell her it occurs in several but that Cetonia aurata is one of the most vivid examples in central European fauna.
She asks what it eats. You tell her: nectar, pollen, the soft parts of flowers, occasionally fruit and tree sap. An important pollinator, especially for open flowers it can access with its mouthparts.
"Useful and beautiful"
"Most things are both," you smioe with a gentle voice. "Even tho most people don't few them as such.. Beauty is more than just conformity"
She makes the sound she makes when she is pleased, that soft exhale, almost nothing. You have heard it perhaps fifty times over the course of the year and you have kept count without intending to.
You walk the rest of the way to the group side by side, at your pace, and the woodpecker follows you for a while in the canopy above, its percussion going on and on like something that will never run out of reasons.
Lunch is at a clearing.
The clearing is larger than you expected, which is good, because forty children in a space that is too small produce a particular kind of ambient pressure that you have learned to manage but prefer not to need to manage. This clearing is large enough that you can sit at the edge of it, near the tree line, and have the space feel more like a choice than a compression.
You sit on a log.
The log is excellent. It is a fallen oak, very old, the bark mostly gone, the wood beneath in the process of becoming something more like earth than wood.
It has, at the near end, a cluster of small shelf fungi, in concentric rings of brown and cream and soft orange.
You eat your sandwich. Your mom had packed cheese and pickle, which you like, which she always packs because she pays attention to what you like, which is something you are quietly and specifically grateful for.
Miss Maximoff brings you a biscuit.
She appears beside you with the particular quietness she has developed around you, which you believe is deliberate and which you appreciate and she holds out a shortbread biscuit from the communal tin. She does not ask if you want it. She simply holds it out in a way that means: this is available and there is no obligation. You take it.
"Thank you," you whisper.
She sits on the log beside you. Not touching. A comfortable gap. She has her own lunch, a thermos and something wrapped in paper. She looks at the burrow entrance beneath the log that you watched.
"Something lives there?" she asks quietly.
"Something small," you answer. "The entrance width suggests wood mouse or common vole. I'm waiting to see which."
"We could be patient," she observed.
"We could," you beamend.
You eat the biscuit. It is very good. Butter and a slight sweetness and the specific texture of a thing made by someone who was paying attention. Around you the clearing continues being a clearing, forty children in their clusters and systems, the noise of it distributed and ambient and, from this distance, manageable. Here is a different kind of space.
"There," Miss Maximoff says, very softly.
A nose appears at the burrow entrance. Brown, pointed, twitching. Then a head. Large round ears.
"Wood mouse," you giggled. "The ears are too large for vole. And the nose is more pointed."
The mouse considers the air for a moment and then is gone.
She makes the sound. The soft exhale.
"Clever thing," she whispers with a smile and you are not entirely certain who she means.
You look at the clearing. The light has moved toward noon and is coming down more directly now, and where it hits the remaining leaves on the trees at the clearing's edge they look almost translucent, lit from behind, every vein visible. You think: this is a very good day. You file it carefully in the place you keep good days.
______
She had stayed longer than she needed to.
She knew this. She had tasks. She should be circulating, checking in, eating her own lunch somewhere that permitted her to monitor the group more broadly. She had done the circulating. She had done the checking in. She had eaten while walking, which was efficient.
And then she had come to the log at the tree line with the biscuit tin, which was also efficient (she told herself), had sat down and had watched a wood mouse emerge from a burrow.
She was not going to interrogate the efficiency too closely.
The truth was that the morning had been long in the specific way that required this: the particular combination of vigilance and frustration and the effort of staying level-voiced, precise while also feeling things she was not currently expressing. The log. The wood mouse. The way y/n described everything as though it mattered, because to them it did, because that was one of the things about y/n that made her chest do the thing it did.
Everything mattered. The geology mattered and the lichen mattered and the beetle's structural colour and the wood mouse's ear-to-nose ratio. The mattering was not selective or performed. It was simply how y/n moved through the world and it had a specific quality that she had not, in eleven months, become accustomed to. She suspected she would not become accustomed to it.
She looked at the clearing. Forty children, end of Year Five, a year nearly done. Some of them she would see again in September when they came back as Year Six. Some she would pass in hallways for years. And this one, who she would maybe not see in September, who would maybe have a different teacher and a different classroom, who would definitely carry their jacket pocket full of stones into some other year.
The thought arrived before she could manage it.
She ate the last of her lunch. She put the wrapper in her bag. Beside her y/n was watching the tree line, their hands in their lap, entirely at ease, as though the clearing and the log and the early afternoon were exactly sufficient, which perhaps they were.
She breathed. She was grateful, at least, for the wood mouse.
The afternoon path curves north and descends.
You know this from the map you studied before the trip: the forest sits on a sandstone ridge and the northern slopes drop toward a small seasonal stream, which runs over a gravel bed of mixed material, some local sandstone, some quartz, some material brought down from the ridge over many seasons. This is where you are going. You have been thinking about it since the bus.
The birches start halfway down the slope.
You had been told birches and you were prepared for birches but being prepared does not prevent the particular quality of arriving somewhere and finding it as you imagined, which is its own pleasure. The birch canopy is different from the oak canopy, thinner and more numerous, the light coming through in fragments rather than pieces, a kind of bright multiplication.
The bark is very white. Not like painted white or paper white but like something that has found a precise, specific whiteness through a process you can respect.
You are at the back of the group again. You are aware that you are at the back again and that this will probably concern Miss Maximoff and you make a note to stay closer to the main group once you have checked the stream bank. But the birch bark is asking to be looked at and you are looking at it.
It is small and clear and it runs over a pale gravel bed with an easy purposeful sound that you find very calming, the kind of sound that has a constant frequency and therefore requires no ongoing anticipation.
You crouch at the bank. The gravel here is mixed: grey quartzite, which you expected, some reddish sandstone and there, in the shallows where the current has deposited finer material, a piece of something greenish that stops you.
You reach in with two careful fingers.
The water is very cold.
The stone is roughly three centimetres across, greenish-grey, smooth from water transport. You turn it. The green is not surface colour, it goes through. Serpentinite, possibly. The colour is consistent with the minerals that produce serpentinite's characteristic colouring.
It is not native to this region, rare, which means it has been transported, possibly glacially, from a rock formation further north or east. A traveller stone as your mom called them. You hold it in your palm.
"That's interesting," you whisper, to the stone.
You set it on the bank beside you while you look at the rest of the gravel. More quartzite. A piece of what might be limestone if the colour and grain are right, which you will verify later. The stream's whirligig beetles are on the surface, spinning in their characteristic tight orbits.
You watch them. Their compound eyes are divided horizontally for simultaneous above-and-below vision, which seems like a great deal of information to process at all times.
You feel some solidarity with this.
Then Leon is beside you.
You hear him before you see him, the specific sound of his footsteps, which are louder than most people's because he does not pick his feet up enough. He and Marcus come through the birches and they see you at the stream and something happens between them that you register as a communication but do not fully translate in the moment. then Leon is crouching beside you and he picks up a flat stone from the bank and skips it, badly, into the middle of the stream. The whirligig beetles scatter.
"Did you see that?" he asks in a mocking way that you don't register as such.
"The physics of stone skipping requires a release angle between ten and twenty degrees and a rotational spin for stability," you ramble. "That stone's angle was probably closer to forty, which is why it sank on the first contact. Also the shape wasn't ideal. You want an oblate form, wider than it is thick."
Leon picks up the serpentinite piece. The one from the shallows. The traveller stone.
"What's this?" he asks.
"Serpentinite, possibly. Found it in the shallows. The colour comes from magnesium and iron silicates. It might have been transported here glacially, which would make it interesting geologically because it's not native to this-"
He throws it.
Not far. Not precisely. Just far enough. It lands in the water near the far bank with a small sound.
"Whoops," he laughs.
You look at where it went. The current over there is faster and the water is slightly deeper,. You could try. You think about trying. You think about the stone on its original formation somewhere north or east of here, the long transit, the stream bed, your two fingers in the cold water.
"The colour was quite specific," you sigh.
You stand up. You return to the main path.
______
She had seen it.
She had been watching the stream from the upper bank, having arrived before most of the group and positioned herself on a root that gave her a clear viewand she had seen the moment Leon's hand closed around the serpentinite stone and she had been moving down the slope when it hit the water.
She stopped. Breathed. Y/n was already standing, already walking back toward the path, their hands in their pockets, their face doing the thing it did when something had been filed. She watched them go. She watched Leon, who was telling Marcus something with an easy laugh.
The rage, when it came, was very clean. She had developed this, over the year, the ability to feel it cleanly, without the spilling edges that made it into something she couldn't use.
She walked to Leon. She was very calm. She was specific and thorough and she said everything that needed saying in a voice that did not need to be loud because it was already clear enough to carry without volume. She noted it on the clipboard. She said she would be calling his parents this week. She said she meant it, because she did.
Leon nodded at the ground. She sent him back to the group.
Then she stood at the stream bank by herself for a moment.
The water moved over its gravel without comment. The whirligig beetles had resettled, already back to their orbits, the disturbance absorbed. She looked at the far bank where the stone had gone.
She thought about what she asled y/n after every incident this year: are you alright, sweetheart?
And y/n had always said yes, which was true, which was also not the same as being alright in the way she wanted them to be alright. There was a difference between not being harmed in the way you understood harm and not being harmed. She knew this.
She was fairly certain y/n would come to know it too, in time and she did not know what to do with the fact that she would probably not be there when that happened.
She climbed back up the bank.
Y/n was twenty metres up the path, crouched beside something at the base of a birch tree. She could see them reach into the shallows of a secondary rivulet she hadn't noticed, a small channel that ran close to the path's edge. The edges of their pulled up pant legs were wet.
They had gone back for it. While she talked to Leon probably.
She stopped walking for a moment.
They had gone back for it, quietly, without commentary, while she was talking to Leon, and they had retrieved it and put it away with the others and they were now examining something in the rivulet with the same focused interest they had brought to everything all day.
She resumed walking. She did not say anything about the stone. Some things did not need commentary to be significant. She asked if they were cold but they only shortly complained about the now most socks.
The bus pulls into the school car park at four fourteen.
You know this from your watch, which has been reliable all day. You are among the last to exit because you are in the front row and the front row empties last, which means by the time you reach the door the car park has already sorted itself into its end-of-day patterns: parents and guardians in clusters near the gates, children migrating toward them in pairs and groups, the particular organised dispersal of a place that runs on schedule.
You stand on the pavement with your backpack and take a small inventory.
Jacket pocket: sandstone with rose quartz streak, small basalt, Devonian limestone fragment, serpentinite traveller stone (recovered), quartzite piece from the stream gravel. Five stones. Plus the beech leaf, which you are keeping flat between two pages of the field guide to protect it. A good total.
The school building is to your right. The playground runs along the south side of it, a narrow strip behind a low chain-link fence and you walk that way because the side gate is shorter and also because the gravel along the playground edge sometimes contains material displaced from the playing surface, which has, in the past, produced pieces of red sandstone with interesting iron inclusions.
The playground has lower-year children in it, Year Three or Four by the size of them, in the last stretch of their own school day. Some on the equipment, most in the self-organising clusters that children form when given open space. You walk alongside the fence.
The gravel here is mostly ordinary. Crushed granite aggregate, pale grey, standard. But near the second fence post, where the ground is slightly uneven and water has sorted the material, there is a cluster of rounder stones, not aggregate, actual rounded stones, the kind that come from riverbeds. You crouch.
One of them has a faint pink streak.
K-feldspar. Potassium feldspar, the pink variety, common enough but the colour is always worth noting, a rose-pink that is specific to its chemistry in the way that colours that come from elements are specific. You pick it up.
Six stones now, plus the leaf. That is a good collection for one day.
You straighten up and look at the playground. The children on the swings. The ones on the climbing frame. The ones in clusters on the tarmac, doing whatever they are doing together, laughing at something you cannot hear from this distance. The particular ease of people who know each other and know what to do with the space they are in.
You look at this for a while. You are not sure what you are looking for. Something to understand, maybe. Something to file correctly.
You do not feel sad about it, precisely. It is more like looking at a natural phenomenon you have not yet fully described. A thing that exists and that you observe and that you have not found the right framework for.
You put your hands in your pockets and feel the stones.
_____
She was standing at the playground fence when Peterson found her.
She had not intended to stop here. She had been doing the final count at the gates, which was technically already done by Ms. Bergmann and technically not her responsibility at this stage of the day and she had been checking it anyway, because she had not fully developed the capacity to leave things technically done by others. she had looked up at some point and noticed y/n at the fence.
She had watched them crouch. Stand. Look at the playground.
She was frowning. She realised she was frowning and didn't stop.
Y/n looked at the playground the way they looked at the bracket fungus and the lichen and the beetles: attentively, without self-consciousness. But this was different. The bracket fungus did not contain forty children playing together without noticing y/n standing at its edge. The lichen did not have a structure that y/n was not part of and that y/n seemed to be observing from a position of genuine distance.
She was still frowning when Peterson appeared beside her, which meant she had not heard him coming, which meant she had been more inside her own head than she realised.
"Difficult afternoon?" he asked gently.
She exhaled slowly. "Leon. Again. He threw something into the stream."
Peterson was quiet for a moment, looking at the playground.
"And y/n?" he asked, mustering her face.
"Went back and got it while I was dealing with him." She paused. "Without saying anything. Just retrieved it and put it away."
"Yes,that's y/n...." Peterson said. Just that.
She looked at y/n, who had found something else in the gravel and was crouching again, utterly absorbed. The quality of their aloneness was specific. Not unhappy, as far as she could read. Not distressed. But alone in a way that did not seem chosen so much as arrived at, the way the back seat of the bus was not chosen but arrived at.
"I keep thinking," she sighed with a hand gesture and then stopped.
"What do you keep thinking?" Peterson asked.
"That I should be doing something different. That if I were better at this, or more experienced, or if I had started differently in September, the class would..." She let it go. It was not a completable sentence. "They've been there a full year and the dynamic hasn't shifted. Leon is Leon but it's not only Leon, it's the whole group. They don't include y/n. They don't exclude y/n cruelly, mostly, they just don't include them. And I don't know how to change that without making it worse."
Peterson did not offer an easy answer. She had come to appreciate this about him.
"Come," he said. "Let's go to them. I want to show you something."
______
Peterson is walking toward you along the fence.
This is notable because Peterson does not usually come to the playground side of the building at the end of the day. His natural territory is the staffroom and the science corridor and occasionally, the car park where he parks a very old Citroën.
Miss Maximoff is with him, one step behind.
"Y/n," Peterson greets softly, when they arrive. His voice is the same as always, mild and unhurried, the voice of someone who has run out of reasons to speak faster than thought.
"Peterson," you greet back.
He looks at the gravel. Then at you. "Found anything good?"
"K-feldspar," you nid and hold it out. "Pink variety. From the playground gravel. It's not native to this region so it was probably quarried somewhere else and used as infill."
He takes it in his large, creased hands and turns it. He has the hands of someone who has handled a great many things over a great many years.
"The pink," he says. "That's chemical?"
"Potassium content. The potassium ions replace some of the aluminium in the crystal lattice and that changes how light interacts with it. It's called a substitution, in mineralogy. When one element substitutes for another and changes the whole colour."
Peterson looks at the stone for a long time. "I collected things too, when I was young. Stamps first, then coins. Then anything flat with text on it."
"That's a very specific category," you glance up at him.
"It is," he agrees with a smile. "Still have some of them. In a box somewhere." He hands the feldspar back. "What did you find today, altogether?"
So you tell him. You tell him about the sandstone, the rose quartz streak, the basalt, the Devonian limestone, the serpentinite traveller stone, the quartzite, the feldspar and the beech leaf, which you describe last, explaining that it is not a stone but that you are keeping it because it is a good specimen of Fagus sylvatica autumn colouration and also because you found it in Miss Maximoff hair.
Peterson's eyes move briefly to Miss Maximoff, who is standing beside him and then back to you with an expression you categorise as amused in a warm way.
"And the day?" he asks. "The forest?"
You consider.
"The rose chafer was the best part. Cetonia aurata, structural colour, very late in the season to still find one active. And the wood mouse at lunch. And the hornbeam bark." You pause. "The sandstone ridge is interesting geologically. Cretaceous. The whole forest is built on a Cretaceous sandstone layer and the stream has been cutting through it for thousands of years. You can see the layers in the bank."
"Could you show me?" Peterson asks.
You consider. "Not today. The stream is a kilometre in. But there are photographs in the geological survey maps of the region. I can bring one."
"Please do," he simply nods with asmile.
You look at Miss Maximoff, who has been quiet. She is watching you with the expression she sometimes has, the one that does not require anything, that does not perform engagement but is simply there, present, the way the good rocks are present: found, not constructed.
"You're quiet," you observe.
"I'm listening," she swallows with a small smile. "You're interesting to listen to, love."
You consider this with a shrug. "Most people don't think so," you state, not with sadness, as an observation.
Her expression shifts. Something in it. She opens her mouth and then closes it again.
"but I do think so," she smiles more certain now even tho there is something behind her eyes you can't pinpoint. "I think so very much."
You look at the playground. The swings are still going. The last child on the climbing frame is descending in that deliberate way children have when they are pretending they are not tired.
"Should we go in?" Peterson gently interrupts. "I believe there is biscuit tin in the staffroom we can steal."
"Biscuits are my favourite," your smile widens .
"I know," chuckles Miss Maximoff and smiles.
The staffroom is warm.
This is the primary fact about it: a warm, inhabited warmth, different from the classroom kind, the kind that belongs to a room that has been used for a long time for the purpose of recovering. It smells of coffee, paper and underneath both, the specific dry note of a place with too many books, which is a smell you do not mind.
You have been in the staffroom twice before. Both times with Miss Maximoff, both times briefly. Now Peterson has directed you to the corner of the brown sofa that is adjacent to the window, which means you can see the last light in the sky and the school car park, you can also see the biscuit tin, which is a green tartan tin.
You take one. Then, because Miss Maximoff holds the tin toward you again with the expression that means: you are allowed more, you take a second.
You arrange your stones on the sofa arm.
Six stones and the leaf. You organise them first by geological age, which requires estimation, then by colour, then you return to geological age because that arrangement has more information in it. The leaf you put at the end of the row, flat, the yellow corner facing up.
Miss Maximoff is at the small table across the room, talking to Peterson in the quiet way they talk when they are not excluding you but also not requiring you to participate. You eat your biscuit and watch the car park. Your father's car is not there yet. This is not a problem. They are usually here by four-thirty and it is currently four-twenty-two.
The radiator hums.
After a while Miss Maximoff comes and sits in the low chair near the sofa and she pulls it a few inches closer in the way she does, which has always made the space feel right-sized. She has her tea. Her cheeks are still pink. She looks at the stones on the sofa arm.
"Tell me about them," she smiles. "All of them, from the beginning."
So you do.
She listens.
She asks about the streak and you explain how quartz forms in fractures and cavities as silica-rich water cools and she follows it without losing the thread, which is one of the things about her that you appreciate, she does not lose threads.
"It's so dark," she musters.
"Fine-grained because it cooled quickly on the surface rather than underground. The crystals didn't have time to grow large. If the same magma cooled slowly underground it would become granite instead." You take it back and put it in its place.
"The limestone next. Devonian, probably, which would make it approximately three hundred and seventy million years old. Give or take."
She makes the face she makes at numbers like that. Not confusion. Something more like vertigo, but the good kind.
"Three hundred and seventy million," she repeats.
"The Devonian period. Before the dinosaurs. There were fish. Lots of fish. And the first forests, actually. The very first forests on land, starting in the Devonian. So this stone is older than forests."
"It's older than forests," she looks at you amazed. She looks at the limestone. "You are carrying something older than forests in your pocket."
"Yes," you agree. "I often do, when I go outside."
She laughs. Not the professional laugh, not the managed one. The real one, that comes from somewhere lower, that she doesn't always produce in classrooms.
You like that laugh. You add it to the count of things you have kept from this year.
You show her the next two stones. She compares them in her two hands, feeling the difference.
"And the feldspar," you begin. "From the playground gravel. Potassium substitution in the crystal lattice gives it the pink. My mother would like this one. She likes pink things." A pause. "She is going to ask me about the stones when I get home. She always asks."
"That's good," Miss Maximoff says softly. "That she asks."
"She remembers which ones I already have. So she doesn't say oh, another grey stone. She says: is this the same type as the one from March or different." You look at the sofa arm. "Dad pretends he can't tell them apart but I think he actually can. He just doesn't want to say something wrong."
Miss Maximoff is quiet for a moment.
"They love you very much," she whispers.
"I know," you smile, which is true. You do know. You have always known this with the same clarity that you know the Mohs hardness scale or the colour of shades: not because someone told you but because the evidence is consistent and sufficient.
Peterson has settled into the armchair with his own tea and is watching the car park with the comfortable inattentiveness of someone who is also paying full attention, which you have come to understand is one of his operating modes.
"Peterson," you hum.
"Yes?"
"The geological survey maps for the region. Can I bring one on Monday?"
"You can bring it to my office and we can look at it together," he nods.
"I would like that," you smile contentedly
Outside, a car pulls into the car park.
______
She recognised the car before y/n did, or before y/n said anything.
A black sleek car, precise and clean in the way that spoke of someone who had opinions about maintenance schedules. It turned into the car park at four twenty-nine, which was, Wanda noticed, exactly one minute before the time Pepper Stark had said they would arrive, which she had also noticed about Pepper Stark in every interaction they had had, which was that she was exactly as precise as she appeared to be.
Y/n was already on their feet, stones back in their pocket, the leaf held carefully between two fingers.
"They're here," they acknowledged. With no particular drama. Simply a fact, documented.
They all walked out.
Pepper Stark stepped out of the passenger side before the car had fully stopped, which was the only imprecise thing Wanda had ever seen her do and when y/n came through the school's side door she closed the remaining distance quickly and crouched down and said something that Wanda did not catch. Y/n said something back, already reaching into their pocket.
The stones came out.
All of them. One by one, held out for Pepper to examine, each with its name and origin, and Pepper took each one in turn, held it, looked at it, asked questions that were real questions. Wanda watched from the door. Y/n's voice had changed, slightly, the way it sometimes changed when they were at full ease, a fraction less careful, a fraction more rapid, the sentences coming closer together.
Tony Stark had come around from the driver's side. He stood with his hands in his pockets and watched his child repeat the Cretaceous geology of this region to his wife. his face was doing something complicated, which Wanda had also come to expect from Tony Stark, who wore complexity as naturally as other people wore neutral expressions.
He looked at Wanda and Peterson.
"Good day?" he asked. He said it in the tone of someone asking a real question who was also not entirely sure they wanted a real answer. The tone of someone who had asked this question before and received answers that required careful management.
Wanda opened her mouth.
She thought about the seed pod. The fungus. The serpentinite in the deeper water. She thought about Leon's easy laugh and Dev's eyes going to the ground and the particular quality of the empty seat beside y/n on the bus. She had things she needed to address, things she had been composing in the back of her mind for the walk back, about the incident reports and the pattern and what she was planning to do next. she had opened her mouth to say them because it was the right thing to do, it was her responsibility, she should be the one to say them.
Peterson was faster tho: "A full and productive day. Y/n has made quite a collection."
She closed her mouth.
Tony looked at Peterson with the expression of a man recalibrating. Peterson had a specific effect on people, Wanda had noticed, a kind of grounding quality, a weight that settled conversations.
"The geological survey for our region is, I understand, quite interesting," Peterson continued, mildly. "Y/n has offered to bring the relevant maps on Monday. I intend to hold them to it."
Something shifted in Tony Stark's posture. A small thing. But she noticed.
Pepper was still looking at the serpentinite, turning it in the car park light. "This one is green," she said to y/n. "Is that the magnesium?"
"And iron," y/n nodded. "Both. The ratio affects the exact shade."
"This is the one you told me about?" Pepper asked, when y/n began to answer, she caught Wanda's eye over y/n's head and smiled. A small smile, with something in it. She gave the smallest nod toward Peterson.
And quietly, in a voice that was nearly swallowed by the afternoon car park noise, she said: "Thank you."
Wanda nodded.
Tony gave her a long look. Not warm, not cold. Assessing. He had the look of a man who had not received consistently good news from schools and who had developed a corresponding policy. Then he nodded, once, turned to collect his child, who was still explaining the Devonian period to Pepper with the full commitment of someone who had just remembered that three hundred and seventy million years deserved a proper introduction.
The car pulled out at four thirty-seven.
Wanda watched it go.
The staffroom was quieter now.
Ms. Bergmann had gone. Mr. Okafor had gone. The fifth teacher whose name Wanda still needed to commit to memory had gone.
The coffee machine on the counter made its occasional cooling tick, the radiator maintained its reliable background hum. Peterson was in the armchair again with a fresh cup of tea and the particular air of someone who had nowhere to be that was more important than here.
Wanda sat on the sofa. In the spot where y/n had sat. She was aware of this and did not move.
"I should have said something to Tony," she sighed with a rub on her forehead.
"Should you have?" Peterson asked, without argument.
"About the incidents. Leon. It's documented. He needs to know."
"He will be informed formally, through the proper process," Peterson stated. "Which you will do on Monday. Tonight, he needed to see his child happy and talking about rocks."
She looked at her hands. "I don't know if that was my decision to make."
"It was a shared decision," Peterson said, "made in approximately two seconds by two reasonably experienced people. The outcome was adequate. Don't audit it."
She almost smiled. "You do that thing," she said. "Where you make the right call sound obvious."
"It's a trick. It seems obvious in retrospect." He set his cup down. "Tell me what's actually troubling you, Wanda. Not the incidents. Underneath them."
She was quiet for a moment. The radiator hummed.
"I don't know if I did it right," she swallowed. "Any of it. The whole day. Leon and the fungus. Leon and the stream. I was positioned wrong twice. I was watching and I still wasn't close enough, the thing is I can't always be right next to them. I can't shadow y/n through every moment without that becoming its own problem. There's a balance and I don't know if I found it today."
Peterson looked at her.
"With the stream," she continued, "I got there and it was already done. Y/n was already walking away. And I had this moment where I was going to intervene and then I thought. Do I do it in front of them? Do I do it out of their hearing? If I make it into something, does that make it harder for y/n? If I don't make it into something, does Leon learn nothing?" She paused. "I took Leon aside. I was firm. I think I was right to do it that way. But I keep going over it."
"That particular sequence of decisions," Peterson began, "was sound. You protected y/n's dignity, you addressed the behaviour privately and specifically and you documented it for follow-up. There is no version of that you should revise."
She exhaled.
"The harder question," his voice shifted slightly, not harder, but more careful, the voice he used for things that required precision, "is the one underneath that. You're not really asking about Leon's tactics. You're asking whether you can protect y/n from the accumulated effect. And the answer to that is no. You cannot."
She looked at him.
"What you can do,you are doing. You are observant and you respond well, you have created a relationship with that child that is, in my experience, very rare. But the dynamic with the peer group. The empty seat. That is not a problem you can resolve by better positioning on a forest path."
"I know that," she blinked. "Rationally I know that."
"And less rationally?"
"Less rationally I keep thinking that if I were more..." She stopped. "Better. If I were better at this."
Peterson was quiet for a moment. He looked at the window.
"Let me tell you something about y/n,. And I want you to hear it as data, not comfort. Do you understand the distinction?"
"Yes," she nodded.
"Good. Here is the data: y/n showed me six objects today. They named each one correctly, gave its geological context, described its origin. They remembered which one I would find most interesting and led with that." He paused. "They do not do this with most people. They showed Ms. Bergmann a beetle this morning and she said 'how nice' and moved on, and y/n did not offer anything further. They showed you the same beetle and you asked about the luminous colours and they explained thin-film interference."
She remembered the beetle. The shifting green and gold on the leaf.
"The difference between those two interactions," Peterson continued"is not the beetle. It is what y/n concluded about who was worth continuing to talk to. And they concluded that you were. That is not a small thing. That is, in fact, the largest thing a child like y/n can give to an adult. It is the decision to trust that someone will follow where they lead."
She was quiet now.
"You have had this from them for eleven months. From essentially the first week of term. That does not happen by accident."
"It doesn't mean the peer group situation is resolved," she interrupted with frustration.
"No. It does not. I am not telling you the situation is resolved." He looked at her steadily. "I am telling you that one of the things you are doing right, you are doing very right. And that you should know this, because you clearly don't."
She looked at the sofa arm where the stones had been. Six indentations, barely visible, in the worn corduroy.
"They noticed I was quiet at the playground," she thought out loud. "They said: you're quiet. And I answered: I'm listening. You're interesting to listen to."
"And what did they say?"
"They said: most people don't think so. And I said-..." She stopped with another hand gesture that portrayed frustration.
"What did you say?" Peterson asked.
"I said: I think so. I think so very much."
Peterson nodded. Once, slowly.
"That," he pointed, "is the thing I mean. That is the thing you are not giving yourself credit for."
She picked up her tea. It had gone cold. She drank it anyway.
"There's something else,"
"Something I don't know how to say without it sounding-" She found the word she wanted. "Selfish."
"Try," Peterson looked at her.
"They're going into Year Six in September. In worst case a Different teacher. Different classroom. I've been thinking about how to write the handover notes, what to include, how to make sure whoever takes the class understands..." She stopped. "I've been writing them in my head since August, essentially. I want them to be perfect. I want the next potential teacher to see what I see."
"That is not selfish," Peterson smiled. "That is exactly what a good handover requires."
"And I also keep thinking that whoever it is probably won't." She said it flatly. "Not because they're not good. But because what I see is the result of eleven months of paying a specific kind of attention that I built over time. You can't write that into a document."
Peterson considered this.
"No," he sighed. "You can't. But you can write enough that the next teacher has a better starting point than you had. And the teacher after that has a better starting point still. And eventually, over years, the accumulated knowledge of how to be around y/n is somewhere in the school's institutional memory." He paused. "That is not nothing, Wanda. That is, in fact, how things improve."
