[missmonsters2]

A Cat-astrophe, Speak More

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Fem!Reader/OFC

Summary: Wanda doesn’t seem to understand what she has. You wouldn’t say she’s neglecting you, but you need her to understand that you’ve got choices, okay? So, post-winning and taking down a villain, Wanda gets the aftermath. Now as a feline, she’s beginning to realize maybe the two of you talk too little.

[In which, Wanda gets turned into a cat & realizes she’s got competition]

Warnings: Potentially a crack!fic lmfao

Genre: Fluff/humor/romance

Notes: HAPPY 200 FOLLOWERS! Seriously, I’ve just started this account over from scratch, so I’m amazed we’ve reached this point already. Thank you to everyone who likes, comments, and follows! I’ve been drowning in too much angst lately, and this cute thing popped into my mind. Please enjoy :) 

P.S. ya’ll know Wanda would be the most majestic cat you’ve ever goddamn seen. Thank you for coming to my ted talk.

Count: 5614

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“I can’t believe this is happening.”

“You know, I’ve seen weirder shit.”

Natasha and Tony bickered a little more while everyone was huddled around Wanda. The new height difference was making Wanda jittery, it was like giants crowding around her. 

“Guys, back up a bit,” Steve said while putting his arms out to give Wanda some space.

Wanda felt her shoulders relax as she sat upright.

“So, this is happening,” Clint said, eyeing the fur.

“Wanda got turned into a cat.”

A small mewl could be heard.

繼續閱讀

[themoonknowsmyruin]

WHAT WE DON'T CONFESS 3

pairing: college!grace ashcroft x dormmate!femreader

warnings: drinking, jealousy tendencies, and possessiveness

word count: 3,818

author's note: ngl grace looked so much like a puppy in that photo >=<

You were not drunk.

You were just…a little fuzzy.

A little warmer than usual.

A little slower at pronouncing your words correctly.

So, that did not count as drunk.

“Y’know,” you said, leaning one shoulder against the kitchen counter while pointing your cup vaguely in Mina’s direction, “you’re looking at me like I’m about to commit a crime.”

Mina deadpanned, “Because you’ve been staring at Grace like you’re one inconvenience away from arson.”

You gasped.

“Wow,” you said, scandalized. “That’s…so mean.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. “You just literally called the Bluetooth speaker a toaster twenty minutes ago.”

“Well, it does look like one.”

“It was glowing blue,” Mina added.

“That’s…not my problem if it looks like a toaster, okay?”

Mina and Natasha looked like they wanted to laugh and put you down like a wounded animal at the same time.

The party was small, just a bunch of mutuals and a few tag-alongs at your friend’s apartment. There were maybe twenty people total, music low enough to talk over, half-empty snack bowls on the coffee table, and fairy lights strung around the living room that made everything feel too soft and too intimate.

Which was unfortunate.

Because Grace is here after both of you were literally dragged out of your dorm, thanks to Mina and Natasha.

And Grace in small, cozy, warm lighting should’ve come with a warning.

She’d been by your side most of the night in that easy way she always was, drifting near you without either of you needing to say it out loud. She’d laughed at your stupid jokes, nudged your shoulder when you got dramatic, and looked at you a little too long a few times in a way that was making your already compromised brain very difficult to manage.

And now you were seven drinks in and trying very hard not to say something life-ruining.

Grace had gone down the short hallway a few minutes ago, probably to use the bathroom or take a breather for a quick minute.

Which was fine.

Totally fine.

You were normal about it.

Except you kept looking toward the hallway anyway.

Mina noticed and pointed it out, of course.

“You are down catastrophic,” she muttered.

You frowned at her. “W-Whaatt?”

She tilted her cup toward the hall. “You’ve checked if Grace is coming back for at least…eight times.”

“No…that is a slander.”

“You are slurring your words now, you know,” Natasha casually said before taking a sip from her drink.

“I am not slurrin’. I’m enunciating…creatively.”

They both laughed.

You were about to defend yourself from their insults, but when you looked toward the hallway again…and immediately stopped breathing.

Grace was there.

But she wasn’t alone.

Some girl…one of your friend’s mutuals, maybe, someone you vaguely recognized from earlier but definitely weren’t close with, had Grace backed into the corner where the hallway bent near the guest room.

Not aggressively.

Not violently.

But close.

Too close for your liking.

One hand on the wall beside Grace’s shoulder.

Head tilted.

Smiling in a way that instantly made your skin heat.

And Grace…

Grace was doing that thing.

That terrible, quiet thing she did when she got uncomfortable and didn’t know how to make someone stop without feeling bad.

Her smile was tight.

Polite, even.

Her shoulders stiff.

Her eyes flicking away.

And the second you saw it, something in your chest snapped so fast it almost made your ears ring.

You straightened so abruptly that Mina and Natasha blinked.

“Oh no…” Natasha said immediately.

You were already moving.

Not fast enough to fall over.

But fast enough to make it very clear you were not acting under the supervision of rational thought.

You crossed the living room, ignored at least five people trying to say your name, and turned into the hallway with the kind of reckless confidence only mild intoxication and unresolved feelings could produce.

“Grace.”

Both of them looked up.

Grace’s eyes widened the second she saw you.

And that one look, relieved, startled, soft, nearly made you black out right there.

The girl blinked. “Oh, hi.”

You inserted yourself directly into the space between them with all the subtlety of a train derailment.

“Hi,” you said.

Your voice came out suspiciously calm.

Which was bad, because calm for you usually meant you were seconds away from acting insane.

You reached for Grace without thinking, and your hand found her wrist, then slid instinctively down into her hand.

Warm.

Soft.

Immediate.

Grace went very still behind you.

You turned to the girl and smiled with every ounce of fake sweetness in your body.

“Sorry,” you said. “I need to steal her from you.”

The girl frowned. “We were talking.”

“Mm, yeah, yeah.” You nodded once. “Not anymore.”

Behind you, Grace made the tiniest choking sound, as if she tried her best not to let out a laugh.

The girl looked at you like she wasn’t sure whether to laugh of be offended. “Okay…?”

You squeezed Grace’s hand once.

Not even consciously.

Just because you needed to.

Because she was here.

Because she was warm.

Because some horrible, possessive little part of you wanted everyone in this apartment to know she was not available for random hallway flirting.

“She’s with me,” you said.

The girl raised a brow. “And?”

Your jaw tightened.

“She’s not interested…in you.”

The girl glanced over your shoulder toward Grace, then back at you. “Grace can say that herself.”

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Then opened it again.

Because she was right.

Technically.

But also, technically, you were currently being held together by vodka, jealousy, and a deeply unhealthy amount of longing, so “technically” was no longer your concern.

The girl crossed her arms. “She’s single, isn’t she?”

And that…

That was it.

That was the exact moment your brain fully disconnected from your body.

Because yes.

Grace was single.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe you were sick of hearing it.

Maybe you were sick of people looking at Grace and seeing an opening when all you could see was her.

Maybe you were sick of acting like your feelings were subtle when they had clearly become everyone’s business except Grace’s.

Maybe you were just tipsy enough to stop caring about the consequences.

Whatever it was…

You didn’t think.

You just turned.

Lifted your free hand to Grace’s face.

And kissed her.

Everything stopped.

Your cup was long gone, abandoned somewhere between the kitchen and the hallway.

One of Grace’s sharp little inhales hit your mouth before the rest of the world disappeared.

And then…

God.

Grace kissed back.

Not for long.

Not enough to make it messy.

Just enough.

Just enough that your heart detonated instantly in your ribcage.

Her lips were soft and warm and stunned.

Her hand twitched in yours.

And for one impossible, reckless, world-ending second, it felt like your body had finally acted on something your heart had known for months.

Then you pulled back.

Barely.

Still close enough to feel her breath.

Still close enough that if Grace leaned in even an inch, you would’ve folded immediately.

The hallway was dead silent.

You turned your head just enough to look at the girl.

Your face was probably on fire.

Your pulse was trying to kill you.

But somehow…somehow, you still managed to say, “She’s not single.”

The girl stared at you.

Then at Grace.

Then back at you.

And very slowly, with the expression of someone realizing she had accidentally wandered into the middle of a very unresolved situationship, she lifted both hands in surrender.

“...Right, right,” she said.

Then, awkwardly, “Okay. My bad.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Slipping back toward the living room and out of the hallway with enough speed to make it clear she wanted absolutely no part in whatever the hell had just happened.

The second she disappeared…

The adrenaline left your body.

Completely.

And in its place came the full, horrifying realization of what you had just done.

You kissed Grace.

You kissed Grace.

You had just kissed Grace in the hallway of your friend’s apartment in front of another person, as if you were in a dramatic indie film directed by your emotional instability.

Your entire body went hot.

Then cold.

Then hot again.

You turned back to Grace slowly.

And nearly died on the spot.

Because Grace was staring at you.

Wide-eyed.

Pink-cheeked.

Breathing a little harder than usual.

Her lips slightly parted.

And now that the crisis was over, all that was left was you, her, and the kiss still hanging in the air between you like live electricity.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You immediately covered half your face with your free hand.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, more horrified this time. “I’m so— I mean, I’m not sorry, but I also— I didn’t— I mean, I did—”

Excellent.

Brilliant.

You sounded like your brain had fallen down the stairs.

Grace was still looking at you.

Still not speaking.

Which somehow made everything ten times worse.

You were still holding her hand.

You let go immediately as if you’d just touched a live wire.

“Sorry,” you blurted. “Not sorry for…for the kiss. I mean, not fully. I mean—”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“Jesus Christ.”

You wanted to die.

Actually die.

Preferably instant.

But when you forced yourself to look at Grace again, she still wasn’t pulling away.

Still wasn’t upset.

Still wasn’t looking at you like you’d ruined anything.

If anything, she looked…

Stunned.

Soft, even.

Almost scared to move.

And somehow that made your heart pound even harder.

You swallowed.

Then laughed weakly, because if you didn’t laugh, you were pretty sure you were going to disintegrate into atoms.

“Okay,” you said, voice embarrassingly small now. “So that was…not very roommate-like of me.”

Grace’s cheeks went pinker.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Oh no.

Oh, this was somehow getting worse.

You dragged a hand through your hair and looked anywhere but directly into her eyes.

“I just—” you started, then stopped, then tried again. “She was annoying. A-And…too close. And you looked uncomfortable. A-And…when she said that you were single…I-I just—”

You made a helpless little motion with your hands that somehow conveyed absolutely nothing.

Grace’s mouth twitched.

Just barely.

That nearly killed you.

“N-No, don’t…don’t smile,” you said immediately, pointing at her like you had any right to be dramatic right now. “This is serious. I-I’m actively ruining my life in front of you, Grace.”

That did it.

Grace let out the tiniest, breathiest laugh.

And somehow that made you even more nervous.

Because now she was looking at you with something unbearably soft in her expression, and if she kept doing that, you were going to accidentally confess every thought you’d ever had about her.

Which, unfortunately, was exactly what happened.

Because your stupid, tipsy, emotionally compromised mouth kept moving.

“I mean— I w-wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to,” you muttered.

Grace froze.

You froze.

Then immediately wished the floor would open and consume you.

Your eyes widened.

“I mean— no, t-that’s not! I mean, it is what I meant…but not like—” You covered your face again. “Oh my God…”

Grace said your name softly.

That was somehow worse.

You lowered your hand just enough to peek at her.

She was still pink.

Still shy.

Still looking at you like she was trying very hard not to hope too quickly.

And suddenly, despite the embarrassment trying to kill you, one very clear thought pushed through all the panic that if you backed out now…you were going to hate yourself forever.

So, you swallowed.

Hard.

Looked at Grace properly.

And asked, voice small and stumbling and completely sincere, “Do you…w-wanna—”

You stopped.

Your throat closed.

Grace waited.

You tried again.

“Do you wanna maybe…like, if you want…only if you want—”

You groaned and rubbed at your face.

“God, this is humiliating.”

Grace made a tiny, helpless sound that might’ve been a laugh.

You looked back at her, cheeks burning so badly you thought you might actually combust.

Then forced the words out all at once before you lost your nerve.

“Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Terrible.

Your heart dropped straight into your shoes.

You stared at Grace in complete, naked panic.

“I-I know that was really fast,” you blurted. “And technically a really bad timing, and I’m kind of a little drunk, but not drunk enough to not mean it, and I know kissing you first and then asking is maybe a bit psychotic behavior, but I just—”

Grace kissed you.

This time, you were the one who stopped breathing.

It was soft.

Quick.

Shy.

Like she’d done it before, she could talk herself out of it.

And when she pulled back, her whole face was pink.

Her voice, when she spoke, was so quiet that you almost missed it.

“O-Okay…” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace looked down.

Then back up at you through her lashes.

Still pink.

Still shy.

Still devastating.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

Your brain fully left the chat.

You stared at her.

Grace stared back, clearly nervous now, too.

And then, because you had apparently become incapable of acting normal in her presence, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

Grace laughed.

Actually laughed.

And the sound hit you straight in the chest so hard it almost made your eyes sting.

You grinned before you could stop yourself.

A stupid, helpless, disbelieving grin.

“You’re my girlfriend?” you asked.

Grace’s smile turned shy and unbearably fond.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago.”

“Right…right.” You nodded seriously. “Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before you could say anything else humiliating, you reached for her, slower this time, giving her every chance to stop you.

She didn’t.

So you gently took her hand again.

And this time, when her fingers laced with yours, Grace squeezed first.

—

Grace had been trying very hard not to stare at you all night.

She was failing.

Spectacularly.

It wasn’t even your fault.

Well…

No, that was a lie.

It was at least partially your fault.

Because you’d had just enough to drink to become softer than usual, and that version of you was incredibly dangerous to Grace’s emotional stability.

You were warmer tonight.

Looser.

A little clingier in that absentminded way that made Grace’s heart behave as it had never once been trained to survive around you.

At one point, you’d leaned close enough for Grace to smell the sweetness of your drink and whispered, very seriously, “Y’look too pretty tonight.”

Grace had nearly folded on the spot.

You’d then immediately frowned and added, “That was rude of you, actually.”

Which had somehow made it worse.

So, yes.

Grace had spent the entire evening pretending she was normal while internally losing her mind every time you looked at her for more than two seconds.

She wasn’t doing a good job.

That was probably why she’d gone down the hallway in the first place.

To breathe.

To reset.

To stop herself from making eye contact with you and accidentally confessing in somebody’s kitchen.

Instead, she got cornered.

The girl had seemed harmless enough at first.

Familiar face.

Easy smile.

One of those social people who made conversation look effortless.

Grace had smiled politely when she got stopped in the hallway, because that was what Grace did.

Only for the conversation to shift into flirting so quickly and so obviously that Grace barely had time to process it.

And then suddenly the girl was closer.

Too close.

Close enough that Grace became aware of the wall at her back and the narrowing space around her and the fact that she didn’t know how to leave without making things weird.

Which, unfortunately, was Grace’s personal nightmare.

She hated being rude.

Hated confrontation.

Hated making people uncomfortable, even when she was the one currently uncomfortable.

So she’d smiled tightly.

Tried to respond politely.

Tried to angle herself away.

And secretly, stupidly, hopelessly wished for you.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just in the small, pathetic way Grace always wanted you when things got too difficult for her.

Because you noticed.

You always noticed.

And sure enough—

“Grace.”

Grace looked up so fast it almost hurt her neck.

And there you were.

Coming down the hallway with your cheeks flushed, your eyes sharp, and your entire body radiating the kind of energy Grace had only ever secretly fantasized about when she was being especially embarrassing at three in the morning.

Protective.

Possessive.

A little drunk.

A lot terrifying.

Grace’s heart tripped over itself instantly.

You didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even slow down.

You just walked straight up, stepped directly between Grace and the girl, and took Grace’s hand.

Took…

Her…

Hand.

Grace forgot how to function.

Actually forgot.

Because one second she’d been trapped in a conversation she didn’t know how to end, and the next, you were there…warm and solid and touching her like it was instinct.

Like, of course, your hand belonged in hers.

Grace stared at your joined hands like she might faint.

Then she looked at the side of your face.

And the expression there nearly finished the job.

You looked calm.

But Grace knew you.

Knew the tiny tension in your jaw.

The edge in your voice.

The way your fingers tightened around hers just slightly, like you were grounding yourself through her.

You were jealous.

Actually jealous.

And Grace, tragically, was not nearly evolved enough to be normal about that.

“She’s with me,” you said.

Grace nearly stopped breathing.

The girl frowned. “And?”

Grace should have said something then.

Should have intervened.

Should have reminded everyone involved that this was rapidly becoming a very public emotional crisis.

But she couldn’t.

Because she was too busy drowning in the fact that you were standing in front of her like this.

Defending her.

Claiming her.

Like you had every right.

Then the girl said it.

“She’s single, isn’t she?”

And Grace felt your whole body go still.

The shift was immediate.

Palpable.

Dangerous.

Grace had just enough time to think, ‘Oh no…’

Before you turned to her.

Your hand left hers only to rise to her face.

Grace’s entire body locked up.

Your fingers were warm against her cheek.

Your expression was unreadable for half a second.

And then you kissed her.

Grace’s brain shut off instantly.

No thoughts.

No logic.

No oxygen.

Just you.

Your lips on hers.

Soft, impulsive, warm from alcohol and adrenaline and all the things neither of you had ever said out loud.

And the most humiliating part?

Grace kissed back without even thinking.

Of course, she did.

She had wanted this for far too long to do anything else.

It wasn’t a long kiss.

Barely even a proper one.

But it was enough to completely alter the chemistry of Grace’s bloodstream forever.

When you pulled back, Grace was pretty sure her soul had left her body.

And then you looked at the girl and said, “She’s not single.”

Grace nearly died on impact.

Because no.

No, she absolutely was not surviving this.

The girl looked appropriately stunned, then awkwardly excused herself and disappeared down the hallway.

Grace didn’t care.

She couldn’t care.

Not when every atom in her body was still focused entirely on the fact that you had just kissed her.

In public.

To prove a point.

And now you were standing in front of her, looking like you had just become aware of your own mortality.

“Oh my God,” you whispered.

Grace blinked.

You covered your face.

“Oh…my God,” you repeated, sounding even more horrified.

And despite everything…

Despite the fact that Grace’s heart was currently trying to punch her through her ribcage, some small part of her wanted to laugh.

Because, of course, this was how it would happen.

Of course, you would do something life-changing and then immediately short-circuit.

You started apologizing.

Then…un-apologizing.

Then tripping over your own words so badly, Grace had to physically stop herself from smiling too much.

Because even now…even after publicly kissing her…you were still somehow the most endearing disaster Grace had ever known.

Then you said, “I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t want to.”

And Grace’s entire internal structure collapsed.

Because there it was.

The truth.

Not cleanly.

Nor smoothly.

But honestly.

And that was somehow even worse.

You looked horrified the second the words left your mouth, but it was too late.

Grace had heard them.

Felt them.

Stored them somewhere in her chest that would never be the same again.

Then you looked at her with that open, terrified expression and started trying to ask her something.

You stumbled over every other word.

Paused.

Restarted.

Looked like you wanted the floor to swallow you up whole.

And Grace had never loved you more than she did in that exact moment.

Then finally, cheeks burning and voice shaking, you asked, “Doyouwannabemygirlfriend?”

Grace forgot how to breathe for the second time that night.

Because this…

This was not a dream.

This was not wishful thinking.

This was not one of the humiliating little scenarios she had imagined before bed and then immediately forced herself to forget.

You were here.

In front of her.

Red-faced and stammering and sincere.

Asking.

Grace looked at you.

At your nervous hands.

At your wide, uncertain eyes.

At the girl who had just crashed into her life like a meteor and apparently intended to stay there.

And the answer came so easily it almost made her laugh.

She kissed you before she could lose her nerve.

Just once.

Soft and shy and quick.

And when she pulled back, you looked so stunned that Grace’s own nerves softened a little.

“Okay,” she whispered.

You blinked.

Grace swallowed.

Then made herself say it properly, no matter how badly her heart was shaking.

“I-I’ll be your…girlfriend.”

The expression on your face after that was going to live in Grace’s mind forever.

Pure disbelief.

Pure wonder.

Purely you.

And then, in a voice so reverent and stunned it almost made Grace burst into nervous laughter, you whispered, “Holy shit…”

That did make her laugh.

A real one this time.

Small, but real.

And when you asked, “You’re my girlfriend?” like you genuinely couldn’t process it, Grace had to bite back a smile.

“You just asked me thirty seconds ago,” she reminded you.

You nodded solemnly like this was a legally binding point.

“Right…right. Yeah…just checking.”

Grace laughed again.

And before she could say anything else, you reached for her hand.

Slowly this time.

Carefully.

Like you were asking.

Grace let you take her hand.

Then laced her fingers with yours on purpose.

Because if she was being honest, she’d wanted to do that for months too.

And when you looked down at your joined hands with that dazed, helpless little smile on your face, Grace thought, with quiet, overwhelming certainty, that she was never going to forget this night for the rest of her life.

[themoonknowsmyruin]

WHAT WE DON'T CONFESS 2

pairing: college!grace ashcroft x dormmate!femreader

warnings: yearning(grace's) & possessiveness(reader's)

word count: 2,728

You didn’t mean to lie.

Okay, no.

That was false.

You absolutely meant to lie.

You just hadn’t expected it to backfire so catastrophically.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon outside the campus café while you and your friend Mina were sharing fries and pretending not to complain about your midterm grades.

Grace wasn’t there.

Which, in hindsight, might’ve been the only reason your brain malfunctioned so badly.

Mina had been talking about one of her professors when she suddenly went quiet and looked over your shoulder.

Then she said, very casually, “Your blonde girl is here.”

Your stomach dropped all of a sudden.

You turned before you could stop yourself.

And there she was.

Grace.

Walking across the courtyard with her backpack slung over one shoulder, hair a little wind-tousled, sunlight catching on the edge of her glasses.

Your eyes widened, and your mouth was left open for a quick second when you saw what she was wearing, one of her gray tank tops under an unzipped hoodie.

You’re so close to just standing up and walk in front of Grace just to zip up her hoodie.

So, you looked away immediately.

Too late.

Mina saw everything.

“Oh…my God,” she said.

You froze. “What?”

She leaned across the table. “You are so obvious.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No…I don’t.”

Mina narrowed her eyes. “You like her.”

Your soul left your body.

“No, I do not.”

Too fast.

Way too fast.

Mina blinked. “No?”

“No.”

She tilted her head. “Seriously?”

You forced yourself to sound casual. “She’s just Grace.”

Mina stared.

Then, slowly, to your absolute horror, her expression shifted.

Not teasing anymore.

Worse.

Something thoughtful.

“Wait,” she said. “So…you’re not into her?”

Your stomach sank.

Because you knew that tone.

And you knew Mina.

And you knew, with the icy certainty of incoming disaster, exactly where this was going.

Still, because fear made idiots out of everyone, apparently, you nodded.

“Nope.”

Mina’s lips curved.

“Oh,” she said.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you saying it like that?”

She shrugged, far too innocent. “No reason.”

“Mina.”

She glanced past you again.

Then back.

And with the kind of calm that should’ve been considered emotional violence, she said, “I just think she’s cute.”

Your entire body short-circuited.

“...What?”

Mina grinned. “What? She is.”

Cute.

Grace.

Your—

No.

No, she was not yours.

Except the thought came so instinctively and possessively that it genuinely startled you.

And suddenly, all at once, you understood exactly how Grace must’ve felt watching Natasha grab your hand in the hallway.

It was horrible.

Actually horrible.

You hated it instantly.

And apparently, your body hated it too.

Because by the time you saw Grace again near the humanities building an hour later, your brain had completely surrendered to every territorial instinct you’d been suppressing for months.

Which was how you ended up marching straight toward her like a woman possessed.

Grace looked up the second she noticed you.

And the soft smile she gave you almost made you forget every coherent thought in your head.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

You did not stop at normal-person distance.

No, because apparently normalcy had abandoned you, you stepped right into her space and reached up to fix the folded collar of her hoodie without thinking.

Grace went completely still.

You also went completely still.

Because what the hell were you doing?

Grace looked down at your hand.

Then back up at you.

Her voice came out quiet and visibly flustered.

“U-Uh…”

Think.

Think of an excuse.

“It was crooked,” you said weakly.

Grace blinked. “Oh.”

You should’ve stepped back then.

You didn’t.

Because at that exact moment, Mina rounded the corner.

And the second you noticed her out of the corner of your eye, some deeply embarrassing possessive instinct hijacked your body completely.

So instead of moving away like a sane person, you let your hand slide from Grace’s collar to her shoulder.

Slowly.

Casually.

Like touching her was the most natural thing in the world.

Grace nearly dropped the iced coffee in her hand.

You pretended not to notice.

Mina, unfortunately, noticed everything.

“Hey,” Mina said.

Grace looked between the two of you, immediately confused. “Hi.”

“This is Grace,” you said before either of them could continue.

You didn’t know why you said it like that.

Like an introduction at a family gathering.

Like a warning.

Like you were putting your body between Grace and a situation you had technically created yourself.

Mina’s smile sharpened.

Grace looked even more confused.

And you?

You were seconds away from spontaneous combustion.

Mina crossed her arms. “So…this is Grace.”

Grace glanced at you. “S-Should I be…concerned?”

You laughed too quickly. “No.”

Mina looked delighted. “Actually, you should be a little concerned.”

“Mina.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “I’m just saying, your roommate’s very protective of you, Grace,” she said, putting her attention on Grace.

Roommate.

The word hit weirdly hard in your chest.

Because yes, Grace was your roommate.

The girl whose bed was six feet away from yours.

The girl who borrowed your highlighters and stole your snacks and looked unfairly soft when she fell asleep with a book open on her chest.

The girl you are absolutely, undeniably screwed over.

Your hand tightened slightly on Grace’s shoulder before you even realized you were doing it.

Grace noticed.

Of course, she does.

And suddenly she was looking at you with this quiet, dangerous sort of focus that made your entire body heat up.

Mina noticed that too.

Then, because she was evil, she smiled at Grace and said, “I was actually just telling her that I think you’re cute.”

Your soul left your body.

You turned so fast you nearly got whiplash. “Mina.”

“What?”

Grace blinked.

Then looked at you.

Then at Mina.

Then back at you.

And the worst part?

She looked…interested.

Not smug.

Not smug at all.

But definitely, definitely paying attention.

Which somehow made this ten times worse.

You forced out a laugh. “She’s joking.”

“Hm? No, I’m not joking,” Mina said.

You wanted to pass away on the spot.

Immediately.

Preferably in the middle of traffic.

But before you could recover, Grace, quiet, shy, dangerous little Grace, tilted her head and asked, very softly, “Did she?”

You stopped breathing.

Mina looked between the two of you and practically vibrated with delight.

You stared at Grace.

Grace stared back.

And for the first time all day, your possessiveness curdled into something much more fragile.

Because suddenly this didn’t feel like a joke.

It felt like a test.

And you had no idea if you were brave enough to pass it.

—

Grace knew something was wrong the second you touched her.

Not wrong in a bad way.

Wrong in a ‘this is going to haunt me for the next three weeks’ kind of way.

Because you were acting strange.

And by strange, she meant by you touching her…a lot.

Far more than usual.

And while Grace would’ve loved to simply enjoy that without overanalyzing every single second of it, unfortunately, her brain had never done anything quietly in its life.

So when you’d crossed the walkway like you were on a mission and reached up to fix her hoodie collar with those soft, careful fingers of yours, Grace had almost forgotten how to breathe.

You were so close.

Close enough for Grace to smell your perfume.

Close enough to see the tiny shine of your lip gloss in the afternoon light.

Close enough to completely ruin her ability to think.

And then your hand had stayed.

On her shoulder.

Warm.

Comfortable.

Possessive.

Like you have always belonged there.

Grace had nearly blacked out on impact.

She was still recovering when the other girl, Mina, apparently, showed up.

Grace didn’t know much about her beyond the fact that she was one of your friends and had the expression of someone actively clocking a situation in real time.

And unfortunately, Grace was also clocking a situation in real time.

Mostly because you were acting…weird.

Not bad weird.

Just…different.

More touchy.

More attentive.

More…there.

Present.

Like you were suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between Grace and the rest of the world and had decided you didn’t like anyone so close to her proximity…unless it’s you.

And if Grace had been a little less hopelessly in love with you, maybe she would’ve questioned it sooner.

Instead, all she could think was, ‘Oh no…this is going to kill me.’

Mina smiled at her. “So…you’re Grace.”

Grace nodded carefully. “Y-Yeah…”

“Hm, she talks about you a lot.”

Your hand tightened slightly on Grace’s shoulder.

Grace stopped functioning.

You laughed too quickly. “No, I don’t.”

Mina looked delighted. “Oh, come on. You literally do.”

Grace looked at you.

You were suddenly refusing eye contact with everyone on Earth.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

And then, because apparently the universe wanted Grace dead, you moved even closer.

Close enough that your arm brushed hers.

Close enough that Grace could feel your body heat through her sleeve.

Grace’s heart started trying to claw its way out of her chest.

You smiled tightly at Mina. “Grace and I were just heading back to the dorm.”

Grace blinked.

We were?

Since when?

But before she could question it, your hand slid from her shoulder to lightly catch her hand.

And that…

That nearly sent Grace directly into the afterlife.

Because you didn’t just touch her.

You held on to her hand.

Like you didn’t want anyone else to.

Like she was something you were instinctively trying to keep close.

Grace stared down at your hand for one stunned second before looking back up at your face.

You looked…determined.

And flustered.

And maybe a little panicked…which is new for Grace.

Which should’ve confused Grace more than it did.

Instead, something warm and dangerous bloomed low in her chest.

Because this…

Whatever this was that made you act…weird.

It felt suspiciously close to jealousy.

And if Grace had suffered through enough of her own silent yearning to recognize it in someone else, then she knew exactly what she was looking at.

You were jealous.

The realization hit her so hard she nearly smiled.

Nearly, of course…she can’t just assume things.

Besides, if she smiled now, you’d know.

And Grace still wasn’t sure she’d survive that.

Then Mina, apparently committed to making the situation unlivable, smiled and said, “I was actually just telling her earlier that I think you’re cute.”

Grace blinked.

Then looked at you.

Then at Mina.

Then back at you.

And oh…

Oh…

The way your expression tightened.

The way your grip shifted.

The way something almost offended and territorial flashed behind your eyes for half a second.

Yeah, that was jealousy.

You’re definitely jealous.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Grace thought, ‘Maybe I’m not the only one suffering here.’

That thought gave her just enough courage to do something dangerous.

Something small.

But dangerous.

She tilted her head slightly and looked at you.

Really looked at you.

Then asked, in a voice quieter than usual but just confident enough to ruin your life, “Did she?”

You froze.

Mina looked thrilled.

And Grace…she nearly lost her nerve immediately.

Because she hadn’t meant for the question to sound like that.

Hadn’t meant for it to come out so soft.

So intimate.

Like she was asking for something more than clarification.

But it was too late now.

The words were already there.

Suspended between all three of you.

And when you looked at her, Grace felt her entire body go warm.

Because you looked caught.

Like a secret had been dragged into daylight, and you didn’t know whether to run from it or protect it.

Mina, blessedly, seemed to sense she had caused enough damage for one afternoon.

She raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving before this turns into something I should charge admission for.”

You made a strangled sound. “Mina—”

“Talk to your roommate,” she said pointedly.

Then she walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving you and Grace alone in the middle of the pathway with too much sunlight, too many feelings, and your hand still wrapped around her hand.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you spoke.

And then, very slowly, Grace looked down at your intertwined hands.

Then back at you.

Your eyes widened in delayed horror.

You let go immediately.

“Oh…my God.”

Grace bit inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling.

“What?’

“I don’t know w-what that was…” you muttered, dragging a hand over your face.

Grace studied you carefully.

Pink cheeks.

Avoiding eye contact.

Suddenly, very interested in the floor.

Cute.

She didn’t know you could be this cute when flustered.

And maybe…just maybe Grace had finally earned the right to be a little brave.

Just a little.

So she tilted her head and asked quietly, “Were you jealous?”

Your head snapped up, as if you were set on cracking your neck.

“What?”

Grace’s pulse jumped.

She almost backed out.

Almost.

But then she thought about Natasha’s hand on your hand.

About every time she’d swallowed down the truth.

About every night spent in the same room with you, wanting too much and saying too little.

And somehow, against all odds, she held your gaze.

“You were being weird,” she said softly.

You stared at her in disbelief. “I was not being weird.”

Grace looked pointedly at the hand you’d just had on her hand.

You followed her gaze.

Then immediately looked offended.

“That wasn’t even remotely weird.”

“It was a little weird.”

“No…it was not.”

“Fine, but you introduced me like I was your wife.”

You choked on your own saliva so violently that Grace almost laughed.

“Grace!”

“What?” she asked, and this time there was the tiniest, tiniest edge of confidence in her voice. “You kind of did.”

Your face went fully pink.

Grace nearly lost all motor function.

Because she’d done it.

She’d actually made you flustered.

And now she wanted to do it again and again.

Which felt dangerous.

Very dangerous.

You stared at her for a long second.

Then muttered, “You’re oddly enjoying this.”

Grace looked away for half a second, trying and failing to hide the tiny smile threatening to give her away.

“Maybe a little.”

You scoffed and covered your face.

Grace’s chest warmed so suddenly, and so deeply, it almost scared her.

Because she’d imagined this.

Not exactly this.

But something like it.

You, flustered because of her.

You, close enough to touch.

You…looking at her like there was something here worth being nervous over.

And maybe there was.

Maybe there had been for a while.

Your hand dropped from your face slowly.

And when you looked at her this time, there was no playful outrage left.

Just something softer.

Something much more dangerous.

Grace’s pulse climbed.

Because she knew that look.

It was the same one you wore in the dorm late at night when the world got quiet, and it was just the two of you and all the things neither of you knew how to say.

You stepped closer.

Not much.

Just enough.

And suddenly, the space between you felt fragile.

Charged.

Your voice came out quieter than before.

“What if I was?”

Grace forgot how to breathe…completely.

“What?” she asked and hated how small her voice sounded.

You swallowed.

Then looked at her with the kind of honesty that made Grace’s chest hurt.

“What if I was jealous?”

The whole world went still.

No footsteps.

No distant chatter.

No rustle of trees overhead.

Nothing.

Just you.

Just Grace.

Just that one impossible question hanging between you like a lit match.