She thought about September. The first week. The day she had sat across from y/n for the first time and y/n had looked at her collar and said: the patterning on your scarf is consistent with a textile technique called supplementary weft, it's used in central Asian weaving traditions
"I'll write the best handover notes I've ever written," she decided.
"I know you will," Peterson looked at her with ease.
The radiator hummed. The staffroom settled around them. Outside the window the car park was empty and the October sky had gone from its thin cold blue to the first deepening toward dark, the streetlights along the school road beginning their slow warm ignition.
"The beech leaf," Wanda continued, after a while. "I put it in my pocket and they filed it. I could see them file it."
"Filed under what, do you think?" Peterson asked.
She thought about it.
"Good things," she said. "I think they have a place they keep things that are good."
"Yes," said Peterson. "I think they do too."
She finished the cold tea. She set the cup down. She looked at the sofa arm where the stones had been.
"Thank you,For today. For the playground. For-" She gestured vaguely at the staffroom. "This."
"I've done very little," he laughed warmly. "You did the day. I only walked to the fence with you."
"That was enough"
Outside, a car passed along the school road. The streetlights were fully on now. The October evening had arrived, quiet and specific, with that particular density that October evenings have, as though the dark is not an absence but a thing that comes with weight and texture.
Wanda picked up her coat. Peterson remained in the armchair with the comfortable permanence of something that had been in the same spot for a long time and intended to remain there.
"Monday,"
"Monday," he agreed. "And the geological survey."
She smiled. She put her coat on. She picked up the clipboard, all present, all returned and she walked to the door and paused.
"Peterson," she looked back.
He looked at her.
"Do you think they'll be alright? In the end. In the long run."
He took his time. He had the manner of someone who understood that taking time was not avoidance but accuracy.
"I think," he starts, "that y/n will be exactly what y/n is. Which is a great deal." He looked at the window. "I know a man in Copenhagen who collects beetles professionally and emails me photographs. He was very like y/n, once. He sends quite beautiful photographs."
She stood in the doorway.
"That's not a guarantee," she frowned.
"No. It is a data point." He picked up his tea. "Go home, Wanda. The day is done."
She went and her gut feeling was mostly good now.
Everyone on the team knew one unspoken truth: you couldn’t tease Natasha Romanoff. She was sharp, quick-witted, and always one step ahead. Whether it was a sarcastic remark or a playful jab, Natasha had a comeback ready – often sharper, often deadlier – or she would just glare at you with those piercing green eyes until the teasing stopped, the silence ringing louder than any words. The kind of silence that made even the bravest think twice before opening their mouths again. Everyone, that is, except Clint Barton... and you.
You’d always been different. Maybe it was your patience, your quiet steadiness, or the way you moved through the compound without demanding attention. Nobody could say exactly when Natasha began to accept your presence as something more than just another teammate. It didn’t happen in one sudden moment, but rather in countless small ways that gradually wove themselves into the fabric of daily life.
There was the way you made her coffee every morning, carefully assembling the drink just the way she liked. Once it was ready, you quietly handed her the steaming mug with a small smile. And when you knew she hadn’t eaten all day, you’d find a snack and leave it on her desk or slide it across the table during brief moments in the common room.
During team movie nights, you found yourself curling into her side on the couch, the noise and light from the screen wrapping around you both. You noticed, over time, how Natasha’s arm would slowly slide around you, first hesitantly, then with quiet confidence. The comfort of those evenings wasn’t just in the films but in the simple, tender warmth of being close without needing words.
Sometimes, you’d show up unexpectedly at the gym, leaning casually against the ropes of the boxing ring while Natasha trained fiercely with Tony or Steve. You always had a water bottle ready, your smile steady and encouraging when you handed it to her. “You’ve got this,” you’d say softly, and she’d nod, a brief flicker of gratitude passing through her eyes before she launched herself back into the fight.
Missions changed everything. On the field, you were sharp and focused, both of you synchronised in a way few others could be. When an operation required an overnight stay in a safe house, you’d creep into Natasha’s room late at night, slipping beneath the covers beside her without a word. You’d curl into her side, your body pressing close. Natasha would soften in the darkness, her expression gentle, bordering on tender, as she watched you sleep, her hand finding yours in the silence between the two of you.
***
You couldn’t say exactly when everything began to shift. It was like waking from a long sleep, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest, as you realised you were catching feelings for your red-headed best friend. Perhaps you’d been too familiar with her all along, too close without naming the growing ache inside you.
That awareness came with a sharp sting, like a bucket of cold water thrown over you. Memories surged through your mind – the long nights spent in her bed, her steady breathing a quiet rhythm next to you. The countless meals you’d prepared when she’d forgotten to eat. The hours spent helping her train, cheering her on quietly from the sidelines. How you’d taken her kitbag after long missions, sending her off to the medbay to get patched up, your hands brushing hers in small exchanges of care.
With this new understanding came a reluctant decision: you needed to pull back. To give yourself space, to protect your heart from breaking silently. So, little by little, you began to retreat.
At first, Natasha didn’t notice. You started spending more time with other team members. Sparring with Steve, feeling the rush of competition. Watching movies with Wanda, the two of you bonding over sitcoms, laughing at silly jokes that filled the air with warmth. Practicing archery with Clint, the familiar twang of the bowstring a welcome distraction from your swirling thoughts.
And then, you made a bigger change. You’d recently bought your first apartment in the city – a quiet sanctuary away from the compound’s bustle. Gradually, you moved out, retreating into your new space on weekends and rest days. You decorated it with care, finding mismatched throw blankets and cushions to cover your sofa. You wandered through markets, picking out plants that now adorned nearly every windowsill, bringing life and colour into your quiet retreat.
It was a small, careful escape from Natasha’s world – a way to protect yourself, to figure out what you wanted. No matter how far you stepped back, a part of you still longed for those moments with her, for the warmth of her presence, and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she felt it too.
***
It took a few months before you were fully out of the compound. Once you were firmly settled in your apartment, Wanda started coming over. The two of you spent evenings laughing at sitcoms, wine-drunk, sharing cold pizza and filling your space with quiet friendship.
During one of these evenings, the witch turned to you, a glass of wine balanced in her hand. “Y/n, I have to ask you something.”
“Sure,” you replied easily, turning towards her and reaching for your own wine glass. Taking a sip, you glanced at Wanda over the rim.
“What happened with you and Natasha?”
You choked on your drink, hastily setting the glass down and gasping for breath, eyes watering. Longing and lust burned through you at the thought of the other red-headed Avenger. “What do you mean?” you spluttered. “Everything’s fine.”
“You no longer live at the compound and she’s walking around like a bear with a sore head. Nobody’s talking about it but everyone’s talking about it.” Wanda looked at you, equal parts amusement and concern. “Don’t tell me nothing happened.”
“I just think it’s better if I… moved out,” you muttered awkwardly.
“Better for whom?” she said gently. “I’m not reading your mind, y/n, but I can see you’re in pain.”
“I’m fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.
Wanda decided not to probe further. She could see you were putting walls up and realised that you probably needed a friend right now, not more questions.
***
The following morning, you headed to your local farmers’ market. It was warm and sunny, and the market was bustling. Young families wandered around, examining fresh produce and sampling the range of cuisines in nearby food trucks. Stall holders shouted about their products, mingling cries about cheese and garlic hitting you as you ambled through the stalls.
A tote bag hung off one shoulder, crammed with a variety of things that looked too good to be left. You were hesitating between two different types of ham when it happened.
“There you are.”
Startled, you looked around – straight into the piercing green eyes of your best friend.
Natasha looked unbothered, but you could tell by the worry in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders that everything was not okay. A pair of sunglasses – you realised with a jolt that you’d gifted them to her – were tangled in her vibrant hair. She had an off-white shirt, black jeans and Converse on.
“Natasha, I –” you stuttered, unsure what to say after not seeing her for several weeks. Or was it months?
“Silence always was your forte,” she said dryly. “I didn’t think you’d use it on me though.”
“What – no, I – Nat…” You were fumbling for words, everything you wanted to say bubbling to the surface, but you couldn’t, wouldn’t tell her what had really happened.
“Y/n, it’s me.” She stepped closer, her hand reaching out then falling back to her side. She wanted to reach out for you but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. In that moment, you missed her touch more than the previous weeks put together. “You can talk to me,” she continued gently. “You could’ve just told me you needed some space.”
Biting your lip, you debated how much to tell her. “I didn’t know how to say it.”
Natasha gave you a long look. She wasn’t angry, she was just tired. “You didn’t think silence would do exactly that?”
Shuffling awkwardly, you looked down at your feet. Bringing one hand to your mouth, you began biting the skin around your fingertips. It was a bad habit – one that Natasha had helped you break, but with her absence, you’d fallen back into it.
Gently, a hand reached out and enclosed your own in hers. You quietly looked up at her, tears appearing in your eyes. “I missed you,” you whispered.
“I miss you too,” she said, voice cracking slightly. She gave you another long look. “I got used to you being there… Maybe more than I should have.”
Hope bloomed in your chest. Was she admitting something you’d never quite dared to hope for? That she maybe, possibly liked you too.
“It wasn’t about space, Nat.” You chewed on your lip. “It was about feelings I didn’t – don’t know what to do with.” Gently pulling your hands from hers, you stepped back and looked at her, your expression tender but serious. “I don’t want a reply. Not yet. I just wanted you to know.”
Turning, you carried on walking through the farmers’ market, eyes blurring with tears. You could feel Natasha’s stare burning a hole in your back, but you didn’t look around.
***
Natasha:
You always did have a flair for dramatic exits.
Are you gonna drop the emotional equivalent of a mic and then ghost me?
Y/n
Come on, it’s me
I know you’re reading these. I can see the read receipts.
Y/n:
I told you I didn’t want a reply.
Natasha:
Yeah well, I don’t take orders.
You should know that by now.
…
Look, y/n, I don’t want to do this over text
Please
Are you free tonight?
…
Are you free right now?
Y/n:
Depends.
Are you gonna make a joke and disappear?
Natasha:
That’s your thing.
…
Sorry
That was mean
And no, to answer your question.
I’ll make a joke. Or 2.
But I’m gonna stay.
Big character development moment for me.
…
Come over
Please
Or I’ll turn up at your door with wine and something that looks like dinner
Y/n:
You’re cooking?
Talk about character development
Natasha:
I said, “looks like dinner,” not “is edible.”
Don’t push it
…
Seriously though. Come over. Let’s talk
No pressure
Just me and you. No markets this time
Y/n:
Okay
Natasha:
That sounds like a yes.
Y/n:
God, woman, let me finish typing
I’ll come over
What time?
Natasha:
7.
Bring whatever was in that tote bag. I’m still thinking about the cheese.
Summary: Azriel and you have been friends for centuries. For just as long, you’ve hid your feelings. But a recent development slowly pushes you to your breaking point. Azriel calls it casual. To you, it’s everything
Warnings: ANGST, allusions to sex, Az is a bit of a bonehead here but we’ll fix it dw.
Azriel rolled off you, landing on the empty spot next to you in the bed. You looked over to him, catching your breath, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching yours. His eyes met yours, and you felt a blush creeping up on your cheeks, as if he was a small crush in the marketplace rather than someone who had just made you see the heights of pleasure.
“Had fun?” You asked, a smile creeping up on your face.
He looked over at you, rolling his eyes.
”Wonderful, as always.” He teased. His eyes trailed over the length of your body, covered only by a thin layer of your sheets. The sunlight of the late morning crept in from your balcony window, illuminating the twinkle in his eyes. You had to look away, entranced by the beauty of him. Here, in your bed. Lying here with him like this, it was easy to pretend. The world narrowed to the two of you in this room, together. Here, your past no longer haunted you, there was no trauma, no secrets, no pain. If you closed your eyes and focused on the way his bare arm brushed yours and the breathing from right beside you, it was as if all was as you imagined.
“I have a light workload today. I was thinking I could take Elain to the marketplace, or through the River House’s garden for a walk.”
The cocoon shattered. For just a moment, your breath caught in your throat, and a surge of shame and embarrassment rushed through you, down to your fingertips. Quickly, you grabbed a hold of yourself.
“Are you…sure that’s a good idea?” You asked, trepidation heavy in your tone.
“Why not? I’ve been busy recently. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he justified. “I wouldn’t want her to feel neglected.”
Ugly jealousy coursed through you, and you had the sudden urge to be alone.
You took a deep breath, willing your racing heart to control itself. “It’s just that Lucien will be in the city for dinner in two days.”
Defensiveness filled his expression, and you feared that perhaps you had made a mistake.
“So?” he started. “I’m not afraid of Lucien, Y/N.”
“I know that, but he’ll likely want to see her. You don’t want to start anything. Rhys will be unhappy. Maybe wait until after his visit.”
“Why are you being like this?” He asked. “Lucien can’t force her into anything, and I’m not going to refrain from seeing her just because of her so-called ‘mate’ visiting.”
You forced a teasing tone into your voice, trying to keep the mood light in spite of the knot in your stomach. “Az, he is her mate.”
He was silent for a moment, contemplation heavy in his voice. He rolled over onto his side, facing you. His wings shifted, and the sheet covering him from the waist down moved slightly. You forced your eyes up to meet his.
“What if…what if the Cauldron was wrong? What if he isn’t her true mate?”
Your eyes widened slightly. “Azriel.”
“I know. I know what you’re going to say, Y/N. But I just can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve her. She’s a Cauldron-made seer. He’s just an emissary.”
That sent a jolt through you. Just an emissary. In the logical part of your brain, you already knew that you weren’t necessarily special. At least, not in comparison to your chosen family in the Night Court. Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lady Death. The Shadowsinger. The Seer. And you were just an emissary. To your home court of Day that you once fled in fear, no less. You tried not to let that comment simmer in your brain for any longer.
“Doesn’t it make sense that she should be with someone else, someone who’s as exceptional as her?” he continued on. “She deserves better.”
He didn’t even seem to notice the effect those words had on you, the shock they sent through your system. For someone so observant, he never seemed to notice such things about you. Not with the comment he made, and certainly not with the fact that he was lying naked next to you, lamenting about his desire for another woman. You used to think him lowering his inhibitions so fully around you was a sign of his comfort. His innate relaxation in your presence, reflecting your own feelings. Recently, you’ve wondered if it was just a manifestation of how little he cared.
But Azriel loved you. If not in the way you’d hoped for, then as a friend. As a member of this family.
Didn’t he?
”Azriel, she has a mate.”
“I know that, but…”
“But nothing, Az,” you stressed. “You may want her, but it’s not a mating bond.”
Azriel remained still, but his wings shifted slightly. A tell of his exasperation. You always knew of his tells. You knew him better than anyone.
“Y/N, you wouldn’t understand. Mating bonds are difficult,” he sighed. “I should go.”
Azriel shifted up into sitting, silently as ever. The mattress dipped slightly as he turned his back to you, his wings dragging off to the side of your bed. He stood, and the emptiness of the other side of the bed was reflected in your chest.
“You’re right,” you said quietly.
But you knew about mating bonds. Knew them quite well, really. You knew what a mating bond felt like when a mate didn’t want you, and you felt for Lucien. He would take Elain any way he could have her, just as you did for your mate. Even if it hurt, even if it left your insides bleeding and yearning.
He paused his motions just slightly, as if sensing the poorly masked fatigue in your voice. Your gaze fixed on the sheets twisted between your fingers, unable to look up at his form moving about your space.
”I’ll see you later. Family dinner, tomorrow night?” he asked.
“Right. See you then.”
_____
You couldn’t really pinpoint when it started. The physical affair between you and Azriel had been unexpected, and you didn’t know exactly what it stemmed from. Loneliness, maybe. At first, you held out a little bit of hope that it would grow into something else.
“You’re not being serious, you did not.”
“I am not. I spilled wine all over him. It was mortifying!” You burst out laughing, and Azriel followed suit, the drinks flowing between you.
The two of you sat in the House’s study, illuminated only by the hearth in front of the room. The untethered mating bond hummed in your chest, filling you wholly with warmth. On a night like this, laughing with him sitting so close, it almost seemed silly to keep it a secret from him. He felt like home. Like the two of you belonged.
“I’m lucky that the High Lord of Day is such a flirt. He took no offense, and instead offered that I assist in bathing him.”
Azriel let out a barking laugh, inhibitions down in a way that made your cheeks heat. “Of course.”
The laughs died down, and for a moment the two of you just stared at each other, smiles lingering on your face. You couldn’t recall who moved first, but after another breath his mouth was on yours, and his hands wandered in places he had never dared touch before.
Through the haze of it all, a spark of joy burst within you. The mating bond sung within you, and fulfillment took over you in a way you’d never known before. It was happening, you’d thought. Finally.
Afterwards, the two of you lay in his bed, your head on his bare chest. His wing was underneath you, and warmth engulfed you from the tips of your fingers to your toes.
He was with you, and he was happy. It was an unconventional start to a relationship, but nothing about you and Azriel had ever been normal.
“I’m glad we can be like this, Y/N. Some…relief. No strings.”
Something within you broke, and the warmth of the mating bond grew cold.
“What are you thinking about?” A voice came from behind you, breaking you out of the memory.
You turned in your seat in the House’s kitchen to see Rhys approaching.
“Nothing, really.” You replied, taking a sip of the tea in front of you, Rhys taking a seat in the chair to your left. “Just thinking.”
”Hmm.” The High Lord started. “Does this have anything to do with a certain spymaster escorting my sister-in-law to the marketplace?”
You shot him a warning look. That bastard. “Rhys.”
“You can’t keep it a secret forever, Y/N. It isn’t fair to either of you, and I can only warn him off Elain for so long.”
Rhys learning of your mating bond had been a freak incident, the result of him catching onto a longing gaze last Solstice. He had agreed to keep it a secret, and to let you deal with it in your own way. You’ve had more than your share of men taking choice from you, and Rhys was not inclined to add to that list.
However, that didn’t stop him from meddling. He took every opportunity to encourage you to shout your bond from the rooftops, whether mentally at family dinners or through surprise check-ins. More recently, he had been more active in his intervention, barring Azriel from pursuing Elain. He claimed it was to prevent the Blood Duel. But from the moment Azriel relayed those events to you, you had seen right through it.
“I do not need you to warn him off Elain for me, Rhys. A mating bond will hardly change who he wants.”
“How do you know that?” Rhys stressed. “It can change everything. He deserves to know.”
The two of you have this conversation at least once every fortnight. It always ended the same way.
“Things would not change, and there is no point burdening him with a mating bond he will surely abhor.”
”It is not a burden. And you must know Azriel would never see you that way. It is a gift, to be mated to someone who is already so dear to your heart. One kiss, Y/N, could change everything.”
You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Letting the silence sit for a moment, you prepared yourself before speaking again.
“We have…done more than kiss.”
A beat passed between the two of you, before you spilled the details of the last eight months to Rhys, who watched with poorly contained shock. His eyes sat wide, and his mouth hung open. For the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, one could observe his ability to resemble a fish.
“This has been going on for nearly eight months,” Rhys repeated slowly, “And still he chases after Elain so brazenly?”
”He has never led me to believe this would grow into a romance. Any hopes are my delusion.”
Rhys covered his face with his hands, letting out a deep sigh, “It is not delusion. It is a natural response to a mating bond.”
“Perhaps, Rhys. But there is nothing I can do.”
Your fingers curled around the warm porcelain of your teacup.
“Nothing I wish to do,” you corrected, tone softening. “I do not want a mating bond that exists solely because he feels obligated to me.”
”You cannot truly believe that Azriel would see you as an obligation.”
”I think,” you said, “that if the Mother had some plan for him to joyously accept our mating bond, he would not leave my bed in the mornings with plans to pursue another female.”
—-
Family dinner was delicious, as always.
The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb and beautifully seasoned potatoes lingered throughout the River House, as empty plates signalled a meal well-enjoyed. Elain’s cooking was wonderful, but an ugly part of you couldn’t help but feel the weight of envy taking root in your chest.
Is there anything she can’t do?
Around the table sat you, Rhys, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, and Mor. Wine flowed generously as you discussed plans for a meeting with Lucien and Eris tomorrow. As a fellow Court emissary, you would be in attendance, so you did your best to focus on Rhys’ talking points despite the wine buzzing in your system. Luckily, your two most likely distractions were not here. Elain had excused herself to bed hours ago, and Azriel had left just moments ago to recon with some spies he had placed in Autumn. The table felt lighter without them here. All night, you had sat through Azriel sitting to the right of you, staring holes through Elain. It had been an effort not to burst out sobbing right there in front of everyone.
Recently, that had become a familiar feeling.
After seemingly hours of listening to Rhys drone on, making mental notes for later, you excused yourself to your room. You opted to crash at the River House, too weary to winnow to the House of Wind. Besides, you figured that a change of scenery might do some good. A futile attempt to chase the peace that had evaded you all week.
It didn’t matter that you’d be down the hall from Elain. You had no reason to be angry with her. Not really. She didn’t control Azriel’s overwhelming indifference to you. If he wasn’t focused on her, it would be Mor. Or someone else who met his standards. Someone special and outstanding and worthy.
Just an emissary.
Walking down the halls of the River House, you pondered on a future for yourself. Would you spend the rest of your life pining after a man who would never view you romantically? Would you ever tell him about the bond, wrecking a 200 year friendship and tying him to you in a way that could only lead to his misery?
The thoughts ruminated in your head until you heard the unmistakable rumble of Azriel’s voice.
Soft and low. Gentle in the way he speaks to you when you lay beneath him and you could pretend.
You looked up, eyes setting upon a slightly ajar door, moonlight filtering through.
Azriel’s room.
Your feet moved before your brain caught up to you. Rushing towards the doorway, you stood in the space of the open door before you truly knew what was happening. There stood Azriel and Elain, his arms just barely grazing upon her waist. They stood close, lips about to touch in a stance that you had been in with him just two nights prior.
Something was tearing in your chest. You tried to keep quiet.
But Azriel was an observant male. It was his job. Maybe not in the sanctuary of your bed, but certainly when he was tasked with protecting something as precious as Elain. His head snapped towards you in the doorway as if a fawn coming upon a faelight. His eyes widened slightly as he met yours.
The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the sight of them made your own vision blur with sudden tears. And all Azriel did was stare.
One moment he stood frozen, his form blurry through your watery vision. The next, he jumped back from Elain as if her touch had burned him. His gaze never left yours, though his expression shifted to something raw, something almost terrified. It was a jarring change, especially for a male so stoic and controlled. Some instinct deep within you recognized the strangeness of his expression.
His shadows surged forward from the corner of the room, wrapping around his form. They curled up his back, peering over his shoulders towards you. His gaze never left yours, and Elain’s eyes shot rapidly between the two of you, confusion painting her beautiful face.
It was then that you felt it. A tug deep within your chest, reaching down into a place that you knew all too well. Something strong and ancient thrumming within you. Light surged in your soul. Never in your life had you imagined a fulfillment like this. As if the centuries of your life had been black and white, and now you’d seen the colors of the sky for the first time.
The sensation flooded your body, bright and overwhelming, dimmed only by the absolute fear and shock that spread throughout your body. The look on Azriel’s face matched the war happening within you.
Oh gods. He knew. He knew.
Another tug pulled through you. Then another. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and you willed him to say something. To get it over with. To reject you. To end it. But all he did was stare.
“Y/N,” he rasped out, voice heavy. “You…”
You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear the words he would inevitably say. The disgust he would regard you with.
The bond tugged once more in your chest. Azriel’s wide, wild eyes were on you.
You turned and ran.
—-
Two weeks.
You’d successfully avoided Azriel for two weeks before the inevitable confrontation. For his part, he had stayed away from your meeting with Lucien and Eris. Immediately afterward, you had left for Dawn to meet with Thesan. An emergency alliance negotiation.
In your mind, it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps a small act of repentance after the stunt she pulled revealing the bond to Azriel.
The journey back to Velaris felt far heavier than the one that had taken you away. Dawn had been bright, orderly, predictable. Everything that Velaris couldn’t be until you had settled this with Azriel.
Winnowing to the House of Wind, you headed straight for the kitchen, intending to grab a cup of tea and hide away in your room.
”You’re back.” The voice came from behind you.
The male had an innate talent for silence.
Mother help me.
You took a slow breath, then another. It was time, you supposed. You turned to look at him, wanting to memorize the exact details of his beautiful face. Once he rejects you, would you ever see him this closely again? Could you bear it?
“I’m back,” you said, keeping your voice light, moving towards the kettle on the counter.
Azriel stared at you intently, unspoken emotion deep within his eyes. As if he too, had been anticipating this moment. Dreading it.
Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had gone unsaid for two weeks. His eyes stayed heavy on you.
He finally broke the silence, tension laden in his voice. “You knew. Didn’t you?”
Your eyes slid shut “I did. I’ve known for almost a hundred years.”
The memory hit you hard.
“How’s the lemonade?” Azriel asked, taking a sip of his own in the chair across for you.
“You were right, this is delicious. Best I’ve ever tasted,” you took another sip of the sweet liquid, “How did I not know about this place?”
“It’s one of Velaris’ many hidden gems. You could live here for years and not know of every treat.”
“Well, I suppose I have much to learn.”
A laugh burst out of him, and you his eyes. It was full and deep and brought heat to your cheeks. His large form, wings brushing along the floor, seemed almost comical in this small, intimate cafe. For a moment, you just watched him. His beauty.
Warmth filled you, and you felt something snap within your chest. Like a key slotting into a lock, something had slid into place within your soul. Your mouth dropped open slightly, and all you could do was blink.
“You ok?” He teased. “Missing the Day Court?”
Your hands trembled slightly from the shock of the revelation. “I’m fine. Just…enjoying the lemonade.”
You gazed up at him, and his expression held shock, betrayal, a hint of anger. “A hundred years? You have known of this for that long?”
You nodded once, fixing your gaze somewhere over his shoulder.
Azriel leaned back slightly, as if the distance might help him process what you had just said. If anything, it only heightened the tension between you two.
“I-” he paused, swallowing before continuing. “Why have you not told me, Y/N?”
“I wanted to, at first. I didn’t wish for you to be disappointed, I suppose.”
He gawked. “Disappointed?” He took two steps closer to you, a smile barely there on his face. “Y/N, I am far from disappointed. I am…elated. But I cannot understand why you’ve hidden this so long.”
Your breath stopped. He took another step toward you. You tried to calm the panic in your brain. This is not what you were expecting. Not how you’d envisioned this moment at all.
”You don’t understand?” You parroted, a mocking tone creeping into your voice. He stood so close to you now you could see the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw.
Something soft crept into his voice. “You truly believe that I would be disappointed to learn that the Mother chose you for me?”
Your laugh came out brittle. Disbelief flooded through you at his words. “The Mother may have chosen me for you, but you have never chosen me, Azriel.”
”What?”
You laughed again. Surely, anyone walking by would think you mad.
”When this bond snapped for you, you were ready to kiss another female, Azriel!”
”So this is about Elain?” He exhaled slowly. “Y/N, that was a misunderstanding. I believe she might be my mate.”
”She has a mate!” You were shouting now, your voice rising despite yourself. An overflow of emotions betraying you. In the past, you’d always thought this moment would be defined by his anger, his emotions towards such a disappointing pairing by the Mother.
“I understand the timing was awful. I’m sorry.”
”You’re sorry,” you deadpanned.
Azriel shook his head, speaking slowly. “I know…I know that I have failed you in many ways. And I can understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”
He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was a stark change from his usual directness. Your hands shook slightly, tears welling up in your eyes.
”Please. Please don’t cry, Y/N.” He sounded desperate, pained.
“So what happens now?” You posed. “Elain is not your mate, which anyone with half a brain could have told you.”
”Now you are my mate. Everything has changed, darling.”
”Don’t call me that.” Gods, why couldn’t you stop the tears? They streaked down your face, staining your cheeks. “Nothing has changed.”
Azriel only gaped at you. “How can you say that? We are mates. Elain does not matter.”
”Doesn’t matter?” It was your turn to stare at him like a fish out of water. “You have no feelings for me. And I am not interested in you pretending to care for me.”
”I- I would not be pretending.” He stuttered.
You stepped back immediately.
“Yes, you would,” you argued, insistence heavy in your tone. “Two weeks ago, you lay with me in bed and told me that you wish to be mated to another!”
You had to shut your eyes before continuing. “Do you think that I don’t know you? I have watched for two centuries how you look at women that you actually want.”
“I want you.”
”Because of the bond,” you shot back.
”No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t say that.”
A bitter breath escaped you, “What would you have me say, Azriel? For hundreds of years, you have looked at every female but me. And when you finally-“ a sob cut through your words. “When you finally touched me, and I had hope, you broke that trust. Stress relief, isn’t that what you said?”
He flinched at the words. “I did not mean to imply-“
”You implied nothing. You said it quite clearly.”
”I thought you were happy with our…arrangement. You never asked for more.”
”So you assumed that I was happy with just sex while you pined for another?” You let out a scoff at that. You were being petty, you knew. But you found that you didn’t care. This was uncharted territory.
You’d never imagined that you’d be the one with the power in the situation. Here he was, and he seemed as if he wanted you. Desired you. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way. He was only trying to do right by you.
“Azriel,” you continued, “You have never desired me romantically. Physically, clearly. But do not stand here and lie to me.”
His shadows peered at you from over his shoulder, and his brow creased slightly with effort. As if he had to work to hold them back from you. “I am not lying to you. I have never lied to you, Y/N.”
“But you still do not love me.”
Azriel huffed. “How can you say that? You are my mate!”
”But you do not love me!” Your voice raised again. “This is why I never told you about the bond.”
”It isn’t like that,” Azriel tried, anguish heavy in his voice. “Please, let’s sit and we can talk about this.”
”There is nothing to talk about.” You sniffled, hand moving to wipe a tear from your cheek. “And we’re stopping our little…arrangement, if it wasn’t clear.”
”Ok,” he nodded, frantically. He moved to take your hands into his. “How about this? We’ll start over. No past.”
You shook your head, sniffling. “No, you don’t understand.”
His expression fractured. “Tell me then. Help me understand how to fix this. We’re mates. And that means something to me, Y/N. It can mean something to both of us. We just need time. I know I was awful to you. And inconsiderate.” He lowered his forehead down to yours, and you felt a tear drop from his cheek to yours. “Let me fix it. I’ll do whatever you want.”
For years, you dreamed of this moment.
”We cannot be together, Azriel. I won’t be your second choice.”
”You would not be my second choice. Never. We are mates.” He stressed.
”But that is the problem,” you stressed. “The bond has chosen me for you. But you would never do so.”
“That isn’t true, Y/N. The Mother has linked us. And that means something to me. We can figure this out.”
Gods, you couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face him as he attempted to placate you.
Here was Azriel, a male that you had dreamed of loving you since the day you met him. And now he was telling you he wanted you. As a mate. As a lover.
You broke out of his hold, maneuvering your hands away from him, “I spoke to Rhys before I left for Dawn. I’m moving back to Day.”
He froze. A beat of silence passed between you, then another. “What?”
A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think! :)
Summary: You’re tracing the nails of Natasha’s middle and ring fingers, trying to figure out why she keeps them so short. You think it's a mistake. She looks like she's about to lose her mind.
Word Count: 4.6k
Warnings/Tags: fluff, mutual yearning, very suggestive, handholding
Minors DNI (just in case)
—
You round the corner of the training wing, the squeak of your sneakers echoing through the quiet hallway. Like clockwork, Natasha is there, leaning against the wall by the elevator. She’s dressed down in a soft, navy hoodie, looking more like a civilian than the deadly Black Widow.
At the sound of your approach, she looks up, her lips curving into her signature smirk. There’s a glint in her eyes that feels heavy, almost expectant, as she pushes off the wall. Before you even reach her side, she silently extends her hand toward you—an open invitation she’s been offering more and more lately.
It’s a quiet, domestic gesture that still catches you off guard. As you slip your hand into hers, feeling the familiar warmth of her palm, you can’t help but marvel at how much your relationship has changed. She always insists on walking you back to your quarters, joking that you’d get lost without her, but the way she holds onto you feels like more than just a guide.
It’s a dizzying contrast to the woman you met months ago. Sometimes, when she squeezes your hand or offers you a warm smile, you still see the ghost of the cold mask she wore the day you first met.
The memory of that mission is still sharp. Your team had been chosen as backup for the Avengers—a standard data retrieval with too many variables. You were assigned to follow the infamous Black Widow. Back then, "Natasha" didn't exist. She was just a shadow in tactical gear, one of S.H.I.E.L.D’s greatest assets.
You had tried to bridge the gap during the transport, offering a polite, "Hi—"
"Just follow orders and stay out of my way," she’d snapped. She hadn't even looked at you, her eyes fixed on her gear, dismissing your entire existence with a single breath.
Yikes, you had thought, adjusting the holsters on your leg. So much for getting along.
The jet had touched down shortly after, and the mission began before you could even blink. Natasha was the leader and you quietly followed her as the team cleared the area. That is, until the variables S.H.I.E.L.D ignored came screaming into play. A hidden pressure plate triggered an explosion that buckled the hallway you were scouting, the ceiling groaned as it began to rain concrete.
Without a second though, you grabbed the back of Natasha’s tactical suit and lunged forward, clearing the collapse just as the hallway crumbled into a wall of stone behind you. You stood there for a heartbeat in the settling dust, breathing heavily, only for the silence to be shattered by the thud of combat boots.
Enemy agents swarmed the room from the far end. In the chaos of the crossfire, a stray bullet tore through Natasha’s thigh. You saw her try to take a step only for her to stumble and was forced to one knee.
You didn't think twice. You stepped in front of her, planting your feet and returning fire with focused precision. You didn't stop until the last enemy fell, leaving the room in a ringing, heavy silence.
Dropping your weapon to the side, you immediately knelt in the dust, ripping a pack of gauze from your med-kit. You pressed it firmly against her wound, but you felt her rough, tactical glove catch your wrists, trying to shove your hands away.
You met her piercing green eyes with a glare of your own. “Stop,” you commanded, your voice labored but steady. “I’m already holding pressure.”
She was dangerously pale, her breath coming out ragged. Even wounded, she tried to sharpen her gaze into something lethal. “I didn’t need you to protect me,” she hissed, her fingers digging into your skin. “Don’t try to act like a hero.”
“Isn’t that how you try to act every day?” you bit back. Then, you let your voice soften, your thumb brushing unintentionally against the edge of her glove. “I don’t need to be a hero, and I wasn't trying to be. But if me playing hero is what kept you alive today, then that’s fine. You can be mad at me later—right now, you’re going to let me treat your injury.”
Natasha opened her mouth to argue, but the fight seemed to drain out of her. A heavy sigh escaped her instead. She scanned your face, her green eyes searching for something, before finally dropping her gaze.
She reached for her own med-kit just as you reached out to stop her. She brushed your hand away with a roll of her eyes, but the movement lacked its previous bite. “Fine, 'Hero.' Keep pressure on my leg since you’re so insistent.”
Before you could respond, she reached her hand toward your neck. You jolted as a sharp rush of pain flared from your throat. You hadn't even realized a bullet had grazed you, missing your carotid artery by a terrifyingly small margin.
“Let me take care of your wounds at least,” she murmured. You tried to flinch away from the sting, but she caught your chin, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she held you in place. “Stay still, will you?” she asked, her voice tinged with irritability, though her eyes were uncharacteristically soft as she watched the blood seeping through the gauze.
She was looking at the wound as if she were seeing a ghost.
“Thank you,” she whispered, so low you almost missed it. “For protecting me.”
Your eyes widened. You could tell by the slight tremor in her touch that she wasn’t used to being the one who needed shielding. Her expression was becoming unsure, so you didn’t let her sit in the feeling for long.
“No problem at all, Miss Widow,” you teased, a playful lilt returning to your voice. “Happy to be your hero today.”
You let out a breathless laugh, the movement caused her hand to shift against your skin. Natasha met your eyes with a perfectly deadpan stare, though the warmth in her gaze was unmistakable.
“I so want to take that back,” she said flatly, her eyes lingering on your neck for a second too long.
The moment of quiet was shattered as Captain America burst through the rubble, his shield clearing the path for the rest of the team. In the chaos of extraction, you were pulled in separate directions. You were shuffled onto a transport jet where medics worked on your neck, while Natasha was rushed ahead—her blood loss had been significant, her face a ghostly shade of pale as they lifted her onto a gurney.
By the time you landed at the Tower, she was already gone. You spent the next few hours in the medbay getting stitched up, feeling a strange hollowness now that the adrenaline had faded. Thankfully, your team had emerged with nothing more than a few bumps and bruises, but your mind kept drifting back to the slight rasp of Natasha’s voice when she thanked you
You figured that was it. You were on different levels. She was an Avenger and you were merely a team leader for the backup team. You’d go back to your separate lives and meet the next time the Avengers required assistance.
You didn't expect to see her again so soon.
A few days later, as you exited the training room after a light workout, you froze. Leaning against the wall beside the door was Natasha. She looked better—her color had returned—but she was propped up by a crutch under her arm, the wrapping surrounding her leg visible under the fabric of her sweatpants.
A relieved smile touched your lips before you could stop it. “I don’t think you should be training, Miss Widow,” you said, your voice warm.
“Just Natasha is fine,” she replied, though her voice lacked its usual bite, sounding more like she was trying—and failing—to be exasperated with you. She shifted her weight on the crutch, her green eyes scanning the fresh stitches on your neck. Her gaze softened, just for a fraction of a second, before she looked away.
“I’m not here to train. I was just... passing by the wing after getting cleared to leave. I’m off missions for a few weeks.” She cleared her throat, gesturing vaguely toward the residential hallway. “I’ll walk you back to your room. Since I’m already here.”
You knew the residential floor was in the opposite direction of the medbay, and there was absolutely no way she just happened to have passed by this area. You felt like there was more to it but you didn't want to press her.
“I would’ve been so lonely on that five-minute walk by myself,” you teased, your eyes filled with a playful mirth. “Though I will say, I’ll be walking. It’ll be more of a hobble for you.”
She let out a dry, short laugh. “Shut up and keep your pace down, Hero.”
That was months ago. Now, there are no crutches or excuses—just Natasha. She’s become someone you look forward to seeing every day. Even though you were just friends, you couldn't help but feel like there was something more bubbling under the surface.
As you walk, your thumb finds its way across the back of her hand. Her skin always feels a little cool, a sharp contrast to yours, which always seems to run warm. She responds by squeezing your hand more firmly, and when you steal a glance at her, she’s wearing a tiny, private smile. She keeps her gaze on the hallway, guiding the two of you until you finally reach your door.
Your heart sinks a little when you see the metal nameplate. The walk is always too short, and the thought of letting go already feels like a loss.
The first time she reached for your hand, it had caught you completely off guard. Now, it’s just a part of the day—a quiet ritual that leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy, your heart doing a strange little flutter every time.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she mumbles. She sounds a little bummed, like she’s just as unready for the walk to end as you are. “Same time?”
“Tomorrow,” you promise softly.
You honestly wonder how she manages to find the time for this every day. You wonder if she’d ever do this for anyone else, but the way she looks at you—as if you’re the only person in the entire building worth her attention—makes you believe this is just for you.
She slowly starts to pull away, her fingertips sliding across your palm and down the length of your fingers, dragging out the contact until the very last second. She waits until you’ve stepped inside and turned back toward her to give her one last smile before she finally heads off, her steps light with a subtle, happy bounce that says more than she ever could.
—
It starts gradually—the need to feel her more. She invites you to watch a movie with the Avengers, whom you thankfully have a good relationship with. She leads you to the couch, letting you sit first before sinking down so close that you can feel the heat of her thigh against yours. She turns to you, her gentle gaze meeting yours for a second, before she turns back toward the screen as the movie begins.
You find yourself tuned into her every move. You feel her tense during the suspenseful scenes and relax during the quiet ones. Those little tells her body gives—the glimpses she gives you—send a rush of warmth through you. Eventually, you can’t help but watch her instead of the screen.
Without really thinking about it, you reach for her hand where it rests on her thigh. You intertwine your fingers in that familiar way, the ritual you usually save for after your workouts. Your hands are both a little rough from training, but in this moment, all you can feel is the overwhelming softness she brings to your life.
You look down at your joined hands, your fingertips dragging across her palm. You find a small scab that has formed there and rub it gently before your fingers drift down to the underside of her wrist. The skin there is pale, and you can faintly see the blue-green veins underneath.
An injury brought you together, but you won't let it happen again. You promise that to yourself as you trace the veins that travel from her wrist to her palm.
Suddenly, Natasha’s hand envelopes yours, stopping your movements. You look up to find her already staring at you, her eyes unbearably tender.
“You know…” she whispers, her voice low over the sound of the movie, “that’s the first time you’ve held my hand first.”
Your lips curve into a playful, soft smile—the kind you save just for her. “I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
Your voice matches her quiet whisper, but the happiness in your tone is obvious.
“I wasn’t,” she whispers back, stubbornly turning her head to face the screen again.
“Mhmm,” you murmur. You intertwine your fingers with hers again, your thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into the back of her hand.
As you watch her, you notice the tips of her ears turning a faint, tell-tale pink. You smile to yourself, leaning back into the cushions. She’s acting tough, but you catch her glancing your way throughout the rest of the movie, her hand squeezing yours just a little tighter every time.
—
A member of your team went against orders during a base raid today, and the fallout was messy. Thankfully, the injuries were minimal, though you’re currently sporting a jagged cut above your eyebrow. You haven't even had time to reach the medbay before the other team leader, John, corners you in the hall.
He’s relentless, getting right in your face and shouting. You try to resolve it calmly, but he doesn't seem to care. Your apology is just noise to him. His hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, his fingers digging in so hard you know they'll leave bruises. You try to wrench your arm free, but the exhaustion from the mission has sapped all your strength.
When he finally lets go, it’s not because he’s finished. You look up to find Natasha standing there, her eyes filled with a terrifying, steady fire. She steps directly in front of you, her hand immediately finding your wrist. She caresses the skin where the bruises are already starting to bloom, her touch a stark contrast to the cold stare she’s leveling at John.
She points a finger at him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The temperature in the hallway seems to drop twenty degrees. She sounds like ice, yet she continues to stroke your wrist with her thumb, a secret pocket of warmth meant only for you. John starts stuttering out excuses that don't make sense, and you feel Natasha’s hand tense against yours. She’s ready to tear him apart.
You wrap your hand around her index finger, squeezing lightly—a quiet warning to dial it back. Her shoulders drop a fraction, but she isn't done.
“There’s a proper procedure for everything,” she snaps, her voice like a whip. “You think you can just—”
She falters when you lean forward, resting your forehead right between her shoulder blades. It’s a bold move, and you feel the way her breath hitches. Her voice loses its edge, sounding much weaker than it did a second ago. “You can... explain yourself later. Go.”
John doesn't need to be told twice. He scampers off, looking genuinely terrified.
Natasha turns to face you, a slight pout on her lips and an annoyed look in her eyes. “I was defending you, you know,” she says, sounding disappointed. “Until you distracted me.”
“I distracted you?” you ask innocently. “I just wanted to be closer to you.” You smile sweetly at her.
She tries to glare at you, but she can’t quite hold it against your smile. She sighs, looking like she knows she’s already lost. She reaches up, her thumb brushing gently over the cut above your eyebrow.
“Let’s get this checked out,” she says softly. She interlocks her fingers with yours, leading you toward the medbay. She doesn't let go once—not even while the doctor is putting in the stitches.
—
You sit directly behind Natasha in the conference room as Steve goes over the mission details. The stakes are high and the intel is thin—exactly the kind of unknown that makes your skin crawl. You’ll be on Natasha’s team again, which usually brings you relief, but the variables are stacking up. HYDRA is suspected of developing a massive explosive, and S.H.I.E.L.D needs the data destroyed yesterday.
The anxiety starts to settle in your chest. Without realizing it, you dig your nail into your palm, only stopping when a sharp sting of pain tells you you’ve drawn blood. Your hands won't stay still.
You’re trapped in your own head when you feel something warm tap against the top of your thigh. You recognize the weight immediately. Natasha’s hand rests there, palm up, even as she keeps her eyes fixed on the formations Steve is displaying.
You place your hand in hers. The moment your palms press together, your heart rate starts to slow. You catch a glimpse of those blue-green veins on her wrist, and the promise you made to yourself echoes in your mind. Never again.
You relax into your chair, your fingertips tapping against hers in a rhythm only the two of you know. You catch the slight curve of her lips—a move so imperceptible no one else in the room would notice. But you always have your eyes on her.
Her fingertips wiggle against yours, as if she’s playing a game, and you respond by squeezing her hand lightly. It still surprises you how much strength is hidden in her thin fingers. You let go just enough to trap her middle finger between your thumb and index finger. You begin to drag them up and down, feeling the ridges of her skin and rubbing your thumb against the smooth surface of her nail.
You get lost in the motion, alternating between her middle and ring fingers. You trace the calluses in a repetitive, slow, up-and-down stroke.
A minute passes before you feel Natasha’s hand suddenly tense. Her fingers curl, trapping yours tightly against her palm. She turns around in her chair, and your breath catches. Her cheeks are flushed, and her usual composure is gone.
“Are you messing with me?” she whispers. Even in a whisper, you can hear the breathlessness in her voice.
“What do you mean?” you whisper back, tilting your head. You were just playing with her hand like you always do to stay calm.
She gives you a hard, searching stare. Like she’s looking for some kind of hidden agenda, but after seeing the genuine cluelessness in your eyes, she lets out a heavy sigh.
“Do you not like it?” you murmur, your voice dipping into something sad.
The tips of her ears turn a deep, vivid red. She looks like she’s fighting an internal battle, finally covering her face with her free hand.
“No…” she mumbles through her fingers. “You can continue.”
You smile happily at her as she turns back to the front with a low, frustrated groan.
—
You kept your promise, though you can sense Natasha still feels a flicker of guilt. She keeps glancing at the white bandage wrapped around your bicep while she speaks to one of Tony’s business partners. The mission was successful against all odds, so Tony is hosting a victory party—though you suspect he would’ve found any excuse to throw one.
You and Natasha are seated at the bar, finally taking a breather after greeting team members and guests. She looks beautiful in her grey dress. The fabric hugs her curves perfectly, and in the dim lounge lighting, she looks almost ethereal.
You reach out, resting your hand against her waist. You feel the subtle flex of her abdomen under your fingertips as she turns toward you. Without missing a beat in her conversation, she reaches up and hooks a finger under the strap of your navy dress, sliding it back onto your shoulder where it had slipped.
Then, instead of pulling away, she drops her hand back down and covers yours, pinning your palm firmly against her waist.
It’s a possessive, quiet gesture. She continues talking to the guest, but her thumb starts to stroke the back of your hand, holding you there as if she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go. Being this close to her—feeling the heat of her skin through the thin fabric of her dress—makes that familiar flutter in your chest turn into heavy, quick beats.
You watch her profile as she continues to speak. The polite smiles and practiced pleasantries she gives the room are a stark contrast to the deep, late-night conversations you share, or the private smiles she saves just for you. Between the adrenaline of the mission and the noise of the crowd, you can feel your social battery starting to wane. You’re just grateful that Natasha always seems to notice. She effortlessly shifts the focus of the conversation to herself whenever you start to go quiet.
Needing to feel her groundedness, you gently pull her hand from her waist and rest it on the wooden bartop. You cover it with both of yours, pressing your palms against the front and back of her hand. It always makes you feel better, as if simply touching her can transfer her calm strength directly to you.
You glance down at her hand, noticing the neat nail polish she’s applied. The dark red color shines softly in the low, amber light of the lounge. They look perfect—sleek and sharp, just like her. Yet, the ends are rounded out, giving them a subtle softness that also feels just like the woman she is when the world isn't watching.
You find yourself tracing the shape of her nails, your thumb brushing over her knuckles as you get lost in the repetitive, soothing motion. To anyone else, you’re just a pair of friends sitting at the bar. But to you, this is the only place in the room that feels like home.
You pause, your fingertip hovering. Something feels different.
You trace the tip of your index finger across the tops of her nails again, more carefully this time. There is no question about it. The nails on her ring and middle fingers are shorter—filed down significantly more than the others.
Did she accidentally trim them too short? you wonder. You continue to drag your fingertip across the top ridge of those two specific nails, the texture smooth and consistent. Something tells you it isn’t a mistake, though. Natasha does everything with intention. She doesn't just slip up with a nail file.
You drag your fingertip across even slower, feeling how perfectly rounded they are. It’s as if she took extra care to make sure there wasn't a single jagged edge left. Maybe they broke during the mission and she had no choice but to even them out, you tell yourself, nodding slightly as if that answer finally makes sense.
Satisfied with your theory, you bring her middle and ring fingers together, trapping them against your palm. You run your fingertip over both nails at once, over and over, lost in the repetitive sensation.
You’re so focused on the task that you don’t notice the way Natasha has gone completely still. The guest she was talking to is still halfway through a sentence, but Natasha isn't even pretending to listen anymore. Her hand is trembling in yours, and her breath is coming out in shallow, shaky hitches that make the fabric of her dress flutter.
She turns sharply to you, her pupils dilating the second they meet your eyes, the green barely visible. They hold a heat you thought you’d imagined before, but seeing them now—raw and unhidden—you realize this isn’t the first time she's looked at you this way. She looks completely wrecked.
She leans in, her face so close that her breath fans against your ear. “You’re testing me, aren’t you?”
Her voice is low, breathless, and heavy. The heat of her words makes a shiver race down your spine, pinning you to the barstool. You don't pull away. Instead, you rest your head lightly against hers.
“Testing?” you ask, your voice laced with genuine confusion.
She tilts her head, her lips so close that a slight upward tilt of your chin would bring them together. “Yes, testing. I let you get away with it during the mission briefing, but there’s no way you don't know what you’re doing.”
She presses the tips of those two specific fingers against your palm, stroking them downward. She repeats the motion, her gaze unwavering and intense.
“I just noticed they were shorter,” you murmur back, your heart hammering. “I was just wondering why. Is that... not okay?”
She lets out a ragged sigh against your lips. “You’re driving me crazy.”
Before you can get another word out, she presses her fingers harder into your palm, curling them slightly. “You really want to know why they’re shorter?” she asks, the hunger in her eyes finally spilling over.
You feel the heat radiating between you, the specific points where her fingertips are pressed into your skin beginning to sweat. You know there’s a deeper meaning to her words—something you’re right on the edge of understanding—but all you can focus on is the sheer weight of her desire. It’s intoxicating.
“Tell me why,” you breathe against her lips.
You hear her sharp intake of breath before she finally lets it go. Her lips meet yours as if she couldn't wait a single second longer. They move with an unrestrained, desperate hunger, her free hand coming up to cup your jaw and hold you in place. She’s all heat and when she lightly bites your bottom lip, a jolt of pure electricity leaves you breathless.
She pulls back just enough to look at you, both of your ragged breaths the only sound in the small space between you. Her eyes are dark, focused, and entirely yours. She leans in, her lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“I’ll show you why,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy promise.
She interlocks her fingers with yours, tugging you toward the elevator with a purposeful stride. And she shows you why—over and over—all night long.
—
You wake to the soft, ticklish sensation of Natasha running her fingertips over your spine. Opening your eyes takes a bit of effort, and the first thing you see is the scattered evidence of last night. A collection of deep hickeys you left blooming just above her collarbone.
You reach out, pressing your thumb gently against the one with the darkest hue. Natasha flinches slightly, a small intake of breath catching in her throat, but she doesn't pull away. You look up to meet her eyes, finding them filled with a soft surprise that quickly melts into pure affection.
“This means you’re mine, you know,” you murmur, your voice still scratchy and deep from last night’s activities.
She smiles down at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling in that way they only do for you. She doesn't say a word. Instead, she reaches under the tangled sheets, her hand finding the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. She presses firmly against a mark she left there, making you jolt.
“And this means you’re mine,” she teases, her voice a low hum.
Her expression softens as she leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that feels a lot like love. She pulls back just a fraction, a playful glint returning to her gaze as she looks at your hand resting near her heart.
“So…” she drawls out, her nails stroking your palm. “Were they short enough for you?”
—
What was supposed to be a 1-2k word short fic about something that happened at the bar last week turned into double the length because I started to think, "but how did they meet tho?" Then I figured I should make it a bit cutesy for all the cutie patootie readers. So yeah, this is how it ended up 😂 Hope you enjoyed it! Feedback is always appreciated :)
SA/N: My work schedule finally stabilized post earnings season and instead of resting up, I decided to watch an animated video on the entire history of Rome at 2 a.m then went down the rabbit hole and watched the history of Greece. Hope your guys' weekend has been well spent as well.
As Thanos moves closer to Vision and the Mind Stone, the Avengers seek help from a hidden kingdom ruled by an ancient royal bloodline and protected by the last living dragon. Their only hope is a girl, a feared young warrior princess who once ended a century-long war and commands absolute loyalty from her people. But before she agrees to join their fight, the Avengers must earn her trust, survive her court and convince her that Thanos is a threat even her kingdom cannot ignore. Luckily Natasha has her ways.
Avenger!Natasha x Princess!Reader
Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N=31, r=23), so so much smut, royal stuff, violence and more
A/N: There it is! The first chapter drops tomorrow at the same time. It’ll be a small 3 part series and after that I’ll focus on all the requests, I promise! See you tomorrow! 👀
Warnings: Age gap (N=31, r=23), parents death, infection, sickness
Word count: 14,1k
A/N: Because I got spammed, I split it again! The final part will be posted tomorrow at the same time.
Part 1
The first few hours after the quarantine sealed felt less like time passing and more like being pinned inside it.
The emergency lights had long since stopped flashing, but the red seemed to linger anyway, smeared into everyone’s vision and staining the edges of the lab with that same low, hostile warning. Tony had not left and Natasha had not expected him to, but there was still something brutal in witnessing the exact form his guilt took. He had moved with the kind of focus that looked almost calm from a distance, but only if someone didn’t know him.
Within an hour, the layout of the quarantine space had changed entirely. Tony had torn apart half the adjoining lab and rebuilt it into a secondary containment chamber connected to the infected room by a sealed transfer corridor, a pressure locked extension with transparent walls and independent filtration, meant to give you more space without breaking the quarantine. He’d converted a storage wing into a livable unit with a speed that should have been impossible even for him. New air scrubbers hummed behind reinforced panels and a narrow bed had been bolted to the wall and then softened with actual blankets Pepper had sent down at some point without entering the room. Tony had even rigged a food transfer system into the far wall, a compact stainless steel compartment that could be sealed from both sides and sterilized between uses so things could pass through without direct exposure.
It was the closest he could get to making the situation survivable and Natasha knew enough about the way Tony loved to understand that every added square foot of space, every welded seam, every upgraded filtration cycle was him trying to say the only thing he could not fix with words.
Stay alive. Stay alive. Stay alive.
Now, hours later, the rebuilt containment suite glowed under sterile white light. On one side of the transparent barrier, the lab had become a war room. Bruce stood at the central console with his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand braced against the table while the other moved through a field of molecular mapping. Dr. Cho had arrived not long ago and slipped into the work with two more specialists Bruce had called in remotely were patched onto side screens.
The virus had not spread beyond the sealed chamber, but that was the only good news they had. Because the more they studied it, the worse it became. It was not only biological..the nanite substrate supported the viral structure, allowing it to replicate and adapt through both organic and synthetic pathways. It could drift in particulate form, respond to environmental conditions and alter its own behavior depending on host contact. It behaved like a pathogen written by something that hated the difference between machine and body and intended to erase it.
And you had been standing in the middle of it. Natasha sat on the floor beside the barrier, one knee drawn up and one arm folded loosely over it, posture so still she could have been mistaken for calm if anyone had looked only briefly. But Natasha had long ago learned how to hold herself like stillness while everything underneath strained hard enough to crack bone.
On the other side of the glass, you sat on the floor too. You had spent the initial stretch moving around the new space with the uneasy caution of someone inhabiting a room that had been built too quickly and for terrible reasons. Natasha had watched you test the edges of it, the bed first, pressing a hand to the blanket as if uncertain whether to laugh or cry at the fact it was there at all. Then the sink, the table, the sealed transfer compartment. You had looked at each new addition with that same bright, careful expression you wore whenever you were trying to make other people feel less guilty about the effort they were making for you.
When you realized Natasha was still there, you had crossed the room and slid down against the glass opposite her. Now your shoulder rested lightly against the transparent wall and yours was the first face Natasha had seen uninterrupted for hours.
You looked pale and Natasha’s fingers curled once against her sleeve, then loosened. She had not cried, the tears had risen more than once, but she had not let them fall. Not here and definitely not while Tony and Bruce were tearing themselves apart to understand what was happening. Not while you were trapped inside a room designed to keep the rest of the world safe from what was around you. Someone had to stay steady.
Natasha had built a life out of being steady. So she sat there with the ache in her throat and the pressure behind her eyes and the girl she had finally, finally been brave enough to ask on a date only to have the universe answer by slamming a quarantine door between them.
You gave her a small smile, it was tired and a little uneven but it was yours. “Well.” you said through the speaker system, “This is cozy.”
Natasha’s mouth almost moved. “You have a bed.”
“Yes.” You glanced back at it with exaggerated approval. “I’m basically in luxury containment.”
“Tony overcompensates when he’s panicking.”
“Yeah.” Your smile gentled at once. “He does.”
Across the room, Tony’s hands stopped moving for the briefest fraction of a second at the sound of your voice. He did not turn around and did not say anything, but Natasha saw the line of his shoulders pull tighter. And you saw it too, because your gaze dropped away from him almost immediately and returned to Natasha’s.
For a while neither of you spoke, Natasha listened to the room instead. Bruce asking Dr. Cho for another pass on the structural integration between viral shell and nanite framework. Cho requesting environmental variance simulations. FRIDAY reporting contamination density inside the initial exposure zone. Someone on one of the remote screens saying, in clipped disbelief, that the code seemed to be “learning from the medical scans.”
The tension in the room never dipped, it only shifted shape. At some point the sealed transfer compartment clicked softly and a tray slid into your side of the wall: water, a bowl of soup, a protein bar, utensils sealed in sterile wrapping. Tony had designed the system in less than twenty minutes and Pepper had evidently decided that if he was going to keep rebuilding the laws of engineering instead of sleeping, then at minimum food would be involved.
You looked at the tray and then at Natasha. „I feel like a very sad zoo animal.” you murmured and this time Natasha did smile, though it was more in her eyes than in her mouth. “You’re comparing Stark technology to a feeding enclosure.”
“I’m saying it’s efficient.”
From the central lab, Tony’s dry voice cut in without him looking up. “You’re welcome.”
You startled just enough to betray that you hadn’t thought he was listening. Then you leaned slightly toward the speaker. “Thank you.”
That got him to glance at you finally. “Eat.” It should have sounded rude but it sounded like pleading. You obeyed because everyone in the room knew it mattered more when you did. You opened the soup and managed a few spoonfuls before Natasha saw the first shift. The smallest pause between one movement and the next. Your hand had been steady enough a moment earlier, but when you lifted the spoon again it trembled once before you corrected it.
Natasha’s gaze sharpened and you noticed. „It’s just weird eating while being observed by five geniuses and Natasha Romanoff.” you said lightly. “The pressure’s unreal.”
“You’re deflecting.” Natasha said.
You rested your head back against the glass with a quiet huff. “That’s not a denial.”
“No.”
That made you smile again and you reached for the water instead and took a sip. Then you coughed..just one sharp catch in your chest, one interruption too sudden for how still the room had been. But it happened again immediately after and folding you slightly forward.