And for one terrifying second, Grace thought, ‘This is it.’

This was the moment.

The one she’d been circling for months now.

The one that could either give her everything she wanted or completely ruin the fragile, precious thing both of you already had.

And somehow, despite all of that, despite every instinct telling her to protect herself, Grace looked at you and answered with the most honest thing she’d said in weeks.

“I think…” she said softly, “I-I’d like that.”

You stared at her.

Grace stared back.

And then…

Very, very faintly…

You smiled.

Not teasing.

Not embarrassed.

Just warm.

Soft.

Like something inside you had finally exhaled.

And God…that might’ve been the thing that killed her.

[themoonknowsmyruin]

WHAT WE DON'T CONFESS

pairing: college!grace ashcroft x dormmate!femreader

warnings: yearning(grace's part)

word count: 2,774

Dorming with you was either the best thing that had ever happened to Grace Ashcroft—or the beginning of her psychological collapse.

There was no in-between.

Because on one hand, she got things no one else did.

She got your sleepy voice at eight in the morning when your alarm went off and buried your face in your pillow instead of turning it off.

She got to hear your little muttered complaints while getting ready for class, your half-awake rumbling while brushing your teeth, and the way you stood in front of the mirror with your hair still damp and your tote bag hanging off one shoulder while deciding whether your outfit looked “academically appropriate enough” or not.

She got your late-night yawns.

Your ‘Are you still awake?’ whispered across the dark room.

Your feet brushing hers under the desk when you were both pretending to study and absolutely not retaining anything.

And worst of all…

She got used to your presence.

That was the dangerous part.

Because once Grace got used to your presence, everything else became impossible.

The empty side of the room when you had class before her.

The quiet when you stayed out late with friends.

The strange, stupid little ache in her chest whenever someone else got more of your time than she did.

It was ridiculous.

Embarrassing.

And, unfortunately, very real.

Which was why Grace was currently suffering in silence in the back of your Intro to Behavioral Science lecture while your friend Natasha leaned far too close into your space for Grace’s sanity.

Natasha was saying something that made you laugh.

Then she bumped your shoulder.

Then, as if God personally hated Grace, Natasha rested her hand on your forearm while still talking.

Grace stared at it.

Actually stared.

Like if she looked hard enough, the hand would disappear.

It did not.

You just smiled and kept listening to the lecture.

And suddenly Grace’s stomach twisted in a way she hated.

Not because she thought anything was happening.

Natasha is your friend.

Just a friend.

Grace knows that.

The problem was much simpler.

Much more pathetic.

Grace wanted that closeness.

Wanted it in the soft, humiliating, deeply inconvenient way people only wanted things they had no idea how to ask for.

She wanted to be the one leaning into your space.

Wanted to be the one who could touch your arm and not have to overthink it for the next six business days.

Wanted to be the person your attention naturally drifted toward.

And she had no right to want any of it.

Because she was your roommate.

Your friend.

The girl who shared a cramped dorm with you, folded laundry at the foot of her bed while pretending not to watch you dance around the room to songs you swore were “study music”, and said things like, ‘don’t forget your umbrella’ instead of ‘I think I’m in love with you and it’s ruining my life.’

So she stayed quiet.

And suffered.

Like an idiot.

The professor continued talking at the front of the room, but Grace barely heard any of it.

She was too busy trying not to look at the way Natasha had now leaned close enough to whisper in your ear.

You laughed again.

Grace looked down at her notes so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

Focus.

She needs to focus.

This was college, not some emotional warfare.

And yet somehow, every day around you felt like both.

“Grace?”

She blinked.

The room had gone quieter.

The professor was looking directly at her now.

Her stomach dropped. “Y-Yes?”

The professor sighed, “Since you seem distracted, why don’t you tell us the difference between intrinsic and extrinsic motivation?”

Grace’s mind emptied itself immediately.

Nothing.

Not one useful thought.

Just static and the distance echo of your laugh.

She opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

And then, softly from a few seats ahead, your whispered voice drifted back just enough for her to hear.

“Internal versus external rewards.”

Grace looked up.

You didn’t turn around.

You just tapped your pen against your notebook once, as if nothing had happened.

Grace swallowed.

Then repeated the answer.

The professor nodded and moved on.

But Grace barely heard the rest of the lecture after that.

Because all she could think about was the fact that you’d noticed.

Again.

You always noticed.

And somehow, that only made wanting you worse.

After class, the hallway spilled with students and noise and the usual chaos of people trying to leave all at once.

Grace packed her bag more slowly than necessary, mostly because if she left too quickly, she’d have to walk beside you and Natasha.

And if she left too late, she’d still have to watch you leave with Natasha.

Which, unfortunately, happened anyway.

By the time Grace stepped into the hallway, she saw Natasha already beside you, leaning in close as the two of you talked.

Then Natasha did the unforgivable.

She hooked her fingers around your hand.

Grace stopped dead.

Your hand.

Why does Natasha always hold your hand?

It was such a small thing.

Such a harmless thing.

And yet it lodged under Grace’s ribs like a splinter.

“Cafeteria?” Natasha asked.

You adjusted your tote bag. “Maybe. I’m starving.”

“Good,” Natasha said, lightly tugging you closer. “Come suffer through overcooked pasta with me.” Grace should’ve kept walking.

She really should have.

Instead, before she could stop herself, she heard her own voice cut in.

“Professor Lewis said the reflection paper’s due tonight.”

Both of you looked at her.

Grace immediately wanted to fling herself down the stairwell.

Natasha frowned. “What?”

Grace gripped the strap of her bag tighter. “T-The reflection paper…”

That was not true.

Not even remotely.

You knew it instantly.

Grace could tell by the way your expression shifted.

Not annoyed.

Worse.

You’re amused.

And…maybe, just maybe…a little fond.

“Huh…I almost forgot about that,” you said smoothly, going along.

Grace blinked.

Natasha looked between the two of you. “There’s a reflection paper?”

You nodded with a straight face. “Apparently, yeah.”

Natasha groaned. “That class is really trying to kill me.”

She released your hand with a sigh. “Fine. Text me later?”

“Mhm, later,” you said.

Then she disappeared down the hall.

And the second she was gone, silence dropped between you and Grace.

Grace suddenly became interested in everything except your face.

The lockers.

The floor.

Even the poster for student elections peeling off the wall, she noticed.

Anywhere but your face that’s looking at her.

Because if she looked at you, she was pretty sure she’d combust on impact.

You stepped closer.

“Grace.”

Her pulse jumped. “Y-Yeah?”

“You just lied.”

Grace adjusted her bag strap. “W-What? No…I-I didn’t.”

You laughed softly.

That made it so much worse.

“Grace.”

There was something in your tone that made her chest ache.

Warm.

Knowing.

Too…gentle.

“S-She was distracting,” Grace muttered before she could stop herself.

The second the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

Your brows lifted.

“Distracting?”

Grace wanted to die instantly.

“In c-class,” she added weakly.

“Hm, in class,” you repeated, and now there was definitely amusement in your voice.

Grace stared at the floor harder as if waiting for the floor to open up and swallow her whole.

Then you took one step closer.

Then another.

And now you were standing right in front of her, close enough that Grace could smell your shampoo and the faint sweetness of your lip balm, close enough that her brain short-circuited on impact.

“Were you jealous?” you asked softly.

Grace nearly died choking on her own spit.

“N-N-No!”

Too fast.

Way too fast.

You folded your arms, trying…and failing…not to smile.

“Hm, well, that sounded like a lie.”

“I-It wasn’t.”

“It was.”

“I-It wasn’t…”

“Grace…you literally invented a homework just to get rid of my friend from me.”

Grace opened her mouth.

Then closed it again.

Because there was no recovering from that.

And you were still looking at her like that.

Too close.

Too warm.

Too…pretty.

And, too dangerous for Grace’s sake.

Grace’s throat tightened.

Because she should’ve deflected.

Should’ve changed the subject.

Should’ve laughed it off.

Instead, all she could feel was the truth pressing hard against the back of her teeth.

Yes…

She was jealous.

In the softest, stupidest, most humiliating way possible.

She was jealous every time someone got your easy affection.

Every time someone touched you without thinking.

Every time someone else got the version of you she wanted to keep all to herself.

Grace’s voice came out quieter than she intended.

“I-I j-just…” she started.

Then stopped.

Your expression softened instantly.

And that nearly undid her.

“Hm? You just what?” you asked gently.

Grace looked at you.

At the warmth in your eyes.

At the patience there.

At the terrifying possibility that maybe you wouldn’t look at her like she was ridiculous if she actually told you the truth.

And for one impossible second, she almost did.

Almost.

Then…her fear won, like it always did.

Grace looked down.

“N-Nothing. Forget it.”

The silence after that was small.

Tender.

Painful.

Then your fingers brushed her wrist.

Light.

Treading carefully, as if scared to break her apart.

Still…it’s enough to make Grace freeze.

She looked up…at your face.

You were watching her with a softness that felt almost unbearable.

“Grace,” you said quietly, “you know you can tell me things, right?”

That nearly broke her.

For something so soft and careful, it almost broke her.

Because you meant it.

And God, she wanted to.

She wanted to tell you she liked you so much it made her physically miserable.

Wanted to tell you that she thought about you when you were literally across the room because apparently that was still somehow too far.

Wanted to tell you that agreeing to dorm with you had become both her favorite and worst decision because she got all these tiny pieces of you without ever being brave enough to ask for more.

But the words got stuck where they always did.

So instead…Grace gave you the smallest truth she could manage.

“I-I know…”

Your thumb brushed once against the inside of her wrist before you let go.

And Grace hated how much she missed it immediately.

You looked at her for one long second.

Then smiled.

Small.

Warm.

Dangerously understanding.

“Okay,” you said.

And somehow, that made Grace want you even more.

Which felt deeply unfair, considering she was already sleeping six feet away from the girl ruining her life unconsciously.

—

You knew Grace liked you.

Not because she said it.

God, no.

Grace Ashcroft would rather quietly disintegrate than confess her feelings without a full internal war first.

No, you knew because Grace was terrible at hiding it.

Subtle, yes…sometimes.

But terrible, really terrible.

It was in the way she always waited for you after class, even when she pretended she “just happened” to be done at the same time.

It’s the way she remembered tiny things you’d mentioned once at two in the morning and then acted like it was no big deal.

The way she’d push your charger closer when your phone battery was dying before you even asked.

The way she got weirdly quiet whenever one of your friends became too touchy with you.

And if you were being honest, it was also in the way she looked at you when she thought you were asleep.

You’d caught it once.

One night after a brutal week of deadlines, you’d been half-awake and facing the wall when you felt it…that quiet, familiar weight of being looked at.

You hadn’t moved.

Hadn’t opened your eyes.

But you’d known.

And something about that had stayed with you ever since.

Because Grace looked at you like she was trying not to.

Like every soft thing she felt was a secret she didn’t know how to survive.

And the worst part?

You looked right back.

You had feelings for Grace that had become a genuine problem somewhere between shared midnight snacks and her absentmindedly tossing one of her hoodies onto your bed because “you always steal it anyway.”

It was bad.

Hopelessly bad.

So when Grace had lied through her teeth to stop you from having lunch with Natasha, you should’ve been annoyed.

Instead, you found it so stupidly endearing that it almost felt like your heart was being squeezed tightly.

Because jealousy looked unfairly good on Grace.

Not in a toxic way.

Nor in a controlling way.

Just in a very ‘oh, she wants me close and doesn’t know what to do about it’ kind of way.

And honestly? That was ruining you.

Still, there was something underneath all of it that made your chest ache.

Because every time Grace got close to saying something real, she stopped herself.

Every time you thought she might finally let you in, she pulled back.

And maybe that was why, later that night, you found yourself opening your shared dorm room door as quietly as possible after your shower and pausing when you realized Grace was already in bed.

Or…pretending to be.

The room was dim except for the soft glow of your desk lamp.

Grace was facing the wall, blanket pulled up a little too neatly.

Suspicious.

Very suspicious.

You smiled to yourself.

Then you padded across the room in your sleep shorts and oversized shirt, drying your hair with a towel as you moved.

“Are you awake?” you asked softly.

There was a pause.

Then, from beneath the blanket. “Maybe.”

You laughed under your breath.

Cute.

Very dangerously cute.

You hung your towel onto the chair and climbed onto your bed, but instead of settling in right away, you turned onto your side to face her across the narrow space between your beds.

“Grace.”

She shifted.

Then, slowly, rolled over to face you.

Your heart did something deeply embarrassing when you saw her.

Messy hair.

Sleep-heavy eyes.

One arm tucked under her pillow.

Soft gray shirt.

You swear after you told her that you love seeing her in that gray tank top, she kept wearing gray clothes most of the time inside the dorm.

Unfair.

Actually unfair.

“What?” she asked quietly.

You looked at her for a second.

Then said, “You were cute earlier.”

Grace blinked, her sleep-heavy eyes widened.

Then immediately looked like she wanted to evaporate.

“No…I-I wasn’t.”

“You were, though.”

“I was having a crisis.”

“Yeah…that can be cute too.”

Grace groaned softly and dragged part of the blanket over her face.

You laughed.

“You literally lied to stop me from eating cafeteria pasta with Natasha.”

“She was touching you too much,” Grace mumbled from behind the blanket.

The room went still.

Grace went still under her blanket too.

Then, very slowly, she lowered the blanket from her face.

Your heart nearly stopped.

Because she looked so horrified.

Like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Like she was already bracing for your rejection.

You softened immediately.

“Grace…”

Her cheeks were pink now.

Even in the dim light, you could see it.

“I-I didn’t m-mean…”

You sighed, “No, it’s alright,” you said softly.

Grace looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And for a second, there was no room in the world except this one.

No campus.

No classes.

No friends.

Just the dark, the quiet, and the girl across from you who looked like she’d been carrying too much of herself alone for too long.

So you did the only thing that felt right at the moment.

You pushed yourself up, crossed the tiny space between your beds, and sat on the edge of hers.

Grace froze, completely.

You smiled a little. “Relax.”

“You’re on my bed.”

“Mhm, very observant of you.”

Grace stared at you.

You stared back.

Then, more softly, you said, “For the record…”

Her eyes lifted to yours.

“I didn’t mind.”

Her brows furrowed. “Didn’t mind…what?”

You held her gaze.

“The…jealousy,” you tried to say casually.

Grace froze so completely you thought she might actually stop breathing.

Then, slowly, color climbed across her cheeks.

You had to physically stop yourself from smiling too hard.

Because there it was.

That tiny, secret thing between you.

Still unnamed.

Unresolved.

But very…very real.

And judging by the way Grace looked at you now, like you’d just handed her something fragile and dangerous, she felt it too.

Neither of you moved.

Neither of you looked away.

And somewhere in that silence, with your knee almost brushing hers and the soft hum of the dorm air conditioner filling the room, you realized with painful certainty that this was going to ruin you both.

You just weren’t sure anymore if you wanted saving.

[whoasked4this]

Fights & Making Up

Notes: I wanted to give a try at something a little more complex and deeper. Her are some Grace x GN!Reader HC. We hate to see when the babes are fighting! But, don’t worry they always get it together at the end. Have a great day GraceHeads! SFW

Grace absolutely hates being confrontational. Not only does she not want you to be mad at her. It completely throws her entire world in disarray.

She would prefer to work out the problem with you right away. But sometimes that doesn’t always work out. If a fight last longer than a day, she can’t focus…she can’t focus on her responsibilities or work.

She will even reach out to you more often than she usually does via text. Her biggest fear when she’s giving you space to cool down that you’ll completely forget about her. Abandon her on the spot.

When you 2 argue, each second she’s talking to you, she’s gradually getting more upset and stumbling over her words more. Her mouth is moving faster than her brain and sometimes she will say things she doesn’t mean.

When she’s angry at you, she looking everywhere except at you. She’s talking faster and sweating more. By the end of some of your arguments with her she’s drenched.

She rarely raises her voice at you. In fact, the first time it happened it left her completely stunned. Never in a million years would she think she would be yelling at you. And once it’s over she’s beside herself with it.

Grace is the better listener compared to you. She’s analytical so of course she’s going to analyze everything you have to say first. Once she’s processed all the information, she’s coming up with several solutions to fix this. She’s a natural problem solver.

You love her with all your heart, but sometimes you can’t help but be pessimistic. Grace believes in her relationship with you. She’s not giving up on this. And when Grace is feeling at her lowest, she’s shutting down. But you are there for her, you promise to weather this dark storm with her no matter what.

One thing you 2 are very proud of, no matter the argument or how intense it gets neither of you have ever stormed off. Sure there are times when it feels like that is the better solution. But you 2 are staying put and trying to patch things up and come up with the best solution.

Both of you know disagreements and fights are bound to happen. Nobody is perfect. Grace tends to apologize first even when she isn’t at fault. You are usually calling yourself the biggest idiot for making her sad. But at the end of the day, you both are will to fight for this. Fight for each other.

When you 2 finally do makeup, she’s stuck to you like glue. Honestly needy Grace is the hottest kind of Grace. You’re going into the bedroom to get something she’s right beside you. You’re in the kitchen rummaging through the fridge, she’s standing on her tippy toes looking over your shoulder. This woman never wants you to be out of her life again.

When she’s saying sorry, she’s more affectionate. Grace may be shy, but when you 2 patch it up, she’s more touchy with you. Physical touch after an argument is her way of saying she’s sorry too and she wouldn’t know what she would do with the feel of you.

When she leaves for work before you, she has your favorite coffee ready for you in your thermo. She’s leaving cute sticky notes about you on the bathroom mirror for you to see bright and early in the morning. She’s even leaving work earlier to spend as much time with you.

When she’s coming home from work, you surprise her with a romantic candle lit dinner. You are making her favorite dish or grabbing something from her favorite takeout spot. You want to show her how she means the world to you.

When you are saying you are sorry, you’re the gift giver. Grace isn’t big on flowers. Don’t get her wrong she loves when you surprise her with a beautiful bouquet every now and then. But you are surprising her with a stack of her favorite graphic novels. Or installing a newer and bigger memory card for her laptop.

And let’s just say after you 2 have made up, Grace and you are making up for lost times in the bedroom. Even if the argument lasted for 1 hour…you 2 are spending the whole day/night in bed wrapped in each other.

[ladymxsery]

any ideas on what alpha!grace would be like w a pregnant omega!reader? maybe some drabbles or hcs? i think she'd be so sweet and soft personally

As soon as I saw this I had to work on some hcs . This concept is so adorable 🥹🥹 she would be the best wife to pregnant!reader

Also I’m still figuring out how I’d like to format my writing on here, so bare with me and my experimentation 😭🙏

content: alpha!grace ashcroft x pregnant!omega!reader, so much fluff, worried grace ashcroft, grace ashcroft is a softie

She notices your pregnancy even before you do. Your scent changed, a milky-freshness added to your already sweet pheromones.

When you finally took a test, the little two lines were clear as day.

Cue Grace panicking about literally everything.

She spends hours with her nose stuck in her laptop, googling everything there is to google about pregnancy, babies, and small children. (And maybe joining r/parents.)

You’re violently nauseous most mornings? You might have hyperemesis gravidarum, and you need to see your OBGYN. You’re really thirsty all the time? Yup, that means you must have gestational diabetes.

You get sick and tired of her hovering really quick.

She only really calms down after the first ultrasound, when she finally sees her pup for the first time.

Grace almost can’t believe what she’s seeing– that tiny little dot on the screen was alive. Your pup. Her pup.

She cries during the appointment, which in turn makes you cry. The sonographer may or may not have also started crying.

You get really clingy. Really, really clingy. Grace is not one for PDA, but she just has to suck it up and accept it.

You hang onto her side while grocery shopping, her body is stiff under your touch, but you know it's just because she feels awkward.

However, when it’s just you two, Grace doesn’t mind letting you make yourself comfortable in her lap.

In fact, she is just as clingy as you. She sleeps with her head buried into your neck, legs intertwined with yours. When she works from home, you’re always right there with her.

Both you and Grace become even more protective over Emily.

Emily sleeps in your nest nearly every night, cuddled next to you and Grace. She always smells like the pair of you, her milky-pup scent now almost unnoticeable.

You laid asleep in your carefully curated nest, Emily’s face tucked into your neck. Grace slept behind you, her arm wrapped around your waist. Emily let out a soft whine in her sleep, nose scrunching as she nuzzled closer to you. Grace immediately shot up, eyes open and alert. When she realized that everyone was fine, and her pup was safe, she felt her breathing even. She laid back down beside you, pressing her cheek to your back.

You had a hard time sending Emily off to school, your instincts telling you to keep both her and Grace at your side 24/7.

Grace isn’t a very ‘stereotypical’ alpha, but the moment you start to show, something switches in her.

She gets overly possessive and protective, especially when it comes to other alpha’s. One time, she literally growled at an alpha who she thought was looking at you for too long, even though they were much taller and more muscular than she was. That alpha wasn’t even actually looking at you...

When you start nearing the end of your pregnancy, things start getting real for Grace.

She wants to be a good mom, just like her own.

You find her one night hunched over a picture of Alyssa, her eyes wet with tears.

“Grace?” You called out, waddling into your bedroom. Grace looked up from the photo, sniffling. You took a seat next to her, affectionately nuzzling your nose into her cheek. She took your hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

“What’s going on?” You asked quietly, turning Grace’s head to make eye-contact with you. She let out a soft sigh, her lip quivering.

“I–I just… I miss my mom.” She admitted, her voice breaking. “I wish she–she was here. Sometimes I f-feel so l-lost without her.”

You frown, gently squeezing her hand. You always wondered what life would be like if Alyssa was still here. She would love Emily, and she would be so proud of Grace.

“She would be so proud of you.” You assured the alpha, smiling. “And she would love Emily, and the baby… and me, of course.”

Grace half-giggled, half-sobbed. She leaned her head on your shoulder, one of her hands automatically finding its way to your bump. “I love you.” She whispered, closing her eyes.

“I love you too.” You responded, resting your head against hers.

When you go into labor, she freaks the fuck out.

Leon comes to the house to watch Emily, and as soon as he arrives you two are out the door.

The hospital experience wasn’t the greatest; you were obviously stressed and uncomfortable, which made Grace extremely anxious.

After nearly an entire day of grueling labor, your daughter was born.

Grace was a mess when she scented little Alyssa for the first time, her hands shaking. She’d never held a person so tiny…

Grace held the tiny pup to her chest, her eyes welling with tears. She felt her lip quiver as the little one yawned, gently rubbing her tiny back. Everything about Alyssa was small, from her little button nose, down to her tiny toes. Grace couldn’t be more in love.

The pup had little wisps of blonde hair on her head, just like Grace.

Emily was absolutely enamored with her little sister, and she was so gentle with her.

Grace honestly couldn’t ask for anything better in life.

[marvelselfinserts]

Can you do one where Natasha is your girlfriend. You randomly get it in your head one day that you’re not good enough for Natasha. Nat gets a call one night to come pick you up, because you’re absolutely hammered somewhere (which is extra concerning, because you normally don’t drink). Nat gets you home and takes care of your sad drunken self, asking you “why did you drink so much baby?”. And you just kind of fall apart, telling her how you’re not good enough (maybe some insecurities/childhood trauma type stuff resurfaces a bit?). Natasha makes you feel better and is all cute and shit idk lol

Favourite

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Reader [A/N] Had a super productive day the day before I left and managed to write three fics!! Love that for me 😂 Thank you for the request my lovely, this is so cute 😘 Hope you all enjoy! ❤️

Natasha sees your name flash up on her phone and she smiles, picking up immediately “Hey baby… Missing me?”

“Hello. Is this Natasha?”

Natasha sits up at the sound of a stranger’s voice. Who the Hell has your phone and why? Her mind races through a million possibilities before the stranger continues “I’m here with Y/N; she said you were her girlfriend. She’s uh… She’s had quite a lot to drink and I didn’t want to let her go home on her own. Do you think you could come pick her up?”

Before the stranger has even finished Natasha’s pulled on her leather jacket, hunting around for her car keys “Yeah, yeah, of course. Just let me know where you are, I’m on my way.”

The woman gives Natasha the name of a bar across town and then she hangs up the phone, rushing out to her car. Why were you out getting drunk by yourself? That wasn’t like you at all. Natasha was the one who drank, no matter the occasion whereas you’d sometimes have one glass of wine and then stop. You weren’t one for hard spirits and you’d told Natasha previously you didn’t like getting drunk. Admittedly Natasha had been a little worried about you lately. You’ve always been quieter and more reserved than her, that’s what she’d loved about you. Last time you’d hung out though you’d been even quieter than usual, brushing off Natasha's concerns.

It takes Natasha about twenty minutes to make it to the bar and she finds you outside with a woman. You’re sobbing while this woman keeps her arm around you, trying to keep you upright. Natasha runs over, taking you into her own arms “Thanks for looking after her and for calling me. I’ll get her home.”

“I didn’t realise when she said Natasha she meant- Anyway, it was no problem. Hope she’s okay.”

Natasha looks down at you, your arms now wrapped around her waist as you cry loudly into her chest. She kisses the top of your head, rocking you back and forth “It’s okay… It’s okay, I’ve got you…”

You’re in no state to be moved right now so Natasha just holds you, whispering gentle reassurances. Every time someone glances in your direction she fixes them with a hard glare and they quickly look away, scurrying off. Natasha runs her fingers through your hair, kissing your forehead until your tears eventually subside and then she guides you back to the car, settling you into the passenger’s seat.

She turns up the radio in the car, letting you look out the window, hoping that’ll stop you from feeling sick. You hadn’t mentioned it but then you hadn’t said a word yet. Natasha’s never seen you drunk before, she has no idea what to expect. At one point you do gag so Natasha quickly pulls the car over but you take several deep breaths and then mumble that you’re okay so Natasha keeps driving until you get back to her place.

Natasha has her own apartment and she’s proud of it. At first the space had overwhelmed her a little but with your help she’d managed to decorate it in a way that pleased her. She was pretty minimalist, but she did love photos and pictures so you’d helped her pick out some of her favourites, frame them and then hang them up. It’s the first place that has ever truly felt like home to Natasha, even more so when you’re there with her.

Once you’re inside she sits down on her couch, pulling you into her lap and kissing your forehead “What happened baby? Why did you drink so much?”

“I’m sad,” You tell her, your eyes still teary.

“Why are you so sad? Who’s upset my baby girl?”

Natasha never speaks like this in front of anyone else but she knows how much you love when she softens her voice and calls you cute pet names. For you, she’d do anything. You’re her biggest weakness.

You cry harder so Natasha kisses the top of her head, waiting patiently for you to tell her the problem. She knows you’ve been feeling a bit of stress at work so she assumes it’s that. There’s always something worrying you and stressing you out – you both have a long standing joke that you wouldn’t be able to handle Nat’s job, you’d fall apart from the pressure. Natasha never undermines how stressful your own work can be though, letting you blow off steam whenever you come round, rubbing your feet as you complain about your difficult customers and your workload.

“I’m not good enough for you!” You suddenly burst, sobbing harder.

Natasha frowns, taken aback by your words “What? Who told you that?”

“Nobody I just know I’m not,” You whine. “You’re cool and brave and- And- And I’m a wimp and ugly and-”

“Hey, you’re not ugly!” Natasha insists, her hand cupping your cheek. “And you’re not a wimp. Or any other negative thing you’re about to say about yourself.”

“You could date literally anyone, why did you settle for me?”

“I didn’t settle for anything. I love you, you know I love you,” Natasha kisses your tear-stained cheek. “Shh, please don’t say that, you’re gonna break my heart baby.”

“I don’t deserve you!” You wail.

Natasha rests her head against the top of yours, closing her eyes as she rocks you back and forth, listening to your anguished cries “So why did you drink so much?”

“I was sad and I wanted to not feel sad anymore but now I feel very sad.”

“Alcohol’s a depressant, it’ll do that,” Natasha murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “You should’ve just told me.”

“I’m always moaning to you about my problems, I didn’t wanna bother you-”

“You don’t bother me! I want to hear what’s going on with you. What I don’t want is for you to go to random bars and get drunk all by yourself,” Natasha sighs, kissing the top of your head. “Why are you suddenly so worried about this?”

You sniffle and suddenly you can’t stop talking. Tell her all about your childhood, how boys had asked you out as a joke, how you’d explored your sexuality but every girl you’d dated had told you were too needy, how your parents had always favoured your younger sister. About your parents alcoholism, how you always promised yourself you wouldn’t get drunk and how you feel uncomfortable around drunk people, even now. How you’d never come first for anyone and now you blamed yourself. If only you weren’t so needy, so pathetic, you’d be worthy of love. Natasha listens, letting you get it off your chest, her hand rubbing up and down your back.

“You can do so much better than me,” You sob.

Natasha kisses the top of your head again and whispers “You know what though? I often think that about you. That you could do so much better than me.”

You blow a raspberry “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I’m an assassin; I have so much blood on my hands. Every time someone sees you with me you get put in more danger. You’re so sweet and kind and funny, and I’m… Emotionally unavailable a lot of the time. I have nightmares and I’m… I’m needy too.”

You hiccup, your tears starting to subside as you look up at her. Natasha reaches over to the coffee table, picking up a bottle of water and placing it in your hands “I can’t wait to deal with your first hangover tomorrow.”

You take a long swig of the water, realising for the first time just how thirsty you are – partly from all the alcohol, and partly from all the crying. You wipe at the tears on your face, your make-up now so smudged that you look like a little panda. Natasha thinks it’s cute and kisses your cheek “You’re my beautiful girlfriend, my baby girl and I love you. Knowing you’ve been feeling this insecure kills me.”

“I didn’t realise… You feel the same?”

“Sometimes. But I’m also really selfish because even if I’m not good enough for you, I’m not letting you go anywhere.”

You smile, your head against her shoulder “You’re my favourite.”

“You’re my favourite. And you’ll always come first for me,” Natasha kisses your forehead. “No more drinking sessions by yourself. And no more self doubt. I won’t allow it.”

Natasha lifts you easily into her arms, ignoring your squeals of protest which are half-hearted anyway. She carries you through to her bedroom, lowering you onto the floor. She helps you out of your clothes, letting you wear one of her oversized t-shirts as pyjamas then gently wipes off all your make-up. Natasha kisses your red, shiny face and then pulls you into her arms “Get some sleep. You’re gonna wake up with a hell of a headache.”

You groan, nuzzling your face into her neck “Will you look after me?”

“Yeah baby, of course,” Natasha reassures you, running her hand through your messy hair. “Always.”

You fall asleep in her embrace and Natasha kisses your forehead. You look so cute and vulnerable; it makes her fall in love with you even more. She’d had no idea you were feeling that way and she’s worried you’ll feel embarrassed in the morning. Natasha won’t let you feel bad about yourself though. You’ve taken care of her multiple times after a few too many drinks and now it’s her turn. She kisses your forehead. Her favourite girl… She won’t let you doubt yourself ever again.

[mxsgrace]

in twos ఌ︎.

grace ashcroft x fem!reader.

tags -> not proofread, minor swearing, fluff fluff fluff!!, reader is a little shorter than grace, no spoilers !!

a/n -> i apologise this is ass, i’m sosososo tired from school it’s actually pissing me off so badd, we also need more grace love like hello that’s literally my baby. my requests also might be a little slow due to school but they will be done ! promise 😋 (title loosely based off ‘in twos’ by esha tewari .. 😛😛)

time dragged on, it seemed like grace was working more often than not. she’d be tired when she’d come home, and if she had an early day? she’d keep working from home till she fell asleep at her laptop.

you’d tell her to take breaks, take naps but she wouldn’t listen, give you an ‘i’m okay’ and keep her eyes glued to her laptop’s screen. and even though her habits may have annoyed you a little bit, you could never actually be mad at her.

as of right now, you were sat beside her on your bed, filing your nails whilst grace was focused on whatever assignment she got given on her laptop. but your attention wasn’t on your nails, not really. your eyes drifted to her more often than not. her hair fell into her face, glasses slid down the bridge of her nose.

your face pulled into a frown and you set the filer down onto the bedside table. you moved closer to her, shoulder brushing hers. “when are you done?” you ask quietly, glancing at the writing on her screen.

“ten, no maybe fifteen minutes.” she replied, eyes locked on her writing. your frown deepens, “you said that fifteen minutes ago.” you mutter, eyes looking over her side profile. “actually, you’ve been saying that for an hour.”

“i know, i know, but i swear im nearly done i just have to-“ grace cuts herself off when you close her laptop shut with a click and pick it up from her lap, placing it beside the lamp and filer on the bedside table. “hey!”

you shake your head and turn back towards her. “you need a break. and it’s like whenever your working my words go in through one ear and exit through the other straight away.” you scold, grabbing her hands. you pull her up so she’s sat upright instead of leaning against the headboard. “what you need, pretty girl, is to learn how to relax.”

grace frowns but squeezes your hands a little, “i know how to relax, im just .. busy?.” she says, her gaze drifting to one of your bedroom walls decorated with shelves and polaroid pictures. mostly pictures of the two of you together.

“be unbusy then.” you reply, “i don’t think that’s a word-“. “shush and let’s do something fun, yeah?” you grin, standing up and pulling her to her feet.

now an hour later, you were both in the kitchen, making muffins. well, attempting to make muffins. there was flour everywhere and a failed batch put to the side. the chocolate muffins you managed to make sat in the oven whilst the two of you giggled about something dumb.

your finger grazes her cheekbone as you wiped some of the remaining flour off her face, the light of the cooker hood casting a soft, warm glow across your faces’.

“you’re so shit at baking.” you giggle, taking her (also flour covered) glasses off, placing it on the countertop. you get a smile out of grace and she swats your hands away, “am not!”

“you so are!” you snort and wrap your arms around her neck, grinning up at her. “remind me to never ask you to do this again. you might burn my apartment down.”

she hugs you back, “you’re mean.” she whines, leaning down to press her forehead against yours.

“yeah? you gonna do something about it?” you tease, your grin turning into a small smirk. grace bites her cheek at your comment and turns a faint shade of pink. “i- no.? i mean i don’t mind- mind it?.” she stutters, her cheeks growing pinker.

your snort again and pull her down, pressing a kiss to her lips. “you’re such a dork, ashcroft.” you smile and press another soft and longer kiss to her lips. graces hands stay pressed against your sides gently, bringing you a little closer.

though the moment ended when the oven’s timer went off and beeping filled the kitchen. you reluctantly pull away and hear a whine leave grace. you crouch down in front of the oven and look through the tiny window. you glance up at grace, “it looks kinda ass,” a grin spreads across your lips once more, “d’you think it’ll taste like ass too?” you giggle and look back at the muffins.

“hey it can’t be that bad. plus you’re the one who put them in the tray so technically, it’s your fault if they taste like ‘ass’.” she replies, getting a plate for the muffins.

୨ৎ.

the muffin wrappers were left abandoned on the plate. safe to say they didn’t taste like ass. you and grace are them in less then ten minutes, the movie you picked barely made it past the intro before the pastries were gone.

now you had one leg swung over hers, your head against her chest as your eyes were fixed on the bright tv screen. her hand ran through your hair gently, the other resting on your lower back. her work laptop was long forgotten, all she could think about right now was you and how comfortable you were.

after a while grace let out a yawn and her grip tightened around you. you smile and lift your head to look at her. “you tired baby?” you ask quietly, brushing your nose against hers. she shakes her head. “no. well kinda, but i like just being with you. quietly, it’s.. nice.”

“you can sleep, grace. i’ll stay here.” you mutter, lips brushing hers again. grace sighs and closes her eyes, pecking your lips, then nose before letting her head fall back on the pillows. “okay.” she whispers.

you turn the volume down and place the remote on the other side of the bed, placing your head back down against her chest. the steady rhythm of her heart was comforting.

“i love you.” she mutters, her hand massaging your scalp once more. you hum in response and place your hand on her side. “i love you back.” you mutter.

↺ m.list

[whimsywitchess]

Your Love is Sunlight

𖤓 grace ashcroft x fem!reader

𖤓 set post-requiem

𖤓 content: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, mild spoilers for the events of re9, slightly suggestive content, no use of y/n, found family

𖤓 wc: 1.7k

Syrupy light from the rising sun slips through the window like a hot knife through butter, pooling in the darkest crevices of your kitchen until the tiles are molten. A bunch of sweet-smelling posies undulate on the windowsill — fresh ones that Grace had brought home the other week to cheer you up after a rough day at work. Your apartment looks perfectly lived in, with shoes strewn haphazardly across the hallway, technicolour magnets askew on the fridge and a cosmos of cartoonish stickers tacked between family photos on the wall.

Pancake batter bubbles in a hissing pan and it sweetens the air. You hum in tandem with the whispering radio, mindful to keep quiet so you don't wake anyone — a full night of uninterrupted sleep is rare in this house, after all.

Dawn crests the horizon, streaking the rosy sky with rays that coil like tangerine peels. You'd woken up unreasonably early and decided that it'd be more worthwhile to get a head start on breakfast, rather than tossing and turning until your alarm went off.

The pancake stacks plated up beside you are steadily growing. You fill the sink with soapy water while you wait for the next few to cook, content to soak the dishes and watch the honeysuckle sunrise. You're absorbed in the rhythm of your own little world - meaning that don't notice the creaking floorboards behind you, nor the featherlight footsteps that are slowly advancing across the kitchen...

An arm wraps around your waist. The perpetrator's hands are freezing and goosebumps spark across your skin wherever her touch meanders, eliciting a small gasp from you.

"You're up early."

Grace's voice is still heavy with sleep, her eyes half-lidded and bleary as she buries her face into the crook of your neck. She sounds a little disgruntled — she prefers to wake up knowing that you're within arm's reach. Safe.

"Sorry, honey," you murmur, freeing a hand from the pan to clasp her forearm. "Didn't want to wake you. How'd you sleep?"

She shrugs. "Better than usual," Grace answers shortly.

You hum in response and melt back into her, lazily flipping the pancakes every so often. It's nice to have her close like this.

Ever since she came home to you, all bruised and shaken, Grace has been noticeably clingier than usual — the very same Grace who used to hate PDA and would squirm awkwardly when you so much as held her hand in front of somebody else.

It started with the smallest gestures. Her pinkie intertwining with yours in a crowded room, or a hand slipping up the back of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin pressed up against hers. Anything to ground her in the present after a rough nightmare or panic attack, to tether her to something that feels real and tangible and secure.

Even now, stood in the dying dregs of sunrise, her thumb absentmindedly finds your pulse point. Her breathing seems to even out when she feels that rhythm, beating beneath your skin like a metronome, and she relaxes against you.

"Is Emily still asleep?" you ask.

That was another thing that changed following Grace's return. There was a little girl who she had rescued from the care facility with no home, no family, nowhere to go. Her and Grace were practically attached at the hip for the first few weeks they were home, clearly trauma bonded by whatever they'd been through that night.

In all honesty, it didn't take a lot of convincing for you to let Emily stay. You have a thing for taking in strays, apparently...

Grace hums against your neck in response and you can't suppress the shiver that runs through you. Her cold hands begin to wander, apparently hellbent on distracting you from making breakfast.

She kisses her way up to your jaw, a smile curving against the sensitive skin beneath your ear when you squirm. Almost as a reflex, your head tips back, bearing the column of your neck to the grinning sun beyond the window panes.

“Grace—"

She manages to tear herself away for a moment, fixing you in place with her stare — pale and glacial as the misted surface of a lake, rippling with admiration. It takes everything in you not to shy away from her scrutiny.

She tilts her head, smiling fondly as she takes you in. "Hey, you've got a little something..." Grace says.

Her thumb brushes some flour from your cheekbone. It must’ve gotten there when you were making the batter. You hadn’t noticed.

"Thank you, my love."

She stammers a little, choking on her words. That lazy, early morning confidence from before dissipates entirely and her cheeks burn a furious scarlet.

Never gets old.

Smiling sappily, you cup her face with your free hand, nudging your nose against hers as you lean in to kiss her. Your hand winds into her hair and she lets out a soft groan when you pull at the roots. That seems to snap whatever restraint was drawn taut between the two of you...

Grace traces the seam of your lips with her tongue in an attempt to deepen the kiss. She tastes like spearmint and neediness, mapping you with intention, almost as if she'd been dreaming about this very moment. A low hum resonates from deep within her throat.

You draw back as far as she'll allow (which isn't very far), muffling a laugh against her mouth. "The pancakes are gonna burn," you warn.

"Mm, I don't care," she replies, chasing your lips.

Her fingertips dance across the slope of your waist, beginning to map out the familiar slopes and ridges. They slide beneath the waistband of your pyjamas, her callouses crooking around your hipbones tantalisingly and beginning to dip even lower—

"Ew," a small voice pipes up from the doorway. "You guys are gross."

The two of you jolt apart like you've been burned. You clear your throat and hone in on flipping the pancakes to excuse the blush on your face, while Grace leans back (not so) casually on the countertop. She scrambles to grab a mug so that she can hide her flustered expression behind the rim.

You snort. Smooth.

Bracketed by the doorframe, Emily stands with her nose wrinkled in disgust and an arm wrapped protectively around the Build-A-Bear that Leon had gotten her as an early birthday present. Her pale blonde hair is ruffled from sleep, sticking up in every direction as she stifles a yawn.

Emily pads into the kitchen, her fluffy slippers muffling the slap of her footsteps against the tiles. She hops up onto one of the chairs at the table without another word.

"Good morning to you, too," Grace teases.

"Yeah, g'morning, angel," you add, clearing your throat. "I'm sorry if we woke you."

"It's okay. I was up anyways," Emily says blearily. Her feet begin to swing since they can't quite reach the ground, legs kicking back and forth beneath her absentmindedly. "Are you making pancakes?"

"Mhm. I hope you're hungry."

Emily seems to perk up at that — pancakes are her favourite. A smile brightens up her face, revealing her crescent dimples and the little gap in her grin from the tooth she'd lost the other day.

"Just so long as Grace didn't help you make them this time," she chirps.

Grace scoffs. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you can't cook," you cough behind your fist.

Emily nods solemnly. "They tasted like charcoal the last time you made 'em."

"And how would you know what charcoal tastes like, young lady?"

Emily mumbles something unintelligible. You share an amused, sidelong glance with Grace.

"Okay, stop distracting me," you laugh, swatting your girlfriend with the spatula. "These are almost ready."

Hands raised in surrender, Grace presses a parting kiss to your temple before dragging herself away.

She rounds the kitchen table and pulls out the free chair next to Emily. Then, she reaches across the table to grab her reading glasses and one of the books they'd adopted from the local library.

"How about we read a little while Mom makes your breakfast, hm?"

"Okay," Emily says softly.

Your heart melts a little at the sight of them. They lean against each other, shoulder to shoulder, crowding together to focus on the book. Grace has her glasses perched precariously on the bridge of her nose and there's a tiny furrow between Emily's brows as she concentrates on the words.

The two of you had been homeschooling Emily, considering that she's never been properly socialised with other kids (aside from the ones in the facility — you dread to think about it) and it would be unfair to throw her in at the deep end with a brand new school.

When Grace feels your stare, she glances up to catch your eye, giving you a crooked smile. You set two plates before them and hastily turn away to smother the twitching of your own lips.

It wasn't easy to create your little safe haven, what with all that transpired a few months ago. There was a lot of work that went into building up a fortress where they'd both feel safe — one with night lights, warm embraces and several locks bolted onto the front door.

You don’t like to dwell on it but it did hurt you, to see her like that. Grace barely slept for the first two weeks back, caught in a strange limbo between haunted dreams and paranoid wakefulness. You can't even begin to imagine the horrors that face her when she closes her eyes.

And, sure, they’re both still burdened by everything that they've been through (their routine nightmares more than enough to evidence that) but the three of you are managing, and that's enough.

You watch as Emily squints down at the storybook, deciphering the page with Grace's help. You take in the toys strewn in between imposing stacks of Grace's paperwork, the cartoonish crayola scribbles pinned to the fridge. You gaze at all the mismatched, patchwork evidence of your unconventional family where it has taken root within your apartment...

And, in that moment, you can't imagine being anywhere more perfect

authors note!

i’m not super happy with how this turned out but i feel like going back over it again is gonna drive me crazy 😭 i hope you enjoyed <3

writing ‘mom’ took ten years off my life but it didn’t feel right to make an american character say mum 😿 the things i sacrifice for grace /j

( divider by strangergraphics )

[ilovemarvel97]

Marked By You - Chapter 6

No Way Back

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Wolf Reader

Summary: It’s been a month since Wanda broke up with Vision. Things were going well until it wasn’t…

Words: 10k+

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, Soulmate AU

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

---

The days after Wanda broke up with Vision were… tense.

At first, the compound felt like it was holding its breath. Vision moved through the halls with his usual precision, but something colder sat beneath his calm now. He spoke little unless necessary, and when he did, his tone was clipped and professional.

Wanda kept her distance.

If they crossed paths, the silence between them was heavy enough that even the others noticed. Steve attempted to mediate once, but Wanda shut the conversation down gently.

“I’m not ready to talk about it,” she told him.

And Steve respected that.

Y/N Tries to Stay Away

For the first few days after the fight, Y/N tried to give Wanda space. She volunteered for missions, patrols, recon assignments—anything that kept her out of the compound for long stretches.

But the imprint didn’t care about her intentions.

No matter how long she stayed away, she could still feel Wanda. Not physically, not exactly, but the pull was constant—like gravity, like a compass needle that refused to point anywhere else.

She would find herself drifting toward Wanda’s floor of the compound without realizing it, pausing outside the hallway and turning back before she reached the door.

It was exhausting.

Nat noticed almost immediately.

“You’re pacing,” Nat said one evening in the training room.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“You circle the same hallway three times a night,” Nat replied casually, stretching her shoulders. “Like a wolf guarding territory.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Nat studied her for a moment.

“…Ah,” she said quietly.

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”

Nat raised both hands in surrender. “Didn’t say anything.”

Wanda Notices Too

Wanda noticed something was different.

Y/N wasn’t avoiding her—not really—but she kept a careful distance. When they were in the same room, Y/N was attentive without hovering, quiet without disappearing.

And yet Wanda always felt… watched.

Not in a threatening way.

More like a presence.

Like someone making sure she was safe without stepping into her space.

Once, Wanda woke up in the middle of the night and stepped into the hallway for water. Down at the far end, Y/N sat against the wall outside the stairwell, half asleep in wolf form.

Guarding.

When Y/N realized Wanda had seen her, she stood immediately and muttered something about “fresh air” before disappearing outside.

Wanda didn’t comment.

But she didn’t forget.

---

The rest of the Avengers adjusted to the new dynamic slowly. Vision worked mostly with Steve and Tony on strategy and planning, while Y/N spent more time training with Nat, Bucky, and Sam. Wanda floated between both groups depending on the day.

No one said anything outright—but the fracture inside the team was obvious.

Only Nat occasionally poked at it.

One afternoon in the gym, she tossed Wanda a towel. “You know the big wolf practically orbits you, right?” Nat said casually.

Wanda frowned. “She doesn’t.”

Nat just hummed.

---

Despite everything, Y/N still gravitated toward Wanda without realizing it. Not deliberately—just instinct. After a mission where Wanda pushed herself too hard, Y/N silently placed a protein bar and water beside her before walking away.

Another night, Wanda fell asleep reading on the couch. The compound had gone quiet hours ago, the lights in the common room dim, the television still playing some muted documentary no one had been watching. Wanda had curled into the corner of the couch with a book in her hands, intending to read a few pages before bed. She never made it past the third chapter.

Y/N noticed first. She had been sitting on the floor near the window, pretending to scroll through something on her phone while actually listening to the steady rhythm of Wanda’s breathing. The moment it deepened—slow and even—she glanced over.

Wanda was asleep.

The book had slipped halfway down her chest, fingers still loosely holding the edge of the page. A strand of hair had fallen across her face, rising and falling gently with each breath.

Y/N stared for a long moment, then sighed softly. “…You’re going to wreck your neck like that,” she murmured under her breath.

Carefully, she stood. The movement was quiet, deliberate. She approached the couch like she was stepping into fragile territory.

“Wanda,” Y/N said gently, nudging the book away.

No response.

Her eyes softened. “Alright,” she muttered.

With slow, careful movements, Y/N slid one arm beneath Wanda’s knees and the other around her back. She lifted her easily. Wanda stirred faintly but didn’t wake, her head instinctively settling against Y/N’s shoulder. The warmth of her breath brushed Y/N’s neck.

Y/N’s steps slowed for a fraction of a second. The imprint tugged hard in her chest.

Steady, she reminded herself.

She carried Wanda down the hallway, careful not to bump the doorframe as she nudged it open with her foot. The room was dim, the soft glow of the bedside lamp the only light. Y/N crossed the room and lowered her gently onto the mattress.

She was just about to pull her hands away—

When Wanda moved.

Her eyes opened halfway, hazy with sleep. Before Y/N could step back, Wanda’s hands lifted and curled loosely around the back of Y/N’s neck, stopping her from pulling away.

“Stay,” Wanda murmured sleepily.

Y/N froze. Her breath caught.

“Wanda…” she said quietly, unsure.

Wanda blinked a few times, waking a little more. Her hands were still resting behind Y/N’s neck, fingers loosely threaded in the short hair there.

“You’re leaving again,” Wanda said softly.

Y/N hesitated. “…You were asleep.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Wanda studied her face now, more awake, the sleep fading slowly from her expression. There was something searching in her gaze.

“Why are you being distant?” she asked quietly.

The question hit harder than Y/N expected. Her shoulders tensed slightly.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” Wanda replied gently. “You don’t sit next to me anymore. You leave rooms early. You keep volunteering for missions.”

Y/N swallowed. Her eyes dropped briefly to the mattress beside Wanda before lifting again.

“…Because it feels like it’s my fault,” she admitted.

Wanda frowned slightly. “What is?”

“You and Vision,” Y/N said, voice quieter now. “Breaking up.”

The words hung heavy between them.

Wanda stared at her for a moment. “Y/N,” she said softly.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Y/N continued quickly. “I know I made things complicated. I kept showing up, sleeping outside your door, being around all the time—”

“Hey,” Wanda interrupted gently.

Her hands tightened slightly behind Y/N’s neck, keeping her from pulling away.

“I already told you,” Wanda said, her voice steady despite the softness of it. “You were not the reason.”

Y/N shook her head faintly. “It didn’t help.”

“Maybe not,” Wanda admitted. “But the decision was mine.”

Her thumb brushed lightly against the back of Y/N’s neck without her realizing it.

“I didn’t break up with him because of you,” Wanda continued. “I broke up with him because he didn’t trust me.”

Y/N held her gaze, conflicted.

Wanda sighed softly. “You listen to me,” she added. “You respect my boundaries. When I ask you to stop, you stop.” Her eyes softened. “That matters.”

Y/N’s chest tightened.

For a moment neither of them moved.

Then Wanda shifted slightly on the bed, still holding Y/N loosely. “You’re not allowed to disappear because you think you ruined my life,” she added quietly.

A faint, surprised huff escaped Y/N. “…I wasn’t planning on disappearing.”

“Good.”

Wanda’s lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained serious. “Because I’d notice.”

The imprint in Y/N’s chest twisted painfully at that.

She exhaled slowly. “…Okay.”

Wanda’s hands finally loosened around her neck, but neither of them moved away immediately. The room was quiet—comfortable, complicated.

Wanda studied Y/N for another second, her hands still loosely resting at the back of her neck. Then a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.

“…Now come on,” she said softly.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Wanda’s smile widened just a little. “You know.”

Y/N hesitated.

Then she understood.

A quiet breath left her as she stepped back from the bed. The shift came easily—bones stretching, muscles reshaping, heat rippling through her body in a familiar wave. In seconds, the massive wolf stood where she had been, fur catching the warm light of the bedside lamp.

Wanda’s face lit up immediately. “There you are,” she murmured.

She reached forward without hesitation, both hands sinking into the thick fur around Y/N’s head. Her fingers ruffled through it affectionately, scratching behind one ear before sliding down along the side of her neck.

“That’s my little wolf.”

The words were soft. Fond.

And they hit Y/N like a lightning strike.

Her heart skipped so hard it nearly made her dizzy. Overwhelmed by the warmth in Wanda’s voice, Y/N leaned forward and—without thinking—licked Wanda’s cheek.

A full, unapologetic wolf lick.

Wanda squeaked.

Then she burst into laughter.

“Oh my—!” she gasped, wiping at her cheek while Y/N pulled back slightly, ears flattening in immediate embarrassment.

Wanda shook her head, still giggling, and wrapped her arms around Y/N’s massive neck, burying her face briefly into the thick fur. “You’re unbelievable,” she murmured, voice warm with amusement.

Y/N huffed quietly, clearly apologetic.

After a moment, Wanda pulled back just enough to look at her properly. Her smile softened, something more serious settling into her eyes.

“Hey,” she said gently.

Y/N’s ears twitched forward.

Wanda’s fingers slid back into the fur at the base of her neck, steady and grounding.

“Don’t do that again.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly.

Wanda sighed softly. “Don’t pull away like that,” she clarified. “Don’t distance yourself because you think you’re the reason things ended with Vision.”

Her thumb brushed slowly through the thick fur.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Wanda continued quietly. “You didn’t cause that.”

Y/N let out a soft huff, acknowledging her words even if the guilt hadn’t fully left.

Wanda smiled again, softer now. “Good,” she murmured.

Then, without overthinking it, she leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Y/N’s muzzle.

Y/N froze instantly.

Golden eyes widened, heart hammering in her chest as if it might burst.

Wanda didn’t seem to realize the effect she’d just had. She simply settled back into her pillows with a small, content sigh, one hand still resting in Y/N’s fur.

“Goodnight, my little wolf,” she murmured sleepily.

And Y/N stayed right there beside the bed long after Wanda drifted off again—heart still racing from a single, innocent kiss.

---

Morning came slowly to the compound.

Soft sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the living area, catching dust motes in the air and warming the polished floor. The kitchen was already alive with quiet morning sounds—coffee brewing, a pan sizzling faintly on the stove. Steve sat at the table reading through a tablet, glasses low on his nose. Bucky leaned against the counter with a mug in hand, while Sam rummaged through the fridge like it had personally offended him.

Nat noticed the footsteps first and looked up just as Wanda appeared at the top of the stairs.

Wanda looked… better. Still a little sleepy, hair loose around her shoulders, but the tight tension that had clung to her the past few weeks had softened.

And right behind her—Y/N.

In human form this time, hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of her sweatpants, trying very hard to look like she wasn’t instinctively staying half a step behind Wanda.

Nat’s brow lifted slightly.

Well.

That answered a few questions.

“Morning,” Wanda said as she stepped into the room.

“Morning,” Steve replied, glancing up.

Sam leaned around the fridge door. “Hey, sleeping beauty—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Because Vision had just walked into the room.

The android froze the moment he saw them: Wanda standing in front, Y/N just behind her, close enough that it was obvious they had come down together. Something flickered across Vision’s face—too fast for most people to catch.

But Y/N saw it.

And Nat definitely did.

Vision’s gaze moved slowly from Wanda… to Y/N.

Then back again.

The silence stretched.

“Good morning,” Vision said finally. His voice was calm.

Too calm.

“Morning,” Wanda replied, equally neutral as she moved toward the coffee maker.

Y/N followed automatically—until she realized what she was doing and stopped a few steps away instead. The habit caught up with her too late. She froze mid-step, shoulders tightening as she forced herself to stay where she was. Old instincts tugged at her chest, urging her to stay close, but she clenched her jaw and held her ground.

Space. Give her space.

She started to step back—

But Wanda turned.

Before Y/N could retreat, Wanda reached out and took her hand. The contact was warm and natural, like it wasn’t something she’d even thought twice about. Wanda gave a small tug, pulling Y/N forward toward the kitchen.

“Come on,” she said casually.

Y/N blinked, caught off guard, but allowed herself to be pulled along.

Behind them, Sam’s head slowly emerged from inside the refrigerator again.

Wanda didn’t seem to notice the room watching. She guided Y/N up to the counter, finally letting go of her hand only once they reached the kitchen island.

“What do you want to eat?” Wanda asked, glancing toward the cabinets.

Y/N stared at her for half a second like she’d just been asked a trick question.

“…Food?” she offered.

Nat snorted from the table.

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but smiled anyway, opening the fridge. “Very helpful.” She pulled out a carton of eggs and a container of fruit. “Do you want eggs?” she asked over her shoulder.

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah.”

“Scrambled or fried?”

“…Yes.”

Bucky huffed into his coffee.

Wanda turned to look at Y/N, one eyebrow lifting. “You are absolutely useless in the morning.”

Y/N rubbed the back of her neck, slightly embarrassed. “I didn’t know there would be a quiz.”

Wanda shook her head with a quiet laugh and started cooking anyway.

Across the room, Steve tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t witnessing the entire exchange. Nat leaned back in her chair, watching with open amusement.

And down the hallway—

A door shut harder than necessary.

Y/N’s ears metaphorically twitched at the sound, but when she glanced toward the hall, Wanda simply slid a plate in front of her.

“Eat,” Wanda said.

Y/N looked down at the food, then back at Wanda.

“…Thanks.”

Wanda shrugged lightly, leaning against the counter beside her.

“No problem.”

---

One Month Later

The Quinjet hummed steadily as it cut through the night sky, city lights far below reduced to scattered constellations.

Inside, the mood was focused—quiet but alert.

Steve stood near the center console, holographic blueprints projected in front of him. The warehouse district flickered in midair—loading docks, entry points, security grids.

“This is a retrieval,” Steve reminded them, voice calm but firm. “Same group as last month. They kept a backup copy of the intel. We go in, secure the data drive, and get out. No unnecessary engagement.”

Nat leaned against the wall, cleaning a pistol with absent efficiency. “Perimeter cameras show light rotation. Eight to ten guards. Mostly small arms.”

“Copy’s supposedly in the lower archive room,” Bucky added from his seat, metal arm resting against his knee. “Concrete walls. One main stairwell. Two emergency exits.”

Wanda stood beside Y/N, arms crossed as she studied the hologram, faint red energy flickering lazily at her fingertips while tracing a possible entry route. Y/N sat on the floor near the ramp with her back against the wall, one knee raised, eyes closed—not asleep. Listening.

Wanda glanced down at her briefly, almost unconsciously checking on her.

Steve noticed. “Y/N.”

Her eyes opened immediately.

“You good?”

She nodded once. “Yeah.”

The Quinjet began its descent.

Landing gear lowered with a mechanical whine as the abandoned industrial zone came into view—dark buildings, rusted fencing, empty lots. The jet touched down two blocks from the target and the ramp lowered slowly, cold night air rushing inside.

Immediately something felt wrong.

Nat’s posture shifted first. She didn’t move forward, simply scanning the empty street.

“…Too quiet.”

Bucky stepped down beside her, metal hand flexing once. “Yeah. No patrol movement.”

Steve frowned. “Thermal?”

“Minimal,” Nat replied. “Which doesn’t match what we saw an hour ago.”

Wanda stepped down next, Y/N following close behind. The second Y/N’s boots hit the pavement, her expression changed. She inhaled deeply. The air tasted wrong. Heavy. Metallic. Her head tilted slightly as she focused, filtering past wind, distant traffic, and the low electrical hum of streetlights. Then her eyes opened.

“There’s more,” she said quietly.

Steve looked at her. “More what?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpened toward the warehouse. “Heartbeats.”

Wanda stilled beside her.

“How many?” Bucky asked.

Y/N focused harder. “…At least thirty.” Silence settled over the team.

Nat swore under her breath. “We were told ten.”

“They’re not moving much,” Y/N added. “Spread out. Elevated positions too.”

Steve’s jaw set. “Ambush.”

Wanda’s red glow brightened faintly as she stepped a little closer to Y/N without thinking.

Steve made the call quickly. “We don’t abort yet. Move slow. Tight formation. Nat, left flank. Bucky right.”

His gaze shifted. “Wanda, stay with Y/N.”

Neither of them argued.

They advanced toward the warehouse, boots silent against cracked pavement. Every shadow felt heavier. Every window darker.

Halfway to the entrance, Y/N stopped.

Her nose lifted again. Her eyes widened.

“…They know we’re here.”

Right on cue—The warehouse lights snapped on. Gunfire erupted from the rooftops. The first bullets hit the pavement before the echo of the gunfire finished bouncing off the buildings.

“MOVE!” Steve barked.

They scattered in practiced formation.

Nat rolled behind a rusted delivery truck, returning fire in sharp, controlled bursts. Bucky spun right, metal arm snapping up to catch a bullet mid-air before he hurled it back toward a sniper nest. Concrete exploded a heartbeat later.

Wanda lifted her hands, scarlet energy flaring outward into a defensive shield as rounds ricocheted harmlessly off the barrier.

Y/N didn’t shift. Not yet. She sprinted forward low, weaving between debris, dodging incoming fire with almost unnatural timing. A gunman dropped from a fire escape ahead of her—she closed the distance in three strides, driving her elbow into his throat before sweeping his legs out from under him. He hit the ground hard. She didn’t slow.

“Rooftop—two more!” she called, already pivoting.

Bucky’s rifle barked. One dropped.

The second threw a flash grenade.

“Down!” Nat shouted.

Y/N reacted instantly. She grabbed Wanda by the arm and yanked her behind a concrete barrier just as the grenade detonated. White light swallowed the alley, ears ringing.

But they didn’t lose formation.

Steve charged straight through the smoke, shield slamming into a cluster of armed men rushing from the warehouse entrance. He moved like a battering ram—precise, controlled, overwhelming.

“We push inside!” he ordered. “Open space out here favors them!”

It made sense.

Too many elevated positions. Too many angles.

They advanced toward the warehouse doors under covering fire. Y/N ducked under a baton swing and drove her knee into the attacker’s ribs. Another came from her blind spot—she twisted, catching his wrist and slamming him face-first into a steel container.

Her senses screamed.

More movement. More heartbeats.

“They’re repositioning!” she shouted. “They’re funneling us!”

“Inside!” Nat snapped. “Now!”

They breached the warehouse doors together. The moment they crossed the threshold—The gunfire stopped. Silence swallowed the space. The interior was cavernous: stacked crates, overhead catwalks, dim industrial lights flickering weakly across concrete floors. Too still.

Wanda’s gaze swept the rafters. “I don’t like this.”

“Keep moving,” Steve said, advancing cautiously.

They moved deeper inside.

Then—Metal shutters slammed down behind them with a thunderous crash.

“Trap!” Bucky shouted.

Overhead lights flared blindingly bright. Figures emerged from behind crates, from catwalks, from hidden doorways.

Not ten.

Not thirty.

More. 

Heavily armed. Organized. A voice crackled over the loudspeakers.

“Avengers. Thank you for entering the containment zone.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t random. This was designed.

“They wanted us inside,” Nat muttered.

Gunfire erupted again—this time from every direction. Wanda threw up a shield, scarlet energy flaring outward as bullets hammered against it in rapid succession. The impacts vibrated through her arms, forcing her to brace her stance as the pressure mounted.

“Move!” Steve shouted. “Stairs—north side! Roof access!”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She darted forward, cutting through the line of attackers with controlled brutality—disarming one, dropping another with a crushing elbow before pivoting to intercept a third. She moved like a blade: precise, efficient, no wasted motion.

But for every body that dropped, two more stepped into place.

“They’re rotating squads!” she called. “This is organized!”

Nat picked off a sniper on the catwalk while Bucky laid down suppressive fire. Steve smashed through a barricade, carving a path toward the metal staircase leading upward.

They made it halfway across the loading bay when—

A mechanical click echoed beneath their boots.

Y/N’s head snapped downward.

“Don’t—”

The floor gave way.

A rectangular section of reinforced steel dropped open beneath Bucky’s feet.

“Barnes!” Steve shouted.

Bucky fell.

Wanda reacted instantly. Scarlet energy snapped around his torso mid-air, halting his descent inches above the darkness. He slammed against the side of the shaft, teeth gritting as he tried to find purchase.

“I’ve got you!” Wanda strained, pulling him upward—

Then another click. Y/N’s stomach dropped. The floor beneath her shifted. She barely had time to look up before the metal panel under her boots split apart. She fell.

“Y/N!” Wanda screamed. Without thinking—without hesitation—Wanda released Bucky.

Nat lunged forward, catching Bucky’s arm just as Wanda launched herself into the open shaft.

“WANDA!” Steve roared. But it was too late.

Both of them vanished into the darkness below. The trapdoor snapped shut again with a brutal clang. Silence swallowed the loading bay for half a heartbeat. Then the gunfire resumed.

Steve turned, fury flashing across his face. “We regroup! NOW!”

But beneath the warehouse—Wanda fell through blackness.

And far below—Y/N hit the ground hard.

Wanda’s scream echoed through the shaft as she dropped into pure darkness. Instinct kicked in. Scarlet energy flared around her body, slowing her descent—but the fall had already disoriented her. The shaft was tight, metallic, the air thick with dust.

She couldn’t see.

“Y/N!” she shouted into the void.

No answer.

Her boots hovered inches above what she thought might be the floor—

Then something collided with her.

Strong arms wrapped around her waist midair. A solid body braced beneath her.

They hit the ground together, but not violently—Y/N absorbing the impact and rolling so Wanda landed against her chest instead of concrete.

The air left Y/N’s lungs in a rough exhale.

Wanda gasped, gripping the front of her shirt. “Y/N?”

“I’ve got you,” Y/N said breathlessly in the dark.

For a split second, Wanda didn’t care where they were.

She clutched tighter.

Then reality rushed back in.

Above them the trapdoor had sealed completely. No light. No sound from the battle anymore. Just the faint hum of distant machinery.

Y/N shifted beneath her, rising carefully while keeping one arm around Wanda’s waist.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Wanda nodded before realizing Y/N probably couldn’t see it. “Yeah. You?”

“Fine.”

A lie.

Wanda heard the strain in her breathing, but there was no time to argue. Scarlet light bloomed faintly in her palm, illuminating the space around them.

They stood in a long, narrow corridor—reinforced concrete walls, industrial piping running along the ceiling. No visible exits except the shaft above.

Which was now sealed.

Y/N scanned quickly. “That wasn’t random.”

“No,” Wanda whispered. “It wasn’t.”

The floor beneath them vibrated faintly. A distant clang echoed down the corridor. Wanda’s light brightened instinctively, shadows stretching along the concrete.

Y/N’s head tilted slightly—not toward the sound, but toward the glow.

“Turn it off,” she said quietly.

Wanda blinked. “What? We can’t see.”

“I can.”

Something in Y/N’s voice had changed—lower, steadier. Focused.

Wanda looked at her properly. In the dim red glow, Y/N’s eyes weren’t Y/E/C anymore. They were gold. Bright. Reflective.

Wanda’s breath caught. “Oh.”

Y/N gave a small nod. “They’ll see you before you see them if you keep that on.”

Another metallic clang echoed, closer now. Wanda swallowed and let the light fade. Darkness swallowed them whole.

For half a second panic surged—her human eyes useless in the pitch black. Then Y/N’s hand found hers. “I’ve got you,” she murmured again. And this time, Wanda believed it.

Metal boots scraped somewhere down the corridor.

“They’re coming from both ends,” Y/N said quietly. “About twelve. Maybe more behind them.”

“How do you—”

“I can hear their gear shifting. Heartbeats.”

Wanda’s pulse jumped at that.

Y/N exhaled once.

“Hold on.”

The shift wasn’t explosive this time. It was controlled—bone reshaping, fabric tearing softly as her body expanded into muscle and fur.

In seconds the massive wolf stood where Y/N had been.

The corridor suddenly felt too small.

Golden eyes glowed in the darkness like twin embers.

Wanda felt rather than saw the transformation—bones shifting, fabric tearing, the corridor filling with the sheer presence of something ancient and powerful.

On, Y/N thought loudly.

Wanda didn’t argue.

She climbed onto Y/N’s back in one smooth motion, fingers tangling into the thick fur at the base of her neck. The wolf adjusted instantly, lowering slightly to steady her before rising again, powerful muscles coiling beneath Wanda like restrained thunder.

Y/N’s tail flicked once—a grounding gesture.

Hold tight.

Then she moved. Not reckless. Not wild.

Precise.

Her paws struck the concrete silently despite her size, claws finding grip where human boots would slip. She chose the darker end of the corridor—the direction with fewer heartbeats.

Gunfire erupted behind them as someone caught the faint outline of movement. Bullets sparked against metal piping.

Wanda instinctively raised a small shield behind them, just enough to deflect the nearest rounds without lighting up the corridor.

Left in six steps, Y/N thought sharply.

Wanda trusted her.