Everything in the lab changed. Tony was moving before the second cough finished leaving you. His chair scraped across the floor so hard it nearly tipped. Bruce looked up at once and Cho was already pulling your live biometrics onto the main screen before anyone asked.
“Y/n?” Tony said too quickly and you lifted one hand at him without looking up, still coughing into your elbow. Natasha was on her feet before she consciously decided to stand. When you straightened, your breathing had gone shallow. You smiled immediately and Natasha wanted to shake you for it. “I’m fine.”
No one believed you, “That wasn’t nothing.”
“It was coughing.”
“That’s generally implied by the sound, yes.” he snapped, the words firing out too fast to be anger and too jagged to be anything else. “What does it feel like?”
You hesitated for less than a second, “Dry..” you said. “Maybe a little pressure.”
“How much pressure?”
“Tony-”
“How much?”
Your eyes flicked toward Natasha then and she hated the answer she saw there before you even gave it. You were calculating him and measuring how much truth he could survive without breaking further.
“A little.”
Bruce muttered something low and frustrated under his breath while Cho pulled the respiratory curve apart in three separate windows. Tony leaned both hands against the central console, staring so hard at the data it looked like he could force it to rearrange into something less dangerous.
You tried to lighten it and Natasha knew you were going to before you even opened your mouth because your expression shifted into that too bright thing she was beginning to understand as its own kind of shield.
“This definitely wasn’t how I pictured going out.”
The room froze around the sentence and no one answered. “I assumed it would be something cooler. A dramatic sacrifice, maybe in an alien invasion. Maybe I’d finally get crushed under one of Tony’s morally questionable ceiling projects.” You gave a weak little shrug. “I don’t know..hero death. Something embarrassing but noble..Kind of like my father.”
Tony’s hands stopped moving and Natasha’s head turned. He had gone still in a way she had learned to recognize as dangerous. He did not look at you, he did not let himself, but Natasha watched the memory move through him anyway.
It crossed his face in one shadowed flicker and then vanished, buried under motion as he turned back to the interface with even greater force than before. Natasha had heard enough from Pepper and seen enough in Tony’s silences to understand what that sentence had done.
A cave of scrap metal and blood dark stone. A man in military gear on the dirt floor, the wound too catastrophic for improvisation and too human for all of Tony Stark’s genius to stop. Hands slick with someone else’s blood while they try to press life back into a body. Him looking at him not with blame but with urgency, telling him the one thing that mattered more than his own pain.
Take care of her.
Natasha could almost hear it in the silence after your joke.
Take care of her.
Tony’s jaw flexed once so hard it looked painful. Bruce, bless him, chose not to force sound into the space. He only shifted closer to Tony and began running a secondary analysis on the cough as if giving him somewhere else to put the memory.
You, on the other side of the glass, seemed to realize a second too late what you had touched. Your smile faltered and Natasha saw it happen. Saw the flicker of regret, the immediate instinct to patch the moment before it could wound anyone further.
“Hey..” you said more softly. “I’m sorry. Bad joke.”
Tony did not turn around. “Don’t.” he said and you went quiet. For a long moment there was only the sound of systems working. Natasha lowered herself back to the floor because her knees had gone tight enough to hurt. She sat closer this time, until the side of her shoulder nearly brushed the barrier. You followed without thinking, shifting a little too until there was only inches of reinforced glass between you.
“I’m sorry about the evening.”
Natasha looked at you sharply. Your eyes were on the floor now, on your own hands. “I know tonight was supposed to be…” You let out a thin breath that might have become a laugh in another universe. “Less plague adjacent.”
“No.”
You looked up and Natasha’s voice was immediate, “No. Do not apologize for that.”
“But-”
“No.”
There was more force in it than she had meant to show and the result was that you stilled completely. The room behind Natasha continued to move around data and fear and urgency, but between the two of you everything narrowed.
“You do not apologize.” she said again, „Not for the evening. Not for what happened. Natasha held your gaze until she knew you understood she meant it. Behind her, she heard Tony shift. Evening..
It had caught him too because evening meant something now. Not a future date with hopeful edges and a restaurant reservation no one would keep. Evening meant promise interrupted and it meant a few feet of glass and a girl he had sworn, years ago in a cave that smelled like metal and blood, that he would protect.
When Natasha glanced back only briefly, she saw him staring not at the screen but through it, eyes unfocused. His hands had gone slack on the console and the memory had him again. Your father’s breaths getting thinner and thinner, while Tony told him to stay awake, stay with him, don’t do this, don’t and your father, in some final terrible clarity, saying your name.
Look out for her. Promise me.
And Tony, because what else could he do with a dying man asking for the only thing that might outlive him, saying yes. Now the promise stood on the other side of a quarantine wall surrounded by a deathly haze and a system no one yet knew how to beat.
Tony blinked once and came back into the room with the kind of brutality only grief could make functional.
“Cho. I want host response modeling based on the pulmonary shift. Banner, isolate every environmental trigger we’ve logged since exposure. I don’t care how small, I want all of it.”
You watched Tony for a second longer, your expression softening in that pained, helpless way Natasha was beginning to despise because it meant you were worrying about him now too. Then you looked back at Natasha and gave a smaller shrug.
“I really am okay.” you said quietly and Natasha said nothing. Because that was the thing. You weren’t okay and both of you knew that pretending otherwise did not make it less visible. It only made it lonelier.
So instead of contradicting you, Natasha asked, “Can you breathe?”
You looked almost surprised by the question. Then, “Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
Natasha nodded once, as if the answer were manageable simply because it was honest. The hours after that settled into a strange shape. The lab worked around the clock and without mercy. Bruce and Cho built models of the viral nanite interface while Tony chased every hypothetical route to destabilization, interruption, purge. Remote specialists came and went from the monitors as fresh data replaced old assumptions. Every breakthrough lasted minutes at most before the next layer of the
No one ate properly and no one rested. Tony refused a chair for most of it. Bruce drank coffee that had gone cold long before he noticed. And through all of it, Natasha stayed where she was. Eventually, when the first shock burned down into something steadier and crueler, you disappeared from the glass for a few minutes and returned carrying a deck of cards.
Natasha lifted one brow and you sat down again, “I found these in one of the drawers.”
You held one card up to the glass. “War?”
Natasha looked at the deck, then at you. Then she shifted closer and nodded once. So that was how the next stretch of night passed: the world tilting toward catastrophe around you while the two of you played cards separated by reinforced barrier glass. You dealt on your side and Natasha mirrored the draw on hers with a second deck Tony must have shoved at her hours ago without comment.
It would have been ridiculous in any other circumstance. Maybe it was ridiculous here too but it gave your hands something to do and your breathing something to settle around. It gave Natasha a reason to keep looking at you without calling it watching.
Sometimes you talked, sometimes you didn’t. Sometimes Bruce asked you questions through the speaker about timing, symptoms, what the air had smelled like when the chamber first vented. Sometimes Cho requested that you move to a specific scanner panel so they could compare thermal data across progression markers. Sometimes Tony pretended not to be listening to anything but the code while hearing every sound you made.
At one point you won three rounds in a row and looked unbearably pleased with yourself for it. “At least I’m thriving somewhere.” you said.
Natasha placed another card down. “You’re cheating.”
“Through the glass?”
“You’d find a way.”
“That is, frankly, the nicest thing anyone’s said to me today.”
Natasha’s gaze rested on your face a second too long. “That’s not true.”
Something in your expression flickered, warmed, then turned careful again. “No.” you admitted. “It’s not.”
Hours kept moving. At some point the cough returned, softer this time but more frequent. Not enough to stop everything each time, but enough that Natasha heard it before anyone else now. Enough that she watched you brace your hand on the floor after one of them passed. Enough that she saw the way Tony’s shoulders twitched every single time even when he didn’t turn around.
Near what had to be somewhere past midnight, though the lab had lost all relation to real time, the room quieted in a different way. Tony was staring at three branching cure models at once, each of them wrong in a different direction. On the floor by the glass, Natasha drew another card and didn’t place it. She looked at you instead and you noticed after a second and glanced up. “What?”
Natasha was silent for long enough that you straightened a little. Then she asked, “Why did you do it?”
The card in your hand stopped moving. Behind Natasha, the room did not pause but for her, it narrowed instantly again, just as it had earlier. All the background motion blurred into nothing compared to your face.
You knew what she meant. Not Why did you close the seal, that answer was obvious. Not Why did you save everyone, that answer existed in facts and systems and consequences. She meant why had you been the one to run back without hesitation. Why had your body chosen before fear could. Why had you thrown yourself toward the thing everyone else was fleeing from.
You looked down at the deck and then at your own knees. Then somewhere over Natasha’s shoulder where no answer waited.
“I don’t know.” You let out one breath through your nose, almost a laugh, but not amused. “I know that’s not a very satisfying answer.”
“It’s honest.”
You turned one card over and over between your fingers. “I saw the countdown..I saw the door hadn’t sealed.” You swallowed. “And then…” A small helpless motion lifted one of your shoulders. “I don’t know. I just moved.”
Natasha watched you carefully as you went on more quietly. “I didn’t think about it. I wasn’t trying to…” You searched for the word and failed to find one that didn’t sound unbearable. “I just knew if nobody hit that override, it wouldn’t only be us.”
“You were thinking about them.”
You shook your head slightly. “I was thinking there wasn’t time.”
That landed harder than heroism would have and maybe because it was truer. “You do that all the time.” you said.
Natasha’s brow drew in slightly. “Do what?”
“Run toward horrible things because there isn’t time.” Your mouth softened around something that was not quite a smile. “You go out there with the Avengers every day knowing any mission could be the one that doesn’t end well. You could get shot, hit by a car or lose a fight.” You glanced down again. “I could’ve died in a car accident today too. Or choked on bad coffee. Or gotten flattened by one of Tony’s ceiling disasters like I said.” Your voice turned quieter. “Life doesn’t exactly file a warning notice first.”
Natasha stared at you and there it was again, that infuriating, impossible way you had of taking the sharpest truths and holding them out gently anyway. “That’s different.” Natasha said, though even to her own ears it lacked force.
You tilted your head. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Because I’m not supposed to be the one doing it?”
Natasha’s jaw tightened. “No, because you weren’t supposed to be trapped behind a wall while the rest of us watch.“
You set the card down and on the other side of the glass, your hand came up and rested flat against it without ceremony, as if the movement had happened before you fully decided on it. Natasha looked at it for a second, then she lifted her own and set it opposite yours. Only glass between them..again.
“You’re watching because you care.” Natasha did not blink. “That’s not a bad thing.”
A sound broke across the room then. Tony had braced both hands against the console again to signal he’d just hit the edge of control and forced himself back from it. Bruce shifted closer to him, speaking too quietly for the words to carry. Cho kept her eyes on the screen and gave Tony the grace of pretending not to have seen.
You looked over Natasha’s shoulder toward him and the concern in your face cut cleanly through the already unbearable night. Natasha saw it and thought, not for the first time, that maybe the cruelest thing about you was that even now, even in there, you had not stopped loving outward. When she looked back at you, your eyes had gone softer again. “Natasha.”
She leaned closer without realizing she was doing it. “What?”
You looked like you were deciding whether to say something risky. Then, perhaps because the room was full of too much fear and too little truth, you chose honesty. “I’m glad it was you.”
The exact same words as the night before. The exact same sentence and not remotely the same meaning. Natasha felt something pull hard in her chest and her hand flattened harder against the glass. “I’m here.”
Behind them, the lab kept working. Tony and Bruce and Cho kept trying to understand it the virus, to break it, outthink it, cure it..But on the floor at the edge of the barrier, with cards scattered between them and exhaustion wearing through every layer of defense, Natasha sat with you in the cold white light and watched every slight change in your breathing, every careful smile, every cough you pretended didn’t hurt.
Natasha did what she knew how to do when someone she cared about was standing too close to pain. She asked questions.
Had you always liked science fiction, or had Tony simply indoctrinated you into it before you had legal recourse? Which Avenger had the worst taste in music? Why did you own three identical screwdrivers and insist they each had a different “emotional purpose”? Did you actually prefer tea to coffee or was that some elaborate rebellion against lab culture? You answered all of it with increasing animation as the hours wore on, your hands moving when you forgot to keep them still, your smile turning real more often than fragile.
And Natasha against all logic, against the room, against the fear pressing against the back of everything..found herself relaxing into it too. She learned that your favorite food changed depending on the day but that you could always be bribed with dumplings. That when you were little, you’d once tried to build your own radio because Tony had told you not to touch one of his and the resulting explosion had singed your eyebrows clean off for a month. You told that story with enough deadpan dignity that even Bruce, half lost in viral models at the far console, let out a faint strangled laugh.
Natasha gave less of herself at first. Then, bit by bit, more. You asked what her favorite meal was and she answered before she could decide not to. You asked what kind of weather she liked best and she said cold, overcast mornings because they made the world feel honest. You asked what she’d wanted, years ago, before everything became this. Natasha was quiet for long enough that you looked as though you regretted asking, but then she said, “Peace.” and your face changed into something so soft and understanding that she almost wished she hadn’t said it after all.
By late afternoon the light outside the tower had begun to change, that was when Natasha finally stood. You looked up from where you were sitting cross legged on the floor by the glass, “Where are you going?”
Natasha smoothed one hand over the side of her pants, more to give herself something to do than out of any need. “To take a shower.”
Your expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “That sounds fake.”
„Everything sounds fake when I say it now?”
“Mostly, yes.”
That almost got her. “I’ve been down here for hours.”
You considered that. “Fair.” A small smile touched your mouth. “You’re allowed to leave the haunted science bunker for hygiene reasons.”
Natasha inclined her head as if granting you a tremendous favor. “Good.”
You watched her a second longer than necessary and there was affection in it now so open she could feel it from where she stood. “Come back?”
The question was light, if someone only listened briefly. But Natasha heard what sat beneath it. “Yes.”
That answer satisfied you enough that you leaned your head back against the wall again and let out a quiet breath. “Okay.”
Natasha turned before the expression on your face could settle too deeply into her chest and walked toward the doors. Halfway there, she caught FRIDAY’s sensor light shift toward her. In the corridor just outside the lab, Natasha slowed and spoke low enough that the others inside could not hear. “FRIDAY.”
“Yes, Natasha?”
“I need you to keep her distracted for a while.”
FRIDAY was far too advanced not to recognize the tone and for all Tony’s impossible habits, his systems knew when not to ask unnecessary questions.
“Of course.” FRIDAY replied.
Natasha nodded once and kept moving. She did take a shower quickly, but more to wash the cold chemical scent of the lab from her skin than for any true sense of refreshment. She changed afterward, standing in front of her room’s mirror for longer than she wanted to admit, trying and failing to pretend she wasn’t thinking about what to wear for a date that should have happened somewhere else entirely.
In the end, she chose something simple. She looked at herself once, sharply, as if daring her reflection to comment on how absurd this all was. Then she left before she could talk herself out of it. On the way back down, she ordered takeout from a place she had meant to take you eventually anyway, a restaurant Tony would have called pretentious and then stolen half the menu from if given the chance.
When Natasha returned to the lab floor, FRIDAY was doing exactly what had been asked. You were in the containment room standing near one of the side screens while the AI projected a rotating set of absurdly specific trivia questions at you. Something about obscure historical engineering failures.
You were arguing with the display. “That bridge collapse was not user error..” you said with sleepy indignation. “That was aggressively avoidable design arrogance.”
“Would you like me to log that as your final answer?” FRIDAY asked.
“Yes.”
“Incorrect.”
You gasped. “This system is rigged!!”
Tony, from the far side of the lab, said without looking up, “You’re arguing with a computer I pay to be smarter than all of us.”
“And yet she still enables you!” you shot back and Natasha felt warmth spread through her before she had even stepped fully into the room. In the few minutes she had been gone, someone..most likely Bruce at Natasha’s request conveyed through FRIDAY, or Pepper through sheer practical force of will, had cleared a small space not far from the barrier. Natasha carried in a foldable table from one of the side storage areas herself, setting it carefully in the open spot near the glass. She draped a spare dark cloth over it, smoothing the corners with more attention than the makeshift setup probably deserved.
From a cabinet she took two plates, two sets of cutlery, two glasses. Then, because she had found one in a forgotten holiday box shoved behind old Stark Expo decorations, she placed a single battery lit candle in the center. Bruce looked up first, blinked once, then deliberately looked back down as though granting privacy through studied noninterference. Tony noticed last, because he had buried himself inside a live model of the viral matrix so deeply he was halfway to forgetting his own pulse. When he did finally look up, his gaze moved from the table to Natasha and then somewhere softer.
Once everything was set, Natasha turned toward the containment room. You were still near the monitor, distracted enough by FRIDAY’s nonsense that you hadn’t yet properly seen what she was doing.
“Y/n.”
You turned and stopped. For one second you only stared, then your eyes moved over the little table, the candle, the plates and the takeout bags resting neatly beside Natasha’s hand. The lab seemed to hold itself quieter around the moment and Natasha’s voice was lower now, “We still have a date.”
It was such a simple sentence but it shattered you. Natasha saw it happen in real time, the surprise first and followed immediately by something deeper and far more fragile. Your face crumpled not into grief exactly, but into overwhelming feeling, the kind that arrives too fast for a person to hide. Your eyes filled before you could stop them and you blinked hard once, then again, as if trying to keep the tears from actually falling.
Then you laughed once under the breath that followed, not because anything was funny, but because your heart had nowhere else to put itself. “Oh my God.”
Natasha’s own chest tightened painfully. You looked down for a moment and when you looked back up, your eyes were wet and luminous under the containment lights.
“..You did this?”
Natasha rested one hand lightly against the back of her chair. “Yes.”
“For me?”
Her gaze never left yours. “Yes.”
That was what did it and one tear escaped despite your effort, tracing down your cheek almost absently and you laughed again, this time smaller and embarrassed by your own emotion and unable to stop it.
“Hang on..” you said, already turning away, swiping quickly at your face with the heel of your hand. “I need..I need a chair. I can’t…give me a second.”
Natasha watched you hurry awkwardly across the room to the small table Tony had installed earlier. There was one chair tucked near it and another folded against the wall. You grabbed the nearest with slightly clumsy hands, dragged it across the floor, then set it down opposite Natasha’s position at the barrier so that if the glass had not been there, the two of you would have been seated exactly across from each other.
You sat, smoothing your hands over your knees once as if to compose yourself, and by the time you looked back up your smile had returned, though your eyes were still shining. “Okay.” you said softly.
Natasha sat too. Then, carefully, she began unpacking the food. One by one, Natasha loaded part of the meal into the transfer compartment: dumplings, noodles, vegetables, a small container of sauce, even dessert folded into a neat paper carton. She sealed the outside door, activated sterilization and a moment later the inner lock on your side clicked green.
You looked at the food, then at her. “This is absurdly romantic for a woman who claimed she doesn’t make a thing of things.”
Natasha poured water into her glass. “You talk too much.”
“Only when emotionally compromised.”
“I noticed.”
You retrieved the meal from the compartment with a care that suggested it mattered far beyond hunger. Natasha hated how much she loved watching your face shift from surprise to tenderness to that bright helpless happiness she had come to crave without permission. For a little while, the room around you disappeared.
Tony, Bruce and Cho still moved across the lab, still worked, still chased an answer with the kind of relentless focus desperate people bring to impossible problems. Now and then voices rose and fell behind you, indistinct enough to fade into atmosphere. But the center of the room changed because there was a date happening.
“Tell me if the food’s terrible.”
You took your first bite and closed your eyes for half a second. “If this is terrible, then I’m willing to lower my standards permanently.”
That got a real smile from her. You looked absurdly pleased by it, and took another bite. For the first few minutes the conversation stayed easy in the way all careful things do before they trust themselves enough to deepen. Natasha learned that your answer changed based on mood, weather and whether you were in the middle of a project severe enough to destroy your ability to remember hunger.
You declared dumplings “universally healing” pasta “emotionally dependable” and good fries “the final proof that civilization deserved to survive.” Natasha informed you that this last category was too broad to be taken seriously.
You told her the tiny noodle place two blocks from the tower was better than any expensive Stark approved dining room and that Tony had once tried to buy the building because they refused to add truffle oil to the menu. Then, because dinner and candlelight and your soft expression made honesty easier, the conversation shifted.
“What do you want?” you asked after a while.
Natasha looked up. “In what sense?”
You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks, then immediately lowered them and swallowed because Natasha’s look suggested manners still existed in quarantine. “In…general. In a relationship, I guess.”
For a second Natasha simply watched you. The question itself was vulnerable enough. But the way you asked it..a little shy, a little hopeful, trying to sound casual and failing with such earnest sweetness that it hurt was worse. She leaned back slightly in her chair. “You ask dangerous questions over takeout.”
You smiled. “You asked me out. I’m capitalizing.”
Her eyes lingered on you, then dropped briefly to the candle between them, “Honesty.“ she said finally and went on, “No games, no guessing. I’ve had enough of both.”
“That makes sense.”
“And loyalty.” Natasha added. “Calm. Someone who doesn’t turn affection into performance.”
Something in your face shifted with painful tenderness. “Okay.” you said, barely above a murmur and Natasha tilted her head. “And you?”
You looked down at your plate for a second, then up again. “Safety. Not boring safe..Just…” You searched for it carefully. “The kind where I don’t feel like I have to be useful every second to deserve being kept around. The kind where I can be a mess sometimes and it doesn’t scare the other person off.” You smiled a little, embarrassed by your own honesty now. “Someone who stays.”
Natasha felt the whole room narrow around that. Because whatever defenses she still had left did not stand much chance against you saying something like that while trapped on the other side of a glass wall she could not break.
“You should have that.”
The speaker carried your next breath between you. “I know.” Then, “I think I could. With you.”
Natasha’s hand tightened around her fork and you seemed to realize what you had just admitted only after it was already there in the room. “Sorry. That was..maybe too much for one date.”
“It wasn’t too much.”
Your expression turned openly relieved, so Natasha asked another question before either of you drowned in the one she actually wanted to. “Favorite movie.”
You laughed, recognizing the rescue for what it was and accepting it anyway. “That’s not fair. I need categories.”
“No.”
“Natasha.”
“One answer.”
The conversation went on like that, wandering and returning and wandering again. Favorite books, worst music, what kind of mornings you both preferred. Whether either of you believed in fate or whether that was only something people said when trying to make chaos feel polite. You admitted that you hated being interrupted when reading but secretly loved when someone brought you tea without asking. Natasha confessed she had once learned three languages at once simply because she was bored and angry. You stared at her across the glass as if she were personally unreasonable. At some point you laughed so hard at one of Natasha’s dry observations about Tony’s “creative relationship with safety regulations” that you had to set your fork down and wipe at your eyes.
At some point Natasha forgot to track the room..at some point you both did. The candle glowed low and warm between you and the food disappeared gradually from both plates. Your posture loosened andNatasha’s did too. There were long stretches where neither of you spoke immediately because just looking at each other seemed enough. In another place, in another world, it would have been easy..
The glass became invisible. Your voice came through the speaker so clearly, your expressions reached her so immediately, your laughter landed with such warmth that for long stretches Natasha stopped feeling the barrier as a thing between you and started experiencing it only as a forgotten detail in the architecture of the room. Until the end of the meal, when the illusion broke.
It happened quietly, you had just said something and Natasha could not have recalled what afterward, only that it was soft and teasing and made her look at you in that unguarded way she had been doing more and more all evening. You smiled back at her with the same openness, the candlelight catching in your eyes and there was a moment then where nothing in either of you seemed interested in distance.
Natasha set her hand on the table and without thinking, you did the same. Fingers were drifting, only following the pull that had been there all night and all the nights before it. Then your fingertips met cold glass and the sound was soft. Both of you froze and the illusion shattered so cleanly it almost hurt physically.
There it was again..the barrier, hard and transparent and absolute. The wall you had both somehow managed to forget for an hour. Your hand flattened against it on instinct and Natasha’s did too, but where skin should have met skin there was only the sterile chill of reinforced separation.
The mood in the room changed instantly. Your expression dimmed first and the brightness in it folding inward. Natasha saw the exact second disappointment flickered across your face before you tried to hide it. Her own chest tightened with such force it almost qualified as pain.
For a long moment neither of you moved. Then you let out the smallest breath and looked down, smiling faintly in the way people do when trying to make something gentler than it is. “Well..” you said quietly. “That was aggressively rude of reality.”
Natasha almost laughed, though it came out as something rougher and softer at once. “It has bad timing.”
“Yeah.”
Then, because both of you were trying, you looked back up and lifted your brows with determined lightness. “On the bright side, at least I can’t steal your dessert.”
Natasha took the paper carton from beside her plate and held it up slightly. “You assume I was going to share.”
“I told you what I want in a relationship and you respond with emotional cruelty.”
“Correct.”
That finally got your smile back and after that the evening wound down slowly. You both stayed at the table longer than necessary, stretching the conversation into smaller corners now that the meal itself was done. Natasha told you about a city she once visited and never had time to actually see. You told her about the kind of tiny house you used to imagine building when you were younger, all windows and bookshelves and too many plants for any reasonable person to manage. Natasha said you would absolutely kill at least half the plants. You admitted this was likely but insisted love should count for something.
The other scientists faded further into the edges of things. Cho eventually left the main console for a side station and Bruce’s movements got slower with fatigue. Tony remained at the center of it all, tireless in that dangerous way that meant collapse would only come after someone forced it. Now and then Natasha felt his eyes flick over them before returning to the screens.
Eventually you rubbed one hand over your face and tried to hide the movement but Natasha noticed immediately. You saw her notice and made the universal expression of someone caught being more tired than they wanted to admit. “I’m okay.”
She stood and that seemed to startle you more than it should have. “What?”
“Go to bed.”
Your mouth curved faintly. “That sounded very authoritative.”
“I meant it that way.”
You looked toward the narrow bed built into the side of the containment space. The blankets were still turned down from earlier and the sight of it..so temporary and clinical made something in Natasha twist.
You pushed your chair back and stood too, a little more slowly than you had sat down in it, that did not escape Natasha either. You carried your dishes to the transfer compartment with exaggerated competence, clearly trying not to look as tired as you were. Natasha mirrored the motion on her side.
When everything had been cleared, you crossed the room and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The containment lights had dimmed slightly into evening mode and you pulled one leg up onto the mattress and tucked the blanket around yourself with a small huff of movement. Then you looked over and found Natasha lowering herself back to the floor beside the barrier.
You blinked. “What are you doing?”
Natasha leaned one shoulder lightly against the glass, close enough that if the wall had not been there she would have been sitting at your bedside. “Staying with you.”
The answer came so simply that for a second you only stared. Then your whole expression changed and all the humor and careful brightness and stubborn composure softened into something quieter and deeper, a kind of wonder Natasha did not think she deserved and yet could not look away from.
“You don’t have to do that..”
“I know.”
Your throat moved with a swallow. “Natasha…”
She lifted her gaze to yours. “Go to sleep.”
You lay back slowly, pulling the blanket up with you. One hand stayed curled near your chest, the other drifted down to the mattress near the edge, almost unconsciously seeking the place closest to where Natasha sat on the other side.
For a while you kept talking. You asked if she was comfortable on the floor and Natasha said she had endured worse. You accused her of being impossible even while half asleep. She told you to stop talking and rest. You murmured that she was very bossy for someone who brought candlelit takeout to a biohazard containment zone.
Then even that thinned. Your eyelids grew heavier and words slowed. The room beyond you continued its relentless motion, all data and desperation and hope sharpened into labor, but around the bed a pocket of stillness formed. Natasha sat in it and guarded it with everything she had and at some point you opened your eyes again just enough to look at her.
“Hey.” you whispered.
Natasha looked up immediately. “What?”
“Thank you. For not letting tonight disappear.”
“It didn’t disappear.”
You looked at her for a second longer and then your mouth curved into the softest smile of the night. “Good.”
Your eyes closed again after that and Natasha stayed. She stayed while your breathing gradually evened out, though not entirely. There was still a faint catch in it every now and then that made her hands curl against her knees. She stayed while Bruce walked past once with a mug in his hand and deliberately did not interrupt. She stayed while Tony barked a frustrated order at one of the simulations and then went silent again. She stayed while FRIDAY dimmed the outer lab lights by five percent, perhaps sensing what kind of vigil this had become.
And when, sometime later, you shifted in sleep and your hand slid nearer the edge of the mattress, Natasha lifted her own and placed it quietly against the glass opposite your fingers. On the other side of the barrier, you slept in the bed built too quickly for a life that should not have needed saving like this. Outside it, beneath cold lab light and the hum of desperate machines, Natasha kept watch. She did not move and not sleep. And if, once or twice in the silence, her eyes burned with the tears she had refused all day, there was no one close enough to see them but the glass.
The next morning did not bring relief. It brought the kind of hope people manufactured by necessity, thin and careful and handled like glass because everyone in the room already knew what would happen if it cracked too hard. Natasha had not moved much during the night. At some point Bruce had draped a blanket over her shoulders without comment and gone back to his console or Tony had stopped pretending not to look over every few minutes just to make sure you were still breathing.
You had slept in fragments. Natasha knew because she heard every shift in the bed, every uneven breath, every low sound your throat made when sleep dragged you too quickly through dreams that were clearly not kind. Once, near dawn, you woke coughing again, quieter than before but longer, enough that Natasha was on her feet before the sound had fully broken the room. Tony had looked up so fast he nearly knocked over two sample trays and Cho had checked the monitors.
By morning the monitors proved it. The virus was progressing. Not through the containment room, but inward, inside you, it had changed its pattern. The particulate saturation in the original chamber remained dense but stable, while the readings tied to your own body had become more complex and more frightening. It was no longer just exposure..it was integration and the virus wasn’t merely spreading, no, it was learning how to live in you.