At the sixth stride Y/N veered left into a narrower passage just as armed men flooded into the corridor they’d abandoned. The wolf accelerated. Air rushed past Wanda’s face as Y/N moved faster than seemed possible in such tight quarters.

A soldier stepped into view ahead.

Y/N didn’t slow. She leapt.

The impact was brutal and efficient. The soldier slammed into the wall and dropped unconscious before he could cry out.

More ahead, Y/N warned.

Wanda closed her eyes briefly, reaching outward with her mind instead of her sight. She let her awareness stretch past the darkness and concrete, brushing against the sharp edges of foreign thoughts—fear, adrenaline, clipped orders over comms.

“They’re trying to herd us,” Wanda said—but the words weren’t spoken.

They echoed directly inside Y/N’s mind.

Y/N stumbled for half a stride, startled.

You’re in my head.

Only a little, Wanda replied, focused. Left corridor is blocked. They’re funneling us toward something bigger.

Y/N’s ears flattened as she ran.

Like a containment room.

Another cluster of heartbeats pulsed ahead—tight, waiting.

“Don’t go straight,” Wanda murmured aloud this time, tightening her grip in the fur at Y/N’s neck. “There’s something at the end.” Gunfire erupted again behind them, closer now.

Y/N made a split-second decision. She accelerated—not toward the corridor, but straight at the wall.

Wanda barely had time to react.

Y/N lowered her shoulder and slammed into the concrete. The wall cracked.

Again.

Concrete splintered under the third impact. They burst through into an adjacent chamber, dust exploding into the air behind them. Shouts echoed from the corridor they’d abandoned.

They didn’t expect that, Y/N thought grimly.

Wanda flashed a brief pulse of scarlet light across the room—quick, controlled.

Industrial generators. Maintenance ducts. No guards.

For now.

“They’re redirecting,” Wanda warned, feeling confusion ripple through nearby minds as it shifted into pursuit.

Y/N’s breathing had deepened, but remained steady.

Which way?

Wanda reached out again, brushing against thoughts more carefully this time.

“There’s an external access hatch two levels up. Fewer minds that way.”

Y/N didn’t question it.

She found a vertical maintenance shaft and leapt, claws digging into metal rungs as she climbed with Wanda still on her back.

Below them, boots thundered into the broken chamber. Spotlights cut through the dust. Orders were shouted.

“They’re sealing exits!” Wanda warned.

Then we don’t use doors.

Y/N reached the next level and barreled forward, ignoring the corridors entirely. She smashed through a ventilation barrier instead.

Cold night air hit them seconds later. They burst out onto the side of the warehouse structure—Into open space.

Searchlights snapped on instantly, blinding white beams sweeping across the rooftop before locking onto them. “There!” someone shouted from below.

Gunfire followed.

Y/N lunged forward across the rooftop without hesitation, claws scraping gravel and metal as bullets sparked around them. Wanda clung tighter, one arm buried in thick fur while the other rose instinctively.

Scarlet energy flared outward in controlled bursts—not attacking blindly but deflecting, redirecting. A line of incoming rounds twisted midair and scattered harmlessly off course.

“Helicopter, three o’clock!” Wanda warned.

Rotors thundered overhead as a mounted gun pivoted downward.

Y/N veered sharply left just as a spray of heavy rounds tore through the rooftop where they’d been. Concrete exploded behind them.

Wanda reached for the comm in her ear. “Steve! Status?”

Static.

“Steve, do you copy?”

Nothing.

Her chest tightened.

“Nat?” she tried.

A beat passed.

Then—

“Go,” Nat’s voice crackled through the comm, breathless but steady. “They’re focused on you two. Don’t double back. We’ll find our own exit.”

“What about Steve?” Wanda demanded.

“Barnes has him. We’re moving. Just go!”

The line cut out.

Wanda swallowed. “They’re clear,” she told Y/N quickly. “Nat says run.”

Y/N didn’t need to be told twice.

She sprinted.

The rooftop ended abruptly in a wide gap between buildings. Three stories below, armed men swarmed the street.

Y/N gathered herself.

Hold tight.

She leapt.

For a massive creature carrying another person, the jump was impossibly graceful. They cleared the gap, landed hard on the opposite rooftop—and didn’t slow.

More gunfire. More shouting.

A second helicopter dipped lower, its spotlight tracking them like prey.

“They’re herding us toward the river,” Wanda realized, sensing the shifting movements below.

Good, Y/N replied.

Wanda blinked. “Good?”

Open space. Fewer walls. I can run faster.

Y/N reached the edge of the final building and jumped again—this time dropping straight to street level. They landed in an alley, concrete cracking beneath the impact.

Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance while searchlights swept overhead.

“Left!” Wanda called, sensing a thinner patrol grid.

Y/N pivoted instantly and accelerated—faster, faster, her paws barely touching the ground. Gunfire faded behind them as helicopters struggled to track their path between buildings.

Moments later Y/N burst out of the industrial district and into the trees lining the riverbank. Darkness swallowed them.

The rotors overhead faltered. Searchlights lost lock.

Branches whipped past as Y/N plunged deeper into the forest without slowing. She didn’t follow trails or clear paths—cutting through dense brush, leaping fallen logs, splashing through shallow water to break scent and sound. Every few minutes she changed direction sharply.

Behind them the helicopters circled once. Twice. Then drifted farther away.

Wanda kept one hand threaded in thick fur while the other hovered low with faint scarlet light—just enough to sense approaching minds. Nothing close. Only distant confusion.

Y/N ran another mile. Then another. Only when her lungs began to burn did she slow to a fast trot. Then finally— She stopped.

The forest was deep here. Thick canopy overhead. No city glow. No engine noise. Just wind moving through leaves and the distant rush of water. Y/N stood perfectly still, ears flicking, head tilting as she listened in every direction. Heartbeats. None but Wanda’s and her own.

After a long moment her thoughts came quieter.

I think we lost them.

She turned her massive head carefully to glance back at Wanda on her back.

Are you okay?

Wanda’s fingers were still gripping fur, but her breathing had steadied. Adrenaline hummed in her veins, though the panic had faded.

“I’m okay,” she said softly. “You?”

A short pause.

Fine.

Another lie—but smaller this time. Y/N lowered herself slightly so Wanda could slide off. Wanda did, boots touching damp earth. The forest felt enormous. And very, very empty.

Y/N shifted her weight, scanning the trees again.

We shouldn’t stay in one place too long.

Wanda nodded. “Agreed.”

Y/N’s focus sharpened.

We find shelter. Something covered. High ground if possible.

She started forward at a slower pace, weaving through the trees but still alert.

Wanda walked close beside her, occasionally brushing her hand against the thick fur at Y/N’s side—like she needed the reassurance that she was real.

Behind them, the city lights were gone. The team was gone. The compound was gone. It was just them. The forest. And whatever this ambush had truly meant.

They moved deeper into the forest. The darkness here was different from the city’s—alive, layered. Every rustle sounded louder, every shadow closer. Wanda kept glancing over her shoulder, nerves still humming from the chase.

Y/N noticed. She slowed, then lowered herself without a word.

Up, she thought gently.

Wanda hesitated for half a second before climbing onto her back. The warmth of thick fur under her palms steadied her instantly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Y/N huffed softly and resumed moving. They climbed gradually into rougher terrain, trees thinning as rocky outcroppings appeared. The air grew colder. After another careful stretch, Y/N stopped. A cave entrance opened between two jagged rocks—partially hidden by brush, angled upward so rain wouldn’t collect. She approached cautiously, sniffing the air.

Empty.

Old animal scent, nothing recent.

This works.

She stepped inside. The cave wasn’t deep, but it was sheltered from the wind and dry, the ground mostly stone with patches of packed dirt.

Y/N lowered herself so Wanda could slide off. Wanda stepped down carefully, arms wrapping around herself as the chill finally caught up now that the adrenaline had faded. The cave was cold.

Y/N stepped back toward the entrance and shifted. Bones compressed, fur receded, and the air shimmered around her. Seconds later she stood in human form, barefoot on the cold stone. Her boots had torn apart during the earlier transformation, and her clothes were stretched and ripped at the seams—still covering her, but barely. She didn’t seem to notice.

“I’m going to look for branches,” Y/N said quietly. “And food if I can find it.”

Wanda frowned. “You don’t have shoes.”

“I’ll be fine.”

It wasn’t bravado. Even now her skin radiated faint warmth, the cold barely touching her.

Y/N glanced toward the dark forest outside, assessing. “You stay here,” she added. “Don’t use your powers unless you have to. They might still be scanning.”

Wanda nodded slowly.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer and brushed her fingers lightly against Wanda’s arm. “You’re safe here,” she said.

Then she turned and disappeared back into the forest—barefoot and silent despite the rocky ground.

Wanda stood alone in the cave. The silence pressed in. For the first time since the fall through the trapdoor, reality settled fully.

They were cut off.

No compound.

No team.

No idea what had just happened.

Just forest, cold air, and the distant sound of wind through the trees.

She wrapped her arms around herself and waited.

---

The cave grew colder as the night deepened. Wanda tried to keep moving—pacing a little, rubbing her hands together—but the stone floor leached warmth from her bones. Without adrenaline to keep her warm, the chill settled in fully. Her teeth were starting to chatter when she finally heard it: footsteps. Soft. Controlled. Familiar.

Y/N stepped into the cave entrance in her human form, barefoot but steady despite the rough terrain. A thick fallen log rested across one shoulder; tucked into the torn fold of her shirt were gathered wild fruits, and in her free hand she carried a freshly hunted rabbit. The moment her eyes landed on Wanda, she froze.

Wanda was shivering.

Y/N dropped everything immediately. The log hit the ground with a heavy thud. Fruits rolled across the stone. The rabbit landed beside them.

“You’re freezing,” Y/N said, crossing the cave in two quick strides.

“I’m fine,” Wanda tried—but her voice shook.

Y/N didn’t argue. She knelt and moved quickly, snapping the log into smaller pieces with efficient strength and stacking them in the center of the cave. The thinner branches she’d collected were arranged underneath. No lighter. No matches.

She looked at Wanda. “Just a spark,” she said softly.

Wanda crouched beside her and extended her fingers, keeping the glow small. A thin thread of scarlet brushed the dry bark. It caught immediately. Flames licked upward.

Y/N fed the kindling gradually until the fire took hold, warm orange light filling the cave and pushing back the darkness and cold. Without thinking, she shifted closer. “Here,” she murmured.

Y/N sat behind Wanda and gently pulled her back against her chest, wrapping her arms loosely around her shoulders—not trapping her, just anchoring. Her body was warm, almost unnaturally so. The difference was immediate.

Wanda sighed softly as heat seeped back into her skin.

“I told you I’d be fine,” Y/N said quietly, a faint edge of self-reproach in her voice.

Wanda leaned back into her without hesitation. “I wasn’t doubting that.”

The fire crackled softly between them. For a while neither spoke. Eventually Y/N reached for the rabbit and began preparing it with quiet efficiency, movements careful and practiced.

Wanda watched the flames.

Slowly, the shaking stopped.

---

The fire grew steadier, casting flickering gold across the cave walls. Y/N worked in silence, skin glowing warm in the firelight as she cleaned and dressed the rabbit with practiced movements. The urgency of battle had faded; only quiet focus remained.

Wanda leaned back against her, still wrapped in Y/N’s arms. She hadn’t realized how much she needed the contact until she had it again. The cave smelled of smoke, earth, and something grounding.

After a few minutes Y/N skewered the meat onto a sharpened branch and held it over the flames. “You should eat,” she said softly. “You burned a lot of energy tonight.”

Wanda hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t move away.

“Are you hurt?” she asked after a moment.

Y/N hesitated. “Just tired.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly. “That wasn’t my question.”

A pause.

Then, quieter: “I’m fine.”

Wanda didn’t push. Instead she shifted slightly, resting one hand over Y/N’s forearm where it wrapped around her.

“I’m glad you caught me,” she said softly.

Y/N’s grip tightened just a fraction. “I wasn’t going to let you fall.”

The rabbit began to cook, its scent slowly filling the cave. Wanda watched the flames for a moment before speaking again.

“They knew,” she murmured. “About the backup intel. About us coming.”

Y/N nodded against her hair. “Yeah.”

“They wanted us separated.”

“Yeah.”

The weight of that settled between them. This hadn’t been random. It had been surgical. And it had worked.

Wanda swallowed. “Do you think Steve and Nat are okay?”

Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. “They’re not easy to kill.”

Not reassurance. Just truth.

The fire crackled as wind shifted outside the cave. For the first time since the fight, the quiet didn’t feel tense. It felt… isolated.

Wanda finally leaned forward enough to glance back at her. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“For what?”

“For not leaving me.”

Y/N blinked once, almost confused by the idea. “I wouldn’t,” she said.

And she meant it the way gravity meant falling.

Firelight danced in her golden-brown eyes.

And for now—

That was enough.

---

The fire burned down to a steady glow by the time they finished eating. Wanda had insisted Y/N take more than half the rabbit. Y/N had pretended to argue but ate it anyway. The fruits were divided quietly between them—simple, grounding.

For a few minutes afterward they sat shoulder to shoulder, listening to the forest breathe. Y/N’s posture hadn’t relaxed once. Her head tilted subtly now and then, listening, mapping the night, measuring distance between sounds.

Finally she spoke.

“We should sleep.”

Wanda glanced at her. “You can rest first. I’ll stay on guard.”

Y/N shook her head immediately. “No.”

“Y/N—”

“It’s okay,” she interrupted gently. “We can both sleep.”

Wanda frowned. “What if someone finds us?”

“If something gets within half a mile, I’ll hear it,” Y/N said calmly. “If it gets closer than that, I’ll smell it. And if it steps within a hundred meters…” She tilted her head faintly, almost playful. “It won’t get that far.”

Wanda studied her face. “You’re sure?”

Y/N nodded once. “Wolf instincts.”

No arrogance—just certainty.

After a quiet beat, Y/N stood and stepped away from the fading firelight. She shifted. The transformation flowed smoothly—bones lengthening, shoulders broadening, fur cascading outward until her massive wolf form filled nearly half the cave. Golden eyes flickered in the dim light as she lowered herself near the warmest part of the cave wall.

Her thoughts brushed gently against Wanda’s mind.

Come here.

Wanda’s lips curved. She stood and walked over without hesitation.

Y/N shifted slightly to make room, curling her body into a protective crescent. Thick fur brushed Wanda’s legs.

You’ll stay warm, Y/N thought quietly. I run hot.

Wanda knelt and lay down carefully, settling into the space between Y/N’s chest and belly. The fur was impossibly soft and warm, the steady rise and fall of breath beneath her cheek grounding in a way she hadn’t expected.

Y/N’s tail wrapped loosely over her legs—not trapping, just covering.

Wanda sighed softly as tension eased from her muscles. “This is… nice,” she murmured.

Y/N huffed faintly, one ear flicking toward the forest outside.

After a moment Wanda felt something else—a low vibration beneath her ear. Not quite a purr, but close. Her hand slid into the thick fur instinctively.

“You’re doing that again,” she whispered sleepily.

The vibration faltered for a second. Then resumed.

Wanda smiled.

The cave grew quieter. The forest breathed.

And for the first time since the ambush—

They both closed their eyes.

---

Next Morning

Morning came slowly.

Not with sunlight—very little reached the cave—but with a subtle shift in the air. The forest changed tone at dawn. Birds tested their voices. The wind softened.

Wanda stirred first.

She was warm. Very warm.

Her cheek pressed into thick fur, fingers tangled in it, her legs tucked beneath something heavy and protective. For a moment she didn’t remember where she was.

Then the night returned in fragments.

Warehouse.

Trapdoor.

Running.

Firelight.

Cave.

She blinked her eyes open.

Golden eyes were already watching her.

Y/N was awake—completely awake. Her head was slightly lifted, ears angled toward the cave entrance, body still curled around Wanda like it had been all night.

“You didn’t sleep,” Wanda murmured, voice thick with sleep.

A soft huff answered her.

I did, Y/N thought gently. Lightly.

Wanda shifted onto one elbow. The fire had burned down to ash. The air was cold again—but manageable with Y/N’s steady warmth.

“How long have you been up?”

Since the birds started.

Wanda smiled faintly. “That’s not a real time.”

Y/N’s tail flicked once in mild amusement.

Nothing came close, she added. Closest movement was a deer about four hundred meters east. Wind shifted after that.

Of course she knew the direction.

Wanda studied her for another moment. Even in wolf form the tension was visible—the alert shoulders, the constant listening.

“You’re still listening.”

Always.

Wanda reached up and scratched gently behind her ear.

“You can relax a little.”

Y/N leaned into the touch before catching herself.

I am relaxed.

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

The wolf blinked slowly.

Then, after a beat:

Mostly.

Wanda laughed softly, the sound echoing faintly off the cave walls.

For a moment they simply looked at each other in the dim light.

No helicopters.

No gunfire.

No shouting.

Just morning.

Wanda’s expression slowly shifted.

“We need to figure out what happened.”

Y/N’s ears twitched. Yeah.

“And we need to reach the others.”

A pause.

Okay.

Wanda pushed herself up, brushing leaves and stray fur from her clothes. Cool morning air crept through the cave entrance.

Y/N shifted back to human form, the change fluid and quiet. She rolled her shoulders once, bare feet settling on the cold stone without complaint.

“We shouldn’t use standard comms,” Wanda said, thinking aloud. “If they trapped us that deliberately, they’re probably monitoring known frequencies.”

Y/N nodded. “Safe house?”

Wanda hesitated. “…No.”

Y/N frowned slightly.

“If they planned that ambush, they’ve probably mapped every Avengers-associated property within a hundred miles—safe houses, supply caches, known routes.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “Yeah. They’d expect that.”

Silence settled between them again.

They didn’t know where the others were.

They didn’t know who orchestrated the trap.

They didn’t even know if the Quinjet survived.

“We need something normal,” Wanda said finally. “Somewhere no one expects us.”

Y/N tilted her head. “Normal?”

“A motel. Small town. Cash payment. No enhanced activity.”

Y/N blinked once. “…That’s very human.”

Wanda gave her a tired smile. “Exactly.”

Y/N considered it, then nodded. “We move west. There’s a highway about three miles from here.”

Wanda glanced down at Y/N’s torn clothes and bare feet. “Hold on.”

She stepped closer, lifting her hands. Scarlet threads of energy wove through the air, stitching torn fabric back together. The ripped seams sealed, the shirt and pants reshaping cleanly.

Y/N looked down at herself, mildly impressed. “…Convenient.”

Wanda smirked faintly. “Try not to shred them again.”

Y/N huffed. “No promises.”

Wanda knelt briefly and focused again. Scarlet light gathered around Y/N’s feet, forming simple dark sneakers—sturdy and anonymous.

Y/N flexed her toes experimentally. “…You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

Their eyes met a moment longer than necessary.

Then Wanda stepped back. “Let’s go.”

They moved through the trees together—quieter now, less frantic than the night before. After about forty minutes, the forest thinned. The faint hum of distant traffic reached Y/N first.

“We’re close.”

Wanda nodded.

The treeline opened onto a two-lane highway cutting through open fields. Half a mile down stood a small gas station—and beyond it, a roadside motel sign flickering in tired neon.

VACANCY.

Wanda exhaled slowly. “Okay,” she murmured. “Step one.”

Y/N scanned the area carefully. No unusual heartbeats. No tactical vehicles. Just normal morning traffic.

“Cash only,” Y/N reminded her.

Wanda slipped a hand into her jacket. Thankfully chaos magic didn’t just repair clothes—it could produce a few believable bills.

“Normal,” Wanda repeated quietly.

For now—

They would disappear in plain sight.

---

The motel office smelled like stale coffee and cleaning spray. A tired man behind the counter barely glanced up when Wanda pushed open the door. She kept her hood up, posture loose—normal.

“Room?” he asked flatly.

“Just one night.”

Cash slid across the counter. No questions. A key card slid back.

Room 17.

They crossed the cracked parking lot in silence, morning sun fully up now. The world looked painfully ordinary after the chaos of the night before.

Inside, the room was small but clean enough—two towels folded at the foot of a queen bed, faded carpet, a humming air conditioner.

The door clicked shut.

For the first time since the warehouse—

They were inside four walls again.

Wanda turned the deadbolt. Y/N stood in the middle of the room for a moment, scanning and listening, shoulders still tight.

“It’s fine,” Wanda said gently. “No one’s tracking us right now.”

Y/N nodded once. “Can I shower first.”

“Of course!” Wanda didn’t argue.

Twenty minutes later steam drifted from the bathroom as Y/N stepped out wearing borrowed motel sweats and a plain shirt Wanda had conjured to replace the torn one. Her hair was damp and pushed back loosely.

She looked… human again.

Just exhausted.

“You should eat something else,” Wanda said quietly.

Y/N shook her head. “I’m okay.”

That word again.

Wanda took her turn in the shower, letting hot water beat against her shoulders longer than she intended. The tension in her muscles didn’t vanish—but it dulled.

When she stepped back into the room, toweling her hair dry—

Y/N was already asleep.

Not resting.

Gone.

She’d barely reached the bed before collapsing sideways across it, one arm draped loosely over her stomach, breathing deep and heavy. Completely unconscious.

Wanda paused in the doorway.

Y/N had pushed herself too far—running on instinct and adrenaline for too long.

She crossed the room quietly and sat on the edge of the bed. Up close, the exhaustion was obvious: faint bruises along her ribs, a shallow cut near her collarbone, tension still faintly etched into her brow even in sleep.

Wanda brushed a damp strand of hair from her forehead.

“You liar,” she murmured softly.

I’m fine.

She shook her head faintly.

Carefully, Wanda slid under the covers beside her—not too close at first. But Y/N reacted even in sleep. Her body shifted instinctively toward the warmth, one arm draped over Wanda’s waist, breathing steady, grounded.

Wanda lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

They were fugitives now.

Separated from the team.

Hunted by someone organized enough to ambush Avengers.

She turned her head slightly to look at Y/N.

But right now—

They were safe.

---

At Night

Darkness filled the motel room again. Thin curtains barely blocked the neon glow of the vacancy sign outside, its red pulses washing faintly across the ceiling.

Wanda was warm. Too warm. An arm lay heavy across her waist, steady breath against her shoulder. For a moment she forgot everything. Then—A faint crackle. Static. A low, distorted tone.

Y/N’s eyes opened instantly. She didn’t move at first—just listened. There. Another faint burst of interference. Her head turned slowly toward the small table near the door. The comm unit. Wanda had set it there before showering. Y/N blinked away the last layer of sleep and nudged Wanda lightly. “Wanda,” she murmured, voice thick but alert.

Wanda stirred. “What—?”

“The comm.”

Another crackle—clearer this time. Wanda shot upright, heart racing. The signal was faint but unmistakable, pushing through interference. She scrambled off the bed and grabbed the device.

“Hello?” she said quickly, keeping her voice low.

Static. Then— “…da?”

Wanda’s breath caught. “Nat?”

The line buzzed, then steadied slightly. “About time,” Nat’s voice came through, strained but alive. “You two took a scenic route.”

Relief hit Wanda so hard her knees nearly buckled. “We’re okay,” she said quickly. “Are you?”

“Alive. Steve and Bucky too.”

Wanda closed her eyes briefly. Thank God.

“Quinjet’s gone,” Nat continued. “Warehouse was scrubbed. Professional job.”

“Who?” Wanda asked.

“Still working on that.”

Y/N had risen from the bed, standing close enough to hear every word.

“Are you safe?” Wanda pressed.

“For now. We scattered. Low profile. No Avengers signatures. No Stark tech. No obvious magic.”

“Same here,” Wanda said.

A small pause. Then Nat’s voice lowered. “They wanted you separated.”

Wanda’s eyes flicked to Y/N. “We figured.”

Another burst of static. “We’ll regroup,” Nat said. “But not yet. Lay low. Switch locations every twenty-four hours. Use public networks sparingly.”

Wanda nodded instinctively, even though Nat couldn’t see her. “Copy.”

Nat’s tone shifted slightly.

“And Wanda?”

“Yeah?”

“You two good?”

Wanda hesitated, glancing at Y/N. Y/N stood steady beside her—alert, protective, present. “We’re okay,” Wanda said quietly.

A beat.

“Good,” Nat replied. “We’ll ping again when it’s safe.” The line went dead.

The room fell silent except for the low hum of the air conditioner. Wanda lowered the comm slowly. “They’re alive,” she said.

Y/N exhaled, tension leaving her shoulders for the first time since the ambush. “Good.”

Wanda looked up at her. “We’re not going back anytime soon.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

Outside, the neon sign flickered again. Inside the dim motel room, the two of them stood there—fugitives by circumstance, but no longer alone.

The silence after the comm went dead felt different. Not heavy. Not panicked. Focused. Wanda set the device back on the table and leaned against it, arms crossing loosely. “So,” she said quietly, “we rotate locations. No patterns. No powers in public unless absolutely necessary.”

Y/N nodded. “No shifting unless we’re clear.”

“No obvious cash trails.”

“No staying more than a night.”

They fell into planning easily—strategy, survival, contingencies. It felt strangely calm now that the immediate chaos had passed. “If they scrubbed the warehouse that fast,” Wanda said, pacing slowly, “this wasn’t some random mercenary group.”

“No,” Y/N agreed. “They had numbers. Coordination. Infrastructure.”

“And they knew about the backup intel.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened slightly. “Which means they knew we’d come.”

Wanda’s expression darkened. “Someone fed them the mission details.”

The thought hung in the room. Neither said it aloud. Inside job.

After a moment Wanda sighed and sat back on the edge of the bed. “Okay. We lay low. Maybe move further west tomorrow—smaller towns.”

Y/N leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, thoughtful.

Her stomach growled. Loudly. The sound filled the quiet room with zero dignity.

Wanda blinked.

Y/N stiffened. It growled again.

Wanda tried—she really tried—not to laugh. A small sound escaped anyway.

Y/N looked personally betrayed by her own body. “It’s been hours,” she muttered defensively.

Wanda’s smile softened. “You carried me through a city and ran through a forest. You’re allowed to be hungry.”

Another rumble.

Y/N glanced down at her stomach like it had committed treason.

Wanda stood, still smiling, and stepped closer. “Come on. Let’s go get something to eat.”

Y/N hesitated. “Public.”

“We’ll be careful.”

“I’m recognizable.”

Wanda tilted her head. “So am I.”

Y/N exhaled slowly. “That’s my point.”

Wanda lowered her voice. “Simple diner. Cash. Sit near the exit.”

Y/N still looked uncertain.

“And,” Wanda added, a spark returning to her tone, “we should buy supplies.”

Y/N’s posture shifted immediately to practical. “Like what?”

“Backpacks. First aid kit. Clothes that don’t scream ‘Avengers.’ Toiletries. Maybe a prepaid phone.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Water purification tablets. Flashlights. Cash from different places.”

Wanda smiled faintly. “See? You’re already planning.”

Y/N glanced toward the window, thinking.

Wanda, meanwhile, was staring at her. Specifically—at her hair.

Y/N noticed after a moment. “What?”

Wanda’s lips curved slightly. “…Maybe we should change our hair.”

Y/N blinked. “Our… hair.”

“Color,” Wanda clarified. “Easiest visual identifier.”

Y/N instinctively touched her dark hair. “You want to dye it?”

“Temporary,” Wanda said with a shrug. “Drugstore kit.”

Y/N studied her. “You’re enjoying this.”

Wanda tried to look innocent. “Maybe a little.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “What color.”

Wanda stepped closer, examining her thoughtfully. “Blonde would be obvious. Mine is already red… not blue.”

Wanda laughed softly. “No. Not blue.”

She tilted her head, considering. “Maybe lighter brown. Or dark auburn.”

Y/N looked like she was mentally assessing the strategic threat of hair dye. “And you?”

Wanda shrugged. “I could go darker.”

Y/N studied her for a moment. “You don’t have to.”

Wanda’s smile softened. “I know.”

A quiet beat passed.

Then Y/N sighed. “Fine. We eat. We shop. We change our hair.”

Her stomach growled again on cue.

Wanda covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. “Dinner first,” she said gently.

And for the first time since the trapdoor—

This felt almost like an adventure instead of an escape.

---

Later that night they slipped back into Room 17 carrying plastic bags—cheap backpacks, basic toiletries, a prepaid phone, bottled water, and two small boxes of temporary hair dye.

The motel bathroom was barely big enough for both of them.

Yellow light. Cracked mirror. A faint hum from the vent overhead.

Wanda stood at the sink reading the instructions on the dye box while Y/N hovered awkwardly near the door.

“Are you sure this is safe?” Y/N asked.

“It’s hair dye,” Wanda replied dryly. “Not gamma radiation.”

Y/N grunted softly.

She reached up and pulled her shirt over her head.

Wanda turned at the movement—

And froze.

Y/N was shirtless except for her sports bra. Lean muscle defined her frame, faint scars tracing along her ribs and shoulder—marks left by Hydra and everything she’d survived.

Wanda had seen her like this before.

Training.

Medical checks.

After missions.

But this felt different.

The cramped bathroom.

The quiet.

The proximity.

Her gaze drifted down Y/N’s torso before she could stop herself.

Heat pooled low in her stomach, sudden and sharp.

She blinked.

Shook her head slightly.

Get it together. She’s your friend!

“Everything okay?” Y/N asked, completely unaware, expression open and almost innocent.

Wanda swallowed. “Yeah. Fine.”

She focused very hard on the dye box in her hands.

“Sit,” she added, gesturing toward the closed toilet lid.

Y/N obeyed without question, turning her back and sitting down. Damp hair brushed the back of her neck.

Wanda slipped on the thin plastic gloves and mixed the dye carefully, hands steady again.

She stepped closer.

Very close.

Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from Y/N’s skin.

“Lean forward a little,” Wanda murmured.

Y/N did.

Wanda began applying the dye to her short hair, working methodically, careful not to drip. The chemical scent filled the small space.

For a while neither spoke.

Wanda’s fingers brushed lightly over Y/N’s scalp as she worked.

Y/N’s shoulders relaxed a little more with every pass.

“…You’re very focused,” Y/N said quietly.

“I’m trying not to stain your face.”

A small huff of amusement.

Silence again.

Up close Wanda could see the faint tension in Y/N’s posture—even sitting down she held herself like someone ready to move at any moment.

“You can relax,” Wanda said softly.

“I am.”

Wanda smiled faintly behind her.

“You say that a lot.”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Wanda finished coating the last section of hair and stepped back.

“Okay,” she said. “We wait.”

Y/N looked up at her through the mirror.

Their eyes met.

For a second—

The small bathroom felt even smaller.

Wanda looked away first.

“My turn after this,” she said quickly.

Y/N nodded.

But the faint flush creeping up her neck wasn’t entirely from the heat.

---

The motel room was dim except for the glow of the TV, a late-night sitcom murmuring softly in the background.

Wanda sat cross-legged on the bed, watching without really seeing.

The bathroom door opened.

Steam drifted out first.

Then Y/N stepped into the room, towel in hand, drying her hair.

Wanda looked up—

And froze.

The new color caught the light differently—dark auburn now, richer and deeper, sharpening Y/N’s features. Damp strands fell over her forehead as she rubbed them with the towel.

She was still shirtless.

Sports bra. Sweatpants low on her hips. Bare feet.

And that hair—

Wanda’s breath hitched.

Heat pooled low in her stomach again, sharper this time. Her gaze dropped for half a second before she forced it back up.

Stop it.

We are just friends.

Why am I—

Y/N tilted her head. “Wanda?”

No response.

She stepped closer.

“Wanda?”

A hand waved slowly in front of her face.

Wanda blinked hard, dragged back to the moment.

“Sorry—what?”

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked, brows knitting slightly. “You were staring.”

Heat rushed to Wanda’s cheeks.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, sitting up straighter.

Y/N hesitated. Her hand drifted to her damp hair.

“…It looks bad, right?”

The uncertainty was genuine.

She thought Wanda had been staring because she didn’t like it.

Wanda looked at her again—this time deliberately.

The color suited her. Made her eyes warmer. Softer. Dangerous in a completely different way.

“No,” Wanda said a little too fast.

Y/N blinked.

“It looks… really good,” Wanda corrected, voice quieter.

Y/N studied her face carefully.

Wanda held her gaze.

“It suits you.”

A faint flush crept up Y/N’s neck.

“…Oh.”

She rubbed the back of her head, still damp from the shower. And Wanda felt that warm flutter again—stronger now.

She inhaled sharply.

Oh no.

No, no, no.

This was ridiculous. They were stressed. On the run. Exhausted. That was all.

Right?

Y/N shifted her weight, unaware of the chaos she was causing.

Wanda’s pulse jumped.

“I—” she started, then abruptly stood from the bed.

Too fast.

“Bathroom,” she blurted.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“My turn,” Wanda added quickly, already moving past her.

Her arm brushed Y/N’s lightly as she passed. The contact sent another sharp spark through her. Wanda hissed softly under her breath.

Get it together.

Behind her, Y/N turned slightly.

“I can help—” she began.

But the bathroom door had already clicked shut.

Inside, Wanda leaned back against it and exhaled hard. Her heart was racing like she’d just sprinted. She pressed her palms to her cheeks.

“What is wrong with me?” she muttered.

This wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not now.

Not here.

Not with everything else happening.

She closed her eyes and focused on something simple—breathing, grounding, control.

Outside the door, Y/N stood there a moment longer, confused.

“…Okay,” she murmured to herself.

Then she stepped away, giving Wanda space.

Because that’s what she always did.

And somehow—

That only made it worse.

---

When Wanda finally stepped out of the bathroom, steam trailing behind her, the room somehow felt smaller.

Her hair was darker now—deep brown, almost black under the dim motel lighting. It framed her face differently, making her eyes stand out sharper and brighter.

Y/N looked up from where she sat on the edge of the bed.

And froze.

For a moment she simply stared—not confused, not uncertain.

Just… stunned.

Wanda felt it instantly, the weight of that gaze settling over her. Her stomach tightened.

Y/N stood slowly. “You—” she started, then stopped.

Wanda’s heart began to pound.

“You look…” Y/N swallowed, then smiled softly. “Beautiful.”

The word landed gently. And hit hard. Heat rushed up Wanda’s neck.

She turned away too quickly. “Okay,” she said, already moving toward the bed. “We should sleep.”

She pulled back the covers and slid under them without another glance, turning so her back faced Y/N. “Big day tomorrow,” she added, her voice just slightly higher than normal.

Silence followed.

Y/N stood there, replaying the last ten seconds in her head.

You look beautiful.

That was good, right? That was… appropriate? Slowly she moved to the other side of the bed.

“Did I…” Y/N hesitated. “…say something wrong?”

Wanda stiffened beneath the covers. “No.”

“You left very fast.”

“I’m just tired.”

Y/N frowned faintly. She climbed into bed carefully, leaving a respectful space between them this time.

Too much space.

The room hummed quietly with the AC.

After a moment Y/N tried again. “If I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t mean to.”

That did it.

Wanda rolled slightly onto her back, staring at the ceiling.

“You didn’t,” she said softly.

Y/N still looked unconvinced.

Wanda sighed, then lifted a hand and patted the bed beside her.

A simple gesture.

Y/N blinked.

“…Come here.”

The hesitation lasted only a second. Then Y/N shifted closer, still careful, leaving a small gap between them like she was afraid of crossing some invisible line.

Wanda turned onto her side to face her. The new color in Y/N’s hair caught the low red glow from the sign outside, softer now, almost copper. Wanda reached out slowly and brushed her fingers through it.

Y/N went completely still.

“It’s fine,” Wanda murmured. “You didn’t say anything wrong.”

Her fingers combed through the short strands, slow and soothing.

Y/N’s shoulders gradually relaxed.

“You can just… sleep,” Wanda added quietly.

Y/N swallowed and nodded, shifting a little closer until their knees brushed lightly beneath the covers.

Wanda kept running her fingers through her hair, thumb occasionally grazing her temple. The tension slowly left Y/N’s face.

Her breathing deepened.

“I meant when I said you look beautiful,” Y/N murmured sleepily, eyes already half-closed.

Wanda’s heart skipped.

This time she didn’t pull away. She simply kept stroking her hair.

“Go to sleep,” she whispered.

Within minutes Y/N’s breathing evened out.

Asleep.

Wanda stayed awake a little longer, fingers still resting lightly in her hair.

The motel room was dim, lit only by the faint red flicker from the sign outside. Every few seconds it cast shifting shadows across Y/N’s face, softening the sharp lines and catching in the auburn strands Wanda had helped color just hours ago.

Wanda’s hand stilled.

Get it together.

They were just friends.

Y/N had said it the way someone might say you look beautiful. It didn’t have to mean anything.

It didn’t have to mean—

Her stomach tightened again at the memory.

Stop.

This wasn’t the time to spiral. They were on the run. Possibly hunted. Separated from the team and still unsure who had betrayed them. Feelings could wait. Complications could wait.

Wanda gently slid her hand from Y/N’s hair and rested it on her own chest instead, grounding herself. She turned onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

Just friends.

Outside, a truck passed along the highway. The neon sign buzzed faintly.

Tomorrow they would leave this place. Change motels. Buy supplies. Stay invisible.

She closed her eyes.

And eventually—

Sleep took her too.

---

Leave your comments!

[just-aake]

Whispered in Russian Part 3

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 3 of Whispered in Russian. Natasha taught you Russian, so it shouldn't be that hard to teach her daughter.

A/N: this was inspired from a request. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, pregnancy talks, Russian translations from google

Words: 6137

Natasha takes a slow breath, rolling her shoulders once and cracking her neck like she’s about to prepare for battle.

“Alright,” she says gravely, eyes narrowing as she lifts the spoon. “Final stretch.”

In front of her, perched in the high chair, sits her one-year-old daughter, Lena, who’s far too interested in everything except the spoon. Green eyes, unmistakably like hers, track Natasha’s movements with intense curiosity. One small hand grips the edge of her bib, fisting the fabric like she’s bracing herself.

She lets out a soft, questioning babble, something between a coo and a complaint.

Natasha’s expression softens instantly.

“Ne volnuisya (Don’t worry),” she murmurs, her Russian slipping in without thought, the cadence low and soothing. “My spravimsya (We’ve got this).”

The effect is immediate. Lena giggles, feet kicking lightly as she pats the tray in front of her with growing excitement.

That earns a quiet smile from Natasha, pride flickering across her face before she schools it into mock seriousness again. She raises the spoon carefully and opens her mouth wide.

“Ahhh…”

Lena blinks once and then mirrors her perfectly, mouth opening in a delighted, exaggerated “ah,” chin tipped up expectantly.

Natasha bites back a laugh as she guides the spoon forward steadily. The food disappears without incident.

“There we go,” she murmurs, gentle as she wipes the faintest smear from Lena’s chin with her thumb.

No mess. No spills. A miracle.

Natasha sets the spoon down with a satisfied plop and claps her hands once in triumph.

“Molodets, zayka moya! (Well done, my little bunny!),” she coos.

Lena’s face lights up. She squeals and immediately claps too, enthusiastic and wildly off-rhythm.

“Oh?” you call as you step out from the hallway. “And what did our little Lena do?”

Natasha looks up immediately and rises to meet you, pressing a familiar kiss to your cheek before answering, pride warm in her voice. 

“She finished her entire breakfast with no mess.”

As if summoned by the praise, Lena continues clapping, clearly still riding the high of her accomplishment.

Natasha glances back at her daughter and nods solemnly.

“Da, molodets (Yes, well done),” she affirms, as though addressing a fellow Avenger after a successful mission.

Lena beams, kicks her feet against the chair, and squeals again.

You laugh under your breath, warmth filling your chest until Natasha’s attention shifts back to you, and her smile falters. Her eyes drop, taking in the unmistakable sight of your SHIELD uniform.

“Where are you going?”

You wince a little, already feeling guilty about the whole situation.

“Something’s acting up in the security system,” you explain. “They need me to take a look. It shouldn’t take long.”

Natasha leans back against the counter, folding her arms across her chest.

“What about breakfast?”

You wave a hand lightly, stepping a half-step farther from the stove, where the scrambled eggs sit waiting in the pan. Your face scrunches faintly at the usually rich and buttery smell that now suddenly feels overwhelming.

“It’s okay. I’m not really hungry,” you say.

Natasha’s brows furrow deeper.

“You’re always hungry in the morning.”

You offer a small apologetic shrug.

“Guess my stomach’s feeling weird today.”

That doesn’t reassure her at all. Natasha’s eyes sharpen, scanning you head to toe. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t go then,” she says, voice lowering in concern, before her lips twist slightly, disappointment slipping through before she can hide it. “Plus, I thought we could start on the Russian lessons today with Lena.”

From the high chair, Lena watches the two of you closely. Then suddenly, she crosses her arms too. It’s less intimidating and more like she’s hugging herself, but the intent to copy her mother is unmistakable.

She follows it up with a dramatic raspberry in your direction.

You gasp softly, pressing your hand to your chest as if wounded. 

“Nu vy moi malyshi…(Oh, my poor little babies…),” you say, looking at the two of them with pouts on their faces.  

You cup Natasha’s cheeks first and pull her closer, kissing the tip of her nose, then her cheek, and then finally her lips, lingering just long enough to feel her soften beneath it.

“Prostite menya? (Forgive me?),” you whisper against her lips.

For a second, Natasha remains firm in her stance before she exhales, resignation already creeping in, and shakes her head.

“Your Russian,” she mutters. “It’s becoming a dangerous weapon.”

You smirk, pressing one more kiss to her lips. 

“I learn from the best,” you tease.

Then you turn your attention to the other Romanoff in the room.

“And what about you, hm?” you murmur, crouching just slightly so you’re at her eye level. “Does my little Lena want a hug from her mommy?”

The answer is immediate. Lena’s arms shoot forward, fingers opening and closing urgently as she babbles with determined insistence. There’s no hesitation in her actions, just complete confidence that you’ll hold her.

You lift her easily and spin once in place. 

Lena lets out a delighted shriek, head tipping back as laughter spills freely from her, one tiny hand clutching at your collar as the other wraps around your shoulder.

Natasha watches the exchange with a long but fond, exaggerated sigh.

“I can’t believe she folded instantly,” she says, shaking her head. 

You grin, pressing your forehead gently to Lena’s. 

“Well, she’s just copying you,” you say softly. “Aren’t you? Copying your mama?”

“Mmm,” Lena hums happily, her cheek pressed to your shoulder, and then she promptly shoves a fistful of your uniform collar straight into her mouth.

“Ah. Nope,” Natasha says immediately, stepping in. She carefully pries the damp fabric free and scoops Lena back into her arms. “We are not eating tactical gear today.”

She settles Lena against her hip, then looks back at you. The humor fades just enough to reveal something steadier underneath.

“Be careful,” she says seriously.

You smile, light and reassuring, even as you reach for your keys. 

“I’m just going to headquarters.”

Natasha steps closer anyway. She rests her forehead against yours, eyes closing for a brief second, as if anchoring herself with your presence.

“Still,” she whispers. “Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

You open your mouth to reply, but a small hand presses against your cheek first.

“Mmbuhmm,” Lena echoes solemnly from between the two of you, clearly convinced she’s participated correctly.

You laugh softly and press a kiss to Lena’s chubby cheek before leaning in to kiss Natasha, gentler and lingering, pulling away only until you feel her hum of satisfaction.

“I’ll see you two tonight,” you say.

At the door, you pause and look back once more. 

Natasha stands in the kitchen holding Lena, both of them watching you like it’s the most natural thing in the world to wait for you to come home.

You give them a little wave, and then the door closes behind you. 

The quiet settles in quickly afterwards.

Almost immediately, Natasha feels Lena shift in her arms. She looks down and sees it—the glassy eyes, the way her bottom lip trembles just slightly as she stares at the spot where you’d been.

Natasha reacts without hesitation.

“Ya zdes, zayka moya, (I’m here, my little bunny),” she murmurs softly, turning Lena inward so her full attention is pulled away from the door. 

Lena blinks through her blurry eyes, focus snapping back as Natasha’s face fills her vision. Her fingers curl uncertainly against Natasha’s shirt, and she glances once more toward the door before letting out a small, wavering sound.

Natasha bounces her gently, swaying just enough to be comforting.

“Come on,” she says lightly. “Want to go play in your castle?”

That does it. Lena’s eyes widen, interest overriding sadness instantly at the suggestion of playing with one of the many toys the other Avengers have gifted her. She pats Natasha’s shoulder insistently like she’s already decided where they’re headed.

Natasha exhales in quiet relief, a soft laugh slipping free.

“Alright,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss into Lena’s hair as she turns down the hallway. “Let’s go.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha carefully eases the baby bottle from Lena’s loose grip, pausing when her daughter makes a tiny sound in her sleep. 

But Lena doesn’t stir any more than that. She remains sprawled comfortably atop her chaotic nest of plush toys, one leg thrown over a stuffed bear, lashes resting softly against flushed cheeks.

Natasha exhales in relief when she sees that Lena is still fast asleep after she completely removes the bottle from her grip. She stays there a moment longer, crouched beside the couch, just watching. The rise and fall of Lena’s chest. The way her fingers twitch occasionally, like she’s chasing something pleasant in her dreams.

Peaceful and safe. 

It still feels unreal. There was a time when Natasha was taught that she could never have something like this. The Red Room made sure of that. Made sure of many things. And yet here she is, kneeling in the quiet of her own living room, watching her daughter nap without fear.

Her little miracle. 

A soft chime breaks the silence.

Natasha’s head snaps up instantly, spine straightening as every instinct she’s ever honed clicks into place. The security notification echoes faintly through the house, indicating there’s movement at the front door camera.

She glances back at Lena, still soundly asleep.

Careful not to make a sound, Natasha rises and slips her hand into a hidden compartment along the wall. Her fingers curl easily around the grip of a handgun as she moves toward the entryway.

At the security panel, she taps the live feed. Her shoulders drop immediately. She tucks the weapon away with an irritated sigh and unlocks the door just as it swings open.

Yelena breezes inside without hesitation, already scanning the house.

“Where is she?” Yelena demands, eyes darting from room to room.

Natasha shuts the door behind her with an exasperated sigh.

“Hi, Yelena,” she says dryly. “Nice to see you. My day’s been fine, thanks for asking.”

Yelena reappears from the hallway and gives her a flat look.

“If I wanted to see you, I would’ve just called,” she says, planting her hands on her hips. “Now, where is my niece?”

Natasha rolls her eyes and turns toward the living room.

Yelena follows and pauses when she sees Lena bundled among blankets and plush toys.

“She’s napping,” Natasha reveals.

Her gasp is immediate and offended.

“Ah, suka, (Ah, bitch),” she says sharply, shooting Natasha a glare. “You changed her nap schedule.”

“I did not,” Natasha replies, leaning against the back of the couch, arms crossed. “She just wore herself out faster today.”

Before Yelena can argue, a soft, sleepy sound drifts up from the couch.

“Mmm…shu…ka…”

The world stops. Natasha and Yelena stand frozen, staring at each other with increasingly horrified and panicked expressions.

Yelena breaks first, exhaling deeply. 

“Oh shi—”

Natasha’s hand clamps over Yelena’s mouth with lightning speed.

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses.

Slowly, they both lean over the couch and look down.

Lena is sitting up now, hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep but very much open. She blinks at them curiously, then presses her tiny hand over her mouth, mimicking her mama’s action.

Natasha immediately lowers her hand from Yelena’s face.

“Maybe,” Yelena whispers carefully, “we heard wrong.”

Natasha gives her a warning glare. Then she moves quickly to Lena, scooping her up with practiced gentleness.

“Hey, zayka moya (my little bunny),” Natasha murmurs softly, smoothing a hand over Lena’s hair. “Did we wake you?”

Lena rubs at her eyes, then squints at Natasha. Her gaze drifts to Yelena, and then back to Natasha.

“Su…ka,” she mumbles hesitantly.

Natasha’s smile freezes for one second before she adjusts Lena against her shoulder, cradling the back of her head protectively to keep her from seeing her true feelings on her face. She looks over her daughter’s shoulder.

The glare she gives Yelena is lethal.

I am going to kill you, she mouths.

Yelena lifts both hands instantly. 

“You said she was asleep!”

“You’re going to help me fix this,” Natasha says calmly despite everything, rocking Lena back and forth while internally spiraling.

“How?” Yelena asks. “She already said it.”

Natasha starts pacing as she thinks.

You cannot find out that your daughter’s first word is a Russian curse word. That simply cannot happen.

“I just need to teach her something else,” Natasha decides aloud.

She stops and turns Lena to face her.

“Right, Lena?” she says gently. “You’ll learn a different word for mama.”

Lena babbles happily in response, then reaches toward Yelena, making grabby hands.

Natasha sighs as Yelena takes her.

“I don’t know,” Yelena says, bouncing Lena lightly and poking her side until she giggles. “You can’t really control what she says. She’s a baby.”

Natasha rubs a hand over her face, then glances at the clock.

You won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time.

“I taught her mother Russian,” Natasha mutters. “I can teach my daughter one different word.”

“Suka! (Bitch!)” Lena chirps brightly, patting Yelena’s cheeks.

Natasha groans, dragging both hands down her face.

Yelena grins.

“This is going to be fun,” she says cheerfully.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

It turns out this is not fun. Not even a little.

By the second hour, Yelena’s smug amusement has worn thin, reduced to the occasional snort from the kitchen. By the third, Natasha’s confidence has cracked completely, splintering under the weight of repetition, tiny fists, and one extremely committed toddler mouth.

Now she’s kneeling on the floor beside the couch, one forearm slung over the cushion, her forehead pressed into the fabric in quiet, undignified defeat. The tight braid she’d started the morning with has loosened, strands slipping free to tickle her cheek and cling to her neck with the faint sheen of sweat.

On top of her head sits Lena. Well—half sits, half sprawls.

Lena hugs her mama’s head like it’s a plush toy, chubby cheek mashed into Natasha’s hair as she shoves a determined fistful of red strands straight into her mouth. One socked foot kicks lazily in the air, heel thumping against the couch in an idle, content rhythm.

“Lena,” Natasha pleads, her voice muffled and roughened by fabric. “Please. Say anything else.”

“Mmmmbof,” Lena replies cheerfully into Natasha’s hair, and then blows a wet raspberry for emphasis.

Natasha groans.

From the kitchen doorway, Yelena watches the scene with open fascination, leaning against the frame as she crunches loudly on a snack.

“Wow,” she drawls. “Truly groundbreaking teaching methods. How did you ever manage to teach your wife Russian?”

Natasha shifts just enough to breathe, carefully prying her hair from Lena’s grip before lifting both hands to cup the toddler’s ears. She tilts her head just enough to glare at her sister.

“The same way we made Lena,” she says flatly.

Yelena chokes, sputtering and face blanching as she bends forward, one hand braced on the doorframe.

“Ew,” she gasps once she recovers, recoiling dramatically. “You two are lucky that sorcery is required. Otherwise, this place would be crawling with tiny children screaming Russian obscenities.”

Natasha smirks, victorious for exactly half a second, before it softens as she looks back down.

Lena is now copying her. She presses her own tiny hands over Natasha’s, squishing her ears, eyes sparkling with triumph.

Natasha exhales a laugh and slides her hands down to Lena’s cheeks instead, thumbs brushing gently. Lena giggles and squirms, grabbing at her own little boots and rocking in place with uncontained delight.

“Mmmbuv,” Lena babbles happily.

Natasha leans in, resting her forehead against her daughter’s, nose brushing nose.

“Would you like that, zayka moya (my little bunny)?” she murmurs. “A little sister. Just like Aunt Yelena. Causing you trouble every time she visits.”

“Hey!” Yelena protests, abandoning the doorway to lean her forearms over the back of the couch.

Lena laughs at the raised voice and turns toward her aunt, face lighting up.

“Suka (Bitch),” she announces proudly.

Yelena snorts and lifts her hand for a high-five.

“You said it.”

Natasha slaps Yelena’s hand away mid-air without looking.

“Don’t encourage it.”

Before Yelena can retaliate, a phone rings, echoing in the room.

Natasha freezes for half a beat before reaching into her pocket. She glances at the screen, displaying your name, and answers immediately, her voice smoothing into practiced calm despite her internal panic.

“Hey,” she greets casually.

“How are my two favorite girls?” you ask.

Natasha’s eyes flick down to Lena, who is staring at the phone with far too much interest. Natasha subtly turns away, covering the microphone with her palm in case the little girl gets any idea to blurt out her new favorite word.

“Everything’s good,” she says quickly. “She napped early. And Yelena’s been here.”

“Uh oh,” you tease.

Despite your kidding tone, Natasha’s stomach drops anyway, panic flaring sharp and fast.

“There’s no ‘uh oh,’” she says too fast. “Everything is fine.”

“Smooth,” Yelena whispers.

Natasha shoots her a warning look.

“…Okay,” you say slowly, skepticism bleeding through just enough to make Natasha wince. She’s already mentally rehearsing how to recover when you speak again.

“Actually, I called to see if you can bring me the USB drive from my desk? I need it to override some stuff here, but I forgot to bring it with me.”

Relief hits her like a wave at the change of subject.

Natasha glances back at Lena, who is now wielding a plush toy like a weapon while Yelena defends herself with another, dramatically collapsing every time she’s struck.

“Sure,” Natasha says. “I’ll ask Yelena to watch Lena.”

“I got her!” Yelena calls, already scooping Lena up.

Natasha gives her a thumbs-up before returning her attention to you.

“I’ll be there soon.”

“Thanks, Natasha.”

She exhales, shoulders finally loosening in relief. Then your voice comes back, softer, quieter.

“Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

Natasha melts instantly, ducking her head to hide the smile that spreads across her face.

“Ya tozhe tebya lyublyu (I love you too),” she replies, warm and sincere.

She ends the call and turns, only to find Lena staring at her, transfixed, like her eyes are absorbing every little interaction.

Natasha pastes on a reassuring smile and presses a kiss to Lena’s hair before moving to grab the USB from your desk. When she comes back, Lena is giggling in Yelena’s arms, delighted by ridiculous faces and exaggerated noises.

Moving towards the front, Natasha slips on her jacket and grabs her keys, then stops in sudden realization.

Laughter is no longer echoing in the home. 

Natasha turns back around to find Lena’s eyes locked on her.

She isn’t squirming playfully in Yelena’s arms anymore. Instead, her little hands are clasped in front of her chest, fingers twisting together like she’s holding herself together. 

With her mama’s gaze on her, her lower lip trembles. Not a cry yet, just the fragile warning of one. Meanwhile, tears begin to pool, bright and unshed.

Something in Natasha’s chest cracks clean through.

She crosses the room in three quick strides and takes Lena without a word, pulling her close.

“Nope,” Natasha mutters, already adjusting her against her shoulder. “We’re going together.”

Lena exhales shakily and melts into her, fingers clutching at Natasha’s jacket as she buries her face into her collarbone.

Natasha grabs Lena’s jacket and little hat, bundling her up with efficient tenderness.  

When she finishes, Lena clings to her tighter, arms wrapped firmly around her neck.

Yelena leans against the hallway wall, watching quietly.

“What if she says it in front of her?” she finally asks.

Natasha opens the door and glances back coolly.

“Then I’m telling her it’s your fault.”

“Hey—!”

The door shuts. Behind it, Yelena huffs before shuddering at the thought of facing your wrath.

“Ah,” she mutters. “Suka (bitch).”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha chuckles under her breath as Lena arches backward in her arms, nearly upside down, her tiny boots kicking the air happily. The lights of the SHIELD headquarters reflect in her bright eyes while she twists left, then right, offering enthusiastic waves to every agent who so much as glances her way.

Each returned wave earns a delighted squeal.

“Careful, Lena,” Natasha murmurs, though there’s no real bite to it. One arm stays firm around the toddler’s waist while the other braces her back, years of balance and instinct making the movement effortless. “You’re going to launch yourself at some point.”

Lena only giggles harder, flopping dramatically in the opposite direction as if to test the theory.

Eventually, Natasha eases her upright again, cradling her securely against her shoulder as they step into the control room. The hum of computers and overlapping voices fills the space, screens glowing in neat rows.

The sudden change in stimulation seems to settle Lena. She relaxes almost instantly, pressing her cheek against Natasha’s shoulder, thumb brushing absently against the collar of her jacket.

“Mma…mmbu,” she mumbles into the fabric.

Natasha turns her head slightly, brushing her lips over Lena’s temple.

“What was that, zayka moya (my little bunny)?”

Lena lifts her head, clearly preparing to repeat her gibberish, but she’s interrupted.

“Well, look who decided to finally come for a visit.”

Natasha doesn’t need to turn to know that voice.

Tony Stark steps away from a cluster of agents hunched over a console, a playful smirk already in place. He tugs lightly at the cuffs of his jacket as he approaches, hands slipping into his pockets.

He nods once at Natasha in greeting. 

“Romanoff.”

Then he tilts his head dramatically at Lena.

“Mini Romanoff.”

Lena beams at the attention and claps wildly, the sound echoing faintly in the control room.

Natasha rolls her eyes.

“What are you doing here, Tony?”

He hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward the console behind him.

“Well, when your wife couldn’t figure out what was wrong, she called me to take over,” he says with exaggerated humility. “At least someone recognizes my genius.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow slightly. That’s strange. You wouldn’t just give up on a problem like that.

Lena watches the shift in her mama’s expression closely. Her little brows furrow in concentration as she studies Natasha’s face, processing it.

Then, with perfect timing and confidence, she looks at Tony and points her finger at him.

“Suka (Bitch).”

The word rings out far clearer than any of her previous babbles. The room instantly goes quiet.

Tony’s eyes widen comically. His head snaps toward Natasha, then back to Lena.

“Nat. You didn’t—”

“I didn’t,” Natasha cuts in firmly, tightening her hold on Lena in immediate defense.

Tony lets out a disbelieving huff of laughter, shaking his head.

“Oh, wait until Captain hears about this.”

Natasha steps forward and grabs the front of his suit, fingers fisting into the fabric near his collar.

“Are you really sure you want to do that?” she asks calmly. Her tone is not loud. It doesn’t need to be for one to hear the threat underneath.

Tony clears his throat, attempting to appear unaffected.

“Kidding. You know I was kidding.”

Unfortunately for him, during the intimidating conversation, Lena found something far more interesting in her observation of her mama.

Before anyone can react, her tiny fist wraps around his tie and yanks hard.

Tony’s composure vanishes as the silk tightens instantly around his throat.

“Uh—Nat—” he chokes, both hands flying up to try and pry her fingers loose. “Your child—she’s—”

Oblivious to his choked gasps, Lena shrieks in delight, swinging the captured tie back and forth like a trophy.

Natasha watches for a moment, just long enough for Tony to suffer, before exhaling through her nose.

“Otpustí, zayka moya (let go, my little bunny),” she murmurs gently against Lena’s hair.

Immediately, Lena freezes mid-swing and turns her head to look at Natasha, surprised. Her free hand floats to her mouth.

“Mmm?” she questions softly.

Natasha gives her a solemn nod.

Lena looks back down at her clenched fist. Then very slowly, her fingers uncurl until the tie drops. She leans forward to watch it fall, then looks up at Tony with wide, innocent eyes.

“Gah?” she offers, like an apology.

Tony attempts to maintain an offended expression. It lasts approximately two seconds before he looks away, rubbing at his throat.

“It’s fine,” he rasps. “I didn’t need to breathe anyway.”

Natasha huffs a small laugh, adjusting Lena higher on her hip. Then she scans the room.

“Now, where’s my wife?”

Tony, still disentangling the abused tie from around his neck, gestures vaguely down the hall.

“She said she wasn’t feeling good, so she went to the medical bay.”

Natasha straightens immediately, the humor draining from her face.

“Why did you tell me that sooner?” Natasha demands.

Tony waves the wrinkled tie at her.

“Because I was being strangled by your daughter.”

Lena claps proudly at that, clearly interpreting it as praise.

Natasha’s lips twitch despite herself, but the smile fades quickly.

You hadn’t said anything about feeling worse when you called her. 

“Mma..mm?” Lena questions as she observes the frown on her mama’s face.

Natasha presses a gentle, reassuring kiss to Lena’s temple.

“Come on,” she murmurs softly. “Let’s go find your mommy.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha hears your voice before she sees you. She’s just rounding the corner outside the medical bay doors, Lena balanced comfortably on her hip, when your tone carries down the hallway.

“And I’m telling you, it’s not possible.”

Inside, Dr. Cho sighs, patient but clearly at the end of her explanations. 

“Look. I don’t know about the mystical parts of the process. You’d have to consult with Doctor Strange about that. However, I do know the medical parts. And the results are clear. You’re—”

“Natasha!” you call abruptly.

Natasha steps into view just as you straighten on the edge of the medical bed, clearly having cut Dr. Cho off mid-sentence. Your eyes are slightly widened in surprise, almost panicked.

Dr. Cho gives you a look when you subtly wave her away. The kind that says we are not finished. But she merely gathers her tablet and paperwork with composed efficiency before turning to Natasha with a nod.

“I’ll give you two some privacy.”

As she passes, Lena twists in Natasha’s arms to watch her go. Tiny fingers lift in a delayed imitation of a wave.

“Buhba,” she mumbles.

Dr. Cho smiles at the toddler and waves back before slipping out. 

“Oh?” you coo immediately, arms extending toward your daughter with grabby hands. “Is my little Lena trying to say her first word?”

Natasha stiffens almost imperceptibly, eyes darting to Lena in panic. But thankfully, no Russian curse word falls from her lips. Instead, she reaches out to you also.

“Mmm,” Lena coos excitedly.

Breathing a soft sigh of relief, Natasha crosses the room and gently transfers Lena into your waiting arms. The toddler immediately melts against your chest with a contented hum, one hand fisting into your shirt.

Natasha watches the two of you for a long, fond second. Then reality returns. She steps closer and presses the back of her hand to your forehead.

“Are you okay?” she asks quietly. “Stark said you weren’t feeling too great.”

You press your lips together before nodding.

“I’m fine.”

You don’t look at her. Instead, you adjust Lena in your lap, smoothing her hair, kissing the top of her head.

Nothing about the way you responded and how you’re acting reassures her at all. Natasha crosses her arms.

A beat later, Lena crosses hers too, looking up at you expectantly.

Between the two of them, you stand no chance. You glance briefly at Natasha before adding softly, “It’s nothing, really. Just some nausea.”

Her eyes narrow.

You shift, looking everywhere but at her.

That’s all the confirmation she needs.

You sigh when you glance back at her once more and see the look that tells you she’s caught you.

Resigned, you pat the spot beside you.

Natasha sits without a word.

“Mmm?” Lena coos curiously when you pass her back. 

Natasha settles cross-legged on the bed beside you, placing Lena in her lap, arms wrapped securely around her little body.

She waits as Lena also fixes you with a similar curious expression.

You inhale deeply.

“Do you remember a few weeks ago,” you begin slowly, “when Lena got sick, and we stayed home to take care of her?”

Natasha’s hold tightens instinctively around the toddler at the memory. Feverish cheeks. Sleepless nights. Cold cloths and whispered lullabies.

“Yeah,” she murmurs.

“Well…I was supposed to go see Doctor Strange that week for my usual appointment. But I forgot. Everything was so chaotic. Lena had the fever. We weren’t sleeping.”

Your words start to tumble over each other.

Natasha reaches forward and takes your hand, her thumb tracing slow, steady circles over your knuckles. The simple motion calms you instantly.

A second later, a smaller hand settles halfway over hers and halfway over yours.

You laugh softly, giving Lena’s hand a grateful pat before lifting your gaze back to Natasha.

“Do you remember,” you ask carefully, “after that…when Lena spent the weekend with your parents?”

Natasha’s mouth curves into a slow smile. Her thumb slides to the inside of your palm, pressing there with deliberate pressure.

“I definitely remember that,” she murmurs, her voice dropping lower.

You huff at her, warmth rising into your cheeks, but the smile fades as your eyes fall to your tangled hands. You swallow, steadying yourself, gathering your nerve.

“Natasha,” you say gently.

She tilts her head to meet your lowered gaze. 

“I’m pregnant.”

The words settle between you, and everything in the room seems to still.

Stunned, Natasha simply blinks, still processing the revelation. Her gaze drops to your stomach, then lifts back to your eyes, searching your face as if trying to decide whether your words are real.

“Natasha?” you prompt softly, waving your fingers in front of her face.

“Mmma?” Lena adds, peering up at her mother’s stunned expression. She reaches up and pats Natasha’s cheek insistently.

That breaks the spell.

Natasha exhales.

“Wow,” she breathes. “I…wow.”

You smile nervously and lift your hand to cup her cheek.

“Ya lishil tebya dara rechi, lyubov moya? (Have I left you speechless, my love?)”

A soft laugh escapes her. She brings your hand to her lips and kisses your knuckles.

“Vsegda. (Always.)”

Her green eyes steady on yours.

“How do you feel?” she asks quietly.

You look down at your hands in your lap.

“Surprised,” you admit. “Though that explains the recent morning nausea.”

Natasha’s expression shifts immediately, protective instinct snapping into place.

“And I thought it was my cooking,” she says lightly, trying to ease the tension. “Now that I know, I’ll make you something for it tomorrow morning.”

You smile gratefully. Then your fingers start picking at the edge of the med bed.

“I’m also…embarrassed,” you confess. “I should’ve been more careful. Especially since magic is involved in all of this.”

You gesture between the two of you and point at Lena, who tilts her head curiously at you.

Natasha takes both your hands firmly, stopping the anxious motion.

“Hey.” Her voice is steady. “Don’t forget that I had some responsibility in this, too.”

You laugh softly before intertwining your fingers with hers and pulling her hands close to your chest.

“And honestly…” You hesitate. “I’m a little excited.”

You look up at her, a vulnerable expression on your face as you gauge her reaction.

“But what do you think?”

Natasha glances down at Lena, who is staring at her intently, head tilted, thumb resting against her mouth.

“Mmm?” Lena prompts.

Natasha smiles. Then she looks back at you without any doubt or hesitation.

“I’d love to have another child with you.”

Her hand cups your cheek. She leans forward and kisses you softly. When she pulls back, her forehead rests against yours.

“Ya tebya lyublyu. (I love you.)”

You smile, but before you can respond, a tiny hand wedges between your faces, patting Natasha’s cheek insistently.

“Mmmbuv…mmam,” Lena babbles.

You laugh and gently cup her cheeks.

“I think she’s trying to copy her mama again.”

Natasha pauses and remembers how Lena has been watching her all day while babbling what she initially thought was just gibberish, but now she wonders. She tilts her head and meets Lena’s gaze directly. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu (I love you),” she says, slow and clear.

Lena’s brows knit together in fierce concentration before she reaches up and cups Natasha’s cheeks in both hands.

“Lu…bu,” she says proudly.

Natasha’s smile grows, and she nods, repeating the word more slowly. 

“Lyu–blyu.”

Lena presses her lips together, studying Natasha carefully, and then suddenly dissolves into giggles.

“Lyublyu, mama.”

Everything stills. Natasha’s breath catches before a soft, disbelieving laugh escapes her as she pulls Lena close, pressing kisses into her hair.

“Molodets, zayka moya (Well done, my little bunny),” she affirms proudly.

Lena giggles, clapping her hands happily. The sight fills her with pride and excitement.

“Well,” Natasha murmurs thickly, glancing at you over Lena’s head, her eyes shining, “I guess we’re doing this again then.”

You scoot closer, resting your head on her shoulder while your hand gently brushes over Lena’s hair.

“You’re a good mom, Natasha,” you say quietly, knowing how much she worried the first time you had Lena.

Natasha leans into you, humming softly in contentment as Lena plays with both of your hands. The moment settles into a warm, peaceful stillness until Natasha suddenly stiffens.

“Actually…” she begins, a nervous edge creeping into her voice. “I have a confession.”

You lift your head, looking at her curiously.

She winces a little before admitting, “Those weren’t Lena’s first words. And before I tell you what they were…just know it was Yelena’s fault.”

Your brows rise higher as you wait for her to continue.

Meanwhile, Lena laughs and claps her hands, happily watching the two of you.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You move quietly toward the couch, careful to keep your footsteps soft against the floor. The glow from the television washes the room in flickering light, painting everything in slow-moving shadows. Leaning over the back of the couch, you peek down at the two figures curled together.

Natasha is fast asleep, her head tipped slightly to the side, one arm wrapped securely around Lena. The toddler is tucked into her like a tiny echo, cheeks pressed against Natasha’s collarbone, lashes resting heavily against her skin. A blanket has half-slipped to the floor, forgotten sometime during the movie neither of them managed to finish.