No one said that sentence aloud. Natasha saw it in the way Cho’s mouth tightened while reviewing your blood oxygen. In the way Bruce kept rereading the same molecular map as if he could force it to confess a weakness. In the way Tony worked with increasing speed and decreasing patience, his hands moving through six screens at once, jaw set hard enough to make every muscle in his face stand out.
And in you. It was in you too, though you kept pretending otherwise. The day wore on in intervals. Fluids through the sterile transfer and more talking than any of you wanted to do about your own condition because the second the room went quiet, everyone heard the coughing.
Natasha noticed the changes first because she had stopped paying attention to almost anything else. Your smile took longer to reach your eyes now. Your energy came in bursts and vanished faster. You held yourself too still between movements, conserving strength without wanting anyone to call it that. Once, when you stood too quickly from the chair by the little table, the room tilted visibly around you and your hand shot out to brace against the wall. You recovered almost immediately and pretended you had only stumbled because your sock had caught on the floor.
Natasha didn’t say anything, she only moved closer to the glass. You noticed and gave her that look..that infuriatingly gentle one that said yes, I know you see it, please let me keep pretending a little longer.
And Natasha let you. Not because she believed you..because dignity mattered and she had known too many people stripped of it by pain. By midafternoon Cho had enough blood panel data to begin constructing a targeted host response model. That was the first time the room shifted.
Because “progress” was a dangerous word in a place like that and yet the science had finally offered something that looked enough like a pathway to tempt everyone into believing it. Bruce called Tony over to the central display. Cho projected the nanite matrix in layered colors: viral protein structures in red, synthetic lattice in silver, the portions already binding within your bloodstream in a deep pulsing violet that looked too alive to be on a medical screen.
“It isn’t stable by itself.” Cho said, “That’s the first thing in our favor.”
Tony folded his arms. “Clarify ‘favor.’”
Bruce zoomed into a specific section of the pattern. “The viral shell depends on the nanite scaffold to maintain cohesion once it binds to host tissue. Without the scaffold, it degrades.”
“And without the virus..” Cho added, “the scaffold loses its propagation model.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. “Meaning?”
Bruce looked up at him. “Meaning if we can break the bond between the two without triggering dispersal, both sides collapse.” There it was..The word no one said, but everyone heard anyway.
A cure.
Natasha saw it hit Tony in real time. Something sharp and dangerous and bright enough to make him stand straighter for the first time in hours. He turned back to the data with a focus that bordered on violent. “How?”
Cho brought up a molecular inhibitor sequence. “Not biologically. It adapts too fast..we just target the substrate.”
Bruce nodded. “A destabilizing pulse, narrow enough that it attacks the nanite support without aerosolizing the viral load.”
Tony was already three steps ahead. “Coupled with a suppressor to keep the host response from crashing when the bond breaks.”
“That’s the idea.” Cho said.
“And if it works?” Natasha asked and all three scientists looked at her. Bruce answered because Tony was already building the simulation. “If it works, it interrupts integration. Stops progression, maybe gives us a chance to clear what’s left before it rebinds.”
“Maybe?” Natasha repeated and Bruce’s face tightened. “We’ve never seen anything like this.”
Tony cut in, not looking up. “Then we build the part that’s missing.”
That set the next hours into motion. The lab transformed again, this time not into a containment ward or a war room but into something feverish and almost holy in its concentration. Tony built the prototype delivery system himself, hands moving with sleepless precision as he reconfigured a med pulse emitter into something far more specialized, everyone worked together.
Even FRIDAY sounded more alert, cross referencing model after model and for the first time since the quarantine had sealed, the room let itself lean toward something.
Hope.
You saw it in them too. From your side of the glass, sitting wrapped in a blanket on the bed while your oxygen monitor glowed faintly against your finger, you watched the shift happen and your whole expression changed in answer. When Natasha looked at you, you gave her the smallest smile.
“They found something..” you said quietly through the speaker and Natasha nodded once. Your eyes flicked to Tony, then Bruce, then Cho, following their movements with exhausted concentration. “Do you think it’ll work?”
Natasha had become allergic to promises in the last twenty four hours. She had no intention of making one she couldn’t keep. But she also could not bear the look in your face if she gave you nothing. So she sat down again by the glass and answered honestly in the only way she could.
“I think they believe it might.”
You absorbed that for a second. Then your smile tilted faintly. “That is the most Natasha Romanoff answer ever.”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s terrifying.”
“Yes.”
That made you laugh softly, though it ended in a cough you tried to turn aside from the speaker. Natasha heard it anyway and her fingers curled against her knee. You caught that too and straightened a little too quickly, trying to recover. “Still okay.”
The prototype took shape by evening. It was ugly in the way most brilliant things were before anyone polished them. A narrow injector line housed inside a sterile cartridge. Tony tested it first on isolated substrate samples in sealed dishes. The first run failed instantly, the nanites destabilized too fast and triggered a cascade that nearly breached the microchamber. Tony swore, Bruce recalibrated, Cho altered the damping sequence.
The second run held longer but didn’t fully separate the structures. The third produced breakdown. On the screen, the silver lattice shuddered, collapsed inward and the viral pattern folded with it. After the fourth one, the room went silent and Bruce looked at the result, then back at the model as if expecting it to vanish if he moved too quickly. Cho leaned forward, studying every line of the data with disciplined caution that barely concealed her own shock.
Tony let out one breath and it sounded almost like disbelief. You were on your feet before anyone told you to stay seated. “What happened?”
Bruce turned toward the barrier. “It collapsed the bond.”
Your whole face opened with hope so immediate and so bright that Natasha had to look away for a second because seeing it felt too much like watching someone stand in the path of something fragile and beautiful enough to die from touch.
“Does that mean-” you started.
“It means..” Tony interrupted, “that it works on the sample.”
He would not let anyone rush ahead of the science..Natasha respected him for that and hated him for how much she needed him to be wrong. So they tested again and again. Each time the isolated sample collapsed cleanly.
Bruce ran cross model comparisons. Cho mapped inflammatory outcomes and FRIDAY predicted the host response under various load thresholds. For the first time, probability curves moved in their favor. Enough that even Natasha felt it happen in the room, the impossible, reckless softening of people who had been braced for loss too long and suddenly saw a door crack open where there had only been wall.
Tony turned toward you and Natasha would remember that moment later because of how carefully he handled it, as though even now he was afraid that saying the words aloud might break them.
“We’re not there yet..” he said and you nodded too quickly. “Okay.”
“But we may have a path.”
Your breath caught and the look on your face was not joy. It was hope filtered through fear and exhaustion and the desperate need not to be heartbroken by another maybe. Still, it was there. You sat down hard on the edge of the bed, your hand lifting to cover your mouth for a second before dropping again. “Oh.”
Tony looked away almost immediately after saying it, as though he could not withstand your hope directly and still stay functional. “We test the final sequence on live adaptive substrate first.” he said, already turning back to the console. “Then we talk about application.”
Nobody objected..they all knew the danger of mistaking a pathway for an answer. Still, the atmosphere changed and Bruce drank fresh coffee and didn’t seem to notice it was hot this time. Cho requested a second round of fabrication samples with something that sounded suspiciously like steadier breath beneath her usual composure.
And Natasha…Natasha hated herself a little for what happened next. She let herself imagine only for a second. Only because she was tired and you were looking at her through the glass with those bright, wet eyes and because the entire room had just spent hours clawing a possibility out of the impossible.
But she imagined it anyway. You alive and out of there. A real date somewhere without fluorescent lights and sterile walls and the hum of containment systems in the background. Your hand in hers without glass in the way. Your laugh somewhere ordinary. Your body warm and living and not attached to monitors or watched by five people trying to outthink death. She imagined it and the image struck her so hard she had to set her jaw just to stay still.
Maybe that was why she did not notice how tired you had become in the meantime. Or rather, she noticed, but she wanted to believe the hope explained it away. That the strain of the day, the coughing, the scans, the adrenaline of hearing they had something..any of it accounted for the slight tremor in your fingers when you reached for your water. For the way you sat down more heavily than before and for the shallow breaths you tried not to make obvious.
Hope made people stupid. Natasha knew that better than most.
Night settled fully beyond the hidden windows of the tower and under the lab lights the final test was prepared. This one would not be on the simple isolated samples from the first chamber. This one would use the adaptive hybrid substrate drawn from your blood work and bonded in vitro as close to the host integrated structure as they could safely create without touching your actual system.
Tony set the sample chamber into the stabilization cradle himself. Bruce checked the inhibitor sequence twice, then a third time and Cho entered the monitoring thresholds and host-response projections while FRIDAY synchronized every sensor feed.
The room grew very still, even you stopped moving. Natasha stood from the floor and came a little closer to the console without realizing she’d done it. You were there too, near your side of the barrier, one hand braced lightly against the wall, all the fatigue in your body hidden beneath sheer concentration and need.
Tony’s fingers hovered over the command sequence. “Final substrate adaptive test.” FRIDAY confirmed.
Bruce looked at the screen. “Pulse at twenty percent to start.”
“Too low.” Tony said immediately.
“Too high and we trigger collapse too fast.”
“Too low and it adapts before we finish.”
Tony spared her one glance, then nodded. “Running on my mark.” he said and no one breathed.
“Three.” Natasha felt her heart pounding in her throat. “Two.” On the other side of the glass, your hand flattened fully against the barrier. “One.”
The pulse fired and on the main screen, the hybrid substrate lit in branching lines of silver and red. The inhibitor entered and the nanite lattice reacted, shuddering under the pulse. Viral shell markers spiked, then dipped. The bond began to separate.
It was working. Tony saw it first and Natasha knew because the line of his body changed, not much, but enough.
“Nanite support falling.”
“Viral shell destabilizing.”
“Host mimic response within tolerance.”
Hope exploded through the room so hard it nearly had a sound. You made one tiny, broken noise behind the glass. Natasha turned her head just enough to see you staring at the screen with your eyes full and shining.
Then everything went wrong. At first it was small, a fluctuation in one corner of the display. A rise in the host mimic pattern. Bruce’s brows pulled together before the numbers had even fully changed. “Wait.”
The silver lattice should have collapsed. Instead, it bent and reconfigured. On screen, the nanite scaffold did not die. It folded in on itself, consumed part of the inhibitor structure and reemerged denser than before. The viral shell, rather than degrading, altered its pattern to bind around the new architecture.
Cho’s voice changed. “No-”
Tony’s hands flew across the controls. “Increase pulse.”
“Tony-”
“Increase it!”
FRIDAY obeyed and the pulse intensified. For one split second the entire structure flared white hot under the energy surge and Natasha thought, absurdly, please, please, please-
Then the sample split. Not into collapse but into replication. The chamber flooded with new branching structures, the hybrid substrate duplicating itself through the very cure meant to kill it. The inhibitor was being broken down and repurposed as scaffold fuel. Every line on the screen turned catastrophic at once.
Bruce swore and Cho stepped back. FRIDAY’s warning tone cut through the room.
“Adaptive resistance confirmed.” she said. “Cure vector compromised.”
“No!” Tony snapped. On screen, the virus devoured the model. The final structural reading blinked once and flatlined into failure.
Silence hit and Natasha felt it like a blow to the ribs. She looked toward you and you had gone perfectly still. Just staring at the dead screen as if your body had not decided how to absorb what it had seen. Hope was a crueler thing to lose once it had put down roots. Natasha could see the exact shape of the hurt opening in your face, not dramatic, not loud, just a slow, stunned collapse inward.
Tony did not move either till he broke. The sound of it wasn’t grief at first, it was impact. His hand swept across the workbench with violent force, sending instruments and tablets and two sealed trays crashing to the floor hard enough that one of the screens flickered. The noise cracked through the lab like a shot.
Tony shoved the stabilization cradle so hard it slammed sideways against the counter and rebounded. “No!”
His voice was raw now, stripped down to something Natasha had rarely heard from him and never in front of so many people. “No. No, no, no!!”
He grabbed the nearest tablet, looked at the failed model on it as if it had personally betrayed him and hurled it across the room. It shattered against the far wall in a burst of sparks and broken glass. The remote scientists on the monitor feeds went abruptly silent.
“Tony..” Bruce said carefully.
“Don’t!” Tony turned on him so fast the word came like a blade. “Do not tell me to calm down!”
He turned back to the main display, hands trembling now not with fear but with the force of keeping all of it inside his body..or trying to. His breathing had gone uneven and Natasha saw the way his control was shredding in visible layers.
“It worked..” he said to no one and everyone at once. “It worked on the isolated matrix. It held on the bonded mimic. It should have-”
“It adapted.” Cho said quietly and Tony rounded on the screen so violently Natasha thought for half a second he might hit it. “I know what it did!”
The words tore out of him louder than the room could hold and You startled behind the glass. That made Natasha move and she crossed the space between herself and the barrier in three fast steps, eyes flicking over your face. You looked pale enough now to frighten her properly, your hand still braced against the wall as if without it you might fold.
On the other side of the lab, Tony was still going. “This thing takes everything!” He slammed a fist against the workbench. “Every model, every inhibitor, every goddamn solution we build, it takes it and learns and comes back worse!” Another object hit the floor, some sensor module, expensive and innocent and utterly unable to bear the force of his grief. “I am so sick of burying people because the world keeps finding new ways to be smarter than us!”
The room froze around that sentence because that was what it was about. Not only this lab..Not only you but Afghanistan, the cave and your father. Every person Tony had ever failed to save despite all the machinery and brilliance in the world. It was all in the room now with him, decades of guilt finally finding an object physical enough to throw itself against.
Bruce stepped closer, cautious the way one approached a blast radius. “Tony.”
But Tony was beyond hearing gentleness. “I promised..” he said and this time the words were lower, “Do you understand? I promised him.”
Natasha’s breath caught and Cho looked away. Bruce went still and Tony’s eyes were on the failed screen, but he was no longer seeing it. He was somewhere else entirely, somewhere dim and blood dark and impossible to survive twice.
“I told him I’d look after her.” His voice cracked on the last word and then hardened immediately after, as if he hated himself for allowing the weakness to show. “And now she’s in there and I can’t-” His hand came down again, harder this time, sending an instrument cart rattling sideways.
“Tony.” Bruce said again firmly and Tony laughed once. It was the ugliest sound Natasha had heard in a long time. “What, Banner? You want me to stop throwing things so I can what, exactly? Accept it?”
“No.”
“Because I’m not going to.”
Bruce’s expression tightened with its own grief. “I know.”
“And I don’t need you to tell me probabilities. I don’t need calm. I need something that works.”
The last word rang through the room and shattered against everything. On the other side of the barrier, you made a small sound. Natasha turned fully then and you were trying to straighten, trying to push yourself away from the wall as if you meant to speak, but your body had gone too light with exhaustion and strain. One hand came up to cover your mouth just before the coughing started.
This time it was bad. Not the dry, manageable kind from earlier. This was deeper, harsher, wrenching hard enough through your chest that Natasha felt her own stomach drop with each one. You bent forward, shoulders tightening around the force of it, and the room changed all over again.
“Y/n.” Natasha said sharply and Tony whirled.
His breakdown vanished on the spot and replaced by pure fear. You couldn’t answer immediately, the coughs kept coming, tearing through the room one after another, your free hand groping for the edge of the chair and missing it. By the time you caught yourself against the wall, your breathing had gone ragged.
Bruce was already at the monitors and Cho pulled your live stats into the center display. “Her saturation’s dropping.”
“Heart rate spiking.”
“Pressure’s up-no, wait, now it’s falling.”
Tony crossed half the lab before he remembered the glass would stop him. He hit the barrier with the flat of one hand instead, eyes fixed on you with a terror so naked Natasha almost couldn’t look at it.
“Kid, look at me.”
You did, eventually and your face had gone gray. Truly gray now beneath the fluorescent light. The cough finally eased enough for you to suck in one shallow breath, then another, and Natasha saw the moment you realized everyone was watching too closely. Instantly, reflexively, you tried to smile, but it came out wrecked. “I’m okay.”
Natasha closed her eyes for a fraction of a second because hearing that from a mouth still shaking with the effort to breathe nearly split her open.
“No, you’re not..” she said and you looked at her. And because you were too tired now to protect everyone as carefully as before, the truth flickered plain in your face for just one heartbeat. No. I’m not.
It vanished almost immediately behind another attempt at composure, but Natasha had seen it and so had Tony. That was worse than the failed cure, maybe. The proof that even you could not quite keep performing okay anymore.
Cho’s voice cut across the room, “The integration markers jumped during the stress response. The viral lattice is feeding on systemic inflammation.”
Bruce stared at the data. “It’s reacting to her body fighting it.”
Tony dragged both hands through his hair so hard Natasha thought he might rip it out. “Then suppress the response.”
“We can suppress some of it..” Cho said, “but too much and we crash her.”
Bruce looked toward the failed model still frozen on the side screen. “And now we know the destabilizer won’t hold.”
Silence again, only this time there was no hope inside it. Tony stood with one hand still against the glass, his head lowered for a second as if he no longer trusted his own face to be seen. Then he straightened, slow and mechanical, grief forcing itself back into motion because stopping meant surrender.
“We keep working.” he said and no one answered because what else could anyone say? Bruce moved first, already rerouting the failed cure data into new simulations even though everyone in the room knew they were farther from an answer now than they had been an hour earlier.
Tony did not apologize for breaking the room. He simply picked up the nearest intact screen and kept going. Natasha returned to the glass and sat down again because if she did not stay close to you she thought she might actually come apart.
You had made it back to the bed by then, though Natasha wasn’t sure how. One of the blankets lay twisted around your knees and your breathing had steadied, but only in the fragile way that meant it had cost you something to get there.
When you saw Natasha lower herself to the floor again, your eyes softened. You didn’t say anything for a while, neither did she. The room behind them kept moving through wreckage and work and the low hum of machines that did not know enough to stop when human hope did.
Finally, in a voice so quiet Natasha had to lean closer to hear it through the speaker, you asked, “Did it almost work?”
Natasha looked at you and thought about lying. About saying no, because maybe it would hurt less if you believed it had always been impossible. But you would know..you always knew.
“Yes.”
Your eyes closed and one tear escaped this time. It slipped down toward your hairline as you lay back against the pillow and you did not wipe it away. Maybe you hadn’t felt it, maybe you were too tired, or maybe you were done pretending that every hurt in this room had to be swallowed before it was allowed to exist.
Natasha lifted her hand and placed it against the glass beside your bed. On the other side, after a second, your fingers found the same place.
By the time the lab settled after Tony’s outburst, something fundamental in it had changed. The work continued because it had to. Broken equipment was cleared from the floor and new trays replaced the old. No one said anything about what had happened, because the room had no energy left for comforting the people who were trying to save it. But the hope that had briefly lifted them all was gone now and everyone felt the shape of its absence.
Natasha stayed by the glass, it had become less a choice than the only position her body recognized anymore. The floor beside the barrier had molded itself around her through the last day and night, a place she knew in the set of her spine and the ache of her knees. She sat there now with one hand folded over the other and looked at you while the rest of the room tried, once again, to outthink death.
Your skin had lost what little warmth the containment lights could fake. There was a strain in your breathing now even at rest, a carefulness to it that made every inhalation sound measured. The energy you spent on smiling had started to outpace the energy you had for anything else. When you sat up, you did it more slowly. When you stood, you looked like you were negotiating with your own body each time. And still, when you noticed Natasha watching too hard, you smiled at her.
For a while neither of you spoke. Natasha knew you were exhausted because your eyes kept drifting half closed and then opening again with stubborn effort, but each time she considered telling you to rest, you seemed to sense it and would sit a little straighter or lift your brows in quiet challenge.
Eventually you broke first. “Are you ever going to sleep again?”
Natasha’s gaze stayed on your face. “Eventually.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You gave her a look over the rim of the blanket. “You know, most people say things like ‘I’m fine’ when they’re clearly not fine.”
“Do I seem like most people?”
“No..” you said softly. “That’s sort of the problem.”
Something in the way you said it made Natasha lean closer to the speaker. “Problem?”
Your smile thinned into something more thoughtful. “You don’t fake things for comfort.”
“No.”
“You don’t say things just because they sound nice.”
“No.”
“That should be terrifying.” Your eyes held hers. “It isn’t.”
Natasha felt that somewhere too deep to defend against. You looked down at your own hands for a moment, then began smoothing an invisible crease in the blanket with careful fingers. “I keep thinking..” you said after a while, “that if I weren’t in here, this would all feel completely unreal.”
“What would?”
You glanced up. “Us.”
The word hovered there between the crackling machinery and the low hum of filtration and all the impossible circumstances pressing in around it.
Natasha said nothing and you smiled faintly, embarrassed now that you’d said it aloud. “Not in a bad way.”
“I know.”
“It’s just…” You exhaled. “I spent so much time thinking you were impossible to read.”
“That was accurate.”
You ignored that. “And then suddenly you were asking me to dinner and then somehow you were sitting outside a quarantine wall with takeout and a fake candle like it was the most natural thing in the world.”
“The candle was your favorite part.”
“It absolutely was not.”
“It was.”
You pressed a hand lightly to your chest. “This is slander.”
“It’s observation.”
You laughed softly, but the sound faded too quickly into a breath that caught midway. Natasha saw the way your shoulders tightened before you forced them to ease again. She stayed still because she had learned that lunging at every sign only made you spend more energy pretending not to need anyone.
Your voice, when it came again was lower. “I liked last night.”
Natasha looked at you and the room behind her vanished for a second. “Im glad.” she said.
“I mean really liked it.” You shifted, pulling the blanket a little tighter around yourself. “I’m glad it happened before…” You stopped, the rest of the sentence did not need saying.
Natasha’s jaw tightened. “I’m glad too.”
Your eyes softened. “Even with the glass?”
That one landed harder and Natasha looked at the transparent wall between them, its surface nearly invisible until it caught a line of overhead light. Then she looked back at you.
“Especially then.” She said. “Because you were there..” she clarified. “Because it happened and I didn’t wait.”
For a moment you only stared. Then something inside your expression opened with a sudden, painful tenderness that made Natasha feel exposed in ways combat never had. You looked like she had handed you something fragile and priceless just by telling the truth.
“I would’ve waited.”
Natasha’s gaze sharpened. “For what?”
“For you.”
The air left the room for one impossible heartbeat. Natasha had lived through interrogations, gunfire, betrayal, gods, monsters and the collapse of empires. She had not been prepared for a sentence spoken softly by a girl wrapped in a blanket behind glass.
Your cheeks colored the second you realized how naked the admission sounded. “That was..wow. Okay. I did not mean to say that so intensely.”
Natasha felt the pull of a smile, though her chest hurt too much to let it fully form. “No?”
“No.” You ducked your head. “Maybe a little.”
She should have said something clever then. Instead she said, “I’m glad you didn’t.”
You looked up so quickly it would have been almost funny in any other room. But what crossed your face then wasn’t humor, it was relief so deep it looked like grief’s kinder twin.
The room behind Natasha continued to work. Bruce moved to another console and Tony asked FRIDAY for a tighter replay of the substrate collapse. For a little while, it was just the two of you. “What did you think it was going to be like?” Natasha asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“Our date. I mean..In real.”
That made you smile despite everything. “Oh.”
You leaned your head back against the wall behind the bed, eyes going slightly unfocused as though looking into a version of the evening that should have existed somewhere else. “I thought I was going to spend three hours pretending I wasn’t nervous and failing.”
“You did that anyway.”
“That is so rude!” But your smile deepened. “I thought maybe there’d be some ridiculously expensive restaurant Tony would be offended he didn’t get to approve.”
“He would’ve been.”
“I thought maybe you’d order something elegant and I’d try to seem like the kind of person who knew what to do with tiny forks.”
“You don’t know what to do with tiny forks?”
“I reject their authority.”
You glowed under it, then kept going because once started, the imagining seemed to soothe you. “And I thought maybe afterward we’d walk somewhere quiet and I’d say too much because I’d be trying to fill every silence before it had the chance to turn awkward.”
Natasha’s eyes stayed on yours. “You don’t make silences awkward.”
Something in you shifted at that, quiet and touched. “No?”
“No.”
Your voice softened almost to a whisper. “You don’t either.”
The speaker carried it too clearly and Natasha looked down once at her hands, then back up. “I was going to take you somewhere small.”
You stared. “You had picked somewhere?”
“Yes.”
A tiny crease appeared between your brows, startled and pleased. “Really?”
Natasha nodded. “Not loud or public enough for people to bother us. Food you would’ve liked.”
You smiled then, helpless and aching all at once. “That is dangerously thoughtful.”
“I know.”
“Would I have been allowed dessert?”
“I was considering it.”
You made a wounded noise. “Considering?”
“You talk too much.”
“And yet you keep choosing to be around me.”
The words were light but the look between you was not. Natasha felt it then again, the almost unbearable tenderness of being known in the middle of fear. She had spent years armoring herself against the world, and somehow you had found your way in not by force but by patience and laughter and seeing what lived beneath the steel.
On the other side of the room, Bruce suddenly straightened. It was a small movement, but Natasha saw it because she had learned to monitor all of them without turning her head. Cho moved closer at the same moment and Tony, who had been staring at the residue data from the failed trial, snapped his eyes toward the central screen. The shift in the room was immediate and sharp.
Natasha glanced back and on one of the enlarged molecular displays, the remains of the failed cure vector, what the virus had not fully consumed in the first collapse had been re rendered at a different scale. Instead of total degradation, there was a surviving pattern in the residue. A piece of the inhibitor had not simply been eaten.
It had changed..Bruce zoomed in further, lines of code and structural overlays blooming around the pattern. “Wait..” he said quietly.
Cho’s expression sharpened. “It’s not random.”
Tony was already moving. “FRIDAY, isolate the remnant sequence from the failed substrate.”
“Done.”
He stabbed a finger toward the highlighted structure. “That’s what it used to stabilize itself after the first pulse.”
“No.” Bruce said, stepping closer. “That’s what it borrowed.”
Cho looked between them, mind racing as fast as theirs. “The virus didn’t just adapt around the cure. It incorporated part of the cure’s vector to maintain cohesion during reconfiguration.”
Natasha rose to her feet without realizing it. On your side of the glass, you pushed yourself upright too and Tony was staring now with that terrifying stillness he got when genius found a door it hadn’t seen before. “Run the sequence backwards.”
FRIDAY obeyed and on screen, the remnant pattern inverted through several theoretical states until a new model emerged, not the original destabilizer, not the version they had tested, but something altered by the virus itself. A tiny difference..One structural pivot in the inhibitor arm and a change in timing measured in fractions of a second.
Bruce saw it at the same time. “It needed a stagger.”
Cho nodded once, almost disbelieving. “The initial vector collapsed the scaffold too cleanly. That’s what triggered full adaptive compensation. If we make the bond unstable in phases instead of all at once…”
“We force it to keep choosing structure over replication..” Tony finished.
“And it can’t use the same adaptation path because the phase lag blocks the scaffold handoff,” Bruce said.
There it was. Not a new cure…but the same cure, understood too late. The virus had shown them how to fix it by surviving the first version. For a second nobody in the room moved because the realization was too specific..
Tony’s face changed in a way Natasha knew she would remember for the rest of her life. It was horror, because one structural phase delay..one timing correction in the transfer pulse..And the first cure would have held.
Your breath caught audibly through the speaker. “What does that mean?”
No one answered fast enough. Tony turned toward you slowly, in his face now was something Natasha had never seen so nakedly on him before: hope and guilt so violently fused they became indistinguishable.
“It means.” he said carefully, “..the virus didn’t destroy the treatment.”
Bruce looked at the revised model. “It taught us where it failed.”
You stared at them from behind the glass, body swaying almost imperceptibly from the effort of standing. “So you can fix it?”
Tony didn’t say yes but this time he didn’t say maybe either. “We can rebuild it.”
The room took that sentence and held its breath around it. Then the work began again, only now it had a shape..
Trapped in a malfunctioning elevator and convinced you are about to fall to your death, panic is all you have left. That was until a rather pretty firefighter forced her way in.
Warning : brief injury, mention of panic attack (Nat makes it feel better)...
⧗ 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐀𝐎𝟑
The elevator had been making that, somewhat weird, noise all week.
You had first noticed it on Tuesday, an ugly metallic groan between floors, like something inside it was grinding itself to pieces. It echoed in your bones and made you clench your teeth together in a reaction you could not quite shake nor hide. By Wednesday, you noticed that the lights flickered faintly every time the lift passed the eighteenth floor.
You had meant to report it.
You really had.
Now you were very aware that you had, in fact, not.
The elevator jolted violently somewhere between what you thought were the twenty-first and twenty-second floors, and then it stopped completely.
Not a gentle stop, no, that would have been too nice. A brutal fucking lurch, mind you.
The kind that happened so abruptly it completely stole the air from your lungs and made your body lose its axis. You gasped, grabbing blindly for the handrail in the confined space, a cry of pain escaping your lips as your ankle twisted beneath you at the same moment the lights went out...
Pain shot up your leg.
"Shit-"
Stupid, stupid heels, stupid job. And most of all, fucking stupid elevator.
For half-second, there was only silence in the box you were trapped in. Heavy silence and the blood rushing in your ears before it raced south to warm up your ankle.
Then the cables screamed. The entire lift dipped a terrifying inch, maybe more - metal screeching against metal, and your body slammed into the mirrored wall behind you, the impact knocking a strangled cry from your throat.
"Oh my God," you whispered, widening eyes darting around in the dark. "Oh my God, oh my God-"
The emergency lights flickered on, bathing the small space in a sickly red glow.
Your hands were already shaking. You sucked in a deep breath before lunging for the control panel, hitting the red button in clouded panic. Door open. A soft, broken whimper slipped out as heat bloomed around your ankle, sharp and throbbing.
You exhaled hard, eyes narrowing as you hit the alarm button. Alarm, alarm, alarm again. You pressed it so hard your fingertip hurt.
Nothing.
The alarm gave a weak, frankly pathetic buzz that died almost instantly.