Your chest warms at the sight. For a moment, you just watch them breathe, slow, even, and perfectly in sync.

Gently, you reach forward and ease the remote from Natasha’s loose grip. The television clicks off, and the room settles into a softer, quieter hush. You lean farther across the couch to place the remote on the table, careful not to jostle them.

Your face ends up inches from Natasha’s.

Before you can react, she tilts her chin up and steals a kiss, catching your lips in a slow, mischievous press. 

The soft gasp that escapes you only seems to amuse her. You feel the curve of her smirk against your mouth as her hand slides to the nape of your neck, fingers warm and familiar as she draws you closer.

You melt into the kiss, one hand bracing against the back of the couch. It lingers, gentle and unhurried, until you finally pull away, resting your forehead against hers. Your breath mingles with hers as you give a quiet shake of your head, a fond reprimand in your eyes.

“Ah, ty melkiy prokaznik (Oh, you little sneak),” you murmur softly. 

Natasha’s smirk widens, her tongue brushing over her lips as though savoring the moment. Her voice drops to a whisper meant only for you.

“Talking to me in Russian is just going to make me want you more.”

You huff a quiet laugh, tapping the tip of her nose lightly.

“Come on,” you murmur. “Let’s bring Lena to her room.”

Your hand slides to her jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of her cheek as you tilt her face up and graze your nose against hers. Your voice lowers, teasing and warm.

“Then you can see how many Russian curse words you can pull from me.”

Her eyes darken instantly, a spark igniting behind them as she watches you straighten.

Carefully, you slip your arms beneath Lena and lift her from Natasha’s embrace. The toddler stirs only slightly, curling instinctively toward your warmth, her small hand fisting into your shirt.

Natasha rises beside you, her palm settling naturally at your waist. With her free hand, she brushes a loose strand of hair from Lena’s sleeping face, her expression softening into something quieter.

Even half-asleep, Lena finds Natasha’s fingers and holds on, tiny grip, stubborn and trusting as she cuddles closer to your chest.

Three heartbeats in this loving home.

And one more on the way.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: thank you for reading!

[just-aake]

PR Nightmares

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Being the PR manager for the Avengers means spinning disasters into headlines and keeping gods, soldiers, and billionaires on message. It would almost be manageable—if only a certain red-haired agent didn’t treat every press event like optional side quests, rumors like entertainment, and you like her favorite game.

Warnings: fluff

Words: 4994

Being the PR manager for the Avengers means accepting that disasters don’t end when the smoke clears. These sorts of things linger in conversation. They trend on social media. They get dissected by twenty-four-hour news cycles and podcast hosts with Wi-Fi and opinions. 

Your job is to take the wreckage and turn it into something acceptable, maybe heroic even. Preferably before lunch.

Which is exactly why you’re currently pacing the Tower’s press prep room with a phone glued to your ear and a headache blooming behind your eyes.

“He did what?!” you hiss, stopping short of throwing your folder across the room purely on principle. 

You press your fingers hard against your temple as Pepper explains that Tony’s newest, impulsive purchase of a construction site during a fight had been spectacularly destroyed in under a couple of minutes.

“Yes, I understand it was technically taking responsibility,” you say tightly. “No, that doesn’t stop the optics from being a nightmare.” A pause. Then, quieter and resigned, “No, it’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

You end the call before she can apologize on Tony’s behalf again.

Before you can even process what you’d need to do for that problem, the doors slide open behind you.

“Hey,” Steve Rogers says easily, strolling in with a casual gait. “How’s it going?”

You turn around and face the super soldier with a reprimanding glare.

“You’re late.”

You flip open your folder with practiced precision, pull out a neatly annotated sheet, and press it into his hands. 

“Highlighted sections are your main talking points. Civilian relief efforts. Accountability. Team unity. If a question veers off course, you pivot. Smile, acknowledge, redirect. Got it?”

“Oh. Uh—okay,” he says, already skimming the page, brow furrowing as he murmurs the bullet points under his breath.

You’re about to remind him to breathe when the doors open again.

Perfect. On schedule, for once.

You grab the second set of notes and turn sharply.

“Here are your notes, Roman—”

The words die in your throat, and you immediately pull your notes back from reach. 

“You’re not Romanoff,” you say.

Clint Barton looks down at himself, pats his chest, his arms, then grins cheekily. 

“Nope,” he says. “Definitely not Romanoff.”

You close your eyes. Just for a second.

“This is not happening right now,” you mutter, pinching the bridge of your nose.

It’s not surprising. Natasha Romanoff treating a mandatory press event like a suggestion at best is practically tradition. Still, you’d allowed yourself the faint, dangerous hope that today might have been different.

“Barton,” you say calmly, checking the time on your phone, “I don’t have the energy for this. Where is she?”

He shrugs, entirely too pleased with himself. 

“I owed her a favor. And now,” he says, gesturing to himself with a flourish, “you have me.”

You don’t respond. You just dial.

“Yes,” you say the moment the line connects. “Pull Romanoff’s name from the panel.” A beat. “I don’t care that it’s already printed. I don’t care if they already noticed. Do it.”

Protests crackle through the speaker. You hang up before they finish.

Across the room, Steve is still by the doors, shoulders hunched, quietly rehearsing under his breath, as if this were a mission briefing rather than a media circus.

“Rogers,” you snap.

He straightens instantly.

“Stick to the notes,” you say firmly. Then you turn, leveling Clint with a look that could curdle vibranium. “And you—stay out of that room.” You point toward the wall separating you from the sea of cameras and questions waiting on the other side.

Clint raises both hands in surrender and gives you two thumbs up.

You push past him, silently fuming at the things you have to deal with.

“Where are you going?” he calls after you, voice sing-song and far too amused.

You don’t slow down.

“To fix this,” you mutter.

Like every other mess the so-called Earth’s Mightiest Heroes leave behind.

It’s part of your job after all, to deal with these sorts of messes, even if one of them is a frustrating red-haired agent who especially enjoys being your problem to clean up.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Your knuckles rap sharply against the door, the sound echoing down the quiet hallway. You don’t bother knocking again. You already know she heard you.

As you wait, your phone buzzes with a notification. You glance down and check the messages.  

It’s a photo from one of the press assistants.

Steve sits at the panel, but he’s not facing the audience of reporters. Instead, he’s looking to the person on his left with rapt attention. Clint is sprawled in the chair beside the Captain, boots up on the table, microphone in hand, mid-gesture as if he’s counting off points in a story no one asked to hear.

“Oh, God,” you mutter, scrubbing a hand down your face.

Another problem to deal with, just as you’re handling this one.

Right on cue, the door opens, and your most frequent problem appears in front of you.

You don’t give her a chance to speak. You simply turn your phone around and shove it into her line of sight.

“This is your fault,” you say flatly.

Natasha glances at the screen for half a second before lifting her gaze back to you, lips already curling into an amused smirk.

“Well,” she says lightly, “hello to you too.”

She’s dressed down in a black tank top, loose sweats, and hair pulled back without effort, and somehow she still looks good, and that only makes your irritation feel worse. 

You pull the phone back and cross your arms.

“You were supposed to be there.”

She mirrors you, folding her arms and leaning casually against the doorframe, completely unbothered by your tone. 

“Steve’s handling it,” she says. “He’s good at that earnest, heroic thing. Besides, I wasn’t even part of that mission.”

You let out a slow, controlled breath, the kind you’ve perfected for moments exactly like this, and start tapping through your phone.

“No,” you say, finally finding what you’re looking for. “You were supposed to be there to clear up this rumor.”

You hold the screen out again.

An article fills the display with a scandalous headline. Below it is a photo of Natasha at Tony’s most recent party, leaning far too close to a national ambassador at the bar, her smile caught mid-flirt.

You sigh in exasperation. 

“How do you manage to have a playboy reputation worse than Stark’s?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, pushing off the doorframe.

“Please. I breathe near someone, and suddenly it’s a scandal. According to them, I’ve slept with half the world’s diplomats.”

“Which is exactly why you were supposed to deny it publicly today,” you say, rubbing your temple. “Instead, I’ve got Barton out there improvising some story.”

Natasha chuckles, low and soft, and shakes her head. She steps closer to you and reaches up, her thumb brushing lightly between your brows.

“You always get this little crease right here when you’re angry,” she murmurs. “It’s cute.”

You smack her hand away without hesitation.

“It’s stress,” you snap. “Which means I’m apparently adorable every time I have to chase after you.”

Her smirk only widens at your words. 

“I should cause trouble more often then.”

You ignore that, not bothering to entertain her usual flirting banter any further. You still need something to mitigate the whole rumor mill.

“Why do you keep putting yourself in those situations?” you sigh in exasperation.

She arches her brow. 

“Like what?”

“You always make it look like you’re one step from bringing them to your bedroom,” you challenge.

Natasha pauses just long enough to eye you suspiciously. Then she sighs dramatically and gestures dismissively with her hand. 

“I didn’t sleep with anyone if that’s what you’re asking about. We just talked politics. Not exactly the kind of foreplay I’m into.”

You press the stop button on your phone, ending the recording immediately before her little suggestive comment and nod in satisfaction. 

“Perfect. Thank you.” You turn the phone back toward her. “Now sign here so that I can release this as your statement.”

Her mouth parts slightly as realization hits. She blinks at you for a moment and then finally laughs under her breath, impressed despite herself. Without breaking eye contact, she traces her signature on the screen with her finger.

“Well played,” she admits. “A little underhanded though.”

You give her a deadpan look. 

“I work with superhumans, gods, narcissists, and spies. It’s a required skill at this point,” you say simply before directing your focus to your phone.

Natasha’s gaze never leaves you.

You feel it even when you refuse to look back up. You focus on your phone instead, thumbs moving quickly as you forward statements, tag editors, and lock down follow-ups. This is familiar territory. Safe territory. Paperwork and damage control don’t flirt back.

You’re almost impressed she’s managed to hold her tongue this long.

Almost.

Then she shifts with the soft scuff of her foot against the floor as she pushes off the wall like she’s made a decision.

The subtle change draws your attention, despite how hard you try to resist.

“Well,” Natasha says lightly, breaking the silence, “I think you’ve kept me long enough.”

Your head snaps up. Instinct takes over before logic can catch up, and you look past her into the room, suspicion flaring sharp and immediate.

“Don’t tell me you have someone waiting in there this whole time,” you say in panic, preparing yourself to develop some cover before more rumors can spread.

Her smirk blooms, the kind she wears when she knows she’s already won something.

“I meant,” she says smoothly, “you kept me from my bed.”

Natasha takes a step closer. Then another. Before you can stop her, she lifts her hand, fingers warm against your skin as she tilts your chin up just enough to force your attention back to her. 

Green eyes lock onto yours.

“But,” she adds softly, “I wouldn’t mind some company.”

For exactly one heartbeat, your carefully built walls falter. Your pulse stutters. Heat flares low and dangerously. For a split second, it would be so easy to forget the job, the rules, the reasons you’ve built this distance brick by brick.

Then you remember.

Who she is.

What she does.

And most importantly, how much she enjoys teasing you like this.

You push her hand away and step back, reclaiming space to clear and cool your mind.

“Be at the next press call,” you say evenly, your voice steadier than you feel. You turn away before she can read anything on your face. “And please try not to stand too close to anyone in the future.”

Behind you, you hear the smile in her voice.

“No promises.”

You don’t respond. You just keep walking. Not until you’re safely out of her sight do you let your expression crack, stern composure giving way to the helpless heat creeping up your cheeks. 

At least this problem is handled. You exhale slowly, forcing the feeling down where it belongs, already bracing yourself for the next mess waiting to be cleaned up.

Because if Clint is still holding a microphone, there’s no way whatever he’s saying is harmless.

You can only hope it’s fixable.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

The hearing room smells faintly of polished wood and stale coffee. The kind of room designed to make people feel small.

Unfortunately for the people seated behind the long crescent table at the front, Natasha Romanoff has never been particularly good at feeling small.

You stand along the side wall of the room, tablet tucked against your chest, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool wood paneling. From here, you have a clear line of sight to everything: the committee members, the press row, the cameras perched on tripods like watchful birds.

And Natasha.

She sits calmly at the witness table, as if this is the least stressful place she could possibly be.

Your tablet screen glows softly with neatly organized notes of talking points, diplomatic phrasing, redirect strategies, and neutral language suggestions meant to keep the hearing smooth and uneventful.

You spent most of the night preparing them.

And you know very well she’s not going to follow half of them.

Still, there’s always a first time for anything.

Natasha sits with one ankle crossed casually over the other beneath the table, posture relaxed, fingers loosely folded together like she’s waiting for a lunch order instead of answering questions from a congressional oversight committee.

Her expression is perfectly composed, but then her attention drifts.

Her eyes flick across the room for barely a second before settling on you, where you stand against the wall. When she catches you watching her, one corner of her mouth curves upward. A quick wink follows.

You immediately look down at your tablet, pretending to review your notes.

You recognize that teasing look. And you sigh quietly to yourself at how your heart still fell for it.

Across the table, one of the committee members adjusts his glasses and leans toward his microphone.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he begins, voice carrying the dry superiority of someone who has never really cared about anything but himself. “Given your…complicated background, many citizens are concerned about the level of autonomy the Avengers currently operate under.”

Natasha tilts her head slightly.

That’s the first warning sign.

You tap your pen nervously against the tablet.

“Complicated,” Natasha repeats mildly. Her eyes flick toward you again before returning to the man across the table and giving him a playful smirk. “That’s a polite way of saying assassin.”

The room shifts uncomfortably. Someone in the press row shifts in their chair. A few reporters glance up from their screens. Still, the man presses on.

“You spent years working for foreign intelligence agencies, including organizations hostile to this country.”

Natasha nods once.

“Yes.”

You glance down at your notes. Page three.

If questioned about past affiliations, acknowledge and redirect to present-day service.

Your gaze lifts again.

Natasha doesn’t even glance in your direction as she does not follow that suggestion, choosing not to say anything further to defend herself.

The committee member leans forward.

“And yet the public is expected to trust that someone with that background now acts in their best interest.”

Natasha’s lips curve slightly as her eyes slide toward you again.

You immediately feel the headache starting behind your eyes.

“Well,” she says calmly, “it seems to be working out so far.”

A few quiet chuckles ripple through the press row.

You pinch the bridge of your nose at her cheeky response.

That wasn’t on the list.

Across the room, Natasha watches the gesture, her smile deepening subtly.

Another senator leans forward.

“Let’s not pretend the Avengers have some spotless record here. Property damage, civilian casualties, unsanctioned interventions—”

The smile disappears from her face as Natasha straightens slightly in her chair.

The second warning sign.

You lower your tablet slowly, hoping that someone on the panel has enough sense to stop pushing and insulting the people she considers her family.

“—one could argue the Avengers cause nearly as many problems as they solve.”

Natasha studies him for a moment. Then she smiles. It’s the smile that usually means someone is about to regret something.

“Respectfully,” she says smoothly, “the people who tend to complain the loudest about the Avengers are usually the ones who call us when aliens start falling out of the sky.”

The press row shifts again. A few reporters start typing faster.

You close your eyes briefly.

That’s going to trend.

Across the room, one of the senior organizers shoots you a pointed look.

You give them a small, helpless shrug.

What did you expect with that line of questioning?

Another member of the panel clears his throat.

“Ms. Romanoff,” he says sharply, “this isn’t a stage for clever remarks.”

Natasha leans slightly closer to the microphone.

“You’re right,” she agrees pleasantly. “It’s a stage for questions. So, please, continue.”

The room goes still for a moment, surprised by her sudden compliance.

You watch her closely. Natasha is actually doing remarkably well. Better than expected, honestly.

The next few questions go by without incident.

Natasha answers them calmly. Even cooperatively.

You almost start to relax.

Then the man at the far end of the table speaks.

“Let’s be honest here,” he says flatly. “You want us to trust you with global security decisions when not that long ago you were little more than a weapon.”

The air in the room tightens immediately. 

Natasha’s posture doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes does.

You notice it right away.

The man continues.

“A weapon pointed wherever your handlers decided.”

Your hands tighten around your tablet.

The room waits with bated breath.

But Natasha says nothing.

You frown at her unusual reaction. Normally, this is where she would slice someone in half with a perfectly delivered line.

Instead, she simply reaches forward and switches off the microphone.

The quiet click echoes louder than anything she could have said. She stands, and chairs scrape slightly as several people lean forward.

“Ms. Romanoff,” someone calls sharply. “We’re not finished here.”

Natasha straightens the cuff of her jacket.

“I am,” she says calmly.

Then she turns and walks out of the room.

The press erupts instantly with questions, shouting, and cameras flashing. 

You rub your forehead and exhale slowly. To be honest, she lasted longer than you expected her to. With a sigh, you gather your things quickly and head for the door after her.

You’re halfway down the hall when a voice snaps behind you.

“Excuse me.”

You turn and see one of the hearing organizers stride toward you, irritation written across his face.

“That was completely unacceptable,” he says sharply. “You need to manage her better. She does not get to walk out of a government inquiry like that.”

Your patience, already thin, frays another inch.

“She answered every question asked of her,” you say evenly.

“She avoided several,” he snaps.

You cross your arms.

“No,” you correct calmly. “She declined to entertain insults.”

The man scoffs.

“If Ms. Romanoff expects the public to overlook her past—”

You cut him off.

“No one is asking anyone to overlook it.”

Your voice is sharper now.

“She’s spent years proving who she is now.”

The organizer folds his arms.

“That doesn’t erase what she was.”

Your jaw tightens.

“You’re right,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t.”

He looks satisfied.

You step closer.

“But if we start digging through the past of every person in that room back there,” you continue calmly, “I wonder how many spotless records we’d find.”

The man’s expression shifts.

You keep going.

“Political favors. Quiet deals. Offshore donations.”

Your voice stays calm.

“But sure,” you continue lightly. “Let’s focus on the former spy who helps save the planet every few months.”

The organizer stiffens.

“You’re implying—”

“I’m implying,” you say flatly, “that you should be very careful about throwing stones in a room full of glass.”

Silence stretches between you.

The man glances down the hallway. Then back at you.

He clears his throat, attempting to regain his previous bravado despite his clear nerves.

“We expect Ms. Romanoff back in the chamber for further questioning.”

“Noted,” you say.

He leaves. 

You stand there for a moment, breathing out slowly. Then you turn the corner, only to stop in surprise.

Natasha is leaning against the wall just a few feet away. She looks entirely relaxed, like her character wasn’t just insulted a few minutes ago.

“…How long were you standing there?” you ask with a sigh.

Her smirk appears instantly.

“Long enough.”

Not wanting to meet her eyes anymore, you look down at your tablet, closing out of your pages of notes.

“Well,” she says lightly, pushing off the wall, “Safe to say, I didn’t follow your notes.”

You sigh and look back up at her. She’s standing closer now that you can feel the heat of her presence.

“No,” you say softly. “You definitely didn’t.”

She watches you carefully, waiting for the reprimand.

Instead, you shrug.

“It’s fine.”

You walk past her. Then pause just long enough to add over your shoulder.

“I liked your responses better anyway.”

You keep walking.

Behind you, Natasha doesn’t move for a moment. Then a slow smile spreads across her face as she watches you go. She catches up to you easily.

“Shouldn’t we head back in there?” she asks.

“Nope,” you reply. “I’m heading out for lunch.”

Natasha steps ahead of you and opens the door before you can reach it, holding it open with one arm braced against the frame.

When you walk past her, she leans slightly closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of her breath.

“Can I join?” she asks.

You stop and give her a completely deadpan stare.

She responds with a slow, shameless smile.

You roll your eyes and shove her lightly on the shoulders as you walk past.

“Do whatever you want,” you mutter.

She chuckles, low and amused, behind you.

And your hands tighten around your tablet as heat rushes to your face at the sound.

Natasha watches the reaction with clear satisfaction as she quickly follows.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Music hums through the Tower as another one of Tony’s parties is underway.

The party spills across the penthouse floor in warm gold light and polished marble, guests drifting in small clusters of diplomats, donors, and a few celebrities who pretend they weren’t desperate for an invitation.

You stand near the edge of the room, tablet tucked under one arm, scanning the floor as you look for any potential problems.

No fights. No reporters. No Avengers attempting karaoke.

So far, so good.

You take a slow sip of the club soda in your hand and check your list again. Catering is moving smoothly. Security rotations are holding. Pepper already texted you once to say everything looks “miraculously under control,” which is about as close to praise as you usually get.

You’re just about to allow yourself the smallest moment of satisfaction when your gaze drifts toward the bar.

And there she is.

Natasha leans against the polished counter, elbow resting lightly beside a glass of something amber. Her red hair falls loose tonight, catching the warm lights of the room. She’s speaking to a tall man in a navy suit, whose accent faintly carries through the music.

You recognize him after a moment.

A visiting ambassador.

Natasha tilts her head as he speaks, lips curving into that slow, deliberate smile she uses when she wants someone to forget what they were saying.

You narrow your eyes slightly.

They’re standing a little too close.

Not inappropriate. Not technically.

But close enough that tomorrow morning’s tabloids would absolutely have opinions if they could get their hands on any evidence.

You open your mouth to sigh when a sharp flicker of light flashes from the garden outside the glass wall.

Your head snaps toward it immediately.

Another flash.

Hidden between the hedges lining the balcony below, a silhouette shifts.

You set your drink down without a word and move.

The doors slide open quietly as you step outside, heels clicking across the stone terrace. The photographer is still crouched near the bushes, lifting the camera again when you reach him.

He doesn’t even see you coming.

You reach down and take the camera cleanly out of his hands.

“Hey—!”

You flip the device over in your hands with practiced efficiency, pop open the side panel, and pull out the SD card.

The man stares at you in disbelief.

“You can’t—”

You toss the camera back to him, which he fumbles into his arms in panic.

“Yes, I can,” you reply calmly.

Your phone is already in your other hand.

“Security,” you say when the line connects. “Terrace level. We have a trespasser.”

You hang up before the man can start arguing again.

Two security guards arrive within seconds and escort the photographer away while he protests loudly about rights and lawsuits.

You dust your hands off lightly.

Problem solved.

When you turn back toward the party, several guests are staring at you, the commotion drawing the attention of half the room.

You straighten and offer them a quick, reassuring smile.

“Everything’s fine,” you say easily. “Just someone who forgot they weren’t invited.”

A few nervous laughs ripple through the nearby group.

“Please,” you add, gesturing toward the music and lights, “enjoy the party.”

They quickly return to their conversations.

You feel it before you see it.

A familiar gaze.

You glance toward the bar.

Natasha is watching you. Her expression is unreadable, but the corner of her mouth lifts slightly as she tilts her head in invitation.

Heat creeps up your neck.

But you don’t mind the chance to escape the attention of the others. You pretend to check something on your phone while making a strategic retreat toward the bar.

When you reach it, you realize that the ambassador is gone.

Natasha sits alone now, one elbow resting lazily on the counter as if she’s been waiting.

You slide into the seat beside her and signal the bartender.

“Whiskey,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment before speaking.

“Was there a problem?” she asks casually.

You take the glass when it arrives and glance at her.

“You already know what it was.”

Her lips twitch.

You take a small sip before continuing.

“I thought I asked you not to stand too close to people unless you actually planned to bring them back to your room.”

Natasha turns slightly toward you, green eyes bright with amusement.

“Did you?”

“Yes.”

You rest your elbow on the bar and rub your temple.

“Very specifically.”

Natasha hums thoughtfully. Then she scoots her chair closer. Just a little.

The shift is subtle, but suddenly the space between you is noticeably smaller.

She tilts her head slightly.

“So,” she says lightly, “I can be close to you like this, right?”

You exhale slowly before you lean your head against your palm and look over at her with a tired frown.

“You should only do things like that if you actually mean them,” you say.

Natasha watches you for a moment.

Something in her expression softens.

Her hand lifts.

You don’t even react anymore when her thumb brushes lightly between your brows.

“You’re doing it again,” she murmurs.

You start to protest—

But her hand doesn’t stop this time.

Instead, her palm cups your cheek gently, guiding your face toward hers.

Her voice lowers.

“What if I do?” she whispers. 

For a moment, the noise of the party fades into the background.

Your pulse stumbles as Natasha’s gaze holds yours steadily.

Still, you can’t help but feel the skepticism rise in your chest that this is just another one of her teasing flirtations.

“…Natasha,” you warn gently.

She doesn’t pull away.

“What if,” she repeats softly, “I actually mean it?”

You stare at her for a long moment.

Natasha doesn’t look away.

The music from the party swells faintly around you, a slower song bleeding through the noise of conversation and clinking glasses. Somewhere across the room, someone laughs too loudly, but the sound feels distant compared to the quiet tension between you and the red-haired spy standing far too close.

Her hand is still cupping your face.

You reach up and take her wrist.

For a second, she thinks you’re pushing her away again.

You do pull her hand from your cheek, but this time you don’t let go.

Your fingers settle around her wrist instead, warm and steady.

Natasha’s eyebrow lifts slightly.

You lean back against the bar a little, studying her with narrowed eyes.

“It’s going to take a lot more than a few words,” you say calmly, “before I’m falling into your bed, Romanoff.”

The corner of Natasha’s mouth lifts slowly into a smirk, unbothered by your challenge. She tilts her head slightly toward the dance floor, where the music has slowed, couples swaying under the soft golden lights.

“Well,” she says lightly, “we could start with a dance.”

Her gaze flicks back to yours.

“Unless,” she adds innocently, “that’s going to start some rumors.”

You stare at her for half a second. Then you roll your eyes. Your grip shifts from her wrist to her hand.

Before she can react, you tug her off the barstool.

Natasha follows easily, amusement flickering across her face as you lead her toward the dance floor. Guests part subtly around you, more interested in their drinks and conversations than the quiet moment unfolding between an Avenger and the person responsible for keeping their reputations intact.

You stop near the center of the floor and turn toward her.

Natasha looks almost smug.

You place your hands on her shoulders, then slide them up around the back of her neck before pulling her close.

Natasha blinks once, clearly not expecting that.

Your arms settle comfortably there as the music carries the slow rhythm around you.

“You’re surprisingly lax tonight,” she murmurs.

You give her a small, unimpressed look.

“I’m being practical,” you reply. “Keeping you close to keep an eye on you.”

Her hands come to rest lightly at your waist.

“Sure. Practical,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

She studies your face.

“And what about potential rumors?”

You shrug slightly, pulling her a little closer as the dance begins.

“I can handle any rumors,” you say.

Natasha’s eyes soften, just a fraction.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “You keep saying things like that, and people might think you like me.”

You tilt your head.

“I manage the Avengers,” you say dryly. “Liking dangerous things is part of the job description.”

Natasha laughs quietly under her breath.

The sound is softer than usual.

For a moment, neither of you speaks as you move slowly together to the music.

Then she leans in just slightly.

“Still,” she murmurs near your ear, “a dance seems like a good start.”

You glance at her.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Romanoff.”

Her smirk returns immediately.

“Oh,” Natasha says, eyes glinting, “I’m just getting started.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: these two were fun to write. thank you for reading!

[randomgirlduh]

drabble natasha romanoff vs. self-control

The call starts normally.

Natasha has her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear while she moves around the kitchen, scooping coffee into the machine with the quiet efficiency that comes from years of routine. The apartment is warm with late afternoon light, sunlight stretching in long amber strips across the counter while Natasha half-listens to the voice on the other end of the line — the kind of half-listening that still catches everything, because she is constitutionally incapable of not paying attention.

"—I'm just saying she handled it," Clint is saying casually. "Wasn't pretty, but it worked."

Natasha pauses mid-motion.

The scoop hovers above the coffee filter.

"Handled what?"

There's a silence just long enough for Natasha to realize Clint has already said too much. She can practically hear him calculating whether he can walk it back.

He can't.

"…You didn't know?" he asks.

Natasha slowly sets the scoop down.

"Know what, Clint." It isn't a question. It's a warning wrapped in a very thin layer of patience.

He exhales like someone who has just stepped directly into a bear trap they built themselves.

"Well. Your wife decided to make a jump during extraction."

Natasha's expression doesn't change.

Not a single muscle moves.

That's always the tell.

"What kind of jump."

"Across a building."

"How far."

Another pause. Clint clearly weighing whether honesty or self-preservation wins.

"…Twelve stories down if she missed."

The kitchen goes completely still.

For a long moment Natasha says absolutely nothing. Her fingers rest against the counter, knuckles whitening incrementally as the image assembles itself whether she wants it to or not — you on a rooftop edge somewhere, wind pulling at your hair, measuring the distance between buildings with your eyes like physics is something that applies to other people. Like gravity is negotiable.

Like your life is a variable she isn't constantly, quietly, terrifyingly aware of.

"She didn't miss," Clint adds. Quickly. Hopefully.

"That's not the point."

"Nat—"

"She could have fallen."

"But she didn't—"

"Clint." Her voice is very quiet. "Stop talking."

He stops talking.

The call ends a minute later, and the coffee never gets made.

By the time the apartment door opens that evening, Natasha has been on the couch for over an hour.

She hasn't moved. Hasn't turned a light on. The sun finished setting without her noticing, and she's been sitting in the slow crawl of dusk with her elbows on her knees and her hands loosely clasped, staring at the middle distance while that image — your image, you on that ledge — refuses to dissolve no matter how many times she tries to replace it with something else.

The sound of the door cuts through it.

You step inside like any other night. Keys dropped on the side table. Bag dropped near the wall. The easy, unhurried movements of someone coming home without any particular awareness that anything is wrong.

Natasha doesn't move.

"You want to explain something to me?"

You stop.

She's visible now that your eyes have adjusted — still and sharp in the low light of the apartment, leaning forward on the couch with her elbows braced on her knees and her green eyes fixed on you in a way that makes the room feel slightly smaller.

That look. You know that look.

You exhale slowly through your nose.

"…Clint called."

"Of course he did."

"You jumped a building."

You shrug out of your jacket, your expression shifting immediately into something flat and defensive — that look you get when you've already decided you aren't wrong.

"He talks too much."

Natasha stands.

The movement is smooth and controlled, the kind of precise, coiled motion that means she is already angry and already managing it, which is somehow worse than if she'd just snapped.

"You crossed a twelve-story gap without backup."

"It worked."

"That's not the point."

"Nat—"

"You could have been killed." The words come out quiet and even and absolutely final.

And that's when you really dig in.

"And you've never taken risks?" you fire back. "That's rich, coming from you of all people."

"That's different."

"Oh, because you're Natasha Romanoff?"

"Because I always tell you when something is dangerous."

"You interrogated Clint about my mission."

"He called me because he was worried."

"Well I wasn't."

Natasha laughs once — sharp, humorless, the kind of laugh that means she's past the point of finding anything funny.

"That," she says, "is the entire problem."

The argument escalates the way arguments between two people who are both trained operatives always do — fast, precise, and deeply, stubbornly personal. You both know the other's pressure points. Neither of you is particularly gifted at backing down.

"You don't get to act like I'm reckless," you snap. "Half the field decisions you've made in your career make that jump look like a leisurely stroll."

"And I come home."

"So did I."

"That was luck—"

"That was skill, Natasha, and you know it—"

"Skill doesn't cancel out a twelve-story drop—"

"I calculated the jump—"

"You guessed—"

"I'm still standing here!"

"I know." Her voice cracks slightly on it. Just barely. Just enough.

Silence snaps the room in half.

You both breathe for a moment. Natasha turns away, jaw tight, one hand pressed briefly to her forehead. She's fighting something she hasn't let you see clearly yet — and that's what's making the whole thing worse.

"I'm not doing this right now," she says, voice lower now. Controlled again.

You spread your hands.

"Of course you're not."

"Because if I keep talking," she says quietly, already moving toward the hallway, "I'm going to say something I'll regret."

The office door closes.

Not slammed. Worse — precise. Deliberate.

The apartment settles into silence.

-

The next two hours become a strange, exhausting domestic cold war.

Natasha deals with her feelings the way she deals with most things — by doing something with her hands and her body and her considerable self-discipline. Dishes get washed that were already clean. The counters are wiped twice. Laundry that didn't need folding gets folded with the kind of rigid, surgical precision that belongs in a military briefing, not a linen closet.

She moves through the apartment like a contained storm wearing the skin of a routine.

You sit on the couch and try to ignore it. You scroll your phone. You turn the TV on. Turn it off. Put it on again. Watch nothing for twenty minutes before giving up entirely and staring at the ceiling while the silence stretches between the two of you like something physical.

Eventually you hear the click of her office door.

The soft lamp light. The quiet keyboard sounds that stop when you reach the doorway.

You lean against the frame.

She's at her desk with her laptop open and her reading glasses low on her nose, her hair loose and slightly disheveled from where she's been running her hand through it. The glow from the screen catches the angles of her face — the sharp line of her jaw, the slight furrow between her brows. She looks tired. Not the physical kind.

She hears you. Doesn't look up.

"Nat."

She exhales. Removes her glasses. Presses her fingers briefly to her eyes.

"I'm tired," she says. "I don't want to fight anymore tonight."

You push off the doorframe.

"Then don't."

"I'm working."

"You're hiding."

One eyebrow lifts above a very pointed look.

"Call it what you want."

You cross the room slowly, watching her watch you with that cautious, unreadable expression she deploys when she isn't sure what you're about to do. You stop beside the desk.

She tilts her chin up slightly.

"What are you doing?"

You don't answer.

Instead — slowly, deliberately, with perfect casualness — you hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt.

And lift.

Just a flash. A single moment of bare skin and the soft curve of your chest before the fabric drops again, as if you'd done nothing at all. As if it had been completely accidental.

It was not accidental.

Natasha goes absolutely still.

The silence in the office becomes a different kind of silence.

Her eyes drop.

Come back up.

Drop again.

For a long moment she doesn't move at all. Doesn't breathe, as far as you can tell.

"…Did you just—"

"Maybe."

She stares at you.

"You're not wearing a bra."

You tilt your head.

"Observant."

Natasha drags both hands slowly down her face, the picture of a woman trying very hard to be irritated and finding the capacity for it slipping away from her at considerable speed. She lowers her hands. Her gaze drifts downward again, slower this time, like she's given up pretending she isn't looking.

She closes the laptop.

Click.

She leans back in her chair, studying you the way she studies a tactical problem — carefully, thoroughly, like she's mapping every angle.

"I was very prepared to stay angry at you tonight," she says. Her voice has changed. Lower now. Quieter.