"Hello?" Your voice cracked as you leaned toward the speaker anyway. "Hello?! Can anybody hear me? I-I’m stuck, I-"
The elevator answered with another grinding groan before it slowly - so slowly it felt like moving in slow-motion - shifted again. Lower, just a tiny, insignificant fraction, but it was enough. Enough for your brain to supply the images: snapping cables, freefall, the box crumpling like a soda can when it hit the bottom.
With you inside it.
All because you refused to come to work early to climb up twenty-five flights of stairs.
Your knees gave out before you even realized it was happening, you slid down the mirrored wall, your back dragging against the cold surface until you hit the floor. You brought your injured ankle closer, only now realizing just how much it was burning. You were probably not going to be able to walk out of there - if the doors accepted to open again one day, that was.
Oh, God.
You did not like small spaces.
You did not like not being in control.
You definitely did not like the sound of metal giving up.
"It’s fine," you muttered to yourself, breath coming too fast. "It’s fine. Elevators don’t just-"
The car dropped another inch.
You screamed, hoping if you were loud enough whatever Gods there were out there would come and get you out of here themselves.
⧗
Natasha Romanoff had been halfway through her second coffee at their usual café when the call came in.
Elevator malfunction in a building downtown with presumably one occupant trapped. Structural concerns.
She was already on her feet before the dispatcher finished.
"Alright, let’s move," Clint muttered, tossing his cup in the trash and dragging a hand through his hair. "Too early for this kind of bullshit."
The engine roared to life, their sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as they cut across the streets.
Natasha stood in the back of the truck, one hand braced against the rail, the other clenched tight at her side. Her jaw was set hard enough to ache. Elevator calls were unpredictable, they could go either way - minor inconvenience or catastrophic failure. She sure hoped it was not the latest. However, the words structural concerns made something cold coil in her stomach.
They pulled up in under seven minutes, fortunately they were not far from the building when they received the call.
Natasha was out of the truck before it had fully stopped.
A small crowd had gathered outside the building, tension thick in the air. She scanned them once, before zeroing in on the man pacing near the entrance.
The building manager looked pale, sweating through his shirt.
"It’s stuck between floors," he rushed out as she approached. "We think twenty-one and twenty-two. We tried resetting the system, but it’s not responding. And we h-heard-" His voice wavered. "Someone said they heard it drop."
Natasha’s expression did not change, but something in her eyes went sharper - dangerously so - as she recognized the situation for what it was.
"How many people are inside?"
"One. I-I think."
"You think?" Natasha scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "Name?"
"I-I don’t know?"
She shook her head, of course he did not, why would he know anything useful? Natasha was already turning away from him, biting down the inside of her cheek to keep herself from screaming at him.
"Team’s arriving in ten." Clint said, jogging up to reach her side.
Natasha let out a short breath, pinching the bridge of her nose for half a second as she forced herself to think rationally.
Ten minutes.
Yeah, no.
Her gaze snapped back to the building, already calculating distances, access points, worst-case scenarios.
"That’s too fucking long. I’m not waiting."
Clint exhaled, looking at her as if he already knew the end of the story.
"Nat-"
"I’m going." She cut him off, already heading inside.
⧗
Inside the elevator, you were crying now.
Quiet and panicked tears that refused to stop, slipping endlessly down your cheeks no matter how hard you tried to steady your breathing. Your chest hitched in uneven rhythms, every inhale too sharp, every exhale too shallow.
As if it was not bad luck enough already, you had discovered your so-called waterproof mascara was not as waterproof as the bold words on the package made it sound to be. You had dark streaks smudged beneath your eyes, sticky and uneven, making your reflection in the mirrored wall look... ridiculous, or pathetic. Or both.
You looked like an actress trying too hard to win an award for a drama.
And then there was your last straw; your damn phone. Because you had also discovered that you had no service inside this creepy box. Because, of course there was not. You had tried 911 anyway - once, twice or maybe five times - but each attempt failed before it even began, before you could hope. No signal, no lifeline, nothing.
The red emergency light was still on, though. Making everything inside feel smaller, the walls too close, the ceiling too low. And the air hotter, thin, like every ragged breath you took was not quite enough to fill your aching lungs. And just for that, you were grateful for being the only one here. You could not imagine panicking like this in front of someone else. Or even being stuck for God knew how long in here with someone else.
Especially that creepy Dylan guy who could not take a hint to save his life. So, yeah... you supposed the situation could be worse.
Another groan tore through the walls as soon as you finished your thought.
God, you really should learn to hold your tongue.
It was the third in under five minutes, you had been counting.
Your hands flew up to your ears, palms pressing hard as you squeezed your eyes shut, as if you could block it out, as if ignoring it might somehow make it all stop.
"I don’t want to die," you whispered to no one, to yourself, to whatever Gods out there that must have heard you by now but seemingly decided to do nothing about your case. "Please, please, I don’t want to die."
Your voice sounded so small to your own ears, like it did not even matter. And then, there was a sudden metallic clang echoing from above. As if answering you, finally.
Your hands slipped from your ears, hovering uselessly in the air as your brows pulled together, confusion cutting through the panic.
Another clang, louder this time.
And then... voices? Were you hearing voices? If that was true, they were definitely muffled, distant and barely distinguishable. Though you were not quite sure you had not started imagining things. That was what the brain was supposed to do, right? Hallucinate something comforting when reality became too much?
Your head snapped up at another sound, your heart beating with newfound hope.
"Hello!?" You shouted, scrambling to your feet as best as you could, a sharp whimper escaping when your ankle screamed in protest. You clung to the handrail, leaning heavily against the mirrored wall, slowly sinking back into a sitting position. "I-I’m in here! Please! Anyone?"
Something heavy thudded against the top of the elevator.
Then a voice. You were sure of it this time. It was clear and calm and authoritative.
"Fire department! We hear you."
The sob that tore out of you was immediate and uncontrollable. Your hand flew to your mouth, pressing hard as if you could somehow contain the sound, but it shook through your whole body anyway.
"We’re going to get you out," the voice continued. A beacon in the chaos. A lighthouse in the fog. "I need you to step back from the doors."
"I-I am!" Your voice cracked badly, but you stumbled back as much as your ankle allowed, deciding to ignore the new noise coming from the elevator.
Tools met metal then. A harsh, grating sound filled the air as something outside strained against the doors. The entire elevator creaked in protest, a deep and very unsettling groan vibrating through the walls.
You watched, unable to look away, as the doors jerked before you felt the elevator shift under your feet.
The elevator fucking moved beneath your feet.
"No, no, no-" You choked, panic surging back as you slid down the wall again, your body refusing to stay upright.
"Hey!"
The voice was closer now. Right outside. Your head snapped up from where you thought the person was, lips pressed into a tight line.
"Stay with me. What’s your name?"
For a second, you forgot how to speak.
You swallowed hard, whispering it back in a shaky tone.
"I’m Natasha. I need you to look at me when I get this open. Can you do that for me?"
You nodded frantically before realizing she could not see you as she called out your name to make sure you were listening.
"Yes-yes, I can do that." You finally breathed.
A sharp grunt echoed from the other side.
Then suddenly a gloved hand appeared, forcing its way between the doors.
You held your breath as the gap widened, one inch first.
Then two. The metal shrieked in protest like it was alive, like it was fighting her every step of the way.
But then, you saw her.
First, her arm - muscles straining, veins taut beneath sweat-dusted skin, shiny bicep flexing hard as she forced the doors apart manually.
Then her shoulder, the short black sleeve of her shirt covering most of it, stretching tight.
Then her face.
The red emergency light behind you clashed with the brighter hallway lights spilling in from outside, casting her in something almost unreal. The glow caught on the edges of her helmet, creating a halo effect that made her look-
Not real. Not human, at least.
You had been asking for a God all this time when you should have prayed for an angel.
A streak of red hair clung to her cheek, damp with sweat, and her green eyes locked onto yours with sharp, unwavering focus.
"Hey, you’re okay." She said, as if it were fact, her lips offering you a small yet gentle smile.
The doors opened wider, revealing the misalignment - the elevator sitting a good foot below the hallway floor.
Natasha’s gaze assessed the inside in seconds.
"Alright. It’s stable," she called over her shoulder to someone you could not see before nodding at whatever answer she received. Then her gaze softened as it returned to you. "Can you walk?"
You tried, but the second you put weight on your ankle, pain exploded up your leg, sharp enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
You gasped, shaking your head, your hands gripping the bar tighter.
"I-I don’t think so. My ankle, I-"
You expected frustration, maybe impatience. Anything of that range. But Natasha just nodded once, quick and decisive as she shifted closer.
"It’s okay. That’s alright," her voice lowered slightly before she braced one boot against the frame and forced the doors wider with a low, controlled exhale. "We’ll adjust."
Behind her, you could hear someone securing something metal against the frame above. More clanging. More tools. The elevator trembled faintly and you flinched.
Her eyes snapped back to yours instantly.
"Hey," she said, firmer this time. "Stay with me. It’s secured from the top. It’s not going anywhere, alright?"
You searched her face for a lie or at least doubt but did not find any. Just certainty.
Natasha adjusted her footing, one boot planted firmly on the hallway floor, the other testing the edge of the elevator.
"I’m coming in," she warned, her tone turning serious again. "It might shake a little when I transfer my weight. That’s normal, you do not need to panic."
Normal...
You almost wanted to laugh at how fragile that word sounded. But you nodded anyway, your throat tight, your eyes locked on her like she was the only stable thing left in the world.
Your gaze caught on a strange, almost irrelevant detail - the glint of light along her left ear. Multiple piercings, small pieces of metal catching the hallway light. Your brain latched onto that stupid detail even through the panic you could feel rising.
Behind her, you caught a glimpse of movement - her colleague stepping in, rope in hand. He clipped it to her harness with practiced ease, giving her shoulder a firm, reassuring tap.
She did not look back.
The elevator dipped half an inch the moment she slid through the gap with controlled precision. You gasped, hands flying to the wall.
Natasha did not even flinch, she simply moved like she trusted it - like she understood the language of metal and tension and load-bearing structures better than fear ever could. She crouched in front of you immediately, one of her gloved hands finding your arm without hesitation.
Up close, she was even more unfairly breathtaking. A thin sheen of sweat clung to her temple. A faint smudge of grease near her jaw. Her green eyes were sharp, assessing but warm.
Your entire world narrowed to green.
"Hi." She said quietly, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk that made you weak in the knees.
Your brain short-circuited.
Great.
Of all the moments.
Of all the possible moments.
You had to be a gay disaster right now. Of course. And get caught while checking her out.
You let out a shaky, hysterical half-laugh - still reeling from seeing her entering your space so easily.
"Hi."
Before you could utter another word, another distant metallic groan echoed through the shaft, low and threatening.
Natasha’s jaw tightened slightly.
"Alright. We’re going to lift you out," she said, focus snapping back into place. "As you can see the car is about a foot low, so I’ll boost you up to Clint - that guy over there. He’ll grab you, and I’ll be right behind. Got any questions?"
You shook your head quickly, instinctively shifting closer to her as the elevator creaked again, your breath catching.
"We’re not falling," Natasha murmured, her hoarse voice wrapping around your ears. "I’ve got you. All I need is for you to wrap your arms around my shoulders. Can you do that?"
The certainty in her tone did something to your spiraling mind.
You scooted closer and circled your arms around her neck. You tried not to wince too much as she carefully slipped one very muscular arm carefully behind your back and the other under your knees before lifting you effortlessly. Like you weightless nothing at all.
The elevator trembled faintly as she stood, but she adjusted without hesitation, her stance shifting in tiny, precise movements - like balance was something she negotiated with gravity every single day.
You looked at her, suddenly hyper-aware of the proximity. The strength coiled in her arms. The heat of her body through her clothes. The steadiness of her breathing compared to your own chaotic one.
"Oh God-" You choked as the car trembled all around you, your fingertips digging into the fabric of her shirt.
"Shh, it’s okay. I would not be in here with you if it wasn’t secure," she said steadily, her hot breath ghosting your cheek as she turned, bracing her back against one wall and her boot against the other to give herself leverage. "I don’t gamble with old elevators."
You swallowed hard, your eyes flicking nervously around as the walls creaked.
"That probably doesn’t sound as... comforting as you want it to be..."
A soft huff of amusement brushed your ear, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine, the hair at the back of your neck raising in consequence.
"Okay, then I don’t gamble with pretty girls I’m rescuing," she corrected, chuckling faintly at the openly shocked look you gave her. "Alright," she added, like she had not just short-circuited your brain entirely, again. "It might feel like it’s moving like crazy, okay?"
"Okay..." You grumbled weakly, not liking her last words very much.
"Clint!" She called upward, her voice snapping back into command. "I’ve got her, we’re moving."
A man’s face appeared at the gap, giving you both a quick thumbs-up.
"Copy that."
"On three..." She murmured to you, but mostly to herself.
And then she was moving. Natasha bent slightly, grounding her stance - then pushed upward with controlled, explosive strength.
You cried out - not from pain, but from the sudden motion of everything. And then hands grabbed you under the arms.
"You’re good." The man, Clint, reassured you as he hauled you onto the hallway floor.
The second you were clear of the elevator, your body sagged in relief. The carpet felt like heaven beneath your palms.
You twisted immediately, panic snapping back just as fast.
"Natas-"
The elevator shifted again just as she grabbed the frame to pull herself up.
There was a loud, ugly snap from somewhere above. You froze, lips parting. Everything inside you went cold.
Natasha did not panic, she surged upward in one fluid movement, boots scraping harshly against the metal as she hauled herself through the gap.
The elevator dropped five inches the moment her weight cleared it.
A collective gasp rippled from both you and Clint. You stared at the open shaft, your heart pounding violently in your chest.
A second later, Natasha rolled onto her back beside you, her breathing heavier now, not uncontrolled, but very real as she took off her helmet. For the first time, you could actually see the adrenaline in her eyes.
Clint let out a low whistle, patting her shoulder as he helped her out of the harness.
Natasha pushed herself up, completely ignoring him, her eyes already on you.
"You okay?"
You nodded numbly before a sudden, illogical anger spread through your veins.
"You said it wouldn’t do that!" You exclaimed, smacking her arm.
Her eyebrow lifted, surprise flickering briefly across her face - ignoring Clint’s snort behind her as he walked away.
"Actually," Natasha replied, far too calm for your liking. "I said it would not collapse with you in it, not that it would not move at all..." She said, lips threatening to pull into a smirk that she forced herself to contain - like she knew exactly how close she was to getting hit again.
"Oh my God." You groaned into your hands, dragging your hands over your face, fingers pressing hard into your hairline.
But the second you felt your throat closing in again, something in you shattered completely. And then, before you realized it, you were shaking uncontrollably. The adrenaline you had been running on for what felt like hours disappeared from your system all at once, leaving nothing behind to hold you together.
Your hands started shaking, then your arms, then everything.
Natasha was immediately on her knees in front of you, tugging off her gloves as she reached for your forearms.
"Hey-hey. Stay with me."
You could not stop crying.
You tried to speak, you really did, but nothing came out except broken gasps that refused to form words.
Her warm hands closed around your wrists, warm and firm, her thumbs pressing gently but insistently against your pulse points.
"Breathe with me," she instructed gently. "In."
You tried. Failed a few times, but she did not lose patience. She shifted closer, close enough that you could feel the heat of her, close enough that her presence alone started to anchor you, almost close enough to press her forehead lightly to yours.
"Come on, I know you can do it. In," she repeated before taking a slow, deliberate breath - deep enough that you could see it, feel it. "And out."
Your body followed the rhythm instinctively before your mind could catch up.
In.
Out.
In-
Out...
The world slowly stopped spinning quite so violently. The noise faded. The impossible tightness in your chest loosened just enough for air to finally, generously reach your lungs.
And suddenly you were made very aware that you were half in her lap. Very aware that your hands were fisted in the front of her shirt.
"I-I really thought I was going to die..." You whispered, voice hoarse and fragile.
Her thumbs brushed under your eyes, wiping away tears and smeared mascara.
"Well, clearly you didn’t." She said quietly.
Your laugh came out wet and shaky.
"That’s... that’s because you’re apparently made of steel."
One corner of her mouth lifted.
"Sometimes I wish."
You huffed something that might have been a watery chuckle.
Your face crumpled again as the last of the adrenaline drained out of you, leaving you raw and exposed. Without thinking, you leaned forward and pressed your face into her shoulder, your arms wrapping around her.
You felt Natasha freeze for half a second before her arms came around you as well. Firm and protective.
"It’s alright. I’ve got you." She repeated softly.
You were still trembling, a faint tremor running through your body. If you had not been so close perhaps she would not have even noticed it. But she was close and she did notice.
"It’s over now. You’re safe." She murmured, shifting a little closer on her knees. Slowly, hesitantly, one of her hands came up to rest against the back of your head.
You pulled back once your brain caught up with the realization of just how close you suddenly were, your entire face heating up with embarrassment.
"Sorry-I just, you saved-"
"No, no," she said quietly, shaking her head. "It’s okay. Really. I get it."
There was an awkward pause before you realized her hand was still on you. She seemed to realize it too as she withdrew, clearing her throat slightly.
"I’m... I should probably check your ankle?"
You nodded, wiping at your face in a completely useless attempt to fix or even hide the damage.
"Sorry," you muttered. "I’m not usually this... dramatic?"
A corner of her mouth twitched as she shot you a knowing look.
"You weren’t. But even if you were, you were trapped in a failing elevator. So... I think you’re allowed," she replied, shifting to your extended leg. "I always preferred stairs, you know."
Her hands were surprisingly gentle as she examined your ankle. You hissed when she pressed along the outer bone.
"Yeah," she murmured. "That’s tender."
Her thumb brushed lightly over the area before she leaned back.
"Looks like a sprain. Maybe a mild one. You’re lucky."
Lucky.
You almost laughed in disbelief again.
Natasha glanced toward the stairwell where two more firefighters were coordinating with the building manager.
"Medics are downstairs," Clint called over. "Stairwells all clear."
Natasha looked back at you, assessing as she pursed her lips.
"Alright," she said, decisive again. "You’re not putting weight on that."
You blinked.
"I can hop-"
"Nope."
Before you could argue further, she slid one arm behind your back and the other beneath your knees again, lifting you as if you weighed nothing at all just like she previously did.
Another startled sound left you, hands instinctively flying to her shoulders.
"Natasha-"
"Relax..." She said smoothly, adjusting you against her chest.
"You don’t have to carry me all the way," you muttered, acutely aware of how solid she felt under your hands. And how steady she was. Which was a very welcomed thing after the situation you experienced. "I can... hobble... or something."
She snorted softly as she began the descent.
"Well, I think you already had your elevator moment. Let’s not add 'faceplanting down the stairs' to today’s crazy résumé."
Your lips parted in offended disbelief.
"Yeah," she said dryly. "You’ve done enough dramatic for one afternoon."
You actually gasped this time.
"Excuse me-"
"The screaming?"
"I was falling!"
"You dropped an inch."
"An inch is a lot when you think you’re about to die!"
That earned you a low, amused hum, deep enough that you felt it vibrate through her chest where you were pressed against her.
God. This was unfair.
She took the steps steadily, controlled, one at a time. Her grip never faltered, not even slightly - which was also very much unfair. You looked up at her face, catching her eyes flickering over yours before lingering. There was a beat where you hesitated, eyebrows furrowing slightly at the seemingly amused look on her face, your cheeks warming up under the attention.
"...What?" You asked warily, narrowing your eyes slightly.
There was a pause, followed by a flicker of mischief in her green eyes.
"Nothing."
"Natasha."
She exhaled slowly through her nose, like she was actively trying not to laugh.
"You look like a raccoon."
You stared at her, blinking in confusion.
"I-what...?"
She nodded solemnly, tipping her chin toward your face.
"Mascara situation. It’s... everywhere, very feral, very committed."
You stared at her, scandalized.
"I almost died and you’re bullying me?"
"I’m not bullying you," she replied gravely, adjusting you slightly higher in her arms. "I’m appreciating the aesthetic. You fully committed to the smoky eye look."
A choked sound escaped you, half laugh, half disbelief, as you tried to glare at her. Your lips betrayed you first, twitching at the corners despite your best effort.
She caught it instantly.
"There it is..." She murmured.
"I hate you." You muttered, though your voice wobbled with a laugh.
"Kinda doubt that."
You could not help but smile at her, shaking your head before awkwardly wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks.
"Better," she said quietly. "That’s better."
You rolled your eyes, though there was no heat behind the action.
"You’re unbelievable."
"Meh, I’ve been called worse."
The stairwell echoed with distant voices and the steady rhythm of boots on concrete, but in the space between you, everything felt... quieter. You bit down your lip, really wishing you were not imagining things.
Now that the panic had ebbed, you found yourself studying her properly.
Freckles scattered beneath a sheen of sweat. A faint cut near her brow. Green eyes that had locked onto yours like you mattered the second those devilish doors opened.
"Am I heavy?" You asked suddenly.
Natasha scoffed, giving your face a clear once over.
"I lift people twice your size in full gear."
"Oh," you said, pretending to consider her words. "So I’m light like... what? A backpack?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if genuinely thinking it through.
"Mhm... More like an angry kitten."
You gasped, smacking her shoulder.
"Raccoon and kitten? Pick a species, Natasha."
"Raccoon aesthetic," she corrected smoothly. "Kitten attitude."
You were fully smiling now.
It felt strange - how easily she could pull you out of that spiral without even really knowing you. Like she had simply decided fear did not get to win today.
She reached the final flight, the soft afternoon light filtering up faintly from the lobby below. Sirens flashing through the glass doors.
You hesitate, talking yourself out of saying what you wanted to, but when will you ever get the chance to if not now?
"Alright, I have to ask... Do I at least look like a cute raccoon?" You asked quietly after a full minute of convincing yourself to finally get the words out.
Natasha did not hesitate, her lips offering you a charming smile.
"Oh, the cutest I’ve ever rescued, for sure."
Your stomach flipped in a way that did not resemble anything you experienced in the elevators.
The lobby doors burst open as you finally stepped out into the open air. The cool breeze hit your face and you inhaled sharply - you had not realized how badly you needed that until your lungs filled with it. It was perhaps the first full breath that did not feel like borrowed oxygen.
Paramedics hurried forward with a stretcher, voices overlapping as they approached. But Natasha did not set you down immediately.
"Possible ankle sprain. No loss of consciousness. Minor shock." She reported, her tone shifting seamlessly back to professional as her eyes flicked to one of the medics who nodded at her.
"We’ll take it from here."
You tightened your grip on Natasha for half a second longer than necessary. She looked down at you again, something unreadable flickering in her expression now that the urgency was over. She crouched, lowering you carefully onto the stretcher, hands lingering at your waist just long enough to make your pulse jump.
The sudden loss of contact felt... noticeable.
She stepped back as the medics started examining your ankle, asking questions.
You answered automatically but your attention never really left her, your eyes neither.
Natasha ran a hand through her slightly disheveled red hair, pushing it back from her face as the wind picked up. The adrenaline was still humming under her skin, you could see it in the way her jaw was set too tight, her fingers almost buzzing with restless energy. But she was already shifting back into that composed, controlled version of herself. She spoke briefly with Clint, answering a question from someone else. And suddenly, the thought of her just... walking away felt unbearable. And unfair.
"Natasha?"
She turned immediately at your voice, brows lifting.
You swallowed, heart hammering for an entirely different reason now.
"Yeah?"
Your throat felt tight again, but not from fear.
"Thank you. Truly," the words were simple, too small compared to what she had done, but you meant them with everything in you. "Thank you for saving my life."
Her teasing edge from earlier left her completely.
For a moment, she did not look like the confident firefighter who had climbed into a failing elevator without hesitation. She just looked like a woman who had been very, very scared of being too late.
"You’re welcome, just... doing my job." She said quietly, smiling at you as she reached for your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Your heart did that stupid thing again.
One of the medics cleared her throat nearby, smiling sheepishly as she interrupted the... moment.
"We’re going to transport her for X-rays."
Natasha nodded absently, not pulling her hand away until she absolutely had to, her eyes staying on yours.
"You’ll be okay?" She asked.
You hesitated, biting down your lips. Then, before you could overthink it-
"...Will you visit the hospital raccoon?"
Her mouth curved slowly, something warm and amused - and dare you say even relief - settling into her expression.
"I’ll make sure to bring waterproof mascara recommendations."
You scoffed, swatting her hand away playfully. She winked at you, watching as the stretcher you were on reached the ambulance doors.
"You’re safe now." She whispered, winking at you.
And the way she had said it, certain like a promise made you unable to not smile back. You believed her completely.
Hope you enjoyed this silly fic!🤭
Actually working on a longer fic right now but I had this idea for a while so here it is!!
See you - hopefully - soon :))
Warnings: Fluff: Age gap (N=31, r=23), sickness, love, love, love
Word count: 4,7k
A/N: Some requests!
Life settled after the fire.
Natasha was still Natasha, the rink was still the rink, girls still cried in locker rooms and landed jumps with shaking knees and learned quickly that Romanoff’s silence was often scarier than her voice. But the sharpness of everything had eased.
The mornings no longer felt like battle from the moment their eyes opened. The apartment had become theirs in a way that still occasionally made you stop in a doorway and smile for no reason. Your clothes were folded into Natasha’s wardrobe now, half of the bathroom was yours and Liho had long ago accepted that there were now two women in the house worth manipulating.
At the rink, you had become part of the structure. When Natasha was on the ice with the older girls, drilling them into exhaustion, correcting shoulders and timing and edge depth with that impossible, severe precision that had made half the sport fear her and the other half worship her, you would drift toward the younger ones. You were good with them and that still surprised you sometimes.
A little girl with weak posture and too much anxiety? You would bend down, tuck hair behind her ear, and show her the movement three times slower than necessary until the girl’s whole face lit with understanding. A young skater terrified of a turn sequence? Natasha would say, from halfway across the rink, “Again” and you would soften the blow by gliding over and saying, “Okay, watch my shoulder here.” and somehow that would make the child breathe again.
Natasha noticed every second of it. Sometimes she’d be standing at the boards with a senior skater and catch herself looking away just for a second, just long enough to watch you take a little girl’s hands and guide her through a dance hold for balance, or laugh when one of them finally landed something clean. Those moments did something quiet and dangerous to Natasha’s chest.
She never said much about them. Only once, late at night, with you half asleep against her shoulder, had she murmured, “You are very good at that.”
You had blinked slowly and said, “At what?”
Natasha had looked down at you and answered, “Being loved by children and cats.” You had laughed into her shirt.
A few evenings later, after dinner, you both were in the living room. The apartment was warm and Liho stretched long and black across the arm of the couch like a smug decorative object. Natasha had a book in her lap and you had your phone, which meant, inevitably, that Natasha was not actually reading.
You had fallen into one of your loops. Natasha could tell the difference between “chronic scrolling” (Author: Hi to my lovely girlfriend ;)) and “the internet has claimed my girlfriend and may not return her tonight.” This was very much the second one.
Every few seconds you made a tiny sound. A gasp, a soft “oh my God...” One of those breaths that was almost a laugh and almost heartbreak and Natasha finally lowered her book, “What.”
You didn’t answer and Natasha waited, but still nothing. Then, with no warning, you scooted closer, practically climbed halfway into her space, and shoved the phone in front of her face. “Look.”
On the screen was a video of a pairs team on the ice. Not the modern kind that leaned heavily into technical terror and impossible speed. No, it was a dance sequence with held positions, a lift that looked less like stunt and more like trust made visible. The man turned the woman under his arm and she folded against him so beautifully it made the whole thing look unreal.
“It’s so beautiful..” you said softly and Natasha looked at the screen. Then, because she was a fool in love, she looked at you looking at the screen and that was much worse.
You had that expression you got when something on the ice hit you in the deepest place. Your eyes had gone bright from inside by pure skating joy. You flipped to another video and another. Another pair, another sequence, another lift, another step pattern where two people moved so seamlessly together they stopped looking like individuals and started looking like music itself had given up and become bodies.
“I know it’s different.” you said almost embarrassed by how much you clearly cared. “From singles, I mean. It’s not the same kind of thrill. But God, there’s something about it…”
You trailed off and sat up straighter, then got off the couch and started trying one of the opening positions in the middle of the living room, using a cushion like it might substitute for a human being. Natasha watched, book forgotten entirely now.
You held one hand out as though someone should be taking it and turned your own body into the remembered line of the choreography just enough to show you had watched the thing a dozen times already and were halfway into imagining it on yourself.
“It’s so romantic!” you said, then immediately made a face. “No, that’s not even the right word. It’s-” You tried a turn and nearly tripped over Liho. Natasha caught you by the waist automatically and you laughed all breathless embarrassment and delight. “Rude.”
“You are doing pair skating with a cat in the middle of the living room.”
“Liho was not cooperating.”
“Understandably.”
You looked down at the phone again and then back up at Natasha, smiling now in that way you did when you had become fully, helplessly obsessed with something. “I just love it..” you said.
Natasha didn’t answer, not because she didn’t have one, but because the answer was suddenly too full. Because she knew that choreography. Knew the exact step pattern and the timing of the lift. Knew it not from TikTok or some modern archive clip.
Knew it in her body.
She said nothing then. Only watched you keep scrolling until sleepiness softened the edges of your excitement and the night eventually pulled them both toward bed. But after you were asleep, Natasha lay awake a little longer and stared into the dark.
A few days later, you came into the rink later than Natasha. That wasn’t unusual anymore, you both had grown into a rhythm that worked. Natasha still preferred the early hours, the severe stillness of dawn ice, the private cruelty of first sessions, the clarity of beginning a day before the world had fully stood up. You came later when you could. Sometimes because Natasha let you sleep. Sometimes because the younger girls didn’t arrive until after Natasha had already exhausted the older ones into some version of discipline.
That morning, though, something felt wrong the second you stepped into the main hall. No girls at the boards, no music from warm up speakers, no assistant coach calling out times or edge drills. No little cluster of nervous twelve year olds pretending not to stare at you.