"I know."

"I had a whole plan."

"Mm."

"Righteous silence. Maybe some pointed comments over breakfast." She pauses. "I was looking forward to it."

You smile.

Just slightly.

"And now?"

Natasha stands.

The motion is slow and deliberate — unfolding from the chair with the unhurried grace that's simply how she exists in a body, every movement aware of itself. She steps around the desk and stops directly in front of you. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her skin. Close enough that when she breathes, you can see it.

Her eyes drop again. Linger.

Come back up to find yours.

"You weaponized the fact that you're not wearing a bra," she says softly.

"Strategic deployment."

"That's not how conflict resolution works."

"Seems to be working."

Her gaze dips one more time — slower now, deliberate, not even trying to disguise it. When she looks back up there's a very specific quality to her expression. Something that has quietly, completely won out over everything else that was there an hour ago.

"You're very proud of yourself."

"A little."

She reaches out and settles one hand on your waist — fingers curling through the fabric of your shirt, thumb pressing a slow, warm line along your side. The touch is soft. Exploratory. Like she's remembering the shape of you after a day that almost made her question whether she'd get to.

That's the thing underneath all of it, you realize.

That's what the argument was really about.

"Nat." Your voice is softer now too.

Her thumb traces another line along your side. Slower.

"You scared me," she says quietly. Just that. Simple and honest, stripped of all the anger that surrounded it for the past two hours. "I don't—" She stops. Starts again. "When Clint said rooftop, my brain filled in the rest before he even finished the sentence."

You reach up and touch her jaw. Turn her face up toward yours.

"I know."

"I can't—" Her jaw tightens. "I cannot walk through what I walk through every day if I'm also walking through the thought of losing you."

"You're not going to."

"You don't know that."

"Neither do you." You hold her gaze. "But I came home."

Something in her expression shifts. Breaks a little at the edges. She exhales through her nose, and then her forehead drops forward to press against yours, and for a moment you just breathe together in the low lamplight of her office.

"I hate that you're right," she murmurs.

"I know."

"And I'm still mad at you."

"I know that too."

Her hand on your waist tightens — pulling you closer, the distance between you narrowing until there's nothing left of it. Her other hand comes up and slides along your jaw, tilting your face, and when she kisses you it's slow and deep and carries the weight of everything the argument was really made of.

Relief. Fear. Love. The particular, aching terror of having something you can't afford to lose.

When she finally pulls back, she keeps her forehead against yours.

"We still need to talk about the rooftop."

"Later."

Picking up from where the tension peaks — here's a spicier continuation:

Her thumb drags slowly along your cheekbone, and then her hand slides back into your hair instead — fingers curling at the nape of your neck with a grip that's gentle and possessive at exactly the same time.

"Much later," she agrees.

And then she kisses you again.

This one is different.

The first one was relief. This one is something else entirely — slower and more deliberate, her mouth moving against yours with the kind of unhurried, focused attention she gives to things she intends to take her time with. Her hand tightens in your hair just slightly. Enough to tilt your head back. Enough to make the angle exactly what she wants it to be.

You make a soft sound against her mouth.

Natasha pulls back just far enough to look at you — flushed, slightly breathless, her green eyes darker now and fixed on yours with an intensity that does something immediate to your nervous system.

"You thought flashing me would fix this," she says quietly.

"Didn't it?"

Her gaze drops to your mouth.

"It redirected it."

She walks you backward.

Slowly. One step, then another, until your back finds the wall of her office and Natasha steps into the space in front of you — one hand braced beside your head, the other still loose at your waist, close enough that you can feel every breath she takes.

She doesn't touch you.

Not yet.

That's deliberate too.

"You know what I've been thinking about," she says, very low, "for the past 5 minutes while I was trying to be very mature and process my emotions?"

"Tell me..."

She leans in. Her mouth brushes just below your ear, barely contact, just the warmth of her breath against your skin.

"Taking this shirt off you."

Your breath catches.

Her lips press softly beneath your jaw. Once. Twice. Working their way down the line of your throat with unhurried, devastating patience, and you feel her smile slightly against your skin when your head tips back against the wall.

"Natasha—"

"Mm?"

"You're doing that on purpose."

"Yes." No hesitation. Her mouth finds the curve of your neck and lingers. "Consider it payback for the flash."

"That's not—" Your train of thought dissolves as her teeth graze lightly. "—fair."

"I never said I was fair."

Her hand at your waist slides beneath the hem of your shirt — warm palm flat against your skin, fingers spreading slowly across your stomach like she's relearning the map of you. You feel her exhale against your throat when she realizes, again, that there's nothing between her hand and your skin but fabric she can push out of the way whenever she decides to.

"You really weren't wearing a bra," she murmurs. Faintly amused. Mostly something else.

"I really wasn't."

She lifts her head and looks at you.

Hair slightly messed from her hands. Mouth bitten red. The wall solid at your back and Natasha Romanoff between you and the rest of the room, looking at you like you are the most aggravating and wanted thing she has ever seen.

"Take it off," she says quietly.

Not a question.

You reach for the hem.

Her hands are there first.

She strips the shirt over your head in one slow, smooth pull and drops it somewhere behind her without looking, and then she just — looks at you. Standing in the warm lamplight with her eyes moving over you like she's cataloguing something precious. Like she's been waiting all evening for exactly this and isn't in any hurry now that she has it.

Her hands settle at your waist again. Thumbs tracing the soft skin just above the waistband of your jeans.

"I was so angry at you," she says softly.

"I know."

"I'm still angry at you." Her thumb presses a slow circle into your hip. "It's just — coexisting with other things right now."

You reach up and curl your fingers into the front of her shirt.

"Then let those other things win for a while."

Something shifts in her expression.

She steps in fully — no space left between you now, the warmth of her body pressed against yours — and kisses you hard enough that you feel it down to your knees. One hand splayed across your bare back, pulling you in. The other sliding up into your hair, tilting your head exactly where she wants it. The wall is solid behind you and Natasha is solid in front of you and you stop thinking about anything else entirely.

When she finally breaks the kiss you're both breathing harder. She presses her lips once, twice more, softer — like she can't quite stop — before resting her forehead against yours in the dark.

"Bedroom," she says.

"Finally."

She laughs — a real one this time, low and warm — and takes your hand.

The office light gets left on.

Neither of you notices.

...

[marvelselfinserts]

Hey how are you! I live your fics and I saw that you were open for asks so I am taking my chance.

I was thinking of a Natasha Romanoff x child reader story. The reader is about 6 and comes from an abusive home but she runs away with her backpack (that only has candy, teddy bear and her fav crayons - so not useful stuff but cute) and she finds an abandoned house and managed to pick the lock. She stays there for a while find food and a bed.

The safe house belongs to Nat and Nat and maybe some other avanegers goes to this safe house after a mission and they find reader. Nat interview this child a if the child a dangerous villain and the child gets scared (even cries). The child lies about her age (maybe saying she is 10) and obviously Nat does not believe her.

So Nat is not very motherly and nice but eventually she becomes very fond of the reader. Maybe nats threatens the child to call social services or smth to get reader to talk.

Anyway o was thinking that Nat ends up really caring and loving the child and wants to adopt her or smth. (The reader never had a mother. She was living with her father)

I don’t know if it is a good story idea but I thaight it was a cute one. A one shot and a series is fine either way.

Little Runaway

Natasha Romanoff & Fem!Child!Reader [A/N] This request is literally so cute! Little worried I haven't done it justice 😭 Hopefully you enjoy my lovely, thank you so much for the request 😘

By the time Natasha reaches the house she’s exhausted – the mission had been tiring enough but her nearest safe house (of which Natasha had plenty) was a good walk away. Too risky to take any kind of transport and Natasha had taken back roads, making her journey as confusing and disorienting as possible for anyone trying to follow her – doubling back on herself multiple times and looping around blocks. Her boots are starting to rub and all she wants to do is sit down and have a drink. Usually she keeps a bottle stowed away in one of the cupboards, she’s sure to have something.

From the outside it doesn’t look like much – a small, rundown house. The perfect place to lay low for a few days until the Avengers can come and collect her. Natasha had hoped Clint would be with her but they got put on separate assignments. Never mind. Natasha didn’t mind the quiet too much. There was a small TV and besides, she was looking forward to catching up some much needed sleep.

Natasha’s just locked the door behind her when she hears a noise coming from the kitchen. Her hand immediately goes to the gun in her belt, pulling it out and walking slowly into the house, making sure to check every corner of the room and any hiding points. During her sweep her eyes land on a backpack that definitely doesn’t belong to her – it’s purple with a butterfly pattern, and small. A backpack designed for a child. Her eye-brows raise as she looks to the saggy couch, noticing a teddy bear and several newspapers that Natasha definitely hadn’t left there.

When Natasha makes it to the kitchen her eyes land on a little girl, sitting on top of the countertop, trying her best to open the window leading into the back garden. It’s not going to happen though – Natasha made sure all the windows and doors were securely locked, the way they were for all her safe houses. How you got in is a mystery but you’re definitely not getting out of that window “Who the Hell are you?”

You practically jump out of your skin as you whip around to face her, your eyes wide and fearful as you hold your hands up “Don’t shoot! I’m sorry!”

Before you can move Natasha crosses the room, grabbing you by your arm and yanking you off the countertop. You yelp, caught off guard and crash to the floor. Natasha roughly pulls you back up to your feet, patting you down to check for weapons. You squirm in her hold but Natasha just holds you tighter – you don’t look very old but Natasha remembers how cunning she’d been at that age, the things she’d done. People trust children. If Natasha had used that to her advantage then you could too.

No weapons on you but that doesn’t mean you couldn’t have any stashed away somewhere inside the house. Natasha pulls out one of the dining room chairs, pushing you towards it “Sit.” You look up at her, your eyes wide and teary “I said sit.”

Once you’re sat in the chair Natasha folds her arms, keeping a tight hold of her gun but not pointing it directly at you anymore “What are you doing here?” You hesitate, fidgeting with the hem of your dress – it’s dirty and torn, as is the threadbare cardigan you’re wearing. It’s cold outside and Natasha notices your bare feet, the way you’re shivering. She frowns, taking you in “Start talking kid or I’m going to get angry.”

You start to cry, startled by her rough treatment and the harsh snap of her voice. You’re not sure what to say so eventually you just whisper tearfully “I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that, just… Tell me your name. Can you tell me that at least?”

“Y/N.” You sniffle.

“Y/N. Okay. What are you doing in my house Y/N?”

You look at the gun in her hand nervously before whispering “I was just… Staying here. A little while.”

Natasha tilts her head to the side “And you’re how old?”

“Ten.”

Natasha rolls her eyes “Give me a break kid; you’re like what, five at most?”

You hesitate before reluctantly mumbling “Six.”

“Six years old. Okay. Where are your parents?”

“They- Well- I don’t have any.”

Natasha has to suppress a groan. Okay, it’s pretty unlikely you’re a Widow in training – they’d have taught you to lie better than that. Still, she’s not willing to let you off the hook just yet “What was with all the newspapers on the couch?”

“We couldn’t find a blanket, it gets cold at night. They were in the trash-”

“’We’? Who is ‘we’?”

“Me and Bruno.”

Natasha looks around the house, her eyes narrowing “Who’s Bruno? Where is he?”

“In the living room, on the couch. I was looking for a snack for us.”

Natasha’s eye-brows furrow. There hadn’t been anyone on the couch when she walked in. Had they snuck off? Were they hiding somewhere, waiting to ambush her? What was your involvement, were you being held here against your will, were-

Oh. You’re talking about the bear. For fucks sake.

Natasha looks you up and down for a moment before holstering her gun and pulling out her burner phone “I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to call your parents.”

Your eyes widen in horror and sob harder “Wait! No, don’t!”

Natasha grins – now she’s got you. Of course she doesn’t know who your parents are, let alone have their number but you don’t know that. She pretends to dial a number “Better start talking kiddo or I’ll have to ask your Mom-”

“I don’t have a Mommy, I really don’t, but I don’t wanna go back to my Daddy, please.”

Something about your tearful pleading makes Natasha stop, slipping her phone back into her pocket. For a moment there’s silence in the kitchen, only broken by the sound of your pitiful sobs until Natasha asks “What’s going on kid? Did you run away from home?”

You nod, sniffling “Me and Bruno ran away together and we don’t want to go back.”

Natasha sighs, closing her eyes for a long moment before looking at you again “Right, come on.”

She heads into the living room, gesturing for you to come with her. You follow hesitantly, wiping at the tears on your face. Natasha picks up the bear from the couch and shoves him into your arms “Here, sit down for a minute kid.”

You sit on the edge of the couch, watching as Natasha picks up your backpack, looking inside. All she finds are crayons, a colouring book and some empty candy wrappers. She looks over at you incredulously “Where’s all your stuff?”

“I brought my favourite crayons and my book. And me and Bruno stole the candy from Daddy, he’ll be really cross but we won’t be there so now he has no candy. It was tasty, me and Bruno shared.”

Natasha puts a hand to her forehead and takes a deep breath “Okay, what about your tooth brush? Or spare clothes or a blanket or actual, proper food?” You just blink at her and Natasha groans “What have you been eating?”

“There was food in the kitchen, lots.”

So you’d found her emergency stash of food. Natasha sighs though she’s sure you barely made a dent in it. There were plenty of cans, not many of them very interesting for a young girl but needs must “How did you even get in here?”

“Me and Bruno picked the lock on the backdoor. It took forever.”

Natasha narrows her eyes suspiciously. This safe house was supposed to be impenetrable but somehow a six year old girl had found her way inside. Not exactly good. Natasha puts down your backpack “There are blankets here you know. Upstairs.”

“We don’t go upstairs, it’s too scary.”

She rolls her eyes. Definitely not a Widow. She’d had far scarier things to deal with when she was younger. Still, there’s something about the nervous way you clutch your teddy bear to the chest, your wide, teary eyes watching her every move that makes her think there’s more to your story than you’re letting on. Kids don’t runaway for no reason. Maybe you’ve had your own fair share of problems.

Right now though Natasha is exhausted. The sensible thing to do would be to hand you over to the authorities – let them hear your sorry tale and decide what to do with you. Unfortunately Natasha’s stuck. She can’t go take you anywhere, not while she needs to lay low. You’re only a kid; you would almost definitely draw attention to yourself if she tried to move you out of the house. And she’s too tired to go and find one of her other houses, it would take her days of walking…

So now she’s stuck. She’ll have to wait here with you until the Avengers arrive.

“Are you hungry?” She asks, her tone still no less harsh than it was before.

It’s not that Natasha isn’t fond of kids. Clint’s are okay. Natasha always feels proud whenever a little girl calls out to her in the street; in fact she always makes a point of stopping and saying hello. Kids are cute. Natasha’s never really felt that maternal instinct though. Perhaps the Red Room had taken that from her too the day of her graduation. What was the point in having motherly feelings if you knew it was impossible to ever be a mother?

You nod and Natasha heads into the kitchen, glancing back when she hears the little pitter patter of your feet as you follow her, still clutching that moth eaten teddy bear in your arms. Natasha turns back, telling herself to focus on the task at hand. As suspected some of the tins in her cupboard are gone “How did you heat these up?” Natasha asks, pulling down a couple of cans of soup.

You roll your eyes “I know how to use the stove.”

Of course you do. You’d packed nothing but crayons and candy, and were too scared to go upstairs by yourself, but you knew how to use the stove. Natasha looks you up and down again, asking casually “Who taught you how to do that then?”

“I taught myself.”

Natasha nods, turning her attention back to the soup cooking on the stove whilst she mulls this information over “Why did you run away from home?”

“Why are you letting me stay?”

Natasha hesitates, glancing at you as she tries to think of an answer “I- I never said I was. I’m still figuring out what I’m gonna do.”

“I’m not going home.”

Natasha looks at you, having to suppress a smile at the little look of determination on your face as you try and sound tough. But behind that stubborn pout on your face is still the little waver of anxiety and worry, always present in your eyes “Give me time to figure this out. Okay? I’m not kicking you out imminently but… Don’t get too comfortable.”

That night goes about as well as Natasha expected. You both eat your soup in silence, giving each other suspicious, weary glances every so often. When it gets late Natasha manages to convince you to come upstairs with her, fetching blankets and leading you through to the bedroom. There’s only one bed but Natasha doesn’t mind toughing it out on the floor – she’s used to sleeping in uncomfortable circumstances. You looked so happy to be sleeping in a proper bed, Bruno tucked right beneath your chin that Natasha couldn’t even be angry. You were pretty cute.

Over the next week or so you both get into a bit of a routine. Natasha cooks and accepts your offer to help clean but she doesn’t let you do it all by yourself though she’s surprised to see how self-sufficient you are for such a young girl. At first conversation is stilted and awkward but eventually it begins to flow naturally. You’re a fan of telling corny jokes and Natasha can’t help but find herself smiling whenever you tell another one. She tells you stories about when she lived with her little sister Yelena as a kid, steering clear of any Red Room talk. You don’t need to know about that.

After you’ve been together for a week Natasha finally decides to ask about your past again “Are you ready to tell me why you ran away or do I need to call child services?”

“Don’t call them!” You whine “You promised you wouldn’t!”

On Natasha’s first morning in the house you’d practically begged her on hands and knees not to call child services. Natasha hadn’t intended to but had hoped to keep it as a looming threat in case she needed anything from you. You’d been so distraught she hadn’t had the heart to though and had promised not to make the call.

“I know, I’m only teasing.” Natasha admits “But I do want to know what made someone as little as you run away.”

You hesitate before sighing “I don’t like my Daddy.”

“I figured as much. Why not?”

“He’s not very nice. He made me and Bruno cry and if we cried too loud he’d-”

You cut yourself off and Natasha is almost glad – she has enough horror stories to keep her awake at night, she doesn’t need any more. Natasha’s assessment of you hadn’t been entirely wrong – you certainly had your own blend of problems to deal with for someone so young. This was something she’d noticed over the past week. There was something about your mannerisms, a strange blend of a naïve little girl who only packed crayons and candy when running away, mixed with a girl who’d had to carry far too much responsibility for her age.

“Did he ever do anything nice for you?” Natasha wonders aloud “Make you dinner, tuck you in, read you a bedtime story?”

You shake your head and Natasha sighs – that explains your self-sufficiency.

“What’s your plan then?” Natasha asks “Since you’re so adamant I mustn’t call child services, and you don’t wanna go home.”

“Me and Bruno will stay here.”

“’Fraid not kid. This is my house and we both know I can’t leave you here alone.” Natasha looks over at you, sitting on your end of the couch. The TV has been on for the past hour but neither of you has been watching “What about family? You got like… A Grandma or something?”

“No. Nobody wants me.”

There’s something about the way you say that that makes Natasha’s heart twist – it’s not said with pity or sadness, just matter of fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, nobody wants you “There’s got to be someone who misses you. A friend from school?”

“I didn’t go to school, Daddy wouldn’t let me. He said he’d teach me at home but we didn’t really do anything.”

Natasha nods, her assessment of this man going even further down. She might not know the gory details but it doesn’t take a genius to realise he was isolating you lest anyone found out what he was up to “What about the kids in your neighbourhood?”

“They didn’t play with me, they thought I was weird.”

Natasha nods again. At first she’d assumed your clothes were ragged and dirty from months of living on the street but it turned out you’d only ran away a couple of weeks previously – that was just the state of your clothes. Dirty and old before you’d even ran away. She’d caught you scratching your head a few times so assumed you probably had a bad case of lice, something that had made her skin crawl at first but had then made her feel desperately sorry for you. It must be causing you so much discomfort. She can imagine you outside of your house, looking for someone to play with, but the other children being put off by your bedraggled appearance. Besides that, you were a little strange. Always whispering to your teddy bear and laughing with him.

Because Bruno’s the only friend you’ve ever known.

Her heart squeezes again and after a moment’s hesitation she reaches out, putting her hand on your shoulder “Hey… Come here kid.”

You look over wearily but don’t resist when Natasha wraps her arms around you, pulling you into her lap. She leans her head against yours, not caring if you do have head lice or not. You’ve looked in desperate need of a cuddle ever since she arrived.

Over the last week Natasha’s grown fond of you. She’s tried to deny it, tried to push it down but being stuck indoors with someone all hours of the day makes it impossible not to bond with them. And you were such a cute, if not very nervous, kid. Natasha can’t deny that she’s began to feel weirdly protective over you. You may not have told her everything that had happened at home with your Dad but Natasha has been able to piece enough together.

Hearing you sniffle, Natasha looks down, her expression softening “Hey…”

“I don’t know what to do Nat.” You whisper tearfully “I don’t have a home to go to.”

“I- Kid, it’s gonna be okay. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.” Natasha rubs her hand up and down your back; letting you cry into her chest “I know you don’t wanna go back to Dad. Okay? I won’t let that happen.”

“I don’t wanna go live with strangers in a strange house; they might not be very nice either.” You whimper “I wish I had a Mommy who loved me.”

That breaks Natasha’s heart and she has to blink away her own tears as her arms tighten around you. Natasha had Melina as a kid, a temporary Mom to fill in the short-lived happy time of her life. As an adult she’d tried to find her biological Mom but had come up short every time. And now here you are, crying for a Mom – just like she had when all the other girls in her dorm had fallen asleep and there was no one awake to hear her.

That’s when Natasha feels it for the first time. That maternal instinct – the Red Room hadn’t got rid of it after all. She feels a wave of emotion – not love; she hasn’t known you long enough yet, but affection. Natasha leans her forehead against yours “Hey… You know something? You’re the bravest kid I know. You ran away from home without much but you found food and shelter. For you and Bruno. I don’t know what’s going to happen next but I do know that you’re going to be okay.”

You look up at her, your wide teary eyes finally losing some of their weariness as you let her comfort you “Really?”

“Really.” She pokes the bears nose “You better look after her Mister; I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” Despite everything you can’t help but giggle, hugging Bruno to your chest again “Everything’s gonna work out. I promise.”

A further week goes by before Natasha hears the secret knock on the door – the code she’d figured out with the other Avengers. You practically jump out of your skin at the sound, scrambling up from where you’d been colouring on the floor to hide behind her legs “Don’t let them in! It might be my Daddy!”

“It’s not; it’s one of my friends.” Natasha reassures you, patting your head and going to unlock the door.

It’s Clint and Natasha can’t help but give him a relieved hug, glad that he’s okay “Everything’s sorted.” Clint tells her “Quinjet’s waiting. Job done, time to go home.”

Natasha gives him a small smile “Job not done unfortunately. There’s one small complication.”

You appear in the doorway, grabbing Natasha’s hand and Clint has to do a double take “You kidnapped a kid?”

“No, idiot, she was squatting here when I arrived.”

“Where are her parents? We should take her home-”

“No!” You shout.

“Not an option unfortunately.” Natasha says.

You hadn’t opened up anymore after your initial conversation but after that night Natasha had begun to share the bed with you. That was the first time she’d noticed the bruises – fading now almost to nothing but Natasha had seen them and there were lots of them. Your back, your stomach, your neck, your wrists. One day Natasha’s going to find out who your Father is and pay him a little visit – but not today. Today there are more pressing issues.

“She can’t go home.” Natasha says “She’s a runaway.”

“Okay, child services then? I’m sure they’ll be able to-”

“I’m taking her home Clint.” Natasha says, her voice softening “To the compound.”

“The compound? Nat-”

“It’s not up for debate. She’s coming with me.”

Natasha goes back into the living room to grab your backpack and you follow after her, practically tripping over your own feet to keep up with her “I’m coming to live with you?”

“Sure are.”

“But why?”

Natasha slings your little backpack over her shoulder and turns to face you, her whole expression softening as she sees the mixture of hope and doubt on your face. Like you daren’t believe what she’s saying “Because you need a Mommy who loves you. And I think… I think maybe that could be me.” She taps your nose “Only if you want to though. I know we haven’t known each other long but I thought-”

In response you simply throw your arms around her neck, holding onto her like you might never let go. Natasha lifts you up into her arms, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Once she’s sure she’s got everything and she’s checked you definitely have Bruno, she carries you to the front door “Nat, are you sure?” Clint asks quietly “If she’s a runaway her Dad might be looking for her, he-”

“I know it’s complicated.” Natasha says “But I don’t care. Her Dad’s not having her. Over my dead body.”

The Quinjet is waiting and Natasha takes you on board, laughing as you cling to her when she tries to put you down. She takes a seat, letting you sit in her lap as she strokes your hair – first thing she’s doing when she gets you home is getting you a long bath and finding some nit lotion for your hair. Best do her own while she’s at it because no doubt she’s caught yours. Then she’s going to make you a proper home-cooked meal – no more of that crap from the tins. Something made with love.

Her arms tighten around you as she presses another kiss to your forehead “We’ll be home soon. I’ll find somewhere comfy for you to sleep tonight.”

“And Bruno?”

“And Bruno. Mustn’t forget Bruno.”

For the first time in your entire life you let yourself relax. You may have only known Natasha two weeks but you’d seen her on the news – you knew she was a superhero. Superheroes could be trusted to help, to protect. That’s why you’d chosen that house. You’d been on the run for a few days, scared and confused, not sure where to go but knowing you couldn’t find any adult to help you. Something had drawn you towards her house.

At first Natasha had scared you – she’d had a gun after all and you were only little. But it hadn’t taken you long to start trusting her. Your guard still isn’t completely down. It won’t be for a long time. But for now, you know you’re safe. That Natasha won’t let anything happen to you. Maybe she really will be your Mommy one day.

You’d like that.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Something Safe to Come Home To

The Vet

Wandanat x werewolf!reader

Summary: Natasha thinks you'd be a good K-9 dog the problem is they need to take you to the vet for a blood draw...

word count: 2.1K

Warnings: Past trauma, involuntary loss of autonomy, feral/animalistic POV, food insecurity, fear responses (growling/snapping), hurt/comfort, found family, consent-focused touch, slow burn healing, mentions of blood draw

Authors note:

Taglist: @julieromanoff @bread-crumbs-on-the-bed @aurtymcquarty @ayrtonwilbury @moonxytcn @kermittedfelony @yearning-ka @xeiinpain @lizziescutiepie @poppyshuman @phixiesworld @beggingonmykneesforher @seventeen-x @toe19 @luckilygrimconduit @tigerlillyruiz

You had picked up on the commands quickly. The redhead, Natasha, had been going through commands over the past week with you. You understood each of them perfectly. You weren't sure if it was the animal instinct or just you being weird, but listening to her commands made you happy, a flutter in your chest every time you got called “good girl” and a treat getting hoovered up. 

“Did you even taste it, Shaggydog?” Wanda chuckled, a question that was asked often which you'd give a small ‘boof’ in response.

“She's really smart. I think she'll do great at the K-9 school.” Natasha spoke, your head tilting. You knew the words and you'd seen her uniform. Another bark coming out, a bit louder, more confident. “See Wands? Even she knows she'll be good at it.” Nat scritched the sides of your face a bit, making you melt.

“I just don't want her getting hurt Nat.” Wanda patted her thighs and you pawed over. Letting your head rest in her lap as she gives you scritches. “We still need to take her to the vet and get that DNA test for her. We dont know if she'll be able to do it.” 

“Well even if she cant she'll still be here to protect you when you work from home.” Natasha sat next to Wanda, pulling her close and away from you as you decided to climb in their laps.

You'd grown close to the two women, hoping they'd see the real you somehow. You whine as you crawl across their laps making the two laugh as you look up at them. 

“Such a scary guard dog we have here Nat.” Wanda says as she rubs your tummy, making your leg kick. 

“She just has to look the part. We both know if anyone saw her they'd shit themselves.” Nat retorted, making Wanda snort. 

“This is very true.” 

⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°

The building smells wrong.

You know it before the engine even shuts off.

Antiseptic. Alcohol. Bleach soaked so deep into tile it has a permanent bite. Underneath it—fear. Old fear. Fresh fear. Cats sharp and electric. Dogs anxious and loud. A copper tang that never fully leaves.

And something older.

Something that smells like endings.

Your hackles lift before you can stop them.

“It’s okay,” Wanda murmurs softly as she opens the back door. “Just a check-up.”

Check-up.

Natasha circles the car automatically, scanning the lot before opening your door. Her hand lands at the back of your neck, firm and steady. Not restraining.

Grounding.

You step down.

The pavement is warm. Solid. Real.

The doors hiss open and the smell hits full force.

Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Too bright. Too white. The air is over-processed, sterile in a way that feels aggressive. Your claws click sharply against the floor.

Too loud.

A golden retriever sits across the room, tail thumping nervously. A terrier trembles in someone’s sweatered arms. A cat in a carrier hisses low and constant, eyes blown wide.

Their heartbeats layer in your ears.

You catalog without meaning to.

Front desk. Two staff. Back hallway. One visible exit. Windows sealed. No clean run path.

You sit. Perfect posture. Tail wrapped neatly around your paws. Ears forward but soft. Natasha notices the rigidity anyway. Her fingers brush the top of your head. “Good girl.”

It warms you instantly. That stupid, human part of you preens under it.

Wanda doesn’t take a chair. She kneels beside you, always lowering herself to your level. Her fingers sink into your fur and stroke down your neck in slow passes.

“You’re okay,” she whispers.

You wish that were true.

A door opens down the hall.

A sharp yelp.

Then,

Blood. Fresh. Hot. Metallic and alive. Your head snaps up before you can stop it. For a fraction of a second, the waiting room dissolves.

You are in the woods. Moonlight filters through pine branches. Snow crusts under your paws. You are tracking. You are starving. You are something large and silent and merciless. The memory fractures before it completes. Always does.

You swallow it down and press your body into Wanda’s knee instead.

Cherry blossom shampoo. Green tea. Laundry detergent. Home.

“Hey,” she murmurs, feeling the shift.

Natasha’s palm settles heavier at your shoulder now. Not forceful, just anchoring.

“Shaggydog?”

You stand quickly, a little too so,

The technician smiles. “Wow. She’s attentive.”

You lower your gaze deliberately. Soften your posture. Tail relaxed and you follow behind. The hallway smells stronger; alcohol wipes, latex, stress sweat, ozone from machines.

The exam room is smaller than you like,  a cold metal table. You don’t hesitate climbing up when they guide you. 

The vet is an older woman with sharp blue eyes. She doesn’t crouch first. She watches. You can feel her assessing you.

“Well,” she says mildly. “This is our mystery girl.”

Natasha’s shoulders tighten a fraction.

“She’s just here for the DNA panel,” Natasha says evenly.

“Of course.” The vet’s hands are practiced as she checks your ears, your teeth. She lingers at your gums slightly longer than necessary. Presses along your ribs. Your abdomen. You keep your breathing even.She frowns faintly.

“Excellent muscle tone,” she murmurs. “Low resting heart rate.”

Natasha smiles faintly. “We like to keep her active. Thinking of having her come work with me as a K-9.”

“Well judging by just the muscle tone and her listening skills I’d say she’d make an excellent candidate for the program. We’ll take a small blood sample and send that off.”

Your pulse spikes.

Blood.

No.

The tech wraps around you. Holding your head against her chest, she smells like medicine and you don’t like it. She holds your leg, rolling it outward slightly. The other tech holds near your paw, feeling for the vein before grabbing a bottle of alcohol and squeezing it on your leg. 

Every fiber is too loud against your skin. The latex gloves squeak faintly. Your pulse pounds in your ears like a drumbeat.

What if it smells wrong?

What if it looks wrong?

What if…

The needle pierces. It barely hurts, but the second your blood hits air,

Everything in you surges.

It’s stronger than before. Not just scent. It smells… different. Thicker and wilder. Like the forest floor after rain. Like iron and sap and something feral beneath it. A low sound vibrates from your chest before you can stop it. It’s not loud, but it’s certainly not a dog’s growl.

The room stills.

The vet doesn’t flinch, but her eyes sharpen.

“Easy,” Natasha says quietly.

Wanda presses her forehead against your neck immediately. “You’re okay. I’m right here.” You lock onto her voice. Not the blood. Not the instinct screaming to bare teeth.

Her.

The vial fills.

The moment the needle slides free, you feel it, that familiar internal shift. Skin knitting. Cells tightening. You tense, terrified they’ll see it.

The tech hands the vial off and wraps a bandage around your forearm. The vial disappears through the swinging door, something inside you feels untethered. Like a thread cut.

⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°

Three days later, the call comes in. You know before Natasha answers. Her voice is neutral. Too neutral.

“Yes. This is her.” A pause. Her posture shifts. “I’m sorry…what?”

Wanda looks up immediately.

“Inconclusive how?” The word lands cold. “You ran it twice?” Natasha asks. Your ears flatten. “It separated?” She repeats slowly.

Wanda whispers, “Separated into what?”

Natasha listens, jaw tightening.

“Standard canine markers,” she says. “And then unstable sequencing?” Your stomach drops.

“They’ve never seen structural fluctuation mid-analysis?” Natasha asks.

Fluctuation. The person on the other end speaks longer this time.

Natasha’s eyes flick to you.

You freeze, look away like you’ve done something wrong.

“They’re recommending we bring her back,” she says finally. “For a monitored redraw.”

Wanda’s hand stills in your fur.

“Why monitored?” she asks sharply.

“They want to observe the sample immediately post-draw.” The room feels smaller.

Wanda stands. “That sounds excessive.”

“They said the first sample…” Natasha hesitates. “Didn’t behave predictably.”

You feel sick. 

⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°

The second visit feels different before you even step inside.

Two staff members are already waiting near the front desk when the door opens. They don’t smile the way they did last time. There’s no clipboard shuffling, no light “Hi there!” Instead, they exchange a look and gesture you forward immediately.

No waiting room.

No small talk.

You’re taken straight down the hallway, past the other exam rooms, to one at the very end. The air smells sharper back here. Stronger disinfectant. Less traffic. More isolation.

The exam room is different.

The table isn’t the standard padded one from before. It’s stainless steel, heavier, bolted to the floor. There are restraint hooks at each corner. Not subtle. Not accidental.

Wanda notices immediately.

Her hand stills on your back. “Why is that there?” she asks, her voice polite but already edged.

“For safety,” the vet replies calmly, stepping in behind you.

Natasha’s tone drops half a degree, cool and controlled. “From what?”

The vet offers a small, practiced smile. “We just want to ensure everyone is protected.”

Protected.

From you.

Your chest tightens, a slow constriction beneath your ribs. You haven’t done anything. You haven’t even pulled against the leash.

Wanda steps closer to your side, her thigh brushing your shoulder. “She didn’t need restraints last time.”

“It’s protocol,” the vet says.

“It wasn’t protocol three days ago,” Wanda snaps, and there it is, the shift. Not fear. Anger.

The technician moves toward the tray with the needle, her posture cautious, weight balanced like she expects you to lunge.

You haven’t moved at all. You’re sitting exactly where they placed you. Tail still. Ears neutral. Perfect posture. Perfect dog, but inside, something is unraveling.

Your heart is beating too fast. Your senses are too sharp. The metal table smells like old adrenaline and restraint straps. Something about it presses against fractured pieces of memory you don’t want to touch.

You hear it before you mean to, the faintest whisper drifting in from the cracked hallway door.

“…elevated cellular regeneration…”

“…not normal clotting…”

“…should we notify…?”

Natasha hears it too.

You see it in the way her shoulders square, the way her spine goes straight and unyielding. Her expression doesn’t change, but something in her sharpens. Cold. Calculating.

“No,” she says suddenly.

Everyone looks at her.

“We’re not doing this,” she continues evenly. “You didn’t mention anything about abnormal findings that warranted escalation. You said contamination. Now we’re walking into a room set up like she’s a liability.”

The vet lifts her hands slightly in a placating gesture. “We’re simply being cautious.”

“With my dog,” Wanda says, her voice trembling now, not with uncertainty, but with fury. “You’re being cautious with my dog.”

You feel it as clearly as a scent in the air.

The shift.

Wanda steps fully between you and the table, one hand resting firmly on your back. A barrier. A line drawn.

“You’re not restraining her.”

The room goes very quiet.

The technician hesitates, needle hovering uncertainly over the tray. The air feels charged, like the seconds before a storm breaks.

Natasha steps forward as well, calm but immovable. “If there’s a medical concern, you can explain it. Clearly. But you don’t get to treat her like a specimen.”

Specimen. The word detonates in your skull. Specimen. Metal table. Bright lights. Hands that did not comfort. Voices that did not soothe. The smell of your own blood and something chemical beneath it.

You had remembered something: a fractured piece of you, of a voice, reminding you of how cautious you needed to be. To never be caught. To them…you will just be a specimen…something to study and use.

The memory fractures before it completes, splintering into white noise and instinct. Your breathing quickens despite yourself.

Wanda turns instantly at the change in you. She cups your face in both hands, pressing her forehead gently to yours.

“Nope,” she says softly, decisively. “We’re done.” She looks back at the vet, eyes bright and unwavering. “We rescind consent. You are not taking her blood.”

The technician freezes.

The vet tries once more, carefully measured. “We really do recommend-”

“No,” Natasha says.

Final. Absolute.

There’s no arguing with it.

They lift you down from the table, not because you resisted, but because they refuse to let you stay there another second. You go willingly, stepping into Wanda’s space, pressing against her leg.

You would follow them anywhere. Even if it means never knowing what your blood would have revealed. Even if it means living forever in that fragile space between secret and safety.

As they walk you out, Wanda’s hand never leaves your fur. When you get to the car she sits in the back with you. Arms wrapped around you. 

“You’re not a science project,” she murmurs fiercely into your coat.

You press closer.

You don’t know if you’re more wolf than human. You don’t know what your blood does under a microscope. You don’t know what would happen if someone pushed hard enough for answers.

You only know this:

They chose you.

And when it mattered,

They chose you over answers.

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Something Safe to Come Home To

Coming Home

Wandanat x werewolf!reader

Summary: Once a wolf with too much human in her eyes, you lose your freedom and your voice, mistaken for something feral and left to wait in a shelter where no one chooses you. Until two women do and slowly, carefully, teach you that safety can feel like soft hands, quiet rooms, and being wanted exactly as you are.

word count: 1.6K

Warnings: Past trauma, implied capture/violence, animal shelter/pound setting, involuntary loss of autonomy, feral/animalistic POV, food insecurity, fear responses (growling/snapping), hurt/comfort, found family, consent-focused touch, slow burn healing

Authors note: Here is part one of a highly anticipated series by you guys. Thank you for all the support in this before I even wrote any of it!

Taglist: @julieromanoff @bread-crumbs-on-the-bed @aurtymcquarty @ayrtonwilbury @moonxytcn @kermittedfelony @yearning-ka @xeiinpain @lizziescutiepie @poppyshuman @phixiesworld

The white cloud came spewing out your mouth. Your teeth chomp together to let out a low threatening growl as a few men surround you. It's your last taste of freedom; it's something you feel in your bones. A sharp sting to your thigh. The world tilts and a growl dies in your throat. 

“Its going to be okay, big girl. You're safe now.” That was the last thing you heard before it went dark. 

You don't know just how long you'd been in the pound, but it was long enough that many people passed you by. Meals of kibble that you didn't remember the thrill of the hunt or the smell of blood. You stay curled up in the corner. A cot for a bed, a bowl for water, and a singular toy. You noticed the dog across you had one. They all must. 

Different employees would sit with you, trying to comfort you in different ways. They'd try to get you to be more friendly, but you'd growl when they'd get too close. You wouldn't eat the treats they tried to give you. Eventually they stop. 

At the front of the shelter you hear the bell of the front door. You were used to the noise. Your ears perked on instinct, flicking towards it. It didn't matter though. None of it did. This is just another day that you wouldn't be picked. Just like all the others. 

“We have dogs of various breeds, different sizes, and different needs based on what you've told us of your work, house, and the extra details of preferably a bigger breed as use of a guard dog we have a few options.” You hear the voice of an employee, a young girl. You hear the page flip on the clipboard, “We have Roxie a German Shepard she came to us last week and is up to date on shots, there's Duke a Pit Bull Terrier also up to date on shots and has an amazing temperament, and lastly there's Ford a Black Mouth Cur mix…” she carried on as they passed your cage and then,

“Who's this? Why wasn't she on the list?” an unfamiliar voice asks. 

You look up lazily to see a brunette looking at you curiously, she smells of cherry blossoms and green tea. 

“Oh well this is Shaggydog. One of our younger employees said she looked like one of the Direwolves from Game of Thrones. We believe she's a wolf dog, but she's got a bit of a temperament issue and doesn't let any of us near her. So we don't have her on the adoption list currently.”

The brunette crouched down to look at you. You look at her and she looks into your eyes.

“Her eyes are beautiful. They almost seem human.” She mentioned and you perk up. 

‘She sees me!’ You get up from your spot, slowly padding to the front of your cage, sniffing cautiously. You pick up the scent of the redhead mint and metal. 

The brunette's hand reaches out slowly, trying to let you decide if you want her or not. 

You do.

You press your head into her hand. A soft gasp coming out of the employee. “She's never done that.”

“We'll take her.” The redhead speaks without warning, giving no room for argument. Though the employee did try, but both the redhead and you gave her the same look. 

“I'll get the paperwork ready.” She said quickly before walking off. 

“Did you hear Tasha? We're taking you home Shaggydog. You're going to be our good girl huh? You're going to be so pampered and loved.” The brunette spoke in a higher pitched voice. One that people saved for animals and babies. 

“Wands I dont know if she understands you.” 

The brunette now known as Wands looked at you. Looking into your eyes again. 

“I think she does though Nat. I don't know, there's just something in her eyes.” Wands gave you head scritches and you practically melted. 

Wands put the collar on you when you growl at the employee. “It's okay, Shaggydog. No one is going to hurt you.” She presses her forehead to yours, closing her eyes and you close yours.

‘Can you see me? Can you see who I am inside?’ You think, hoping she can hear you.

She pulls back and smiles. 

“Come on, let's go home sweet girl.” 

⋆˚🐾˖°₊˚⊹ 𐂯⋆˚🐾˖°

You were overwhelmed by the house.

Too big. Too many smells layered over each other—wood polish, old fabric, soap, something citrus, something floral, something sharp and metallic that belonged to the redhead. You padded through it all, nails clicking softly against the floor as you mapped every corner like your life depended on it.

Because it used to.

You sniffed the couch first, then rub along it, pressing your scent into it. Then the doorways. The corners. The shoes by the wall; two pairs worn often, familiar, safe. No blood. No fear soaked into the floorboards. No shouting trapped in the walls.

You paused. Listened. The house listened back.

The brunette, Wands, sat on the couch, watching without speaking. Smart. Still. Letting you decide. The redhead hovered near the doorway, arms crossed, eyes sharp. To you she was guarding.

Pack behavior. You didn’t realize your tail had lifted until it brushed the side of a chair. There was a hallway. Narrow. Enclosed. Good.

You slipped down it, nose close to the floor, following scent trails like ghost-memories. One room smelled like sleep;warm blankets, shared space, something deeply theirs. You didn’t enter. Just lingered at the threshold, cataloging.

Another room smelled like books and ink and dust. Calm. Quiet.

Then,

A room that felt right.

Low light. Soft rug. A corner tucked away beneath a window. There was a bed, it was set up but barely smelled like them. Your body made the decision before your mind could interfere. You circled twice, then curled into the corner, spine to the wall, eyes on the door.

Safe angle. No blind spots. You exhaled for the first time since stepping inside. Wands noticed immediately.

“Oh,” she whispered, like she’d just witnessed something sacred.

She didn’t approach. Just smiled softly, hand covering her mouth for a second like she was overwhelmed. The redhead glanced at her, then at you.

“She picked her spot,” Nat said quietly. Approval threaded through her voice.

You flicked an ear. You felt a smirk on your face, but you were sure it didn’t translate.

Minutes passed. Maybe more. Time still felt strange.

Eventually, Wands stood and moved slowly, deliberately, grabbing something soft from the couch. A blanket. She lowered it near you, not on you. 

Your nose twitched. You pawed at it until  it was pulled close. Then you grabbed it with your mouth and attempted to put it over yourself. A human instinct you thought long forgotten.

The brunette’s smile went watery.

“You’re doing so good,” she murmured.

Your eyes slid shut. Just for a second. Not sleeping, but resting. Letting your body settle into the shape of the room.

For the first time in a long time, nothing hurt. Nothing chased you. Nothing tried to take and somewhere deep in your chest, beneath fur and instinct and memory, something fragile and human stirred and thought,

Maybe this is where I stay.

Wands disappears for a moment.

You hear her moving in another room; soft footsteps, drawers opening, the whisper of fabric shifting. Your ears flick, tracking her without you meaning to. When she comes back, she’s holding something.

Small. Soft. You lift your head, instantly alert.

It looks like a wolf.

Not real. No smell of blood or dirt or fear. Just fabric and stuffing and something faintly like the store and the hands that chose it.

Nat crouches beside her. “We bought it weeks ago,” she says quietly, like it’s a confession. “Didn’t know who we were bringing home yet. Just… knew.”

Wands kneels slowly, setting the toy down on the floor a few feet away from you. She doesn’t push it closer. Doesn’t make it a test.

“We wanted the right one,” she murmurs. “And that turned out to be you.”

Your chest tightens.

The wolf toy lies there, still and harmless, black fur stitched soft and plush. Familiar shape. Safe shape. A thing meant to be held, not fought.

You inch forward, nose stretching out first. You sniff it carefully. No threat. No trick. You nudge it with your muzzle.

It topples over.

You freeze.

Nothing happens.

You grab it.

Your jaws close around it instinctively—not hard, just enough to feel it. The fabric gives. Warmth blooms in your chest so suddenly it almost knocks the breath from you.

Mine.

You retreat with it, backing into your corner, curling around it protectively. Your body tucks the toy against your chest, chin resting over it like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there. A sound slips out of you before you can stop it soft, low, almost embarrassed. You close your eyes.

The toy smells like them now. Like home. Like something that was waiting for you before you were ready to be found. 

You press your nose into it and finally, finally let yourself sleep.

The two women retreat, letting you rest, but not before Wanda takes a sneaky picture to share with their friends and more than likely make it her lockscreen. 

You hear the soft click before you understand what it means. Your eyes slit open just enough to see Wands standing a little too still, phone held low, her smile guilty and glowing all at once.

Nat catches it immediately.

“Wanda,” she murmurs, warning threaded with amusement. “Did you just-”

“I know, I know,” Wands whispers back, already lowering the phone. “I couldn’t help it. Look at her.”

Nat glances at you, curled around the stuffed wolf, chin tucked over it, black fur rising and falling slow and even.

Her mouth softens despite herself.

“…Okay. One picture.”

They retreat after that. Back down the hallway and to the living room. The lights dim. Footsteps fade. The house settles around you like a held breath finally released.

[randomgirlduh]

drabble natasha romanoff vs. devotion

Natasha Romanoff has always understood power.

She understands how to wield it, how to withhold it, how to make someone crumble without ever raising her voice. It's instinctual. Controlled. Elegant. She learned it in cold rooms with colder instructors, learned it as a language before she learned it as a weapon, and she carries it now the way she carries everything — quietly, efficiently, without flourish.

What she didn't anticipate was how intoxicating it would feel to have someone willingly unravel for her.

Her wife, specifically.

It isn't new. It has never been new. But there's something about domesticity — about the ordinary weight of a shared life, of coffee mugs and grocery lists and Sunday mornings — that makes it more potent somehow. More real. She's stood in front of heads of state without her heart rate shifting. She's negotiated in three languages with a gun pressed to her temple and felt nothing but calculation.

And yet.

You, from across your own kitchen, can reduce her to something close to smug satisfaction just by the way your eyes drag over her.

-

It starts on a Tuesday.

No occasion. No mission debrief. Just a Tuesday, which is arguably when she's most dangerous, because she isn't even trying.

Natasha is standing at the kitchen counter in one of your oversized SHIELD pullover sweatshirts — hers by aggressive borrowing, permanently now — coffee mug in hand, reviewing something on her tablet with the distracted focus of someone who exists partly in another dimension at all times. Her hair is loose. She hasn't done anything with it. She's wearing sleep shorts and she's barefoot and the sweatshirt has slipped slightly off one shoulder and she is, objectively, dressed like a person who does not care.

And you are staring.

She feels it before she looks up. That specific warmth. The weight of your attention, which has always been different from anyone else's — more total, more unguarded, like you've never once thought about hiding it.

She turns her head just enough to catch you over the rim of her mug.

You're leaning against the opposite counter with your own coffee, in your running kit — leggings, a worn tank, hair up — and you are staring directly at Natasha's chest through the sweatshirt with the fixed, helpless attention of someone who has completely lost the thread of their morning.

"You're supposed to be running," she says.

"Mmhm," you say, not moving.

"That wasn't an invitation to keep staring."

"I know."

She turns back to her tablet. Lets the silence stretch. Takes a long, slow sip of her coffee with deliberate calm, and she knows — she absolutely knows — what the shift of fabric does when she moves. She isn't above it. She has never once been above it, and at this point she's made her peace with that.

Your exhale is audible from across the kitchen.

"Natasha."

"Hmm?"

"You're doing it on purpose."

She looks up, expression perfectly neutral. "I'm reading."

"You're not reading."

"I'm absolutely reading." She turns the tablet to show you. "Classified incident report. Very engaging. Pay attention — there will be a quiz."

You set your coffee down. Walk across the kitchen. Stop directly in front of her, and she lets you get close because she likes when you do — likes the way you always gravitate toward her like you can't quite help it, like proximity is something you require on a biological level.

You reach out and tug the sweatshirt up onto her shoulder.

She watches your face while you do it. There's something almost ceremonial about it — not possessive, exactly, more reverent. Like you needed to touch more than you needed to fix anything.

"There," you murmur.

"Better?" she asks.

"No," you admit. "But now I can function."

She laughs — a real one, bright and warm, the kind she only has here — and goes back to her tablet.

You go for your run forty minutes late.

She doesn't mention it. She does, however, watch you leave, and she absolutely looks at your ass in those leggings, and she feels entirely no guilt about this. You've been staring at her chest for ten minutes. She is allowed.

-

It happens again on a Thursday.

They're having people over — nothing formal, just Wanda and Carol and Pepper, which means there's wine on the counter and Natasha is in a soft burgundy blouse she's had since before you met her and she's laughing at something Carol said when she catches you from across the room.

You're not even trying to be subtle.

You're in the middle of a conversation with Pepper and you are not looking at Pepper. You are looking at Natasha's cleavage from across the room with an expression that is doing absolutely nothing to disguise what you're thinking about.

Natasha holds eye contact with you just long enough to watch the tips of your ears go pink, then turns back to Carol and continues her story without missing a beat. She is, privately, delighted.

Later, when the guests are gone and you're reaching up to put glasses away and she's leaning against the counter with wine in hand, she says simply: "You were embarrassing yourself tonight."

"I know," you say, not turning around.

"Pepper noticed."

"I know."

"She very pointedly said nothing, which is somehow worse."

You turn around, drying your hands, expression caught between mortified and completely unrepentant. "You wore that blouse on purpose."

Natasha looks down at herself. At the cut of it specifically, with a small, serene expression. Back up at you. "I own it. I've had it for years."

"The cleavage, Natasha."

"It's a perfectly normal blouse."

"It is not and you know it."

She takes a slow sip of wine. Says nothing. Which is, as you have always understood, its own kind of answer.

You point at her. "You're the worst."

"I'm your wife."

"Those are not mutually exclusive."

She smiles into her glass — and then you say, very casually, while turning back to the cabinet: "You were looking at my ass when I reached up for the glasses."

She does not react. She takes a perfectly measured sip of wine.

"I was getting comfortable," she says.

"The wine was already in your hand."

"I was re-getting comfortable."

You look at her over your shoulder. She looks back, expression perfectly composed, and holds it for exactly two seconds before the corner of her mouth twitches.

"You're unbelievable," you say.

"You were staring at my chest in front of Carol, Wanda, and Pepper."

"That's different."

"How."

You open your mouth. Close it. "It just is."

"Mm," she says, entirely unconvinced, and finishes her wine.

And that's the thing, isn't it — the thing that settles warm and permanent every time. You say it like it still means something new. Wife. Like the word hasn't lost any weight. She has watched people grow comfortable in relationships the way they grow comfortable in old shoes — familiar, worn, present without feeling. She always assumed she'd be the same. Built for mission parameters, not permanence.

But you look at her like she's a revelation on a Thursday night in your own kitchen, wine in hand, blouse she's owned for years — and she looks at you reaching up on your toes for the top shelf and she thinks, privately, that those jeans are extremely good, and she finds she does not mind this arrangement one bit.

She minds it almost not at all.

The gala is her idea, technically, in the sense that she agreed to it when Fury said someone from their unit needed to attend and you volunteered and she said then I'm coming in a tone that left no room for discussion.

She tells herself it's protective habit. It probably isn't entirely.

The dress is deliberate. She'll admit that to herself, privately, even if she'd never say it aloud — the black silk, smooth as ink, cut low enough to be dangerous without being obvious. She tries it on, studies herself in the mirror for exactly four seconds, thinks about the look on your face from Thursday, and hangs it on the door.

She takes extra time with her hair.

When she steps out of the bedroom and into the living room where you're waiting, you go completely still.

You're in a deep navy dress that hits just above the knee, your hair done, a pair of heels you only bring out when the occasion demands — and you look good, objectively. She notes it the way she notes most things. Efficiently. She also notes — in the interest of thoroughness — that the dress fits you extremely well across the hips, which is information she clocks and does not comment on.

But you are not thinking about your dress.

Your eyes drag down her body slowly, unhurried and unashamed, and they settle at her chest — specifically, precisely, with no ambiguity whatsoever — and stay there, and you forget, quite visibly, to maintain any pretense of composure.

"You're staring," she says calmly.

You swallow. Don't look away. "You're not wearing that."

Her eyebrow arches. "Excuse me?"

"That dress," you murmur, stepping closer, voice dropping, eyes fixed on her cleavage with an intensity that would embarrass you if you were capable of embarrassment right now. "You're not bending forward in it tonight."

The smile that touches her mouth is small and deeply satisfied. "Am I not?"

"No," you say, fingers brushing her waist — possessive, controlled, barely restrained. "I am the only person in that room who gets to see what that dress does when you lean forward, and I am not sharing that with anyone tonight. Not until we get home."

There it is.

That tone. That tight, barely-held hunger that always pulls something pleasantly taut inside her.

She steps closer until the silk of her dress brushes your jacket.

"And what happens when we get home?" she asks softly.

Your jaw flexes.

"You'll see."

She almost laughs. She doesn't.

Because she sees it — the devotion, the obsession, the focus that makes her feel like the most wanted woman in any room, including this one, including every one she's ever stood in. She has been wanted before in ways that felt like transactions. This doesn't feel like a transaction. This feels like reverence.

She likes it.

She likes it more than she'll ever say.

The gala is exquisite torture and she knows it, because she designed it that way.

She's careful about it — never obvious, never cheap. She's not trying to embarrass you. She is simply existing, in her dress, in the room, and she lets you experience that fully.

She feels your stare even with her back turned. Feels the exact moment your breathing shifts when she leans slightly over a table to speak to the deputy director, just far enough that the front of her dress shifts and does exactly what she knew it would do. Your hand arrives at the small of her back within four seconds. Firm. Territorial. Like you're reminding yourself, and possibly her, that what's in that dress belongs to you.

"Possessive tonight," she murmurs, mouth barely moving.

"Always," you say under your breath.

"He's sixty-three years old."

"I don't care how old he is. He was looking."

"People look. It's a gala. There are eyes everywhere."

"Not like that." Your jaw tightens. "Not at—" You stop yourself. Just barely.

She turns her head just enough to look at you from the corner of her eye. "Finish that sentence."

"No."

"Mm." She faces forward, lifts her champagne, takes a long slow sip. "Afraid of what it'll sound like out loud?"

"I know exactly what it sounds like."

"And?"

"And you'd enjoy it too much."

"I'm already enjoying it," she says, cheerfully, because she is thirty-four years old and she has earned the right to be honest about this.

You make a sound that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely.

The evening progresses. She leans. She laughs. She exists in her dress in the way she's always existed — fully, deliberately, aware of exactly the effect she has. She has known she was beautiful since she was young enough to be trained to weaponize it, and somewhere along the way it became simply a fact about herself, neutral and comfortable. What isn't neutral is having a wife who looks at her like she's the only thing worth looking at in any room.

She catches you near the bar about an hour in — stopped mid-sentence with someone from legal, staring at her cleavage from across the room with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. The person from legal says something. You don't respond. You are not present. She holds your gaze for three seconds when you finally look up and find her watching.

Then she turns away.

She hears you excuse yourself, abrupt and graceless.

What she doesn't expect is what happens ten minutes later — she leans down to retrieve her clutch from where she set it on a chair, and your hand is at her lower back immediately, which is normal, you are always within range, but this time she feels you shift slightly behind her, and she realizes, with a flash of delight, that you have placed yourself between her and the eyeline of at least three people behind you.

She straightens up and looks at you.

You look back, carefully neutral.

"Were you just—"

"No," you say.

"You were blocking the—"

"I was standing here."

"You moved."

"I shifted."

She stares at you. You stare at her. And then she laughs — a real one, helpless and bright, quickly pressed into her champagne glass — because she is married to the most absurd woman alive and she finds she loves that completely.

"You," she says, "are going to explain yourself later."

"There's nothing to explain."

"Mm," she says, still smiling, and turns back to the room.

She sets her champagne down with perfect composure, says warm goodbyes to the people she was speaking with, and lets you guide her toward the exit with your hand pressed to the small of her back — slightly lower than strictly necessary, which she clocks and says nothing about.

-

In the car, silence.

The tension in the back seat is a physical thing, specific and familiar, hers by choice.

She watches the city lights move across your jaw. Thinks about the Tuesday kitchen and Thursday glasses and the way you have never once in three years tried to look like you're not completely gone over her. She thinks about how that should feel ordinary by now. It doesn't. She suspects it won't.

Your hand finds hers in the dark between you. Quiet. Just — there.

She turns her hand over and lets you hold it and watches the lights.

-

The door closes behind you.

The lock clicks.

And you're on her instantly.

Your hands find her waist, walking her backward, breath already unsteady at her throat, and she lets you press her to the wall for exactly three seconds — lets you have that, lets you feel the power of it for just long enough — and then she moves.

One hand. One redirect. Effortless.

Your back meets the wall instead.

"You don't get to touch me like that yet," she says softly.

Your breath stutters. "Nat—"

"Not yet."

She takes her time. Both hands press flat against your chest, sliding upward slowly, feeling the shift of your breathing under her palms, the way your ribs expand faster the higher she moves. She traces the line of your collar. Settles at your jaw. Tilts your face up toward hers with two fingers, and she watches you let her do it — watches you surrender to it willingly, immediately, the way you always do.

"You spent the entire evening staring," she says quietly.

"Yes."

"Every time I moved. Every time anyone looked at me."

"Yes."

"Were you paying attention to anything else?"

You think about it genuinely, which she finds endearing. "Some. Mostly no."

Her thumb traces your lower lip, slow and deliberate, and she watches your eyes go dark.

"You don't get rewarded just because you can't control yourself."

"I know."

"And yet here you are."

"Here I am," you agree, voice rougher now.

"Completely gone," she says softly. "In the middle of a professional event. Because of a dress."

"It isn't just the dress."

"No?"

"It's — yours. That's the part. They're yours and I—" You stop. Try again. "There is no version of you that doesn't do this to me. Sweatshirt in the kitchen. That blouse Thursday. This dress tonight. Every day of my life. I cannot be normal about this. I have tried and I cannot."

Something moves through her chest at that. Warm and specific. She files it, the way she files things she wants to keep.

"Tell me," she says.

Your eyes drop.

She catches your chin immediately, tilts it back. "No. Look at me."

You do. You always do.

"Tell me," she says again, softer.

"I'm obsessed with you," you say. "With my wife. With — your boobs. Specifically. I know how that sounds. I've been thinking about it since the moment you walked out of the bedroom tonight and honestly since most mornings and I've been trying to look like a person all evening and I can't anymore."

She studies you. Every line of your face, open and honest in a way that most people never manage. You have never once tried to hide this from her, not even at the beginning, and she thinks about what that costs — to be that transparent, that unguarded — and she thinks about how she used to find it overwhelming and now finds it essential. Necessary. Hers.

"I know," she says.

"You always know."

"Yes."

"Does that—" You pause. "Does that bother you?"

She tilts her head. Considers this with the seriousness it apparently deserves.

"No," she says. "I think it's extremely funny, actually."

You blink. "Funny..."

"You are a capable, trained operative," she says, "and you spent an entire professional event standing in front of people's sightlines like a bouncer at a strip club. Because of me." She lets the smile come now, fully, because she's earned it. "Yes. I think it's funny. I also think it's the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Something in your face does something complicated.

"Ask me properly," she says, softer now. "What you want?"

Your jaw works. You hold her gaze with visible effort.

"Please," you say. "Please, Natasha. Let me—"

"Let you what."

"Let me see. Let me touch. I've been—" Your voice drops. "I've been good. I was good all night."

"You were barely good."

"I was trying so hard."

"I know," she says. "I watched you try."

"Natasha. Please..."

She considers you for a long moment — tilts her head, reads you the way she reads everything, unhurried, thorough — and she lets you wait because she wants you to. Because the waiting is part of it. Because you in this state — undone, straining, honest — is something she will never get tired of.

"Why do you want it so much," she asks. "Tell me something real."

You swallow. Your eyes drop involuntarily, just for a second, before you catch yourself and force them back up.

"Because they're yours," you say. "Because they're — you're — it's you, and they're part of you, and I think about them constantly and I know that's—" You stop. Start again. "I've thought about them every day since I met you. I thought about them when we were just colleagues. I thought about them at our wedding. I think about them when you're in three layers and a tactical vest and there is no earthly reason—" Another exhale. "I can't make it make more sense than that. I just — I want them. All the time. I always want—"

"Okay," she says softly.

You blink. "Okay?"

"I know," she says. "I've always known."

Something about the simplicity of it undoes you more than the waiting did.

She reaches behind herself.

Unhurried. No rush. Her eyes stay on yours the entire time, watching your face, and she finds — as she always does — that your face is infinitely more interesting than anything else in the room.

The zipper moves slowly.

She makes it slow on purpose.

She watches you watch it. Watches you breathe. Watches the way your hands press harder against the wall behind you like you're using it as an anchor, like you don't trust yourself to have them free right now.

"You're shaking," she notes.

"Yes."

"Just from that."

"Just from watching you," you correct. "I'm always—" You stop. "Yes. Yes, I'm shaking."

"Good," she says.

The fabric loosens from her shoulders gradually. She lets it slip at a pace that she controls entirely — down, slowly, revealing exactly what she knows you've been thinking about since the moment she walked out of the bedroom two hours ago — and she watches your pupils blow wide and your chest rise faster and your composure finally, properly dissolve.

This is what she loves.

Not just the wanting. The specific wanting. The fact that it has always been this, always been her, always this exact focused hopeless obsession with this part of her. That Tuesday mornings and Thursday blouses and all these years of shared life haven't made her ordinary to you.

You still look at her like this. Every single time. She finds she intends to keep that going as long as possible.

"You can touch," she says. "But carefully."

Your hands come off the wall like you've been released from something, and the way they find her is exactly what she knew — slow, deliberate, both palms curving to cup her breasts with a gentleness that is frankly embarrassing for someone as competent as you. You exhale the moment you make contact, long and shuddering, and you close your eyes for just one second, like the reality of it needs a moment to land.

She lets you have it.

"Hey," she says.

You open your eyes.

"I'm right here," she says.

"I know." Your voice is barely anything. "I know. I just—"

A beat. Your hands are still moving, slow and careful, relearning something you already know by heart.

"Can I—" you start.

"Mm?"

"Can I kiss them."

The question comes out so earnest, so genuinely asking, that something warm moves through her chest. Not amusement, exactly. Something more than that. Something adjacent to the word mine that she doesn't always let herself say out loud.

She tips your chin up with one finger.

"Ask me properly," she says.

Your throat moves. Your eyes, which have been fixed on her chest, drag up to her face with visible effort.

"Please," you say. "Please can I kiss you. Please, Natasha."

She holds you there for exactly two seconds — just long enough to watch you mean it completely — and then she says, softly: "Yes."

The sound you make is barely audible. Relief and want in equal measure.

She watches your head bow toward her, feels the first press of your lips, and she exhales slowly through her nose and lets her hand slide into your hair and thinks, with the particular calm of someone who has exactly what they want, that she is never giving this up.

Not ever.

"I know," she says.

She does. She knows the overwhelm of getting something you've been wanting all evening — all these years, really, and you have always been devastatingly honest about it. She knows because she feels the mirror of it: the deep, specific satisfaction of being wanted this completely, this permanently. Of being someone's persistent, helpless preoccupation. Of being the person whose sweatshirt you borrow and whose dress you guard jealously and whose chest you have been losing your mind over since the day you met her.

"You're completely gone for me," she murmurs.

"Completely..." you agree without hesitation.

"It's been three years."

"It'll be fifty and I'll still—"

"I know," she says. "I know you will."

She moves closer then, pressing into your hands, watching the way you catch your breath, and she brings her mouth to yours slowly — not frantic, not rushed, just warm and consuming and entirely on her terms. She slides her hands into your hair. Lets you pull her closer. Lets you deepen it when she decides you can. Gives you the control for exactly as long as she chooses before taking it back, shifting the angle, slowing it down, reminding you quietly and clearly who has been running this entire evening.

When she finally pulls back, you are breathing like you've forgotten how to do it efficiently.

"Next time," she murmurs against your lips, "you beg before I have to ask."

You nod immediately.

"And next time," she adds, softer now, something in her voice that isn't quite the same register as everything that came before, "stop trying to be normal about it."

You blink. "What?"

"You said you've been trying to be normal about it for three years." She pulls back just enough to look at you. "Don't."

Something shifts in your expression. Something warmer.

"Yeah?"

"I like it," she says. "I like that you are an adult woman who cannot get through a work event because of my boobs. I like that you physically positioned yourself to block people's views. I like all of it. It is excellent for my ego and I refuse to apologize for that."

You laugh — surprised and real, the tension breaking into something easier.

"Your ego," you say, "is not the problem here."

"No," she agrees pleasantly. "You are the problem. I am simply the catalyst."

You look at her for a moment — that look, the Tuesday-morning kitchen look, the helpless one — and then you pull her back in.

She lets you.

This time, she doesn't take back control.

She decides she doesn't need to.

-

Later — much later — she's lying with your arm under her head and the city making its sounds through the window and she is thinking about nothing in particular, which is a luxury she only has here.

"Hey," you say eventually.

"Mmm."

"The burgundy blouse."

She smiles at the ceiling. "What about it?"

"You wore it Thursday knowing exactly what it would do."

"I've owned it for years."

"The cleavage, Natasha..."

"It's a perfectly normal blouse."

"It has never been a normal blouse."

She considers this with great seriousness. "I may," she says, "have been aware that the cut was favorable when I got dressed."

"Favorable."

"To the overall aesthetic."

"To my entire ability to function as a person."

"Those are your words."

"They are accurate words."

"That," she says, "is a you problem."

You shift, pulling her slightly closer, and she lets herself be pulled.

"You're the worst," you say, warm and entirely unconvincing.

"I'm your wife."

"Those aren't—"

"I know," she says. "You've said."

A pause. Comfortable. The city does its thing outside.

"You... were staring at my ass at the gala." you say.

She says nothing.

"When I leaned down to get my purse."

"I was ensuring your safety."

"You were looking at my ass."

"I was providing coverage."

"Natasha."

"There were a lot of people in that room."

You lift your head to look at her. She maintains perfect ceiling-gazing composure.

"You were staring," you say. "I felt it."

"You have an excellent sense of—"

"You are not allowed to give me a hard time about your boobs ever again."

"That is not how this works."

"It is absolutely how this works. Mutual destruction. We are both embarrassing."

She thinks about this for a moment. "That's fair," she says finally.

You make a sound that might be a laugh. "Oh, now it's fair."

"I looked," she says simply. "The dress was very good on you. I'm not going to pretend otherwise just because you caught me."

The honesty of it lands in the quiet between you. She means it. She has always meant it — there is something about the specific weight of you, the way you carry yourself, the way that navy dress sat on your hips that she registered the moment you walked into the living room and did not examine and does not intend to stop noticing.

You settle back down against her shoulder.

"Three years," you say quietly.

"Three years," she agrees.

"And we're still like this."

"Mm." She looks at the ceiling. Thinks about when the'll be fifty. "Fortunately."

You smile against her shoulder. She feels it.

She'll let you say it first.