Just silence and one person on the ice. Natasha was at center rink, skating slow, clean circles like she’d been there long enough for the ice to remember her properly. She was dressed all in black, as usual, but there was something different in the way she moved.
You frowned and walked closer to the gate. “Where is everyone?”
Natasha turned toward you and there was no surprise in her face. “I canceled the first session.”
You blinked. “You did what?”
“Get on the ice.” That did not answer the question. You stood there, deeply suspicious now. “Natasha.”
“Y/n.”
“What are you doing.”
Natasha skated closer until she was right there at the boards, close enough that you could see the faintest trace of nerves beneath her calm, that alone made your heart beat faster. Natasha held out her hand. You looked at it and then at her face. And because you had spent enough time loving Natasha Romanoff to know that sometimes the most important moments arrived looking deceptively simple..you took it.
Natasha guided you onto the ice and your blades settled. The cold came up through them and the rink still felt impossibly empty, too large for only the two of you. “What is happening?” you asked softly.
Natasha didn’t answer, instead she kept hold of one of your hands, shifted your bodies closer and moved you into a starting position so familiar that your breath left you in one sharp little sound.
You knew this.
Your eyes flew to Natasha’s face, no. Natasha’s expression gave you nothing but the tiniest private gleam. It was the pair dance. The one from the videos, the one you had watched over and over until you could have cried from how beautiful it was. The one you had tried to mimic badly in the living room while Liho judged you from the rug.
You stared at her. “How do you know this?”
Natasha’s mouth curved and because apparently she enjoyed detonating realities before breakfast, she said, “Because I used to skate it.”
You just looked at her and then laughed once in outright disbelief. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No, you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You did pairs?”
“When I was younger.”
Your whole body went still with surprise. You searched Natasha’s face for the joke, but found none. “You never told me that.”
Natasha lifted one shoulder slightly. “You never asked.”
You kept staring because you could not reconcile the image in your head, the younger Natasha you had constructed from old skating stories, all fury and singles obsession and impossible ambition with the woman in front of you saying, so casually, that she had once moved like this with another body. You didn’t like that thought and Natasha saw the flicker of it instantly.
“It was a long time ago.” she said quieter now and you looked at her again. Something in Natasha’s face had softened. “And it was never what this is.” Natasha added. Before you could answer, music spilled softly from the rink speakers.
The same music played and your eyes widened. Natasha’s hand tightened lightly around yours. “Do you know every line?” she asked.
You looked from her to the speakers and back again, still stunned stupid by all of it. “Yes.”
Natasha stepped closer. “Good.”
And then you moved. At first you forgot everything. Not the choreography, but everything else. Because the second Natasha led you into the first turn, instinct took over in a way that startled you. Natasha’s hand at yours, Natasha’s other hand settling at your waist, the clean pull of shared momentum, the whole thing felt less like learning and more like remembering something you had somehow never done.
Natasha skated pairs like she did everything else that mattered: without hesitation, with terrifying certainty, and with just enough control to make everyone else believe they were safe.
You followed and that, more than anything, should have shocked you. You did not follow easily in life. You weren’t built that way, but on the ice, in Natasha’s hands, it felt natural in the most dangerous possible sense. Natasha did not drag you or force. She just guided and your body trusted the guidance so completely it almost made you dizzy.
The first sequence carried you in a long edge across the rink, side by side and then not, because Natasha turned you in so close you could feel the heat of her body through layers and cold air. The second opened you out again and you breathed a laugh. “You’ve been hiding this!”
Natasha didn’t look away from the next setup. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because this works better as a surprise.”
That was so unfairly Romanoff that you nearly ruined the next step by smiling too hard. Natasha turned you under one arm and caught you against the line of her own body so securely that you felt the impact of trust before you even felt the beauty of the movement and then the first lift came.
You knew it was coming. Still, when Natasha’s hands shifted and her center dropped and the world tilted, your heart jumped, “Natasha-”
“Trust me.”
And because it was Natasha, because trust had been built in blood and skates and medals and quiet mornings and every impossible thing between them..you did and Natasha lifted you.
It was not like the videos, the videos had been beautiful from the outside, thus? This was beautiful from the inside. The strength of Natasha’s body under yours, the steadiness and the complete absence of doubt in the way she held you. The knowledge that Natasha would not let you fall. You laughed out loud, not because anything was funny, but because joy had nowhere else to go.
Natasha spun and the rink blurred and you came down again in perfect control, skates finding the ice like you had always belonged in this choreography, like Natasha had always known exactly where to put you.
You stopped thinking entirely after a while. There was only the music, Natasha’s hands, the ice under you, and the unbearable realization that this wasn’t just pretty..It was intimate. More intimate, somehow, than some of the kisses you had had. Because pair skating asked for a kind of trust that couldn’t be faked. It asked for surrender without loss of self and asked for both people to know exactly where the other was and still move without fear.
By the time the music swelled toward the end, your throat was tight for reasons that had nothing to do with exertion. Natasha drew you in one last time and the final position came. You folded partly into her, one arm curved, Natasha’s hand firm at your waist, your bodies held in one long elegant line that looked less like performance and more like confession given shape. The last note faded and neither of you moved.
You looked up first and Natasha was already looking at you. There was something in her face that you had spent your whole story learning how to survive..“That.” you said, barely above a whisper, “was mean.”
One of Natasha’s brows lifted. “Mean.”
“Yes.”
“Why.”
“Because now I’m never going to shut up about this.”
That finally made Natasha smile properly. The sight of it was so soft and rare and full that you nearly cried on the spot from sheer emotional weakness. Instead you laughed and leaned the rest of the way into her, forehead against Natasha’s shoulder and she held you there without comment. You stayed like that for a long moment, then “You did all of this because I looked at pair skating videos for, what, three days?”
Natasha’s arms tightened around you just enough to count. “You looked at them like your heart was trying to climb out through your eyes.”
You smiled against her. “That’s romantic.”
“I know.”
“And you canceled the whole morning.”
“Yes.”
“So everyone at the rink thinks what? That you finally snapped?”
Natasha’s mouth brushed the top of your hair in what might have been a kiss and might have been a refusal to answer directly. “Let them.”
You laughed softly and you pulled back enough to look at her again and the truth of the moment settled in all over. And because that was somehow too much and not enough all at once, you kissed her. Right there at center ice, in the enormous empty rink, under the same lights that had once watched you fight and fall and win and build each other into impossible people.
Natasha kissed you back with one hand still warm at your waist. When you finally parted, you stayed close and whispered, almost shy for the first time in forever, “Do it again.” Natasha’s eyes dropped to your mouth and then back up.
“From the beginning?”
“Yes.”
A tiny pause, and then Natasha said, “Good.”
A few weeks passed after the pair dancing morning, and life settled back into its usual shape. Cold mornings and coffee, shared glances across the ice., long evenings at home with Liho taking up too much space for a creature this size and the quiet, ordinary intimacy of building a life while the world still insisted on acting like you had become myth instead of woman. Which was why Natasha noticed immediately when something in you went wrong.
It had started at home, a few days earlier. You falling asleep too early on the couch with your head in Natasha’s lap and saying you were “just tired.” You turning away to sneeze and insisting it was dust. You dragging yourself slower out of bed and blaming the weather.
Natasha had noticed all of it. But you, being you, had insisted you were fine in the particular stubborn tone that meant you wanted Natasha to stop asking before concern became a lecture. So Natasha had watched and waited.
At practice that morning, though, the wrongness was no longer small. You came in on time, skates laced, hair tied back, acting as though you intended to go through the day like always. You even started well enough, warm up edges, a few younger girls hovering around you for help, one of the little ones laughing when you showed her a turn sequence dramatically badly on purpose to make a point. But half an hour in, Natasha was already done pretending not to see it.
Your movements were slower, your usual sharpness at the boards had dulled and yo kept rubbing at the side of your nose and blinking too long between instructions The color in your face wasn’t right either, too flushed in some places, too pale in others. Then you coughed twice, turned halfway away, hand braced against your own thigh like it had taken more out of you than you wanted anyone to notice.
Natasha went still, because that was a bad cold dragging itself around inside a body that should have been in bed and had no business being on the ice. „Everyone stop.”
The word cut across the rink cleanly and every girl looked up. You, midway through demonstrating a basic edge pattern to one of the younger skaters, turned with a small frown already forming. “What?”
Natasha was off the boards and crossing toward you before the question had fully landed. You saw her coming and, being smart enough to know what face Natasha had when she was seconds from saying something unpleasantly correct, straightened instinctively.
“What’s wrong.”
You blinked once. “Nothing.”
Natasha just looked at you and your mouth flattened. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.” A few of the younger girls quietly began skating farther away with survival instinct and you sighed. “It’s just a cold..”
The sentence should have ended the matter. Instead, the second you looked up properly and Natasha got a full look at your eyes, glassy, tired, slightly unfocused around the edges, something hot and immediate went straight through Natasha’s chest. Her hand came up before she thought about it and pressed lightly to your forehead.
“Why did you not say anything.”
You, traitorously, leaned into the touch for half a second before catching yourself. “Because it was supposed to go away.”
“With what.”
“Medicine.”
Natasha stared and you lifted one shoulder, a little pathetic now under the weight of being correctly read. “I thought if I just pushed through-”
“No.”
The force of it shut the sentence down entirely. Natasha turned sharply toward the rest of the rink. “Session ends early. Everyone off in ten.”
There was a beat of startled silence and the girls moved, not one of them questioned Romanoff when she had that tone. You did, though, because of course you did. “Natasha, we only have-”
“No.”
You looked at her and saw no room at all and because you were clearly more exhausted than you had been willing to admit, let the argument die before it really started. That alone worried Natasha more.
By the time you left, you were visibly fading. The kind of tired that moved from the body into the eyes and stayed there. You leaned against the window for part of it, then against the headrest, eyes half closed. Natasha kept one hand steady on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching toward the controls to adjust the heat or lower the fan or make the car warmer in a way she knew you would not ask for yourself.
“You should have stayed home.” she said finally.
You made a small noise that might have been agreement and might have just been the sound of a person too tired to defend her own stupidity properly. Natasha glanced over at a red light and softened almost against her own will. “You feel awful.”
Your eyes stayed closed. “That is a very comforting way to say that.”
“It is accurate.”
“I hate your accuracy.”
“Yes.” But the word came gentler now.
When you got home, Natasha was out of the car and around to your side before you had fully gotten the door open yourself. “I can walk..” you muttered.
Natasha ignored that completely and guided you inside with one hand at your back, steering you past Liho who immediately appeared in the hallway, offended and curious and toward the bedroom. “Sit.”
You sat because the bed was suddenly much too inviting and holding yourself upright had become suspiciously optional. Natasha disappeared into the bathroom, then the kitchen, then somewhere else in the apartment, moving quickly and efficiently while you sat there in a kind of dazed, feverish fog. By the time Natasha came back the first time, she had water, medicine, tissues and a blanket.
You looked at the medicine in her hand and, in another sign that you were truly not yourself, took it without argument. Natasha watched you swallow, handed you the water, then drew the blanket up around your shoulders with a level of seriousness more suited to surgery than a cold. You looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes and said weakly, “You’re being intense.”
Natasha tucked the blanket in anyway. “You came to the rink sick.”
“That’s not a crime.”
“It should be.” You managed the smallest smile at that, which made something in Natasha unclench even as the worry stayed.
“Stay there.” Natasha said and went again. You honestly meant to stay awake because you wanted to know what Natasha was doing, wanted to keep at least some control over the indignity of being cared for like this. But the warmth of the blanket and the medicine and the bone deep exhaustion of fighting off a cold while being too stubborn to rest hit all at once. By the time Natasha returned, you were half asleep against the pillows.
You opened your eyes to find Natasha standing there looking at you with the kind of private, helpless affection that always made you feel softer than you knew what to do with. Then Natasha bent and, without warning, lifted you. You let out a tiny sound of protest entirely out of habit. “Natasha..!”
“You’re not walking.”
“I can-“
“No.” You, wrapped in blanket and fatigue and no longer capable of constructing a meaningful rebellion, let yourself be carried.
Natasha brought you to the bathroom and you blinked slowly in confusion. Candles, not too many, just enough to make the room soft had been lit on the counter. The bath was already full, steam curling up into the warm air. There were bubbles and the room smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter underneath it. You looked from the tub to Natasha and back again. “What is this.”
“A bath.”
“I can see that.”
Natasha set you down carefully on your feet. “Common, undress.”
You stared at her. “Absolutely not.”
Natasha folded her arms. “I’m sick!” you said, as if that explained everything.
“Yes.”
“I don’t like baths..” Natasha’s brow lifted slightly. “You liked them last winter.”
“That was different.”
“How.”
“I was not…this.” Natasha understood exactly what you meant. Feverish, miserable, limp with exhaustion and not interested in being looked at while you felt like a Victorian invalid. For one second she just looked at you and then, without any comment at all, Natasha reached for the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head. You stopped talking completely and Natasha stepped out of the rest with the same calm practicality she brought to everything, as if this solved the problem and that was the end of the matter.
Which, infuriatingly, it did. You stared at her. “That’s manipulative.”
“Yes.” Natasha said. “Undress.”
You laughed despite feeling awful, and the laugh turned into a weak little cough halfway through. Natasha’s whole face changed at once, worry back, immediate and sharp. That made you stop resisting. Slowly, still shivering faintly in the cool air outside the steam, you undressed and let Natasha help when your fingers felt too clumsy to bother with.
Then you got in and the heat hit first. You made a soft, involuntary sound as you settled in and Natasha sat behind you, one leg on either side of you under the water, and guided you back until you were leaning fully against her chest. The bubbles smelled soft and clean and the steam loosened the pressure in your head a little. Natasha’s skin was warm at your back, her arms around you loose but present, one hand resting lightly on your stomach just under the water as if anchoring you there.
For a while neither of you spoke, you just let yourself sink and let the heat work into you. You tipped your head back against Natasha’s shoulder and breathed in the scent of the bath, the steam, the woman behind you.
“This is nice..” you admitted at last, voice gone small and sleepy.
Natasha pressed one quiet kiss to your temple. “I know.”
You closed your eyes again and one of Natasha’s hands lifted and smoothed damp hair back from your forehead, then stayed there a moment too long in the old instinctive check for fever. You leaned into the touch automatically, “You’re really worried..” you murmured.
“Yes.”
“It’s just a cold.”
“You looked half dead on my ice., Y/n.”
You smiled faintly. “That’s romantic.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“A little.”
Natasha huffed the smallest laugh and tightened her arms around you by half an inch. The room stayed warm and quiet around you and for the first time all day, with the steam softening everything sharp inside you and Natasha holding you as if the whole world could wait, you felt yourself begin to truly rest.
Warnings: Warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! Age gap (N=31, r=23), puplic sex (car), fingering (r receiving), dirty talk, praise, pressure, mention of injury’s
Word count: 10,4k
A/N: Another adventure comes to an end…it was really, really exciting to explore this kind of sport after Redline. It had a similar feeling and I’m honestly so proud of it. I don’t think I’ll leave this universe anytime soon, so I’m definitely open to requests to add more to the story. Deep down, there’s even a small spark to write another one set at the next Olympics with a four year time skip…but I also have something else planned, so we’ll see where it goes! Thank you so, so much to everyone who supported this series 🫶🏼
Part 7
The week before the Olympics stopped feeling like time and started feeling like weather. Everything in it had pressure.
Every morning at the rink felt sharper than the one before. Every drill carried consequence now and every clean landing felt less like success and more like maintenance of something huge and fragile and almost ready to be unveiled. Training became brutal in that clean, focused way Natasha did best.
You trained the program until you could have skated it half conscious. Then you trained it again until even half conscious would not have been enough, because the Olympics were not built for “good enough.” They were built for girls who could perform under pressure so hard it bent the shape of their own bones..and you did.
You pushed and pushed and kept pushing. Accepted every correction Natasha gave you, even the cruelly precise ones. Let the body learn what it needed to learn. Let the mind stop flinching at the quad Lutz and start treating it like a thing that belonged to you if you respected it enough. Two days before the event, you did it without the harness.
That alone nearly took years off Natasha’s life. The rink was private again, completely empty except for the two of you, one assistant with the music and Tony. You stood at the far side, breathing through your teeth, shoulders loose, eyes fixed on center ice like it had personally offended you. Natasha stood at the boards with her arms folded so tightly it looked almost normal.
Inside, she was a disaster. No harness. No line above and no engineered forgiveness if gravity turned cruel. Just the jump and the body and all the old ghosts waiting to see if they had been invited back.
You looked at her once and Natasha nodded and that was all. Your takeoff was clean and the rotation happened so fast Natasha’s vision almost blurred around it, then the landing came and the blade hit and for one impossible, suspended second it looked as though the ice itself was deciding whether to allow history through the door.
Then you held it with no harness. Natasha did not remember crossing the boards. Only that one second she was watching and the next you were coming out of the landing with that stunned, widening look on your face. Natasha was there in front of you, both of you looking at each other like the world had just finally confirmed something they had already bled enough to know.
Nothing else in the room mattered. Not the Olympics in forty-eight hours. Not the field or old scars and old wheelchairs and old fear. Just the fact that now there was truly, fully, devastatingly nothing in the world left to hide behind. When your eyes held after the landing, something passed between them so fierce it almost felt like a vow.
Nothing is stopping us now.
You spent the entire walk out of the rink looking like you might levitate. In the way you moved too fast and then had to stop yourself from breaking into a run for no reason. In the grin you kept trying to hide and failing to hide and then failing to even care about hiding. In the way your whole body seemed lit from underneath by the same thought on an endless loop: You got it.
The jump no one had gotten. The jump people talked about like a boundary line, like a grave marker, like a thing women’s skating looked at from a distance and respected enough not to touch..And you had touched it.
By the time you reached the locker room, you were still half laughing to yourself, half in disbelief, hands trembling just enough to make changing difficult. Your shirt snagged once over your head and you laughed again, a little wild with happiness. Your reflection in the mirror looked flushed and bright and almost feverish with it.
“The field is going to lose its mind..” you muttered to yourself.
Then you looked at the faint scar on your chin, the one that had seemed like an ending for one terrible week and smiled even harder. Because this..this was what came after endings if you were stubborn enough.
When you stepped back out into the corridor, bag over one shoulder and hair still a little damp at the temples, Natasha was waiting and your smile came back instantly. “What are you thinking for dinner?”
You blinked. “Dinner?”
“Yes.”
“That sounded like an invitation and an order somehow.”
“It’s both.”
You laughed. “Okay.”
You should have known better than to ask no follow up questions.. What “dinner” meant, apparently, in Natasha language, was not takeout. Not a late quiet meal at home. Not some tucked away place with decent food and privacy. It meant a restaurant so polished and expensive you almost slowed at the entrance from instinct.
The exterior alone looked like money trying not to be vulgar about itself. Dark glass, soft gold lighting, a host stand that somehow managed to seem exclusive before anyone had even spoken. When you stepped inside, the men looked up, saw Natasha and went through a visible transformation from professional neutrality to startled, deeply honored efficiency.
“Ms. Romanoff.” he said immediately. “Of course. We have your table ready.”
You turned your head just slightly and looked at Natasha and she looked straight ahead as if this happened all the time and was therefore not remotely embarrassing. Which, to be fair, it probably did. You followed her through the restaurant trying not to openly gawk at how many people were, in fact, looking up. Some recognized Natasha and some recognized you. Some clearly recognized both and were doing the social dance of pretending not to stare while definitely staring.
The table was tucked far enough into the back to feel private without actually being hidden. When you sat, you leaned in and said under your breath, “Everyone is looking at you..”
Natasha unfolded her napkin with infuriating calm. “Yes.”
“That’s your whole response?”
“Would you like me to apologize.”
You snorted softly. “No. I’m just saying. It’s very… mighty Romanoff of you.”
Now Natasha did smile. “People will look at you too in a couple of days.”
The line should have thrilled you. Instead something in Natasha’s tone caught at you immediately and your brows drew together. “That sounded weird.”
Natasha reached for the menu, then set it back down almost untouched. You knew that gesture now too. The one that meant Natasha had something on her mind heavy enough to make ordinary motions pointless. “What.”
Natasha glanced at you, then at the water glass in front of her, then finally just met your eyes and chose honesty the hard way. “I am still scared.”
The words landed without ornament and your face softened before you could stop it. Natasha exhaled slowly, once and folded her hands on the table between them. “In the training rink.” she said, “it was just us. Tony, the harness and Time. No judges, nom cameras and Olympic final with half the world waiting for you to become either history or a cautionary tale in real time.”
You said nothing. Natasha’s voice stayed level, but the feeling in it was unmistakable. “I watched you do it today and part of me still wanted to stop the session and hide the entire idea in concrete.”
You almost smiled at the image but it vanished quickly when Natasha looked at you directly. “I know what the jump can be. I know what it cost once. And I know the Olympics will magnify every variable until they all look bigger than God.”
There it was..It wasn’t just technical fear.. It was love fear. The kind that came from imagining the wrong angle, the wrong edge, the wrong second, and living with the fact that it would happen to someone whose pain Natasha could no longer survive cleanly.
You reached across the table before you thought about whether the gesture was too much for a public place like this, but Natasha let you. Your fingers settled over hers, warm against the white cloth.
“If it’s not there.” you said quietly, “I won’t do it.”
Natasha’s mouth moved faintly. “You say that very confidently for someone with terrible impulse control.”
You actually laughed. “I’m serious.”
“Y/n-.”
“No, really.” You leaned in a little more, forcing Natasha to stay with you and not drift off into all the old ghosts crouched behind the fear. “If I feel it go wrong before I leave the ice, I stop. If the edge feels bad, I stop. If the room feels wrong, I stop. I want to land it, Natasha. I want to make history, but I also very much want to stay in one piece.”
Natasha’s eyes dropped once to their joined hands and your voice softened. “I’m not ending like Vera.”
Natasha looked back up and let out a breath she’d probably been holding since the rink. “Good..” she said quietly, her fingers turned under yours and held on instead of letting go.
Dinner came and went around you after that in a slower rhythm. Not all the tension vanished, some of it never would, not where the jump was concerned. But once the fear had been named and not laughed off or turned into another fight, the evening opened. You talked about the field, about which skaters would crumble under Olympic pressure and which ones would sharpen into monsters because of it. About Mila and whether the disqualification would end Vera’s season or only make her crueler in a more organized way. About costume changes and music cuts and whether judges would overreward courage if the landing was clean enough to make them afraid not to.
At one point Natasha said, almost absently, “The room will belong to you for six seconds after a clean landing.”
You looked up from your plate. “Only six?”
Natasha’s mouth curved. “Then it belongs to no one because they’ll still be trying to recover.”
That made you laugh hard enough to earn a glance from the next table over. At another point you caught yourself just…watching Natasha. The line of her hands around a wine glass. The way she spoke to staff politely but without ever inviting familiarity. The rare, tiny softness that came into her face only when she forgot herself in the middle of saying something truthful. It struck you then, in the middle of an expensive restaurant with candlelight and too many forks and the whole city doing its quiet glitter beyond the windows, that you really did love this woman.
By the time you left, the tension between you had changed shape again, the drive had been pure, exquisite torture. Natasha’s hand never left your thigh the entire time. It started light, a warm, steady weight after she pulled out of the restaurant lot, but the longer the city lights streaked past the windows, the bolder it became. Fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the denim, inching higher with every red light, every quiet stretch of road.
You tried to stay still, but by the time the car rolled to a stop you were squirming. The tension that had crackled between you all evening, every loaded glance across the candlelit table, every time her foot brushed yours had finally boiled over into something you couldn’t ignore. Natasha killed the engine and the silence that dropped was heavy charged. For half a second neither of you moved. Then you both broke.
She reached for you at the same moment you lunged. Mouths crashed together, hungry and messy, all the control you’d both clung to all night finally shattering. Natasha’s hands were everywhere, one fisting in your hair, the other already shoving your jacket off your shoulders. You climbed over the center console without thinking, knees landing on either side of her hips as she yanked you into her lap.
“Seat..” she growled against your mouth, one hand blindly reaching down to recline the driver’s seat all the way back with a mechanical whir. The leather gave way beneath you, opening up space and turning the front of the car into something darker, more private…and far more dangerous.
You settled fully onto her lap and straddling her, The new angle pressed your core right against the hard line of her thigh and a soft, embarrassed sound escaped you before you could stop it. Natasha’s hands slid under your shirt-
“Wait, What if someone sees?” you whispered laughing and glancing nervously at the tinted windows and at the dimly lit concrete pillars around you. Anyone could walk past..anyonecould look in. “Natasha…we’re in a parking garag-”
She cut you off with a slow, wicked smile, the one that always made your stomach flip. “No one will, Detka..” she murmured as she tugged your shirt higher, exposing the soft lace of your bra.
“Tinted windows..late hour..and even if they did…” Her lips brushed the swell of your breast as she pushed the cup aside with her thumb. “I want them to see how beautifully you fall apart for me.”
Then her mouth was on you. She sucked your nipple into her mouth with a low, filthy hum, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make your back arch. You gasped and your hands were flying to her shoulders, but instead of pushing her away, you buried your face in the crook of her neck, hiding there like the shy girl you became the second she had you at her mercy.
Natasha’s free hand shoved between your bodies and unbuttoning your jeans with practiced efficiency. She pushed the fabric down just far enough, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your underwear and straight into slick, aching heat.
Two fingers slid inside you without warning and she’s curling immediately against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. You moaned, but the sound was muffled against the warm skin of her neck. You pressed your face harder into her, breathing heavy and shaky, lips parted against her pulse point as you tried to stay quiet.
Every exhale came out as a broken little whimper. Natasha groaned softly, the vibration rumbling through her chest and straight into you. “Fuck…listen to you.” she whispered, “All strong and fierce on the ice, landing quads like you own the world and here you are, hiding that pretty face in my neck like you’re too shy to let anyone hear how good you feel right now.”
She pumped her fingers deeper, thumb circling your clit with devastating precision while her mouth switched to your other breast, sucking harder. “It’s adorable. You’re squirming in my lap, trying so hard to stay quiet…but your pussy is clenching around my fingers like it never wants me to stop.”
You whimpered again, the sound vibrating against her skin. Your hips rolled instinctively, riding her fingers in slow, desperate circles, but you kept your face buried, breathing heavy and muffling every moan into the curve of her neck like it could hide how completely she was unraveling you.
Natasha’s free hand gripped your hip, guiding you, helping you fuck yourself on her fingers while she continued her relentless worship of your breasts. “That’s it..hide all you want. I love it when you get shy for me. My unbreakable girl on the ice, and my sweet, breakable one right here in my lap.”
She curled her fingers harder, thumb pressing firmer, the wet sounds of her thrusting into you filling the car. “God, you’re dripping down my hand…”
You were losing it and grinding down harder, thighs trembling on either side of her hips, face still hidden as your heavy, shaky breaths and muffled cries spilled against her skin. The fear of being seen only made it kinda sharper, but the shyness kept you tucked close, clinging to her like she was the only safe place in the world.
Natasha’s voice stayed low, filthy, reverent. “You’re perfect. So strong out there…and so soft and shy when I have you like this. Come for me, Detka..Right now.”
The orgasm crashed over you hard and fast. Your whole body locked up, thighs clamping around her hips and a broken cry tearing from your throat. You pulsed around her fingers, breathing ragged and heavy into her skin as wave after wave rolled through you. Natasha didn’t stop, she rode you through every pulse, milking every last tremor and murmuring soft praise against your ear the entire time. “Good girl…that’s my good girl. So, so perfect. I’ve got you.”
Only when the last tremor finally faded did she ease her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth to lick them clean with a low, satisfied hum. She kept you right there in her lap, face still tucked into her neck, one hand stroking gently up and down your back while you caught your breath.
“Let’s go inside..” she whispered, lips brushing your temple. “And don’t worry…no one saw a thing.”
The car was quiet again, except for your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the reclined seat beneath you. Natasha’s arms stayed wrapped around you, holding you close, like she had no intention of letting you move anytime soon.
Olympic morning came in darkness and Natasha woke before the city did. It was habit, yes, but not only that. Some part of her had been awake all night in shifts anyway, surfacing and sinking, every second sleep trying to build itself around the same thoughts and failing.
The Olympics.
The word itself still felt absurd even now, with the accreditation badges laid out on the counter and the schedule confirmed and the outfit hung perfectly straight where she had left it the night before.
Coffee first and then breakfast. Natasha stood at the and let herself think. She thought about the first time she saw you, the grainy vertical video on a student’s phone, the music tinny through bad speakers, that stranger on the ice moving like she had been born inside rhythm and speed and didn’t yet know the scale of what she was doing to people watching her.
About the first meeting in that old rink. You telling Natasha no with your chin tilted and your mouth smiling. About how furious and fascinated she had been. About the first competition win. The first time you skated under her name and made a room understand exactly why Romanoff had wanted you.
About the first kiss, blood on the ice, the hospital white terror in her own chest when she thought, for one second too long, that history had come back to take another girl from her. About the confession on the couch, the jump, the love she had not meant to let become this enormous and now would not trade for anything she had ever won. Then the quad Lutz returned to her mind and her stomach tightened exactly as it had every morning since they decided the Olympics would carry it. Even now after the clean landings and watching you own it without the harness. Enough to remind her that love was the least professional thing that had ever happened to her.
She carried one mug back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the mattress. You were half buried in the blankets, warm and soft and very much not the terrifying Olympic weapon you would become in a few hours. Natasha touched your shoulder lightly.
“Y/n, wake up.”
You made a miserable noise into the pillow and dragged the blanket higher.
“It’s the Olympics..” Natasha said.
One eye opened and then the other. For one second you just stared at her, sleep and reality trying to negotiate terms. Then the truth landed and all the soft blur dropped out of your face.
“Oh God.”
Natasha handed you the coffee. “Exactly.”
You sat up too fast, hair a mess, eyes huge. “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“How can you know that.”
“Because if you do, I’ll make you clean it yourself.”
You glared at her weakly over the mug. “You’re very unsympathetic for a woman in love.”
Natasha’s mouth moved faintly. “Drink.”
The drive to the venue felt unreal in exactly the way all great days did. By the time you arrived, the full machine of the Olympics was already alive around you in a way no other event had ever really captured. Security lines, team officials, federations moving like mini countries in motion. Media barricades thicker than before, cameras more numerous, microphones more aggressive, every face sharpened by the knowledge that this was not just another competition.
This was the competition..Your pulse went wild. You stepped out of the car and the noise hit instantly. Not ordinary paparazzi chaos now, Olympic media chaos..Your name snapped from one side and Natasha’s from another. Questions launched before they were even fully upright.
“Y/N, are you attempting upgraded content tonigh-“
“Romanoff, after the qualifying controversy, do you still feel-”
“Y/N, does the fall last week affect your confidence today-”
“Natasha, is gold the expectation-”
Natasha stepped into it all like she always did, one hand immediately at the center of your back, guiding and shielding the path without ever visibly seeming to push. She could feel you tighten under the onslaught. So Natasha made the world smaller the only way she knew how by moving them through it with absolute purpose. Security picked up on her line and formed around it. Event staff carved enough room and the finally got you inside, through one hallway, then another and only once the first official door shut behind them did the noise dull into something survivable.
You exhaled hard and Natasha looked at you once. “Still not throwing up?”
“Undecided.”
That got the smallest huff of amusement from Natasha. Then came the official media room and that was somehow worse. Tables, microphones, badges, federation representatives, press clustered and ready. You and Natasha sat side by side under Olympic branding that still did not look fully real, and the first question came before your pulse had even settled from walking in.
About the qualifier fall, then the disqualification and whether you believed you deserved to be here after the way qualification had happened. Then whether Romanoff thought this was “the comeback narrative of the Games.”
Then whether the quad Lutz rumors were true. You answered the first one, then the second. By the third you could feel your chest tightening again, the same way it did when too many voices wanted pieces of you at once. Natasha saw the shift before anyone else. She leaned slightly toward her microphone and cut in with such controlled force that the room obeyed without even realizing it had.
“My skater deserves to be here because her score deserves to be here.” she said. “The investigation confirmed that. The rankings confirmed that and if anyone in this room still has confusion, I suggest you improve your understanding of edge mechanics before asking another question.”
The room recalibrated around Romanoff in full command and you got three precious breaths in which not a single person looked directly at you. By the time they were released, your nerves had gone from bad to electric.
You both found each other again in the locker room. You changed with shaking hands and Natasha did not comment on the shaking. She only stepped in when the shaking became inconvenient, retouching one line where makeup had blurred from too much nervous breath. Then she crouched and took your skate. Always the same impossible intimacy of Natasha kneeling in front of you while the whole world waited on the other side of a door.
You looked down at her and felt, for one second, as if every version of yourself that had ever wanted anything was standing in the room too. The little girl..the late skater. The woman who had said no, the woman who had said yes. Natasha tied the first knot, then the second. Pulled the laces through and checked the fit with one practiced press of her fingers.
When she looked up, her face was calm. You held her gaze and admitted what was obvious. “I’m losing my mind.”
“I can see that.” Natasha stood and came closer, one hand finding the side of your face carefully around the old scar.
“Whatever happens tonight, Y/n.” she said, “I am already proud of you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. Your throat tightened and Natasha kept going. “You made it here. Do you understand what that is? What it means? You dragged yourself from a phone video and a hobby rink to the Olympic ice.” Her eyes held yours. “No one gets to make that small. Not even you.”
By the time they left the locker room, your pulse was still fast, but it had become useful again. Until the tunnel opened and everything was hitting you. The crowd already dense and loud and brightly alive beyond the boards. Flags, cameras, screens bigger than buildings. Somewhere in the stands, people were holding signs with your name on them. Your name at the freaking Olympics.
For one second you genuinely forgot how to breathe. The years and injuries and medals and fear and love and late starts and too much ambition and all the nights you had looked at impossible things and decided to reach anyway. This was the moment you had worked so fucking hard for. And it was enormous enough to swallow you if you let it.
The event began and girl after girl entered and skated. Some were good in that clean, expected Olympic way and some made you wonder darkly what federation politics had dragged them here and why.
And some..Some were terrifying. One Japanese skater so technically secure it looked like she’d been poured onto the ice rather than stepped onto it. An American with components so mature the crowd went quiet for whole sections just to watch. The reigning gold medalist carrying her own legend like a second costume.
Your knee bounced up and down and Natasha placed one hand flat over them and stilled the motion. “Stop.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
You looked at the ice and whispered, “No one’s doing it..” Natasha knew exactly what you meant. No one dared the quad Lutz.
Programs rose and ended and content came and went. The field was brutal, yes, but still moving within the limits of what they trusted under Olympic pressure. That made your jump bigger now, not less. A thing waiting in the wings with teeth.
When your name was finally called, the room inside you almost came apart. Your entire body flooded cold and hot at once. You stood too fast and sat back down halfway. Natasha caught your wrist and you looked at her with eyes already too wide.
And Natasha knew immediately. You’re too nervous, too much in your head and way too close to the edge where ambition turned blind.
Natasha stepped fully in front of you, blocking the tunnel, blocking the arena, blocking everything except herself. “Look at me.”
Natasha took your face in both hands, not gently, not roughly, just enough to force the world down to one point. “What did we agree.”
You swallowed. “If it’s not there, I stop.”
“If it’s not there?”
“I stop.”
“Immediately.”
You nodded and Natasha searched your face another beat longer, reading everything. The fear, the hunger and the dangerous brightness of wanting too much. Just the young, shaking awe of standing on Olympic ice with a weapon no one else had shown. She got your jacket off in one smooth motion and handed it away without looking. Then, because there was nothing else left except truth, she leaned in and said against the line of your temple, quiet enough that it belonged only to them:
“I love you, Y/n, and now show them.”
Your eyes closed for half a second and when they opened again, the panic had not vanished. But it had steadied, because under the Olympics, under the cameras, under the scoreboards and history and impossible jumps and impossible women..that was still there. Love.
You took one breath and stepped onto the ice and for one suspended second, the entire world seemed to expand around you.
The arena was enormous from here. Thousands of bodies breathing in the same space and waiting for something from you. Light flooded the rink from above in clean white columns and the boards looked farther away than they should have. The first rows blurred into flags and faces and raised phones and banners.
Your pulse hammered so hard you could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the backs of your knees..and suddenly the house lights dropped. The arena fell darker around the rink and the ice beneath you turned into its own world white, waiting, absolute. You took one last breath. This is the moment, you thought and the music started.
You moved and the ice came up under you like recognition. Your body found the timing before your mind could interfere. The opening phrase cut cleanly through your spine and shoulders and suddenly it was no longer thousands of people and Olympic pressure and impossible history breathing down your neck.
You skated like the rink had been built for you and forgotten to tell the rest of the world. At the boards, Natasha did not breathe properly for the first ten seconds. Not because she doubted you, because love had made watching you an almost unbearable act of faith.
Your opening element landed clean. Then the next phrase opened and you grew into it more, that beautiful, dangerous quality in your skating taking hold..the way you could make movement look both wild and precise at once, like joy and discipline had finally stopped pretending to be enemies.
Natasha tracked everything. The line of the shoulders, the exact placement of the opening edge, the speed into the transition and the spin that centered and deepened and held, held, held so beautifully the arena quieted into pure attention for the length of it. And then Natasha saw you smile.
A flash of pure, bright aliveness in the middle of the biggest stage in the world. It hit Natasha in the chest so hard she almost lost the next count. God, she thought, not for the first time and never this helplessly, I am so in love with her.
You came out of the spin and into the next section with the music riding right under your ribs. The program was building and the whole arena could feel it now. You could hear the difference in the silence, less rustling, less shifting, more of that terrible collective attention that meant people had stopped being separate from one another and become one body watching.
Then came the setup and the rink seemed to tilt toward it. You felt the approach build in your legs and hips, every piece of it already known, every count already mapped into your bones.
You took the first edge and you felt that I was wrong. The line was ugly and the timing underneath it tilted bad. Your body knew it instantly, with the old animal certainty that came before thought. No.
The jump was poison in this shape. For one horrible split second you saw two roads at once, the one where you ignored it and trusted adrenaline and the one where you remembered what you had promised.
Natasha saw it too, or rather, Natasha saw the setup change just enough to send a spike of terror straight through her body. Her hands actually came up over her own head on instinct, the old reflex of dread and helplessness ripping through her before thought could stop it, No, no, no!
But you did not take off. Instead you folded the mistake into movement with a save so fast and so intelligent it almost looked choreographed if you didn’t know what you were seeing. You rode out of it, wrapped the error in transition and body line and music, and kept the program alive.
Natasha’s hands dropped and her breath came back into her. Beside the boards, Tony had appeared in the seat space left for staff and leaned in just enough to murmur, “That was gorgeous.”
Natasha didn’t look at him. “She saved it beautifully, Natasha, everything is fine.” he added, quieter, because he wasn’t stupid and could see exactly how close she was to dropping dead from stress.
You came out of the save with your heart going wild. Your body was still inside the program, still moving, still answering the music exactly as it needed to, but your mind had split open around one furious thought: Do I go again?
You had promised. If it felt wrong and you stopped. And it had felt wrong, so you had stopped..So that should have been the end of it. Except the song was still moving and the layout still alive. The last chance still somewhere ahead in the architecture if you had the nerve to take it. Fear hit you then,
What if the next one was wrong too? What if you had already saved yourself and the smarter, better, safer choice was to let the jump go and take the skate you had? What if-
Suddenly, across all that distance and light and noise, you found the one face that had taught you the difference between courage and stupidity. Natasha was at the boards, jaw tight and hands still curled around the barrier hard enough to whiten the knuckles. And beside her, because apparently the universe itself had decided today needed more absurdity, Tony stood with one hand in his pocket and the other making the smallest, calmest little nod.
Natasha’s face was not calm, but her eyes were on you and nowhere else. No fear in them now, only agreement.
If it’s there, you go.
If it’s not, you stop.
I trust you to know the difference.
All the noise vanished and your body settled. The line appeared in front of you like it had been waiting all along. The music drove toward its final rise and the program narrowed to one clean corridor of timing and ice and nerve. You entered the setup again and this time the edge bit true, the takeoff felt different immediately..
At the boards, Natasha stopped breathing. One hand flat on the barrier, the other clenched so hard around the edge of it that later there would probably be a crescent of pain in her palm. She counted in her head as you left the ice. One, two, three..The rotation and the air position were there and when you came down, the blade met the ice as though the world itself had decided to witness history properly.
You landed perfectly. Just blade and body and ice aligning in one impossible, devastating answer.
The arena went silent exactly as Natasha had once told you it would. For one full second the whole Olympic stadium forgot how to react, forgot how to be sound and movement and mass..and exploded.
A roar so huge it seemed to shake the air itself. People on their feet, flags whipping and screaming, shouting, pounding hands. The commentators’ voices cracked clean through whatever professionalism they’d been clinging to.
“My God!”
“That was a Quat Lutz!!”
“That is history!”
You barely heard any of it because you were still in the program. You came out of the landing and kept going, the final phrase of the music carrying you as though the jump had not just split the sport in half behind you. Every line after it burned brighter, the whole program surged toward its ending with the arena losing its mind around you and you somehow, impossibly, still inside the performance enough to finish it.
Then the final note hit and you ended perfectly. You stood at center ice, breathing hard enough your lungs burned, the world white and gold and deafening around you. You genuinely did not know if what you had done had been as clean as it felt. It had happened too smoothly, too completely, the landing too right to fully trust in real time.
But the arena..the arena knew. People were throwing flowers and soft gifts onto the ice. Somewhere someone was screaming your name so hard it sounded like pain. The first rows had become a wall of movement and shock and the commentators had stopped even pretending composure and were just speaking over one another in disbelief.
Your legs shook under you, adrenaline was flooding so hard through your body that you couldn’t tell if you were cold or burning alive. You dropped down onto one knee in the center of the ice, your hand pressed to the surface and you stared at the ice like it might answer you.
What just happened?
Then you looked up and found Natasha. She was still at the boards, standing in exactly the same place and was smiling so widely that your heart broke on impact. No restraint left in it and no Romanoff control. Just pure, incandescent pride and joy and something so bright in her face you suddenly couldn’t tell if your own eyes had gone glassy or if the lights were doing strange things.
You got up somehow and skated toward the exit on legs that no longer felt entirely reliable. By the time you reached the boards, your knees were actually wobbling from the adrenaline dump, but Natasha was already there with her hand out. The second your fingers closed, something in you finally accepted that this was real.
Natasha helped you off the ice and you hit the rubber matting in a rush of shaky breath and half-sobbed laughter. “I did it?” you asked, voice wrecked, not even realizing you’d said it like a question. Natasha’s face broke wider somehow, which should have been impossible.
“You did.” she said.
And you lost your mind. You bounced once on the balls of your feet like there was too much electricity in your body to stay grounded, then again, then made one helpless sound of pure joy and launched yourself into Natasha. She caught you with a laugh that sounded as disbelieving as it did happy, arms locking around you immediately. You clung to her hard, almost painfully hard, burying your face into her shoulder because there was too much feeling and nowhere else to put it.
“I did it!” you said again, “Natasha- I-”
“I know.” She held you just as tightly, one hand spread across your back, the other in your hair, laughing once under her breath because joy this large had made even her feel unstable. Around them, the stadium was still erupting, but for one perfect second, inside Natasha’s arms, you felt like the whole world had narrowed down to exactly what mattered: The ice, the jump..and the woman holding you like history had just happened in her hands.
There were still skaters left and was the cruel part. Girls still had to skate and scores still had to come up. Olympic mathematics still had to finish its cold, ugly work. So you sat with Natasha in the kiss and cry area with your medal less hands twisted together in your lap and every nerve in your body still lit from the performance.
You were vibrating., there was no other word for it and your knees kept threatening to bounce. Your fingers kept going to your mouth, every few seconds you would look up at the scoreboard, then at the ice, then at Natasha, then back again as if one of those surfaces might finally explain what had just happened.
Natasha sat beside you with the kind of stillness that only looked calm if you didn’t know her. Natasha’s hand rested on your knee and her face was under control, mostly. But the line of her mouth was too alive, her eyes too bright..She was just as wrecked.
The skaters after you went out under the weight of what had happened and you could feel it. It lived in the arena now, the jump and a fact too huge to ignore. One girl skated beautifully and still looked small inside the aftermath, another had the technical security but not the room. A third nearly lost herself trying too hard to answer the impossible thing you had put on the ice before her. The commentators kept circling back to it every time the camera found Natasha or flashed one more replay.
“The pressure this has created for the remaining field-”
“You can see the entire event changed after that moment..”
“And once again, Romanoff in the boardside position, absolutely unreadable though I have to say, that may be the most emotion we’ve seen from her in years-”
You heard none of the full sentences. You were too busy trying not to crawl out of your skin. “Do you think it’s enough?” you whispered at one point.
Natasha did not look at you, her eyes stayed on the ice. “Yes.”
You let out a breath. “That confident?”
“Yes.”
Then, finally, Natasha looked at you and added, quieter, “But I would prefer you didn’t explode before they confirm it.”
The waiting dragged and every score took too long. By the time the last skater stepped off, your whole body had become one live wire. The standings were about to lock..
The announcer’s voice shifted, that formal, sharpened tone events used when moving from possibility into official fact.
Third place first, a name that was not yours. Your breath caught and your knee bounced hard enough that Natasha’s hand pressed down instinctively to still it.
Second place, another name and still not yours. The world narrowed so violently you thought for one awful second you might actually black out before hearing it. Your pulse was in your teeth, in your temples, everywhere. Then the screen changed and your name came up with points followed.
First.
For one full second you simply stared, as if the letters might rearrange themselves if you blinked. They didn’t, but the arena did. The noise hit in a wave so enormous it almost looked physical. People were back on their feet again, the camera cut to your face, then to the score, then..because apparently the universe itself understood what mattered to Natasha.
“Is Romanoff smiling?” one commentator actually shouted over the rising roar. “I think Romanoff is smiling!”
Smiling was too small a word for what was happening to Natasha’s face. It wasn’t her usual almost smile, the private one that lived in corners and disappeared if you looked directly at it. This was open and disbelieving in its own right. So proud it stripped her down to something almost young. You saw it just before the tears fully took you.
Then you broke. You folded in on yourself with both hands over your mouth and sobbed. The late start, the old rink, TikTok, the first no, the first yes, the disqualification, the giant ridiculous jump..The whole impossible path from nowhere to here.
Natasha was already turning toward you before the first sob properly landed. “Hey.”
You shook your head, laughing and crying so hard you could barely see. “I-”
“Congratulations.” Natasha’s hands found your face first, then one shoulder, then both hands around you when you folded toward her. She drew you in with no concern for cameras, commentary, Olympic decorum, or any other goddamn thing.
“You did it..” Natasha said into your hair and her own voice was no steadier than yours now. “You did it.”
You clung to her. “I can’t-” you tried, and then laughed because apparently there were no words left in the language. Natasha held you tighter, “Breathe, Y/n.” that only made you cry harder for another ten seconds, which Natasha accepted as a temporary structural failure and worked around.
“You breathe!” you managed.
“I am.”
“You’re not!”
That got the smallest huff of laughter out of Natasha, which almost destroyed you all over again. By the time you separated enough to look at the screen again, your own face was wet, your chest hurt from crying, and the reality had still not fully entered your bones.
Olympic champion.
You looked at Natasha like maybe she might translate and she only shook her head once, smiling that impossible smile still. “Yes.” she said. And because that was Natasha saying it, because Natasha knew what every title weighed and was still looking at you like this one had knocked the whole world sideways, you believed it a little more.
The podium ceremony was somehow even less real. The three medalists standing in the narrow back corridor in their formal jackets while the crowd kept roaring in pockets whenever screens replayed the jump. You stood there in a daze. Silver to your left and bronze to your right. Both girls trying, with varying success, not to look like they were still processing what you had done to the event.
The music cue came and the doors opened. The arena lights hit all over again, and they walk out. Third place stepped up first, then second. Then your name rang through the stadium, louder than anything had ever needed to be in your life.
You stepped onto the highest podium and there it was. The freaking top. The place every skater in the world looked at until they either reached it or broke themselves trying.
The medal came a second later at it was so much heavier than you had expected. The ribbon settled against your neck and the gold itself dropped onto your chest with a weight that felt absurdly physical, like history deciding to make sure you noticed. You looked down at it once and laughed and jumped in place, just once, unable not to, joy too large and bright to fit in Olympic posture.
The crowd loved it. Somewhere in the lower stands, someone was crying as if you had personally done this to their family. Above all of it, you found Natasha, she stood at the boards among coaches and officials and cameras and somehow still looked like the only fixed point in the building.
She was watching you and only you. No one else got this face, no federation, no medal, no country or cameras. Just you.
The anthem played and you stood with the gold hanging on you and felt the whole moment sink through you in slow, impossible layers. When it ended, the flash of cameras began in earnest and the chaos came. Photos first, official, staged, smiling. Then more spontaneous ones. Then press trying to cut into the procession, autograph requests from event staff and junior athletes and volunteers and people who would absolutely frame the napkins if that was all you signed.
You smiled in all of them because couldn’t stop. Even when your cheeks started hurting, even when the medal kept shifting heavily against your collarbone and the adrenaline had gone from lightning to a deep, trembling high under your skin. Somewhere in all of it Natasha kept orbiting close enough to intercept the worst excesses without ever once pulling the joy out of the moment. A hand at your back when the crowd pressed too near. A look to staff when someone tried to drag you toward an extra camera setup you clearly did not need. One clipped sentence in Russian that made two overenthusiastic media people physically step backward.
You caught pieces of it, then lost them again in the blur of congratulations and bright lights and disbelief. By the time you finally made it back to the locker room, the hallway quiet itself felt luxurious. The door shut behind you and for the first time since the score came up, there was no crowd left to perform joy for.
Just the room and the medal still around your neck. You stood there for one second, two, staring at the floor as if you’d forgotten what bodies did when they were done changing the world for the day. Then you broke again. You laughed and cried at once, one hand flying to the medal as if you needed to check it was still there and real and gold and yours. The sound that came out of you was helpless and bright and completely wrecked.
Natasha, who had been watching you from two steps away with a smile she still had not managed to stop, moved in immediately and you hit her like a storm. Arms around her neck, forehead to her shoulder, laughing and crying and trying to say something coherent about the podium and the jump and the fact that you had actually done it, but none of it came out in order.
Natasha held you like she’d been waiting all evening to do exactly this without witnesses. One hand spread between your shoulder blades, the other at the back of your head. Her own smile refusing, absolutely refusing, to leave her face.
“I know..” Natasha said, laughing softly into your hair because she was that happy too and there was no hiding it anymore. “I know.”
You pulled back only enough to look at her. “You’re still smiling!”
Natasha lifted one brow, but the expression failed entirely because the smile stayed. “Apparently.”
You laughed again, full and helpless and in love with everything all at once. “This is insane..”
“Yes.”
“I won.”
“Yes.”
“The Olympics.”
“Yes.”
You shook your head like maybe you could dislodge the unreality of it, but couldn’t. It only made another laugh burst out of you, followed by more tears. Natasha wiped one away with her thumb and looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
A few days passed and nothing felt normal again. Not in the way you had once understood normal. Because how were you supposed to return to ordinary life after the Olympics had split your life cleanly into before and after?
Before, you had been a girl with a phone, a hobby rink, too much talent for the wrong life and not enough permission to chase more. After, you were an Olympic champion.
The words still did not sit naturally in your body. They landed differently every morning, sometimes like laughter, sometimes like disbelief. Sometimes like something so huge and fragile you were afraid to think it too hard in case it cracked. Your family threw a party so loud and warm and overfed and emotional that you thought you might cry just stepping through the front door.
Your mother had gone far past “small gathering” and into full celebration mode. Your father had cried openly twice before dessert and denied both incidents with no dignity at all. Old family friends came, even neighbour’s. Someone made a cake with a tiny gold medal on top and a little skate piped into the icing that looked vaguely murderous. People hugged you until your ribs hurt and people repeated, “Olympic champion” to your face like they were still checking if it sounded real.
The world outside the house did not calm down either. Your phone became impossible. Commentators who had probably mispronounced your name a year ago now speaking about you like you had redrawn the boundaries of the sport with your own hands. Young girls flooded your socials with clips, edits, tears, confessions, idol worship, impossible declarations of love, and endless videos trying the opening arm line from your Olympic program in living rooms, frozen ponds, malls, public sessions, backyards, any patch of ice they could find.
Natasha’s rink changed too. Registrations climbed so fast the administrative staff looked haunted. Parents with ambition in their eyes and daughters in expensive coats started appearing at the office in numbers that would have made Natasha laugh once and now only made her tired. Because yes, Romanoff Skating had its next true Olympic champion under her name.
And everyone wanted to believe they could buy or beg or discipline their own daughters into the same kind of myth. Natasha still coached, wouldn’t probably ever stop, because it was too deeply built into her. But something in her had shifted, the rink no longer owned all of her.
The girls noticed it first in the smallest ways. Natasha leaving when she said she would leave, not staying until midnight every night out of habit and loneliness disguised as work. Natasha choosing home more often and looking at her phone at odd moments and, once, very visibly smiling in the middle of a hallway because you had apparently sent her something ridiculous.
The younger girls nearly fainted the first time they saw it. Anastasia whispered to you one afternoon, “You domesticated Romanoff.”
You had nearly choked on your coffee. “No one says that sentence ever again!” you said and Anastasia only smirked and pushed off the barrier. But you knew what she meant. The biggest change was not that Natasha cared less about skating. It was that she finally cared about something else enough to let it stand beside skating in equal light.
That took longer for you to understand than it should have. You were still learning what it meant to be chosen gently by someone who had once only known how to choose through hunger.
One evening, when the world had finally gone quiet enough around you for the first time in days, you sat together in Natasha’s living room with no television on and no open notebooks between you and no immediate reason to prepare anything at all. It felt stranger than the Olympics in some ways.
Just you, the city outside the windows and Liho asleep in a black coil at your thigh like he had fully decided you belonged to the furniture now. You sat tucked into the corner of the couch with one leg under you and a glass of water in your hand. Natasha sat beside you, closer than she once would have allowed by instinct and now close by preference.
For a while you said nothing. The silence between you had finally learned how to be peaceful. Then you looked at her and said, “Can I ask you something without you making it annoying.”
Natasha turned her head slightly. “No.”
You snorted. “Great. Very promising.”
“What.”
You hesitated..Not because you didn’t know the question. Because you did, you’d been carrying it around for days, somewhere under the celebrations and the interviews and the constant impossibility of being looked at now.
“What do we do now?” Natasha’s expression shifted by a fraction. “With us.” you added, quieter. “With…everything.”
The room held still around the question. It was not fear, exactly. Not anymore, but more like the shape of a bridge you had both crossed without fully naming the fact that one day you would reach the other side and have to live there. Natasha looked at you for a long beat, then leaned back into the couch and said, with maddening calm, “The next Olympics are in four years.”
You stared at her and laughed. “You are unbelievable!”
“It seemed relevant.”
“It is not relevant.”
“It is absolutely relevant.”
You shook your head, still smiling. “I’m asking you a huge relationship question and you’re answering like a planner.”
“I am answering like someone with foresight.”
“You are answering like a menace.”
Natasha’s mouth curved. “And yet.”
You rolled your eyes and leaned your head back against the couch. “Hopeless.”
For a second Natasha just looked at you. Then, with no warning at all, she said, “Move in with me.”
The laughter died and you turned so fast Liho opened one eye in visible offense.
“What?”
Natasha looked almost too calm, which you had learned usually meant the opposite. “Move in with me.”
“Natasha.”
She kept going, because apparently once she had decided to be brave she was going to do it with the same terrifying directness she brought to everything else.
“I don’t care if it’s my place.” she said. “If you hate my building, we can leave. If you want somewhere else, we find somewhere else. Something bigger. Something quieter. Something with more light if that matters to you.” Her gaze flicked briefly down to Liho. “We keep the cat.”
Liho, correctly understanding that he had become a central legal feature of the proposal, remained asleep. You stared at her. Natasha’s voice lost some of its matter of fact polish then.
“I want…” She stopped, exhaled once and began again more honestly. “I want to come home to you on purpose. Not because you stayed over too late. Not because training ran long. Not because one of us was stubborn enough to ignore the hour.”
That landed somewhere deep in your chest. Natasha looked at you with all that impossible steadiness she had once used to frighten girls into better posture and now was using, somehow, to offer a life.
“I want us.” she said. “Properly.”
The room had gone so quiet you could hear your own pulse and suddenly all the versions of you flickered through your mind in one long, impossible chain.
The first no in the old rink, the first dangerous look, the first kiss made of anger, the blood on the ice, locker room, couch, love confession..The Olympic tunnel. Everything you had been, everything you had survived to become..
You set your glass down carefully because your hand had started shaking and you did not trust yourself not to spill. “You really know how to do this with no warning..” you said softly.
Natasha’s eyes moved over your face, reading the emotion there and not looking away from it. “Yes.”
“That’s deeply unfair.”
“Probably.”
You laughed once under your breath, but tears were already there. Natasha saw them and shifted slightly closer, not touching yet, giving the moment room to become what it was. You looked down at your own hands and then back at her. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“And you don’t care if it’s your place or mine or somewhere new?”
“No.”
“Just…” Your mouth trembled faintly around a smile. “Just us and Liho.” Now Natasha’s expression softened in the quietest, most devastating way.
“Yes.” she said. “Just us and Liho.”
You covered your eyes with one hand and laughed at yourself. “God, that’s so domestic.”
Natasha, unbelievably looked pleased. “I know.”
You dropped your hand and looked at her properly through the blur in your eyes. For a second you could not speak..the ending of one life and the beginning of another stood so close together in the room that you felt almost dizzy with it. But then you said, with all the honesty you had and no energy left to make it prettier:
“Yes.”
Natasha went still, not because she was surprised you wanted her, Because yes, even now, even after everything, yes still had the power to strike her silent. Your smile widened through the tears.
“Yes.” you said again, because apparently this would become a pattern between you, the need to hear impossible things twice in order to let them settle into reality. “I want that, I want you. I want us. I want the cat, unfortunately.”
Natasha let out a breath that was almost a laugh, almost relief, almost something much bigger than either. Then she reached for you and you met halfway on the couch, the kiss not rushed, not desperate, not made of battle this time. Just a long, quiet, devastatingly certain kiss between two women who had finally fought their way out of becoming each other’s damage and into becoming each other’s home.
When you parted, you rested your forehead against Natasha’s and said, “You know this is ridiculous.”
“Yes.”
“You saw me on TikTok and now we live together.”
Natasha’s mouth brushed the corner of yours in the shape of a smile. “That is one version of the story.”
“It’s the funniest one.”
“It is not the one I would tell.”
You pulled back just enough to see her face. “What version would you tell?”
Natasha looked at you for a long moment. Then she said, with no performance in it at all: “That I found the love of my life skating in borrowed light and decided not to lose her.”
Your whole face gave up trying to stay composed. You kissed her again before anything else could happen to either of you. Later, much later, when you were still on the couch and the city had gone black outside and Liho had migrated into Natasha’s lap with the absolute confidence of a creature who knew the household order had shifted permanently in his favor, you thought about beginnings and middles and endings.
About how you and Natasha had once looked like the kind of story that could only end in wreckage. Maybe that had been true once, but not now?
Now the ending was just a quiet room, a sleeping cat, Natasha’s hand warm over yours and a future finally simple enough to want without fear. And for the first time since you had stepped on Olympic ice, you felt something even rarer than triumph:
